The Poe Baxter Books Series Box Set - volume 1

Chapter 3-1

3

Fortunately, when I woke up in the B&B the next morning, I could remember all of the night’s events, and I didn’t think I’d done anything embarrassing like declare my undying love for a librarian I’d only seen twice in my life.

Unfortunately, my crush did get the better of me at breakfast when I told my best friend I was excited about the double date we’d planned. She rolled her eyes and said, “You do remember we live in the States, and these two men are fully grounded here in Scotland, right?”

I did remember, but I had been trying to forget. “Of course,” I said, “but stranger things have happened.”

“In Hallmark movies, Poe. Hallmark movies. Unless you’re planning on opening a Scottish-themed soap shop back in Virginia, I think it’s best we consider tonight an evening with new friends.” She sounded adamant, but I could see the shadow of disappointment on her face. “Right?”

“What if we thought about it as a date but just a casual one?” I suggested. “Friends but with flirting.”

This brought a smile to her face. “I like that plan. But now, we need to get serious. What are we trying to find out from Davis MacDonald?”

Now, it was my turn to get serious. “Well, it sounds like he may be contending with some mental struggles, so I’m trying to keep my expectations reasonable. But I’d like to confirm how much he sold the book to Stovall for, and I’d like to know what he paid for it, if he’ll share. I’d also like to hear more about this curse, from his point of view, see if that might provide a bit of a tool we can use when we go back to the table with Stovall.”

Beattie nodded. “Hopefully, he’s forthcoming,” she said with not a small amount of skepticism in her voice. “But just in case, let’s fortify with a little tea and shortbread on the way.”

I looked down at the plates we’d just cleaned of an entire English breakfast, rubbed my belly, and said, “Sounds good.”

With directions to a local bakery from our host, we headed out into the busy streets of Inverness. I was always curious about the way cities held different energies. There was a similar frenetic undercurrent everywhere, but in New York, for example, the energy was pointed, focused with everyone intent on where they were going. Our small city, Charlottesville, was airier and more open and forward-looking but with an undercurrent of arrogance bred by a long history. Inverness, though, felt more staid in its history, confident about itself without having to prove anything. She reminded me of older women I knew who were kind but brokered no fools and who carried themselves with a quiet dignity that flowed through everything they did. A staid, strong, graceful lady. Maybe this was why I was falling in love with the city.

Well, that and the shortbread. Seriously, shortbread is a great gift to the world.

With our cups of tea and scone-size pieces of shortbread in hand, Beattie and I made the walk across town and up into Dalneigh and used our phones to locate MacDonald’s street. It was beautiful in a sort of midcentury European way. Not to my taste as much as, say, the Cotswolds in southwestern England, but still charming and just different enough from the midcentury suburbs of America to feel new.

MacDonald’s house was sort of moderate in size for the street, and when we opened the gate at the front garden, I grinned at the beautiful array of flowers and shrubs he had in place instead of a yard. The space was a perfect “cottage garden,” and, not for the first time, I found myself wondering if I could do that with my little apartment yard back in Charlottesville. Then, I wondered what my neighbors, who were staunch lawn mowers and herbicide sprayers, would think.

I didn’t have much time to weigh my options there, though, because Beattie was striding toward the door with a grace I was never going to master in heels. She’d tried to teach me, but Danskos were always going to be my preference over anything that elevated the back of my foot far above my toes.

She stepped onto the small sandstone stoop and raised her hand to knock, but as she did, the door swung open of its own accord. I stepped up behind her and peered down the long hallway lined with dark wood paneling of a craftsman style. It was beautiful, and I was tempted to just walk in. But Beattie put her hand on my arm and held me back. “Poe,” she whispered as she directed her gaze just to the right of the front door.

There, framed in an opening, was a pair of fine leather loafers with the toes pointed upward, which I could tell were the ends of a pair of legs in tweed. I sucked in my breath and said quietly, “We need to see if he’s alive.” I strode into the room, even as Beattie hissed at me to stop and pointed out that I might be disrupting a crime scene.

I realized that, but if this man was still alive, I wasn’t going to just stand at the door and watch him—or at least his feet—die. I stepped beside him and saw an older man with silver hair and a very impressive mustache thick enough to make Wilford Brimley jealous. He wore round glasses, and I imagined that before the gray pallor of death had settled over him, he’d had rosy cheeks.

Now, though, he was quite gray. Before I even put my fingers to the part of his neck where I thought I might feel his pulse, I knew he was dead. The clammy skin beneath my pointer and middle fingers confirmed it. He was dead, very dead.

I quickly backtracked to the front door and said, “We need to call the police.”

“No need,” a deep voice said from behind us. “Would you like to tell me what you’re doing here?”

Beattie’s and my eyes met, and I could see panic that matched mine in her eyes. But we both turned and looked at the barrel-chested man dressed all in black and with close-cropped brown hair and deep brown skin behind us. “We were just coming to visit Mr. MacDonald,” Beattie started. “But I’m afraid he’s dead.”

The police officer studied us for a minute. “Did you open the door?” he said as he peered behind us.

“No, sir,” I said in a far squeakier voice than I would have liked. “When we went to knock, the door swung open.” I swallowed hard. “I did step inside to check on him. He’s definitely dead.” I braced myself for a scolding or, worse, handcuffs, but the officer gave one crisp nod.

“Please wait here,” he said and strode past us to the front door, where he looked inside with a studied gaze and then walked slower to where the body lay.

As the officer knelt down, Beattie had the wherewithal to suggest we step back a bit, so we moved to a small bench just off the walkway. If I hadn’t been so unnerved by the events of the last few moments, I might have enjoyed looking at MacDonald’s fine garden. As it was, I could barely register that he seemed to have a penchant for lilies.

Beattie and I sat close together, completely quiet, even as neighbors began to gather on the street, apparently drawn over by the combination of the police car at the curb and the presence of two strange women in MacDonald’s yard. No one spoke to us, though, which I appreciated and chalked up to another thing that the Scots had over the Americans. If we’d been at home, at least three people would have already asked us what was going on. I preferred the Scots’ quiet nosiness to the more abrasive American version.

After a few minutes, another police car arrived, and two women went inside the house after giving their own brisk nods in our direction. Beattie looked at me and said, “Odd how trusting of us they are, isn’t it?”

I nodded. “Maybe we just look trustworthy.”

“I rather think it might just be that it’s fairly easy to track down two Americans in Inverness,” a woman from over the fence said with a gentle smile. “I heard you were in town yesterday.”

I smiled at her and nodded, figuring she was right. “You may have a point there,” I said, hearing the tiniest bit of brogue slip behind my Southern American accent. I knew I’d hear about my tendency to pick up accents from Beattie later. She always teased me about it, although I couldn’t help it. I chalked it up to the theater classes I took in college and all the coaching the dialect expert had given me when everything I said had a slight Virginia drawl.

The first officer came back out and headed for us. “You were right, Miss, Davis is most definitely dead. Thank you for checking on him, though. Poor fellow didn’t deserve to die that way.”

Before I could think, I said, “What way is that, Officer, um—?” I found myself stumbling over both the man’s rank and his name.

“Inspector Scott,” the officer said, “and I’m afraid I will have to refrain from further comment on Davis’s death, Miss—?” He raised an eyebrow.

“Baxter,” I said, “Poe Baxter, and this is Beattie Andrews.” I started to tell him why we were there but thought better of it when I remembered Uncle Fitz’s caution about revealing more than necessary.

“You’re staying downtown, I understand,” said Inspector Scott, and I caught the eye of the woman beyond the fence again as she gave me a small nod. “May I call on you there later if I have further questions?”

I hadn’t had a lot of formal conversations with police officers in the US, but I could not imagine any of them asking permission to question us later. “Sure. Would you like our number?” I asked.

“No need. If it suits you, I’ll plan to meet you in the lobby of the hotel at four for a cuppa and a chat,” the inspector said.

“Perfect, Inspector,” Beattie said as she stood and stretched out her hand. “We’ll see you then.”

Following her lead, I stood and walked beside her to the sidewalk, where the neighbors stepped away to let us pass without a word.

After we had walked a couple of blocks, Beattie said, “We might need to get our story straight about what we’re going to share and what we’re not.”

I stopped walking and turned toward her. “You’re thinking of not telling him something about the book?”

“I’m not sure,” she said. “He seems trustworthy enough, but we don’t know why Davis MacDonald was killed. But given the curse—”

“Are you serious?” I said far too loudly. “You actually believe in that thing?”

Beattie tilted her head and looked at me like I’d just suggested she actually eat fast food. “No, Poe, I don’t. But it isn’t about what I believe. If that inspector believes in the curse, it will affect how he investigates, now won’t it?” Her tone was just the teensiest bit patronizing, but I saw her point.

“Fair enough, so how do we play this?” I asked as we resumed our walk back downtown. “Do we act like we believe or act skeptical?”

A twinkle came into Beattie’s eye, and she said, “How about both?”

I looked at her out of the corner of my eye. “Only if I get to be the true believer.”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way,” she said.

A few hours later, after we’d both had lunch from a local takeaway place and had succumbed to a nap on the very soft beds in our room, Beattie and I made our way down to the hotel lobby and waited for Inspector Scott. As I watched the people come in and out of the hotel, I thought of how “on the nose” the inspector’s name was, a Scott from Scotland, but then I remembered that the renovation celebrities Drew and Jonathan were also named Scott and wondered if it was common, like the way Smith was a named derived from blacksmith.

My mind began wandering even further afield as I thought about whether the Scott brothers might ever come to Charlottesville for a job. Then I supposed that if they did, that salvage expert from nearby Octonia, Paisley Sutton, might get to be involved, which would be awesome since I loved her newsletter and her stories about her young son.

Soon, my mind was constructing an elaborate story where Paisley became the newest member of the Scott family, perhaps by marrying Jonathan, and they moved to Charlottesville to begin renovating all the old buildings around town and making them affordable for low and middle-income people. I had gone into full-blown fantasy mode when Beattie elbowed me hard in the side and said, “Poe, stop daydreaming. He’s here.”