He rolled his eyes at the whispered exchange going on behind the shelves. It sounded as if someone had stepped on the other one’s foot.
Deydie settled on the couch next to him. “Git on with it.”
He pulled out his notepad. “Where were you last night?”
“In me cottage,” she said.
“Alone?”
“Of course, alone.”
He pointed to the wall. “I see one of the quilts is missing.”
“Aye. I don’t know where my quilt has run off to,” the old woman said. "When I find whoever took it without asking, I'll pin their ruddy arse up there next to it."
He made note of her quick temper and hoped his next question would render new information. “What can ye tell me about the quilt?”
Bethia and Diana were still making a small ruckus in their not so inconspicuous hiding place. He could hear every word Bethia said. “Yere detective is handsome, I’ll grant ye that, but he’s no match for Deydie. She’s bound to turn him into mincemeat pie.”
Diana gasped, and must’ve stumbled into the shelf, because a book launched into the air near his head and fell to the floor. He reached down to pick it up and caught a glimpse of her red cheeks between the tomes.
Deydie rubbed her chin and continued to frown at the wall where the other Quilt to Death quilts were displayed. “That quilt was here last night. I remember because I asked Ailsa and Aileen to straighten it a might before we left.” She stopped and glared at him. “Why are ye asking about my quilt? Do ye know where it is?”
He sidestepped her question with one of his own. “Which ones are Ailsa and Aileen?”
“There.” She pointed to two middle-aged twins wearing matching plaid dresses, though one was a red tartan and the other one green.
“About the quilt,” Rory started again. “Tell me about its design.”
The old woman shrugged. “It’s a bear paw quilt. The pattern comes from the eighth book in the Quilt to Death series.”
“Do you know how the victim in the eighth book died?” Rory watched her wrinkled face closely, especially her rheumy eyes, for micro-emotions.
“What is this? Book club?” she spouted off.
“Just answer the question. How was the victim murdered in book eight?”
“Poisoned. Foxglove. In his herbal tea.”
“Herbal tea?” Didn’t Diana introduce Bethia on his first visit as the town’s herbalist? He started to tell Bethia to come out from her hiding spot, but Deydie interrupted his thought.
“Aye, foxglove. From the fairy realm, ye know.”
Good grief. Not the fairies! He couldn’t believe how some of these remote villages still held strong to their superstitions of old. Not him, though. He believed in facts, not folklore. “What does foxglove have to do with the fairies?”
Deydie’s face transformed into a glower. “In the book, the Buttermilk Guild is sure the fairies had played mischief by leaving the foxglove out on the counter for the killer to find.”
“You seem to remember a lot of details from the books,” Rory commented.
Deydie glared at him as if their eye contact was a game of chicken and she had no intention of flinching first. “Just because I remember the details, ye think I murdered that French giant?”
If she didn’t avert her stare soon, she might burn holes through Rory with her lethal gaze.
“Ye ninny! To prepare for the new novel coming out, I reread all the Quilt to Death books, starting at the beginning. ’Tis fresh, ye see? I’ve got all the particulars right here.” She tapped her wrinkled temple.
He hadn’t encountered a geriatric serial killer before. And though his gut was telling him Deydie wasn’t the one, he couldn’t simply rule her out. “Let’s start at the beginning. Where were you Guy Fawkes Night?”
“Oh, dear!” squeaked Bethia from behind the bookcase. There was some ruffling and she scooted around, rushing to sit beside Deydie on the sofa and putting her arm around her. “She was with me. At Quilting Central. We were working on a Row By Row.”
Deydie brushed her words away. “Nay. I went to Glasgow to give Marta Dixon a piece of my mind.” She laughed. “Someone beat me to it.”
Rory was taken aback by her cavalier confession, but he had to hand it to her for being honest. “So, you were at the bookshop?”
Bethia was half-muttering to herself and half-groaning.
Deydie bobbed her white-haired head. “Aye. It was quite the sight to see.”
“Did ye speak with any of the officers at the scene of the crime?”
“Nay. I never saw any officers.” She glanced at Marta who was standing on the far side of the room and nodded with a smile. “I was only there long enough to see Marta Dixon get doused with blood and then I left. I had to catch the last train so I could start making my way back to Gandiegow.”
He would check the security cameras. Maybe she spoke true. “Ye do know there was a murder that night at the bookshop?”
“I know now. What’s that have to do with me?”
“Ye’re a potential witness, are ye not? Did you see anyone suspicious among the crowd?”
“Nay.”
“Did ye know Rance Bettus?”
“Who now?” Deydie said. “Speak up, lad.”
“Rance Bettus,” Rory repeated more slowly. He’d learned from an early age to respect his elders. His gran had boxed his ears enough times, until it had sunk in. “He is the one who was murdered outside the bookshop on Monday evening.”
Deydie screwed up her face. “Ye’re not making any sense. Why would I want to murder someone I don’t know?”
“To exact revenge,” Rory hypothesized. “Maybe ye thought since Marta Dixon killed off the Buttermilk Guild, someone close to Marta needed to die.”
Deydie scratched her head and a few of her white tendrils escaped her bun. “That’s a sound idea.” She nodded her head toward the kitchen area. “But ye best be making yereself a cup of tea, if ye think I killed this Betty person. Yere head’s all boggled up. Hopefully, a warm drink will help ye to clear it a bit.”
Her response was exactly what his gran’s would have been, if he’d been accusing her of murder. He pressed on. “Did ye get on all right with Jacques Boucher when he came to town?”
This time it was Diana who squeaked from behind the bookcase. He wished he could see the expression on her face to judge what she knew.
“Did ye have a run-in with Jacques?” He was only guessing, but apparently, he’d hit his mark, because Deydie nodded.
“Aye,” she said. “The behemoth wouldn’t let me in to speak with Marta Dixon…God rest his soul.”
“Tell me what ye did the day after Guy Fawkes Night. Did you go anywhere? Did anyone go with ye?”
“Let me see.” Deydie looked up at the ceiling.
Bethia cut into her silent recollection. “She was at Quilting Central for most of the day. Remember, Deydie?”
“Aye. Diana called about bringing her people here early, moving up the date of the retreat.” She frowned. “It’s not much of a retreat, though, is it?” She leaned over as if she was looking at Diana. “Stop hiding behind those shelves and come out where we can see ye.”
Diana stepped out, looking more than a little sheepish.
“I say we’re still holding the damned retreat, no matter who’s dead. We’re not gonna give back the money that yere publishing company gave us, either. Do ye hear?”
Diana nodded, but then she seemed to remember the retreat guests. “Don’t you think you better ask the ladies what they want to do? They may not want to stay, now that there’s been a murder.”
“Pish-posh. They’ll stay,” Deydie said defiantly. “Scottish quilters aren’t nearly the limp biscuits that American lassies seem to be.”
“I think you should give them the choice, anyway,” Diana responded, just as defiantly. Rory was impressed with her moxie.
But he needed to bring the women back to the matter at hand. “Ms. McCracken—”
“Deydie!” Deydie barked.
“Aye, Deydie. What time did ye speak with Diana, the day after Guy Fawkes Night?”
“I don’t know. All’s I know is that Diana gave me a headache with repeating all the talk about vetting the retreat goers. Caitie and I had to make sure these were the right ladies to have here for this retreat. Cooperative ones. Polite ones. Ones that wouldn’t want to take off Marta Dixon’s head, like I wanted to do.” Deydie glared over at Marta. “Still want to do.”
“Were ye in Glasgow, early in the morn on that Wednesday?” The coroner had calculated the time of death for Judy Keith to be around three or four in the morning.
“Nay. Why would I go back to Glasgow? I told ye, I was there at the bookshop until I had to catch the train.”
He pressed further. “What about in the hours after midnight?”
“Ye’re cracked if ye think I went gallivanting about Glasgow to the wee hours of the morn.” She must’ve realized she should answer him more directly, because she added, “I came home and went to bed at 10:30.”
“Is there anyone who can corroborate yere story?”
“I didn’t see anyone when I made it back into Gandiegow, if that’s what ye’re asking.” She glared at him. “And I sleep alone!”
No alibi, he noted. Deydie could’ve murdered both Rance and Judy Keith. Deydie could’ve also been the one to poison Jacques. But none of it seemed likely.
“Bethia, Diana said ye’re the town’s herbalist. Do you keep foxglove on hand?”
Bethia nodded. “It’s tradition to put a few leaves in a newborn’s cradle to protect the babe from being bewitched by the fairies.”
“Isn’t that dangerous?” he asked, incredulous.
Bethia nodded. “Aye, foxglove is nothing to play around with, but I know what I’m doing. I put only a few leaves in a plastic bag, seal it tight, then leave it in the bairn’s cradle for just a moment.”
He forged on. “Do ye keep yere herbs locked up? Especially the foxglove?”
“Aye,” Bethia said. “Of course I do.”
He went in for the big question. “If I go to your herbal stores, is there a chance I’ll find Deydie’s fingerprints on the container of foxglove?”
Deydie’s face drained of color and she answered instead of Bethia. “Aye.”
“Nay!” Bethia protested.
Deydie turned to her friend. “Remember? When wee Hamish was born? Ye stood right next to me while I took the bottle off the shelf. I’m the one who put the two leaves into the plastic bag, because wee Hamish is my great-grandson.”
“Nay,” Bethia said again. “Ye were only helping me because the arthritis in my hands was acting up.”
Rory turned to Bethia. “I’ll need that bottle. Stay here, and later, we’ll walk together to your place to retrieve it.”
“I haven’t done anything wrong.” Deydie wasn’t pleading; her words were tough as nails and they sounded genuine.
He wanted to tell her that he believed her. She reminded him of his own prickly gran. But he couldn’t say it.
Deydie glowered at him. “Are ye and I done here? I have things to do. We’re set to take the retreat goers to Whussendale after Sunday Service to see a demonstration of their sheep-to-shawl program.”
“Reschedule it for tomorrow,” Rory said. “As I said earlier, no one is going anywhere. Today we will be interviewing everyone.”
Deydie squished up her face and frowned, while Bethia patted her soothingly.
“Let’s start the ladies on their quilts now, before we go to the kirk,” said Bethia. “We’ll do as the DCI says and go to Whussendale tomorrow. I’ll call Sophie and let her know why we’ve been delayed.”
“All right,” Deydie acquiesced. She pushed herself off the couch and went to talk to the retreat goers gathered at one table.
“Sit,” Rory commanded Diana. “I want to talk to ye now, lass.”
* * *
Diana’s heart skipped a beat. No, her heart did more than that. First it did a small victory dance, jogged a couple of laps, and then performed a backflip.
A little too late, she realized Rory was staring at her, his face stern. He oozed seriousness. Yes, of course, murder is serious business. But in her heart of hearts, she’d been longing to see him again.
He glanced across the room, as if to make sure Deydie and Bethia were out of earshot.
He stared at her for a long minute before turning a page in his notepad. “Tell me everything that has happened since you arrived in Gandiegow and while I’ve been gone. Don’t leave anything out.”
“More death threats have come in,” she told him, then pointed to Leo and leaned in. “Leo has been complaining, wanting me to tell Jacques to keep his hands off Marta. It’s been weird, but Marta and Leo seemed to be back together. I guess he was just making sure Jacques wasn’t horning in on his territory.”
“Was Jacques horning in?” Rory asked, but he looked like he already knew the answer.
“No! Of course not,” Diana said. “He seemed too smart to want someone like her.”
Rory frowned over at Leo. “I’ll speak with Leo after I finish with ye.”
Diana went back further and relayed the conversations in the shuttle between Marta and Tilly—both the intimate one and the one where Diana had found out Tilly had been the ghostwriter—the true author—on all the books. She even told him how Deydie tried to get past Jacques on the first night, but downplayed the interaction, making Deydie sound more like a folk hero than the tyrant she really was.
When Diana was done with her recitation of the facts, she delivered her opinion unasked. “I know it looks bad, but Deydie didn’t do it. None of it. She’s not capable.” Though the old woman seemed more than capable of doing damage when she wielded her broom.
Rory had been writing everything down, but as Diana made her declaration, he glanced up. “It’s not for ye to decide who did or didn’t commit a crime. I have a duty to follow the evidence.”
“She didn’t do it,” Diana said again, for good measure. She held his gaze. “I guess you should know that I believe someone was watching me last night from the shadows as I walked back to Duncan's Den.”
Rory appeared infuriated. “Tell me that you had someone with you, preferably one of the big fishermen I’m seeing all over town.”
She shook her head.
Deydie saved Diana from one of Rory’s lectures by returning with the Duffy brothers. The old woman motioned for Rory to listen. “These two strapping lads, Hamilton and Gregor, have agreed to guard Marta Dixon. I figured with yere fellow, well, gone…someone needed to take his place. The Duffy boat is in for repairs the next couple of days and these lads ain’t got nothing better to do.”
The two men shared a look, as if they might have something better to do.
Rory gave the old quilter his full attention. “I appreciate it. I wasn’t sure who I could get to watch Ms. Dixon, way up here in Gandiegow.”
That was the wrong thing to say.
Deydie shot him a hard glare, conveying her displeasure at the Detective Chief Inspector for blaspheming her village.
“I meant no offense,” Rory said. “It’s just Gandiegow is a long way from…anywhere.”
Deydie harrumphed and then went back to her previous topic. “The Duffys will not be the only ones. Once their boat is fixed, we’ll have others helping to watch the old Buttermilk Guild killer.” Deydie sneered in Marta’s direction. “But Hamilton and Gregor will be in charge of figuring out her—what do ye call it?”
“Detail,” Rory answered. “Ms. Dixon’s detail.” He stood and spoke to the head quilter. “Thank you, Deydie. I really appreciate it.” Then he focused on the Duffy brothers. “We’ll get together later and talk about particulars.”
Hamilton nodded. “We’ll be around.” He and Gregor walked over and took up their stations, where the women of Gandiegow and the retreat goers had surrounded Marta.
Deydie glared at Rory but pointed to Di
ana. “Are ye done with her? We could use her to get things rolling.”
“Aye. I’m done,” he said. “Lass, we’ll speak more later.” He walked over and called Leo out of the group, taking him to a table and sitting down.
Diana realized Deydie was halfway across the room before she followed the old woman to her desk, where Deydie picked up a basket.
“What’s that?” Diana asked.
“I started book ten’s quilt last night—the Rook quilt.” Deydie pulled the pattern off the top and held it close as if to examine it. “I’m not fond of the rook. He’s kind of sinister, don’t ye think?” She glanced at Diana to make sure she agreed with her. “I don’t mind the rest of the pattern, but I believe I’ll switch out the rook for a puffin. Much friendlier bird in my eyes.”
Deydie nodded toward the boxes Diana had brought with her. “Might’n you have some extra bits of fabric in there, so I can change out the rook? I can give these already cut pieces of the Rook to one of the other retreat goers.”
Diana smiled at her. “You bet. I brought plenty. I like your idea. Perhaps you’ll allow Parker to take a video of you modifying the Rook quilt with your puffin?”
Deydie grinned at her. “Aye. I’ve always wanted to be on the telly.”
Diana patted her shoulder. “Thank you.” She hoped Marta would be as accommodating when it came time for her to teach the class on making the quilt. She’d know soon enough.
As they walked over to the Gandiegow quilters and out-of-town retreat goers, Diana pulled out her phone and texted Parker.
Can you come to Quilting Central now?
When she’d called Parker to tell her about Jacques, Ewan said he would bring her back to Duncan's Den and keep an eye on her, as she was upset.
Deydie was already speaking with the women. “Get to work and start cutting out the pattern until it’s time to go to Sunday Service. I can attest to how easy it is. Ye’ll make fast work of it.” Deydie made a guttural noise, as if her next words might be caught in her throat. “At least Marta Dixon does a good job of writing a pattern.”
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