5

Hypothermia is no joke. Calum’s voice in her head. Heather pumped her arms as she walked down the burn.

“Warming my blood, Calum,” she said aloud. “Warding off the shivers. No need to natter.” She smiled, knowing he would have hated the alliteration. That was another difference between them. He’d not been fanciful, not even when they were kids. He’d liked things plain and straightforward. He’d faced life that way. “My way has merit, too, even if that means not telling every truth. It might be a sin to tell a lie, but not every omission is a sin or a lie.”

The burn widened ahead, curling and braiding itself around a herd of large, flat rocks. Heather stopped on the bank, gauging distance and depth, and took a chance she’d make it to the closest rock with dry feet.

“Not quite,” she said after a splash and a scramble. When she was sitting on the smooth, cool granite, she pulled off her left boot. “A wet sock is no matter. Aren’t we made up of some great huge percentage of water?” She tipped the boot and let the water trickle back into the burn. “Water to water and verily to verily, or whatever. Sorry, Cal, I don’t mean to make light.”

The sun had come out as she’d hiked down the burn. It hadn’t gone in again, so she left the boot off and stood it next to her on the rock. Then she took a map and Calum’s leather diary from one of the jacket’s cargo pockets. She’d found both in the pocket when she’d cleared his flat years ago. The same as she’d found the malevolent Road Map 2 in the Fiesta’s glovebox.

“You were aye prepared, Calum,” she said. “Ta for that.”

This map showed Inversgail and a bit of the coast, and it also had a line of faded pink highlighter. Heather traced the line with her finger, following it across the harbor toward the headland. “And plain as day, it disappears. That is both straightforward and not. But you didn’t mean to leave a puzzle, and I don’t mind following trails, even if that makes me a half-blind pilgrim blundering toward your sad destination.”

She took her phone from another pocket and tapped a number she’d added after arriving the day before. “Aye, hello, I’d like to rent one of your kayaks.”

---

Janet told the old tom and the kitten, Smirr and Butter, they were in charge of the house while she was gone. Smirr, the color of a soft rain, tucked himself into a neat loaf and then stretched a deft paw and trapped yellow Butter’s tail. Back arched, the kitten danced away sideways.

“Do your best with him, Smirr,” Janet said. “He couldn’t ask for a better role model for learning proper cat behavior. Supper when I get home.”

Smirr blinked, as if to say he’d wait patiently.

A cat or two waiting at home—the “well-fed, well-petted, and properly revered” cats Mark Twain had spoken of—was a fine thing. Not at all the same as someone watching and waiting on a hillside.

Janet had pushed aside Norman’s suggestion that Heather had organized the scene at the burn and waited for her. After showering, she’d changed into what she thought of as bookseller chic—dark slacks, light blouse, and blazer—and hopped back on her bike. Even running late, it made more sense to walk or pedal between home and Yon Bonnie Books than to drive. They lived barely a mile from the shop, and leaving the car home left one more of the few nearby parking spaces free for customers.

She didn’t fly down the hill from Argyll Terrace toward the harbor. Traffic, pedestrians, and uneven pavement gave her ample reasons for a sedate coast and then a slow pedal along the High Street. Slow enough to scan the harbor for seals and the harbor wall for Rab MacGregor. She saw neither. She didn’t scan overhead for trios of prophetic seagulls.

Two kayaks sliced through the water on their way out of the harbor, silent and purposeful, making it look easy. And cold. Janet shivered, but not on behalf of the kayakers. She shivered at the memory of a moonless, fog-thick night, when she, Christine, Tallie, and Summer had been set adrift in a sabotaged rowboat. No oars, no protection, and no way of signaling for help.

Janet pushed thoughts of fog and hopelessness aside. Ahead lay comforts of other sorts—their new, old building with books full of fresh stories and ideas, steaming pots of aromatic tea, and soft pillows in warm beds. Janet rode past the windows of the bookshop and tearoom and around the corner to the narrow street behind. The back door opened into their stockroom. She unlocked it, rolled the bike inside and propped it on its kickstand, and hung her helmet from the handlebars.

She heard Tallie, but didn’t see her, when she entered through the stockroom door. Talking with a customer, it sounded like, perhaps in the history, art, and architecture aisle. Yon Bonnie’s bookcases were an eclectic assemblage of styles, mixed and matched over the century of the shop’s life. Most of them were at least a foot taller than Janet or Tallie. They formed aisles, like canyons of books, running from the sales counter toward the tearoom door. That door always stood open for customers—and the smells of buttery shortbread and scones—to come and go.

Janet took her jacket and purse to the office behind the sales counter and stopped to send Christine a text letting her know she’d arrived. She leafed through the morning mail and picked a few cat hairs from the front of her blazer. Neither the cat hairs nor the mail were urgent.

A text came in from Christine: ok?

Och aye ttyl, Janet replied, and then went back out into the shop to earn her keep for the day. Tallie and her customer were just coming from the travel, cookbook, and crafts aisle as she did.

“I’m less of an old bat than I thought,” Janet said. “My echo location skills are off. I thought I heard you in art and architecture.”

“No worries,” Tallie said. “You’re as batty as ever. We were over there, and opted for a change of scenery on the way back.”

The woman with Tallie put two books on the counter—A Handbook of Scotland’s Coasts and A Taste of Scotland’s Islands. “Bats are brill and beneficial, and your colleague is a canny bookseller,” she said. “I didn’t know I needed another cookery book until this lovely thing caught my eye.” She stroked the cookbook until lovely things on the counter caught her eye. Adding three of their new recipe postcards to the books, she pushed the stack toward Tallie. “That’s me for today, but I promise I’ll be back for one of these.” She started stroking one of the zhen xian bao. “I’ve a friend who’s difficult to buy for.”

“Come back for our party in a fortnight, too,” Tallie said. “We’re celebrating the one hundred and twenty-fifth birthday of Stuart Farquhar, the founder of Yon Bonnie Books.”

“I’ll do that. Cheery-bye the noo.”

“Isn’t it pure brill making people that happy?” Janet said as the door closed behind the woman. “And isn’t it nice that I’m hardly late at all? How’s the morning so far? Is Rab in?”

“Either no or not yet,” Tallie said.

“A normal day, then. Thank goodness.”

“So what happened on your ride? Christine said there’d been an ‘interesting misunderstanding’ with a ‘numpty researcher,’ and your text only said you’d be late.”

“And she and I are both right, as we so often are.”

“Are there nuances to ‘interesting’ and ‘misunderstanding’ that I should know about?” Tallie asked.

“Plenty. Also to ‘numpty’ and ‘researcher,’ but—” Janet put her palms on the counter. “I want time to think them through. I don’t want to spill them out all over the shop. There isn’t time for the whole story between customers. Later is soon enough.”

“There might be time,” Tallie said. “There often is. Discreetly. Between customers. Like now.”

Janet shook her head.

“Your points make good sense,” Tallie said, “but they sound rehearsed.”

“They are, and thank you for saying they make not just sense but good sense. The bottom line is, if I get all worked up telling you the whole story, as I’m sure you can imagine happening—”

“You’re actually pretty good about not getting worked up at work,” Tallie said.

“Thank you. However, customers might have an unexpected Jekyll and Hyde experience as I lurch between gnashing my teeth and offering them a bookmark with their purchase. Where are you going?”

Tallie headed for the fiction aisle without answering. She came back with three copies of The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde and set them near the cash register. “Impulse buys, in case you can’t help yourself and go all Hyde anyway.”

“You’re a natural at the book business, dear.” Janet sat down on the high stool behind the counter and crossed her legs. “Another bottom line is that nothing really happened, and I’m fine.” She smiled at her daughter. Possibly too brightly, judging by the squint of Tallie’s left eye.

“I can tell you’re fine from seeing two more bottom lines.” Tallie tipped her head to look at Janet’s ankles. “One black sock. One blue.”

“Oh, for—”

“Who is this researcher and what is she researching?” Tallie interrupted.

“Heather Kilbride. She’s a writer. But I can fill you in later.”

“We’ve run into some odd writers,” Tallie mused.

“We only notice the odd ones. The quiet ones go about their business and blend in. Honestly, there’s no need to worry. Norman was there. Sort of.” Janet saw the squint in Tallie’s eye again and hurried on. “Norman wasn’t at all alarmed, and said I held my own well enough. I do that even better when I spend time with books and people looking for books. So—”

The bell over the door jingled, and Janet called good morning to the trio who’d come in. She’d seen two of them the day before outside the library—Agnes Black and the man who’d called her Nessy and given her a lift. The third was another woman Janet occasionally saw in the shop, though not often enough to know her name.

Agnes twiddled her fingers at Janet and then directed the other two toward the fireplace and its comfortable, overstuffed armchairs. She appeared to be in charge, which didn’t surprise Janet. Agnes, a bit older than she, looked like the capable sort of grandmother who dug the garden, baked cookies, and stood no nonsense. She looked now as though she’d brought the others on a field trip to Yon Bonnie Books.

Tallie watched the three troop past and then turned back to Janet. “At least give me a hint. What’s the writer like?”

“You can see for yourself. She might stop in for tea.”

“Lovely!” Agnes, who moved as quietly as a grandmother cat, put an elbow on the counter across from Tallie.

Tallie didn’t jump as dramatically as Butter the kitten had that morning, but she startled enough to make her laugh and apologize to Agnes.

“It’s the shoes,” Agnes said. “Good for my bunions. Did I hear right, that you’re offering tea to wandering writers? Because we’re writers. Derek? Sheila?” Agnes waved the other two back to the counter. They’d sunk into a couple of the armchairs, but levered themselves out again.

“Now,” Agnes said to Janet and Tallie, “I feel as though I know you through this wonderful shop and our conversations about books, but this morning calls for proper introductions. I’m Agnes Black, retired primary teacher. Sheila?”

“Aye,” the other woman said. “Sheila. That’s me. Not retired. I do freelance graphic design.”

“Nairn,” Agnes said. “She’s Sheila Nairn.”

“Aye. That’s me,” Sheila said. “You’re up, Derek.”

“Derek Spiers, Inversgail Church of Scotland. I’m happy to meet you, and I’m embarrassed to say I’ve not been in the shop in several years.” He bowed slightly as he apologized.

“How nice to meet you, Agnes, Sheila, Derek,” Janet said, wondering if the shop was going to be hit up for a donation of some kind. “We’re Janet and Tallie Marsh. How may we help you?”

Sheila and Derek, each a decade or two younger than Agnes, continued to let her take the lead.

“We’ve a proposition for you,” Agnes said, and then paused.

How much are they hitting us up for? Janet wondered. She felt her eyebrows rise at the possibilities and hoped that Agnes interpreted their rise as an invitation to carry on.

Apparently, she did. “We’re members of a small writing group, and we’re looking for a new place to hold our meetings.”

“As a way to shake things up,” Derek added, and then, at a look from Agnes, “Sorry, Nessy. Carry on.”

“Derek’s right,” Agnes added. “We think that new surroundings will give us new perspectives and give new vigor to our prose.”

“Wonderful,” Janet said with relief. “We might know some of your other members.”

“Oh, right,” said Tallie. “But, if your group stops meeting at the pub, will you still call it Pub Scrawl?”

“We’re not that group,” Agnes said.

“Those snobs,” Sheila said. She waved off the look her comment earned from Agnes. “I’m not apologizing. Their pretentious noses are so high in the air it’s a wonder they don’t drown when it rains.”

“We tried to join them,” Agnes said, “but were met with some resistance. Since then, we’ve been meeting at the library. Sharon has been very accommodating.”

“But we like the look of your meeting area there at the fireplace,” Derek put in. “Sorry to hurry things along, Nessy, but I’ve other appointments this morning.”

“Och aye, you’re right, Derek,” Agnes said. “What do you think, Janet? Tallie, would we be a nuisance?”

“We can’t guarantee there’d be more than three of the four chairs available on any given day,” Janet said, thinking of Ranger and his preferred seat.

“We work well the way we are,” Agnes said. “We’ve no plans to expand.”

“Not with la-di-dah literary gits, anyway,” Sheila said.

“And you should know that one of those gits works here,” Janet said. “Except that we don’t think of him that way at all.”

“If you’re talking about Rab, you needn’t worry,” Derek said. “Sound as they come.”

“Logistics, then,” Tallie said. “When do you meet?”

“We like to say it’s when the muse strikes us,” Agnes said. “The truth is we’re all busy and we meet whenever we’re able to fit it in. We can give a week’s notice, though. Sometimes two.”

“And what’s a typical meeting like?” Tallie asked. “I’m thinking of other customers. Do you read aloud?”

“We do, and that’s where the library’s meeting room has been helpful,” Agnes said. “But I think we can agree to keep our voices down.” Sheila and Derek nodded.

“As well, we’ll not read aloud any of the more graphic portions of our works in progress,” Agnes said.

Janet’s ears pricked at the word graphic. She glanced at Tallie. Her daughter had an admirable poker face.

“What kind of writing do you do?” Janet asked.

Derek glanced left, then right, and leaned toward them. “We write murder.”

“We’re crime fiction writers,” Agnes said, giving Derek a playful slap on the arm.

“Does your group have a name?” Tallie asked.

“Due to lack of consensus,” Sheila said, “no.”

“Tell you what.” Agnes put a business card on the counter. “We’ll give you time to talk it over, and you can ring me with the verdict.”

Derek and Sheila cast last looks toward the chairs by the fireplace, and then they followed a pleased-looking Agnes out the door.

When they’d gone, Tallie mimicked Derek’s left and right glances and leaned toward Janet. “ ‘We write steamy romance.’ That’s what you thought he was going to say, isn’t it? I know it was, because I thought so, too.”

“Did I hear someone mention ssssteamy romance?” Ian Atkinson appeared from the fiction aisle. He came only as far as the end of the bookcase, then leaned his shoulders against its corner. With a flip of his hair and one ankle crossed over the other, he looked more pleased with himself than usual, and more than Agnes had with herself.

“Listening to another customer’s conversation—and repeating it—is poor form, Ian, and unacceptable,” Janet said.

“Tallie’s not a customer. She’s a shopkeeper. Your actual customers didn’t let slip a single syllable about romance, ssssteamy or otherwise. And there, you see? Although I did hear what the wannabe wordsmiths said, I refrained from repeating any of it.”

“Ever the gentleman,” Janet said.

As Ian dipped forward in a bow, Tallie not-quite-whispered in Janet’s ear, “Ever the twit.”

“What?” Ian straightened.

“Sorry, what?” Tallie looked around, a hand to her ear. “Did you hear that? Someone else sneaking quietly in through the tearoom, no doubt. I’ll go see if I can help them find what they’re looking for.” She put a hand on Janet’s shoulder. “I won’t be far.”

Ian and Tallie bared their teeth at each other as she passed him. Then, hands in his pockets, he ambled over to the sales counter.

“What can I do for you, Ian?” Janet asked. His posturing aside, she didn’t like feuding with him. He was good for all three of their businesses—his books sold well and steadily; he enjoyed the attention he received from tourists, and often came to sit in the front window of the tearoom to attract them; and they’d heard from B&B guests, more than a few times, that they chose Bedtime Stories because of “Atkinson sightings.” He also made a decent neighbor. Janet had come to see his nosiness about who came and went from her house as added security. She doubted that he’d run to anyone’s rescue, but thought he’d at least peek through a window and phone the police.

“I’ve come to brag,” he said.

“That’s refreshingly honest, Ian. Brag about what?”

“A consulting job. Something rather interesting. The sort of thing with which it’s nice to have one’s name associated.”

“Good for you,” Janet said. Also possibly good for Yon Bonnie Books. “What other names are associated with it?”

“Deets are hush-hush, as yet.”

“Ah. Well. Let us know when the deets have a growth spurt and become actual details.” She knew that sounded sarcastic, but Ian was like a duck’s back when it came to sarcasm.

“Any new stock for me to sign?” he asked.

“Arriving in the next order,” an unseen Tallie called. “Thursday or Friday.”

“Very good. Give me a bell.” He turned as if to go—a clumsy pretense given his next words. “I say, do you remember that woman we stood behind at the library yesterday? Hannah? Hillary? Hermione?”

“Heather,” Janet said.

“That’s it.” Ian snapped his fingers, the name fumbling almost certainly another clumsy pretense. “Heather Kilbride. Do you know that she’s yet another writer?”

“Yes. Do you know her work?”

“Why? Don’t you?”

Janet said “Mm” with an inflection that might have meant “of course I do.” Then, while Ian tried to decide if it did, she slipped around his defenses. “Heather’s fortunate that you’re here and have the time to consult on her project.”

“How did you know—”

“Oh, please, Ian. It wasn’t hard to figure out. Congratulations, though. I mean that, and you have my promise. Until you tell me it’s no longer hush-hush, I won’t say a word. I’m looking for a bit of information, though, and I think you might be exactly the right person to ask.”

“Happy to help. If it’s to be found in my vast store of information,” he said, tapping his forehead with an index finger, “it’s yours.”

“What do you know about a lawyer named William Clark?”

The world didn’t suddenly hold its breath, and Ian didn’t actually freeze in the headlights of Janet’s question. Janet did silently count to three and a half before he answered.

“Not a thing,” he said, already on his way to the door. “I don’t know the chap at all.”

Tallie rejoined Janet, her poker face at its admirable best. Then she wiggled her eyebrows at Janet and said, “That was instructive. Not instructive enough, though. I’m left with questions. Would you like to hear them?”

“You know it.” Janet sat on the stool, back straight, eyes like an eager student.

“Do you think Ian hoped we did know Heather’s previous work?”

“Yes. Because he’s never heard of her.”

“He also wouldn’t have been able to find her in a quick Google search like I just did.” Tallie held up her phone. “No author site. No Wikipedia entry.”

“Not every writer has them.”

“True. Do you think he wanted you to guess that he’s consulting on Heather’s project?”

“Of course,” Janet said.

“What do you think she’s told him?”

“I wish I knew.”

“What do you think he’s told her?”

“Exaggerations.”

“And utter bilge. Agreed,” Tallie said. “But—” She wiggled her eyebrows again. “We’ve found a new way to get rid of Ian. Simply mention William Clark. That’s a bit of a win for the morning.”

“But it’s overshadowed,” Janet said, “because it raises another question. Or raises the same question. If Clark is some kind of pariah, why did Gerald make him one of the trustees?”

“Gerald’s lawyer might know. I wonder who that is and how public the information about trusts is?”

“Two coaches just went past,” Janet said. “With luck, we’ll hear the pitter-patter of day-trippers’ feet before long.”

“With book money burning holes in their pockets,” Tallie agreed. “Good. One more question before they patter in. Do you think Ian made a special trip here to brag about consulting with Heather?”

“Entirely possible,” Janet said. “The twit. But to give him the benefit of the doubt, he might have been doing his shopping, and dropping by here to tell us was a sudden brainstorm he couldn’t resist. Why do we care?”

“I might be totally off base, but when he first poked his nose around the bookcase, I got the feeling he’d been eavesdropping on the crime writers. That he came in through the tearoom because he was sneaking in, and he’d been following them.”

Janet ran that thought around in her mind. “We know he does that kind of thing, but maybe he’s following Agnes or Derek and not the group. They were both at the library yesterday. He was taking notes while he watched Heather, maybe he’s interested in one of them, too. But why? No. Stupid question. It would be impossible for us, as mere mortals, to know what he’s up to. Frankly, I don’t want to spend any amount of time thinking about what he spends time thinking about.”

“ ‘Why’ isn’t a stupid question, though,” Tallie said. “You know there are no stupid questions. There’s just sneaking, devious twits.”