by Molly Macrae
“The ride will do me good.”
“I wonder if Lynsey appreciates having such a chatty neighbor?”
“I wonder what was stolen and from whom. And if Lachy owned a gun.”
“Or his da.”
15
The four women stood in the doorway between the bookshop and tearoom for their meeting before opening that morning. Tallie, Janet, and Christine had given Summer a quick, subdued recap of their game night.
“How?” Tallie said. “That was the first thing Lynsey asked when Norman said he was sorry. Is it just me, or did that strike you, too?”
“Wait, have I met Lynsey?” Summer asked.
“She came into the bookshop a few days ago,” Janet said. “She’s one of the cyclists who rode in the Haggis Half-Hundred.”
“Thirty, give or take a few years. Slim, athletic, dark hair—” Christine broke off with an irritated noise. “I have no idea if you’ve met her or not. Does it matter?”
“It doesn’t, but I want to picture her,” Summer said. “You spent quite a bit of time with her last night and you’re worried about her this morning. And you like her, right? This has been a hard week for people you like.”
“Please keep that in mind, all of you,” Christine said. “Not so much for my benefit as yours. I don’t want it happening again.”
“We’ll do our best.” Janet moved so she could put her arm through Christine’s. Queen Elizabeth was present and imperious, but she was a monarch in mourning. “What was it that struck you about the ‘how,’ Tallie?”
“She did say ‘no, no, no,’ when Hobbs and Reddick came in, but I didn’t see disbelief in her face or hear it in that ‘how.’ It seemed like she already knew he was dead. Or maybe it only began to strike me that way after lying awake and thinking about the nightmares she must be having.”
“Norman’s words gave very little room for doubt,” Christine said. “And her worst fears came true. Or her premonitions, as he said she called them. She’d been stewing for hours while she didn’t know where Lachlann was. She’d worked herself into a state. It’s not uncommon to expect the worst and then, when it happens, to have ‘known all along.’”
“Norman made it sound like she’s been in these states before,” Janet said.
“I’m not explaining it well, but it’s more than that,” Tallie said. “She called us because she’d heard what we’ve done in the past. But we haven’t traced missing people.”
“We’ve solved murders and caught killers,” Janet said. “What a bizarre thing to roll off my tongue so easily.”
“Murders and killers are a step up from a husband who’s late getting home,” Summer said. “Is that what you’re getting at?”
“That’s part of it. Lynsey said herself that she didn’t think he’d run off. I think she was afraid he wasn’t just stuck somewhere or that he’d been in an accident. I think she was terribly afraid he wasn’t just missing, and I wonder why. If we discount the premonitions the way Norman did.”
“Grasping at any lifeline she could find?” Christine asked. “She was in a state, and if she was afraid her husband might have killed himself—”
“Then there are much better options than calling the local meddlers who’ve adopted the odd pastime of solving murders,” Janet said. “I see your point, Tallie. We might think Norman is stodgy porridge and she might think he’s a great eejit, but he’s—”
“But he’s our stodgy porridge and not such an eejit as all that,” Christine interrupted. “You’re putting the evening into a more peculiar light, Tallie, and it was plenty peculiar to begin with. Lynsey didn’t mention suicide as a possibility. But according to her, Lachlann’s father thought something was bothering him. And according to the neighbor, father and son had a rammy in the garden.”
“You and I wondered if either of them has a gun,” Janet said. “But is the cause of death official? The neighbor didn’t even seem to know Lachy’s dead.”
“And we only heard Lachy was shot from Ian, but is Ian’s source reliable?” Tallie looked at her phone. “I’ve taken up the whole meeting with this. It’s time to open.”
“Tip of the iceberg, tip of the iceberg,” Christine muttered. She twirled her hand around her ear. “Thoughts swirling.”
Summer had her phone out, too. “Just sent a text to James. He says he has no details.” She put the phone away. “Or none that he’s telling.”
“Would he do that?” Tallie asked. “Have details and not tell?”
“I hate to break this up,” Janet said. The others didn’t move. “All right, then.” She clapped her hands to get their attention. “New proposal. As we have thoughts and icebergs still swirling around, this morning we will institute the ‘Walkabout Meeting.’ We will continue our discussion, as customers allow, and circulate between bookshop and tearoom, keeping each other in the loop. Agreed?”
“We could just text as things occur to us,” Tallie said.
“No, we couldn’t,” Christine said. “My thoughts are bigger than that and so are my thumbs. And think what happened with Norman last night. We don’t need spelling errors or autocorrect sending us in wrong directions. I like this idea, Janet, and I have one word to say to you: WIP.”
“Sorry?”
“Walkabout in progress.”
They’d discovered that Thursdays were their quietest day of the week. Fewer day coaches rolled into town, meaning fewer tourists bent on spending their colorful Bank of Scotland notes. Janet had heard an explanation for the number of coaches from the owner of a souvenir shop. “Saving their petrol to crush us on Fridays and the weekend,” she’d said cheerfully. The lull made Thursdays good for catching up on inventory, ordering, cleaning, and any of other chores so easily shunted aside for customers.
“It’s the perfect morning to roll out the walkabout meeting,” Tallie said after unlocking the front door and looking up and down the street. “No one waiting out front. No one walking this way.”
“We won’t roll it out, though,” Janet said. “We’ll stroll it out. Me first. I have a question for Summer.”
“Go for it. I’ll put on the strolling music.”
To the strains of Gershwin’s “Promenade,” Janet sashayed down the center aisle and through to the tearoom. Quiet there, too, with only two tables occupied, and she crooked a finger at Summer. Summer crooked a finger back.
“You two have a confab,” Christine said, nodding toward the kitchen. “I’ll tend the teapots.”
“Call if you need me,” Summer said, then when she and Janet were in the small galley kitchen she asked, “What’s up?”
“A question about James.”
“We aren’t officially seeing each other.”
“Oh.” Janet wondered if she looked wide-eyed, like a surprised owl.
“We’re only slightly seeing each other.”
“Oh.”
“I like being forthright,” Summer said.
“I think that’s wonderful. I appreciate it. That wasn’t actually my question, but I’ll be forthright, too. I’ve been trying to figure out if I should be suspicious of James. Tallie’s question about whether he might not tell the details he knows reminded me of it. I have been suspicious of him, in the past—wondering what he knows, what he thinks, what sorts of connections he has. All that kind of thing. And I think sometimes he’s suspicious of me.”
“Oh.” With her hair pulled neatly into a bun, Summer looked more like a sleek, nonplussed harbor seal.
“So my question is, should I pay attention to these recurring suspicions? Although, now that you’re slightly seeing each other, you might feel uncomfortable answering.”
“Or I might not be the best judge.”
“That too.” Janet tried a forthright smile. She felt it flickering.
Summer grinned. “Don’t worry about it. Suspicion is what happens to good reporters, and if I told James you’re suspicious of him, he’d be well chuffed. He loves a good laugh. But I won’t tell him. ‘Slightly�
� doesn’t include telling on friends.”
“Thank you. How’s your aim coming?”
“I discovered a great way to sharpen it. Anger. When I was practicing night before last, I heard some woman talking about Florence. I have no idea if she’s met her, but that’s beside the point. Florence is a friend of Christine’s and she just lost her brother, but that’s also beside the point. This woman was talking about her the way Ian did. As if ‘old woman’ is synonymous with deranged nutter. It just totally torqued me off. You should’ve seen my game. James made me stop playing because he doesn’t want anyone to know how good I am. That cheesed me off, too.”
“Were you still mad the next morning?”
“And yelled at you guys about rules. Sorry.”
“No need to apologize. Those are excellent reasons to be angry,” Janet said. “Keep it up.”
“Will do. It’s awful about the way last night ended, but I wish I’d been there for the game.”
“It had its moments,” Christine said, coming to the kitchen door. “You would have been proud of me, Boudicca. I lured Norman to Janet’s with the same skill and precision you use in your darts game.”
“Is that the same skill and precision you used to lure the cats into the middle of the game board?” Janet asked.
“That took skill, precision, and excellent cheese.”
Janet returned to the bookshop and, after a drizzle of customers, filled Tallie in on the first leg of the walkabout meeting.
Tallie tossed aside a review journal she’d been flipping through. “While you were in the tearoom, my thoughts went walkabout on their own.”
“Where did they go?” Janet asked.
“They were busy. They went a few places. The open window and the hole in Carmichael and Macleod’s information, for instance. Anything or anybody could have gone in and out of that window. It’s an unknown quantity.”
“And the hole?” Janet asked.
“It’s up for grabs, too. We have no idea what Carmichael and Macleod are looking for, or how they know to look for it, or if it’ll give them answers when they find it.”
“We do have some idea, though,” Janet said. “It’s something small enough I could walk off with it and not raise Norman’s eyebrows.”
“That could be something Malcolm always carried with him. Wallet, watch, phone. Or something a cyclist would have. Tool kit, water bottle. If you’d picked either one up and put it with your own bike, Norman could miss it.”
“I saw a tool kit. Maybe they’re looking for something that should’ve been in it. The other cyclists might know—Rhona or Isla. I wouldn’t bother Lynsey with a question like that right now. And something else they might know. Why was Malcolm wearing tweeds and not bicycle kit of some sort? It wasn’t a race, but was that how he dressed for rides?”
“I’d forgotten about that. Do you suppose Florence is right—that he really did go home after the ride? What if he went home, changed, and went out again shortly after?”
“Does that tell us anything new? It leaves us with the same questions about the open window.”
“It makes Florence a little less dithery.”
“But after a fifty-mile ride?” Janet asked. “Would he have gotten on his bike again and gone up the same road he’d been on? I’m here to tell you that my knees and thighs are amazed and agonized to think he could or would—with or without the wool suit.”
“We know he didn’t finish the Haggis Half-Hundred,” Tallie said.
“You’re right. Knees and thighs calming down. And surely Carmichael and Macleod asked Florence and the other riders how he dressed for the ride.”
“That’s something we can ask Norman.”
“Who might not know, or might not be able to find out, because Sandra and Fergus aren’t forthcoming. So,” Janet said, taking pen and paper out of a drawer in the counter, “I’ll start a list of questions for Rhona and Isla.”
“My thoughts went one more place—our cloud files. Much as I love your walkabout meeting idea, virtual walkabout meetings are more efficient.”
“Although wouldn’t it be nice to think we’d only ever use it for sharing recipes and pictures of the grandboys from now on?”
“And pictures of Butter and Smirr,” Tallie added.
“Absolutely. But you’re right. Resurrect the cloud file. Create a document with a list of the things we want to know, another with working theories. We’ll have to get back into the habit of updating with new information and questions regularly, and we’ll share with Norman when appropriate.”
“Ahem.”
“You know what I mean. There are some discussions and pieces of information he really doesn’t need to know. The cloud needs to be a safe place for us to throw ideas and information around—and scream virtually when we need to. But yes, share with Norman. Can you get that started this morning? The office is all yours. I’ll call you if I need you.”
“A couple of folders and a couple of documents? Mom, it took a couple of seconds for each. I did it while you were talking to Summer. There are folders labeled ‘Malcolm’ and ‘Lachlann’ with question and theory documents in each one. Plus documents in each for contact information so we can keep track of who we talk to. Feel free to relabel anything.”
“Ooh—fly me to the cloud.” Janet pulled out her phone.
“There’s plenty of leg room for wandering to new documents any time and at your leisure. Enjoy your flight.”
“Let the others know.”
“Doing that now.”
A short time later, Christine came to the Yon Bonnie sales counter, and quietly said, “Lynsey might have been afraid to say ‘suicide’ out loud when we made our list of possibilities last night,” and then started back to the tearoom. She didn’t get far before turning around and coming behind the counter. “Are there customers?” she asked.
“No. Let’s not say it’s dead, though,” Janet said.
“Then if you don’t mind?” Christine settled on the tall stool. “I love the return of the cloud file, Tallie, and I’ll add that thought about Lynsey to it. The file is a valuable tool in our kit.”
“Right, but that’s all it is,” Tallie said. “It’s a good one, but it’s just another tool. It doesn’t replace real-time discussions.”
“The give and take of face-to-face conversations.”
“Would you like me to go walkabout and give Summer a hand?” Tallie asked.
“No need. Rab’s there.”
“Is he?” Janet looked over to the fireplace chairs. “Ranger, too. I didn’t see him come in. Did he have any news?”
“You know Ranger. He never lets on.” Christine shook her head. “Sorry. In poor taste. But no. Rab hadn’t heard anything at all about Lachlann. We told him the little we know and asked him to keep his ears open. His only comment was rather vehement, considering it came from him. He said, ‘Never suicide.’”
“I would never want it to be suicide,” Janet said, “but the alternative makes me sick to my stomach. And think of poor Lynsey.”
“I’m glad she wasn’t home this morning for the casserole,” Christine said. “Imagine. A casserole in exchange for a husband.”
“That’s not how it is,” Janet said.
“I called it a prop.”
“That’s not why you took it or how it was meant,” Janet said. “What did you do with it?”
“Took it to Florrie and gave the flowers to Mum. She was tickled, I should give her flowers more often.”
“How was Florence?”
“She was Florence.” Christine nodded and stared at nothing. She sounded and looked as melancholy as Janet could remember seeing her.
“That reminds, me,” Janet said. “The thistles along the burn where Malcolm died—I think they’re melancholy thistles.”
“Apropos of?” Tallie asked.
“People sitting behind the counter feeling blue. Is there anything we can do for you, Christine?”
“I actually came out here to be
useful. Summer and I revisited some of those swirling thoughts we had in the doorway meeting. She wasn’t there last night and she hasn’t met Lynsey, so she can only react to what we tell her and what we try to describe.”
“A different perspective,” Tallie said.
“Yes, but she’s the first to say that being different doesn’t make her perspective clearer or more accurate. She was intrigued by your idea that Lynsey knew Lachy wasn’t just missing. I think we all found the possibilities behind that idea unsettling, but Summer came right out and said it. Did Lynsey know because she killed him?”
Christine had been speaking quietly, but those words made Janet and Tallie jump and look around to be sure they were still without customers.
“And because she’s Summer, and probably reads a dozen newspapers a day,” Christine continued, “she backed that up with an article she recently read about the difference between crime fiction killings and, as she said, the real deal. In real life, killings are less about elaborate and secretive plots and more about domestic disputes.”
“I’d like to be aghast and say it isn’t even fathomable that Lynsey did that,” Janet said. “But I can’t, so now I need to sit down.” She prodded Christine and they traded places.
“I wish it were different,” Tallie said. “But we don’t know her, didn’t know him, and don’t know what their lives were like, or what she’s capable of.”
“And if there’s one thing we’ve learned over the past six months,” Janet said, “it’s to keep an open mind about murder.”
16
This particular facet of an open mind is an unexpected perk to uprooting our lives and coming to Inversgail,” Christine said.
“Perk is an interesting way to look at it,” Tallie said.
“And looking at things in interesting ways is another perk to having an open mind. So let’s look at last night again,” Christine said. “We don’t really know what Lynsey was thinking before, during, or after she arrived, so let’s walk through it.”
“And guess what she was thinking?” Tallie said.
“Dear,” Janet said, “you’re the one who opened these minds when you started guessing this morning.”