Be Still My Bleating Heart (A Scottish Highland Mystery Book 4) Read online

  BE STILL MY BLEATING HEART

  by

  Hannah Reed

  And come he slow, or come he fast, it is but death who comes at last ~ Sir Walter Scott

  Chapter 1

  Squirreled away in my favorite corner of the Kilt & Thistle Pub, I was vaguely aware of the hum of conversation in the background, reminding me of the soothing warm vibrations flowing from a Scottish harp. Usually the pub brings forth my creative juices and, as a romance author, contracted and with deadlines to meet, this place has been as important to me as the setting of my stories is to my readers. However, the blank laptop screen in front of me was a serious indication that a cloud of dreaded writer’s block had descended. It had happened as quickly as fog on a Highland moor.

  Home these days is a cottage on a working sheep farm, where I happily retreat whenever possible. During the day, a tucked-away table at the Kilt & Thistle serves quite nicely for my current work-in-progress. Before arriving in Glenkillen, I was an orphan, adrift and lonely, if one can still be called a waif at thirty-eight years old. Sadly, my mother and father are both gone and I have no siblings. Here in the Highlands, I’ve finally found my place with close friends, distant family members on my paternal side, and work I love.

  So why the block?

  I had my suspicions. Perhaps a symptom of my lack-luster personal life with the consequences being nothing exciting to transpose to the written page. Or maybe I simply needed a break from writing. I’d finished and submitted two books in the Highland Love Series back-to-back and needed to turn in book number three by the end of the year. A few weeks off during the flowering month of May might do me some good.

  As I pondered the dilemma, a text message, announced by a piano riff, came in from my state-side best friend. Ami Pederson, bestselling historical romance author, pounding out one best seller after another. She’s happily married, wealthy, and extremely pushy in a loving sort of way. Ami was the reason for my arrival in Scotland.

  “Any hot new sex scenes smoking up your story, soon-to-be famous Eden Elliott?” she queried.

  I couldn’t lie about the non-existent scenes because then she’d want to read them.

  “Been busy on a case,” I lied instead, referring to my unusual part-time position as a special constable, aka volunteer police officer. Yes, the position really exists in Scotland as well as in the whole of Great Britain. I serve at the pleasure of Inspector Jamieson, or rather, in spite of his displeasure. Although, lately he has been less prickly, a hopeful sign that he finds my assistance acceptable.

  He’d been pressured from above to accept a special constable and, after barely arriving in Glenkillen, I happened to be standing over a dead body and seemed his best choice at the time. Regardless of the initial circumstances that brought me to his small investigative team and my ongoing first-timer jitters, the position gives me a nice balance, grounding me in the complexities of reality when I’m not writing romantic fiction.

  “A very complex case,” I texted to Ami, digging deeper into the deception. “I’ll tell you about it later.”

  A text came back immediately. “How about your own love life? Have you consummated with that lovely Scot yet?”

  I groaned. Once Ami locks onto an idea, she can’t let it go. Leith Cameron is a good-looking man. His exceptional attributes figure prominently in the romantic love interests I create. And he’s kind and thoughtful, his inner beauty matching the outer.

  But…see that was the thing. The big BUT. Leith has never given me so much as a hint that he’s interested in romancing me. And I’d much rather have our friendly relationship than risk losing it by pushing for something more. If I can accept that, why can’t Ami? Of course, she claims that I’m missing the signs, that he’s signaling, and I’m too slow to pick them up. She’d say anything to further her match-making scheme.

  One thing she might be right about, although I’ll never admit it to her, is that my imagination seems to have run out of titillating love scenes. Ami has claimed in the past that I’ll have to immerse myself in a romance at some point or the well will run dry. Had the well stopped flowing? Or did I simply have spring fever?

  The days are longer now. Birds are singing and building nests. Clusters of bluebells, which are also known as Fairies’ Thimbles, grow in vibrant violet-blue clusters on heathlands and verges. I’d walked among them recently. Locals might blame this block on me, claiming I’d displeased the fairies from the ancient legends.

  I shook that ridiculous thought away, sighed, and slid the phone into my pocket without responding to Ami. Then I closed the laptop, concealing the wordless screen, and glanced up to see Bill Morris and his nephew, Andy, at a table nearby. I’d been so absorbed in thought that I hadn’t even noticed them come in.

  Not that their appearance was extraordinary. Bill is a common fixture at the pub. He owns The Whistling Inn next door, but as far as I can tell, he does nothing to keep it going, though he occupies one of the rooms on a permanent basis. The inn’s success is due to his daughter, Jeannie. Andy was the latest relative to join the staff after his parents sent him from Oban to help out.

  After careful observation, I’ve decided that there are pros and cons to living next door to a pub. Bill certainly doesn’t have to go far at closing time and doesn’t have to get behind the wheel of a car. On the other hand, he strolls over from the inn, starts drinking early, and usually passes out, at which point Jeannie, or now Andy, has to come and haul him away.

  Bill had started on his first pint. Andy, although of legal drinking age, was responsibly nursing a bottle of Irn-Bru, the national soft drink – a sweet concoction, loaded with additives, and not a personal favorite of mine.

  Andy seemed a bit surly, judging by the set of his jaw, his patchwork of freckles a bit more colorful than usual, probably not appreciating having to babysitting his uncle.

  “One is the limit f…fer ye,” I heard Andy say, with a hint of a stammer, which I had noticed when he’d first arrived. His stammer seemed to become more pronounced if he became excited. “And then it’s b…back tae the inn tae help out.”

  “Says yerself?” Bill asked.

  “Says Jeannie,” Andy went on. “Ye been killing yerself slowly and it has tae stop she says. I shouldn’t o’ let ye t…talk me intae even this one.”

  Bill snorted. “Try tae stop me, ye wee scarecrow.”

  If I had to pick sides in a wrestling match, I’d bet on Bill, who had at least a hundred pounds on his nephew. But before I could decide on a hefty monetary amount for my imaginary wager, Sean Stevens entered the pub and zeroed in on my table.

  “I don’t mean tae bother ye,” he said, taking a seat across from me.

  Interrupting was exactly his intention. Those more thoughtful give me a wide berth when I’m in writing mode, respecting my space. Not Sean. Or rather Police Officer Stevens, the newest addition to the force, who wore his uniform with brimming pride. Today his slight form sported the standard white shirt, black tie, and peaked cap of the local cops.

  “Are you here on official business?” I asked, which is the only explanation I’d considered worthy of an intrusion by Sean. Granted, I’d been absorbed in pretty much everything except writing, but still.

  “Nothin’ such as that. I have some spare time. Besides, a wee burdie told me ye’d need company since Leith isn’t around tae entertain ye.”

  His silly smirk reminded me that Sean was also in on the Leith-is-the-one-for-you conspiracy.

  He continued, “Takin’ care of business out on the sea in his fishing guide boat, he is. We won’t see hide nor hair o�
�� him for weeks. Any spare time he gets, will be taken up by that daughter of his.”

  Leith does keep busy. Arranging fishing expeditions on his boat named Bragging Rights, growing barley at his croft farm for distribution to the local distilleries, and co-raising his six-year-old daughter, Fia, from a failed relationship with the child’s mother.

  My mind wandered to a recurring dream I’d been having. In the dream, a man comes to me while I’m lying in a canopy bed covered with a soft white duvet. His face is hidden in shadow, the room semi-dark, but I sense that I know him intimately. He approaches my bed. I open my arms to him. He joins me, his strong hands caressing my body. We make love, first slowly and tenderly, then with growing passion.

  I shook myself back to the present, letting the daydream drift away.

  I wonder how Ami would interpret that sign?

  “Is Vicki getting ready for tonight?” I asked, turning my attention to a safer subject.

  Vicki MacBride was the first friend I made on arriving in the Highlands, and she owns the sheep farm where I live. Raised in California, but Scottish by birth, she inherited a beautiful property on the outskirts of Glenkillen. She’s also engaged to Sean.

  “Vicki’s over at the bookshop,” her fiancé said. “I’m driving her home in a bit. She’s all excited about goin’ tae that Scott Supper staged at the home of Derrick and Brenda Findlay. Ye know, all that ‘O’ what a tangled web we weave when first we practice to deceive.”

  I smiled. “Look at you, quoting Sir Walter Scott!”

  “I’m more worldly than I appear on the surface,” Sean said preening. “How about yerself? Lookin’ forward to yer first Scott supper tonight?”

  “I am, very much.”

  The Sir Walter Scott Club’s next meeting was only a few hours away. According to Vicki, the suppers are glorious celebrations of the author’s life and works. The prolific Scottish novelist, poet, playwright, and historian is highly honored throughout Scotland.

  I imagined that the evening would most likely include traditional music, recitation of carefully selected passages, and a high consumption of whisky along with Scottish dishes such as haggis, tatties, and neeps. For the uninitiated, that translates to animal offal, mashed potatoes, and rutabaga, all of which I sampled early on thanks to the Inspector. Jamieson had described haggis as sheep’s pluck. Later, I would discover he was referring to internal organs. Not for everybody, although it goes down easiest with whisky.

  “How’s the writin’ coming?” Sean wanted to know.

  “It’s not,” I admitted. “I’m considering taking a break, or maybe writing something different than the series. Something that I can wrap up in a few weeks, a month at most. A short story maybe.”

  That had a certain appeal.

  “Ye can write a true story about me,” Sean suggested, not the first person to think his life was exciting enough for the written page. “I’m as interesting as ye get. Or…ye could make yerself useful and do a bit of legwork on the Pensioner Robber case.”

  “No leads yet?”

  “Not a one.”

  The Pensioner Robber, as we’ve privately dubbed him, had struck three times in the last ten days, always in the same fashion, targeting female senior citizens inside their cars, holding them at knifepoint, and demanding their purses. So far, no one had been physically injured, but it was only a matter of time before something tragic occurred.

  Sean shook his head, sadly. “Tis a despicable person who targets old persons.”

  I nodded my agreement then noticed my boss entering the pub behind several other patrons making their way to tables.

  Detective Inspector Jamieson was a widower in his late fifties, tall, imposing, and intensely focused on the business of law enforcement. Today, he wore his standard uniform under a black Inverness dress coat; khakis, a blue button down with the top button open, and a loose tie His somber personality was the exact opposite of the easy-going, fun-loving Leith’s.

  Jamieson’s piercing blue eyes found my table immediately.

  “Constable Elliott,” he curtly acknowledged my presence before turning his attention to Sean. “The robber has struck again. This time the victim was forced at knife-point into the boot. I need ye tae get out tae the edge o’ Glenkillen and assess the scene and canvass fer witnesses.”

  Jamieson gave him the location.

  “I’m ontae it.” Sean jumped up, then paused. “I’m supposed tae collect Vicki from the bookshop.”

  “I’ll get her,” I offered. “You go on.”

  “I’ll let her know about the change in plans.” Sean hustled away, a fire lighting up his eyes.

  “You have to admire his eagerness,” I pointed out, aware of the inspector’s opinion of Sean, which wasn’t high. “Do you want me to go out there, too? I’d have to bring Vicki along, but she wouldn’t mind.”

  The inspector took the seat that Sean had occupied. “Tis mostly handled. I came here from interviewing the poor woman. Chust thought I’d find something fer our Sean to help with tae keep him outta my hair. The sod took the woman’s mobile and purse and locked her in the boot fer over an hour, according tae her.”

  “Is she okay?” I asked, noting with pleasure how easily I now understood his heavy Scottish accent compared to the day I’d first met him.

  “Aye. She’s appears tae not be one tae go down easily. A passer-byer heard banging and released her. She came outta the boot ready fer a fight. Fer a pensioner she sure has the spunk. Same description by this victim as the others gave. The bloke had a local accent, was average height and weight, and was wearing one o’ those three-hole full-head black ski masks. Glenkillen is goin’ tae get a reputation as a car robbery hotspot if we don’t catch this Jimmy soon.”

  He noted my confusion. “Jimmy isn’t his actual name,” he explained. “Tis an expression. Means guy, ye know, same as bloke.”

  Oh, ok.

  While Jamieson took a call on his cell phone, I checked the time on my own phone. Just after three p.m. Assuming less than an hour had elapsed between the call to the police and the inspector’s appearance at the pub, and allowing for the time the woman had been locked in the trunk, the robbery had occurred at approximately one o’clock. Give or take. The perpetrator had plenty of time to disappear, leaving no tracks. Why hadn’t any witnesses come forward? This was number four. A man wearing a ski mask isn’t exactly commonplace.

  But the attacks had all been outside the village center. Fewer potential eyes to witness the crime.

  Jamieson finished his conversation, tucked the phone into a pocket of his coat, and leaned back. “I thought you’d be getting ready fer the Scott Supper, yet here ye are.”

  “I’m about to leave.”

  “Are ye going tae join the lot on a permanent basis?”

  “I’m not much of a joiner.”

  The inspector nodded knowingly. The two of us were cut from the same introverted cloth. Both left-handed, if that attests to anything, both cautious about allowing others into our lives, and we valued our own personal space. Although, while unable to speak for him, I really enjoy friends and meeting new people. Then I retreat, exhausted, to my cottage and Snookie, my Scottish Fold feline companion.

  “Even Sean can quote Sir Walter Scott,” I said, remembering Sean’s recitation.

  “Silence, maiden; thy tongue outruns thy discretion,” the inspector exclaimed with force. Several customers turned our way.

  My mouth fell open. “Excuse…me?” Then realizing he was having fun with me, I replied, “Another Scott quote. Ill chosen, I might add.”

  The inspector chuckled, giving me a moment to searched my mind for a comeback. I had it, a snippet from the depths of my stored memories. “A fool’s wild speech confounds the wise,” I recited.

  He laughed out loud at that. So did several others, including Bill and Andy.

  Musicians had been fussing with gear at a corner table and came forth with fiddles, beginning an impromptu fiddle session with The Fairy Dance
, a lively reel that ended our conversation as we fixed our attention on the music.

  I grinned, feeling warm and content, the pesky pages forgotten for the moment.

  Chapter 2

  Derrick and Brenda Findley lived on Crannog Lane in a traditional villa on slightly elevated ground, overlooking the village and Moray Firth, an inlet on the North Sea. I parked my Peugeot on the street below, Vicki exited from the passenger seat, and we followed a private path upward through mature trees, entering the vestibule after a warm welcome from the host and hostess. We wandered into the dining room to the music and lyrics of Caledonia, a song that made its appearance often at the pub.

  I’d learned the words and silently sang along.

  I have moved and I've kept on moving

  proved the points that I needed proving

  Lost the friends that I needed losing

  found others on the way

  I have tried and I've kept on trying

  stolen dreams, yes there's no denying

  I have traveled hard sometimes with conscience flying

  somewhere in the wind

  Momentarily, I found myself seated. The supper, served at a table beside an open hearth, was a formal affair; the men in Highland kilts and the women in their best finery. My go-to black dress was classic, and it worked well. Vicki, her blonde hair tied in a knot on top of her head, wore a tartan skirt, and her signature perfume with hints of rose and jasmine scented the air.

  There were eight of us, a smaller group that usual, according to Vicki, due to May holidays, which was why she and the other members had been strongly encouraged to invite guests. Recruiting new and young members was an ongoing concern with the aging club members.

  Brenda and Derrick, with whom I was acquainted through the pub and small talk there, sat at opposite ends of the dining table, which I could see had room for expansion in additional leaves.

  I also knew Stuart McKay from his readings at the bookstore. He was a retired university professor from Edinburgh and sat across from me, sporting a tartan kilt with shades of blue, a Prince Charlie kilt jacket, a black bow tie, leather sporran, argyle hose and ghillie brogues.