by Molly Macrae
“If someone was in Ms. Wood’s house, that information was also important.”
“Which goes to show that you think like the professional you are, and I think like a retired librarian turned bookseller.”
“Who channels Miss Marple.”
“Please don’t stoop to sarcasm, Norman. Do you know how many people read mysteries? The mystery genre is second only to romance in sales and readership, and every one of those mystery readers is an amateur sleuth. We are legion in number. Many of us are bright and good at solving puzzles and also ready and willing to help the professionals. But we have feelings, so when we make mistakes, we would appreciate some understanding. Do I need to remind you that you make mistakes, too?” She felt a twinge of guilt for bringing up the unusual stopgap and very sneaky housing plan Hobbs had hatched shortly after she and the others arrived in Inversgail.
“No.”
“Good.” She shook off the twinge. “Now, to make up for my earlier lapse, let me tell you about this other thing, and then I’ll let you go.
“When Reddick came into the shop, immediately after Sam Smith’s death, one of the questions he asked, almost as an afterthought, was if we knew anything about a whisky society. None of us did. The way he asked, his question might have been totally unrelated to the case. Then, today, Ian asked what we know about a secret whisky society. When we said we didn’t know anything at all, he offered an information exchange. He would tell us who he saw last night if we tell him what we can find out about the society. Summer thinks he could be trying to solve the case—or, at this point, cases—himself. But what that has to do with a whisky society, I have no idea.” Janet laughed lightly at that, thinking it sounded fairly preposterous. “Do you know anything about a secret whisky society, Norman?”
“I have to ring off, now, Mrs. Marsh,” Hobbs said, and he was gone.
24
Janet opened her laptop and then a blank document and typed a summary of her conversation with Hobbs, including the way he’d ended the call. She’d gotten the distinct impression that he’d rung off so abruptly in reaction to her information and question about the whisky society. So what was this society? If it was secret, how had Reddick and Ian both heard about it? And, perhaps more intriguing, why did Ian need their help to find out about it? She glanced at the time—later than she’d expected—and started a new document.
The next morning, the four women stood in their accustomed spots for their before-hours meeting in the communicating doorway between the two shops. Janet liked to think of that space as being between a teapot and a bookcase. Before going to bed the previous night, she’d saved her new documents and the transcription of their conversation in Nev’s to a cloud account, and then let the others know the documents were there.
Tallie and Summer had created the account for their first (and only other) “investigation.” Janet put mental quotation marks around the word, not because it didn’t accurately describe what they’d done, but because it was a label. Labels had a way of making things, whether they were concrete or abstract, more real, like “divorce” and “my husband, Curtis-the-rat.” Janet, being a librarian, liked labels, but in her experience, they needed to be assigned carefully. Not only did they make things more real, but they tended to freight them with consequences. That was why a question from Christine startled her.
“The way you laid things out is quite logical,” Christine said. “But before we go further, shall we vote on calling ourselves the SCONES? Private use only. Show of hands for aye?” She raised a hand. So did Tallie and Summer.
“I only included it so we’d have an accurate record of our interactions with Daphne,” Janet said. No hands came down. “I don’t think she was being complimentary.” she added. “There is something about it, though.”
“It’s lightly snarky, over a layer of accuracy, with a dash of subterfuge,” Summer said.
“Plus, it’s baked goods,” Christine said. “If anyone overhears us, it’ll be free advertising.”
Janet shrugged and put her hand up, too.
“You do all realize that Mom’s second document can be seen more as a series of rationalizations than as a list of appropriate and justified actions, don’t you?” Tallie asked.
“Don’t you think we have a good reason to make ourselves as aware of the evolving situation as possible?” Janet asked.
“I do, absolutely,” Tallie said. “I’m just offering a lawyerly perspective.”
“The devil’s perspective, as it were,” Christine said, “but it’s good to be aware of that, too.”
Summer had the second document open on her tablet, and tapped a finger on her lips as she read it again. “This question. ‘Should we warn Ian that Tom is a suspect?’”
“A moral dilemma,” Christine said.
“Kind of a hedgehog’s dilemma,” Summer said. “Get too close to him, and it can be trouble.”
“But I think it isn’t our dilemma,” Janet said. “We’ve done our duty by letting Norman know Ian might have seen someone.”
“Passing the torch of responsibility on to Norman,” Tallie said.
“Norman warned us,” Janet said. “I think we can trust him to warn Ian. He told us to be careful, and the best way to do that is to have as much information as possible, be fully aware, alert at all times.”
“We sound like a troop of meerkats,” Tallie said, and then at a slightly aggrieved look from her mother, “but it’s better than being a quartet of ostriches. I wonder how wombats react to danger?”
“Dive into their holes and plug them with their rumps,” Summer said without glancing up from her tablet. “Wombat Wisdom 101.”
Tallie intercepted another look from Janet. “Let’s not mix zoology with baked goods. SCONES it is. What’s our first step?”
“We know Ian plays games,” Janet said. “We don’t know if he’s playing one now. If he is, though, then the best way to keep from getting mixed up in it is to refuse to play along. We’ll let Norman handle the question of who Ian saw in the house. But it might be interesting to find out about this whisky society, and important to know more about Tom Laing.”
“Speaking of subterfuge, a wee bit of judicious pressure on Norman might yield results on this society,” Christine said. “He still owes you for not exposing his own subterfuge, doesn’t he? The Hobbs housing scheme for innocent and unsuspecting grannies.” She rubbed her hands, looking conspiratorial and slightly wicked.
Janet felt like rubbing her own hands and saying, “Excellent.” Instead, she said, “Let’s see what we can find out on our own, first. I’m happy to take advantage of Norman, but just because Ian hasn’t had any luck finding out about a whisky society doesn’t mean we won’t. People might not tell Ian on general principle.”
Ian, an incomer from Slough, near London, had arrived in Inversgail a decade earlier. As far as Janet could tell, he hadn’t developed a circle of friends, and she wasn’t sure if that was entirely by design. He talked about falling in love with Inversgail and the Highlands when he’d come north to research the background for his Single Malt Mysteries. He also sighed and excused his “antisocial ways” as being the lot of a successful writer. He wasn’t as blunt, or rude, as Daphne had been, but Janet noticed he often seemed to be on the wrong footing with the people around him. To look on the positive side, she thought the tensions and conflicts he created might provide inspiration for his work.
“Finding out more about Tom is probably our first priority,” Janet said.
“Did Norman say he’s a suspect in both deaths?” Tallie asked.
“He didn’t, and I didn’t ask.” Janet made an irritated noise. “I should have.”
“If you had, he might not have told you,” Tallie said. “There’s been very little obvious activity and very little said about Sam Smith’s death, either by the police or around town. It feels to me as though the specialists think they already have a case, but they’re waiting for something. Final pieces to confirm it, maybe. Cause of
death might be one of those.”
“Tom’s disappearance might be another,” Summer said. “Not that they were waiting for him to disappear. It puts egg on their faces if he turns out to be guilty, though, doesn’t it? I’ll see what James can tell me about Tom. He knows him through his photography.”
“I’ll ask Basant,” Tallie said. “If he knows Tom at all, he might know quite a lot.”
“Basant the font,” Christine said. “I’ll go to my own font of information.”
“Danny?” Tallie asked.
“Danny, too, but I was thinking of Mum and Dad. It might take time to break through the fog of memory, but what they don’t know from their years as district nurse and head teacher, or haven’t heard since in their years of good works and going down the pub, wouldn’t fill a saucer. What’s your plan, Janet?”
“I told Gillian I’d help her organize a memorial for Daphne. I’ll use that as an excuse to contact people at the high school and in the GREAT-SCOTs.”
“While we’re at it, shall we ask about the whisky society, too?” Tallie asked.
“Yes.” Janet looked at each of the others. “But we all need to be careful—about the questions we ask and the places we go. That was the point of Norman’s warning.”
“It’s also the point of asking the questions,” Summer said. “But don’t worry.” She held up her tablet. “Texts are a great way to travel when you have a business to run. We can stay right here, armed to the teeth with our books and our teapots.”
“We have another font of information,” Tallie said, after she and Janet opened the shop for the day. She nudged her mother and nodded with her chin at Rab, arranging Ranger’s second-best towel on his chair.
Janet answered with a distracted, “Mm.”
“Or we could discuss things with the wombat in the window.”
“Mm.” Janet looked at her daughter. “What?”
“What are you stewing about?”
“Oh. I just wish Summer hadn’t said ‘armed to the teeth.’ It gave me a small case of the heebie-jeebies.”
“I’ve never known you to be superstitious.”
“A dash. Not even a whole dash. A half-dash, at most. Or a sprinkle.”
Tallie turned Janet to face her and put a hand on each shoulder. “You might very well have that half-dash or sprinkle, but what you’re feeling today is worry and healthy fear. It’s why Norman warned you and why you reminded us to be careful. And you’ve been thinking about this since you talked to him last night, so you’re ahead of the rest of us on the worry and fear curve, which you tend to be ahead on, anyway. Why don’t we practice a few careful questions on Rab, and then you can go in the office and start calling people about the memorial? You need more action, Mom, and less stewing.”
“Right.” Janet turned to look for Rab and almost jumped. He and his easy half-smile stood patiently on the other side of the counter. “Good morning, Rab. We’re wondering if you’ve heard that Tom Laing is missing.”
“Aye.”
“From what I know of him, it seems out of character.”
“Aye.”
Janet didn’t look at Tallie, but imagined she was about to sputter or laugh out loud at her “practice” questions and Rab’s responses. She decided to switch topics and tactics. “Have you ever heard of a secret whisky society in Inversgail?”
Rab’s half-smile drifted toward uneasy. “Och, well, I’ve just remembered—” But rather than say what he’d remembered, he whistled for Ranger. The dog took the towel in his teeth and brought it to Rab. “I’ll be back this afternoon,” he said as he folded the towel. “Might be tomorrow.” And man and dog were gone.
“The biggest conversation-stopper in Inversgail,” Janet said. “Curiouser and curiouser.”
“Let’s make a note and be sure to tell the others: if we want to ask more than one question, don’t start with the whisky society.”
Janet took Tallie’s advice and spent time in the office that morning. Rather than make phone calls about a memorial for Daphne, though, she started another document, labeled it “Theories,” and gave free rein to the possibilities stewing in her head.
THEORIES: Tom killed Sam Smith for whatever reason. Daphne found out. She was going to tell the police. Tom killed her, panicked, and ran.
OR: They were in it together. Daphne arrived in town earlier than we thought. She killed Sam Smith for whatever reason. With her sword because she said she’d try anything once? (Does she have a real sword?) (Was she that nutty?) The sword didn’t kill him immediately, so Tom hit him with the brick. But what if she actually had a motive? Did she know Smith? She claimed to know his family. Did she know anyone at the party that night at Nev’s?
BUT: The end is the same for both theories. Tom killed Daphne because she was going to talk. Then he panicked and ran. Evidence? Slim. He was at Nev’s that night. He threw punches. He and Daphne went on photo shoots together. Then she turned on him.
QUESTION: Why would Tom be cool about the first murder and panic over the second?
OR: Daphne didn’t mellow over time. She sharpened. The rough edges of her personality weren’t rubbed off by constant contact with other people. She didn’t live out in the wilds all those years because she was an ardent environmentalist or some kind of modern me-Jane heroine. She was there because, if she wasn’t, someone, somewhere would want to kill her. Is that what happened?
OR: Was there anyone, besides Gillian, responsible for bringing Daphne to Inversgail? Gillian said she found the grant money, and put the committee together, but did someone else have input? Who suggested Daphne as the author? Was her invitation above board or was it orchestrated? Maybe the person who killed her had no way of getting to her in Canada. What’s the motive? An old wound that festered? Or reopened? Something Daphne did? How? When? Through social media? What if someone wanted her here for a confrontation, but it turned into murder?
Janet sat back after pounding her keys. Stream of consciousness sleuthing, she thought. But where did it get me? She saved the document to the cloud and went back out front to spend time with the things she understood and trusted—books, family, and friends.
“How’d it go?” Tallie asked.
Janet told her about her theories document. “It’s a somewhat-organized stew,” she said. “Possibilities, with overtones of hmmm. I’m sure there’s a pinch of hoo-boy in it, too. And I didn’t make calls to organize the memorial, because I haven’t heard from Gillian to know what she has in mind.”
“I wonder how she’s holding up.”
“I wonder if she knows Tom’s a sus—” Janet stopped herself, not knowing if there were customers within earshot.
“You’re fine,” Tallie said. “Quiet morning here. In the tearoom, too. Summer had time to ask James a few questions about Tom.”
“What did she find out?”
“How hard it is to start a casual text conversation with a newspaper editor and ask questions about someone under suspicion without raising suspicions. She ended up telling him text-time was over and teatime was in full swing, but she wasn’t real happy lying about it.”
“Did you get a chance to text Basant?”
“Yes, but I didn’t, because I was going to have the same problem as Summer.”
“What a thoroughly modern pickle to be in,” Janet said.
“With an easy, old-fashioned solution that it took our genius Christine to point out.”
25
To the synergy that is Nev’s,” Christine said that evening, lifting a half pint. “The mutually advantageous conjunction of neighbors, news, and a comfortable place to share them.”
To the casual listener, Christine’s toast was a pleasant tribute to her local. To the SCONES, it described the workings of their information hub. Janet, Tallie, and Summer raised their glasses to the toast, then got down to business. Tallie and Summer went through to the darts room. Christine joined her parents and a few of their neighbors at a table near the door, where they liked to sit s
o they could see and comment on who came and went. Janet took her glass to the far end of the room and sat down with Gillian, Hope, and Rhona.
“This was a good idea, Janet,” Gillian said. “Gets us out, gets us together.” She sat with her elbows on the table, hands clasped below her chin. “It’s been such a shock.” She bent her head to rest her cheek on her hands.
“Aye, thanks,” Rhona said. “A memorial’s the right thing to do, and I’m happy to be part of it. I wasn’t sure I liked Daphne. I certainly didn’t like her remarks at the ceilidh about the GREAT-SCOTs, but I’ve learned the value of digging deeper and looking beneath the surface. I wish I’d had the chance to know her better.”
“And you’d like the chance to take her place as visiting author,” Hope said without looking up from her glass. “I saw your note offering to fill in now she’s gone. You might not know, but I was on Gillian’s author selection committee. Daphne was by far the best candidate. What have you written? Articles for a newsletter? Not exactly literature.”
“It’s still considered writing, last I heard,” Rhona said.
“And I asked her to write the note offering to fill in,” Gillian said. “It’s an easy fix to the problem and we need to move forward. For the sake of the students.”
“I hadn’t realized there was an application process for choosing the author,” Janet said. “I thought you said the selection committee approached the candidates.”
“For the sake of the students, is it?” Hope said, as though Janet hadn’t spoken.
“Someone has to fill in,” Gillian said mildly, then turned to Janet. “The author selection committee identified and approached some candidates and also took applications. They did a great job, but ultimately, I’m in charge of the grant. We need to move forward.”