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  Praise for the Scottish Highlands Mysteries

  “Reed’s new series will please Scotophiles everywhere, and they’ll soon be eager for another trip to Glenkillen.”

  —Miranda James, New York Times bestselling author of the Cat in the Stacks Mysteries

  “A brilliant mystery, rich in charming characters set against lush depictions of the Scottish village of Glenkillen. With her kind heart, quick wit, and savvy smarts, Eden Elliott is my new favorite amateur sleuth . . . Reed writes an engaging tale full of belly laughs and white-knuckle moments.”

  —Jenn McKinlay, New York Times bestselling author of the Hat Shop, Cupcake Bakery, and Library Lover’s Mysteries

  “Reed’s series debut captures the appeal of the Highlands, and features a plucky, determined heroine surrounded by a cast of quirky but believable characters.”

  —Sheila Connolly, New York Times bestselling author of the County Cork Mysteries

  “A winning mystery . . . After reading Hannah Reed’s outstanding mystery, you’ll want to escape to the Scottish Highlands.”

  —Lesa’s Book Critiques

  “Remarkable . . . Reed gives cozy readers a mystery, a likable protagonist, her own view of the Scottish Highlands, plenty of adorable critters, and a sexy guy in a kilt.”

  —MyShelf.com

  “A great setting, characters you want to spend more time with, and a murder plot that engages all make this a very enjoyable story and [a] great start to a new series. Rating: Excellent.”

  —Mysteries and My Musings

  Berkley Prime Crime titles by Hannah Reed

  Queen Bee Mysteries

  BUZZ OFF

  MIND YOUR OWN BEESWAX

  PLAN BEE

  BEELINE TO TROUBLE

  BEEWITCHED

  Scottish Highlands Mysteries

  OFF KILTER

  HOOKED ON EWE

  DRESSED TO KILT

  An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014

  DRESSED TO KILT

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

  Copyright © 2016 by Deb Baker.

  Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.

  BERKLEY® PRIME CRIME and the PRIME CRIME design are trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.

  For more information, visit penguin.com.

  eBook ISBN: 9781101614006

  PUBLISHING HISTORY

  Berkley Prime Crime mass-market paperback edition / July 2016

  Cover illustration by Jeff Fitz-Maurice.

  Cover design by Sarah Oberrender.

  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.

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  CONTENTS

  PRAISE FOR THE SCOTTISH HIGHLANDS MYSTERIES

  BERKLEY PRIME CRIME TITLES BY HANNAH REED

  TITLE PAGE

  COPYRIGHT

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  CHAPTER 32

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  CHAPTER 1

  “It’s like living inside a snow globe,” I said to Vicki MacBride over afternoon tea at the kitchen table in my toasty warm cottage. We watched snow fall through the white-framed windowpanes, coming down fast and furious, whirling and swirling before softly landing and then drifting high against the stonework with every gust of wind.

  Vicki’s signature perfume with fragrances of rose and jasmine had accompanied her on the short walk from the main house to the cottage. So had her two white West Highland terriers, Pepper and Coco. The Westies were identical except for a small black mark on Pepper’s smooth little belly. At the moment the two were snuggled together in front of the wood-burning stove, the only source of heat in the cottage, but it had served me well so far, since the cottage was small and cozy, having been built to retain heat in the cold winter months.

  “The snowiest beginning to the winter season in decades,” Vicki agreed, going on to explain. “We’re only a week into December, and already we have our first official weather bomb. The weather alert has been upgraded from yellow to amber until sometime later this evening. Thirty centimeters yesterday, another twenty today.”

  That entire statement is Scottish Highlands speak, which I’m finally learning to translate after five-plus months in Glenkillen and some real concerted effort. Yellow means be aware. Amber, be prepared. And red, which we haven’t encountered yet and I hope we don’t, means better take action to protect yourself.

  “Twelve inches of new snow already,” I said, after struggling to convert the weather report from centimeters into inches. I doubted I’d ever become proficient with the metric system. “That on top of another eight inches from the last ‘weather bomb.’”

  At least we hadn’t experienced any blackouts. In case that happened, Vicki assured me that we were well prepared for a power outage. My cottage and the main house where she lives have trustworthy wood-burning stoves, and we’d stacked plenty of wood inside after the yellow alert had been issued. Vicki had also made sure we had a supply of lanterns and enough fuel to keep them burning if necessary.

  I’ve come to learn that the Scots are a well-prepared and rugged bunch. They don’t let a few feet of snow concern them. My admiration for them and for their way of life has been growing daily.

  The MacBride farm, where I’ve been residing since my arrival in Scotland, is on the outskirts of Glenkillen, an easy drive back and forth on a good day, which of course this wasn’t. Eventually, after many harrowing experiences, I’d grown accustomed to driving on the left. After doing so almost every single day, traveling to the local pub to work on a romance series I’m under contract to write, I found my confidence level was running pretty high. Or it had been, before all this snow began falling and making the only narrow, winding road that connects the farm to the village slippery and treacherous. I expected to have to negotiate under these conditions sometime in the near future, because, as I understood from Vicki, this weather was going to stick around for the long haul. The “long haul” for me being December twenty-second, when I was scheduled to depart.

  Vicki dipped the last of a chocolate shortbread biscuit into her tea for the precise amount of time, an act I consid
er a fine art, which is totally lost on me. “Not so long that it falls into the cup,” she’s explained often. “Not so short that the flavor of the tea isn’t fused with the buttery treat.”

  Vicki popped the perfectly dunked morsel into her mouth.

  “I don’t want to go,” I said, using a spoon to fish for the piece of shortbread I’d dipped too long, my mood turning as downcast as my gaze.

  “What? You’re joking, right? Most of the community would kill for an invitation to a private winter whisky tasting at Glenkillen Distillery!”

  Vicki had misunderstood me.

  Regarding the whisky tasting: I was really looking forward to tomorrow evening’s event. Especially since the invitation had been extended by Leith Cameron, local barley supplier to said distillery, professional fishing guide, and the man who comes to mind every time I need to write a scene involving a hot, sexy male protagonist. He also is a single dad, father to six-year-old daughter Fia, and on top of all that he also enjoys chumming around with his border collie buddy, Kelly. And sometimes me. He’s easygoing and self-confident with beautiful Scottish blue eyes and ginger highlights in his hair and a short beard he’s recently taken to wearing as the days become colder.

  And that man can really wear a kilt!

  White tie, the invitation had specified. The delivery had been formal, arriving in the mail earlier in the week with the inscription: Leith Cameron requests the pleasure of your company at a special winter whisky tasting on Saturday evening, December 8 at 7:00 p.m.

  Of course, I’d responded as formally, on the advice of my current teatime partner, sending off a posted note with my acceptance. In Chicago, where I was born and raised, I would have picked up the phone. Or he would have. This was all so foreign to me. But who am I to criticize Scottish tradition?

  I paused, a fresh shortbread hovering over my tea, to consider Leith’s attire for tomorrow’s event. A kilt, for certain, Vicki had informed me. But what should I wear? I hadn’t brought much with me, but I did have a simple black dress and a few pieces of jewelry that Vicki had thought would be perfect for the occasion. Simple, elegant, classic.

  I couldn’t wait!

  Which brought me back to Vicki’s misinterpretation of my remark about not wanting to go.

  It had nothing to do with the whisky tasting. Far from it.

  No, my comment had to do with the quickly approaching expiration of my tourist visa, the standard maximum of six months. Soon I’d be on the flight from Scotland back to Chicago. Ami Pederson, my best friend there, practically had to force me onto the plane for the flight over here, insisting that an extended visit to the Highlands would jump-start my imagination. And since the first book in the Scottish Highlands Desire Series needed to have an authentic setting, and since I’d never been to the Highlands . . .

  “It’s only reasonable to actually go there for research,” she’d said, insisting that the village of Glenkillen was the perfect place to find inspiration. She’d done her own research to determine this. “It’s right on the North Sea. Perfect. And reasonable to spend time there,” she’d repeated.

  Only I hadn’t been reasonable.

  I’d resisted from the moment she’d suggested it, digging my heels in right up to the last hours before I was set to depart. I’d complained and explained and made excuses—too busy, too tired, too, too . . . everything. I’d continued with attempts to worm out of it while packing, continued to explain ad nauseam why I shouldn’t go, even as I checked in at the airport, whining, sniffling . . . but Ami had been more tenacious, refusing to capitulate. She’d driven me to the airport and followed me as far in as she could before security turned her back, waiting there until she was sure I had boarded.

  Then I’d arrived—overwhelmed, jet-lagged, and culture shocked, especially by the Scots’ so-called English language.

  And, in spite of myself, I had instantly fallen in love.

  I adored every aspect of the Highlands. The glens, munros, and lochs. The lush vegetation. The hillsides covered with heather and flocks of grazing sheep. The picturesque harbor village of Glenkillen. And especially the Scots. They are witty, fun loving, fiercely independent, fiery, and bold. My kind of people, I had discovered to my astonishment.

  With the Scottish surname of Elliott (originally spelled Eliott and perhaps any number of other ways), I was doomed from the start. “It’s in your blood,” Vicki had said, “whether you want it or not.”

  She was referring to my Highland ancestry. The Elliott clan has a crest of its own—a hand couped at the wrist holding a cutlass. And a motto: Fortiter et Recte, which means “Boldly and Rightly.” The rich history on my paternal side might have intrigued me even more, if not for the fact that I’d disowned my father and anything having to do with him. The man disappeared when I was six years old, right after my mother had been diagnosed with multiple sclerosis. Shortly after, he’d flown to Scotland for his father’s funeral, and that was the last we ever saw of him.

  What kind of person does a thing like that? No one I want to know, that’s for sure. He’d vanished without a trace, and to say I was remotely interested in that branch of the family tree would be an overstatement.

  Or so I told myself.

  But the fact that I knew the crest and motto spoke volumes. To be honest, an occasional flicker of curiosity does pop into my head, but I’m not about to act on it, now or ever. As they say, you can drag a horse to water, but you can’t make her drink.

  Sometimes I think Ami did this on purpose—suggested the setting to get me involved with distant relatives.

  But I’ve had over thirty years to build up walls of resentment and anger, and I’m not caving to mere curiosity. I owe my loyalty to the woman who birthed me, who lost her battle for life earlier this year.

  Anyway, my time in Scotland has flown. I haven’t had a free moment to do any family research, even if I wanted to, what with writing Falling for You, book one in the Scottish Highlands Desire series; turning it in; and working on finishing the first draft of Hooked on You, book two.

  Then there was the unexpected volunteer work.

  This unusual opportunity had arisen out of the blue. Detective Inspector Kevin Jamieson had approached me with an offer to replace his special constable, Sean Stevens, who had been accepted into the Scottish Police College in Fife and had taken off for training in September, leaving Jamieson forced to find another.

  “It would appear,” the inspector had said, “that I’m required tae have a volunteer special constable at all times, whether it agrees with me or not.”

  “But I’m leaving in December,” I’d pointed out.

  “Aye, we can cross that bridge when it’s upon us. Fer now, ye’re the likeliest tae get along with. At least in my mind.”

  I’d agreed. The inspector and I were very much alike. Both of us are introverts. Neither of us is shy, but we need more personal space than some people do. He and I tend to work best alone and are more comfortable touching base occasionally rather than investigating while joined at the hip. Most importantly, we respect each other. I consider him shrewd, intelligent, tough, but sensitive when he needs to be. We are even both left-handed, if that means anything significant, which I suppose it doesn’t.

  I’d accepted his offer without much thought as to the ramifications of the position as special constable. It was hard for me to believe that a country (or rather the entire United Kingdom) would allow untrained volunteers to run riot on the streets—wearing police uniforms (I’d been given a waiver on that requirement) and wielding all the power of real cops. I even carry pepper spray, which is considered illegal contraband, its possession a serious offense.

  Unless one has a police warrant card.

  Which I have.

  I keep it close at all times.

  It’s been interesting, mixing fictional romance stories with real-life crime drama.

 
Not that there’s been any police-type work in the village since the snow began to fly. Not even so much as a missing pet or a wayward teenager to track down and drag home. With the blanket of snow had come a perceptible quiet. It was a fine time to bake a batch of cookies, read a good book, or, in my case, write one.

  I’ve enjoyed myself thoroughly, whether hiding away in one of the warrens at the Kilt & Thistle Pub in the center of the village. Or raising a dram or two there with Leith. Or stocking up on shortbreads from A Taste of Scotland. Or discussing a case with Inspector Jamieson. Or just walking the cobblestone streets of Glenkillen. I’ve savored every moment.

  But in exactly two weeks, right before Christmas, the most magical time of the year to spend with friends and family, this will all come to an end. Vicki will drive me to Inverness. From there I’ll take a short flight to London and make a connection at Heathrow, leaving behind this amazing world I’ve discovered, to return to the drabness and loneliness of my old life.

  At thirty-eight years old, I find myself virtually family-less with the loss of my mother. And as to friends? Well, other than Ami Pederson in Chicago, my friends are here in Scotland. A controlling husband, now thankfully an ex-husband, tends to put quite a damper on establishing and maintaining friendships. And after I’d extricated myself from that toxic relationship, I’d focused on caring for my mother up until her death, at which time I gave up the apartment I’d shared with her in those final days.

  Vicki had suggested a simple solution. Why not fly back to the States every six months, then turn around and come back? Simple, maybe, but with the exorbitant cost of airline tickets, that idea wasn’t feasible. Ami had subsidized this trip and I really needed to pay her back with future royalties. Besides, the nomadic life isn’t for me. I need someplace to call home, even if it means establishing new roots in Chicago. Which, unfortunately, it does.

  Vicki and I sat next to each other on a connecting flight out of London into Scotland when I first arrived and became fast friends when she offered me the use of the cottage on her property. We’ve already had a cry or two over what would soon be our mutual loss. But tears weren’t going to alter reality. Laws and regulations are too powerful to challenge. Time is against me. I have to go.