Hooked on Ewe Page 12

  Too soon, we headed for the harbor. Back on the pier, when I removed and returned his jacket, Leith said, “Might ye have preferred some deep-water fishing?”

  I shook my head. “This was better than anything I could have imagined.”

  “Isn’t life grand!”

  Yes, at times it really was.

  CHAPTER 13

  I arrived at the post office a few minutes past nine a.m., right after it opened.

  Glenkillen’s quaint little postal service is painted cornflower blue with white-framed windows. Flower baskets filled with trailing pansies, geraniums, and petunias hang from hooks outside the door. There is a cash machine under a sheltered awning for withdrawals and a red letterbox at the front of the walkway for outgoing mail. The post office is closed on Sundays as well as Wednesday and Saturday afternoons, and any other time that Paul Denoon chooses to flip the window sign from open to closed with no discernible rhyme or reason. If he made lunch arrangements or had a medical appointment or any number of other errands, he closed the post office, leaving a note on the door announcing his return time, which I can personally attest to as an approximation only.

  Mondays, it turns out, are exceptionally heavy mailing days. I had to stand in a line that extended out the door, as the small interior accommodates only a few people at a time.

  Some customers in the queue gave me the standard “Good mornin’ tae ye” greeting, though I also sensed several curious and furtive glances. Which was a bit disconcerting. Coming from a big city where nobody minded anyone else’s business to a small village where everybody knew everything and then some, took getting used to. And this bunch obviously had an inside track.

  I tried to figure out what they’d heard about me—that I had found Isla’s body? Almost for certain. And everyone would know about the yarn, how it had been wrapped around Isla’s neck and that Vicki had supplied it, however unintentionally. Perhaps they also knew about my role as the inspector’s newly appointed assistant. I almost welcomed that bit of gossip. It would make my job easier if I didn’t have to waste time explaining myself to every person I spoke with in regards to the murder.

  As I waited in line, I could almost hear their collective minds working overtime, wondering what was true and what wasn’t. It seemed like they wanted to interrogate me instead of the other way around, but none of them was quite that bold.

  The line inched slowly forward. As my turn approached (holding the door open, half in, half out of the building), another postal worker appeared from the back room to assist the postmaster and began taking customers as well to speed things up a bit. Neither the incoming staffer nor Paul Denoon were in any particular hurry, neither so much as glancing up to assess the length of the line.

  Same as in the States. You didn’t have a choice. You waited as long as it took. And if you didn’t like it, that was just too bad. And as to the employees behind the counter, I couldn’t imagine dealing with never-ending lines. They had to have nerves of steel.

  The interior was cramped. It encompassed a counter behind which the two postal workers assisted customers. In addition to buying stamps and mailing packages, we could exchange pounds for euros or make photocopies at a self-help machine next to the counter. I noticed the cards required to add minutes to mobile phones that Doc Keen and Paul Denoon had discussed as we shared a table at the sheep dog trials.

  When my turn finally came, the postmaster was still waiting on another customer. His assistant waved me over, but instead I allowed the woman behind me to go ahead and continued to wait while I studied Paul Denoon. He seemed ancient to me, well past normal retirement age.

  “What’ll it be?” Paul said shortly after, eyeing me over spectacles perched on the end of his nose.

  “I need to speak with you in private,” I said, feeling the entire line behind me leaning forward, catching every word.

  He scowled at me while I did my best to present a pleading, respectful attitude—one that hopefully announced that I would be grateful if he consented and appreciative of any amount of time he could offer me, no matter how brief. His eyes slid to those still in line behind me before he said, “In case ye didn’t notice, we’re a wee bit busy at the moment.”

  “Perhaps there is a better time to come back?”

  He thought about that and must have decided now was as good, or rather as inconvenient, a time as any, because he told his assistant he’d be right back, and directed me through a side door into another room. Rows of wooden pigeonholes ringed the room, some of the slots containing letters. A table stood in the center for initial sorting, and large postal bins were stacked in a corner.

  I began explaining myself immediately. “I’m assisting Inspector Jamieson in the investigation of Isla Lindsey’s murder. Would you like to see my credentials?”

  He regarded me rather suspiciously over his reading glasses. “That would be proper,” he said, giving no clue as to whether he had prior knowledge of my involvement, although he hadn’t expressed any surprise, either.

  I dug through my pockets until I found the warrant card, and presented it to him. “We have reason to believe that certain packages should have gone out last Thursday. I’m here to confirm that they did.”

  Paul handed back my card. “Parcels go out daily,” he said with a clipped tone.

  “Yes, but these would all have had the return address as Sheepish Expressions. Kirstine MacBride brought them in.”

  “An’ why are ye askin’ me and keepin’ customers waiting when ye could be askin’ her an’ saving us this bother?”

  “I’m simply following up,” I muttered. This wasn’t going quite as well as I’d anticipated it would when the postmaster had acquiesced to the interview.

  “An’ ye suppose I should be rememberin’ every customer, an’ what’s been sent? And at me advanced age at that?”

  I sighed in exasperation. Should I put more pressure on him? And if so, what kind of pressure? He didn’t look as though he scared easily, and I doubted that I was any good at twisting arms.

  Instead, I threw my boss’s name out there. “It’s very important that I find out about those packages so I can inform Inspector Jamieson. He asked me to do this for him since he’s busy with other aspects of the case. There would have been twenty-two packages.”

  That got a reaction. “Twenty-two o’ them! Why didn’t ye say that at the beginning? It woulda saved us this little jig.” But then he immediately squashed my excitement by shaking his head. “That number o’ posted parcels, I woulda remembered.”

  “Do you recall Kirstine MacBride coming in on Thursday?”

  “Not Thursday, nor any other day last week. Haven’t seen her in the post office fer several weeks or even more.”

  “Well, why didn’t . . .” I stopped myself. I was about to say that if he had said that at the beginning, the jig he mentioned would have been up before it began. But I let it go. In a way, this was the best news possible. Well, maybe not the absolute best, but good enough to make my day worthwhile, and it had barely just begun. I could cross off traveling around the countryside retrieving kits.

  Except, if Kirstine hadn’t mailed them, where were they? Their whereabouts still needed to be determined.

  After thanking the postmaster, I practically flew out of the post office door, intent on racing back to the farm and confronting Kirstine. She’d clearly intended to sabotage Vicki’s club before it even had a chance to get off the ground. The nerve! Talk about cutting off your nose to spite your face. Didn’t Kirstine even realize that she was also hurting her own business?

  I should slow down, try to get a search warrant. I’d love to watch her squirm under my scrutiny. Yes, a search warrant would be enormously satisfying. Although the inspector might think that was excessively aggressive. I could hear him telling me he’d handle her himself, implying that she would have been more forthcoming in the first place if not for t
he tension between us. If I involved him, he might take me out of the loop, or could even decide to remove me from the case permanently.

  Maybe I should take a little time to cool off and figure out my next move without involving red tape and the inspector. I was a big girl. I could handle this.

  I was already in the center of Glenkillen with the rest of the day before me, and I had other tasks to do (if only I could stop seeing raging-bull red and remember what they were). Apparently an organized mind is most effective when it isn’t ticked off and wanting revenge over personal issues, which at the moment were outweighing the professional aspects two to one.

  Kirstine would have plenty of explaining to do. She was a thief and a liar, and she could so easily become my prime suspect. Except for several logical reasons that she most likely couldn’t be.

  First and foremost, if Kirstine had decided to kill Isla, she would never have chosen the shop’s parking lot. She’d have disposed of the body anywhere else, rather than besmirch her precious Sheepish Expressions’s good name. No, if Kirstine was going to commit murder, she would have stuffed Isla’s body in a back room then later dumped it somewhere else, like off a cliff on the far side of the MacBride farm where the bluffs were steep and the discovery of a body could take weeks or months or years, maybe never.

  Not to mention Kirstine’s complete lack of any obvious motive. No, most likely Kirstine MacBride-Derry was simply being difficult, something she excelled at. This time, though, she’d crossed a line, interfering with an ongoing investigation, withholding pertinent information. Did she even realize that? Probably not. Her ongoing hostility toward me could be clouding her better judgment. Had I ever seen her better judgment? Not yet, I hadn’t.

  I must have been stomping down Castle Street oblivious to the world around me, because my thoughts were interrupted by a familiar voice close behind me asking, “Where are ye going in such a snit?”

  Sean Stevens appeared at my side, outfitted in a crisp, clean uniform, much different than earlier when Charlotte and I had caught him creeping away from Vicki’s house.

  “I’m not in a snit,” I told Sean, although I really had been.

  He stopped in front of Taste of Scotland. Although the shop wasn’t open yet, the wonderful aroma of freshly baked sweets drifted our way on a light breeze, so I ground to a halt, too. The owner, Ginny Davis, makes all her shop’s shortbread from scratch in a kitchen to the rear of the building. I’ve had the good fortune to sample some of her shortbread creations, including java mocha, orange chocolate chip, and almond shortbreads. Today’s special was posted in the window—chocolate-dipped shortbreads.

  “I was aboot tae go inside Taste of Scotland and say hello tae me cousin Ginny, and here I find ye with an expression that could frighten a lesser man.”

  “I’m okay, really. Where is the inspector this morning?”

  “So that’s what’s got ye fired up. Now he’s hidin’ from ye, too?”

  Which hadn’t crossed my mind recently, but now that Sean mentioned it . . . Jamieson had been sending me out on errands that assured our paths weren’t likely to cross.

  “I just wanted to touch base with him,” I muttered, thinking that it was fine with me if I didn’t run into him until after I’d followed up on Kirstine and exposed her deceptive actions. I wanted to be the one to deliver those twenty-two kits she’d stashed away. If I had the opportunity to bring Kirstine down from on high at the same time, that was an added bonus.

  “Ye can get in touch with me any time ye have questions,” Sean said. “That is, if the inspector isn’t available. I’m willing tae answer any questions ye have.”

  Oh, right, yes, that’s what I needed. Tutelage from the special constable I’d tutored. “Sure,” I said, not able to imagine that ever happening. Then Charlotte’s remark about an additional exchange between Isla and Sean came to mind. “I heard Isla didn’t like the spot you originally picked for the van?”

  “Aye, she made me move it from one side o’ my car tae the other.” Sean shook his head as though trying to understand her reasoning but failing. “Just showing who’s in charge, she was. Well, she’s in the great beyond now, givin’ orders tae the angels.”

  She probably was.

  “Oh,” he went on, “I almost forgot tae mention, I picked up two of those yarn kits that I distributed on Saturday.” He dug a piece of paper out of his trouser pocket and showed me the names written on it, which I recognized as two other fund-raiser volunteers.

  Sean went on with a touch of self-importance. “These are two volunteers who designed and printed up the program guides. I went tae each of their residents and interrogated them thoroughly, but unfortunately without learnin’ a bit o’ new information. Neither o’ them was too happy when I confiscated their handiwork, which both had already started to knit intae socks. One o’ them even threatened tae let the air out o’ the tires o’ me car if I unraveled what she’d already accomplished. I promised tae return it in the same condition as I found it.”

  “I can’t believe you were threatened,” I said.

  “Aye. She’s another cousin, she is, thinks she can bully me around. What’s a bloke tae do with the likes o’ relatives such as mine?” He sighed. “So how is yer own investigation going?”

  “I’m on my way to see Senga Hill.”

  “What a coincidence that ye mention her name. I’m about tae speak with Ginny regarding Senga this very minute.”

  “Really?” That caught my attention. “Why?”

  “Senga worked in this establishment fer my cousin.”

  I hadn’t known that. Although there were probably a lot of things I didn’t know about the local residents. “Maybe I’ll tag along then, since we’re right here,” I said.

  “As ye see fit, but let me do the talkin’ and ye the listenin’.”

  I shook my head in disbelief. Talk about putting on airs. “Exactly when are you leaving for police training?” I asked.

  “Soon enough. We need tae crack this case fast. I cannae leave in the middle o’ an active investigation.”

  What? No! Surely his training began at a certain time, and Sean would be on his way regardless of the status of this case. Wouldn’t he?

  Sean continued, “I have plenty o’ advice fer ye.”

  “Such as?”

  “Such as, just because ye have police power in yer new position, it’s not smart tae flaunt it. Ye might be ordered tae follow up with crime incidents, but ye have tae be subtle about it, ye do. Ye’re a crime stopper now, and don’t ferget it.”

  “Are you finished?”

  “Fer the moment.”

  “Then let’s go.”

  CHAPTER 14

  A small sign hanging on the door told me that Taste of Scotland was scheduled to open in about fifteen minutes, at ten o’clock, but I could see Ginny Davis responding to Sean’s knock through the glass bakery displays in the window. She hustled through from the back kitchen, wearing an apron around her waist and a scarf tied behind her head.

  Ginny had been one of the first local business owners to treat me with hospitality and warmth. I hadn’t forgotten her kindness and made a point of frequenting her shop. The fact that I loved sweets certainly didn’t hurt our casual and friendly relationship, either.

  “What is that wonderful aroma?” I asked her right away.

  “Scottish buns,” she told me. “They aren’t outta the oven, though, or I’d offer ye one.”

  I inhaled with delight and said, “I smell cinnamon and almonds.”

  Ginny grinned. “Ye have the nose o’ a hound, Eden Elliott,” she said, then to Sean, “Also, I put in raisins, currants, and a wee bit o’ brandy.”

  “Brandy, now that’s the secret tae the best kind o’ buns,” he said.

  The bakery was a small slice of heaven, a welcome retreat from the harsh realities of the outside world. We made
it our first order of business to sample the shortbread of the day. Sean and I agreed that the chocolate dip was delicious. Soon Sean was on his third piece and seemed to have forgotten the reason he’d come to Taste of Scotland.

  But I remembered why we were here.

  “We wanted to ask a few questions about one of your past employees,” I said. Sean, focused on devouring shortbread, still hadn’t jumped in. “Sean! You came here about . . .”

  Only then did he snap to. “Oh, right then, cousin. I need information about Senga Hill.”

  I watched Ginny’s expression go from sunny and clear to cloudy and overcast. “What about her?” she said.

  “If I recall,” Sean went on, “she had a position with ye fer a short time in the spring o’ this year.”

  “Aye, she did.”

  “Didn’t Senga have her own bakery at one time?” I asked. “Not in Glenkillen, though, if I understood correctly.”

  “She owned a bakery in Elgin, down the coast a ways from here,” Ginny said grudgingly. “Which she sold once she turned tae pension age. I thought she’d be an asset to the business when she came in and applied fer part-time employment, but it didn’t work out as I expected.”

  “What happened?” I asked, watching Sean bite into yet another chocolate-dipped shortbread. If he wasn’t paying attention, someone had to, so I pulled out the small notebook that Inspector Jamieson had given me. At least one of us would take notes.

  “Shortly after she began,” Ginny said, “this was in the spring, April I believe, all of a sudden my gluten-sensitive customers started complaining about symptoms. Since Sean and I have a dear aunt who is a celiac, I know the signs—bad reflux, cramps, brain fog, digestive issues tae name the most common.”

  “Who would that aunt be?” Sean asked her, back in the conversation now that the shortbread was gone.

  “Aunt Hildy.”

  “Oh right, her.”