19

Janet dropped Tallie and Summer at the shop. Sunday to Sunday bookings were the most popular at Bedtime Stories. Summer managed the B&B in exchange for a small flat separate from the guest rooms. But with so many rooms turning over on Sundays, Tallie usually pitched in. And after the shocks of the morning, she’d told Janet she wanted to make sure Summer didn’t feel alone or overwhelmed.

“Not that I’m ignoring your feelings, Mom. But you have a pattern for working through traumas and worries. It’s got a rhythm, and you don’t need me throwing you off.”

“It’s called being sadder but wiser. It comes with age, if you’re lucky enough to live that long.”

“Do you need me?”

Janet held her daughter’s face and kissed her forehead. “I’ll be fine. If I’m not, you’ll be the first one I’ll call. The first person—I might snatch up the cats first. You stay and help Summer, and I’ll see you later.”

When Janet pulled into the drive at home, she saw Ian appear at his upstairs window. He stood, looking down, until she opened her car door. That was his pattern. Though he’d broken it that morning by driving off so early. Maybe just to the shops for something he needed for breakfast. But she’d rarely seen him dressed in anything but author formal or casual. Curious.

Smirr and Butter met her at the door, sniffing with cautious interest at her boots.

“That’s mostly whatever grows on a brae with subtle overtones of Highland cow,” she told them.

Butter attacked her bootlaces as she undid them. She left him to the battle and went with Smirr to the kitchen.

“Here’s my pattern, old man,” she said. “It starts with tea, and lots of it. Then, for a while, we’re going to push every thought of vile killing and vile killers right out of our heads.”

Her cup from the morning still sat on the counter beside the sink. She gave it a sniff, and her nose tempted her toward coffee over tea. “No. We’ll stick with the pattern.” She rinsed the cup and looked at the cat. He blinked. “But is that approval, or is it your unending love for me?” He blinked again. “Ah, Morse code for ‘Snacks are good.’ I could not agree with you more.”

She gave each of the cats a half dozen of the treats meant to clean their teeth. Then she fixed a tray with teapot, milk, cup, and a plate of oatcakes and sliced cheese. On the way past the fruit basket, she put the tray down and added a stem of grapes, then went through to the lounge. Tallie had left a CD of Rachmaninoff’s “Rhapsody on a Theme of Paganini” on the player. Good enough. She sat in her favorite chair, looking out the large window into the back garden. Took a sip of tea. Nibbled cheese and oatcake. Then went to get her laptop.

“Because there is no way in this world that I can push the picture of Heather out of my head.” Janet’s voice and her fist shook with anger. “And I will do whatever I can to find out who did this.”

She read over the “Where’s Heather” document and started a new one. The tea grew cold as she typed up her notes and questions. When she noticed, she warmed it in the microwave. When she couldn’t think of any more questions, she created a new document for Hobbs, copying and pasting from the first two. Then she hit SEND.

The cats napped in kreesals on the couch. Feeling calmer, Janet decided to join them, but first she sent a text to the SCONES.

---

Rain threatened that evening. But because the threat of rain was occasionally not as wet as actual rain, the Marsh women left the car at home and walked to Nev’s. They often walked in actual rain, too, crowded under an umbrella, their feet protected by rubber boots.

“Did you set up your cozy teatime when you got home?” Tallie asked.

“I did, dear. Thank you.”

“And sat down to relax?”

“You’d think my life is hobbled by habit.”

“But before you sat, you raged around, shaking your fist at villains and killers?”

“This time, I actually sat and had a sip of tea before only a very short rage. But a little variation in routine is nice now and then. I sent a file to Norman, but haven’t heard back from him. That doesn’t worry me.”

“What does worry you?”

“That I’m not worried.”

“Well good, because you wouldn’t be you if you weren’t worried about something.”

Tallie and Summer had cleaned the B&B’s rooms that afternoon, changed linens, checked in new guests, and then shared a pizza. Janet had eaten a salad while reading online articles about the history of miniature books.

“Is there anything in particular you think you should be worried about but aren’t?” Tallie asked.

“No, and that worries me, too. But talking it over with the three of you should help.”

“Bring all your worries into focus like a swarm of bees.”

“Like a flock of seagulls flying in groups of three.”

Tallie held Nev’s door for Janet, just as the threat of rain became a downpour. Helen and David, Christine’s parents, waved them over, and they went to say hello. Helen called them by name, though she might have confused mother for daughter. She lifted her drink in a toast and then asked David who the man at the bar was.

“Danny, love? You know Danny.”

“The lad with his elbow on the bar. He’s mistaken if he thinks I’ll fall for his charms just for sending me this drink.”

“Our Chrissy brought the drinks, love.”

“Did she? That’s all right then. You lasses have a grand time at the ceilidh.”

Janet and Tallie assured her they would.

“I’ll get the drinks,” Tallie said. “What would you like?”

“A half of Selkie’s,” Janet said, “but I’ll come with you.” She greeted Danny, and turned and waved to Christine. While Tallie ordered, she surveyed the back of the room for other familiar faces. Rhona and Isla weren’t in. It wasn’t Pub Scrawl’s night to meet, so no Maida. No Rab, unless he was playing darts. Janet continued her survey around the rest of the room, turning as she did, and ending with her elbow on the bar looking toward the “lad,” on his elbow, down the other end.

“Did you get a good look at him?” Tallie asked as they carried their drinks to the table.

“If the elbow on the bar’s supposed to make him look comfortable, it’s not working.”

“We were lucky when we started coming here,” Tallie said. “We had a sponsor.” Then to Christine and Summer she said, “Evening, lasses. Christine, your mum thinks we’re here for a ceilidh.”

“Get the right music going, she and Dad will dance everyone under the table,” Christine said. “So then, how is everyone doing tonight after the morning we had? That’s a serious question from your personal social worker.”

“Doing all right.” Summer drew circles on the table with the bottom of her glass. “I hadn’t met Heather, but that never mattered when I covered tragedies for the paper back home. And I heard about her from you guys. So it isn’t like losing a friend. More like losing a local celebrity. The losing is the thing.”

“Can you be numb and angry at the same time?” Tallie asked. “Tomorrow I might be less numb but probably still angry.”

“If it doesn’t cloud your thinking, channel it.” Christine mimed throwing a dart. “Summer’s done that.”

“I don’t like being angry and my dart game is terrible,” Tallie said. “But I won’t take my anger out on any of you or our customers.”

“You should have heard the clean sheets snapping to attention when she made beds today, though,” Summer said.

“What about you, Christine?” Janet asked.

“I once heard Queen Elizabeth say something about going forward with quiet, good-humored resolve. I’ve made those my watchwords.” The queen rustled in those words. “And you, Janet?”

“Earlier this week, which now seems a month long and a blink at the same time, I wanted a path forward. Through the tangles and clutter of what Heather called her process—part of that clutter including William Clark, whose book was in her hand.” Janet stopped for a swallow of ale. “I think I have a path now. I made it this afternoon, and I paved it with my regrets for not being able to see what was going to happen, and my need for—” She held up a finger and took a longer swallow of ale. “Sorry. I was getting dramatic. I was going to say ‘revenge.’ That’s not what this is. I don’t believe in it. But let’s do what we can to help Norman, and that will have to be good enough.”

“I think we know how she’s feeling,” Christine said to Tallie and Summer. “She’s on fire.”

“Hush,” Janet said. “The man at the end of the bar. Do you know him?”

“Way to be inconspicuous,” Summer said. “We’re all staring at him.”

“Everyone here would have stared at him at some point since he came in,” Christine said. “And I doubt anyone here knows him. And he knows it. What do you reckon? Late thirties? Young forties? Hard to say how tall; he’s slouching and leaning. Bit of a paunch, but would that disappear if he used the posture his mother would be proud of?”

“Your mother was wondering if he’d sent her the drink you took her,” Tallie said.

“I’m wondering if he could be our mystery man,” said Christine. “Or one of them.”

“Congratulations,” Janet said. “You jumped to a conclusion faster than I usually do.”

“You’re the one who pointed him out,” Christine said. “Don’t tell me that didn’t cross your mind.”

“But it took me longer,” Janet said. “He might be the right height and build for the guy at the Murray house.”

“Do you want to go chat him up?” Christine asked.

“No, I do not. I don’t think you should, either. But he just paid with a credit card.”

“And Danny might be game to give us a name. Very good, Janet. I’ll go slip that lovely man behind the bar a note with our question. Going for less conspicuous for your benefit, Summer.”

Christine wrote the note and took it to the bar. Danny read it and glanced toward the man at the end. Janet imagined Christine’s struggle to keep a beleaguered look from her face, for Danny’s benefit. She saw the same struggle on Danny’s face from time to time. All must be well, though, because Christine came back to the table looking pleased.

“Danny doesn’t know him. He can’t talk now—he must be worried about the sloucher having the supersonic hearing of a bat. I ordered fried mushrooms. When Danny gets a chance for a break, he’ll bring them with our information. It will all look perfectly natural.”

“Information.” Janet rubbed her hands like a miser with a new chest of gold. “So, now, the path forward. We heard Norman’s ground rules for our agreement with him. Do you have any objections to setting our own? I’m thinking about mechanics—how and what we do with questions, discussions, and—”

“Suspects,” said Tallie.

“And Norman,” said Christine.

Janet looked at Summer. “Anything?”

“Just let’s get it going.” Summer took out her phone. “I’ll record as we go and make a guidelines document in the cloud later. Add other guidelines as you think of them.”

“Be careful about discussing any of this in the tearoom or the shop,” Janet said. “Or anywhere public.” She swirled a finger around, indicating the pub.

“If we identify a suspect, or if we’re considering suspects, think about motive and opportunity,” Tallie said, “but most of all, remember how dangerous this person is.”

“May I suggest we set a limit on how often we check in with Norman?” Christine said. “Say, no more than once a day, unless we have something we think is crucial.”

“That’s good,” Tallie agreed. “There’s no point in bugging him, and good reasons not to.”

“If you have questions, thoughts, or answers, remember to pop them into the cloud,” Summer said. “And create a new document if you need one. I’ve got a question now, though, about the book she had in her hand. You said you recognized it, Janet, and I believe you. But you also said Russell could be right, that there’s more than one.”

“I also told him it’s unlikely,” Janet said. “I read up about the publisher, Bryce and Sons, this afternoon. Not all of the miniatures they made are rare, but this edition, in its metal box, doesn’t come up for sale often. When it does, the price is way out of our league. Thousands of pounds.”

“Then there’s a slew of questions about the book that need to be answered,” Summer said. “The police will be—should be—working on those, but it won’t hurt for us to put them in the cloud. We can think about them. They might spark other questions or ideas.”

“Is the book important to understanding the case?” Janet asked.

“Is it the key?” Christine said.

“How or why did she have it? Did the killer put it in her hand? Did WC give it to her?” Summer rattled off.

“Did she take it from him?” Tallie said. She looked around the table. “Anything else?”

“We should send those questions to Norman,” Christine said. “He’ll answer what he can and, again, they might spark him to ask more questions—of the specialists or on his own.”

“That question about a second book could be our entrée to a chat with WC,” Janet said. “That’s something I’ll look forward to. I wonder what else he has in his collection?”

“Which gives us the perfect opportunity to remember the ground rule about suspects being dangerous,” Tallie said.

Christine leaned forward and whispered, “And the perfect opportunity to play a preliminary round of who’s your favorite suspect. If we’re whispering, will your phone be able to record us, Summer? Or shall we pass notes?”

“Let’s just be careful,” Summer said. “It’s pretty obvious WC is on the list. Who else?”

“The mystery man, or men,” Janet said. “And her brother. And person or persons, unknown about whom she wrote. I haven’t found anything she’s written. But what if she wrote about some other crime, from other angles and perspectives, and shared it privately? What if that became a pattern for her, and that’s what she did here?”

“Blackmail?” Summer said. “That’s never a safe business model.”

“Especially if this is the way she was going about it,” Tallie said. “Is this how you’d blackmail someone? She’s been fairly public.”

“Her research methods were unconventional,” Janet said. “Maybe her blackmail methods were, too.”

“Maybe,” Tallie said. “Our investigatory methods are certainly unconventional. At this point, we could put names on a dartboard and let me try to hit someone.”

All four looked into their glasses while Patsy Cline sang “I Fall to Pieces” on the jukebox for the fourth time since they’d sat down.

“Did any of you notice the interesting loophole Norman left in his part of the agreement?” Christine finally asked.

Tallie picked up her glass and got to her feet.

“A toast to loopholes?” Christine asked.

“Nope. If you’re going to start talking about loopholes, then that’s my cue to go humiliate myself at an actual game of darts.”

“I’ll help you,” Summer said. But before following Tallie, she leaned closer to Janet and Christine and said, “I like a good loophole as much as you do, and as a reporter, I took advantage of some doozies. But always remember, a noose is just a fancy loop.”

Janet and Christine nodded solemnly until Summer disappeared into the dart room. Then Christine hitched her chair closer to Janet’s.

“Norman said we’re to let him know if we hear or learn anything pertinent to the investigation. And we will. Goes without saying. But he didn’t specify how soon after hearing or learning we should do the letting him know part of that ground rule. It’s a clear loophole.”

“You don’t think it’s understood that we’ll let him know as soon as possible?” Janet asked. “At what point does a clear loophole become the murky water of withholding evidence?”

“Again, a loophole,” Christine said. “As soon as possible gives us wiggle room.”

“Wiggle room within reason,” Janet said.

“Och, well, that also goes without saying.”

“The other flaw—”

“Our wiggle room is more of a technicality than a flaw,” Christine said. “So this will be the flaw, rather than the other flaw.”

“This flaw is that we’re amateurs, so we might not be able to distinguish between a clue and a red herring.”

“You’re right about that,” Christine said. “Even if the herring comes up and slaps us with its little red fins. Here comes Danny. Without the mushrooms.”

Danny sat down with an apology. “I waited too late. The mushrooms are finished for the night. Sorry, love.”

“Och, well,” Christine said. “They were just a way to bring you over here.”

“I have the name—Owen Nicholson. Means nothing to me. He wasn’t much for talk. Said he came because a friend died. He didn’t say who, and it’s not the sort of question I’m going to ask.”

“The name is plenty, Danny,” Janet said. “Thank you.”

“Another name we’re interested in is William Clark,” Christine said. “A lawyer who doesn’t practice. He, James Haviland, and Ian Atkinson are the trustees named in Gerald Murray’s will.”

Danny shook his head. “When we were looking for the lass and her kayak, I heard about the other lass, Clark’s wife. But that was back before I moved home. If there was talk—and there was bound to be talk—it died down before I bought Nev’s. And he’s not been in here that I know of.”

“Do you know what Rab’s up to lately?” Janet asked.

Danny laughed and went back to the bar.

“I wonder if ‘disappeared’ is an official Police Scotland term,” Janet said.

“Are you talking about Rab and Ranger?” Christine asked. “What makes you think they’ve disappeared? Don’t you remember our aha moment this morning? Didn’t you hear Danny laugh just now? You know how they come and go, shimmering in and out of the shop without a thought for a schedule or regular work hours.”

“I’m not talking about Rab and Ranger. I do want to know where they are and what they’re up to, but neither Norman nor Maida is alarmed, so I’ll wait to find out. And I will find out.”

“Then who are you talking about?”

The pub door opened and both women looked to see who’d come in. Not Rab, which would have been like him—to show up as though he’d heard his name and wondered why or what needed doing—but just another Nev’s regular.

“I was talking about Heather’s brother,” Janet said. “And I wonder if his name is Owen Nicholson.”