by Molly Macrae
“Will you take her?” Gillian asked. “Please? She won’t eat. I’m at my wit’s end and I’m not sure I’ll ever get them back.”
“Gillian has a point about Tom and his plans,” Christine said, casting a glance at Rachel Carson sitting on the back seat of the Vauxhall. “But if he’d killed two people, he might think he’d buggered those plans. With good reason.”
“He showed a lot of self-control at the signing when Daphne was laughing and berating his talents,” Janet said.
“That might show he was capable of being a stone-cold killer.”
“I think it backs up what Gillian was saying about him. He took care of himself and believed in himself. I didn’t like him, partly because he was so sure of himself, but I didn’t have to like him to think there’s something awfully convenient about his death.”
Christine glanced in the back seat again. “This dog is awfully inconvenient. For me, that is, with my oldies to look after. But she’s bonny. You should keep her.”
“I can’t. I’m looking for a cat.”
“I didn’t know you’d made up your mind.”
Janet hadn’t known, either.
Tallie disconnected from a phone call and shook her head, first at Janet, then at Rachel Carson, then at Rab and Ranger. Janet thought Ranger might have rolled his eyes.
“Sorry, guys,” Tallie said. “Basant politely declines. He says it’s best to be wary of feeding a captive lion.”
That time Janet knew she saw an eye-roll, except the eyes were Rab’s. “Only until we find someone else, Rab,” she said. “But if anyone can get her to eat, I’m sure you and Ranger can.”
After Rab and Ranger left with their houseguest, Tallie asked her mother, “What makes you so sure they can get her to eat?”
“A better chance he’d take her if I said it.”
The rest of that day and the next, they heard from shaken and disbelieving friends and acquaintances of Tom Laing. Their stories come like plypes of rain and patches of mirk, Janet thought.
Gillian called Janet that afternoon. “I’ve thought it over,” she said, “and I think the police are right, after all.”
“You do?”
“About it being murder and suicide, aye, but they have it backward. It was Daphne. She poisoned Tom’s scones and tea and let him go off on his photo shoot. Then she killed herself. He’s been out there, dead, all this time, and she’s the one who did it.” That was followed by a string of colorful Scottish oaths involving body parts Janet hadn’t ever pictured in the particular combinations Gillian suggested.
“Why would she kill him?” Janet asked when Gillian ran out of imagery.
“She was mentally ill. She had to be. You saw that.”
“It’s clear she had issues.”
Gillian repeated one of her oaths.
“Mentally ill or not, she loved Rachel Carson. Would she abandon her like that?”
“She knew someone would hear the howls and take her in. Tom was not a killer.”
After they disconnected, Janet added Gillian’s theory to her page in the cloud.
Summer told them about calls she had from James and Martin. She appreciated the camaraderie they showed by keeping her in the news loop. James, like Gillian, didn’t believe Tom would kill anyone. “He said the idea that Tom killed Daphne and then himself made no sense, if you knew the man. Tom loved teaching and he loved photography. He’s sure Tom could have made a go of it professionally, and he’s sure Tom was working toward doing that. ‘Very focused, forgive the pun,’ he said.”
“How well did Martin know Tom?” Janet asked.
“A bit through the paper and darts at Nev’s. He’s shocked, of course. He asked if I still want to see his article and interview notes.”
“I hope you told him yes.”
“I had to promise it was curiosity only and that I’m not planning to write my own article.”
“Did he say when he’d get them to you?”
“Sorry, I didn’t ask. I didn’t want to sound like I was in a hurry.”
The most surprising call came from Maida on Saturday, six days after Daphne’s death and three after Tom was found. She’d just heard from Norman Hobbs that her house—Daphne’s house—had been broken into.
“He’s been keeping an eye on the house since receiving a tip. I’m meeting him there now. I’ll ring you up later with the details.”
Instead, she stopped by the bookshop.
“Reporting in,” she said. “I thought it would be better in person. For the nuances.”
There were no customers nearby to hear Maida’s odd statement. But Tallie, collecting stray books, heard. She came to the sales counter and shooed Janet and Maida to the office. They settled in chairs facing each other, knees almost touching. Maida looked unimpressed by the cramped space.
“You don’t really need to call it reporting in, Maida,” Janet said.
“You are looking into the murders, though, aren’t you?”
Janet thought Maida made more of the rolled Rs in murders than she needed to. When she didn’t answer right away, Maida nodded.
“You’re not satisfied they’ve got the right end of this, either. So then, my report. Nothing of mine is missing, but why would it be? I put nothing fancy over there. Someone might have gone through Daphne’s things. Bit of disarray.”
“Why are her things still there?”
“What are they supposed to do with it all?” Maida asked. “The police took her papers and electronics. They haven’t found a relative, so I suppose it’ll be up to me to pack up the rest and send it to a jumble.”
“How did they get in?”
“The locks are that flimsy.”
“What did Norman say?”
“Crime of opportunity, he called it. Happens all the time.”
“But would anyone know if something of Daphne’s is missing?”
“Aye, there’s a nuance for you,” Maida said. “Here’s another. How would anyone know if it’s the villain returning or louts taking advantage of an empty house?”
An empty house that might hold a secret or be a ghoulish attraction too exciting for louts to pass up.
“End of report. I’ll let you know if I hear anything else.” Maida was up and out the office door almost before Janet realized.
“Thanks for taking the time to come in,” Janet said, catching up to her. “You know, you’re taking this awfully well, Maida.” She lowered her voice. “Starting with your plants, and then Daphne’s death; you would hope that was the end of it, but now this.”
“Tears never solved anything,” Maida said, with probably several dozen of her ancestors nodding prim agreement. “As well, a bit of notoriety might bring attention to the house and help sell it.” The several dozen ancestors might not have approved of that thought, but it put a lift in Maida’s step as she left the bookshop.
“Nuances?” Tallie asked when she’d gone.
“Mm. Let me—” Janet ran her fingers over an invisible keyboard.
“Sure.”
Janet went back into the office. Far easier to type on a keyboard than thumb-fumble notes into her phone. She opened another document, called it “Nuances,” and entered the questions she’d thought of that she hadn’t mentioned to Maida.
The killer returning or a crime of opportunity?
Why take a chance on returning to the scene of the crime?
Looking for what?
Why didn’t s/he look for it immediately? Before the body was discovered?
Because of Rachel Carson?
OR: S/he wasn’t returning to the scene, because s/he wasn’t there when Daphne died.
BUT AGAIN: Looking for what?
“Did sending your nuances to the cloud help?” Tallie asked when Janet left the office again.
“I don’t know, but it gave me a big, fat—” Janet swirled her hands around her head.
“Headache?”
“No. A question I’m not sure I want to ask.”
&nbs
p; Tallie raised her eyebrows. A couple had browsed closer to the desk, so she scribbled something on a scrap of paper and handed it to her mother: Did Maida kill Daphne?
Janet’s eyes goggled. She crushed the note into a ball and threw it away. “That honestly never occurred to me. You aren’t seriously suggesting it, are you?”
“No, but it’s obviously a question you don’t want to ask.”
“Janet!” Elizabeth II had left the tearoom and bore down on them. “I’ve had an inspiration. Office.”
Janet looked at Tallie and swirled her hands around her head again, before going back into the office and closing the door. Christine, too inspired to sit, paced the length of the office. Janet stood with her back to the door to give her room.
“I read your latest bit of rambling in the clouds.”
“That was fast.”
“Don’t interrupt. This is what occurred to me. If the killer is still out there, and if Norman isn’t right about the break-in at Daphne’s being a crime of opportunity, what about Tom’s place?”
Janet’s hands were swirling again. “That’s exactly what I was thinking!”
“And?”
Janet’s hands dropped to her side. “That’s as far as I got.”
“Ha! Then I’m that far ahead of you. I made a phone call and we have an appointment for a spot of breaking and entering.”
“It’s only entering,” Rab said that evening. “I have a key. But I’m not sure this is a good idea.”
Rab, Janet, and Christine stood on the pavement in front of Tom Laing’s house. Rachel Carson sat on her haunches beside Rab, looking at the house, too. Janet wasn’t sure bringing the dog along had been a good idea. What if she starts howling? Aloud, she asked, “Won’t Ranger feel left out?”
“This one thinks she owns the universe,” Rab said. “Left the lad at home. He needed a break.”
“Has she started eating for you?”
“Like a horse. It won’t do.”
“So, what’s our plan of attack?” Christine asked, rubbing her hands.
“I called Norman. Told him Tom would ask me to feed his moggie when he’s away. He said it’s all right to go in.”
“You’ve taken some of the fun out of it,” Christine said.
“I didn’t tell him you’d be here.”
“Better.”
“But this is appalling!” Janet said. “The poor cat! Has it been alone all this time? For almost a week?”
“No, no,” Rab said. “It’s all fine. The cat died last year. Come on. Back door.”
He led the way around the side of the house. Elizabeth II, the owner of the universe, and Janet followed. And there, sitting on the back stoop, they startled a desolate-looking Gillian. As though she’s haunting the place, thought Janet.
“What are you all doing here?” Gillian asked, shrinking against the door.
“A good man, Gillian,” Rab said softly. “I’m sorry for your loss. We’ve come to check on the house, make sure no one’s gotten in who shouldn’t.”
Rab showed her the key and she moved aside to let him unlock the door. When he opened it, she pushed past him and went in, Christine on her heels.
Janet hung back. “This really doesn’t seem like a good idea, does it?” she said to Rab.
“Let’s see what we see.”
Tom’s house was a modern four-room detached bungalow. They entered through the kitchen, which also served as the eating area. The other rooms were a lounge, a bedroom, and a second bedroom he’d turned into a darkroom. Janet left Rab and Rachel Carson in the kitchen. She found Gillian and Christine in the lounge, Gillian with her arms wrapped around herself, hands tucked in her armpits.
“I didn’t own him,” Gillian was saying. “He had an eye for a pretty bit, the land or a lass. He always said that. Couldn’t be helped. But we had good times.”
“Is this how he kept house?” Janet asked.
“More or less.”
Janet glanced around the lounge. Books on a shelf tipped like dominoes. More books sat in a haphazard pile next to it. She moved on to the bedroom and bath. The door to the medicine cabinet wasn’t quite shut. A drawer in the bedroom stood half-open. The darkroom—she couldn’t begin to guess what might be missing or moved.
“The floors are tracked up,” Christine pointed out, “but that might be from the police or Tom himself. There’s no sign of forced entry.”
“But someone’s been here,” Gillian said. She continued to hug herself in the middle of the lounge. “The windows don’t all latch properly. Some of Tom’s students knew that. Anyone at Nev’s might. He let himself in that way, a time or two, when he’d left his keys.”
“What makes you think someone’s been here?” Janet asked.
“The smell,” Gillian said. “Like a cologne. Tom never wore scent.”
“The police have been here,” Janet reminded her. She sniffed.
“That would’ve been a day or two ago, at least,” Christine said. “If they wore something that lingered this long, couldn’t they be accused of contaminating a crime scene?”
“Do you smell it?” Janet asked.
Christine shook her head.
“Patchouli,” Rab said from the door.
“Aye,” Gillian said. “That’s the scent. Faint, but.”
“We should go,” said Rab.
As if to encourage them, Rachel Carson whined. They left through the kitchen door and walked around to the street. Christine asked Gillian if she needed a ride home.
“No, my car’s along there. Will you tell Norman someone’s been in the house?”
“We will,” Janet said. “This must all be so hard for you, Gillian.”
“They say God only gives us as much as we can handle, but I’m beginning to wonder if He hasn’t mistaken me for someone else.”
“Gillian, do you remember telling me that Daphne went through a difficult patch during your last year in school?”
Gillian took a step back, tucking her chin like a turtle. Without another word, she turned on her heel and disappeared down the street.
Janet and Christine looked at each other. Rachel Carson whined again. They looked at her and then at Rab.
“Norman’s right,” Rab said. “Tom’s choice of whisky was wrong.”
27
Norman fancies himself a writer,” Rab said, “but he has no poetry.”
“If he has no sense of smell, he won’t believe anyone doused in patchouli was in Tom’s house,” Christine said.
“Here he is,” Rab said. “I’ll let him in.”
Hobbs, in civilian clothes that did nothing to disguise his profession, preceded Rab into Janet’s living room. The men sat. Rachel Carson turned her back on the room and stared toward the kitchen.
“You went to Tom’s house?” Christine asked.
“I did. I found no evidence of a break-in.”
“Tcha.”
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Robertson. I do appreciate your civic-mindedness.”
“Tcha.”
“So, Norman, Rab,” Janet said, hoping to move past Christine’s irritation and on to the reason the men were sitting in her living room past a hoped-for early bedtime. “My daughter is out at a film and the curtains are drawn against nosy neighbors. Of course, with your cars in front—”
“Mine’s round the corner,” Rab said.
“And mine’s two streets over,” Hobbs said.
“But why the secrecy?” Janet asked.
“Tradition,” they both said.
“Why are you telling us, then?” Christine asked.
“A secret told is safer than one ferreted out,” said Rab.
Janet thought she heard a slight sniff from Hobbs. “Then, by all means, tell us.”
“I’m the current historian of the Deoch-an-doris Society,” Hobbs said, with the residue of the sniff in his voice.
“The have-a-drink-for-the-road society?” Janet asked, trying not to sound incredulous.
“Close enough,”
Hobbs agreed.
“From the Gaelic,” Rab said. “‘Drink of the door’ is more accurate.”
Hobbs cleared his throat with authority. “I’ll give you a summary of our history. The Deoch-an-doris Society is the oldest organization in Inversgail, its beginnings lost in the mists of the nineteenth century, when thwarting excisemen was a way of life.”
“Survival for some,” Rab said.
“However,” Hobbs harrumphed, “we aren’t a society given to drunken bacchanals. Although, judging by the historian’s notes from the turn of the last century, something like that might have gone on in the past. Usually during the dark winter months. Or perhaps there’s some other reason for the deterioration of the historian’s handwriting.”
“And spelling,” Rab added.
“Membership was originally limited to men,” Hobbs continued. “That changed shortly before the start of World War One.”
“That change following closely on the bacchanal period, no doubt,” Christine said.
“Quite possibly,” Hobbs agreed. “Memberships are handed down within families, but because membership has dwindled over the years, due to deaths and people leaving the area, there are other ways to join. For instance, memberships can be transferred. Membership is ecumenical. The society isn’t so much secret as not talked about—part of the tradition of thwarting the gaugers.”
“I thought you were thwarting excisemen,” Janet said.
“Same thing,” said Rab. “But it’s also not talked about in the way some people don’t like talking about their favorite books or movies. Too much talk diminishes them. Dilutes the pleasure.”
“So, it’s basically a secret club for people who like to drink,” Janet said.
“Drink whisky, aye,” Rab said. “Tom was a member. That’s why we know the Ardbeg found with him is wrong.”
“Ardbeg Corryvreckan,” Hobbs said. “It’s particularly dear.”
Rab waved the complaint of expense away. “He was a man of strong opinion, and he hated the smoky, slap-ye-in-the-face taste of Ardbeg. I looked tonight. He had several whiskies, but no Ardbeg. Nothing peaty or smoky at all.”