Death of a Valentine - M. C. Beaton [30]
“There’s some writing on it. Typewritten,” she said. “It looks like part of a valentine card.”
Hamish leaned over her shoulder and read:
“Rose are re…
“Violets…
“You’re going t…
“Just what’s coming to you.”
“I’ll telephone Mr. Blair and tell him about this,” said Lesley.
“You better telephone Jimmy,” said Hamish. “He’s in charge o’ the case.”
“Right. You can go,” said Lesley. “I’ll see if I can get anything more out of this.”
“We’ll wait,” said Hamish.
“I have other things to do,” said Lesley crossly. “And may I remind you, you are nothing more than a village bobby and not in charge of this case.”
Josie opened her mouth to make an angry retort but received a quelling glare from Hamish.
Outside, she asked, “Is she always like that?”
“Pretty much. Nothing sinister about thon underwear because that piece o’ cardboard was obviously blasted there, but the bit o’ message is something.”
I wonder if he jilted Lesley, thought Josie, her senses sharpened by jealousy. Lesley was pretty. Priscilla Halburton-Smythe looked like a model from Vogue. It was all very lowering.
In the very north of Scotland, night falls around three or four PM in winter. Hamish wanted rid of Josie. She had certainly found that important clue. But there was something about her, a sort of cloying neediness, that got on his nerves. He was bewildered by the growing list of suspects. There are so many, he thought gloomily, it’s beginning to look like the local phone directory.
After he reached Lochdubh, he dropped Josie off at the manse and then drove to the police station. He helped the dog down as the cat sprang lightly onto the ground with her large paws.
“You haven’t had much exercise,” he told them. “We’ll go for a wee dauner along the waterfront.”
Halos of mist were encircling the lamps, leaving black areas of shadow in between. He had a sudden feeling of being watched. He whipped round but there was no one there. When he turned back, the Currie sisters, Nessie and Jessie, stood facing him as if they had just been conjured up out of the ground.
The twins were spinsters of the parish, still alike in their sixties, both having rigidly permed white hair and thick glasses.
“Awful, her turning out to be a tart,” said Nessie.
“Tart,” echoed her sister, who always repeated the end of what her twin had been saying.
“How did you hear?” asked Hamish.
“It was Mrs. Baxter, the councillor’s wife,” said Nessie. “Herself was down at Patel’s this afternoon. He’s got a special on tinned salmon. She bought ten cans! I said, ‘That’s not very fair. You should leave some for us locals,’ but she paid me no heed at all. So then I says, poor Annie Fleming, and herself whips around and says, ‘Annie Fleming was a whore.’ Just like that!”
“Just like that,” echoed Jessie.
“Mind you, I did always think she flaunted herself a bit. When are you getting married?”
“Getting married,” put in the Greek chorus.
“I have no intention of getting married,” said Hamish. He stalked off.
Mark Lussie was not a baker. He worked in the bakery as a sort of odd-job man, carrying out trays of cakes, bread, rolls, pies, and buns to the shop from the back. He cleaned the windows, swept the floors, and cleaned the baking trays and the ovens, and all the time he dreamed of greater things. He no longer went to church. He had prayed to be married to Annie and God had let him down so God didn’t exist. He wanted to get out of Braikie and go to Glasgow or Edinburgh, or even London. He had very little in his bank as he had begun to find comfort in drink ever since Annie had introduced him to alcohol.
He turned over and over in his mind everything Annie had said to him. And then like a lightbulb going on over his head as it did over the heads of the characters in the comics he liked to read, he remembered all of a sudden that Annie had said someone had threatened her and he remembered exactly who that someone was.
At first, he saw himself standing