11

Janet’s thoughts churned faster than her bike pedals as she raced home. What just happened? Did Heather know I was there all along? Me, specifically, or just someone? She turned the first corner she came to, then the next and the next, hoping to put enough of a tangled route between her and the car to lose it, if it came after her. Janet’s heart and breath sounded louder in her ears than any car engine.

Who was that with her? Did she know I was following her? The way she stopped and fiddled while I unlocked my bike—fiddled with what? What if she followed me to Basant’s in the first place? But she couldn’t have known I’d follow her to the Murrays’. Maybe she was going to follow me, and she changed plans when I stayed behind her. But why? Am I one of Heather’s experiments? Because that’s what all of these “Heather” situations are beginning to feel like.

Janet chanced a look behind. No one. Maybe there never had been. But her feet didn’t slow down. Neither did her mind.

I could’ve confronted her. Found out what was going on. Or simply talked to her. Said hello instead of hanging back when I first saw her. Treated her like a friend. Janet was beginning to feel foolish. Almost. Next time, she thought. Next time, I’ll talk to her, ask her. But not if we’re alone in the dark.

She only slowed when she reached Argyll Terrace. She didn’t want to arrive home with a bigger clatter than usual, which could alert Ian of her arrival and give him something to wonder about or pry into. He liked to keep tabs on their comings and goings, and she’d become used to seeing him at the window in his upstairs writing room. Though she didn’t like his nosy ways, she was grudgingly thankful for his eyes and ears on the neighborhood.

She locked her bike, took the package from the panier, and went through the garden gate to the back door. Once in the house, she locked the door, leaned her back against it, and closed her eyes. Safe. With chocolate cake.

Then she heard footsteps.

Paw-steps, rather, and a double-base purr accompanied by a high, piping mew. “Evening, lads,” she said, opening her eyes. “All right? Got your fur lounge suits on, I see. How about a bite?”

Butter wound himself once around her ankles then led the way to the kitchen.

“Coming, Smirr?” Janet asked the old tom. He stretched a front paw in a half-hearted attempt to trip the kitten. “I’ve got fish for those who keep me company while I toast cheese,” she told him.

That suited him and he followed. She fixed the cats’ meal, and while her sandwich toasted, she called Norman Hobbs. Speaking to him, while she might sound like a meddler, made more sense than telling the cats about her evening’s experience. They would hear her agitation and might think she was scolding them. It didn’t bother her that Hobbs might feel the same way.

Hobbs took her call and listened without interruption. Janet didn’t delude herself, though. From the muffled sounds on his end, he wasn’t quietly intent on her information; he was finishing his own supper and trying not to be obvious about it. She knew she might be taking advantage of his manners, but went into more detail about following Heather than she’d planned. Her sandwich finished toasting at the same time a stifled belch came from the other end.

“May I know why you would follow someone in the dark without knowing where you were going, Mrs. Marsh?” Hobbs asked.

“Not just anyone. And I was on my way home—until I made a detour. This wasn’t the wee hours of the night, Norman, and I didn’t follow her to some dicey dockyard or out onto a deserted, moonless moor.” She was getting nicely worked up and she pushed her sandwich away. “I’m not calling to make a complaint against myself for doing something dumb.” She heard another stifled belch, and possibly a stifled sigh, and was glad she hadn’t spewed all that at the cats. Janet didn’t stifle her own sigh. “I’m not making a complaint against Heather or the mystery man, either, Norman. I just thought you might want to know about more of her odd behavior in case it escalates.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Marsh.”

“It also made me wonder if anyone’s living in the house. Malcolm needed a good housekeeper, but the place is full of valuable things. I really don’t mean to tattle on her—to be a clype—but considering the other things Heather’s done, can you honestly say she wouldn’t try to get into that house? Is someone keeping an eye on it? Checking doors and windows in case someone does try?”

“I believe that is in hand, but I will make inquiries. Now, if that is all, Mrs. Marsh?”

“No. One more thing. Did you get her brother’s jacket back to him? Could that be who I saw with her tonight?”

There was a hesitation on his end. “My understanding is that he is not in the area. I returned the jacket to Ms. Kilbride.”

“Did she say where he is? How do you know he’s okay? Norman, I’m genuinely worried about him. Call me a meddler, call me nosy, but if you haven’t seen him or talked to him yourself, how do you know he didn’t fall off the headland? What if he jumped?”

Silence on Hobbs’s end.

“Sorry, Norman. I didn’t mean to sound hysterical.”

“Dinnae fash. You’re worried. What put the notion in your mind that he might have fallen or jumped?”

“It was always there. It’s the go-to function of my brain in high places. The jacket was so near the edge. Abandoned.”

“If he jumped, why bother to take the jacket off and leave it? Mrs. Marsh, Janet, I understand your worries, but when I gave the jacket to Ms. Kilbride, she assured me she knows where her brother is and that he is safe.”

“You asked her if he was safe? Do you always ask that when you return someone’s jacket?”

“She offered the information.”

“Isn’t that kind of odd?”

“Much of the information I receive from the public might be considered odd.”

Hobbs was quiet again. Janet screwed her lips shut, refusing to rise to the bait.

“To put your mind further at ease,” Hobbs said, breaking the impasse, “Ms. Kilbride told me that she left the jacket on the headland. She forgot it and was well-chuffed to have it returned. She’s grateful to the thoughtful person who found it and turned it in.”

“You didn’t tell her it was me.”

“No.”

“Why did she forget it?” Janet asked.

“People, being people, leave things behind, Mrs. Marsh. You might be surprised at the extent and variety. I’ve a cousin who works in lost property at Waverly Station in Edinburgh.”

“It wasn’t just the jacket,” Janet said. “It was the book, too. In the pocket.”

“Which you assured me you did not look at.”

“I assured you and it’s true.” Janet put a finger on her toasted cheese. Cold. She pulled it back toward her anyway. “Well. I’m glad she’s safe. And her brother. And the jacket.”

“And presumably the book,” Hobbs said.

“I worry about books left to molder in odd places almost as much as I worry about people teetering in high places.”

“I appreciate that, as I’m sure the books do.”

A teakettle whistled in the background. Janet heard the scrape of a chair and the whistle abruptly cutting off.

“I did ask Ms. Kilbride why she thinks you encouraged her to climb the headland,” Hobbs said.

“Did you. I’d love to hear the answer to that.”

“You left her a note.”

“I did not.”

“She did not keep the note, so we cannot know if that’s true.”

“Yes, you can. I did not. I would never.”

“Mrs. Marsh. Janet.”

Was he shouting at her? No, she’d been shouting at him. “What?” She wasn’t ready to be more polite.

“I believe you. Can you describe the car Ms. Kilbride’s companion drives?”

Janet swore quietly at herself and pushed the cold sandwich away again. “It was dark and I wasn’t thinking. So, no.”

“Here’s something else, then. I’ve called in a favor and hope to have the brother’s address and phone before long.”

After hanging up, Janet brought her laptop in from the family room and put it on the kitchen table. She reheated her sandwich and took a bite—sharp and strong. And so am I. She set her plate on the table, sat down, and said oof when Smirr helped himself to her lap. She opened the laptop and the “Where’s Heather” document she’d started at the bookshop and saved to cloud storage. The kitten started playing with her shoelaces, and she started a journal.

“It’s more of a ledger than a Dear Diary account,” she told Smirr after the last bite of sandwich. Smirr blinked his eyes and cleaned his paw.

Janet wiped her fingers, and went back to recording every detail she could remember of her interactions with Heather. She couldn’t expect Hobbs to share all his information or hunches—she and her partners had learned to respect those hunches—but she’d be ready to share hers if he needed them.

---

Tallie brought a shiver of night air in with her when she came home from the movie. It flittered into the family room where Janet sat reading with the cats. The shiver woke Smirr and settled with the weight of a feather across Janet’s shoulders. The kitten sneezed. Janet pulled an afghan around herself.

“Bit of a chill out there tonight,” she said when Tallie joined them. “How was the movie?”

“More than I bargained for. Pretty violent. And there’s more than a chill out there. It doesn’t help that it’s getting dark so early.”

“Are we ready for the cold and dark of a Highland winter?”

“The lads are.” Tallie rubbed each of the cats between their ears. “They’ve got fur pajamas. We can be ready, too. We’ll knit nightcaps and sleep snug as bugs.”

“Let’s get Nana Bethia to knit them for us. She’s faster and more competent.”

“True, but I’m more than competent at pouring nightcaps. Fancy a sherry?”

Janet showed her a small measure with finger and thumb.

Tallie went to the kitchen for glasses. The kitten followed, ever hopeful. “Thanks for the Marmite,” Tallie called. “What’s in the bag?”

“I can’t believe I forgot that! It’s from Basant. An experiment he wants us to try. The way he described it—bring it, will you? I haven’t even looked at it.”

Tallie came back with two glasses then went back and returned with two plates. “Basant described this to you, and you forgot about it?” She handed one of the plates to Janet. “Look at that. Smell that. Now, tell me what happened. Because for this piece of Oh My God to fly right out of your head, something had to have happened.”

“Taste first, then tell.”

“Deal.”

The night sky, Basant had said, brightened by a path of moonbeams and sparkling stars. The description suited the square of cake on Janet’s plate. He’d swirled an arc of mascarpone across each piece and sprinkled the whole with flakes of salt.

“There’s more of the white stuff inside,” Tallie said through a mouthful. She put her hand over her mouth. “Sorry, couldn’t help it. Don’t wait, or I’ll grab yours when mine’s gone.”

It was so moist it was almost a pudding cake, and neither it nor the mascarpone was too sweet.

“Notes of cardamom?” Tallie asked.

“And almond? Both subtle, though.”

They finished in contented silence, then Tallie took the plates to the kitchen. “After that, I’m not sure I care what happened,” she said when she came back. She scooped up Smirr and settled him on her lap. “Blissed out.” She kicked off her shoes. “But tell me anyway.”

Typing her detailed notes had organized Janet’s thoughts and she was able to give a concise summary. “I think what it adds up to,” she said when she’d finished, “is a path. That’s what the cake from Basant was about, with its path of stars. I’m puzzled by this woman, so I laid out the path of my interactions with her. The trouble is that I can only look back and see where I’ve been. My path of notes doesn’t tell me where I’m going.”

“I detect notes of eccentricity. Hers, not yours.” Tallie finished her sherry. “I’ve known about yours for years.”

“It’s nice to be noticed. Thank you, dear. Any other thoughts?”

“Yeah, about the McGonagall at the door.”

She was talking about the framed embroidery hanging over the front door. Janet had hung it there for Curtis. He’d loved the coincidence of their house being built in 1880, the same year William McGonagall, the Scots poet infamous for his overly dramatic doggerel, had written his ripped-from-the-headlines “The Tay Bridge Disaster.” Janet had embroidered the last lines of the poem on linen: “For the stronger we our houses do build, The less chance we have of being killed.” They’d hung it as a talisman. The house and the embroidery had both proved to be more robust than the marriage.

“What’s wrong with my McGonagall?” Janet asked.

“Not a thing. It’s perfect. But this thing with Heather makes me think you could write up your adventures with her in the style of McGonagall and call them ‘The Beaton Bridge Not-Quite-Disaster,’ ‘The Sea Kayak Near-Catastrophe,’ and ‘The Incident of the Woman Who Biked Alone in the Night.’ ”

“They’d be ridiculous, and I doubt there’d be a market for them.”

“I’m pretty sure McGonagall faced the same problem. He and his wife depended on the charity and kindness of friends. But you don’t need to sell your doggerel. It’d be for us, for our entertainment. Or—oh, hey! What do you think of this? We can have a McGonagall write-alike contest.”

“Dare I say you’re brill?”

“Sure, but I owe it all to Basant’s cake. It made my little gray cells sparkle.”

“I’ll add that to my cake critique for him. Any other thoughts before I head upstairs?”

“Not about the cake,” Tallie said. “And I hesitate to bring it up only to bring us down. But from where we stand, looking back at the way your path has come, it doesn’t take much imagination to guess where it’s going. Or maybe it isn’t imagination. Maybe it’s experience.”

“Or both.”

“Mm. Hand me your glass. I’ll do the dishes. Anyway, I don’t think your path is heading in a direction anyone expects, or that anyone will want to go.”