Thistles and Thieves

by Molly Macrae

  “You shot Gerald and stabbed him?” Christine said.

  “He knew I’d been on the road. He made his guess about what happened. Said he knew it was an accident and trusted me to tell the police. I knew he’d come in for a hug, and he did. He was the softer of the two, but it was like a dagger to my mother’s heart that they didn’t love her even half as much as they’d loved their own. Gerald liked knowing things, so I let him know how that felt. I didn’t like to see him suffer, mind, so I brought the gun from the car.”

  Janet realized her shoulders had risen, while she listened. She’d forgotten about her phone and the call handler. Had no idea if she was still connected. She looked at Tallie, Christine, and Summer. They’d all wrapped their arms around themselves. Florence, though, except for her bonds and bandages, might have been sitting at a bus stop.

  “What about Lachy?” Janet asked.

  “Who?”

  “Lachlann Mòr,” Christine said. “Lachlann Maclennan.”

  “The great git who came with his condolences and blethered on about Malcolm and Gerald? I didn’t ask him to tell me Gerald said I’d been there the day Malcolm took his tumble. Three foolish men.”

  “Florrie, you’re not right in the head,” Christine said.

  “It’s Florence. The boys were allowed their strong names. They were never Gerry or Mal or Calum, but I was not allowed to be anything but Florrie or Ducks. Even the dogs don’t get called by other names. And someone should do away with Gerald’s dog. He growled and tried to bite me.”

  “After you killed Gerald?” Janet asked.

  “Aye.”

  “Good.”

  They heard a sharp rap on the window frame and Constable Hobbs’s voice calling, “Police.” He and Reddick appeared in the window. “Are any of you in need of immediate medical attention?”

  “I’m bleeding,” Florence whined. “I’ve been attacked and I’m bleeding.”

  “Eventual but not immediate,” Christine said to Hobbs. To Florence she said, “Haud yer wheesht. You aren’t dripping.”

  “Do you have a spare key to the front or back door hidden anywhere outside, Mrs. Jones?” Reddick asked. “If not, we’ll be obliged to make entry as best we can.”

  Florence didn’t answer. She’d turned her head away from everyone else, as though watching the scenery slide past the windows of the bus that had finally arrived. Janet thought she might be humming.

  27

  There’s a hole in the back garden she must have been digging at for days,” Hobbs said. “The dog was standing in it and couldn’t get out.” He looked down at his uniform. “We’ll both need a bath.”

  “Where will you take him?” Tallie asked.

  “D.C. Shaw rang his uncle. He’s amenable.”

  The four women sat at the table in the Murray kitchen, each with a cup of tea that Hobbs had made. After discovering the pudding, he offered them that, as well.

  “I’ve lost my appetite for toffee pudding,” Christine said. “It will always be associated with horrifying events.”

  Hobbs cast a look of poorly disguised longing toward the bag.

  “Take it home with you, Norman,” Janet said. “Or share it with Reddick and Shaw. But don’t open it here, please.”

  “How much did you and Reddick hear before you knocked on the window?” Summer asked.

  “From the point she talked about living in the shadows. Reddick sends his compliments for your excellent aim with the darts, by the way.”

  “I’ve lost my appetite for them,” Summer said. “If James doesn’t understand, too bad.”

  “Are you free to tell us anything Florence said after Reddick cautioned her?” Tallie asked.

  Hobbs looked toward the kitchen door, and scratched the back of his neck, considering. “She referred to ‘the boys,’ making it difficult to know if she was talking about two days ago or fifty years. She spoke fondly of punishing them by hiding things and accusing them of stealing.”

  “A lifelong pattern?” Christine asked.

  “She mentioned boxing up books of theirs, books she’d not been allowed to touch as a child. She wants to press charges against the four of you for stealing the box from the library, where she took it as a donation. She wondered, as well, if you found and subsequently stole a book she’s been looking for since the boys hid it from her.”

  “The zhen xian bao. We know something about that.” Janet raised her eyebrows at the others. They nodded. “It doesn’t exist anymore. There’s no proof of that, and only Isla’s word, but there were more reasons for her to keep quiet than to tell us.”

  She told him Isla’s story, watching Hobbs’s eyes growing narrower throughout—until she pointed her finger at him.

  “Knowing this information, as late as we learned it, would not have made a bit of difference to the police investigation. If the police had heard it, and asked Florence about the zhen xian bao, she would have lied and sent them in some other disastrous direction. It’s been disastrous enough for Lynsey. I cannot imagine what she’s been through, or imagine putting Isla through that.”

  Hobbs had the good grace to agree. “One more thing Florence said—she left the gun and the dagger at Gerald’s because she didn’t need them anymore and they disturbed her.”

  “They disturbed her,” Christine echoed. “They didn’t appall? Or horrify? She didn’t feel sorry? She got hold of wolf’s bane to use on them and used it on us. She isn’t doddery or dithery; she’s diabolical and deranged.”

  “Was it Gerald who came in after Malcolm died?” Tallie asked. “Did anyone come in?”

  “We found no evidence,” Hobbs said. “But that neither proves nor disproves it. Her stories and the truth will be hard to disentangle.”

  “Another lifelong pattern,” Janet said. “Taking the truth and turning it tapsalteerie.”

  Isla, Lynsey, and Rhona organized a memorial ride in honor of Lachy, Malcolm, and Gerald for the next Saturday morning at ten. Planned as a short ride along the High Street, from the Stevenson statue to Yon Bonnie Books, it would be an easy distance for anyone on wheels, afoot, or on a leash. The Council agreed to close the street for half an hour to accommodate the memorial.

  The day dawned brisk and clear and stayed that way. Janet and Tallie hung a sign on the bookshop door, and Christine and Summer hung one on the tearoom door, and the four women went to join the crowd already spreading along the harbor and spilling into the street.

  “How many?” Tallie asked Hobbs when they saw him.

  “I lost track at several hundred. And more on the way.”

  Lynsey called to Janet and the others when she saw them. “Here! Up front with us!”

  At ten o’clock they started to move, and it was less a bike ride or procession than a surge washing along the street.

  “Washing away the wickedness,” Isla said to Janet.

  When the women in front reached the bookshop, they stood on the steps and waved as those behind them streamed past.

  “A lovely tribute,” Christine said when the crowd, at last, began to thin. “Will you come in for tea?”

  “Not today,” Lynsey said, wiping her eyes. “It’s been a bit overwhelming. Soon, though.”

  A community atmosphere prevailed for the rest of the day, with people visiting in and out of shops. Rab lent a needed hand in the bookshop, and Ranger accepted compliments from his chair near the fireplace.

  Hobbs brought the Dalwhinnie box back to the shop as things slowed down later in the afternoon. “That’s finally cleared up, then. As they were a donation to the library, and from the library to you, they’re yours to sell.”

  “Wonderful,” Janet said. “We’ll work up prices and let you know about Kidnapped. There’s still a mystery, though. Who glued the box shut?” she looked at Hobbs, and then looked more closely. “I’ve seen that look on your face before, Norman Hobbs. You’re hiding something.”

  “Mrs. Marsh—”

  “Tell me what you know.”

  �
�I saw the box on your doorstep whilst on my rounds the night before you found them. Out of the ordinary, I thought, so I took a look to be sure it wasn’t rubbish or something worse. I saw the books, and didn’t like to leave them overnight, should it rain.” He’d taken the box home, he said, intending to bring it back shortly before the women arrived to open the shop. As they weren’t his, he hadn’t looked through them. “I thought to seal it, mind, so no one else could rummage and maybe nick them before you arrived. But I’d used the last of my packaging tape when I sent a unicorn to my great-niece.”

  “So you glued it. That was thoughtful, Norman, although you could have saved us both some trouble by bringing it back, without glue, after we opened.”

  “I didn’t like to disrupt the normal way you do business.”

  Reddick stopped in before Hobbs left. “I’ve an answer, of sorts, from the Road Policing Unit.”

  Janet, immediately worried they’d discovered Isla’s role and her own belated knowledge of it, didn’t trust herself to say more than, “About?”

  “About how they decided something might have been removed from the scene. They found a piece of paper inside Malcolm’s jacket, near the inner breast pocket, but not in it. They didn’t see how it hadn’t fallen out of the jacket during the ride. They guessed that it had been in his pocket and had slipped out when someone pulled something else out—the infamous missing item. It remains a loose end, however, with no leads. In fact, I think it’s entirely possible the paper was not securely in the pocket, so that it came out during that rough ride down the slope.”

  “Thank you for letting us know,” Janet said. “This isn’t meant as a complaint. It’s just an observation. But I didn’t think they questioned me as carefully as they should have.”

  “Ah, but they complimented you. After a fashion. They told me you’re a believable witness. You irritated them, but they believed you.”

  “That seems fair. They irritated me, too.”

  “I can also tell you how Ian Atkinson injured his ankle,” Reddick said.

  “He already told us,” said Tallie. “He sustained an injury during the apprehension and arrest of the wrong suspect. Don’t tell me that’s an exaggerated account?”

  “Somewhat,” Reddick said. “Fell off the curb, running to his car, after being ordered to leave. His ‘colleague’ received a transfer.”

  “Poor Ian,” Janet said, after Reddick left, and heard Tallie and Rab snort behind her.

  James Haviland came through from the tearoom and accepted condolences from Hobbs and Rab for losing the star member of the paper’s darts team. “There’s always next year,” he said. “You might find this interesting. I’ve had a letter from Gerald Murray’s lawyer. It seems he left his money in trust to go toward helping veterans.”

  “Very generous,” Hobbs said. “Why did the lawyer send the letter to you?”

  “Exactly,” said James. “This is the interesting part. Gerald named three people to oversee the trust. Ian Atkinson, me, and another lawyer—William Clark.”

  “Have I heard that name?” Janet asked.

  “I have,” Rab and Hobbs both said.

  “Exactly,” James said again and, without further explanation, left.

  “Who’s William Clark?” Tallie asked.

  “And what are those odd looks passing between you two?” Janet asked Hobbs and Rab.

  “I’m sure you’re imagining them,” Hobbs said, answering Janet’s question and ignoring Tallie’s. “Let me know about Kidnapped, will you?” And he was gone.

  “That leaves the explanation to you, Rab,” Janet said, but too late. Rab had shimmered away. They heard a whistle near the tearoom. Ranger heard it, too. He hopped down from his chair and trotted after it.

  “Rab left a box and a note,” Tallie said.

  “A box and a note? Again?”

  “It’s addressed to the four of us.”

  “Then it can wait the half hour until we’re closed. Christine says she and Summer have something to show us, too.”

  The last half hour was quiet. That suited Janet, and she yawned as Christine and Summer came to join them at the bookshop counter after locking the tearoom door for the night.

  “We’ve been working on Tallie’s recipe booklet idea,” Christine said, “but with a twist.”

  “Here’s a prototype,” Summer said. “Postcard recipe cards. We’ll have the recipe in the middle, a small photo of the food in the upper left corner, and a small scenic shot of someplace in Inversgail in the lower right—bookshop, tearoom, harbor, Stevenson statue, that kind of thing. What do you think?”

  “Perfect,” said Tallie.

  “Aiming her camera instead of darts,” Christine said. “Is she not brilliant?”

  “Absolutely,” said Janet. “Now for Rab’s surprise.” She handed the note to Christine and let Tallie and Summer open the box.

  “Books. A couple of dozen.” Summer took four out and handed one to each of them—slim, slightly larger than checkbooks, with covers of brightly patterned paper.

  “Not just books,” Christine said, reading the note. “Zhen xian baos. He made them and wants to know if we’d like to sell them.”

  They opened the books, revealing the first folded boxes within, each box made of a different patterned paper and blossoming into another and more boxes.

  “Of course we’d like to sell them,” Tallie said. “I don’t think there’s any question.”

  “None whatsoever,” Janet agreed, gazing at the wonder before her. “Think of all the little things you can hide inside. It could be a whole book full of secrets and clues.” She looked up at the others. “I do love a mystery.”

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Help in writing a book comes from lots of people in so many ways—some of them unexpected—and for all of them I’m grateful. For this book, I owe Susan Meinkoth and Peter Davis thanks for the Haggis Half-Hundred, inspired by the Cherry Pie Ride they organize each year. Ann Campbell tipped me off to the word tapsalteerie. PJ Coldren gave me whigmaleerie. Pat Crowley saved me from mistakes in Scrabble scoring. Cammy MacRae provided invaluable Gaelic consultation. Thanks to Linda Wessels for introducing me to Swedish Death Decluttering. Thanks to Janice N. Harrington and Betsy Hearne for reading and editing, but especially for your friendship. Janice also dazzled me with zhen xian bao. James Haviland and Sharon Davis have again lent me their names (and let me add quirks to their personalities and put words in their mouths). Marthalee Beckington let me borrow her marvelous collies Quantum and Cyrus. This book wouldn’t have gotten anywhere at all without my agent, Cynthia Manson, and everyone at Pegasus Books. And I certainly couldn’t have finished it without my husband’s unfailing help. Thank you, Mike, for keeping the house and everything else together so I can keep writing.

  Also available from Pegasus Crime:

  Plaid and Plagiarism

  Scones and Scoundrels

  BOOKS ONE AND TWO OF THE HIGHLAND BOOKSHOP MYSTERY SERIES

  THISTLES AND THIEVES

  Pegasus Crime is an imprint of

  Pegasus Books, Ltd.

  148 West 37th Street, 13th Fl.

  New York, NY 10018

  Copyright 2020 © by Molly MacRae

  First Pegasus Books hardcover edition January 2020

  Interior design by Sabrina Plomitallo-González, Pegasus Books

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in whole or in part without written permission from the publisher, except by reviewers who may quote brief excerpts in connection with a review in a newspaper, magazine, or electronic publication; nor may any part of this book be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or other, without written permission from the publisher.

  The Library of Congress has cataloged the printed edition as follows:

  ISBN: 978-1-64313-321-8

  ISBN: 978-1-64313-400-0 (ebk.)

  Distributed by W. W. Norton & Co
mpany, Inc.

  www.pegasusbooks.us