22
Owen Nicholson swung around to Rab as though grabbing for a life preserver. “Do you have a, uh, er… Kidnapped? No, no, not that. How about Treasure Island? Have you got a copy of that?”
“Aye, this way.”
Tallie pointed at Nicholson’s retreating back and whispered, “The guy from Nev’s last night?”
“Yes, and that wasn’t a mistake when he asked for Kidnapped, that was a Freudian slip. Possibility and nerve. He had some nerve following me, and it seems very possible he’s one of our mystery men.”
“You might not be using Norman’s concept quite right. But Owen seems to be a bundle of nerves.” Tallie looked at her mother. “So do you. Are you sure he was following you?”
“I was positive. Now I’m wavering. Did I just scare the bejesus out of a mild-mannered, recently bereft total stranger? Oh dear.”
“Rab will smooth it over. We’ll probably find them next door having tea. Rab spreading his easy-oasy ways, saving the universe, one nutter at a time.”
The bell at the door jingled, bringing in Agnes and Sheila.
“Derek not with you today?” Janet asked. “How’s his head?”
“Hard as a rock,” Sheila said. “But it’s not as easy for him to get away during the day.”
“There’s a new member waiting for you,” Tallie said.
Agnes pulled up short. Sheila peered around her and said, “Must’ve buggered.”
“Tallie means Rab’s dog, Ranger,” Janet said. “Caveat—he snores.”
Sheila went to meet the new member. The new member invited a belly rub.
“Och, Ranger’s all right.” Agnes stopped in front of the counter. “I was surprised not to see him last week. I hope you understand, though, that we aren’t looking for more members. The three of us work well together.”
“Completely understood,” Tallie said. “Sorry to alarm you.”
“And I’m sorry,” Agnes said, leaning in, “about Sheila’s remark about Derek’s head being hard as a rock. You flinched, Janet, and no wonder. I heard that you were the one who found that unfortunate woman yesterday. Sheila doesnae always think before she speaks, but she didn’t mean anything by it. How are you holding up?”
“Well enough. Thank you, Agnes.”
Janet waited until she saw Agnes’s head bent over her writing before motioning Tallie closer. “How does she know I found Heather?”
“It’s not so unbelievable. Anyone who was out there yesterday could have let it slip. Or said it outright. We didn’t say anything about that last night at Nev’s, did we?”
“No, but you’re right, news travels. Another question,” Janet said. “About Rab showing up now. Do you think it’s a coincidence?”
“Coincident to your feckless follower showing up?”
“Or now that Heather’s gone, but either one.”
“He runs on the easy-oasy operational system. It’s probably as complicated as the Enigma Code.”
“You brushed that off like it might not be true,” Janet said. “But not everything happening in town is related to Heather. It would be nice if the Heather-related were easier to separate from the non, but it’s good to keep that in mind. And it’s good to have Rab and Ranger back. It makes things feel more normal.”
“Are you holding up?” Tallie asked.
“Oh, yeah.”
“Keep that going, then. I’ll go see if anyone needs help out and about. And I’d like to pin Rab down on the display for the celebration.”
“Sure, take your time.”
Between customers, Janet tapped notes into the cloud about the dead end at Skye View Sea Kayaks and Owen Nicholson. She read through the notes Christine had scorched into the file about the SCONES being suspects.
When she heard the next customer approaching, Janet looked up to see Nicholson. Hold it together, one book at a time, she told herself, and asked him, “Was Rab able to find the book you wanted?”
He put a copy of The Black Arrow on the counter.
“A Stevenson fan, are you?” she said. “We see a lot of them in Inversgail. Some of them take selfies with the statue down the street. Were we out of Treasure Island?”
“I changed my mind.”
They stocked a variety of editions of Stevenson’s works, including beautifully illustrated hardbacks. Nicholson had chosen an inexpensive paperback. True, it wasn’t the kind of book customers stroked as they lay on the counter, or gazed at lovingly as Janet slipped a bookmark into it. But Janet didn’t detect even a spark of interest in Nicholson’s eyes. He’s lost a friend, for heaven’s sake, she told herself. Be decent and give him a break.
Janet rang him up and offered him a bag. He shook his head, and stood staring at the counter.
“I think I owe you an apology,” Janet said.
“Actually, I wondered if you’d come for a meal with me?”
“I’m sorry?”
“The four of you. The four”—he pointed back and forth between the bookshop and the tearoom—“of you?”
“May I ask why?”
“Everyone has to eat, and I’d like to ask you some questions about my girlfriend.”
“Your…”
“Heather. She told me about you.”
Janet texted the others. They agreed to meet over fish suppers at Nev’s at six.
Tallie and Rab brought plans for the Farquhar display to the counter to show Janet. “We’re going photographic,” Tallie said, “and most of it will be in the tearoom. It has the wall space. But we can have at least a dozen more in here, too. Rab suggested photographs of Morag’s other paintings around the watercolor above the mantel. The photos will be black-and-white, to create a cool look-back-in-time and here-we-are-today juxtaposition.”
“I love a good juxtaposition,” Janet said. “This sounds wonderful. It’s good to have you back, Rab. I already told Ranger I missed him. I missed you, too.”
“Sorry you didn’t get my note.”
“He left a note with Ian letting us know he’d be gone,” Tallie explained.
“Ah. Perhaps next time you should call us.”
“I would have this time, if I’d known he wouldnae deliver the note.”
There’s no arguing with that logic, Janet thought.
“I see we have resident writers,” Rab said.
“Not resident,” Tallie said. “Agnes asked if the group could meet here and drop in from time to time. We’re having a trial period.”
“Aye. Trial.” Rab nodded. “That’s one of the words goes through my mind when I see Agnes.”
“Really?” Janet asked. “Do you think this will be a problem for us?”
From the way Rab’s easy-going face worked as he considered his answer, and the seconds that ticked away before he said no, Janet felt compelled to ask, “Are you sure?”
Rab looked over at Agnes and Sheila, heads bent over their writing. “Ranger’s not bothered. I’ll just go measure the space for the photographs, shall I?” He nodded toward the tearoom, and let the nod carry him there.
“I hope we don’t lose Rab over the crime writers,” Janet said.
“If you really wonder, ask him. Or approach it from the other direction—talk to Agnes.”
“That might be an odd conversation, but I’ve never let that stop me.”
A short time later, the two writers stretched and packed up their materials, and Sheila rushed out.
“She’d rather be writing, but she’s running late,” Agnes said, stopping at the counter.
“A good session?” Tallie asked.
“Putting words in, taking them out. It’s a dance, but I love it. A shame Derek couldnae be here. If Sheila hadn’t been in a hurry, I’d stop in the tearoom for that shortbread he likes and take it to him.” She looked out the window at the steady rain. “I dinnae mind getting drookit myself, but it would be a shame to ruin good shortbread.”
“Why don’t I give you a ride, Agnes? You don’t mind if I do that, do you, Tallie? Rab is here if you’re run off your feet, and I’ll be back—”
“Before I know it. Sure. Agnes, that’s a great idea.”
“We’ll be a shortbread delivery service,” Agnes said. “That’s grand. I’ll go buy it and be right back.”
“I’ll bring the car around to the front door,” Janet called after her, and to Tallie she said, “I’m a shortbread delivery service and odd conversation specialist. Before I go, do you think we should let Norman know about Owen, or should we invite him to supper, too?”
“Let me think about it. My first inclination is yes, tell him.”
“What’s your second?”
“He probably already knows and doesn’t need us running around in his wake pointing out the obvious. My third is that the guy just lost his partner, he’s lonely, and he wants friendly ears to pour his sorrows into.”
“When I get back, you can tell me about inclinations four through six.”
“And you can add odd notes about odd conversations to the cloud.”
“This is kind of you,” Agnes said as she flapped rain off herself and onto Janet. “You know where the kirk is, aye? Derek will be in his office there. You can wait for me in the car, if you like.”
“Or I might come in and say hello to Derek, if you think that’s all right?”
“Och, I’m sure he won’t make a fuss. He gets along with anyone.”
Janet felt like looking around the car to see who Agnes was talking about that might need Derek’s charitable brand of friendship. She kept her eyes on the road. “I was glad to hear Derek say, the other day, that he likes Rab. I’ve known Rab for at least twenty years. Such a genuinely nice person.”
“You and Derek, then, peas in a pod,” Agnes said.
“What pod would that be?”
“Turn just ahead. The kirk’s up the hill.”
Janet didn’t see any advantage in trying to revive that odd conversation. She followed Agnes’s directions for where to park, and when Agnes asked, Janet told her again that she would come in to say hello. They passed beneath scaffolding raised on either side and above the door. When the church secretary sitting in the small reception area told them to go on into Derek’s office, Janet took wicked pleasure in getting her hello in before Agnes.
Derek didn’t hear either hello. He sat at a broad desk, facing the door, eyes closed, with a pair of wireless earbuds, like miniature drainpipes, in his ears.
Janet turned back to the secretary. “It might be naptime.”
“No, it’s not.” She heaved herself up and came to knock loudly on his door. Derek’s eyes opened, indeed looking fully awake. “I’ve told you,” the secretary said. “Don’t close your een, you look dead.”
Derek apologized. He tapped the screen of the cellphone on his desk, pulled the earbuds out, and stood.
“Mind, he couldhae been dead,” the secretary said softly. “I worry about him, Agnes. He’s not been sleeping well since that crack on the head.”
Janet’s attention had wandered, as it tended to upon seeing someone’s bookshelves for the first time. At first glance, Derek’s contained an interesting mix of theology, philosophy, and civil engineering.
At the secretary’s remark, Janet’s attention snapped back to the man himself, and she recognized the slightly hollow look she’d seen on Curtis’s face when they had a newborn in the house. Hobbs hadn’t answered any of the questions she’d poured out at the stone circle, including the one about a connection between the attack on Derek and the attack on Heather. Just how lucky had Derek been the other night?
“Is the injury catching up with you?” she asked.
“No, I really am very well. You caught me indulging in my guilty pleasure—podcasts.”
“He records them himself. I keep telling him he should call them Godcasts,” Agnes tittered. “He has quite a following.”
“Then today you find me even guiltier,” Derek said. “This wasn’t my own, or even work-related. I’ve been listening to the Crime is My Calling series. This one has a pharmacist, called the Poison Lady. She tells you how to do in your victims with common household products. Delightfully entertaining. I appease my conscience by calling it research for my novel. In any case, it’s my lunch hour. But how lovely to see you both. Welcome to my inner sanctum, Janet. To what do I owe this honor?”
“Agnes and Sheila were in the shop writing this morning. Agnes mentioned coming to see you. I offered her a ride, because of the rain, and thought I’d say hello, too.” Janet glanced at Agnes. Agnes seemed stuck on staring at Derek’s phone. “Agnes brought you something from Cakes and Tales.”
“His entertaining podcast must be the one I mentioned to him,” Agnes said.
“No, there’s no shifting the blame, I’m afraid,” Derek said. “I found this one all on my own. I wanted to give it a listen before recommending it to you and Sheila. Some of the details in the forensics episodes can be quite gruesome. Useful, though.”
“Perhaps you should listen to these at home,” Agnes said with more of a tut than a titter and looking at Janet rather than Derek. “Others in the congregation might not understand.”
Derek laughed. “Point taken. Now, is that wee bag what I hope it is?”
Agnes handed the bag to him. “If you hope it’s shortbread, then you’re right.”
Janet wondered if Agnes really worried about the rest of the congregation catching Derek in the Crime is My Calling act. Had Agnes looked at her expecting backup in her scolding? Maybe she’s afraid I’ll think he’s malingering, Janet thought. But after a conk on the head, anyone deserves a malinger or two.
“Do you mind if I ask, have the police found out anything else about the attack here Thursday night?” Janet asked.
“Not that I’ve heard,” Derek said.
“They haven’t been in touch?” And, if not, Janet wondered, was that good news or bad? With Russell, who knew?
“No. I’ve my own theory of what happened, though,” he said. “Of course, I can’t back it up with a clear memory.”
“You shouldn’t be trying to remember it at all,” Agnes said. “You might do damage.”
Derek’s eyebrows drew together in concern. “That might be an old wives’ tale, Nessy,” he said mildly. “I think this has upset you more than it has me. I’m quite recovered, though.” He looked out the office window. “Good. The rain’s stopped. On your way out, I’ll show you where I think it happened.”
He shepherded them ahead of him, past the secretary, and out the door. Janet listened to his explanation of the repair going on. She tried to ignore the fussing noises Agnes couldn’t quite manage to keep under her breath.
The women followed him down the front path then turned to look back at the church. “The scaffolding’s the culprit.” Derek, head back, hands on hips, gazed upwards. The scaffolding climbed to the top of a granite bell tower. “The work’s been necessary for years. The workers—you might ask where they are now—have been leaving tools and materials on the platforms. Rather haphazardly.”
“Tapsalteerie?” Janet asked.
“A good word for it.” Derek said. “Not quite that bad, but not secure. The scaffolding is meant to be secured, as well, so no one goes up it who shouldn’t. Well, if you ask me, unless you do secure it, you’ve issued an open invitation.”
“Not one I would answer,” Janet said, “but kids?”
“The foolhardy ones, yes. Foolhardy or pished. I was a bit of lad, in my day, so I know what I’m talking about. Either way, I’d say by the time they’d climbed, they’d further lost their sense, or inhibitions. Up there, they found tools. Down here, they saw a door. They made a poor choice and decided to go in that door. And when they came across me, or I came across them, they stopped me in my tracks. Or stopped me identifying them.” The dark smudges under his eyes were more pronounced in the natural light.
“It could have happened that way,” Janet said. “Have you wondered if this incident is somehow connected to what happened at the stone circle Sunday morning?”
“It sounds nothing like it,” Agnes said. “God rest that poor soul.”
“It is hard to see how it might,” Janet said. “But I hate to think there’s more than one person out there wrestling with what they’ve done.”
“What makes you think they’re wrestling at all?” Agnes asked.
“Hope,” Janet said. “I might be naïve, but I almost always have hope. Derek, you should call Norman.”
“I’ve been praying about it,” he said. “I’ll phone, too.”
“Where are the workers?” Agnes asked.
“I’m allowed to say this, Nessy, so you needn’t be alarmed. But God only knows where they are. I’ll let you go now. Thanks for the shortbread. Write well.”
“Tell me where you live, Agnes,” Janet said on the way to the car. “I’ll drop you at home.” She unlocked, then, not seeing Agnes, looked around. “Agnes? Oh.”
Agnes was already at the next street and turning the corner.
Janet got in the car muttering, “Sure. Fine. Write well. Whatever.”