A Little Something Extra

“How is this possible?” she said. “She ran a knicker emporium for about a million years. Where did she get the money to buy up Invertary? Are you sure this isn’t one of her sick pranks? That she didn’t just pay someone to fake ownership? Does she really own anything at all?”

“I’m sure,” Dougal said. “Because we double-checked everything.” He motioned to Lake, owner of Benson Security. “Your son-in-law investigated the whole thing for the council.”

Lake, who sat beside Betty, gave his mother-in-law a sympathetic nod. “It’s true. She really does own half the town.”

And Betty cackled some more. Having the time of her life, as usual. How Lake Benson and Jodie Miller-Harris could stand being around the woman for any length of time was a mystery to everyone who lived in Invertary. The only explanation anyone had come up with that made any sense was that they were both English and, therefore, didn’t know any better.

“How did you do it?” Margaret demanded of Betty. “Who did you steal from?”

“Nobody.” The old woman grinned. “I’m just smarter than everybody in this room, and more besides.” And then she was laughing again.

“As you can probably guess,” Dougal said as he glared at Betty. “The problem isn’t that Betty owns half of the town, it’s that she won’t sell to the rest of us.”

The outrage was loud, and Betty seemed to feed off it, preening as though she were center stage at the Oscars. As everyone watched, she launched herself off her chair and waddled to the podium.

“Out of my way,” she told Dougal with a shove.

Dougal stepped aside while he prayed for the strength not to murder the woman in front of him. She reached for the microphone and angled it down so she could speak into it.

“It’s true,” she said. “I own all the empty real estate in this town and some of the stuff you lot pay rent on.”

“Holy crap,” someone shouted. “I need to check my rental agreement. What’s the name of the trust that manages the properties for her?”

“Tartan Terror Inc.,” Betty announced.

A wail went up from another part of the room. “I’ve been paying my bakery’s rent to Satan,” Morag McKay cried.

At that, Betty laughed hard. “Aye, and it’s going to go up an’ all. You’re skimping on the meat in your pies, and I’ve had enough of it.”

More outraged shouting broke out around the room.

“How can she be wealthy and dress in tartan rubbish bags?” Jean demanded.

“Why has she waited this long to tell us she owns the place?” Shona shouted.

“Because,” Betty said through the sound system, “unlike the rest of you, I know how to play the long game. I knew that one day, you were going to wise up to the potential of our wee town, and I would be there to cash in on it. It’s amazing what selling knickers will net you. While you were buying fancy dresses to woo the likes of this idiot here”—she cocked a thumb at Dougal, who turned red at the memory of his short dalliance with Jean—“I was buying property when it was dirt cheap, because nobody else wanted it.” Her grin was pure evil. “Well, look who wants it now.” And then she started laughing again.

“Lake,” Dougal called to one of the only people in the room who could corral Betty.

With a shake of his head, the Englishman dragged a chair over beside the lectern and put Betty on it. He stood beside her, his feet apart and his arms folded, while Dougal returned to the mic. It was unclear whether Lake’s stance was an attempt to protect Betty from the angry mob or to protect everyone else from Betty.

“Settle down,” Dougal called, but no one listened. He banged his gavel several times as he shouted, “I said, settle down!”

There was reluctant settling.

“Okay, so here’s the thing. Betty has said she’s open to negotiation over the properties in her portfolio.” And didn’t that sentence just stick in the throat? “Unfortunately, being Betty, she doesn’t only want to negotiate with the prospective buyers. She wants to negotiate with the whole town. Apparently, there are a few things she’d like to happen before she considers selling. Things she needs to…” He gave her a look of disgust before forming air quotes around what he had to say next, “put her in the mood.”

The loud groans were very much heartfelt by everyone in the room.

“I made a list,” Betty announced, before digging into her handbag.

She came out with a piece of paper covered in tomato sauce stains. At least, Dougal hoped they were sauce and not the blood of some other poor sucker she’d tortured to death with her sense of humor.

“Microphone,” she snapped at Dougal, as though he were her servant.

For a second, his head felt like it might explode, then he remembered she had him over a barrel if he wanted to build his conference center, and he was pretty sure steam came out of his ears.

Lake cocked an eyebrow at Dougal, took the mic, and gave it to Betty. “Don’t let her get to you,” he said. “She loves it.”