10

Constable Hobbs thanked Tallie for letting him in and then he greeted the other women. “But you look as though you were having a meeting. I don’t mean to interrupt.”

“What is it, Norman?” Christine asked.

“I just wondered if you’ve learned any more about the books you found this morning.”

Christine said, “Oh, for—” but got no further before Summer put a hand on her shoulder and whispered something. Christine subsided.

Janet was more interested in the whisper and subsidence than Hobbs’s question, so Tallie answered. “Nothing yet,” she said.

“But I did tell you that I’d let you know,” Janet said, playing catch-up.

“And I know you will. I might have a lead on them for you. I took the liberty of asking at Young’s if they knew of anyone buying Dalwhinnie by the case. It’s a Dalwhinnie box the books arrived in.”

Janet thought Christine looked ready to shake off Summer’s quelling hand. She jumped in before Christine got loose. “What did you find out, Norman?”

“Dr. Murray found it more cost-effective to order whisky a case at a time.”

“Interesting,” Tallie said. “But you haven’t asked Florence about the books?”

“She might have seen enough of the police in the past few days.”

“That’s very thoughtful of you,” Janet said. “Speaking of police, do you know what the Road Policing Unit is looking for? Something small enough that I could have picked it up or moved it.”

“That’s news to me,” Christine said.

“Two officers stopped by while you were busy this afternoon,” Janet said. “Do you know Sandra Carmichael and Fergus Macleod, Norman?”

“Part of the Fort William unit that responded to accident. I’ve not heard this about looking for something.” His purple notebook and pen came out and he made a note. “Anything else you’ve learned?”

Janet felt the duo’s secret relationship bubbling up inside her. She shot a panicked look at Tallie.

“They weren’t forthcoming,” Tallie said. “And Mom did her best to get them to cough up more information.”

“I wish I’d been there,” Christine said.

“Tough nuts to crack, members of the Road Policing Unit,” Hobbs said. “But I’m sure if anyone could do it, it would be you, Mrs. Robertson. About the books, then. I’ll leave it up to you what to do with the information about the whisky box. I’ll be on my way, and you can get back to your meeting.”

“Thank you, Norman,” Christine said, and then to Tallie, who’d started for the door, “That’s all right. I’ll see him out.”

While Christine went with Hobbs, Janet nudged Summer. “Quick, what did you whisper to soothe the cranky Christine?”

“Boudicca bids you to back down.”

“Worked like a charm,” Tallie said. “What do you think cozy Christine is saying to Norman out there now?”

Christine had stepped outside with Hobbs. They saw her smiling and Hobbs nodding and then he touched the brim of his peaked cap and was gone. When she came back in, she clapped her hands.

“This all sounds promising, don’t you think?”

“What all?” Tallie asked.

“Oh, you know, the books. Malcolm’s penchant for Dalwhinnie.”

“As a doctor, he might have found The Complete Herbal a curiosity,” Janet said. “I wonder if we should contact Florence. To clarify the situation. Find out what she expects us to do with the books.”

“And let her know we aren’t into dump and run deliveries,” Tallie said.

“You two will be good at that, then,” Christine said. “You’re clear and well-spoken. And you’re the senior book expert and junior book expert, respectively. Take notes, Tallie. Use your astute observational skills. I’m not at my best when I’m this knackered.”

“What—you mean go this evening?” Janet asked. “And what do you mean, knackered? You slept most of the afternoon away.”

“Tip of the iceberg, as far as my sleep deprivation is concerned,” Christine said. “I can’t do it, anyway. I need to get home and give Dad respite in case Mum’s been fretful. And Boudicca has her darts practice. But this evening, yes. I think it’s a good idea.”

“I suppose you’re right. Better to nip this in the bud in case Florence has taken up the art of Swedish Death Decluttering or suddenly finds no spark of joy in old books.” Janet paused. “Oh dear. That sounded snarkier than I meant it to.”

“I wouldn’t worry about it,” Christine said. “To hear Florrie—”

“It’s Florence.”

“To hear her, she’s more into good-riddance decluttering.”

“I should have told Christine and Summer about the is and ts,” Janet said as she and Tallie drove over to the Murray house that evening after soup and sandwiches at their kitchen table.

“You went with the facts—Carmichael and Macleod are looking for something. Although, even that isn’t a fact. You think they’re looking for something. They might have asked if you picked something up, not because they’re missing something, but to be sure they aren’t missing something.”

“That would make them very good and thorough investigators,” Janet said. “Sticking with the facts. Good old safe facts and concrete evidence.”

“You don’t sound convinced.”

“I can’t help thinking they weren’t satisfied with the facts I gave them. And then, of course, I can’t help wondering why.”

“I can’t help thinking we should be even more careful about throwing around the word ‘intentional’ than we are about spilling the beans on Carmichael and Macleod,” Tallie said. “Also that Christine orchestrated our trip to see Florence. What happened to her wanting to get inside Florence’s head? Wouldn’t this be a great opportunity to do that?”

“It might, but do you really want Christine along this evening?” Janet asked. “You do know how she gets.”

“You don’t think we could’ve done this with a phone call, though?”

“It’s awkward, I know, but I think it’s better to see her face-to-face,” Janet said. “This might be a bit of a welfare check, too. Christine really is worried about Florence, but she’s worried about her mum, too. Sometimes there’s only so much room for those kinds of worries.”

“In my experience, you have a bottomless pit for all kinds of worries. And I mean that as a compliment, but in my own worrying way.”

“You might be surprised by my limits, dear. You’ll like the Murrays’ library, at least. It’s warm and snug with a fireplace. I hope it’s giving Florence some comfort. Though the rest of the house feels—”

“Christine said watched or watching.”

“Mm. Let me know if you get that feeling, too.”

Janet pulled into the Murray driveway. Unlike the night before, only a few lights shone. One of them lit a welcome glow over the front door.

“No heebie-jeebies yet.” Tallie said as they followed the flagged path to that door.

“Maybe things have settled a bit. She couldn’t have been at her best last night.”

“Florence or Christine?” Tallie asked.

“Good point.” Janet pressed the bell. “We’ll be kind and hope for the best.”

Florence opened the door, wearing jeans again, pushing hair off her forehead with the back of her hand. “Yes? Oh, I see. You were here last night,” she said to Janet, then she stared at Tallie.

“Yes, Janet Marsh, and this is my daughter, Tallie—”

“Is Christine out there somewhere?” Florence tried to see around them.

“She’s home with her mum and dad,” Janet said.

“They’re still alive, are they? And I suppose you want to come in again?”

“We wanted to ask you about some books,” Janet said.

“Mind he doesn’t get out before you close the door,” Florence said and left Janet and Tallie looking at each other.

“He who?” Tallie whispered.

“Must be the dog. Last night he barked when we rang the bell. Come on.”

They stepped inside and Tallie closed the door. Firmly. Florence was already disappearing through a doorway across from the library at the far end of the hall. They hurried after her, but before following her through that door, Janet waved Tallie over for a quick look into the library.

“Not at all snug,” Tallie said quietly. “Not tonight.”

No crackling fire. No cozy lamplight. And how did the library suddenly seem disused and dusty? And in disarray.

Death and its aftermath, Janet thought. The great upheaval.

“Florence must be going through Malcolm’s things and started with the books,” she said. “Although between you and me it looks more like a drunk’s been reorganizing and re-shelving.”

Tallie nudged her mother. “I think she’s looking for us.”

They found Florence across the hall in a room with almost the same footprint as the library, though it wasn’t a twin or mirror image. It was somewhat smaller than the library and a bright overhead fixture lit the room to its corners. There were no windows. One wall consisted of built-in double-doored cupboards, all painted white. The other walls were plaster, also white. The floor was bare. One cupboard stood open, its multiple shelves holding stacks of dingy linens.

“Was this part of your brother’s surgery?” Janet asked.

Florence, rummaging around the floor of a closet, looked over her shoulder. “There you are again,” she said, “but where is he?”

“Would you like help finding him?” Janet asked. “What’s his name?”

“I don’t know when he left or where he’s gone.”

“When did you see him last?” Tallie asked.

“I’ve not searched the attic.” Florence looked up at the ceiling, head cocked as though detecting footsteps or other movements two floors above. “He never liked the attic.” She stood and pushed between Janet and Tallie. At the door, she turned to ask, “Are you going to help or not?” She left the room without waiting for an answer.

“We’re right behind you,” Janet called.

“Not so anyone would notice,” came Florence’s retort from farther down the hall.

Tallie grabbed Janet’s arm. “What are we doing?”

“Helping. I think.”

“And who are we looking for?” Tallie asked. “The dog or Malcolm?”

“Oh dear. I think we’d better go after her.”

“I think we’re going down a rabbit hole.”

“Up a rabbit hole,” Janet said. “She’s heading for the attic. Let’s try the main stairs.”

“I have a better idea,” Tallie said. “Let’s split up. You look for her. I’ll look for the dog.”

Janet gave her a thumbs-up and went after Florence. She wondered about phoning Christine, too. Christine, with her inner Queen Elizabeth, would know how to handle whatever it was that this situation was turning into.

Janet didn’t see Florence, but she heard her ahead, around a turn in the stairs, trudging upward and puffing as she climbed. Good for me, Janet thought. I’m not puffing at all. Florence should take up bike riding. She regretted the thought almost immediately. Bike riding hadn’t helped Malcolm.

In case Florence had balance issues on stairs, in addition to short breath, Janet didn’t want to startle her by coming up behind her too quickly or quietly. She made her own tread heavier than it needed to be and was about to say something calm and unalarming, when Florence grabbed the railing and swung around to look down the staircase.

“Why?” Florence demanded.

Janet made a grab for the railing, too, glad she hadn’t taken an unfortunate step backward at the outburst. “Why what?”

“Stomping up behind me like that. Why are you trying to scare me?”

“I was trying not to scare you.” Janet wished Florence had had the same consideration for her. “I didn’t do it very well, though, did I? I’m sorry. I didn’t want to cause an accident.”

“Why are you talking about accidents?” Florence took her hand off the railing and hugged herself, rubbing her upper arms as if she had a sudden chill. “What accidents?”

“Accidents on the stairs. We don’t want them, do we?”

“Malcolm thought I didn’t hear him. There’s nothing wrong with my hearing.”

“Have you heard the dog in the attic?” Janet asked. “Can he get in there on his own?”

But Florence had turned and started climbing again. When she reached the landing and stopped for breath, Janet saw her chance. She might not have an inner queen to call upon, but she had the next best thing. She climbed quickly, and crowded Florence away from the top of the stairs, and then Janet called on her inner Christine.

Fists on her hips, she stretched her spine as tall as her five-foot-three frame allowed, looked Florence in the eyes, and said in a firm, level voice, “Florrie.”

“It’s Floren—”

“Florrie or Florence or Ms. Murray, we need to talk. Then I will try to help you in whatever way I can, if you want me to. If I can’t, I’ll find someone who can. Do you understand?”

Florence looked . . . relieved? Janet wasn’t sure, but she decided to take Florence’s nod as progress.

“Shall we go back downstairs?” Janet suggested.

“There’s a room I prefer along the corridor here, if you don’t mind.”

Janet wondered where Tallie was, but assumed she’d either found the dog or was making a meticulous and conscientious search. Florence led her down the corridor, slowing to look in the doorway to a bedroom. Malcolm’s? The light from the corridor showed stolid, heavy wood furnishings. The room also looked as though he’d left in a hurry the morning of his accident—bed unmade, clothes on the floor, armoire door hanging open.

“I cannot deal with that today. I honestly cannot,” Florence muttered and continued past. They went almost to the end of the corridor, where she entered another bedroom—lighter and airier Janet saw, when Florence turned on a bedside lamp. She also saw plenty of dust she knew she wasn’t imagining. But Florence was crossing the room to another door and they ended up in a smaller corner room.

“This is a lovely room, Florence.”

“My mother’s sewing room. Sadly neglected.”

It was actually the tidiest and most inviting room Janet had seen in the house that evening. Pale yellow walls, generous windows on two sides, a floral chenille rug, a hassock with a basket of knitting in easy reach of a settee, and two wingback chairs covered in chintz with lace-edged antimacassars. She got the feeling the dog would not be welcome here.

“When was the last time you saw the dog?” Janet asked.

“He’s a lazy old git. Your daughter, was it, who came with you? She looked capable. I’m sure she’ll find him.” Florence sat on the settee and folded her hands in her lap. “I’m not aware of any business you have with me. You’re an American.”

“I am. But I live here now. My family and I spent many summers in Inversgail. Christine and I have been friends for about thirty years—she and Tony. We lived in the same town in the States. Did you know Christine’s husband?”

“How am to know if I did or not? I never met him.”

“Well that’s—well.” It seemed best to let that drop. “Christine and I, along with my daughter and another young woman, bought Yon Bonnie Books on the High Street. We’ve been there about six months now.”

Florence studied her fingernails.

“We wondered if you left a box of books at the shop this morning,” Janet said. “They might have belonged to your brother.”

“A description might help.”

“A Dalwhinnie Whisky box.”

“I meant the books.”

“Surely you’d remember if you left a box of books on our doorstep or not.” Janet checked herself. She didn’t need to start an argument, and she was sounding like Carmichael and Macleod. “The point is, we don’t trade in used books, except in rare circumstances. If you’re planning to downsize Dr. Murray’s library, we’d ask that you take that into consideration.”

“If I’m not in the habit of leaving boxes of books on stray doorsteps, then your point has nothing to do with me.”

“So then you didn’t leave the box.”

“I didn’t say that. A description might help.”

Tallie was right, Janet thought. Down a rabbit hole. A bloody big one and getting bigger by the minute. She tried to smile without grinding her teeth.

“For instance, how many books are we talking about?” Florence asked.

“Thirty-seven,” Janet said after a deep breath that did less good than she’d hoped. “The more interesting ones were published before 1950. One is an edition of The Complete Herbal published in 1850.”

“Fancy that. Dull and dusty, no doubt. What else?”

“Swallows and Amazons? The Sword in the Stone? The Bell Rock Lighthouse? There’s also a small leather-bound copy of Kidnapped.”

“Who doesn’t own one of those? What else?”

“Florence, you either left the books on the shop’s doorstep or you didn’t.” And if she didn’t, there was no point in listing any more of them. Janet had trouble keeping the growing irritation out of her voice.

Florence didn’t keep the irritation out of hers. “I’m sorry, but you might have phoned me with your questions and saved me the trouble of your visit.” She got up and went to the door. “I don’t recognize any of your dusty books and I don’t know anything about a box of books.”

Janet’s phone buzzed with a text. She took it out and looked at it, which further irritated Florence. “My daughter found your dog,” Janet said.

“Not my dog.”

“Not your—” Janet snapped her mouth shut and looked back at Tallie’s text. “She found him in front of the fireplace in the library. That’s where he was last night. Didn’t you look there?”

But Florence was gone.

Janet took advantage of her solitary moment. She bared her teeth, shook her fist, counted to ten, and then went on up to fifty. The exasperated half-hundred, she thought, and felt calmer.

She went downstairs and found Florence standing in the library doorway. Florence tried hard not to meet her eye, but Janet called on her inner Christine again and Florence shrank back against the doorjamb as Janet brushed past her into the room. Tallie had turned on all the lights and stood with her arms crossed tightly over her chest. The dog lay in front of the fireplace, his back to them.

“When we glanced in from the door earlier, it was too dark to see much,” Tallie said. “We didn’t see him. I found him here by the fireplace. He was shivering. I got him to go outside with me and took care of that business and then he whined to come back in. He drank some water. I rummaged for dog food, but by the time I found it, he’d slunk back in here.”

“He’s Malcolm’s dog?” Janet asked. “Florence?”

Florence stayed at the door. “I don’t go in there. I’ve never liked this room.”

“What do you mean you don’t come in here? You brought me and Christine in here last night.”

“Because I remember Christine and how she is. She wasn’t going to give up until she had her chance to blether at me. She was aye stubborn. Sometimes the quickest way is through.”

Whatever that means. Janet looked around. Her earlier impression of the library in disarray was only slightly exaggerated. “Have you been reorganizing?”

“I told you, I’ve never liked this room.”

Her way of giving answers and information was as disorganized as the room. But Janet realized that Florence’s whole life had suddenly been turned upside down. I’d be a mess, too.

“We really would like to help, if you’d like it,” Janet said gently. “What’s happened? You had a fire going in here last night. It was lovely and cozy.”

“I needed the fire. It kept the cold from creeping in. Kept it from seeping into the rest of the house.” Florence rubbed her hands, perhaps at the memory of that cold, then tucked them in her armpits. She looked like an odd mirror image of Tallie.

“Cold creeping from where?” Tallie asked.

“The window.” Florence took a hand from her armpit and pointed, and then tucked the hand back. “Malcolm opened it. Opened it and left it open. That’s how I know he came back, because I’d shut it when he left the first time. Then he came back, after riding all over who knows where, and he opened it again.

“I told you all this yesterday. You and Christine. I heard him come in. I called hello, and he did just the way he always did—said nothing. He rarely said anything when I spoke to him. He wasn’t sociable that way. If you ask me, his mind was beginning to go. I’m not surprised he went off the road like that. I told him he wasn’t safe.” A tear rolled down her cheek.

“Florence—”

“I was not my brother’s keeper. He didn’t listen. He never listened to me. He opened the window again and left it open and went out. Again. And I didn’t know until after Norman Hobbs came and told me he was gone, and I didn’t believe him.” She wiped angrily at more tears with the back of her hand. “Left with the window still open so it stayed open all night and let the cold in. He’d no thought for anyone but himself and the dog and not as much for the dog as most would think.”

“Will you keep the dog?” Tallie asked.

“I’ve no immediate plans. No plans for distributing dogs or books about the town. I’ve been keeping house for Malcolm, and that’s all. Not his books. You’ve wasted your time coming here to ask about boxes and books that I know nothing about and care about even less. Do you know what I’d like to do with his books? Throw them out his bloody window.”

Anger seemed to be doing Florence some good. Or maybe it was the tears.

“We don’t feel it was a waste of our time coming here this evening. Do we, Tallie?”

“Not at all. We helped you find the dog, if nothing else.”

“And you’re right, Florence,” Janet said. “I could have called you to ask you about the books, but I was glad to see you again.”

“I can’t imagine why.” Florence dabbed at her nose with her sleeve.

“We’ve bothered you enough,” Janet said. “I feel like we’ve been nosy, and I don’t want to intrude even more, but I do want to ask if anyone is helping you with the funeral arrangements.”

“No.”

“Is there anyone who can? What about Gerald?”

“Gerald? He was worse than Malcolm. Malcolm was just antisocial. Gerald was obsessed. I’ve not seen or spoken to him in years.”

“Not even now? Since Malcolm’s death?”

“Why would that make any difference to him? Bloody great gi—” Florence bit the last word in two. “That’s enough about him. No doubt you’ve other places you’d rather be. Don’t let me keep you.”

She turned and left, and Janet half expected to let themselves out, but Florence walked ahead of them to the door.

“We left the lights on in the library,” Tallie said. “I can run back and turn them off, if you’d like.”

“Don’t bother. I’ll get them. Or not. It wouldn’t be the first time they’re left on all night.”

Janet decided to try one more offer of help, this time in the form of a suggestion. “Florence, do you know Maida Fairlie?” Maida and Janet were in-laws—Maida’s daughter and Janet’s son being married and living in Edinburgh with their two wee boys. “Maida’s a great one to phone for sorting, cleaning, packing things away, anything like that. She organizes that kind of work for a cleaning firm. She’s reliable, no-nonsense, and discreet. I can give you her number, if you’d like.”

“Hurry, before he gets out.” Florence opened the door and gave no sign she’d heard Janet. Nor did she acknowledge their good nights. As she closed the door, they heard her say, “He was aye strange.”

“He who?” Janet asked. But Florence shut the door with a solid thud and turned the lock. Janet looked at Tallie. “She did it again. She left us hanging like that when Christine and I were here last night, and she just did it again. Again. I really don’t like that word.”

“Fair enough,” Tallie said. “But let’s get in the car and go on home.”

Janet slammed her car door and started the engine. Then she shut it off. “Look at me, Tallie. Look at me and promise me this. If I ever open a metaphorical door like ‘he’s always been strange,’ and then slam it shut in your face by not explaining myself, tell me to cut it out. And don’t you ever do it, either. No one should be allowed to toss an indefinite pronoun like a grenade and run away.”

“Okeydoke.”

Janet looked up at the Murray house and howled, “He who?” Then, remembering the white-knuckle ride with Christine the night before, she took an immense breath and held it to the point of exploding. Then she relaxed her shoulders, let the air out slowly, started the car, and drove sedately home.

Smirr and Butter met them at the door and escorted Janet to the living room for a session of ear rubbing and chin stroking. Tallie poured two glasses of sherry and joined the others in their tidy, cozy, well-lit and warm living room.

“I’ve figured it out and I propose a toast,” Janet said, raising her glass. “To the collective ‘he’—Malcolm, Gerald, and the dog—all three are strange, and possibly always have been.”

“Here’s a variation,” Tallie offered. “To the collective ‘they’—all the Murrays—because you know we have to consider that Florence has always been strange, too. But we really shouldn’t take it out on the poor dog.”