A Wee Murder in My Shop (A ScotShop Mystery)

A Paranormal Purchase

I looked at the shawl I still held. Ridiculous. It couldn’t be that old. Anyway, would anyone sell something that had been in the family for so long? I was being spun a tale. Still, I liked the feel of the shawl. “I’ll take it,” I said, and cringed. I’d just made the worst mistake a buyer can make. The woman knew I wanted it, so the price would go up accordingly.

“Of course ye do, lassie,” she said. “It’s been waiting for ye all these years. Ye are the one.”

I’m afraid I gawked at her. The one what?

“’Tis so,” she said. “The shawl is yours. It always has been. Can’t ye tell?” She reached out and took it from me, holding it up under my chin. She nodded. “Aye.”

At that moment, feeling almost as if I were in a trance, I think I would have paid any amount for it. But the price she named was reasonable indeed, and I paid it without hesitation, silently blessing the woman for her lack of avarice.

“It’s a Farquharson,” she said. “Did ye ken that?”

“No,” I told her, “I’m not familiar with that clan,” and started toward the door.

“Och, ye soon will be,” she said.

I held the shawl tight against me as I headed back toward the main street. I couldn’t imagine what she meant . . .

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A WEE MURDER IN MY SHOP

A Berkley Prime Crime Book / published by arrangement with the author

Copyright © 2015 by Fran Stewart.

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eBook ISBN: 978-1-101-63952-8

PUBLISHING HISTORY

Berkley Prime Crime mass-market edition / March 2015

Cover illustration by Jesse Reisch.

Cover design by Diana Kolsky.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

I would be remiss if I didn’t thank these special people who’ve helped me on this ScotShop journey: my agent, John Talbot, who found me to begin with, and whose quiet encouragement spurred me to a better story; researcher par excellence, Erica Dagny Jensen, whose expertise about Middle English kept me from making numerous egregious mistakes; Nanette Littlestone (who edits my Biscuit McKee Mysteries), for reading this manuscript and catching a number of errors early on; Andy Andreasen, who answered my numerous questions about old safes. If Peggy’s safe isn’t up to scrutiny, it’s my fault, not Andy’s; my NLAPW and Sapelo Island compatriot Mozelle Funderburk, who is the only person I’ve ever known who’s fallen off the frame around a dinosaur exhibit; Darlene Carter, my dear friend and Master Mind buddy, who listened to me whine without ever judging me; my friends Peggy Dixon and Karaline “Petie” Ogg, who loaned me their first names; and the original “Tessa,” who, via her mom, Jan Grimshaw, got into this series; C. Scott Rogers, who (five decades ago) taught me the value of silence; my heart-connected editor, Michelle Vega, whose diligent attention to what was important—and what wasn’t—gave me one of the greatest gifts an author can receive: a chance to place absolute trust in my editor; Andy Ball, whose copyediting expertise polished my words like hidden jewels—his attention to detail blew my (virtual) socks off; and the entire managing editorial staff at Berkley Prime Crime, who took my manuscript and turned it into something beautiful.

The Benefits of Yoga

Y
oga is supposed to relax you, isn’t it? But the yoga manuals never say anything about what kind of breath to take when yoga class ended early because the teacher’s water broke and you crept into your boyfriend’s house at ten p.m. as a special surprise and found Andrea, your as-of-this-very-minute
former
best friend ever since fourth grade in bed with your as-of-this-very-minute
former
almost fiancé.

“I thought you were at yoga class,” Mason said, and, yoga composure be damned, I hauled off and slugged him. Then I took a strangled breath—the kind yoga practitioners always make fun of—and threw my key at his formerly well-loved head. I stomped down the stairs, slammed the front door, opened it, and slammed it again. Then I ran to Karaline’s house. Karaline Logg. My friend. My real friend. A better friend than Andrea Stone, damn her hide. So what if Karaline had to get up at three thirty? This was an emergency.

“Kill him,” she told me after I’d sobbed and sworn and gurgled and howled numerous times and in no particular order. “Think of it as a thirtieth birthday present to yourself, and it’ll make you feel better.”

I growled and punched her couch cushion. “Hell isn’t hot enough for Mason Kilmarty.”

“That’s
cold
enough, Peggy.” We’d both read Dante. His version of hell was frozen over, colder than a Vermont winter.

She swiped her hand as if to erase all thought of Mason. “You still planning on going tomorrow?”

“Yeah.”

“So, by the time you get back from Scotland, he’ll be sorry as a hound dog in a skunk hole.” She’d never liked Mason, or Andrea either. “He’ll try to get you to take him back.”

I made a face. “I wouldn’t take him back if he crawled.”

Karaline yawned. Her grandfather clock chimed quite a few times. “Go home,” she told me, “before I turn into a pumpkin.”

By that time I felt better, even though Karaline would have to get up in a few hours to start making maple pancake batter for the tourists. “Like I said,” she reminded me as I left, “just kill him and be done with it.”

A Shawl of My Own

I
made it through the morning somehow, and I didn’t even speed too much as I drove to Burlington to catch my flight to New York. The layover at JFK was long, but I always had my e-books. This time, though, they weren’t as much comfort as usual. The night flight to London was the normal hassle with all the increased airport regulations, yet I felt unusually restless, unable to snooze on the plane the way I generally did. I started to doze, but visions of Andrea—why did she have to have such a gorgeous body?
Stop it, Peggy.
I kept telling myself that, but then, just as I was about to doze off again, I thought about Karaline’s solution to the problem. Tempting. Maybe I’d get arrested by that new cop in town, the one with the exquisite eyes. Officer Harper. Then I could explain the reasons—justifiable homicide, isn’t that what it’s called?—and he’d let me go, after a suitable interlude of . . .
Stop it, Peggy.

A woman sitting across the narrow aisle wore a red-and-green Kilgour tartan skirt. Kilgour was close enough to Kilmarty—Mason Kilmarty—to set me off again. I pulled out my cell phone and reprogrammed all his numbers to read JUNK on my caller ID. I considered something a bit more graphic but decided I didn’t need to lower myself.

Then I worked on my calendar, blocking off one whole day the Sunday after next to balance my checkbook. I was four months behind on it. Somehow or other the statements just kept piling up. I was pretty sure I had enough money in there, but it would be a good idea if I knew for certain. I blocked off that Saturday night for the surprise party Karaline was giving Drew and me—the party I wasn’t supposed to know about. Eventually I dozed.

At Heathrow, I practically staggered onto my flight to Edinburgh, and by the time I eventually stepped off the bus in Pitlochry, my eyes were as droopy as a basset hound’s. I took a deep yoga breath to wake myself up, and in came that special air of Scotland. Not that it was particularly special next to the bus; it was just the thought of what awaited me here in this town I loved. I waited for a large family to clear out of my way, then looked around. Linklater Sinclair always met me at the station. There he was, kilt ruffling around his sturdy legs as he stepped forward to take my bag.

“Mr. Sinclair,” I said. “Thank you for meeting me.”

“As if I wouldna?” he said, scrunching his gray eyebrows together in what I had learned over the past six years was his way of covering a sweetness I’d seldom seen in a man before. I think he was old enough to be my father, maybe even old enough to be my grandfather. I’d never had the nerve to ask him his age.

He wore his kilt, in the muted blues and greens of the Sinclair hunting tartan, as if it had been made for him, as I supposed it had. It suited him somehow. Well worn, with a slightly shabby texture to it, he wore it with an ease and a grace that I often wished American men would—could—adopt. But no. Life was different in Scotland. Slower. I did wonder briefly, not for the first time, what Officer Harper would look like in a kilt. Too bad our Hamelin town cops wore dark blue pants. Kilts would have been more in tune with the tourist aspect of the town. I put that thought out of my head, though, as I smiled at the sparkling blue eyes of my dear Scot friend.

He looked me over, ran his free hand through his silvery white hair, handed me into the left front seat, and stuffed my bag in the trunk—the boot. I’d been to Scotland on numerous buying trips, and I had never mustered up the courage to drive. If I were on the road all by myself and driving slowly enough, I was sure I could remember which side to drive on. But approaching a traffic circle—they called it a roundabout—I knew I’d always go the wrong direction. And if an oncoming car appeared on a narrow road, I knew I’d dive to the right without thinking. If it weren’t for Linklater Sinclair, I’d have been dead twelve times over. Thank goodness I’d found him and his wife on my first visit to Perthshire.

“Will ye be wanting to go straight to town first,” he asked in a tone that clearly said I’d better not, “or do ye need to freshen yourself? Mrs. Sinclair will want to see ye, and there’s always time for tea.”

As much as I wished to get into the shops, a quick inventory of my head warned me how fuzzy it was. A bracing cup of tea would do it, I thought.
Good grief, I never say “a bracing cup of tea” when I’m in the States. Must be something in the atmosphere.
“I’d love a cup,” I told him, and I wasn’t surprised when he nodded emphatically.

The Sinclairs had a quiet sort of respect for each other. In the six years I’d known them—I always stayed at their bed-and-breakfast when I was in Perthshire—neither one of them had ever said an unkind word about the other, and they tended to finish each other’s sentences.

He pulled up in front of their small cottage, where a compact stone wall surrounded a neat garden of herbs and flowers. Climbing roses arched over the paned windows of the tidy stone structure. I knew from experience that the house was considerably deeper than it looked, and the roses surrounded the house on all four sides.

My room—they rented it to others when I wasn’t there, but I couldn’t help but think of it as my very own—was a cozy garret in back above the kitchen, reached by a narrow, twisting stairway. The climbing rose that grew up to my window had yellow blossoms. It wouldn’t be blooming yet, but I’d seen the Sinclair roses at every season and loved them regardless of the time of year.

Mrs. Sinclair opened the front door and waved me inside. I didn’t throw my arms around her sturdy body, even though that was what I wanted to do. Mr. Sinclair followed with my bag. The first time I stayed with them, I’d brought four suitcases—four! Ridiculous. Mr. Sinclair had gently refused to let me carry any of them inside. “Part of the service we offer, lassie,” he told me. I’d wondered about his ability to carry them up those stairs but learned soon enough not to worry about him. He could walk circles around Mrs. Sinclair and me when the three of us hiked the dirt and gravel trail up the side of Ben y Vrackie, the friendly mountain that loomed a mile or so to the north of Pitlochry. It had been a couple of years, though, since I’d hiked it with them.

When I walked into the Sinclairs’ front room, Bruce, their aging Scottish terrier, made eye contact and slowly lowered his head onto the edge of his round padded bed.

I looked at Mr. Sinclair and he shook his head. “The wee boy is feeling his age.”

Bruce picked his head back up, hauled himself to his feet, stepped across the edge of the soft bed, and came over to sniff my feet.

I bent to scratch his wiry head. “You’re just taking your time, aren’t you? That’s okay, boy.”

Mr. Sinclair had been telling me for the past few years that I needed
a wee dog
of my own—a Scottie, naturally—but with Shorty, my cat, I wasn’t sure a dog would work out. Anyway, I got plenty of doggie kisses from my brother’s dog every time they dropped by. Still, I could imagine a Scottie in the ScotShop. Maybe with a little tartan jacket? I whipped out my phone and took a picture of Bruce as he lay back down.

I wasn’t even a third of the way though my cup of tea when Mrs. Sinclair said, “So, what’s bothering ye, dearie? Ye’re not . . .”

“. . . your usual bright self,” her husband concluded for her. “We can tell there’s something wrong.”

As much as I hated to disturb the peace of their cottage with my lousy love life, I needed their sense of perspective. “It’s Mason,” I said.

“Mason Kilmarty?” Mrs. Sinclair rubbed her chin thoughtfully. “Wasna that the young man . . .”

“. . . ye were stepping out with, no?” Mr. Sinclair’s eyes wrinkled in worry.

“He’s not my young man anymore.” I tried to sound matter-of-fact, but the look on their faces told me I’d failed. Often enough they’d listened to me brag about how well suited Mason and I were to each other. In retrospect, I wondered if I’d been trying to convince myself. “We broke up night before last.” They looked so concerned, I added quickly, “It’s okay. I’m fine, really.”

Mrs. Sinclair pursed her lips. “He found someone else?”

“The rat turd,” Mr. Sinclair pronounced at the same time, and Bruce growled from his doggie bed.

I laughed in spite of myself. “That’s about the size of it.”

He set down his cup. “So now ye are free . . .”

“. . . to find just the right one for ye.” The Sinclairs passed a look back and forth between them, soft as an ancient velvet box designed to hold love letters. Finally, she stood, setting the teacups onto a tray. “Why do ye not head into town before the shops close,” she said, but without a question in her voice. “Mr. Sinclair will drive ye.”

“No,” I said. “I’ll walk. It’s only half a mile.”

“Aye, and he’s going to drive ye there and bring ye back as weel.”

I knew a losing battle when I saw one. “Well, that will be a help if I collect any packages.”

“Of course ye will,” she scoffed. “When did ye never have parcels to lug around?”

I thanked her and ran upstairs to change from my wrinkled travel clothes. I took a moment to lean out the window and sniff. I knew there weren’t roses blooming now, but I could swear I smelled them, not exactly a rose smell but something sweet and springlike. I turned around and spotted a bouquet of early wildflowers on the dresser beside a heavy pewter candlestick. The yellowed candle matched the color of the wild daisies. I’d walked right by without seeing them. My head was fuzzy indeed. I’d need to go to bed early.

*   *   *

Mr. Sinclair dropped
me off at one end of the Atholl Road, Pitlochry’s main shopping street. “I’ll come back whenever ye’re ready with your parcels, my dear,” he told me as I lugged myself out of the car. I was more tired than I’d thought. “If ye need to warm up”—he pointed down the street to where his sister had a lovely little tearoom I’d visited often—“ring me, and I’ll come to fetch ye.” He patted the worn cloth seat beside him with what looked to me like deep affection.

He’d always told me the same thing, every time I’d been in his car. He didn’t often drive me into town, only if the weather was blustery or if rain was in the offing. Same words. Same intonation, his light tenor voice sounding like a rather settled golden retriever. He even looked like a retriever, an old one. His white hair swept to one side from a part that hopped around the left side of his head. His habit of running a hand—sometimes both of them at once—through his hair any time of day made tidiness impossible.

I stepped out of the car and leaned down to look at him again. “I won’t be long.”

He arched his bushy black eyebrows, which were an odd contrast to his silvery hair. “In that case, I’ll wait at least two hours before I come back.”

I laughed. “No, I mean it.”

Despite my indignation, or maybe because of it, he chuckled and headed back the way we’d come.

I waved and started along the main thoroughfare but stopped as I came to a side street bordered by a low wall of stacked stone. I couldn’t remember ever having walked down that way. I headed toward a tall larch tree about halfway down the lane but was sidetracked by a gated arbor covered with an early blooming vine I didn’t recognize. The flowers were a dark peach color with darker brown veins in the petals. Feathery leaves whorled around the sinuous stems like Christmas greenery around a bannister. I breathed in an almost citrusy scent with an underlying spicy hint of—of what? Cinnamon? I glanced through the arbor to see a little stone shop tucked in between two rowan trees. A discreet sign in the door said
Open
. I ducked through the gateway under the bower of fragrant blossoms.

Three women stood inside, huddled in conversation. They looked up at me, and one of them, wearing a blue-and-green plaid skirt, motioned me farther in. “Ye are well come to the Scot Shop,” she said.

What a lovely old-fashioned phrase, I thought as I closed the door behind me, but all I said was, “To the what?”

“The Scot Shop. Did ye no see the sign beside the door?”

“No, I didn’t notice it. I guess I was too busy looking at your flowers. Have you been here long?” They looked a bit confused until I added, “I’ve been to Pitlochry many times and never saw your store before today.”

“Aye. Well. That’s no bother. Ye’ve found us now.”

“I’m intrigued with the name. I own a store called the ScotShop back in the States. I come here often on buying trips.”

“Do ye now?”

One of the other women spoke up. “The Scot Shop? For aye? Like this?” She waved her arm in a slow arc that took in the whole room.

“I live in a tourist town called Hamelin. It was founded by Scots years ago. Many of the men in town wear kilts.”

The first woman nodded. “And would ye be wearing an arisaidh yourself?”

“Oh, yes, at least when I’m working at the store. That or just a long skirt, white blouse, and tartan scarf.”

“That’s lovely. Feel free to look around, dear. Let me know if ye have any questions.”

I thanked her and moved to my right, but a sudden impulse turned me toward the back left corner of the shop, where I saw piles of felted fabric. It was darker there. I normally prefer a brightly lit store, but this was Scotland, after all, and I supposed the darkened corner was deliberately planned to invoke a sense of mystery. The items certainly did seem a bit mysterious. No price tags, for one thing. I touched as I went—I do love the feel of wool, particularly fabrics that are handwoven.