by Traci Hall
“I’m going tae call my friend Amelia again today—she was out sick yesterday; otherwise we might know something already.”
He whistled dismissively. “If ye want tae know what’s happening, call the detective.”
“On what grounds?” She opened the safe and brought out the money for the till. “Curiosity?”
He snorted and tapped his nose. “Mibbe too . . . ?”
Paislee loaded the change drawer and checked the receipt tape, then switched the radio on with the sound low. The door opened and in walked the detective, minus his rain jacket as the morning was bright, the skies clear. For now. Weather in Nairn could change in an instant.
“Speak of the devil,” Grandpa Angus said, taking a seat on the stool by the register.
“The devil?” Detective Inspector Zeffer asked. His blue suit looked Italian and very stylish for a man of the law. His black shoes had a shine as if polished. Did anybody polish their shoes these days?
“Never mind,” Paislee said, blowing her bangs back. She was immediately self-conscious in her denims and loose bohemian-style blouse in light blue. Her hair was straight at her shoulders. Casual for work, but compared to the detective, she felt too casual in her own shop.
If he weren’t married already, he’d be a handsome match for Lydia, who was always looking for her next love. Then again, the detective might give her frostbite, so Paislee wouldn’t suggest it.
“I had a few more questions about Isla Campbell.” The detective pulled a skein of yarn from a plastic bag and set it on the counter—no rings on any of his fingers.
She recognized the skein as the one Gerald’s dog, Baxter, had been running around with, and realized it must have come from inside Isla’s flat. “Is that the same . . .” she trailed off.
Detective Inspector Zeffer’s pale green eyes seemed to bore into her for the truth before he’d even asked a question. “Aye.”
“How did she die?” Paislee blurted. Though less than forty-eight hours had passed, it felt as if she’d been waiting for days for some piece of news.
He stepped back and tucked his hands in his trouser pockets. “Her death is under investigation.”
“What does that mean?” Grandpa Angus asked.
Detective Inspector Zeffer cleared his throat. “I cannae say.”
“For how long?” asked Paislee.
“Until we locate her next of kin. Isla used tae work for you. Do you have an emergency contact number for her?” The detective pulled his slim black leather notebook from his suit jacket pocket.
Cheeks flushed, her personal redhead curse, she said, “Naw, Isla never filled out an application. I have Isla’s mobile number, but that willnae help.”
“Do you happen tae have her mother’s?”
“I dinnae. Don’t even know her name. They didnae get along well. I think she lives in Edinburgh.”
“The number we have has been disconnected. It’s possible she’s moved.”
“Is that why ye’ve kept it out of the news?” Grandpa held up yesterday’s paper. “I’ve been looking for a notice in the obituary.”
“It’s policy,” the detective said. His no-frills tone reminded her of Headmaster McCall. Maybe arrogance bred success at a young age? She would teach Brody a different way.
“It’s sad,” Paislee countered, taking her place behind the counter next to the register. “I spoke with Tabitha, her best friend. They used tae share a flat on Dartmouth Street.”
Detective Inspector Zeffer’s eyes narrowed. “What did you talk about?”
“Well, nothing exactly. Tabitha burst into tears and hid in the office,” she said. “Her co-worker mentioned the two had fought before Isla had moved.”
He winced. “Tabitha . . .”
“Drake,” she supplied. “She works at the flower shop across the street.” Paislee hoped that if she helped him, then maybe the detective wouldn’t be so closemouthed.
“I see.”
She poked the yarn with a knitting needle that had been lying by her register. One end had been knotted, as if Isla had been ready to start a project. “You know that Isla took heart medication?”
Detective Inspector Zeffer gave a slight nod. “You said that before. Digoxin.”
“Did she die of heart failure?” The prescription bottle had been out on the table when she usually kept it in her purse. She hated for anyone to know she needed medication. Then again, it was her home, and Paislee was probably reading too much into it. She wanted to tell the detective about the shortbread cookies, too—Isla didn’t eat sweets of any kind, and didn’t like dogs.
“I cannae tell you that,” he said, folding his arms. “This is an open investigation, which means that I get tae ask the questions and you get tae answer them.”
Grandpa Angus chortled and turned away.
Paislee straightened. “Well then.” She would keep her observations to herself.
“I also wanted tae ask you about this wool? Amelia Henry said you might be able tae help, since you have a yarn shop.” He sounded doubtful.
On the verge of saying she knew absolutely nothing, she restrained herself on Isla’s behalf.
She ran her finger over the grayish-beige skein. “This is merino wool, untreated, undyed, but excellent quality.”
“Where can you buy it?”
“There are many sheep farms around Scotland that sell their wool for commercial yarn.”
“I’ve noticed.” His sarcasm was unmistakable. His accent was Scottish but had a unique cadence that meant he wasn’t from around here. Not Edinburgh, either. Isla had been from there, and she hadn’t sounded like the detective. It was a subtle difference in how the words were spoken.
“More sheep than people,” Grandpa said.
The land was dotted with them, part of the countryside’s charm. “Local crafters, such as myself, pride themselves on using local wool. It’s what makes us unique tae the area, and tae those who visit.”
“Have ye seen this before?” Detective Inspector Zeffer held up the wool and glanced to the thousands of skeins on her shelves along the walls.
“I can’t be certain. It helps tae have a label from the farm.”
“It’ll be like finding a needle in a haystack without one.” The detective quickly closed his notebook and zipped the skein back in his plastic bag.
“Is it important? I can ask around. I know some distributors in Inverness and Edinburgh.”
“There are close tae a hundred,” he said. “I have an officer checking them out.”
“That many?” Grandpa Angus asked in surprise.
Wool was a big business in Scotland, and while not as much a moneymaker as the oil and gas industries, sheep were still important for not only textiles but food. She enjoyed a leg of lamb as much as the next lass. “Isla worked for Vierra’s Merino Wool Distributor, but what you have there was never treated, which they usually do before selling it. Vierra’s is a large upscale operation near Inverness.”
He shrugged. “I’ve spoken with her former boss.”
“Maybe he has her mother’s number?”
“It wasnae on Isla’s application.” Zeffer patted his suit pocket. “I’m new and you don’t know me, but rest assured I willnae stop until I find answers.” He firmed his lips and left, the sun glinting through her frosted front window to shine on his russet hair, turning the brown and auburn to burnt gold.
“He willnae get folks tae open up tae him like that,” Paislee remarked. “In Nairn, people help each other out.”
Grandpa pulled a worn fishing magazine from his back pocket and placed it on the counter, then helped himself to a wrapped candy—only five were left in the bowl. “I bet he’s from Glasgow. I fished with a mate from there—crazy times.”
“I’ll ask Amelia. Poor dear, having tae work with him all day.” She dropped her knitting needle in the cup holding her pens and pencils. “Can ye believe that Isla’s mum might not know about her own daughter yet?” What pain and sorrow the woman had in
store. “I wonder if Billy would have her phone number or address. . . .”
“Billy?” Grandpa popped the toffee into his mouth and balled up the foil wrapper.
“Isla’s boyfriend, or ex, if her neighbor is correct and they broke up. Tabitha would have his number for sure. I’d like tae ask him if he has Isla’s mum’s number, and let him know that I cared for her, too.”
“If they broke up, I have me doubts he cares at all.”
She ignored that. “Isla had such high hopes when they left together, tae start a new life. She mentioned marriage.”
Grandpa snorted. “Men and women have different ideas about that all the time.”
Paislee walked to the front window and peered out to the flower shop. Ritchie was carrying a large bouquet of assorted flowers, which he placed in the back of the floral delivery van, and then sped off.
Tabitha would be alone, and maybe more talkative.
“I’ll be right back, Grandpa.”
He grunted something but read his magazine.
She quickly crossed the street to the flower shop, the scent of gardenia more potent than the roses had been the day before.
“Morning,” she said cheerfully.
Tabitha was at the same back table as yesterday, only this time she worked on a bouquet of gladiolas and irises, perfect for spring. Low dishes of snow-white gardenia blossoms around the shop created a distinct perfume. “Hello.” Tabitha’s greeting was laden with reluctance. Her hair was in a tight bun, and Isla’s scarf was absent.
“Feeling better?” Paislee kept her tone light and had even decided to let her questions about the scarf go in order to help find Isla’s mum. “I’d hoped tae speak tae you. . . .”
“Ritchie told me.” Tabitha peered between the tall floral stems. “Now’s not a good time.”
Paislee took a step forward. “Tabitha, I’m sairy about Isla. I dinnae want tae bother you, but I’d hoped ye could give me Billy’s phone number?”
“Why?” Her knife clattered to the table.
“Tae help the police locate Isla’s mother.”
“Isla hated her.” The florist glared at Paislee, her brown eyes dull. With regret? Sadness? “Ye know she did nothin’ but complain aboot her.”
“Still, she deserves tae know her daughter’s dead, don’t you think?”
Tabitha picked up her knife and trimmed a purple gladiola. “I dinnae even ken the woman’s name.”
“Me either. But Billy might. They lived together.” Paislee watched Tabitha closely to see if the girl would give anything of her cheating nature away. If Ritchie was right, then Tabitha had been no friend to Isla, and it was all Paislee could do to be polite.
Tabitha chose another flower.
“Do you have it?” Paislee asked again.
Tabitha’s gaze veered to the purse on a shelf below the tall worktable, and probably her mobile. What was that red package next to it? Biscuits? “Naw.”
What a liar and cool as ye please. “What about the name of where he works? It’s important, Tabitha.” She wasn’t leaving until she got an answer.
Another minute passed. “He’s shearing sheep at Lowe Farm.” Tabitha broke the stem of a dark purple iris.
“Thanks.” Just to give the girl a push back for being difficult, Paislee shrugged and said, “I might run up tae see him.”
Tabitha flinched. Why wouldn’t Tabitha want her to talk with Billy? The girl was hiding something, or jealous maybe of her unfaithful boyfriend? Paislee wanted to tell her that any man she couldn’t trust wasn’t worth having.
Paislee couldn’t force Tabitha to give her Billy’s number—it was childish when Paislee just wanted to help. As a mum, she couldn’t imagine not knowing her child was . . . gone.
She decided to try kindness one more time. “I’m sairy that you and Isla argued before she moved.” Paislee squinted at the shelf, Tabitha’s purse, and the red packet. Those were shortbread cookies, the same brand as had been at Isla’s. “Were you able tae patch things up when she returned?”
“I never spoke to her after she left for Inverness.” Tabitha’s eyes glittered with tears. “If ye don’t mind? I have work tae do.”
“Cheers.”
Paislee hurried out of the flower shop with a sour taste at the back of her throat. Tabitha was a liar—and not any better at it than Gerald had been about telling the detective he’d been at the movies the night Isla had died.
Chapter 11
Paislee stood on the sidewalk outside the flower shop, rubbing her arms and wishing she’d snagged her sweater before visiting Tabitha. She waited for traffic on the two-way street to slow before darting across Market toward Cashmere Crush. It was imperative that she talk to Billy about how to track down Isla’s mother. It was the last thing she could do to help the poor lass.
What if Isla had been so upset by Billy and Tabitha that her poor weak heart just gave out? Naw. Isla had more spunk than that.
Paislee made it five feet from her door when the owner of the neighboring leather repair shop, James Young, accosted her. At seventy-seven, he looked a wee bit like Mick Jagger, complete with impish glint in his eye.
“Paislee, love, come here.” He tugged her inside his shop with strong, arthritic fingers.
The scent of leather and oil surrounded her and she found it more comforting than the heavy perfume of gardenia from the floral shop.
The company was a great sight better, too. “Aye, James? What is it?”
“What are we tae do about that rascal Shawn Marcus, up and sellin’ the building beneath us?” He leaned a bony hip against his worktable located at the front window so that he could watch passerby as he worked, and entice them in as well.
“I dunno, James, but I have my friend Lydia looking into other spaces. If ye like, I can ask her for you, too.”
“Sweet ye are, but where am I going tae find somethin’ as big as this, for the price? Foot traffic during tourist season pays me bills in the winter months.”
Paislee knew firsthand the value of having a low overhead for her business. “I get it.” She scanned his shop with familiarity. Loops of leather hung on the back wall; metal buckets of brass snaps and buckles sat on either side of the table. A large calendar of the clock tower kept track of the days behind his register. Knives and hammers in varying sizes were arrayed on a shelf among framed photos of his family.
“We’re having a meeting Sunday at the tea shop—Theadora’s hosting. You should come.”
Sundays were her days with Brody. Gran had taught her to have one day a week that was not work. “I dinnae ken. . . .”
“ ’Tis important. We’re going tae see if there’s anything tae be done tae stop the sale of the building.”
That would be the best solution, and far preferable to moving. “One of my knitters promised she’d contact the historical society, because the building is two hundred years old.”
James rubbed his hands together like an ancient leprechaun standing over a pot of gold. “That’s just the thing ye need tae share with the others, lass.”
“I don’t know anything just yet.What have you found out?”
“Ned”—he jerked his thumb to the left and the wall he shared with the dry cleaner—“said he’ll do all right, everybody needs their washin’ done, but he’ll have tae raise prices. Margot from the lab feels the same—she thinks she might even be able tae find cheaper space if she moves out of town center. Folks needin’ bloodwork done arenae usually tourists, aye?”
“True.”
“Lourdes isn’t wed to the office supply biz and plans tae close shop completely tae do adult day care.”
“What’s that?” She imagined Grandpa Angus with a bowl of porridge, playing with plastic trucks, and cringed.
James screwed his wrinkled face up even more. “Droppin’ the old folks off, instead of the kiddies. What a world we live in. Not the kind of diapers I’d be wantin’ tae change. No matter the excellent money.” He rubbed his fingers together.
&
nbsp; She grinned. “Sounds like she’ll be earning every penny.”
“That she will, that she will. So, will we see ye Sunday?”
“I cannae promise, but I’ll let you know what I find out from Elspeth either way. Sundays are family days.”
“Right, right. Theadora will be disappointed, but I understand. The kids grow up so fast! And I heard yer grandfather is stayin’ with ye?”
Small towns meant everybody knew everybody else’s business; in addition to looking out for one another, they showed they cared by asking questions—which prodded her to track down Billy.
James cleared his throat, and she blinked back to attention. “Aye, for a while. He’s helping out at the shop during tourist season.”
“Yer a good lass, Paislee Shaw.”
“Thanks. Is Theadora in, ye think? I’ll go tell her myself about Sunday.” Her mouth watered as she thought of raspberry scones, warm from the oven. Maybe she’d bring some back to Grandpa to keep him happy while she took a drive to see Billy.
“Aye. Cheers.”
Paislee left with a wave and walked right, toward Theadora’s Tea Shoppe. The jewel of a bakery on the corner of their block was painted turquoise blue. The flower boxes with the impatiens and bluebonnets added spring cheer. A blue-green awning provided shade over half a dozen turquoise tables and matching chairs.
The outside tables were full of locals and tourists taking advantage of the sunny day. If Paislee squinted, she could see the bandstand, and beyond that, the Firth.
She entered the bakery and breathed in deep—what she loved most was Theadora’s raspberry scones, fresh from the oven. She could smell the sweet raspberry as she waited in a queue of six.
If business was this booming before the start of tourist season it was no wonder Theadora wanted to devise a plan to block the sale. She would see what Elspeth had to say regarding the historical society.
Theadora was behind the register, her white and turquoise hair a walking advertisement for the bakery. She was popular in town and supported local businesses and schools, though she didn’t have bairns of her own.
“Paislee?”
