Hooked on Ewe (14 page)

I murmured something comforting, but my thoughts were elsewhere. Another mistake that Senga Hill had made. Another mistake that had led to her termination. Was she a vengeful woman? Had she killed Isla for accusing her of poor accounting skills? That hardly seemed likely. I paused to recall the timeline of Senga’s employment, and was certain that Senga had worked for Ginny in the spring and for the hospice during the summer. If she was going to kill someone over losing a job, wouldn’t her first victim have been Ginny Davis at Taste of Scotland? Ginny, though, was a sweetheart. Isla was a whole ’nother story.

A few minutes later, I wished her a good day, tromped down the stairs, rounded the corner, and paused beside the trash bin. Senga claimed that she’d thrown away a sleeping pill sample. What if she’d lied to me? What if she used her sample to knock out Isla before choking her to death?

Was I really considering digging through her trash?

But if I found it, that would be something. Not much,
but better than nothing. We’d have proof that her sample wasn’t used as a special ingredient in a cupcake.

And if I didn’t find it? What would that prove?

Someone else might have taken it. I couldn’t rule that out. But not finding it would throw a very bad light on the baker.

Senga had obviously had access to those cupcakes. She’d been the one to make them, so of course she had plenty of opportunities to tamper with one. By her own admission, she’d also been given a sleeping pill sample, and had been let go from Taste of Scotland for making customers ill. Not only that, the recently murdered Isla had been the reason Senga also wasn’t working at the hospice office any longer.

We only had Senga’s word for it that she hadn’t given Isla a cupcake. And having her yarn kit didn’t exonerate her. She could have stolen someone else’s and used their yarn. The important thing to do was track down every single kit until we found which one was missing. That kit’s owner wouldn’t necessarily be the killer, but it was the best place to begin. Not here in a garbage can.

Or so I told myself even as I placed Senga’s knitting kit on the walkway and began digging in her trash. It seemed like an investigator sort of thing to follow up on.

The trash receptacles were shared by several apartments. There was way too much waste for one household, and the communal trash—dirty diapers, canned fish remains, stinky odorous food—was made worse since multiple days’ worth had accumulated. Worse yet, when I didn’t find any pill samples in the top layers of either bin, I was forced to delve deeper.

And deeper.

The only positive thing about this task was that there weren’t many windows facing the walkway between the apartments, or I would have been exposed to any tenant looking out. I certainly didn’t want to get caught by any of the tenants, but if I did, at least I had a warrant to present, which was something, but it would have been embarrassing at best.

My phone rang when I was elbow deep in garbage. I fumbled to answer it before the sound gave me away.

“How is it going on yer end?” the inspector’s voice came through loud and clear after I greeted him in a whisper.

“Messy,” I replied.

“I’ve traced those sleeping pills tae Doc Keen,” he told me. If I could find any amusement in anything at the moment, it was in knowing I was several piles of garbage ahead of him. “He’s been offering samples tae some o’ his customers.”

“How many pills in each sample?”

“Two.”

Next, I asked him to describe the package and learned that the two capsules came in a two-inch-by-two-inch heavy-duty clear plastic container. “The capsules are red on the one half and gold on the other,” he added.

Red and gold. Bright colors to be searching for in a heap of garbage. At least they would stand out. I was almost through with one trash can and about to move on to the second.

“Did you get a list of patients who he gave samples to?” I inquired.

The inspector sighed on the other end. “I’ve known Doc Keen since I was a wee lad,” he said. “The doc is an intuitive physician, as good as they come, but he doesn’t always abide by the proper rules as they pertain tae this modern day and age.”

“He’s not hiding behind patient confidentiality, then?” I said.

“That would be proper use o’ the rules, but not valid as a legitimate excuse when it comes tae cooperating with a murder investigation. No, after dodging my questions, he finally came clean that he’s been giving them out freely tae his patients over the last month or so without keeping any records.”

“So you have no idea who received them?” I asked. I had every intention of telling him about Senga’s sample, but I hoped to find it first.

“That’s aboot right. Although I asked if he’d given any tae the hospice fer distribution tae the patients, and he hadn’t. And he hadn’t given any tae the hospital, either, due tae the fact that it has a strict policy against using samples. So his own patients are the extent o’ it.”

“How can he be so sure that the sample salesman didn’t leave any at the hospice?”

“Doctor Keen is consultant physician fer the hospice. All changes regarding medical protocols and medications like that have tae be approved through him.”

“But staff members might be able to obtain them?”

“If they are his patients
and
they saw him in the last month, aye. It would make it more difficult fer us if the physicians at Kirkwall Hospital also were disbursing
samples. I’ve asked the doc tae make a list of patients from memory, but just tae be on the safe side, I confirmed with the hospice and hospital. He remembered that much at least. Neither has samples.”

“Even if we tracked them all down, those patients might have given them to someone else,” I said, fighting disappointment.

“Aye, there’s that. Our job isn’t any easy one, is it?”

“I’ll call you back in a few minutes,” I said. “I’m sort of in the middle of something.”

In the thick of things, actually.

We disconnected, and I went back to work. In the end, nobody came along to ask what I was doing. But I didn’t find any sleeping pill samples, either. Had Senga Hill lied to me? If so, why bring up the pills at all? Because she thought we’d find out anyway?

Afterward, with garbage aroma wafting from my clothes (which became particularly pungent in the confines of my car even with the windows open), I called the inspector and related the conversation Sean and I’d had with the owner of Taste of Scotland, my subsequent interrogation of Senga, the discovery that she’d gotten those sleeping pills from Doc Keen, and how I’d searched through the garbage without finding proof that she’d thrown them out.

“I have tae admire ye,” he said when I finished. “Ye followed that lead tae its final conclusion.”

That didn’t sound quite as sincere as I’d hoped. I detected amusement in his tone along with a concerted effort to remain professional.

Then he was gone, but not before I heard him laughing out loud as the connection terminated.

“Very funny,” I said into the phone, even though he wasn’t there to hear me.

Now I didn’t feel nearly as bad about keeping the information about certain unsent kits from him. That would teach him to laugh at me.

Besides, I rationalized—I deserved to handle this one by myself.

I was going to take Kirstine down single-handedly.

When I arrived at the farm, Vicki was in what she refers to as her yarning room, a small bedroom that she’d converted for her own use. There she had created her Poppy Red yarn skeins, dying and spinning them from the farm’s wool. Ordinarily, her presence in this room would be an encouraging sign. She could usually be found there wearing an apron and a pair of yellow gloves, surrounded by sponges, and brushes, and all the other tools of her trade. Today, she sat at her painting table, apronless, with her two Westies sleeping at her feet and her hands clasped together on the table as she stared listlessly into space.

Coco and Pepper perked up at my arrival and ran over, discovering plentiful odors on my pant legs to indulge their canine senses. Vicki glanced up, did a double take, and said, “What happened to you?”

“I’ll explain later,” I said, heading for the kitchen where I washed my hands at the sink while making a mental list
of future investigation supplies to purchase. Disposable gloves were at the top of the list. Vicki followed me at a distance, but the Westies were right on my heels, loving the new me. “I need a shower and a change of clothes,” I told her unnecessarily.

Wrinkling her nose in distaste, she said, “I’ll agree with that.” Then she slunk back to her yarn room, shoulders hunched, dragging her feet.

I trailed behind, drying my hands on a towel. Coco and Pepper were right with me.

Vicki plunked down and said, “I’ve decided to end the skein-of-the-month club. After what happened to Isla, I can’t continue it.”

My eyes traveled over her worktables, taking in the batches of wool in varying stages of completion. Vicki had a knack for turning wool into beautiful fiber, and I enjoyed watching the process, from sorting and washing to carding (which she told me means combing the wool to straighten the strands), then dying the fleece before spinning it into yarn.

“You can’t give up,” I told her.

“I have.”

“And look how that decision has affected you. You’ve thrown in the towel.” In my frustration, I literally threw the kitchen towel down on the table. “How does that make you feel? Pretty awful, right?”

Vicki stared at me with wide eyes, before sputtering, “It’s too late anyway. I couldn’t possibly be ready by October first.”

“So, you regroup. Notify your members. Shoot for November.”

Vicki shook her head. “I can’t.”

But I wasn’t about to give up yet. “I have an idea! This month’s kits will be released for distribution at some point, after the murder is solved. We’ll send them once that happens, or not at all if you think that’s best. And we’ll notify the members that the club will resume in November. Or even December. That gives you time to make enough skeins for all the knitters on your waiting list, too.”

“I don’t know.”

Well, at least that wasn’t a no.

“How about mittens? Holiday mittens. And . . .”

“No red yarn!” Vicki was listening.

“No red,” I agreed. “Blue? Green? Silver? All three?”

I could see the beginning of renewed interest in her eyes. They weren’t dull anymore.

“Apple green, lime, and a sunshine yellow,” she said. “That would be a great combination.”

“Perfect.”

“And I’ll call them Merry Mittens!”

“That’s the spirit.”

“I need to get to work.”

Vicki had her groove back.

“I made some calls,” she said as she draped plastic over her painting table, already inspired to begin. It took me a few seconds to realize we were back on the subject of this month’s yarn kits. “No one has received them yet.” She paused and frowned in thought. “It seems odd. They should have arrived by now.”

“They’ll turn up,” I assured her. Now that I’d put a smile back on her face, I wasn’t going to turn around and wipe
it off. Besides, Vicki would find out soon enough that Kirstine hadn’t mailed the kits. Knowing Vicki and her tumultuous relationship with her half sister, I didn’t want her to blow her stack and interfere with my own takedown of Kirstine.

I left my friend to begin her new project, showered at my cottage (much to the chagrin of Coco and Pepper, who’d insisted on accompanying me to my tiny home), and then I walked down the lane toward the shop.

Why Kirstine had done what she’d done—or rather, not done—was easy to figure out. She’d obviously wanted to sabotage Vicki’s efforts to get the yarn club off the ground. Kirstine didn’t want her half sister to succeed. Her actions had been vindictive and petty and she was about to pay for being so mean-spirited.

Where would she have stashed those packages? I’d bet anything they were still in the back of the shop or in the trunk of her car. In the boot, as the Scots call it. What foreign words the people of this country use, or at least they’re strange to an American like me—boot instead of trunk, bonnet instead of hood, petrol instead of gas, and that’s only the car terms.

Anyway, I’d have to get into the back room of the shop, because I was positive I wasn’t going to get that search warrant, in spite of my wishful thinking. If the unmailed kits weren’t there, then I’d have to figure out how to search her trunk.

For a fleeting moment, I considered stepping aside and handing this over to the inspector. That would be the most practical choice. But the conflict with Kirstine had turned
personal for me. Kirstine had been nasty to my friend. I wanted to see justice served in my own way. So, I headed toward Sheepish Expressions for a showdown.

I saw volunteers out in the fields, dismantling the large refreshment tent, disassembling gates and pens, and picking up litter. If the event had gone off as planned, without the tragedy of murder, I would’ve been out there with them. But things had gone more than a little awry. Instead, I was about to have a confrontation over the willful withholding of information pertinent to the investigation.

Life takes strange turns sometimes.

A compact car pulled up next to me on the side of the lane, and Lily Young climbed out of the driver’s seat of an aqua blue Mazda, while Oliver Wallace unfolded from the passenger side. He was wearing the same gray Wellies with yellow soles that he’d worn for the trials, but he had a deflated air about him today, far from the self-assurance he’d displayed Saturday morning.

I wasn’t exactly pleased to see them. After all, I was on a personal vendetta mission, and they were about to slow me down.

“Oliver’s been whining about helping today,” Lily informed me, and I couldn’t help noticing that she was glowing, in spite of her lack of any sort of makeup. Her nose was in the process of peeling, but the glow radiating from her didn’t have anything to do with too many rays. I’d seen the same shine on Sean recently. Interesting.

The sun above wasn’t nearly as bright as the light from this woman, despite her less-than-sunny words. “Oliver is coming up with all kinds o’ reasons tae avoid manual labor,” she continued with a flirt in her voice, “but I told
him the only people with valid excuses are Bryan and Andrea, who has her hands full caring fer her brother. She’s always been there fer him, more like a mum than a sister. And she’s putting her nursing skills tae good use these days, having takin’ time off from her duties at the hospice.”

“It’s not helping out that has me bothered,” Oliver told her. “It’s having tae sit in the passenger seat o’ yer cracker box. I’ve never been good at shrinkin’ back down tae the size o’ a peanut, or ant, or some such thing.”

Lily giggled. “Yes, I noticed. And ye’re a horrible backseat driver.”

“When will the police release your van?” I asked Oliver, noting that his sunburn had already faded away completely and been replaced by the kind of tan that Leith had, an outdoorsy one. Lucky Oliver. Most Scots just burned and peeled, and never really tanned.

“If the coppers know when they’ll part with my van, they aren’t informing me,” he replied. “Until then I’m at the mercy o’ this mad driver.”

Lily beamed. Did she have something for Oliver? If so, how had I missed that during the fund-raiser? Probably because I had been more interested in ditching the welcoming committee than being part of it, I admitted. But if Lily did have romantic feelings for Oliver, I wasn’t sure he’d noticed. My initial frustration with Lily and Oliver disappeared. Kirstine wasn’t going any place until the shop closed and that was hours away. I had time for these two.

“I’m thinking I will have tae trade in the van after what happened,” he said to me. “I get a sick sensation in the pit o’ my stomach every time I think o’ you opening the side door and Isla . . .”

He couldn’t go on at that point, pausing to compose himself. Lily placed a hand on his shoulder. Oliver reached up and put a hand over hers and said, “You’re a good hen, Lily.” Then he moved away a few steps, straightened his back, and said to me, “Have ye seen Harry Taggart?”

I glanced out into the field. “He could be in the field with the others. I haven’t been out there yet myself.”

“He should be around here someplace.” Lily scanned the field. “That looks like his truck on the far side.” She pointed to a vehicle I recognized. I’d seen Harry driving it around the village. Then she went on, “Harry isn’t too pleased with our fund-raising efforts. He’s disheartened by the returns.”

“But everything sold out!” I said, stunned. “Programs, food, drinks, the raffles were successful, we had more spectators than we originally anticipated. I thought it was a huge success.”

“I agree,” she said. “It appeared tae be the best fund-raiser o’ the lot; I don’t know what more he expected.”

“I believe Harry was speaking about prior events,” Oliver said. “He couldn’t possibly have a financial report on this one so soon.”

Lilly scowled. “Well, instead o’ complaining, he should count himself lucky fer his hospice that Isla’s body dinnae turn up until late in the event,” she said, “or he’d’ve been unhappier still.”

Oliver’s face registered shock. “Lily! What a thing tae say!”

“Well, it’s true. If we’d found her in the morning, our fund-raising efforts woulda ended before they even began.”

Oliver looked concerned. “Well, ye shouldn’t say things like that out loud, fer goodness’ sake. The inspector will turn his sights on ye and ye’ll have some answering tae do. Or Eden here will get the wrong idea. She’s workin’ with the inspector, ye know.”

“I never made it a secret that I couldn’t stand her.” Lily sniffed.

“But ye don’t have tae announce it tae the world, either.”

Lily looked as though she may have gone too far. “I only meant . . .” She didn’t finish.

“Why didn’t you like her?” I asked.

“You knew her. Did you like her?”

Good point.

“We simply had a clash o’ personality,” Lily explained. “Ever since we were wee children. Surely, ye can understand that, Oliver.”

As a new law enforcement recruit, it was fascinating to watch the interplay between Lily and Oliver. Working from a professional point of view was turning out to be enlightening. Common sense dictated that I shouldn’t indulge in idle gossip. However, I had free rein to encourage locals to inform on one another, and I wasn’t beyond instigating conflict amongst them. I considered this as Oliver gave Lily a conciliatory hug. She practically dove into his arms. He remained expressionless.

Hoping to dredge up more of that lively conflict and possibly learn something of value, I addressed Oliver. “Who do
you
think murdered Isla?” I asked him.

“The husband,” Oliver said without any hesitation. He’d already decided. “Bryan Lindsey.”

Poor Bryan was the default suspect. I was curious if there was a particular reason for Oliver’s certainty. “And why do you think that?” I asked.

“Isla and himself were at the Kilt & Thistle Friday night,” Oliver said. “Havin’ quite the row in one of the back corners. They weren’t lovey-dovey and smiling at each other, that’s fer sure.”

That was the same thing Charlotte had mentioned this morning as having made the gossip rounds.

“Isla Lindsey never smiled once in her whole life,” Lily pointed out. “Looking angry was standard fer her.”

“You actually
saw
them together at the pub?” I asked Oliver. An actual witness to the scene rather than a secondhand informant would be helpful. “Or did you hear about it from somebody else?”

“I saw them with my very own twenty-twenty-vision eyes. I couldn’t hear what they were speaking about, but if looks could kill . . . Bryan woulda done her in right there on the spot. I’ve never seen him look so angry.”

“Have you shared this with the inspector?” I asked, thinking I needed to follow up with Dale and Marg, the pub owners. One of them might be able to give me more detailed information.

“Course I told him. Right after we found Isla, when the inspector was questioning the lot o’ us. You’d already gone up the lane, Eden, so ye weren’t privy tae that.”

Ah, yes, after I’d been dismissed. What else had I missed? “How about you, Lily? Do you think Bryan killed his wife?”

“Not a bit.” She shook her head, adamant that Isla’s husband wasn’t an option. I had to give her credit. Even if
she’d set her sights on Oliver, it wasn’t preventing her from speaking her mind and disagreeing with him. “Bryan never woulda done such a thing. He is kind and gentle with his sister, and goes tae visit his mum in the nursing home every Sunday, and a man like that, well, he cannae be the same man who killed Isla.”