Plaid and Plagiarism

by Molly Macrae

  “You think Jess might have been the target?”

  “I think we need to consider it,” Janet said. “But I don’t know. It’s all a jumble with too many facts in isolation. It’s too much like that massive mess of garbage in the house and the trash we found out back.”

  “Again, I obviously missed something this morning.”

  “You did. And Tallie or Christine can bring you up to speed. They’re in the tearoom talking to Rosie.” Janet held up a hand, preempting another question. “They’ll tell you about that, too. Not that you’ll be any less confused, although maybe your reporter’s mind can make some sense out of it. Keeping track of all this with notes in our cloud document might get exhausting.”

  “It could still work. It’ll help.”

  “In the meantime, don’t worry about upsetting Jess. She was riled up before you came in.”

  “Her reaction was interesting, though.”

  “If we knew what it meant. Was that fear? Grief? Guilt?”

  “And if we knew what exactly she was reacting to,” Summer said. “Was she reacting to Una’s name? To what I said about being the new Una? Or was she reacting to me?”

  “Because you’re so scary. I laugh that off, but we don’t really know.”

  “We don’t, although it probably wasn’t me. But what if it was the guy at the door with the garbage bags?”

  “I hadn’t thought of that,” Janet said. “But again with the variables. Was she reacting to Rab or reacting to the bags of garbage? And really, who could blame her for that? Or was she reacting to the combination— to Rab and the garbage?” She looked toward the tearoom. Rab hadn’t come back out. Was he watching the painters? Were they all sorting garbage? She hoped not. How paranoid is too paranoid? she wondered. And how many people can you be suspicious of at one time before you become a crackpot? “Well”—she shook herself—“not everyone can be guilty. But I’m not sure it’s a good idea for you to go around announcing you’re the new Una. Not when we don’t know why she was killed. What did you mean by that, anyway? It made you happy and I’m raining on it.”

  “They’ve got a nice operation there at the Guardian. Small, almost a mom-and-pop kind of place, but thanks to tourism it’s thriving, like the bookshop. We talked shop. James asked if I was angling for a job. He has that sad, worn-out voice you almost expect to hear from managing editors these days. I said no, I wasn’t. And then he offered me very little money to write Una’s advice column, and I said yes. Isn’t that a hoot?”

  “Is it?”

  “To be an agony aunt? It’s at least a hoot and a half. It’s a family paper, though, so I won’t be answering any of the archetypal agony aunt sizzlers.” She imitated escaping steam and shook her hand. “And it’s a short column, once a week, answering two or three questions. No more than five hundred words. So it’ll be simple, and it won’t interfere with my work here, and what better way to learn about who Una was than by taking up her pen?”

  “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

  “We talked about this. I’m our press liaison. You rah-rahed it this morning.”

  “Yes, but isn’t there a difference between liaising and infiltrating?”

  “Not enough to matter. This is a perfect way to find out what we want to know. It’s a time-honored way, Janet. It’s investigative journalism.”

  “It sounds completely foolhardy.”

  “You’re waffling. Where’s the woman from this morning who was gung ho to solve this murder so she can get back into her own house and enjoy the marvels of modern plumbing?”

  “And that sounds completely self-serving and lunatic. Good heavens, listen to me. I’m a waffling lunatic. I’m dragging my family and friends into who knows what kind of situation.” And where did the positive woman from this morning go?

  Summer took Janet by the shoulders and looked her in the eyes. “That you’re worried about the situation and the welfare of your family and friends tells me you’re not a lunatic. Janet, I’m a professional journalist. I probably even know what I’m doing. You, and Tallie, and Christine, and I have questions about Una’s death. I’m going to try to find some of the answers.”

  Janet made a noise and saw that Summer accepted it as agreement. She supposed the noise did mean agreement, but she was feeling about as articulate as the gurgle Jess made on her rush out the door. Or, she thought, the noise might be a symptom of what’s going wrong, including how much harder it is for me to like Jess. Or Kenneth. Hmm.

  “Summer,” Janet said, enjoying the clarity of the sibilant in the name, and the recovery from her momentary lapse into negativity, “you’re right. And I’ll trust you to be careful.”

  “That’s the other goal.”

  “Do you think this will give you access to back issues of the Guardian, going back beyond what might be archived online?”

  “You have a research project in mind?”

  “Or a fishing trip.” Janet checked for customers near enough to overhear before continuing. “Is there an equivalent term for ‘disturbing the peace’ over here? Is that even what it’s called back in the States?” She shook her head. “It doesn’t matter. It wouldn’t hurt to find out what it’s called here, but we should probably look for reports or mentions of any kind. Tallie’s going to search farther afield online.”

  “Good enough. Name?”

  “Hold on.” Janet took her phone from her pocket and tapped her way into their new cloud document and entered Guardian and online search: Kenneth Lawrie. Pleased with herself, she held the phone for Summer to see.

  “Why limit it? May I?” Summer took the phone from Janet, tapped in Pamela Lawrie and Una Graham. “I see your one and raise you one,” she said, handing the phone back.

  “Two can play at that game,” Janet said. She entered Jess Baillie and Ian Atkinson. “Want to see?” She held it for Summer again, but while she’d been tapping, a pair of customers had snuck up on her, and Summer had gone to help another. “Sorry,” Janet said, pocketing her phone. “Did you find what you were looking for?”

  The male customer of the pair dropped a book of salmon fly patterns on the desk and took out his wallet.

  “He’s disappointed the tearoom isn’t open,” his partner said, adding issues of Scottish Life and Scotland Magazine to the book.

  “With luck, we’ll be open by the end of next week,” Janet said.

  “With luck and with fresh scones and clotted cream.” Summer came back to the sales desk. Her customer followed behind, carrying an oversized book of Scottish landscape photography in both hands like an offering.

  “Mph.” The man buying the salmon fly book and magazines handed Janet his credit card. “And the chap who’s in there reading tea leaves?”

  “Sorry?” Janet asked.

  “It’s a nice touch,” the man said. “I was wondering if he’ll be doing that regularly.”

  “I’ll finish here,” Summer said, catching the look on Janet’s face.

  When Janet reached the tearoom, Christine, Tallie, Rosie, and the painters were gathered around a small, square table. Ranger sat under the table. At the table sat Rab MacGregor, a pair of half-glasses on the end of his long nose, so that he looked something like a scholarly hare, as he studied the tea leaves in the bottom of a pretty china cup.

  14

  You will find your solution where you least expect it,” Rab said. “But the answer will not come to you. You will need to look for it.”

  “Oh,” Rosie breathed. “Is there more?”

  “Oh, aye,” Rab said. He tipped the teacup toward him, turned it slightly in one direction, and then in the opposite direction, and finally set it gently on the table. “There are difficulties ahead, but they will make you better, not bitter. Hard times will fade and joy will take their place.”

  Rosie gaped at Rab. Janet thought Christine was doing an admirable job of not gaping at Rosie.

  Tallie sidled over to Janet. “Who’s minding the till?” she whispered in Janet’s ear.r />
  “Summer.”

  “I’ll go tell her about hardships making us better, not bitter,” Tallie said.

  “And remind her that books are friends forever, but bookmarks can be lost in a moment.”

  Tallie covered a snicker and left. Janet watched Rab trace his index finger above the leaves as though following a difficult line of translation.

  “I see one more message.” Rab looked at Rosie over the top of his half-glasses. “Would you like to hear it?”

  Rosie nodded.

  “Good. Do you see this, then?” He pointed to a curl of leaf that looked to Janet like a pencil shaving or . . . a curl of leaf. “It’s your ear. And all these are your questions.” He indicated a half dozen more curls. “They’ve arranged themselves in the center of the cup, which is round like the face of a clock, which indicates—”

  “Time,” Rosie breathed.

  “Aye, the passage of time. The ear tells you to listen. To get the answers you seek, listen these next few days to your friends.” Rab held the cup out to Rosie. She took it reverently. “Anyone else?” Rab asked.

  The young man, Garth, put his teacup on the table. Rab readjusted his glasses. He gazed into the cup while slowly rubbing the palms of his hands together. Then he picked up the cup and held it near his ear. When he put the cup back on the table and said, “Someone is speaking well of you,” Christine yanked at Janet’s arm and stalked into the tearoom’s kitchen.

  Janet followed. “I’ve never seen anyone read tea leaves,” she said to a nearly spluttering Christine. “He isn’t serious, is he?”

  “He’s no more out there reading the tea leaves than I’m in here doing a belly dance,” Christine said. “That’s pure claptrap he’s spouting. He knows it and so do you.”

  “It sounds like he’s been collecting fortunes from fortune cookies. What in heaven’s name brought all that on? Does Rosie believe him?”

  “I have no idea,” Christine said. “Between the two of them, the woo-woo quotient has been pretty high in here. But actually, Rab came to the rescue and used that parlor trick to calm Rosie down. When he arrived, she’d got herself so worked up about seeing Una’s wraith walking past the cheese shop, I was afraid I’d have to throw a glass of cold water in her face.”

  Janet thought she might benefit from a glass of cold water in her face, too, if that could be a cure for befuddlement. “I’m not understanding.”

  “I’m not surprised. You’re sane, so why would you understand? I’ll explain in words that are simple, yet still might not help. Rosie told us that she knew Una was going to die because she saw her ghost—her wraith—that afternoon.”

  “And she thought that at the time? She said to herself, ‘Oh, dear, there’s Una’s wraith. Uh-oh, she’s going to die’?”

  “More likely, she convinced herself after the fact.”

  “Are there actual facts involved?”

  Christine laughed. “Possibly. She says she was in the office that afternoon, and she happened to look out the window as Una passed by. Then she heard a knock on the door. People usually just come right in, but she heard this knock and went to open the door. No one was there. She looked up and down the street. And here’s where it gets spooky—”

  “What?”

  “Una was nowhere in sight.”

  “Are you kidding? That’s it? She probably stopped in the cheese shop, and some kid knocked on the door just for the fun of it.”

  “Don’t get short with me. I’m the messenger here. An earthly one, too, unlike Rosie the psychic out there, or Rab the reader. Although I should add that Una was going up the hill, not down, so she wouldn’t have gone into the cheese shop. Unfortunately, that probably also means that she really was on her way to your place and to her death.”

  Janet pulled away from Christine. “It was never her ghost, though. Where did she get that idea from?”

  “Highland folklore, which apparently doesn’t fall into the same category of old wives’ tales as second sight, as far as Rosie is concerned. According to the lore, a wraith seen in the afternoon betokens death. But don’t worry,” Christine said, “I’m sure it was Una in the flesh that Rosie saw, not her ghost.”

  “Lovely,” Janet said. “Absolutely lovely.”

  They heard clapping in the tearoom, and Gillian telling the younger painters teatime was over. There were sounds of dispersal, as the decorators took up their rollers and brushes again. Rab came into the kitchen with the teacups, trailed by Rosie.

  “Quite a talent you have there, Rab,” Christine said. “Learned that at your gran’s knee, did you?”

  “Learnt the rudiments from Una,” Rab said. “If you’ll pardon me, I’ll do the washing up.” He moved past Christine and Janet, took a dishpan from under the sink, and started running water into it.

  “Where’s the dog?” Christine asked, looking around suspiciously.

  “Guarding the bin bags,” Janet said, although “guarding” was an exaggeration. From the doorway she could see Ranger lying flat out on the floor with his eyes closed and his paws chasing rabbits. She wondered if he would wake and growl when she picked up the bags to take them upstairs, or if he’d smile at her and roll over. Christine speaking gently to Rosie drew her attention back to the kitchen.

  “Are you feeling better, dear?” Christine asked. “More settled and collected? You’re not worried you’ve lost your job with Jess, are you? Janet and Jess are old friends; she won’t mind talking to her and getting things sorted for you. Would you like her to do that?”

  Janet was tempted to interrupt that line of helpful assistance from Christine. Rosie hadn’t answered any of Christine’s questions, though, even with a grunt. She aimlessly opened and closed a couple of drawers over and over. She could have been pondering the advice, or not listening at all. Then, leaving one drawer half open, she reached up and opened the cupboard above.

  “My gran has one of these,” Rosie said. She took a tin index file, painted in red and black tartan, from the cupboard.

  “Cute,” Christine said with the same enthusiasm she’d shown when meeting Rab’s dog. “It was left by previous tenants. We’ve no use for it, have we?” Christine looked at Janet, who shrugged. “Would you like it, Rosie?”

  “Can I have what’s in it, too?”

  “If you want the dust in the bottom,” Janet said. “Otherwise it’s empty.”

  “It’s too heavy to be empty.” Rosie carried the tin past her out of the kitchen, and put it on the table where Rab had been reading tea leaves. “Look, everybody—a wee tartan treasure chest.”

  The painters paused for this new source of entertainment. Janet tried to remember if they were paying them by the hour or the job. Christine nudged her and they joined Rosie at the table. Rab came to the kitchen door drying his hands on a tea towel.

  “I love old recipes,” Chloe the painter called. “Open it.”

  Rosie flipped the hinged lid open. “See? Not empty at all.” She turned the box so they could all see the thick fold of paper wedged in the box.

  “Summer must be using the box,” Janet said. “Sorry, Rosie, I didn’t realize.”

  “She wouldn’t treat her recipes like that,” Christine said. “Let me see.” She took the box from Rosie and pulled the fold of paper from it. “Envelopes,” she said. They’d been folded in half, and she let the bunch of them unfold in her hands. “Business envelopes.”

  “Tartan Tees and Tease?” Garth the painter asked with a leer.

  “Back to work, you,” Gillian said. “Nothing to interest you and your wandering eye.”

  “There’s nothing written on them, anyway,” Christine said.

  “Open them,” Rosie said. “They’re why I was led here.”

  “You brought them?” Janet asked.

  “No, I found them,” Rosie said. “You saw me. And she knows.” She pointed at Christine, who still held the envelopes and gazed back at Rosie with a clear look of here we go again. Rosie took the envelopes from Christine and
handed them to Janet. “Go on, open them.”

  The younger painters were all for it.

  “It might be money,” Chloe said.

  “Treasure trove,” said Garth.

  “I wouldn’t.” Rab spoke from the kitchen door.

  His voice was so soft that Janet barely caught the tone of caution under his words. She glanced at him. He took a step forward but didn’t meet her eyes, instead wiping his hands on the tea towel again. She studied the envelopes, turning them over, finding no identifying marks. They were all the same size. Some looked more worn than others. She estimated ten or a dozen. They weren’t sealed. She told herself she wasn’t spooked, didn’t believe for a minute that Rosie was psychic, that she had been “brought” to the bookshop, or that she’d been “led” to the recipe tin in the cupboard. Even so, she set the envelopes on the table.

  “Why not open them, Rab MacGregor?” Christine asked. “What do you know about them?”

  He shook his head. “Not a thing.”

  “Well, then.”

  “But I’m reminded,” he said, “of Pandora’s box.”

  “The box is already open.” Christine took the top envelope from the stack and slipped a folded sheet of paper from it. “A letter,” she said, “and it reads, ‘Dear—’” She stopped and refolded the letter. “On second thought, Rab’s right.” She stuffed the letter back into its envelope, scooped up the others, and left the tearoom.

  “Show’s over,” Gillian said to her young painters.

  “Och, no,” Garth complained.

  “Back to work or I won’t have you back on my crew.”

  The young man leaped for his paint roller.

  Rab said a soft word to Ranger. The dog woke instantly, surprised Janet by appearing to nod good day to her, and followed Rab out.

  “Time for you to go, too, Rosie,” Janet said. “Thank you for stopping in. It’s been a, uh, a real pleasure.”

  “Is the recipe tin still mine to keep?” Rosie asked.

  “No.”