by Molly Macrae
Tallie asked what evidence Daphne had offered. Christine wanted to know whose pocket Daphne had in mind. Summer told them Daphne had been short on specifics.
Sharon from the library stopped by Yon Bonnie Books another morning. The day was bright and she was early. She knocked on the door until Janet unlocked it, and then she spread her worries about arrangements for the Friday night program—and Daphne—from the stoop to the sales counter. Once again, Janet found herself on one side of the counter, listening, while Sharon vented on the other.
“The combination of food, music, dancing, and prima donnas creates a level of stress that might be lethal,” she told Janet. “I’m happy to do it, of course. And I’ve read one or two of her books. But beyond that, I find I’m not terribly interested in Daphne Wood, especially after meeting her. Not that I have anything against the environment or against people working to preserve it. It’s just that I prefer my ‘greens’ in a less natural and aggressive form. Saturday cannot come soon enough.”
“Your program is Friday night,” Janet said.
“And Saturday it will all be over, and then I’m away on my holiday.”
“Daphne’s behavior is certainly interesting,” Christine said Friday morning, when the four partners met in the communicating door. “Interesting from my social worker’s point of view, anyway. Personally, I wouldn’t want to spend much time with her. Norman Hobbs would find her behavior interesting, too. Where is he when we need him?”
“Jess might know,” Summer said.
“Yes, why haven’t we called her?” Christine asked.
Jess Bailie, the estate agent who hadn’t been able to sell the house where Daphne was staying, had started seeing Constable Hobbs over the summer. They saw each other so tentatively, though, that Janet thought if either of them blinked, they’d pass each other by.
“Jess might not know,” Janet said, “and it would be a shame to give her something to worry about.”
“Back to Daphne,” said Tallie. “If she thinks she’s investigating the murder, someone should tell her to have another think.”
Janet found it somewhat irritating that the other three looked at her.
Rab and Ranger came in to work for a few hours that morning. While Ranger chased something fleet in his sleep, Rab rearranged the clay animals in the window display.
“The kids love coming to see where they’ve moved to,” Janet said.
“And wondering where they’ll go next,” Tallie said. “It makes me wonder what we can do for the next window. The ‘look, look, look, Mum!’ factor of this one is great. The kids love showing off what they’ve done.”
“Makes me wonder about this author,” Rab said, “and her prodding and poking.”
“Makes you wonder what?” Janet asked.
“Hard to say.” Rab puzzled over it, micromanaging the animals’ movements. “Look in this window, you see her books. We made sure of that. Look tonight, you’ll see her up on stage. Gillian and Sharon made sure there was plenty of notice for that. And then Daphne Wood pokes and pries and prods, and people stop and look.”
“Look at what?” Janet asked. “The poking and prying?”
“Could be.” Rab scrutinized the wombat then nudged it so it peeked from behind a tree. “No question she’s clever, though. Makes me wonder. Is there something she doesn’t want us to see?”
8
Rab’s question got lost in a busy day of bookselling. Janet was glad it did. Any thought of Daphne investigating the murder at Nev’s, for whatever reason, reminded her of the proposal she was trying to forget. So far, Daphne hadn’t come by for an answer, and Janet was glad of that, too. She hadn’t bothered to tell the others about the evening visit, because she was sure Reddick and his team would solve the crime soon, leaving it a moot point. She was also hopeful, though less confident, that something else would happen to capture Daphne’s attention and time. With luck, that evening’s kickoff celebration at the library would do the capturing, and then Daphne’s focus would turn to the reason she’d been brought to Inversgail at such expense.
The double-billing for the evening—world-renowned environmental writer and homegrown environmental activist—was a coup for Gillian and the group known succinctly as GREAT-SCOT. As Daphne had earlier observed, the group’s unabbreviated name was laboriously long, but members of the Green Resident Environmental Alliance Trust—Start Conserving Our Tomorrow were happy with their acronym (and some didn’t let on that they couldn’t remember the full name and wouldn’t torture themselves to try). The homegrown activist being celebrated was Alistair Gillespie, Gillian’s father.
Alistair, a wiry, compact man in his early seventies, known for his hiking shorts and love for acronyms, was a founding member of GREAT-SCOT. A former teacher himself, he’d been a tireless promoter of environmental education throughout his life. When Gillian was a schoolgirl, he’d worked on preserving the Farquhar garden, working closely with the Girl Guides and Boy Scouts. For the past two decades, he’d led the effort for the restoration and regeneration of the Sgail Gorge, down through which the River Sgail tumbled before calming itself to splash under the bridge in town and then chuckle into the harbor. After years of replanting, repair, and stewardship, the gorge and woods were recovering. The name was being restored, too, with the wild, deep valley being rechristened Glen Sgail.
Janet drove that evening, taking Tallie and Summer in the Audi she’d bought secondhand in Fort William. Tallie and Summer planned to sit with some of the Guardian staff. Janet said she’d keep an eye out for Christine and her parents and give a hand getting them settled with plates from the buffet.
“I thought I might be bowled over by a tad too much tartan. Overcome by a plethora of plaid.”
“Oh. Hi, Daphne.” Janet didn’t jump when Daphne sidled up to her at the library that evening, but her smile didn’t commit itself to anything, either.
Despite what Daphne said she’d feared, Janet was happy to see a few kilts mixing with the trousers, jeans, and other skirts in the room. She also saw a smattering of T-shirts with the blue and white flag of Scotland, some with the yellow and red of the Royal Banner of Scotland, and a blossoming number of the green shirts Daphne had predicted members of GREAT-SCOT would be wearing. She’d changed from her usual khakis to black trousers and a loose tunic, knowing they’d be comfortable if she joined the dancing. Daphne, she noticed, still wore her jeans and buffalo plaid jacket, and had a backpack slung over one shoulder. She had a pen and notebook in one hand and the end of a leash in the other. Janet looked down. Rachel Carson, on the other end of the leash, looked up at her and then away. Janet had never seen a dog in the library and wondered if Daphne had asked permission or if she’d used the backpack to smuggle Rachel Carson in. She also wondered how Sharon would feel about a dog attending a program at her library.
The event room at the Inversgail Library and Archives was a simple rectangle. It had been given its utilitarian shape so that it could accommodate the widest variety of programs (a plethora of programming possibilities, Janet refrained from saying to Daphne). This evening, the room was arranged for a lively time. Tables with food and drinks stood along one short end and a stage at the other. Smaller tables and chairs ran down both the long sides of the room for anyone stopping to eat or sitting out when the dancing began in the bare middle of the room.
“Are you sitting with Gillian and her father?” Janet asked.
“I’d rather not. His hiking shorts are disquieting and she seems tense. It’s upsetting Rachel Carson.”
Rachel Carson sat next to Daphne, gazing into the distance. If she hadn’t arrived in Inversgail that way, she might have had lessons in being laid-back from Rab’s Ranger or Reddick’s Quantum. Looking more closely at Daphne, Janet saw she was also gazing into the distance, but she didn’t look laid-back. She just seemed to be avoiding eye contact with anyone.
“I’m making a list,” Daphne said. “I’d like your help.”
That request was an improvem
ent over being asked to kill someone or being asked to track down a killer. Janet relaxed, somewhat. “Here comes Christine. We’re going to fix plates for her parents and ourselves. You can join us if you want, and then I’ll take a look at your list.”
“Why eat now?” Daphne asked. “I thought speeches and presentations were first. The important parts.”
“Ah, but food is always important,” Christine said as she came to meet them. “Nice to see you, Daphne. Come on; let’s dig in. I promised Mum she can eat her pudding first.”
Daphne trailed behind them as they filled plates. She’d hadn’t greeted Christine and didn’t say anything more to Janet, who noticed that she’d reverted to speaking in the clipped, blunt sentences they’d heard the night she arrived. Janet wondered if the crowd was making her claustrophobic.
As part of her grant, Gillian had been able to arrange for the culinary classes at the high school to cater food for the ceilidh dance and the bookshop signing. The students, in white shirts and long white aprons, stood behind their tables, looking like fresh-faced, serious chefs. For the pleasure of their guests, they’d prepared a supper of haggis balls with a whisky and mustard sauce, baked beans, Brussels sprouts, oatcakes, pickle, three types of cheese, and blackberry tart with pouring custard.
Janet and Christine filled four plates between them. Christine also took a bowl with the blackberry tart and custard for her mother’s starters. Janet glanced at Daphne. “You’re not eating?”
“I ate before I came,” Daphne said.
“That was smart. This way you can circulate more easily and meet people. Although, from what I understand, you’ve already met quite a few people.” If Janet thought that was an opening for Daphne to admit to irritating people up and down the High Street, she was disappointed. “Are you sure you don’t want something?” she asked. “There’s plenty of good food here.”
“I avoid potluck,” Daphne said.
“It isn’t potluck. The high school cooking class catered it.”
“Then why did I bring a green salad?”
Janet saw a practically untouched bowl of green salad looking lonely and out of place between a pan of baked beans and the Brussels sprouts. Maida Fairlie, looking dour and somewhat out of place herself, eyed the salad and then took a small portion.
Feeling sorry for the salad and slightly less sorry for Daphne, Janet took a large scoop. She and Christine had their plates, bowl, and utensils under control, but help juggling it all to the table would have been nice. Daphne didn’t offer.
“What kind of list are you making?” Janet asked.
“Local interest.”
“What do you have on it so far?”
“That’s why I need your help.”
“I’ll be happy to, if I can, but there are many more qualified people than me.”
“You’re assuming you’re my only source.”
“Ah. Well, Christine’s got our seats staked out over there.” Janet nodded toward the table Christine had commandeered by sitting her parents down and spreading their coats on the rest of the chairs. “Do you know Christine’s parents? Helen and David McLean—you might have known them when you lived here.”
Daphne followed Janet without answering.
“Got your hands full there, Daphne?” Christine asked, nodding at the pen and notebook Daphne set on the table. Christine helped Janet land the plates and utensils she was about to drop. There were two seats left at the table. Daphne sat in the one next to Christine’s mother, leaving a chair farthest from the others for Janet.
“Helen and David,” Janet said, leaning forward across the table and looking around Daphne at them, “may I introduce our visiting author, Daphne Wood? Daphne, these are Christine’s parents, Helen and David McLean. Helen was a district nurse and David was head teacher at the primary school.”
“What a beautifully behaved dog,” Helen said. “Would it like a haggis ball?”
“We’re vegetarians. Excuse me.” Daphne turned to Janet and held up her notebook. “It’s a list of people of interest.”
“I thought you said it was a list of local interest.”
“It’s the same thing.”
Janet took a bite of the green salad. She was interested in Daphne’s pen, to see if it was one of the vaunted G Force Battalion whatever-they-were that she insisted they supply for signings, but Daphne flapped the notebook to catch her attention—but only so much of her attention. She held the notebook at an angle that made it difficult to see what was written in it. When Janet tried to get a better look, Daphne pulled it back.
Daphne had swiveled in her chair so that her back was to Christine’s mother and the rest of the table. Over her shoulder, Janet saw Christine and her parents looking startled and possibly affronted. She also saw Gillian Bennett and Tom Laing. They’d stopped at another table to chat, but it was easy to see from the look Gillian cast in their direction that a chat with Daphne was on her agenda.
As far as Janet could tell, the pages she’d seen of Daphne’s notebook were blank. So was Daphne’s expression. The green salad, on the other hand, was full of personality, so Janet took another bite. “Does this list have anything to do with the murder?” she asked quietly, after swallowing. “Because—”
“You’ve reconsidered. I thought you would.”
“No, I haven’t. It isn’t our business.”
“The town is implicated. Your local is implicated.”
Janet shook her head. “You’ve misunderstood.”
“Your business is implicated.”
“What? Where did you hear that?”
Daphne tapped her ear. “Ear to the ground. Two ears or three, four, or five would be better than one.”
“What you heard isn’t true, and what I meant is that we aren’t in the investigation business.”
Daphne threw herself back in her chair with a loud exhalation. If she wanted to draw attention to their muted conversation, she succeeded.
“Who is that woman?” Christine’s mother asked.
“Daphne Wood,” Christine’s father said loudly into her ear.
“Would what?” Christine’s mother asked.
Daphne leaned toward Janet again. “We’ll leave that discussion and return to the list. I’m asking you because you run a bookstore. Bookstores are a good source for local information.”
“They certainly can be,” Janet said. “Libraries, too.”
“Librarians lack imagination.”
“They do not. You just don’t know the right librarians.”
Daphne considered that. “There is only the one within a hundred miles of my cabin, so you might be right.”
“What would you like to know, Daphne?”
“The names of people I might like to spend time with while I’m in residence.”
Janet mulled Daphne’s request. She also wondered how much longer it was going to take Gillian and Tom to chat their way over and provide reinforcements, or at least offer some relief from Janet’s odd ceilidh companion. They were still a few tables away. Christine and her parents, having been ignored, had turned around and were talking to people Janet didn’t know at the next table.
“Are you looking for people to spend an evening with, Daphne? Or someone to grab a meal with, or go to the movies?”
Rachel Carson appeared to consider these options. Daphne waved them away.
“Are you looking for someone to get outdoors with? You could join the Three Sisters Hill Walkers. They hike most weekends. Parts of the West Highland Way, that kind of thing. I’m sure the GREAT-SCOTs would love to have you sit in on their meetings. They bought the beautiful plaque you’re giving to Gillian’s dad this evening. I understand they’re really pleased you’re making the presentation.”
“I’m aware of their pleasure.” Daphne acknowledged their pleasure or her awareness with a brief nod, then closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose.
“Are you all right?” Janet asked.
Rather than answer, Daphne
signaled “wait” with a raised palm, let go of her nose, and then wrote furiously in the notebook, scratched out half of what she’d written, and wrote a few words more. When she stopped, she pinched the bridge of her nose again, but this time with her eyes open and looking expectantly at Janet. “Go on.”
Janet thought while she finished a haggis ball. “There are a couple of book groups in town and a local theater group.”
“You’re off track. You’re listing groups. And you might find them interesting, but I might not. Interesting isn’t exactly right, anyway. I want useful people.” Her pen came to life in a light but insistent staccato on the notebook that gave Janet the idea she was floundering pretty quickly toward useless herself.
“Useful in what way?” And why were Gillian and Tom still dithering two tables away?
“Useful in the non-irritating way.”
Janet hid her own blossoming irritation with another mouthful of green salad and nearly choked. Some of the leaves in the salad felt and tasted like astringent peach fuzz. She bolted another haggis ball to get the feeling off her tongue, shuddered, drank the rest of her lemonade, and almost reached for Daphne’s. Daphne waited. Rachel Carson yawned.
“How about a photographer, then?” Janet asked, making an effort to recover some couth.
“Photographers, as a general rule, are splendid,” Daphne said with no change of expression.
“Good. Put Gillian’s friend Tom on your list.” Although she, personally, found him about as irritating as whatever she’d just encountered in the salad.
“Surname?” Daphne asked.
“Laing.”
“Now,” Daphne said, pen poised for more action, “tell me why he will be useful.”
“For whatever reason you thought a photographer would be useful in the first place,” Janet said. She felt a light touch on the back of her shoulder and looked up. Salvation. Gillian was there, holding Tom’s hand.
“How about this?” Gillian said. “Tom teaches science at the high school. He’s a walking gazetteer who knows every burn, brae, waterfall, and waterspout you can name along this part of the coast. He’s a brilliant photographer who’s sold his work to West Highland Calendars. He’s contributed photo essays to Historic Environment Scotland and Scotland Magazine. And he’s usually around when you need him, except when he’s occasionally not, as has been the case this week. But here he is now. Daphne Wood, I’d like you to meet Tom Laing. Tom, this is my dear friend, Daphne.”