“Aye.”
“I think the police thought Branan Dunn was involved. Maybe he came forward and said he’d seen her. Impossible to know. Maybe you could check the file. Anyway, in the picture I not only think she’s in the butcher shop, I’m pretty sure she didn’t have the ornament until after she was at the silver shop. Branan Dunn made it for her, but I don’t think he took the picture of her holding it. Someone did though.”
Officer Winters blinked. “I don’t even know where tae begin with a question there.”
“I know. I understand it’s strange.”
“Strange?”
“The strangest maybe.”
“Aye.”
A knock sounded on the door. The officer that had been at the front desk peered in. “A young man here tae see you.”
“Send him in,” Officer Winters said.
Hamlet came into the room, sending me a quick smile before he sat at the table.
“I don’t have much, but a wee bit. I’ve brought maps from the city.”
“Show me,” said Officer Winters.
The butcher shop showed on city planning records from the late 1950s all the way to the early 1970s. It had been owned at least part of that time by a man named Lamont Boyd. Hamlet hadn’t had time to look up more details about him, but found that after the shop had closed in 1972, the space had become part of what was now a hostel. The hostel had grown larger over the years, taking up more and more space, leaving no sign of what had once been there.
“This doesn’t tell me much,” Officer Winters said.
“I know,” Hamlet said. “But it’s a start. We know there was a butcher shop there.”
“Give me a minute.” Officer Winters stood and left the room.
Hamlet and I waited impatiently, talking through things we’d talked through more than a few times already.
Officer Winters wasn’t gone long. The interview room was small and when his wide frame had left, the space had seemed roomy. It was cramped again as he came in, and sidestepped his way to the chair. He sat and looked at us.
“What?” I said.
“Lamont Boyd, the butcher, was convicted of murder in 1972, shortly after he was arrested. He killed a schoolteacher. Had her body in a park when officers approached what they thought was a suspicious scene. They caught him.”
“He must have killed Moira!” I said. “That has to be what happened.”
“Or you read about him somewhere, Delaney, and this is how you’ve made your story. A piece from here and one from there.”
“I’m not ruling that out, Officer Winters, but how can we check it out? I mean, how can you check it out? Is Lamont still alive?”
“No, he died in prison, killed in a fight shortly after he was locked up. I don’t know yet how I can check it out, but I will.”
“Thank you.”
“That’s it then?” Hamlet said. “There’s nothing more we can do?”
“Not for now,” Officer Winters said. “But I promise you, I will look into this. I believe this is all something that Delaney’s subconscious has put together from things she’s read and seen, but I will check it out.”
I wanted to tell him that my subconscious was usually much wordier when it spoke to me, but that would have needed some further explanation I wasn’t willing to give at that time.
I just said “Thank you” again.
Chapter Seven
I’d never visited a cemetery on Christmas, but it wasn’t totally unheard of. My mother used to talk about how her grandmother spent a part of every Christmas at the cemetery after her husband died. Fifteen years in a lawn chair next to a gravestone and wrapped in blankets to ward off the December cold in Kansas. I always thought it was a sad story, but my mother said it wasn’t sad for her grandmother, that it had been peaceful.
It was cold in this Edinburgh cemetery too, but today it was only coat-and-thick-socks cold, not blanket cold. I was surprised by the number of other visitors we saw bringing holiday cheer to their dead folks, though I shouldn’t have been. That day, my first Christmas in Scotland, it began to make sense to me that visiting a cemetery on a day normally spent with loved ones is sometimes the only (or perhaps best) option.
I’d been to the Old Calton Burial Grounds before. A cemetery close to Edinburgh’s city center, its walls surrounded so much history that I’d once spent half a day just walking around and reading tombstones. It was possible that the simple epitaph on Annabel’s gravestone had resonated with me on that day a few months ago—A Heartbroken Soul—but I didn’t remember that happening now.
“Not tae know what happened. It must have been the biggest heartbreak of all,” Rosie said as we peered down at Annabel’s small headstone.
“It was. It kil’t her, I’m certain,” Laire said.
Officer Winters had called Rosie, Hamlet, Laire, and me to meet him at the cemetery. He hadn’t arrived yet, but the rest of us had been early. We’d all brought flowers, and Laire had also brought a small tinsel Christmas tree and a brand new red and green tartan. Both items sat in between the gravestones.
“It took me some tiem tae find just the right tree. This one seemed close to the ones that Grannie had from our family in America,” she had said.
Nobody asked so I didn’t tell them that the tree that Laire brought with her was without a doubt almost exactly like the ones I’d seen during my “visit” to Annabel’s flat.
I had decided that it was completely feasible that I had put the story together from things I’d read over the past months that I’d been in Edinburgh. I’d always been a big reader, and even though my subconscious picked up on almost every tiny detail, I knew my conscious didn’t.
I must have, at some time during my walks around the city, noticed the CRUI next to the old buzzer panel on the at one time apartment building. There was so much to see and study that I must have forgotten about my explorations of that particular close.
I’d seen the picture of Moira before I hit my head, and that flash of metal must have somehow reminded me of a butcher shop’s countertop. I’d knocked myself out, giving my brain the quiet time it needed to put all the pieces together.
Yes, that must have been it. There really wasn’t any other logical explanation.
Next to Annabel’s simple headstone was another simple one. All it said was Moira.
“Grannie had this plot for herself for a long tiem,” Laire said. “I put the stone for Moria next tae her. It only seemed right, I guess.”
“Makes sense,” Hamlet said.
A small wind caught my scarf and lifted it from around my neck. I grabbed it just in time to keep it from flying away. As I turned to catch it, I saw Officer Winters approaching from the cemetery gates. He wore a winter coat and jeans. No uniform today.
“Delaney,” he said with a smile as he joined us. “Merry Christmas tae you all.”
We returned his greeting.
“A bit unconventional for a Christmas day, I know,” he said. “But I wanted you all tae know what I found. And I suppose I wanted Annabel tae know too, at the same time. Once I looked closely at the case, at the women’s stories, I felt like I owed them that.”
For a silent moment, we all looked toward the gravestones.
I asked, “What did you find?”
“Let’s start with the butcher shop—where it was, where it had been. Many of the old walls are still there, of course, but covered over by new, modern materials. Nothing remains of the shop, including the room in the back where Lamont Boyd lived. It’s all part of the hostel now, but I did confirm that the shop was once there. I also confirmed that Boyd owned it. Thanks to Hamlet for finding the information.”
Hamlet nodded as Officer Winters paused and we waited.
“Lamont Boyd was a terrible man. He was finally convicted of the murder that sent him tae prison and tae his own murder, but his record of violent offenses and prison stays was long. I’m afraid we still can’t be one hundred percent sure that he had anything tae do with
Moira’s disappearance, but I did find a few things. When someone is arrested, we take the possessions that they have on them and hold them for them. There’s no reason tae think why we might have kept Boyd’s possessions, but sometimes things don’t get thrown out. Sometimes they get overlooked.” Officer Winters reached into his pocket and pulled out a small item. “Someone must have thought it might be important tae keep the possessions of such a horrible person, such as Lamont Boyd, for probable later cases.”
Officer Winters opened his fingers.
“The ornament!” I gasped.
“Aye,” he said.
The paint had faded over time, the wood had become shiny in some spots and seemingly weathered in others, but the ornament was unquestionably Santa Claus, Father Christmas.
I pulled a copy I’d made of the picture out of my pocket and held it next to Officer Winters’ hand.
“It’s the same one,” I said. I remembered the moment Branan gave it to Moira, but I didn’t say that part out loud.
“Aye, and”—Officer Winters looked behind toward the cemetery gate—“I invited some others too.”
“Edwin?” I said as we watched him and another man approach.
“He rang me after Rosie apparently talked tae him,” Officer Winters said.
“Aye, I rang Edwin tae tell him what was going on. He was worrit about ye, Delaney, but I told him not tae rush home from his cousin’s,” Rosie said.
“He wanted tae, after I told him who I found,” Officer Winters said.
The old man with Edwin must have been in his eighties, and he moved fairly well with a cane and Edwin’s helping hand. His thick gray hair and deeply wrinkled face made him unrecognizable, but I thought I knew who he was.
“Is that Branan Dunn?” I asked.
“Aye. He’s been in a home for the old for years. Never married, no wee ’uns. He wasn’t easy tae find, tried tae change his name after all the scandal, but find him I did,” Officer Winters said.
I remembered how much Branan had obviously loved Moira. It hadn’t been obsession at all. I wanted to say “I knew it!” but I kept it to myself.
“Hello, everyone,” Edwin said. “I’d like for you all tae meet one of my friends from a long time ago, Mr. Branan Dunn.”
“You knew each other?” I asked.
“Aye, he was a loyal customer at The Cracked Spine many years ago, and I bought some silver from him and his father,” Edwin said.
“Did you ever buy a copy of A Christmas Carol from the store?” I asked.
Branan and Edwin looked at each other.
“I don’t remember him buying that book,” Edwin said.
“I don’t remember that either. Edwin and I talked about it. We think it’s possible that I gave a copy tae Moira or her grandmother, but I dinnae remember that now either. I’m afraid my memory has lost many details,” Branan said in a wavering, high-pitched voice that I would have never matched to the young man in the silver shop.
We exchanged more greetings, and when Branan held Laire’s hand with both of his he said, “I didnae hurt her. I didnae kill her. I loved her with all my heart. I remember that more than I remember anything else.”
“I know that now,” Laire said as she wiped the tears from her eyes. “I’m sorry that anyone ever suspected otherwise.”
“The file says that Branan came tae the police when he heard Moira was missing,” Officer Winters said. “He told the police that she’d been in his shop on December 20th, that she was going home after that but had one other errand tae do first. She hadn’t told him the last errand and for a brief time he was a suspect, long enough tae kill his business. There was no evidence of anything, no body, and no one even considered Lamont Boyd at the time. They should have, and nowadays with the available technology the police would most definitely want tae talk tae the local neighborhood man with such a criminal record, but not back then.”
“Where did the box of items that showed up in front of Edwin’s come from?” Hamlet asked.
Officer Winters smiled sadly. “One of the young people who works at the hostel. There were some walled-off spaces the owners decided tae remodel, so they tore down the walls and came upon the box. The young man knew about The Cracked Spine, had bought a book or two there. He is fascinated by ‘the legend of Edwin McAlister,’ his words.” Officer Winters sent Edwin a wry squint; Edwin pretended not to notice. “Everyone there thought the book should go to a place like The Cracked Spine, and he took a dare tae deliver the entire box tae Edwin’s estate. Apparently, he became so nervous that he didn’t knock, but just left the box.
“No chance tae find any good evidence at this point, but we do know that Lamont took pictures of his victims before he killed them, on one of those old Kodak cameras. He made the victims smile and then sent the pictures anonymously tae his victims’ family members, showing how he’d manipulated his victims into thinking he was a friendly man. The police didn’t put that together until long after Lamont was killed. He must not have had time to send Moira’s picture tae Annabel, and it was left in the box with the other items until they were found. He must have carried the ornament on him.”
“That at least explains the picture,” I said.
“Aye, or it was all a coincidence, Delaney,” Officer Winters said. “There’s not a shred of real evidence.”
I stepped toward Branan, and he took my hand with both of his. I said, “It’s such a pleasure to meet you.”
“Ye too, lass. Edwin tells me ye’re the one tae put all this together.”
“I think I might have done just that, though I don’t understand how,” I said. “If it’s any consolation at all, I’m sure Moira loved you too. I can’t really explain how I know that, but I do know it without a doubt.”
“I believe ye, and I’m grateful tae hear it,” Branan said.
There was no light of recognition in his eyes. I didn’t want to ask if he remembered me or someone coming into his shop with Moira that day. Either answer he gave would have only deepened whatever mystery I’d gone through.
There came a point where I either had to just accept something or shove it completely away. At that moment, I accepted.
We didn’t stay at the cemetery much longer. Officer Winters left first—his family was holding their Christmas celebrations for him. On his way out of the cemetery he pulled Branan aside briefly and spoke to him privately. I assumed he apologized for the police’s rush to judgment, but I couldn’t hear. The old man hugged the police officer and I thought I saw Officer Winters wipe away a tear as he turned to leave.
Hamlet and Rosie left next to prepare another dinner that had been planned. Edwin, Branan, Laire, and I had all been invited to Rosie’s. Edwin would be coming to Rosie’s later, and Laire and Branan just wanted to go home. Everyone understood, and Laire patted her eyes with a tissue as she told us each goodbye.
As I turned to leave the cemetery with Edwin and Branan, I thought I saw a familiar tartan a few gravestone rows away. There were other people visiting loved ones over there, and I had to stretch my neck to spot what I thought I’d seen.
Then, briefly, more briefly than an instant, I thought I saw a lovely young woman in a brown coat and a red and green tartan wave and smile in my direction. Perhaps she’d even mouthed the words “thank you.”
“Delaney?” Edwin said from a few steps ahead.
“Oh. Sorry.” I looked where I’d seen her, but she wasn’t there. She was gone, had been gone for a long time, apparently. I would forever be haunted by her, even though I knew I would never see her again. I hurried to catch up to Edwin and Branan.
“Branan gave me the most delightful gift, Delaney. I’d like to set it up on those middle shelves in the bookshop, even if Christmas is almost over. Have you ever seen a miniature Christmas village?” Edwin asked.
I swallowed hard, but couldn’t understand why his words set me made me feel strange. “I know about them, yes.”
“Branan carved one using our Grassmarket shops as hi
s model, and his old silver shop is included. It is a beautiful village. We must display it.”
“I’d be honored, Edwin,” Branan said. “Da used to paint my carvings for me; he painted the ornament I gave tae Moira. But I’ve gotten better with the paints over the years.”
We were at the gates of the cemetery, and I had to steady myself on the stone wall.
“Are you all right?” Edwin asked as he held onto Branan’s arm with one hand and reached for me with the other.
I blinked away the wavery sensation. “I’m okay. Sorry. This has all been a bit odd, I must admit.”
“It’s Scotland, dear lass,” Edwin said. “We have many ghosts. Perhaps you’ve finally had your first adventure with some. It’s what you’ve been wanting, tae see a ghostie or two, hasn’t it? There you have it. Merry Christmas! You know, it was Mr. Dickens who first coined that phrase, Merry Christmas, in A Christmas Carol.”
“I didn’t know that,” I said.
“Aye,” Branan said. “Aye. Merry Christmas, lass, Edwin.”
“Yes.” I moved away from the wall. “Merry Christmas.” I looked back toward the cemetery grounds and smiled. “Merry Christmas to all.”
Read on for an excerpt from Paige Shelton’s next book
OF BOOKS AND BAGPIPES
Available soon from Minotaur Books
He took a drag on the cigarette as he watched the bookshop. The tip lit red and then sizzled as a drop of rain hit it. He glanced up at the dark clouds, grumbled a quiet complaint, and then dropped the cigarette into a puddle next to the curb.
He pulled the collar of his coat up tighter just as the redhead got off the bus. He’d heard her American accent, but he still didn’t know exactly where she was from. The older woman would be no problem. Edwin MacAlister would be no problem either, actually. But the young guy who looked like an artist and the redhead might both be problems.
He’d worked the angles well on one end, but this end might be troublesome; too many variables. He’d think it all through some more.
He smiled to himself as he silently acknowledged that any other time, any other place, he’d like to get to know the redhead. He watched her hurry out of the rain and into the bookshop. He liked redheads, always had.
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