Plaid and Plagiarism

by Molly Macrae

  “Reading entries. And laundry.”

  “You could drop the laundry off and have it delivered,” Christine said.

  “It won’t hurt me to get out.”

  “Oh, aye. The launderette is a happening place, I’m sure.”

  At street level, between the bookshop and the tearoom, was a chalky gray door. A coat of shiny dark green paint for the door was on Janet’s list of things to do. The door opened onto a landing, and once inside and out of the rain, or possibly out of a squall of sunshine, there could be seen two more doors, one to the left and one to the right. The left-hand door opened into the bookshop. The right-hand door opened into the tearoom. Straight ahead, as one entered from the street, a stairway rose to the first floor, where Janet, Tallie, and Summer were staying in rooms not quite ready for paying guests.

  The four partners had jumped feetfirst into the routine of running the bookshop—phase one of the business plan they’d drawn up. Opening the tearoom was phase two. They were giving themselves a month or two beyond its opening date to discover and smooth out any kinks in its operation—so that it ran like a well-oiled stand mixer, as Christine said. In phase three, after the addition of mod cons and more comfortable beds, Bedtime Stories, their bed-and-breakfast, would open. Summer would stay on in a small, private flat, after the Marsh women were finally able to move into Janet’s house, looking after the guests. Janet assured Summer that their timeline gave her plenty of time to come up with a title for her position. Summer had cast aside “manager” as too prosaic but had also rejected Tallie’s suggestions of headmistress, room mother, and wrangler.

  That evening, Janet reluctantly left Ian Atkinson’s The Bludgeon in the Bothy on the three-legged chair she was using as a bedside table. After hefting the tote bag of contest entries again, she decided against carrying the entire weight with her to the launderette. Instead, she took an inch of manuscript pages off the top, put them in a file folder, and then tucked the folder in the bin liner she was using as a laundry bag. Looking down onto the street, she saw that it had stopped raining, but she didn’t want to count on the period of no rain to last. Stringing wet laundry around the bookshop wasn’t an option.

  She locked the street door behind her and wondered how soon she would think nothing of the simple act of walking down the High Street. How soon would she glance at the harbor and find a text on her phone more engaging than the possibility of a seal swimming by? Although, she thought, anyone seeing me now, slopping along in my oldest sweatpants with my elegant bin liner, might think I’ve been on the dole here for years.

  She stopped first at Paudel’s Newsagent, Post Office, and Convenience for soap powder and coins. The launderette likely had both, but it wouldn’t have the scones Basant Paudel’s sister baked. There might not be any scones left at this hour, but Janet hadn’t made time to stop in the shop yet. The slim, dark-haired, dark-eyed young man behind the counter, Basant Paudel himself, stood up when she walked through the door.

  “Mrs. Janet.” He marked his place in the book he was reading and laid it on the counter—The Bludgeon in the Bothy, Janet noted with an inward sigh. “How are you today?” he asked.

  “You have the most amazing memory, Basant. It’s been more than five years since I’ve been in your shop, and you not only recognize me, but you say hello as though I picked up a pint of milk yesterday.”

  “Which Tallie did do. An Irn Bru, too.” He made a mock toast with his own bottle of the fluorescent orange drink and took a sip. “I couldn’t tell if she actually likes it or is simply approaching the liking of it with her usual concentration of effort.”

  “She does have that way about her.” And is it interesting that he knows that, Janet wondered, or just more evidence that he’s a keen-eyed people-watcher with a good memory?

  She asked after his sisters. He told her how well they’d each done on their school-leaving examinations and were now doing in their further studies—Arati in nursing and Puja reading history at St. Andrew’s.

  “Puja is even studying the Gaelic. She says it is not as difficult as English, which she learned to perfection,” he said proudly.

  “And Arati’s scones?” she asked, knowing she didn’t need a third—a fourth today. Still, she was disappointed when he confirmed her fears that they were long gone. And then annoyed for being shallow and needy. Or was it greedy? No matter, it was time to show concentration of effort.

  “Where do you keep your laundry soap these days, Basant?” She went where he pointed, ignoring the display of crisps whispering her name on her way back to pay for a box of Fairy washing tablets. “And coins for the machines, please,” she said, handing him a twenty-pound note along with a ten.

  “I hesitate to bring up the shocking news of last evening,” he said as he handed her a shocking weight in coins.

  “Una Graham?”

  He pressed his lips together and nodded.

  “It’s a terrible thing, and I know Una will be missed,” Janet said.

  “For her advice as well as her lively personality. But I’m also sorry that it happened on your property. In your shed.”

  She looked up from distributing the coins between her pockets. “Thank you, Basant. I’ve been hearing all day from people who believe it happened in my house. I’ve been trying to convince myself that it’s a small thing, whether it’s the house or the shed, and it is compared to the enormity of the crime. I should let it go.”

  “But it isn’t really a small difference. And too often people hear but don’t listen. If there is anything I can do, please let me know.” He looked steadily into her eyes for a moment, then put his hands together in a muted clap. “Now, we will end our visit with happy news. You are living in Inversgail, a place second in beauty only to my dear Nepal. Arati will make more scones in the morning before she returns to Glasgow. And you are no longer lending books, but you are selling them, and that is also good. ‘Books!’” he said with sudden animation. “‘The best weapons in the world.’ Una was fond of quoting Humphrey Bogart. I’m fond of quoting the good Doctor.” He patted his chest, and she realized he was wearing a Doctor Who TARDIS t-shirt.

  “It’s good to see you, Basant. I’ll see you later and, I hope, often.”

  “Wait one moment, please.” He turned to scan the glass jars of old-fashioned sweets on the shelves behind him. He touched the lid of one jar, moved to another, then jumped to a third and took it down. He unscrewed the lid, scooped a small portion of the sweets into a bag, and handed it to her. “Licorice allsorts are your favorite, aren’t they?”

  “You are amazing,” Janet said, tucking the bag into one of her coinladen pockets. “A wonderful treat. Thank you.”

  When she got outside, and far enough down the street, she laughed. She liked licorice allsorts well enough. They were never her favorite, though. Curtis the rat was the one who’d loved them, and she’d always bought them for him. But that, she decided, was a difference as small and inconsequential as Curtis the rat’s understanding of devotion and faithful love.

  The launderette, on a street several blocks back from the harbor, was on the ground floor of a building conveniently located next to a pub. The place was clean, well lit, and outfitted with two ranks of washers back-to-back, a spin dryer, and six large tumble dryers. Only two washers were being used, that Janet could see, but they’d been left unattended. Perhaps her laundry companion was in the restroom, whose door was closed. Or next door lifting a pint.

  She sorted her clothes into two loads, figured out how many coins she needed, and got the machines going, glad for the lightened load in her pockets. Old and comfortable friends these sweatpants might be, but the elastic in the waist was beginning to go.

  The other machines spun to a stop with a buzz, but no sign of the contents’ owner. It might be useful, she thought, if the machines’ buzzers also sounded next door. She sat on one of the hard plastic chairs with their backs against the wall below the front windows. She’d just taken the inch of contest entries o
ut of the file folder, and the packet of sweeties Basant had given her out of her pocket, when the front door opened. A sandy-haired man held it for a sandy-colored Cairn terrier, and the two came in on a breath of fresh rain and melancholy whistling. The terrier shook the rain from its fur. The man might have glanced her way, but she didn’t know. She’d lifted the contest entries so they obscured her face.

  The man and dog went around the ranks of washers to the two machines that had finished their cycles. Janet put the contest entries on her lap and lifted the bag of sweeties.

  “Good to see you, Rab. Would you like some licorice?”

  10

  Rab declined Janet’s offer of a candy. His dog accepted one gladly.

  “Is licorice safe for him?” Janet asked.

  “In moderation.”

  “Moderation” was a word well suited to Rab MacGregor. Of moderate height and weight, with hair a moderate length for a man of . . . moderate years. His age, which had been impossible to tell from a distance the morning before as he sat on the harbor wall, was just as hard to guess under the cold white lights in the confines of the launderette. He’d been heard to answer the question of his age by telling people he was closer to fifty than forty. But unless you knew him, Janet thought, that still wouldn’t tell you whether he was on the near or far side of fifty. And it could easily be either.

  No one else came into the launderette that evening, and they spent some time in a polite smirr of small talk with intermittent periods of silence. Janet asked his dog’s name. Ranger, Rab said. Ranger had the look of a lad-about-town, but he went to sit and gaze at Rab when called. Not quite with a look of hero worship, Janet thought; more as an accomplice.

  Janet picked up the contest entries and started reading. The top inch she’d brought with her turned out to be some of the poetry contributions, including examples of the Skye-ku Sharon had told her about. Janet enjoyed haiku, and some of the contest poems were insightful and lovely. Rab and Ranger came to sit at the far end of the row of chairs. Rab spent equal time between tapping and swiping an electronic tablet and then writing with a pencil in a notebook. Janet didn’t question the reason for that combination of using old and new technology. Ranger came over to see if she had anything more to offer. A scratch between his ears apparently wasn’t a substitute for licorice, though. He went back and hopped up to sit on the chair next to Rab’s. With a pang, Janet saw Rab put away the tablet and notebook and take a book from the pocket of his coat—The Bludgeon in the Bothy.

  When her washers buzzed, she got up and made a passing comment about looking forward to using her own washer and dryer. He mentioned that his laundry machines needed parts he hadn’t located yet. She asked about his availability for repainting the trim on the house. He said he would check his schedule, but he might be able to fit that in once the police released it to her, and he agreed to stop by the bookshop in the morning to discuss part-time work there.

  It had been years since she’d flapped her clothes in public before tossing them in a dryer. It crossed her mind that she might not be able to make eye contact with Rab when he came in the shop, now that he was getting an eyeful of her bras and panties. And then the elastic in her old sweats betrayed her, and her pockets full of coins nearly pulled them off, giving Rab a glimpse of the underpants she was currently wearing. A lucky grab saved her dignity and his. Then she realized the potential loss was only in her mind. Rab MacGregor didn’t swallow a snicker or otherwise comment. And he didn’t show any embarrassment to be folding a pile of his briefs with the blue-and-white flag of Scotland and boxers with the Loch Ness monster swimming across them.

  Janet woke the next morning to sunshine streaming through the window of her room above the bookshop. She took that as a positive sign and got up to look out at the sky and the harbor turned blue and bright again. She hadn’t made a habit of searching for positive signs in her life, having always felt strongly that she made her own luck. Until life as I knew it slewed sideways into a ditch and died. She rested her forehead against the cool window glass and let her eyes track a pair of kayakers in wet suits paddling out of the harbor. Breathe in, breathe out. You’re smart. You’re strong. You ate the licorice allsorts the rat has forever forfeited his rights to. You’re doing what you love in the place you love even more. You are exactly where you belong.

  Well, no, not exactly. She wouldn’t be exactly where she belonged until the crime specialists were out of her house and she was in it. About that she was most definitely positive.

  Speaking of being positive—she gathered her paraphernalia for the trip down the hall to the bathroom—a facility so small that it must have been present when the euphemism “water closet” was coined. She knew she should think of her temporary stay above the bookshop in a positive light. She should see it as useful, albeit temporary, research, letting her have an approximation of the sleeping-above-a-bookshop experience their future bed-and-breakfast guests would have. But the charm and adventure of the experience were wearing thin.

  “En suite bathrooms,” she said, passing Summer in the hall, both of them in robe and slippers. “We were very smart to insist on en suite bathrooms for the guests.”

  “It was an expensive addition to the plans,” Summer said.

  “A necessary expense,” Tallie called from her room, “if we want to be competitive.”

  “We’ll take pride in being the spoiled Americans we are,” Janet said, “and not second-guess ourselves any further.”

  “And we’ll wave rolls of toilet paper instead of the Stars and Stripes,” said Summer.

  “Hear, hear!” Tallie called.

  “That’s settled, then. The next thing we’re going to settle is the murder. If for no other reason than I want the police out of my house and out of our hair.”

  Summer, about to disappear into her own room, stopped. Tallie stuck her head out her door.

  “What?” Janet said. “Just because we have a business to run, another scheduled to start, and a third on the way, that doesn’t mean we can’t help Norman Hobbs do his job, too.”

  “No complaints from me,” Tallie said. “Just wondering if you’ve thought this through.”

  “Dear, do you have so little faith in your mother?” Janet stooped to pick up the moisturizer and deodorant she’d just dropped. “I was being flip about the house,” she said, straightening back up. “But we have our enterprise to think of. We need to do everything we can to make sure it works.”

  “Whyever would I doubt you?” Tallie said. “I should’ve been clearer. You usually do think things through, so I’m wondering if you have a specific role you’d like me to play. What can I do to help, darling mother?”

  “That’s my darling girl. Your Internet research skills will be invaluable. So will your nimble mind.”

  “There might be different search terms,” Tallie said, “different vocabulary. Good. I like that kind of thing. And why don’t I set up a cloud document we can all access? We can all add notes and questions as they occur to us or as we have time. I can get started on all of that this morning, if you’re feeling urgent.”

  “Urgent-ish,” Janet said.

  “Then I’ll run back up here and get to work on it after we watch Summer unveil her paint selections. I’ll join you in the shop later.”

  “Good. Oh, and what about using your law background to find a friendly solicitor—one with contacts in the police?” Janet asked. “The more information we can get, the better.”

  “Easier to keep buttering up Constable Hobbs,” Tallie said. “Besides the fact he is the police, I don’t think we’re going find a solicitor who either can or wants to be a stoolie for us. Certainly not without running up billable hours.”

  “I see your point.”

  “Good.”

  “But if we run afoul of the law?” Janet asked.

  “Which we won’t.”

  “No, of course not. But if we do.”

  “I’ll run right out and flag down the best solicitor I c
an find.”

  “That’s all I ask. I hereby dub you law liaison.”

  “I accept under the condition that you do your best, your very best, not to need my services as law liaison, especially because if I end up in the pokey with you, I won’t be much good at liaising.”

  “But think of the quality time we’d have together, dear.” Janet patted Tallie’s cheek.

  “And think of the wonderful human interest story I can get out of that,” Summer said. “The mother-daughter angle will be so catchy. If it’s all right with you, though, after we get the painters settled this morning, I want to go see the guy at the Guardian. The police will have already been there, asking their questions, but that’s where I might have the advantage.”

  “How so?”

  “Because I’m not the police. I don’t know if it works the same way over here, but in my experience, it’s amazing what people are willing to tell a sympathetic ear during the initial rush of relief after the big bad police are gone.”

  “Also perfect. While you’re there, find out about their advertising rates, will you? And as long as we’re being so organized, with titles and assigned duties, I’ll be community liaison. I’ll collect, sift, and analyze intelligence received in the shop and from various other . . .”

  “Sources?” Summer prompted.

  “That sounds more positive than ‘informants,’” Janet said, “and this is a day for positivity and positive action.”

  “You go, Mom,” Tallie called from her room. “Rah, rah!”

  After showering and dressing in her bookseller khakis and blazer, formerly her librarian’s khakis and blazer, Janet did go. She arrived at Paudel’s Newsagent, Post Office, and Convenience in time to buy the first dozen scones Arati Paudel took from the oven.

  “What kind?” she asked Basant, wanting to bury her nose in the bag he handed across the counter.

  “Classic currant. Will they do?”

  “I’m quite positive they will.”