The Christmas Puzzle (Pitkirtly Mysteries Book 8) (10 page)

She drained the dram faster than anybody should be allowed to drink whisky, but without any coughing and spluttering, and marched briskly away from the table.

In the lull in the conversation, they heard the woman’s voice saying plaintively, ‘I don’t suppose you’ve seen Jock McLean, have you? You’re both meant to be in costume by now, and he hasn’t turned up.’

Dave laughed. ‘Another of our Santas is missing. Jock McLean must’ve had enough of it. Don’t blame him.’

‘I don’t know what made him agree to it in the first place,’ said Jemima.

‘Amaryllis,’ said Christopher.

They sat round the table gloomily staring into their drinks. Christopher felt cheered by the utter predictability of the scene.

Chapter 15 Breakthrough

‘Should we try phoning him?’ said Elizabeth French, almost hopping from one foot to another in her agitation. ‘Or do you think I should pop up to his house and see if he’s there?’

‘He won’t answer the phone,’ said Amaryllis. ‘Don’t worry, he’ll be on his way down by now.’

She sincerely hoped Jock was on his way. She had already got into her elf outfit, which wasn’t the ideal clothing for standing around outside the tram waiting for Santa Claus. The huskies were too close for comfort and she could see Giancarlo coming over with a tray of paper cups. She tried to wedge the silly hat into a more flattering position on her head, but she sensed that there was nothing attractive about it at all. Then she told herself off for even bothering about what Giancarlo thought of her appearance. After all, he had seen her in the elf outfit at least once before, and hadn’t died of shock.

One or two market stallholders had already arrived and were starting to set up tables and counters in various kinds of tents. Amaryllis tried to recall what she had seen of the weather forecast. One gust of Pitkirtly’s famous winter gales would soon get rid of the striped gazebos. She waved to Maisie Sue, who had chosen to use a rather solid tent she had borrowed from one of the local Scout groups. She was trying to secure it to some mooring rings set into the harbour wall. Jan, who had agreed to share the stall, was stringing fairy lights along the front of the tent.

After delivering the coffee to Amaryllis and Elizabeth, Giancarlo went over to help them. Amaryllis saw Jan blossom in the warmth of Giancarlo’s smile. She sighed.

‘Not another one!’ commented Elizabeth, rolling her eyes. ‘I don’t think there’s a woman for miles around who’s immune to his charm. Just as well he’s such a nice boy. He won’t let it go to his head.’

There was a sound behind them, and Jock McLean was discovered trying to sneak into the tram to change without being seen.

‘Where have you been?’ said Amaryllis. ‘I thought I was going to have to wear your costume as well as mine. It’s the only way I could possibly look any sillier.’

‘I went to sleep,’ said Jock.

‘In the middle of the day?’

‘I was up early,’ he said defensively. ‘As you very well know….Then Tamara from FOOP followed me up the road.’

‘I can see how that would tire you out,’ said Amaryllis.

They were interrupted by a noise that sounded like the invasion of a pack of wild dogs, but which resolved itself into the yapping of a terrier and the answering howls of several huskies. Jock scurried into the tram, closely followed by Elizabeth, who evidently intended to make sure he didn’t escape.

Amaryllis glared at the man who was supposed to be in charge of the dog team. He glared back at her. She wasn’t sure how they had got on to this footing of mutual hatred, but there seemed to be no way of changing it now that it was established.

The old man from Pitkirtly Island was just dragging his small white terrier out of the way when Charlie Smith arrived with his dog.

‘Afternoon, John,’ he said to the man, and bent to tickle the white terrier’s ears. ‘Hello, Hamish.’ It rewarded him by trying to bite his nose.

Charlie’s own dog cowered against his legs, apparently equally terrified of the huskies and of the smaller dog. Or perhaps just of life in general. Watching the scene, Amaryllis was almost tempted to adopt a dog herself. There was such a lot of entertainment involved in dog interactions. But perhaps it was better just to be an onlooker and not a participant. On the other hand, walking the dog gave people an excellent excuse to be out somewhere remote, especially at times when other people wouldn’t usually be there. And it might be useful in getting herself elected to the Council, although she wasn’t sure how dog-lovers stacked up against dog-haters in terms of votes.

The thought floated away again when she saw that Jan’s fairy lights had blown off the front of the tent into the middle of the road, now almost converted into an ice-rink – the men who had the thankless task of turning it into one were back for another go. Jan was inside the tent now, arranging knitted egg-cosies in Christmas colours on a long table. Maisie Sue had gone in as well and seemed to be waging a silent battle with Jan over display space by gradually pushing her quilts over to Jan’s side of the stall. This can only end badly, mused Amaryllis cheerfully, hoping to be around when it did. She went and rescued the fairy lights, braving the almost-frozen road surface. The small white terrier lunged at her ankles, but she skipped out of its way just in time.

The afternoon developed promisingly. There were stallholders from somewhere in Eastern Europe – Transylvania? – offering mulled wine the colour of blood, and lopsided pastries with lurid cerise icing. Maisie Sue and Jan had a brief exchange of opinions that resulted in them having to pull the tables apart to define their respective territories more accurately. Giancarlo delivered coffee to the husky man. The ice rink finally froze over.

Everything was in place apart from the visitors.

Jock McLean, at last transformed into Santa Claus, shook his head, causing his beard to ride up under one ear. ‘Well, who’d have thought it would all be such a waste of time?’

‘Here, let me fix that,’ said Amaryllis, adjusting the beard.

‘Wait till this evening,’ said Elizabeth French, smiling serenely, which could have had something to do with the plastic cup of mulled wine she had been presented with half an hour before. ‘The eighty-fourth Pitkirtly Brownies are coming along in force for the skating. And their parents.’

Jock groaned. ‘Does that mean we all have to hang around to the bitter end?’

Elizabeth French made an excuse to go back into the tram. Defeated by Jock’s cynicism, thought Amaryllis. Well, she wouldn’t be the first person it had happened to.

‘How was Tamara?’ she said to Jock, making idle conversation as they watched Jan unpacking some knitted Christmas-themed tea-cosies. They had crooked chimneys for spouts, and white tops to represent snow. Amaryllis couldn’t think of anyone she hated enough to buy them one for Christmas, but that might have been why Tamara came to the front of her mind.

‘All right,’ he said. ‘But I think she’s got depths of sadness hidden inside her somewhere.’

This was so different from the kind of thing Jock would usually say that Amaryllis stared at him. ‘Are you sure you’re all right? Have you got a temperature?’

She reached out and touched his forehead. He shook it off impatiently.

‘I’m fine… No, Tamara told me she once lived here, but her daughter died. It seemed as if she had left because she couldn’t stand it here any more after that.’

‘I sometimes feel like that,’ said Amaryllis.

‘Don’t we all?’ commented Jock. ‘But she sounded a bit upset.’

‘That’s natural, isn’t it? The daughter can’t have been very old. How old is Tamara?’

‘I haven’t a clue.’

‘I wonder what happened,’ said Amaryllis thoughtfully. ‘Maybe we could find out.’

‘Why?’

She shrugged. ‘I don’t know. In case we need to know, later.’

He gave her a look. ‘What are you thinking?’

‘I don’t think I know myself yet.’

After that the fifty-sixth – or was it the ninety-seventh? – Brownies arrived, which kept everyone busy for some time. It wasn’t until they had gone that Tamara drifted into view, dressed as unsuitably as usual in an ankle-length floral cotton dress and a knitted poncho presumably left over from the nineteen-seventies, although Amaryllis had a feeling the woman considered herself to be a flower power throwback.

Jock and Amaryllis were in the tram at that point, tidying up after the Brownie onslaught.  This task had been left to them because Elizabeth French had told them she had an aged parent who was in the habit of phoning at eight-thirty every night to make sure she had returned safely. Jock was as usual starting to make noises about going for a pint. He seemed taken aback when Amaryllis pushed past him and jumped out of the tram.

‘Tamara!’ she exclaimed. Tamara, standing irresolute by the stand where you hired skates to go on the ice, gave such a start when she looked at Amaryllis that she spilled mulled wine all down her front, leaving a hideous stain that looked even more like blood than the stuff in the jugs did.

She scrubbed at it frantically. ‘I can’t get it out! What on earth am I going to do? I can’t go on the bus like this – they’ll think I’ve been stabbed.’

Amaryllis saw tears forming in the woman’s eyes.

‘Can’t you just turn your poncho the other way out?’ she suggested.

‘But it’s all loose ends at the back!’ wailed Tamara.

Maisie Sue, who must have heard it all from inside her tent, bustled up to them. ‘Now, Tamara, just you come inside here with me and we’ll get you all cleaned up. I’ve got a real nice quilted jacket I can let you have to go on home in.’ She prodded disdainfully at the poncho. ‘You can leave this with me and I’ll get it laundered.’

‘It’s hand-knitted!’ sobbed Tamara. ‘It’ll never be the same again!’

‘There now,’ said Maisie Sue, patting the other woman on the shoulder. ‘It’s only a thing, you know. People are just so much more important.’

‘Do you think I don’t know that?’ said Tamara with a sniff. She allowed Maisie Sue to lead her away. They both ignored Amaryllis.

‘That went well, didn’t it?’ said Amaryllis to no-one in particular.

She nearly jumped out of her skin in turn when Christopher suddenly spoke just behind her.

‘What on earth did you do to the woman?’

‘Nothing! I didn’t do anything!’

‘Ha! I’ve heard that one before.’

She turned to face him. ‘Well, this time it’s true. I just called out to her.’

‘Maybe she thought you were really an elf,’ Christopher suggested.

Amaryllis turned this idea over in her mind, until it took on quite a different shape.

‘Christopher,’ she said slowly, ‘you know how in some detective novels the idiot character who goes around with the detective says something random, and it turns out to be the key to the whole thing?’

‘Maybe,’ he said, taking a moment to absorb what she had just said.

She shook her head slowly. ‘On second thoughts, I don’t think this is one of those times.’

‘It could be,’ he said. ‘What if she’s got a phobia about elves?’

‘Based on what? Being envious of people with long blonde hair, incredible beauty and an aura of something or other?’

Jock came out of the tram and approached them. He had evidently given up being Santa Claus for the day and was all ready to go to the Queen of Scots and make up for lost time.

‘Other-worldly serenity,’ he reminded her.

Amaryllis grabbed at his arm and spoke in a low voice. ‘Do you think Tamara’s daughter ever dressed up as an elf?’

‘How on earth should I know?’

‘Sssh. I’m trying to work out why she freaked out when she saw me.’

Jock laughed. ‘I don’t think it’s anything to do with the elf outfit.’

‘I’m not that scary. There must be more to it.’

‘That’s a matter of opinion,’ he said. ‘Are you coming into the Queen of Scots for a pint or not?’

‘Just give me a few more minutes here,’ said Amaryllis. ‘I’ll go and make peace with Tamara.’

‘Try not to make peace by eliminating her,’ said Christopher. She wondered if her comment about the idiot character in detective novels had percolated through to his brain. His manner did seem a bit cool. But, she told herself firmly as he and Jock went off towards the pub together, she wasn’t the sort of person who spent their time worrying about minute changes in other people’s attitudes to them. She had other, and much larger, fish to fry.

Tamara was still in the tent with Maisie Sue and Jan. Time for a cosy girlish chat, thought Amaryllis, trying to find enough inner strength to cope with the prospect. Although she had travelled widely, caught and interrogated plenty of ruthless men and women and defied death on several continents, Amaryllis was still terrified of cosy girlishness wherever it occurred.

She began by praising Jan’s tea-cosies. ‘It almost makes me wish I’d got further with my knitting.’

When Jan accepted this barefaced lie with a friendly smile, Amaryllis moved on to Maisie Sue’s table with increased confidence. Tamara was sitting down behind Maisie Sue, nursing one of Giancarlo’s coffees and staring about her with a nervous expression. Or perhaps that was only because she had spotted Amaryllis.

‘Is there a special name for that pattern, or is it something you’ve made up yourself?’ she said, pointing to one of the quilted cushions at random.

‘Good to see you, Amaryllis... I’ve been saying to Jan, I wonder if I should offer to take a turn at being an elf for a while so that Amaryllis can take a break... This one right here is a log cabin design. One of our traditional American patterns... Have you ever thought of learning to quilt? I could get you started, if you like. I’ve even got some starter packs of fat quarters here.... Look, here’s one with stars and stripes. Then there’s a cats pack right over here...’

Amaryllis tried to conceal a shudder. She suspected she would be as successful at quilting as she had been at knitting. Even the terminology was foreign to her.