Scones and Scoundrels

by Molly Macrae

  “It was not a good idea,” Janet whispered to Christine at noon. She looked guiltily over her shoulder hoping Tallie wasn’t within earshot. She’d promised she would stop complaining about the morning run after her seventh heartfelt groan before they’d unlocked the bookshop’s door for the day. The “run” had turned into a jog, then a fast walk punctuated by frequent stops for breath, then a limping walk back to the house, a short collapse, and a long shower.

  “You have me on speed dial,” Christine said. “Next time you feel the urge to self-destruct, use it. I’ll talk you down off the ledge. I agree we should all be careful, though.”

  “I’d like it better if we knew who we need to be careful of.”

  “If we knew, we wouldn’t have to worry. We’d tell Reddick and that would be the end of it.”

  “True.”

  “Why don’t we come up with the most likely suspects and invite Reddick to come round? We’ll tell him it’s for tea, scones, and a list of scoundrels.”

  “Because unless he arrested the entire list, it wouldn’t solve our problem,” Janet said. “Besides, who would we put on it? Where would we start? With everyone in or near Nev’s that night?”

  “Logic,” Christine said with dripping derision. “The downfall of many a would-be amateur sleuth.”

  Rab was like the shoemaker’s elves, Janet decided. They saw little of him in person in the days before the signing, but he assured her in a text that his work would be done, and it was. The floors were swept, the books were straightened, and the tearoom was spotless and shining every morning. Janet did get a commitment from him for the signing on Sunday and counted that as a victory. Another victory was hearing from Tallie that she’d found a running partner who could keep up with her.

  “Anyone I know?” Janet asked.

  “I was in Paudel’s and mentioned something about our ‘run’ the other morning.”

  “Air quotes and all?”

  “It’s all right, Mom. You know Basant would never laugh at you. He said he’d been thinking about getting back into running, anyway, and early mornings are the best time for him to get away.”

  “You’re running with Basant? That’s a very neat solution. I forgive you for spreading true stories about how out of shape I am.”

  Martin Gunn was in and out of the bookshop and tearoom the first half of the week, asking questions for his article on Daphne and review of their business. The joy he took in his job and the tearoom’s scones charmed Janet. Summer and Tallie gave him a tour of the B and B. Given the plans he’d initially shared with them for the project, they were surprised that Daphne wasn’t in and out with Martin.

  “Not that we’ll look the gift of an absent bampot in the mouth,” Christine said in an aside to Janet. To Martin she said, “Won’t it be difficult to gauge Daphne’s full impact on the business, with all those layers within layers you were talking about, if she isn’t here?”

  “I’ve been getting a series of mini interviews,” Martin said. “Haviland’s idea. Daphne with some of the teachers and students at the school, walking in the glen with the GREAT-SCOTs, round at her place. She has quite a busy schedule, and I’ve been trying to disrupt it as little as possible.”

  “Adding a few layers, as it were,” Christine said. “Will all those lovely layers be in this week’s paper?”

  “Aye. Well, with Haviland’s approval,” Martin said with a glance at Summer. “Very hands-on, is our James.”

  “It’s good of you to be so accommodating to Daphne,” Janet said.

  Martin looked starstruck. “She’s flat-out brilliant.”

  Another electronic postcard arrived from Sharon, shorter than the first, but just as enthusiastic. She’d left Paris and moved on to Germany:

  Guten abend! I’m in Heidelberg, staying in a gasthaus so near the zoo I heard the lions roaring at dusk. The schnitzel is out of this world.

  Auf wiedersehen,

  Sharon

  Gillian arranged for the same high school culinary class that catered the library event to cater part of the food for the book signing. She didn’t have the details of the menu, but she told Janet the students would tip their toques to Canada and Scotland.

  “Their families will all show up,” Gillian said, “though I can’t guarantee they’ll buy books.”

  “Not a problem,” Janet said. “A crowd of happy people mingling does a lot for a book signing.”

  The tearoom was handling drinks and Summer planned to debut the new scones they’d taste-tested for her. She confirmed Janet’s guess they were orange almond scones, and identified the elusive spice Janet hadn’t been able to put her finger on—cardamom. With their part of the menu set, Summer and Tallie enjoyed wondering what the culinary class might be whipping up for the signing.

  “Representing Scotland, the ever popular haggis balls,” Summer said.

  “Representing Canada, moose jerky,” Tallie said.

  “Scotland—smoked salmon.”

  “Canada—bear haunch, roasted rare, sliced thin, and served with a cranberry glaze on planks of birch bark.” Tallie kissed her fingertips.

  “Are the ingredients coming from Gillian’s grant budget?” Christine asked. “Except for the haggis, you might be going kind of pricey.”

  “Besides,” Janet said, “Daphne says she and Rachel Carson are vegetarians.”

  “Bite-sized wild blueberry tarts from Canada, then,” Summer said.

  “And a herd of little lemon Jell-O moose,” said Tallie. “Because we need moose in there somewhere.”

  “Shortbread moose,” Summer said. “Jell-O isn’t vegetarian.”

  “I’m not so sure Daphne and Rachel Carson are, either,” Janet said. “I saw her grab a dozen haggis balls after the ceilidh and put them in her backpack.”

  “She is too strange for words,” Summer said. “It makes you wonder how she’s earned the reputation she has without earning a poison toadstool or two along the way.”

  “Or without poisoning someone else,” Christine said, “given her peculiar taste in food.”

  “Speaking of which, Mom, you never fetched Maida’s flower pots, did you?”

  “Darn it, no. I completely forgot.”

  “If Maida hasn’t brought it up again, don’t worry about,” Christine said.

  “What if she goes over there and causes another scene?”

  Christine put her arm around Janet’s shoulders. “Your heart’s in the right place, and I don’t say this to offend you, but here’s another old adage that still rings true: Not your Maida, not your bampot.”

  Janet opened the Inversgail Guardian Saturday morning, eager to see what Martin had written about the bookshop, tearoom, and B and B. There were articles on the front page about an expected rise in planning fees and a call for action on a proposed roundabout. Also on the front page was a beautiful photograph, taken by Tom Laing, of the harbor in the mist. Janet flipped pages, scanning the headlines. She stopped and read “Ask Auntie,” Summer’s advice column on page three. “Auntie” Summer had answered a question from “Afraid to Take the Plunge” about starting a workplace romance and another from “Scunnered,” who was fed up with a relative who’d turned into a bridezilla. Janet found a brief mention of the book signing on the local events page, but no article, no review, and no glowing words about the brilliant Daphne.

  “Auntie, I’m disappointed,” Janet said when she was able to catch Summer between customers. “Do you suppose James didn’t okay Martin’s article?”

  “I was kind of surprised not to see it,” Summer said. She held up her phone. “I just texted him. I’ll let you know what I hear.”

  Janet was busy with another customer when she realized she didn’t know which “him” Summer had texted with her question.

  “You’ll find out soon enough.” Tallie said when Janet mentioned it to her. “Does it matter?”

  “Nosy information more than necessary. I was just wondering who she thought to ask first, Martin or James.” Her phone
tweedled with a text alert and she pulled it from her pocket. “And now we’ll know.” She swiped and tapped her phone. “The winner is James, and his answer is ‘ran into difficulties.’”

  “In other words,” Tallie said, “his answer is less than enlightening.”

  17

  Sunday was the kind of Scottish day when the sun changed its mind as often as a cat on one side of a closed door. It came out, it went in, came out, went in. Janet knew that it didn’t really matter what the sun finally decided to do. A little rain, or a lot of rain, or a full blown torrent of sunshine might all happen during the next few hours and none of them would keep people from getting on with their plans.

  “When does the bampot author plan to arrive?” Christine asked as she and Janet watched Rab and Tallie rearranging the comfy chairs to make space for the signing near the fireplace.

  “You can’t go around calling her that,” Janet said.

  They’d debated whether or not to turn on the gas logs for a cozy atmosphere, and have Daphne sit at a table beside it. Daphne had nixed that when Janet mentioned it to her, pointing out that if she sat to the side, the fireplace would remain the visual focal point and she refused to play second fiddle to the conspicuous consumption of nonrenewable energy. She’d also nixed live music. James Haviland had offered to play suitable background music on his fiddle, perhaps in the tearoom where the refreshments would be laid out, but Daphne hadn’t wanted to play second fiddle to him, either. She countered with a request for standard classical fare on the sound system.

  Tallie and Rab moved past Janet and Christine with a folding table and set it up in front of the fireplace. Rab moved one of the chairs from the tearoom behind it and Tallie draped it with a dark green damask tablecloth.

  “Perfect,” Janet said. “Those are probably famous last words, though, aren’t they?” She ran her fingers up the back of her head, giving herself a ridge of gray spikes. She patted her hair back in place and looked at her to-do list. “The culinary class should be here no later than three. I asked Daphne to be here by half-three. Does Summer need more help in the tearoom before the kids from the class get here?”

  “The tearoom is so under control that Summer has the teapots doing synchronized calisthenics,” Christine said. She then assured Janet that she wouldn’t utter the word bampot again that afternoon, and further assured her that she hadn’t let her mother hear her referring to Daphne that way. “Mum would have far too much fun with that to keep it to herself. Now, Janet, remember to breathe. Or do your meditation thing, if that helps. We all need you to be the calm and collected one this afternoon, in case the rest of us are driven to the point of lunacy by the author-who-shall-not-be-called-bampot. I’m sure none of us will snap, though, and it’s going to be a really lovely signing.”

  Although Janet hadn’t worried about the weather keeping people away from the signing, she did worry that Daphne’s own behavior might. A needless worry, as it turned out. Daphne and Rachel Carson were there on time, Daphne in slacks and an embroidered tunic top, Rachel Carson with a sprig of heather in her collar. People started arriving before the advertised start time of four, but Daphne and Rachel Carson stood at the door greeting them as they came in, until the shop and the tearoom were pleasantly full of mingling, chatting guests. If Janet noticed more people gravitating toward the tearoom and the refreshments, and not making it all the way back to the signing area, she forgave them. The culinary class had brought an array of delicious savory and sweet finger foods, and Summer’s orange almond scones were a definite hit.

  Daphne inched the signing table a few inches one direction and the chair a few in the other. Then she and Rachel Carson took their places, Rachel Carson stopping first to sniff suspiciously at the chair that Ranger so often sat in. Janet stood ready to open books for Daphne and to hand Post-it notes to people waiting so Daphne wouldn’t have to ask for correct spellings of names.

  Rhona of the GREAT-SCOTs was first in line for a signature, followed by Alistair. Janet reached for Rhona’s book. Daphne reached faster.

  “You appear to be the hovering type,” she said, waving Janet away. “I’ve decided I don’t need an assistant. I’ll pop my own soda cans. Come by every so often with a refill of hot tea for me and fresh water for Rachel Carson, and that will be sufficient.”

  “Would either of you like a plate of refreshments?” Janet asked.

  “No.”

  Janet refrained from snapping a salute and went to join Tallie and Rab at the sales counter, telling herself to walk, not stalk.

  “That works out well for us,” Tallie said when Janet told them of the change in plans. “Now we can take turns circulating. You can go first, if you like. Oh, and guess who came in and headed straight for the tearoom?”

  “Norman Hobbs,” Rab said.

  “That wasn’t fair,” said Tallie. “You saw him come in.”

  “Aye, but telling saves time. In case he doesn’t stay.”

  “Good point,” said Janet. “If you two are all right here, I’ll go through and say hello.”

  Janet tried, but wasn’t able to make a beeline to the tearoom. She met Gillian and Tom in the photography section along the way, ran into James Haviland, and said hello to several others she knew or recognized before reaching her goal. When she got to the tearoom, Hobbs wasn’t there.

  “Didn’t you see him?” Christine asked when Janet told her why she’d clucked her tongue and looked disappointed. “He filled a plate and went back into the bookshop before I could tell him not to take more than his share of sausage rolls.” She stepped to the door of the tearoom. “There he is. At the corner of the picture book nook.”

  “The sausage rolls are good?” Janet tried not to be obvious in casting a longing look toward the refreshment tables.

  “The sausage rolls are excellent. So are the stuffed mushrooms, the haggis balls, cream buns, tea bread, and macaroon bars. The students cook and behave like professionals. Watch this.” Christine turned and raised a finger as a signal for one of the students, then turned back to Janet. “Something else about the students—they’ve been getting Summer to laugh. Ah, here you go.”

  A student wearing a chef’s toque and white apron appeared at Janet’s elbow. She handed Janet a plate and napkin and gave a shallow bow.

  “Thank you so much,” Janet said.

  “You’re welcome,” the girl said, then repeated it in Gaelic, “’S e ur beatha.”

  “That was adorable,” Janet said when the girl was gone. She nodded toward Hobbs, who hadn’t moved from where he stood just outside the picture book area. “I’ll go see what’s gluing him to that spot.”

  Janet had never seen Constable Norman Hobbs out of uniform. Or if she had, she hadn’t recognized him. She wondered if his grandmother had knitted his jumper. Or Jess? No, closer up, the sweater was comfortably worn at the elbows, which would have taken more time than he and Jess had been a rumored item. Janet wondered if it meant anything that she didn’t see Jess now.

  “Hello, Norman.”

  Hobbs didn’t quite jump, but he twitched. She knew she hadn’t been fair, approaching him quietly while he was engrossed in—what? Certainly not the copy of Wee Granny’s Magic Bag he was pretending to read.

  “What are you up to?” she asked.

  Hobbs tucked the book under his arm, took his plate from a shelf, and moved around Janet into the alcove where they shelved children’s picture books. Janet followed.

  “Good afternoon, Mrs. Marsh,” Hobbs said, and took a bite of sausage roll.

  “Please don’t take another bite and use those innocent sausage rolls as a way to stall your answer.”

  Hobbs chewed, swallowed, and pulled the book from under his arm. “I’ve been looking for a present for my niece.”

  “It’s a good choice, Norman, but you weren’t turning the pages while you were standing there. Were you even looking at them?”

  “I’ve read the book before.” Hobbs stepped out of the alcove, looked left, th
en right, then stepped back in. “While I was flipping through it, refreshing my memory, I discovered something you might not be aware of. If you don’t mind, go to the spot where I was a moment ago. Stand facing the shelves and listen. I’ll hold your plate, if you like.”

  “I’ll keep my plate, thank you.” For all Janet knew, this was an elaborate ploy on his part to get her sausage rolls and macaroons. She went and stood as he directed.

  “A step closer to the shelves,” Hobbs said.

  Janet shot him a look and he retreated into the picture book alcove. She moved closer to the shelf and listened—to the pleasant rise and fall of voices around her, to laughter somewhere near the front door, to the closing strains of a lovely guitar version of “Farewell to Stromness” coming over the sound system. She ate a sausage roll, which was every bit as excellent as Christine had said they were, and waited, but heard nothing at all unexpected.

  “What am I—oh. Hello, Ian.”

  Ian Atkinson, leaning an elbow on a shelf next to Curious George, smiled at her. “If you’re looking for Constable Hobbs, he’s gone into the tearoom. Shall I give your existential question a try?”

  “I wasn’t really—”

  “Don’t burst my bubble by telling me what you were really doing. Fiction is more exciting. So, what are you?” Ian took his elbow from the bookshelf and crossed his arms. He gave her an assessing look, head slowly tilting to the side.

  Janet felt her own head following his. She straightened and popped a macaroon in her mouth.

  “You’re brave,” he said. He brushed at something on his tweed sleeve. “And now I’ll be brave and go introduce myself.”

  “To Daphne? Haven’t you met her yet?” Janet was sure he would have found a way to run into her or an excuse to knock on her door before now.

  “A small secret,” he said, moving closer and talking near her ear without making eye contact. “I write books for a reason. Writing is safer.” He brushed at the sleeve again, tugged on both, and headed for the signing area.