by Molly Macrae
“Are you sorry you came with us, Summer?” Janet asked quietly.
“More sorry than you know.”
“If we make it out of this, you can go back home, you know. No hard feelings.”
“Back home? Why would I do that? I was talking about getting into this sorry excuse for a boat with you. Why would you think I want to go back home?”
“You seem stressed sometimes,” Janet said. “Preoccupied. Unhappy.”
“Do you want to know why?” Summer asked.
“I do.”
“I seem that way because that’s me. Sometimes I’m stressed and preoccupied and I don’t always smile. Unsmiling doesn’t mean unhappy, though.”
“She’s a Summer of infinitely variable weather,” Tallie said.
“I’m finding my way,” Summer said, “and except for this sorry excuse for a boat, I’m not sorry I came. But, Janet? Thank you for worrying.”
“At least your mum and dad are safe, Christine,” Janet said an unknown time later.
“Aye.”
“You know, she mentioned another plant last night. Your mum did,” Summer said. “Pogostemon cablin.”
“Pogo—”
“Pogostemon. It’s patchouli.”
“And it’s that dog I never had—Pogo. Do you suppose she caught a whiff of it that night in Nev’s? I’ll wager this sinking tub that’s where her mythical pup sprang from, and if she and Pogo were here now, they’d find a way to save us.”
“Is that a light?” Janet asked so quietly she might have been afraid she’d scare it off. “Port side.”
“What kind of light,” Tallie asked. “Real or mythical?”
“Steady. Bright. Shore lights? There’s more than one, but they’re too far.”
“Are we drifting closer?” Christine asked. “Because we’re sinking lower and I hate to say it, but Martin might win.”
“Pig,” Summer spat.
“Summer!”
“I’m not apologizing, Janet. Martin Gunn is a lousy, stinking, conniving, delusional—”
“Pig! Girls, it’s time for a lesson in state champion pig calling. It’s easy, just follow my lead. Sooooooooey! Soooooooooey! Sooooooooooey!”
“I wasn’t sure you’d hear us coming over that banshee cry,” Danny said as he and Rab brought the four women back to Inversgail in a borrowed fishing boat. “That’s a useful skill you have there, Janet.”
Reddick met them at the harbor and told them Hobbs had arrested Martin Gunn. “Acting on the information you gave him yesterday. I’ll need to get statements from you, but later this morning will be soon enough. Do any of you require medical attention?”
They looked at each other. They were shivering, thirsty, hungry, tired, and hoarse, and their feet squelched when they walked. They shook their heads.
“Rides home would be nice,” Janet said.
Tallie handed Reddick the wicker basket. “Martin packed this picnic for us. It might be edible.”
“Or it might be lethal. Thank you.”
They thought about giving themselves the day off, but compromised by opening the bookshop and tearoom late that day. Starting that afternoon and over the next few days, as the story spread, they had a succession of visitors.
Hobbs came first, telling them they’d been right about why Martin killed Sam Smith. Hobbs said Martin had been happy to explain to the specialists how creative he’d been. He had planned to kill Daphne because she was the perfect victim. She was a celebrity, but not likeable and not unique. No one would really miss her. But he’d needed a guinea pig.
“That was Sam,” Hobbs said. “I’ve had word from his parents. They can’t afford to fly here to take him home. His body will be shipped.” He handed Janet a notebook. “Daphne’s. Reddick said it won’t be needed as evidence.”
“She had it with her at the ceilidh.” Janet opened the notebook and looked at the first few pages, then flipped through them all. Every one of them was blank.
“Speaking of Reddick,” Christine said, “there’s something I’ve been wondering. What is his first name? No one ever uses it.”
“Norman,” Hobbs said.
“That will never do,” Christine said. “We only have need for one. Reddick he’ll remain.”
James Haviland came in that first day, too, and told them he felt as though he should apologize. He’d suspected Martin had caught the ambition bug, but thought he needed more seasoning before making it in a bigger pond. “I had no idea he planned to create his own version of the pond. Or something like that.”
Just before closing, the door jingled and Gillian came in, leaving Janet with a momentary sense of dread. But she told herself not to be silly; Gillian couldn’t know they’d convinced themselves she was a murderer. Or that Alistair was. Or that she and Alistair were in it together.
“Is your offer still on to help with a memorial for Daphne?” Gillian asked.
“Absolutely,” Janet said. “I’m so glad you asked.”
Ian came in to marvel over his brush with death. “To think that I saw him at Daphne’s. I thought he was doing a spot of investigative journalism. If he’d seen me, there’s no telling how I would have ended up.” He also gave them the good news that recent events had put fire in his writing. “The book is practically writing itself. I have a new title for it, too. Forget The Shillelagh in the Shed. Are you ready? I’m calling it Smoking Gunn. Two Ns.”
“No, Ian,” Janet said. “Please, don’t.” When the door closed behind him, she told Tallie she was making a vow, there and then, to work harder on her empathy meditation.
“It’s hard to empathize with a gowk like Ian,” Tallie said, “and even harder with a murderer. A lot’s been thrown at you lately.”
“But I’ve managed to stay on my feet.”
“You’re tough as nails, Mom.”
Christine had a new theory about Ian and the Deoch-an-doris Society. “Meetings are held in members’ houses. They move around, and he’s probably been trying to find one. That’s why Maida thinks he’s a Peeping Tom. She’s seen him looking in windows.”
Sharon-the-librarian came to say hello and ask if they had enjoyed her postcards. Janet welcomed her home and said they had. “But we were so sorry to hear about the break-in.”
“Do you know who reported it?” Tallie asked.
“Ah. Well. I did. I returned early.”
After the door closed, Tallie said, “I like Christine’s theory better, that Sharon never left.”
“But there’s no real reason to believe she’d lie, is there?” Janet asked.
“As far as we know.”
Later in the week, Summer announced that she’d like to take Wednesday afternoons off, starting in January. “I’ve been asked to teach a baking and business unit for the culinary class at the high school.” The others congratulated her and said they’d make the new schedule work.
Rab and Ranger came in one morning with more of a spring in their steps. Ranger looked around, but stayed by Rab and didn’t go to his chair. Rab told Janet they’d only just stopped by to let her know they wouldn’t be in for a few days. He had another deadline, he said, and he was behind because of all the extracurricular activities.
“We have a bit of good news, too. Rachel Carson’s settled in her new home.”
“Oh yes, you said you might’ve found someone. So that worked out?”
“Aye.”
“Anyone I know?”
“Maida. Suited for each other.”
Rab came back that afternoon, alone—or almost. A small, creamy yellow kitten slept in the crook of his arm.
“Where did it come from?” Janet asked, surprised by how high and precious her voice had suddenly become.
“Reddick and Quantum were on a ramble. Quantum found a bag tossed on the roadside. This wee lassie was inside. Not much bigger than a butter pat. Reddick can’t keep her. Says he’s allergic.” He transferred the sleeping kitten to the crook of Janet’s arm.
That evening, whi
le Janet and Tallie were busy adoring the kitten now named Butter, a knock came at the door. Tallie went to answer it and Janet heard her laugh, and then she came back with Rab. With Rab was another cat.
“Because a wee moggie needs a steady friend,” Rab said.
“But isn’t this one of the ferals from the harbor?”
It looked very much like the gray cat she’d seen on the harbor wall, washing its ears so that everyone would know rain was coming.
“Not feral,” Rab said. “Independent, for the short term. The old fellow belonged to another old fellow gone into care.”
“So, this old fellow needs a care home, too?”
The gray cat flopped down on its side, stretching its back and waving its paws toward the solemn kitten.
“Has a lovely purr,” Rab said.
The cat closed its eyes and demonstrated.
“Welcome home, old fellow,” Janet said. “What’s his name?”
“Smirr.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Thanks to Cammy MacRae for the little bit of Gaelic in this book. Accuracy is hers, any mistakes are mine. Thanks to James Haviland and Sharon Davis for letting me invent completely different lives for them, and to Chris Thompson, Marthalee Beckington, and Pat Witt for lending Ranger, Quantum, and Pogo, respectively. Thanks to Uncle Edward, who went with Peary in search of the North Pole and really did survive being buried in snow for three days—although the Laphroig is my own addition to the story. Thanks to Linda Kupferschmid for sharing her firsthand experience with patchouli. This book wouldn’t be here without my agent, Cynthia Manson, or the guiding hand of my editor, Katie McGuire. Thank you, both, for continuing to believe in me. Special thanks, also, to my stellar critique partners, Janice Harrington and Betsy Hearne. And as always, thank you to my Mike for ignoring dust and weeds, and for inventing the world’s best grilled cheese sandwich.
Also available from Pegasus Crime:
Plaid and Plagiarism
BOOK ONE OF THE HIGHLAND BOOKSHOP MYSTERY SERIES
SCONES AND SCOUNDRELS
Pegasus Books Ltd
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New York, NY 10018
Copyright 2018 © by Molly MacRae
First Pegasus Books hardcover edition January 2018
Interior design by Sabrina Plomitallo-González, Pegasus Books
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ISBN: 978-1-68177-620-0
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