by Traci Hall
“Tabitha, I’m so sairy,” she said. “You must be devastated tae lose your best friend.”
Tabitha burst into sobs, dropped her knife, and ran into the back office, where she slammed the door closed.
Paislee made a step to follow her. “Should I?” she asked the designer.
“No—and dinnae feel too bad,” the designer quipped. “Those aren’t tears of grief, love.” He pursed his thin lips and sliced a diagonal cut off the bottom of the next stem, fast and precise as he placed the pale pink rose in the bouquet with some sort of fern and a pink bow. “Guilty conscience, more like.”
“Guilt?”
“They fought like two cats in a bag before Isla moved tae Inverness, and never made up,” he said in a dry tone.
“What did they fight about?”
He pushed the vase of roses aside to get a better view of Paislee. “Same thing at the bottom of most squabbles—a man.”
The only man Isla had been seeing was Billy—who she’d moved away with and, according to Gerald, was still hung up on after moving back to Nairn.
“Did Tabitha like Billy?” She heard the rise of her voice and reminded herself to calm down; she didn’t know the whole story.
“Maybe she still does,” he said smugly.
And now Isla was dead. Would that bring on tears of guilt? Or shame?
Maybe both. “Would you have her call me, or drop by, when she’s feeling better?” Paislee wanted answers about how Tabitha had come by Isla’s scarf.
“Sure.”
Paislee had thought the two girls were best friends, and Isla had never said otherwise—of course, Isla hadn’t called Paislee, either, just emailed her asking for a job. “Did Isla stop here recently, like in the last two weeks?”
“Heavens no. The only drama I condone is my own.” He waved a rose stem and winked at Paislee.
She peered toward the office door, but Tabitha didn’t make an appearance. “I dinnae think we’ve met. I’m Paislee Shaw. I own Cashmere Crush, across the way?”
“Ritchie Gordon, overworked manager and lead designer around here.” He leaned in close and whispered, “It means I get a pound more an hour. Some days it isnae worth it.”
A smile tugged at her mouth. “The roses are beautiful.”
“Aye, but after twenty dozen, I’m over it.Why can’t a lassie marry her true love in yellow?”
Paislee laughingly agreed. “I don’t suppose you know if there are any spaces for lease on this side of the street?”
“Planning a move?” Ritchie sliced another rose stem and placed it in the vase. “I heard from Theadora that yer building is up for sale.”
“Sold.” She tightened her cardigan around her waist against the chill.
“Too bad. It’s a prime location.” He set the finished bouquet on the floor next to five others just like it. “It’ll be hard tae find something else that centrally located and affordable.”
She didn’t think she could feel worse, and yet Ritchie’s outside observation had done just that.
“Good luck with the wedding,” she said, lifting her hand in a good-bye wave. “Tell Tabitha that it’s important we speak?”
“Ta!”
Paislee left the flower shop. Where could she move her business? She’d worked so hard to build up Cashmere Crush. Most of her clientele lived nearby. Though she’d been mainly joking about having their Thursday nights on her back porch, she couldn’t actually run her business from her home. She required a lot more space for her yarn and specialty sweaters.
She stuffed her hands in her pockets. Ned, the dry cleaner across the street, watered the begonias in his flower boxes. All six of the businesses on her brick row had them built in. James had put green fern in his, Margot at the lab pink petunias, Lourdes and Jimmy at the office supply shop had yellow and white daisies, while Theadora on the corner had white impatiens and blue bonnets.
Her gaze was naturally drawn from Theadora’s to A96, and the police station to the right. There was room for twenty cars in the half-full lot. Gerald Sanford parked his silver BMW closest to the entrance, got out—gorgeous in jeans and a button-down black Oxford—and raced up the four stairs to go inside.
Had Detective Inspector Zeffer discovered something more about Isla’s death? Why hadn’t he been in touch, as he’d said he would be?
Gorgeous, yes, but she stayed away from Gerald’s type. She’d stayed away from all men since Brody’s birth, living like a nun beneath the scrutiny of her small town. Lydia dared her on occasion to let loose for a weekend—stealing away to Edinburgh, or London—but Paislee refused. Brody was her everything until the day he’d turn eighteen. And she had a feeling it would last beyond even then.
Instead of crossing the street to Cashmere Crush, Paislee walked toward the police station. Maybe she could text her friend Amelia and suggest a quick ten-minute break, bribing her with a treat from the tea shop.
Had Gerald remembered something about Isla that he’d needed to share with the detective, or had he been called in?
How had Isla died? She hoped that Tabitha and Isla had made up after their argument; otherwise Tabitha’s guilt was sure to last a very long time.
Her phone rang, jarring her out of her curious musings.
“Paislee speaking,” she answered.
“This is Headmaster McCall,” a masculine voice said.
Her heart leapt in her chest. She could hardly breathe. Was Brody okay? She imagined an accident on the playground, or . . . “Aye?”
“I’d like for you tae come in this afternoon,” his very controlled voice droned.
She glared at her phone. “Is Brody okay?”
An audible sigh, then the man said, “He is. Come see me in my office at four? Good day, Ms. Shaw.”
The headmaster hung up without waiting for her to agree. Surely this couldn’t be about her being late—she’d been right on time this morning.
How rude! But Paislee would grit her teeth and deal with the pompous headmaster for Brody’s sake. She would do anything for her son.
Chapter 8
Paislee gave a last curious glance to the station, then did an about-face, crossing the street and striding back toward Cashmere Crush, her pride stinging at being called into the primary school. In all her years as a student she’d never had an occasion to visit the headmaster’s office. She pushed hard against the door. Her grandfather better not be watching the telly!
Her sails deflated when she found him seated calmly at the counter, flipping through the pages of a spring gardening magazine one of the ladies had left behind.
Temper, temper, Granny’s voice admonished in her head.
“You garden?” he asked, raising his head.
“No.” She stuck her hands in her pockets. “Granny did.”
“Agnes had a green thumb.” Grandpa sounded wistful.
“Aye.” She missed her grandmother every day. It seemed Grandpa Angus might have, too, in his own way. She shook off her anger, knowing it was at herself for not managing her time better. The headmaster wouldn’t call if she hadn’t been tardy, and that was on her—no matter her rational excuses.
“How’d it go?” Grandpa turned another page of the magazine and jerked his thumb to the front window.
Paislee shivered at the memory of the cold flower shop and overwhelming scent of roses. “Tabitha started crying as soon as she saw me—she already knew about Isla, I could tell, though she never said. I had tae leave, she was so upset. I couldnae even talk tae her.”
He tugged his beard, which she realized he’d trimmed to a square edge. Last night? And she was just now noticing?
She had to get a handle on her life before things spiraled out of control.
“Ye tried, lass, and sometimes that’s all you can do.”
“Maybe.” She shared what Ritchie had said about Tabitha, and the girls fighting over Billy. “And Tabitha was wearing the scarf I’d made for Isla.”
Grandpa Angus scoffed dismissively. “A scarf?�
� He propped his elbow on the counter. “She probably borrowed it. Girls share clothes, aye?”
“When would that have happened? I gave it to Isla right before she left for Inverness, and they’d fought, Ritchie said. I highly doubt Isla would give her the scarf if she was mad at her.” And in the time Paislee’d known Isla, she’d noticed that she kept what was hers.
“Well, scarves arenae unique. Yer probably mistaken.”
“This one was done in sage, Isla’s favorite color—I made it personally, with my signature tassel, from Flora’s naturally dyed yarn. It was verra unique.”
He chuckled and closed the magazine. “Ye have a signature tassel?”
“As a matter of fact, I do.” She went around the counter to the back area where she kept her supplies and brought out a box of crocheted tasseled flowers. “We need tae attach these tae keychains by Saturday for the fair.” So much to do, and so little time.
“I’ll be long gone by Saturday,” he said, pushing aside her crafts. “My stomach is as hollow as an empty keg.” He thumped it to prove his point.
“Leave, then.” She gestured toward the front door. “If you’d like tae walk home, you’re welcome tae do so. There’s a key under the flowerpot in the back garden.”
“Isnae yer mongrel out there?”
Wallace hadn’t cared for Grandpa Angus taking Gran’s room and had growled at the old man since his arrival. “Wallace has a pedigree as long as your arm.”
“Ha!” He stood and brushed his hands together. “Can I borrow a can of soup?”
“You can have a can of soup.” Paislee joined him at the register. “But clean up after yourself, if ye please. There’s bread in the cupboard, too, if you want tae make a sandwich. Payday is every other Friday.”
She thought about the mile walk to her house, which was a relatively straight shot from the shop. Could he make it all that way? It wasn’t a hard trek, but he had to be close to eighty.
He folded his coat over his arm.
“I can close up and drive ye if you’d like.” She was not going tae give him the keys tae her Juke—she barely knew the man, as Lydia had said.
His response to that suggestion went over like a basket without a bottom. “I can walk, lassie. I bet I’m in better shape than you.”
Paislee immediately thought of the ten pounds she’d like to lose. Who had time for exercise with a child and a business? Grandpa was lean—probably from lack of food, and no place to stay and worry over his son. She bit her tongue rather than banter back.
And he left, edging out and closing the front door firmly behind him.
The only thing saving her from owing another coin to the swear jar was that neither Shaw was around to hear her curse beneath her breath.
Stuck behind the counter with Grandpa gone, Paislee immediately reached for her shop phone to call Amelia and ask about Isla, and Gerald. Paislee was dying to know why the law student had been at the station.
She dialed, waiting for Amelia’s cheery voice to answer at the reception desk. Instead, a gruff older woman picked up the line. “Nairn Police Station.”
“Is Amelia in?”
“She’s out sick.”
Now what? Paislee leaned her elbow on the counter.
“Is this an emergency?” the older lady asked.
“No—no, thank you.”
“This is Norma. Would you like tae leave a message?”
“No, thanks anyway.” Paislee quickly hung up the phone. She dug deep into her mind for an image of Norma—plump and shy was all she conjured.
She wished she had a reason for asking Detective Inspector Zeffer about Isla—would it be out of line for her to want to know, just because Isla’d been an employee? Friend? She’d discovered her poor body?
His cool green eyes left little room for empathy. Still?
The front door opened and in strutted Lydia. Lydia Barron was a twenty on a scale of one to ten. She left grown men lying in her wake. The fact that she was a genuinely kind person with a wicked sense of humor made her even more of a gem.
Lydia changed her hair color and style every six weeks when the previous style would grow out. Today she wore her hair black, in a sleek chin-level bob. Dramatic smoky shadow amplified the gray of her eyes. Tall—five ten—and slim, Paislee’s dearest friend rocked a fitted gray pantsuit and black stilettos.
Paislee’s shoulders lifted at Lydia’s smile. They’d gotten through many hard times together and Lydia was sure to help her now.
“Paislee!” Lydia brought her purse—large, black leather, and designer—to the counter and dropped it to give Paislee a hug. “I’ve come tae rescue you like a knight in shining armor.”
“You found me a new place tae lease for Cashmere Crush?”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Then what?” She pulled back.
“Coffee?” Lydia preferred dark roast espresso to tea most days. “I have twenty minutes left of me lunch break.”
Paislee shook her head. “I cannae shut up the shop. I’ll be done early today as it is—I’ve been called in tae see the headmaster at Brody’s school.”
“Is my godson all right?” Lydia touched Paislee’s wrist.
“Yes,” Paislee assured her. “I have a feeling I’m the one in trouble.”
She tsk-tsked. “Dinnae let the cranky old headmaster intimidate you. You are Paislee Ann Shaw, business proprietor—and ye own your home. You’re not even thirty. That’s pretty impressive. ”
“Gran gave me her house—it isnae the same.”
“Nobody needs the details.” Lydia leaned her elbow back on the counter, showing off the intricate black piping of her gray suit jacket. “About that . . .”
“What?”
“Would ye be willing tae take a loan against the property?”
Her house? She plunked down on a stool, feeling the blood drain from her face. “Absolutely not.”
“But Paislee, you could have so much more freedom with working capital.” Lydia peered into her eyes like a mesmerist. “You could be on the harbor, closer tae the golf course and the high-spending tourists.”
“No.” The idea of risking what little they had brought itchy hives along her skin. “Can’t do it.” She scratched her arms.
“Give me one good reason?”
“It’s Brody’s inheritance.” She raised both hands against Lydia’s intense gaze until her friend laughingly retreated.
But she had other ammunition. “Your granny would want you tae succeed.”
Gran had wanted that, but she’d also wanted Paislee to be secure. “I’ve another mouth tae feed, thank ye, with Grandpa Angus making himself soup in my kitchen this moment. I cannae be that foolhardy.”
“Not foolhardy, a calculated risk. This is not the Paislee I know and love. Didnae your grandma co-sign for ye when you first leased this place?”
“You are an evil woman, Lydia Barron.”
“I want you tae reach for the stars.” Her slender hand reached upward, then gestured to the interior of Cashmere Crush. “You have a beautiful shop filled with quality local yarn and yer sweaters are exquisite.”
She warmed at the compliment, which she knew Lydia meant sincerely. Paislee’s best friend had an eye for fine things and fashion. “I am not putting my home on the line.There has tae be another way.”
“Let’s make a plan then. I brought properties for you tae look at, but there is nothing in your price range—currently. Dinnae be afraid tae expand.” Lydia set a packet of papers held together with a shiny black clip on the counter.
Paislee often found herself torn between fear and bravado. She usually managed to hide her anxiety from everyone but two. Gran was gone now, which left Lydia.
Fear equaled weak, and Paislee couldn’t allow that emotion in—to her customers she was smart and savvy, to her son she was Mum, who handled everything, and from her community she’d earned a reputation as fair, hardworking, and honest. Nobody ever mentioned Brody’s illegitimacy, which she co
nsidered a win.
God help the person who ever disparaged him about his lack of a father.
She lifted her chin and narrowed her eyes.
“Whoa, calm down,” Lydia said. “What were you just thinking? You went from sweet American actress Emma Stone tae Rose Leslie in Game of Thrones.”
She exhaled and blew back her bangs. “And why shouldnae I be Rose Leslie? She’s Scottish, like me.”
“You have a different kind of strong, Paislee, one that people tend tae overlook, because you arenae ragin’ on about things. You just quietly get things done, until bam—you have a business, a healthy son, and a house.”
She knew Lydia would somehow bring it back around to what she wanted. Paislee held fast. “Let’s look at properties within my budget.”
“Did I say strong? I meant stubborn.” Lydia tapped the stack of papers with a glossy black nail. “Losing this prime location will affect your sales. I dinnae want tae be rude, but we need tae be on the same page. I say let’s find something even better for Cashmere Crush.”
The idea made her stomach twist. “I need some time tae think about it.”
Lydia rolled her beautiful smoky eyes. “Fine.” She switched gears. “Just out of curiosity, I checked tae see who had bought this property. It hasnae come up on the public record yet.”
“What does that mean?”
“There should be something online somewhere. Maybe Mr. Marcus is still working out financing. I cannae imagine this place is cheap.”
“It’s historical, Elspeth said, so maybe there’s a hang-up and he won’t be able tae finalize the sale?” Hope filled her.
Lydia flipped her perfect hair behind her perfect ear. “Have you talked tae the other business owners yet?”
“No, but the florist across the street mentioned that Theadora from the tea shop had already talked tae him, asking about available space—there isnae any.”
Lydia’s long fingernail found her full lower lip. “Hmm. I might ask around, if you dinnae mind?”
“I’d love it if you could find out what’s going on!”
She gave a nod. “Oh, my boss’s sister knows somebody in the Elder Care department in Inverness.”
