Festival of Murder by Ross Macfarlane KC, Chapter 7: You’re Biting Your Bottom Lip
Ross Macfarlane’s short story serial specially for Edinburgh’s festival season continues
The Fringe Office
‘This is not acceptable! We’re going to sue…’
What is it about some people, that they think that the louder that they shout, the more likely it is that they will get what they want?
So it was at the Fringe Box Office with Abbie and the middle-aged American lady. Beyond obese, flamboyantly entitled and with those bat-wing glasses straight out of a Gary Larson cartoon, this was a person who was not used to being crossed. Even when she was wrong. The stream of unhappiness flowed on: ‘…we spent good money on those tickets, and we were sitting there and it was nothing but insults - and it was racism pure and simple. Just because we were American. I have a good mind to sue. My husband here is an attorney and has appeared in the Supreme Court…’
Standing behind her, the husband, a thin wee man with a pencil moustache, a Hawaiian shirt and a pair of John Lennon glasses, fiddled with his straw hat. He nodded and flashed a cautious smile exhibiting a gold tooth.
Abbie adopted her practised I feel your pain expression and gave a serious nod: ‘Well, what exactly was said?’
The lady spread her girth across the counter like melting plasticine and leaned in: ‘The man on the stage said: ‘Where are you from?’ I said ‘Arkansas.’ The man said: ‘Arkansas? Arkansas?’ He looked me up and down and said: ‘Is it true that the women in Arkansas are so fat, that they get their knickers on prescription…’ She pursed her lips.
‘So rude. And so unexpected. And we were sitting in the front row…’
*****
Wood smiled: ‘Something tells me that this was their first time at the Edinburgh Fringe?’
‘No shit, Grampa Sherlock! There should be a survival guide in the Fringe programme. Rule number one: at a comedy show, never sit in the front row!’
Grandfather and granddaughter sat in Thomas J Walls Coffee House, just up from the Greyfriars Bobby statue, with their two cappuccinos (extra hot) and sharing a slice of Guinness cake. Abbie chuckled: ‘And believe me - they weren’t the worst - they had a couple from Idaho last year wanting their money back for a production of ‘Hamlet’ - they said that the reviews were very good, but that the whole play was just a collection of cliches…’
Wood raised his cup: ‘Two countries divided by a common language…’
Abbie nodded and pointed her teaspoon at him: ‘Oscar Wilde.’ At that point, a *ting* came from Wood’s jacket pocket, the jacket hanging on the back of his chair. Wood ignored it. Abbie nodded over. ‘Are you not going to get that?’ The grandfather shook his head: ‘It’s not important.’
‘How do you know?’
‘I’m retired, Abbie. The rat race is run. My time is my own.’
‘Have a look anyway.’
‘It’s probably just JD sending me some highly inappropriate meme.’
‘All the more reason for us both to have a look…’
Wood laughed and reached back and into his pocket. He took out his phone and held it a distance from his face: ‘Forgot to bring my glasses…’. He read and frowned. Abbie raised her eyebrows: ‘Not what you were expecting?’
‘No…’
‘Don’t tell me - it’s a text about that accident that you had in the last three years that wasn’t your fault…’
Wood continued to read and frown: ‘Hmm…’
Abbie balled her fist in mock-frustration: ‘Grampa Wally, you’re driving me crazy - what is it?’
‘It appears to be a text from…from Maddy Price…’
‘“The Dolly Detective”?’ The granddaughter made an ‘ooo’ shape with her lips: ‘Ooooh - Maddy and Wally sitting up a tree…’
‘She wants to meet…’
‘Grampa Wally - you are the man! An old man, but still the man…’
‘Shoosh, I’m trying to read this.’
‘I’ll make you a tee-shirt: “Wallace Wood - 67 - but still got it!’’
‘…about the case…’
‘The Lady in Red?’
‘Yes. She is going to interview Rose Bryant’s son, and she wants to know if I want to sit in.’
Abbie pursed her lips: “I’m not a cop, Grampa Wally, but that sounds well dodgy. You being there, I mean.’
Wood raised his eyebrows: ‘I’m not a cop either, but…yes…it would be odd. That said, she says that it’s just an informal chat with the lad and she would appreciate my take on him. Apparently, the son is doing a one-man show at the Fringe and we could meet him at the venue at The Counting House.’
Abbie frowned: ‘What show is it?’
‘She didn’t say…’
‘What’s the artist’s name?’
‘The ‘Lady in Red’ was Rose Bryant - it’s her son, Alex, so….’
‘Alex Bryant?’
‘Presumably…’
Abbie began to bite her bottom lip. Wood frowned: ‘You’re biting your bottom lip…’
‘And your point, caller?’
Wood raised an eyebrow: ‘You know something I don’t. What is it?’
‘Have you seen the poster?’
‘No.’
Abbie nodded over towards his phone: ‘What time is the meeting?’
Wood shrugged: ‘In about an hour - if I’m up for it?’
‘You up for it?’
Wood shrugged in an I Suppose So kind of gesture.
Abbie started to chuckle: ‘Ooooh, Grampa - phone me afterwards and tell me all about it…’
*****
Festival of Murder continues tomorrow in: In Retrospect, The Signs Were There
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