by Hannah Reed
“The family might not like me personally, but they’re committed to the business and are carrying on as though I don’t exist. My brother and sister still want nothing to do with me,” she said sadly.
“Because of the will,” I said, stating the obvious.
“Believe me, it was as much a shock to me as it was to them.”
“Hopefully time will heal their hearts.”
“You’re a good soul, my friend. How did you weather the night? I hardly slept a wink myself.”
I didn’t want to admit that I’d slept like a log, so I shrugged and refocused my attention on Vicki’s dogs, who were chasing each other around the yard.
“That one is Coco.” She pointed at one of them with obvious pride, although I couldn’t tell them apart. “And that’s Pepper, she has the tiniest bit of black marking on her belly. They’ve been trying to make friends with a cat named Jasper that lives in the barn, but he’s not cooperating.”
I looked off past the barn toward the neglected buildings off in the distance. “What’s over that way?” I asked.
“Cottages,” she said. “Farm workers used to live in them years ago. The one is past repair—it’ll have to come down—but the other just needs a little work. It’s in rather good shape considering the age of it. To be honest, I haven’t done much more exploring the grounds yet, mainly because I’m wary of running into the others.”
“That must be difficult,” I said.
Vicki tucked her arm through mine, and said, “Having a friend is going to help me get through it. But I sure do wish we hadn’t been the ones to find Gavin’s body. What a stroke of bad luck that was.”
“Not nearly as bad luck for us as for the sheep shearer.”
“If only I’d thought to visit him earlier. We might have scared off his attacker and saved his life,” Vicki said mournfully.
“It’s not as if you’d have had any time before the funeral,” I reasoned. “He must have been dead already by then. You couldn’t have saved him.”
Even as I worked to reassure Vicki, though, I wondered if the sheep shearer might have been fighting for his life while the funeral procession made its way to the gravesite, while I’d stood in the back, listening to the service and gazing into the tree at the bad-luck corbie.
A bad sign that was indeed, I thought, as a shiver raced down my spine.
CHAPTER 8
The next moment, our attention was drawn to the lane leading from the road to the house, the same lane Leith and I had walked. I heard the sound of a car engine approaching. The sheep who had been grazing now looked in the direction of the shop. Was Leith back already? No; it was a Honda CR-V with a solid yellow stripe running horizontally across the side, framed by a smaller stripe with blue and black checkers. I recognized it from last night—those were Scottish police vehicle markings.
The car came to a stop near us, Inspector Jamieson was in the driver’s seat, another man beside him, barely visible through the front windshield of the Honda. Jamieson opened his door and stepped out, then leaned back in. “Stay right where ye are,” I heard the inspector order his protesting passenger with a forceful tone, then he slammed the door shut. I would have thought the other man was a prisoner if not for his black shirt, which I’d seen was trimmed with a row of insignias along each shoulder, indicating a law enforcement position of some sort. A rookie maybe?
“I’ve more questions for ye,” the inspector said to Vicki after an almost imperceptible nod of greeting to each of us. “But since Miss Elliott is on my list as well, I’ll speak with her first.”
I wondered nervously why he needed to speak with me again. When neither of us moved, he added, “Alone would be best.”
“Oh,” Vicki said, worry in her voice. “Of course. I’ll be in the kitchen. Would you like tea?”
“Another time perhaps.”
And with that she hustled inside the house, leaving me alone with the inspector.
“Right at the moment,” he said to me, “yer about the only person in Glenkillen who has been cleared in the murder of Gavin Mitchell. You’re free tae come and go as ye please.”
My relief must have been visible, because the inspector actually chuckled. “Ye left a trail to follow as wide as this glen. First a broken-down vehicle and Leith Cameron to vouch for yer whereabouts. Then the innkeeper’s daughter keeping an eye on ye and goin’ so far as tae list the time ye arrived and what ye had for breakfast this morning. Pity ye didn’t care for the blood pudding.” He smiled, then looked serious again. “Unfortunate that ye got yerself involved in coming across a body, but that’s the extent of it.”
“I appreciate you letting me know,” I told him, relieved to no longer be a suspect, but at the same time a little uncomfortable that he’d been looking into my every movement since my arrival in Scotland. Not that I had anything to hide. But still.
In the light of day and under calmer circumstances than we’d encountered last night, I decided that Inspector Jamieson was a handsome man with expressive and kind eyes. He came across as the genuine article, someone I wanted to confide in. That is, I would feel that way if I had anything to confide.
“Let’s go over what happened at Gavin Mitchell’s cottage again, but this time with more detail, if ye can recall any.”
I saw Vicki watching us from a window inside. The man waiting in the car was also staring our way.
My mind went back to the moment when I’d turned on the light, and I remembered accumulated dust on the TV and a rectangular area that was free from it. “It looked like something had been removed from the top of the television set.”
The inspector registered surprise. His reaction gave me a small amount of pleasure.
“You have a keen eye,” he said. “And in a bad situation at that.”
“There was a box on the floor beside the body,” I replied. “It could have been what was moved. Maybe his killer was looking for something and perhaps found it in there.”
The man inside the police vehicle opened his door.
“Stay right there!” Inspector Jamieson called over. But his words had no effect.
“I’m Special Constable Sean Stevens,” the man announced as he rushed over, literally pushing his way between us. I guessed him to be in his early thirties, a bit younger than me, and shorter, too—no taller than five five and fine-boned.
“Special constable?” I asked. “Are you the inspector’s partner?”
“No, no, no. He’s a volunteer,” Jamieson said, looking extremely miffed and barely able to keep the scorn out of his tone. “Nothin’ special aboot him at all. He’s naught but an overeager trainee. Seems the powers-that-be are under a lot o’ pressure tae cut costs, and in their infinite wisdom decided to accept volunteer police officers tae assist the force.”
Volunteer cops! My gosh, that seemed risky. Although Scottish police didn’t carry firearms, which I supposed made it somewhat safer. I couldn’t imagine this happening in the States though.
Sean Stevens did look extremely enthusiastic, with his chest swelled out and his head held high. “Years as a security guard have prepared me for this moment. My future plan is tae apply for a regular position with the police after I prove myself in the field.”
The inspector began to turn an unhealthy shade of pink.
“I’m here for the Highlands,” Sean continued with pride.
Jamieson’s skin tone colored a few shades deeper. “Sixteen hours a week I have to put up with this.”
“Tacklin’ crime,” Sean said to me as though his superior wasn’t complaining about him right to his face. “Making the streets safer. I’ve been trained tae carry whatever power of arrest the inspector here carries.”
“If ye don’t shut up this very minute, I’ll show you the power of arrest,” Jamieson declared.
Officer Stevens clammed up at that threat and walked a di
stance off but stayed within earshot. For the next ten or fifteen minutes, as the volunteer examined his fingernails and pretended not to be listening in, Inspector Jamieson grilled me on one singular subject—my newfound friend, Vicki MacBride. I bristled at this new direction of questioning, but I stayed calm and patiently answered his questions. I explained how we’d met on the plane over to Inverness, related the argument between Vicki and Kirstine that I and everyone else in the pub had witnessed, and described how I’d caught up with Vicki outside and accompanied her to the seashore and then to the sheep shearer’s cottage.
I sensed that he already knew much of this already.
“So she didn’t coax ye tae go along with her?” he asked when I finished.
“No, I followed her outside.” I remained calm on the outside, but I felt my jaw tighten with tension. “She’d looked like she could use a friendly face.”
“After the beach, did she persuade ye tae go with her to Gavin’s?”
“No, I offered.”
“And why did ye go inside first? Did she ask you tae?”
“That was my decision also,” I said, losing my grip on cool, calm, and collected, and growing angry. “I don’t appreciate your implication that Vicki used me as a cover.”
The constable gave me a small smile, and said, “Yer a clever woman.”
I thought about Vicki and any opportunity she might have had to murder the sheep shearer. The flight and funeral had kept her busy yesterday. Before that, she had been in London making arrangements to move and pick up her dogs, which was likely easy enough to confirm. But she’d previously been in Glenkillen either Monday or Tuesday, and based on the inspector’s focus, I took a guess. “Gavin Mitchell didn’t die yesterday, did he?” I asked. “He’d been dead a few days, hadn’t he?”
The inspector didn’t reply. Instead, he handed me a business card with instructions to call him if I remembered anything more. I tucked it into a pocket, and he turned to go talk to Vicki. I watched him walk toward the house, Special Constable Stevens hot on his trail.
CHAPTER 9
I still had a few minutes to spare before I expected Leith back to pick me up at Sheepish Expressions, so I walked down and entered the shop. I was a little apprehensive over what kind of reception I would receive if any of the other MacBrides were around, but I told myself I was being silly. The family probably wouldn’t recognize me as Vicki’s friend. I wasn’t even certain they had seen me last night. They’d had other concerns. And if any of them had heard about my role in finding the sheep shearer’s body—which, given the way news seemed to travel around here, I was sure they had—they would know me by name, not by sight.
Or at least that’s what I hoped.
I walked in and quickly ducked around a corner when I saw Vicki’s adversary, Kirstine, checking out customers at the register, but she didn’t glance up from what she was doing. Her presence behind the counter didn’t surprise me, although I’d hoped she’d be in a back office buried under stacks of paperwork instead of out here, where I might risk exposure.
I didn’t worry long, because Sheepish Expressions was a visual delight in every sense of the word. Half the store was devoted to colorful yarns—stacks and stacks of skein after skein, wicker baskets full and cubbyholes brimming—with a cheerful little room tucked off to the side where a small group of knitters had gathered. Books filled with patterns were scattered about on a long worktable, available as resources and idea guides.
I couldn’t help touching and feeling all the wonderful varieties of wool I found in the shop. What a feast for the senses! Every skein of yarn was from Scotland, of course. Lambs’ wool and silk blends from the countryside. Shetland yarns from the northern islands. Cashmere and angora from the Isle of Skye. But the real star of this show, which dominated over all the others in terms of quantity and variety of color, was from this farm: Glenkillen yarn.
The panorama of colored yarns before me were every hue of the rainbow and even beyond. And the textures! I wasn’t a knitter, having suffered through too many frustrating instructions early on from right-handers who thought I should simply adapt and learn to knit right-handed. As if it were as easy as that. It would have been helpful if another left-handed knitter had been around during those failed attempts to reprogram my brain, but none of my own kind had appeared and I’d ended up moving on. But this visual experience was enough to make me want to try my hand at it one more time.
The other half of the store was devoted to finished woolen products: kilts, argyle jackets, tweed driving caps, sweaters, capes, scarves, all arranged as artfully as the yarn section. Clans and tartans rushed to mind from some of my pre-trip research. I knew that every clan in Scotland has its own tartan design, including my very own Elliott clan. Ours was a lovely bold blue, crisscrossed with deep yellow stripes. After a futile search for my family pattern, I wandered the aisles, careful to stay out of Kirstine’s line of sight. Another tour bus arrived, filling up the shop with more new customers eager to spend money on souvenirs and gifts.
Not wanting to make Leith wait, I reluctantly left the shop sooner than I would have liked but with a sly grin of amusement at having toured it without being detected by enemy forces. I felt like I’d done a little undercover work for Vicki; not that I’d learned much other than that Sheepish Expressions appeared to be doing extremely good business. After my short visit to the MacBride farm, I was unsurprised that the family was up in arms over the contents of the will. Who wouldn’t want to own this magical place?
Outside, I swept my eyes over the landscape and thought about Vicki’s inheritance and James MacBride’s overlooked other children. Why in the world would any father disown the very children who had kept his business in such excellent working order, who’d worked so hard to make it profitable? Was it really just an oversight? Someone in his sort of financial position surely had advisors. An oversight seemed unlikely.
Something wasn’t quite right.
But all thoughts of family disputes and last wills evaporated as the rental car from hell came into view and Leith pulled up next to me in it. I’d like to say it was due to the sheer thrill of his presence, but in truth it was gut-wrenching anxiety that bubbled to the surface when Leith unfolded from the driver’s seat and held the door open for me, sweeping his arm in a grand gesture that clearly implied the seat was all mine.
“We agreed you’d drive back,” I reminded him, fighting against a blast of stress sweat.
“I’ve recovered from the first leg o’ this exciting journey and am quite prepared for another go-round. And I truly believe with all my heart”—here he dramatically clutched his chest and grinned—“it will be more tranquil on the return.”
Don’t panic. Convince yourself that this is for the best, I told myself firmly.
It really was. If I wanted to experience the Highlands the right way, I needed wheels to get around. This car was all I had, so I plastered a happy smile on my not-very-happy-at-all face, something I was rather accomplished at. I slid in and waited for Leith to go around the front of the car and get into the passenger seat, and we were off. A little jerky at the onset, but I did believe I detected some minor improvements since the drive out.
I focused on the next roundabout coming up ahead, threw in the clutch, downshifted, and prepared to enter the circle of vehicles traveling at the speed of light and shooting off in every direction. “Take the third left,” Leith said, guiding me through the spider’s web.
Is it my imagination or is his voice a little shaky?
And, yes! We were through the roundabout!
After we arrived back to Glenkillen intact, Leith suggested lunch at the Kilt & Thistle. I suspect it was because he needed a stiff drink.
The same goateed bartender who had taken my order for Irn-Bru the night before greeted us from behind the bar. He wiped his hands on a bar rag, and gave my hand a hearty shake. “I’m Dale, the owner
of this establishment. I would’ve properly introduced meself last night if I’d known ye were stayin’ in town.” He turned to a woman with cropped dark hair and a pale complexion at the other end of the bar and raised his voice, “And that’s Marg, me wife, and those”—two young boys with flaming ginger hair ran past, roughhousing—“are our twins, Reece and Ross.” He raised his voice in their direction. “And take that roughhouse play outside, ye troublesome bairns.”
“I’m Eden Elliott,” I said, laughing at the boys’ antics. “Very nice to meet you.”
“Elliott. ’Tis a good, strong Scottish surname.”
“On my father’s side, yes,” I said.
Leith gave me a concentrated stare. “I see it now. Yes, ye are a Scottish lass.”
“Wha’ will ye be havin’?” Dale asked.
“What do you suggest?”
“We’ve a nice ale from Stirling.”
“Ok, I’ll try that, then.”
“I’ll have the same,” Leith said, “and a whisky. Glenfiddich.”
A whisky and an ale? I guess he really did need a stiff one.
Once we were seated at a table with a pint in front of each of us—Leith had tossed his whisky back in one swift motion while still at the bar—we placed the rest of our lunch order, both of us deciding on fish and chips, which I figured would be a nice safe bet with no surprise ingredients. Then our talk turned to murder, as I’d suspected it would.
“Gavin Mitchell’s death is the main topic in all o’ Glenkillen and far intae the countryside,” Leith said. “He traveled all over for his shearing and was well thought of by all. He didn’t have a single unsatisfied customer, let alone any enemies that any of us knew about, so ye can imagine what a shock it’s been.”
“I keep hearing what a wonderful man he was,” I said. “But no one could possibly be that perfect.”
“Gavin was. He never had a bad word for anybody and he minded his own business. He provided a necessary service for the community and performed it better than any other person could, plus he frequently bought rounds here in this very pub, which ye can imagine went a long way in establishing loyalty.”
