Hooked on Ewe Read online

  “Her husband is devastated, from what I hear,” Leith added. “He can barely function.”

  “I’ll make a dish to drop off with him.” Vicki clucked, then flashed me a conspiratorial look, playing matchmaker as usual. “Well, I have chores in the barn.”

  And with that, Vicki called to Kelly to come along and the two of them brushed past our visiting neighbor and disappeared out the door.

  “She’s more upset than she’s letting on,” I told Leith. “I’ve been trying to convince her that she isn’t responsible, but she’s racked with guilt at the thought that the yarn she spun and dyed herself was used to strangle Isla.”

  “Aye, it’s aboot town.”

  Already? Well, of course it was. News, especially bad news, traveled with lightning speed in a village as small and close-knit as Glenkillen. And Isla may have been widely disliked, but she was still one of their own. She and her husband were very visible and active members of the community.

  Leith wiped his boots on the mat several more times then slid into the chair Vicki had vacated. “It must o’ been awful, seeing her like that.”

  “It was horrible,” I agreed. “I opened the van door and she fell out, right at my feet.” Isla Lindsey’s vacant expression flashed through my mind. I willed it away and went on to explain about the yarn club, how popular it was and how unfortunate it was that Vicki’s very first one had been marred by murder. “I wouldn’t be surprised if she gave up the club altogether.”

  “That would be a shame.”

  “It would. She was so excited about it.”

  “Are all the members women?” Leith asked.

  The question surprised me. I almost replied, “Of course.” Instead I paused to consider the question more carefully before saying, “Uh . . . I think so.”

  “Ye don’t sound very sure.”

  I knew there were men who knit, but I tried to recall if I’d ever actually seen a man knitting and came up blank. I thought back to Vicki’s members and wannabees lists, and after more careful consideration I said, “Yes, all the members are women.”

  Leith thought for a minute then said, “Sounds like the first thing the inspector will look for is one who picked up her yarn, but doesn’t have it anymore.”

  I nodded in agreement, although I hadn’t even begun to imagine how the inspector would handle the case, or where he would begin. “Certainly a starting point,” I agreed. “Whoever she is will have some explaining to do.” Most of the thirty-five kits were out in circulation, and one of those avid knitters had attended the trials with ulterior motives. Or perhaps the killer was a family member, or an acquaintance of a member who just happened to pick up someone else’s red yarn and thread it around her hands and pull it taut.

  “I wouldn’t want Inspector Jamieson’s job for all the gold in the world,” Leith said, and I had to agree. I was beginning to think I should consider myself lucky that the inspector had dismissed me instead of calling on me as his special constable.

  Besides, Sean was still in Glenkillen, acting as special constable, and willing and able to assist. Knowing Sean, nothing would stand in the way of his role in the investigation. At least until he had to leave for training.

  When Leith had walked in Vicki’s door, he’d claimed he couldn’t stay long, but he didn’t seem in any particular hurry now. So I went on to pick his brain, since he was as local as they come and was sure to have heard all the rumors circulating. “Do you have any idea who might have killed Isla?”

  “Could be anyone. She managed to put off everyone she met. But most o’ us are betting on her husband. Sure, he’s playing the grieving widower, but from all accounts, she wasn’t an easy one tae live with.”

  “That’s always the first person an investigator suspects—the surviving spouse. Do you think, is it possible that Bryan could’ve been fooling around on the side?”

  “Ye’ve been watching the telly again,” he teased, then grew more serious. “I’d leave that fer the inspector tae decide.”

  “Isla had her husband solidly under her thumb, didn’t she?” I asked. She had everyone else. Why not Bryan?

  Leith shrugged. “That’s the impression she gave, but though it might look like she wore the trousers in the family, Bryan isn’t what I’d call a pushover. At least when it comes tae sheepherding. He’s a good organizer and a hard worker. As tae their marriage, who knows?” Leith spoke slowly, measuring his words. “Sometimes a person acts out in ways the rest of us cannae comprehend. Bryan Lindsey appears on the surface to be as dull as ditchwater, but he might have had a sea o’ resentment building inside of him and the dam finally burst yesterday afternoon.”

  I added a few more notches to that personal-assessment book of mine and put Leith’s name a little higher up. Not only was he good-looking, but he seemed to study the world and the people in it. Not self-absorbed or petty or hung up on himself.

  “So are ye coming fishing with us?”

  “Another time?”

  “Aye, on a sunnier day, and soon.”

  “I look forward to it.” I smiled. Yes, I would look forward to spending time on the North Sea with Leith.

  “Well,” he said, pushing up to his feet, “I best be collecting Kelly and heading out.”

  “I hope you catch a boatload of fish,” I told him as I rose, too, and gathered up the teacups and teapot.

  “Aye, I hope so as well. And I hope you take extra care of yerself, Eden.”

  “Why do you say that?” I asked, surprised.

  “Ye have a way o’ finding trouble,” he pointed out. “Or rather it finds you.”

  Which was certainly true. My unfortunate knack for stumbling across crime scenes could be the reason the inspector had thought of me when he needed a new volunteer police officer. Was that his reasoning? Since he had to deal with me at the scenes anyway, he might as well have me on the side of the law, however bogus the part was that I played?

  Even so, I assured Leith, “I plan on staying far away from trouble in the future.”

  “See that ye do.”

  After Leith called Kelly and they drove off, I finished cleaning and putting away the breakfast dishes, grabbed my laptop and an all-weather jacket, and settled into the driver’s seat of the old Peugeot that Vicki had given me to drive during my stay in the Highlands. She’d recently bought herself a brand-new Volvo station wagon with an automatic transmission, which I lusted after. In Chicago I’d been able to take that feature for granted; here, manual transmissions were the norm. Driving on the opposite side of the road from what I was accustomed, along with a stick shift on the left side of the steering wheel instead of the right, had almost done me in more than once. It’s a miracle I’m still alive to complain. But I should be grateful that the Peugeot runs and gets me where I need to go.

  I pulled into the lane leading past Sheepish Expressions before the gravel lane turned onto the road leading to Glenkillen. The refreshment tent still stood out in the field. Volunteers had meant to come today and tear it down and also to clean up after the spectators. Isla had been the one who had demanded that all the Saturday volunteers return on Sunday to pick up trash and dismantle the big tent, the obstacle gates, and the holding pens. Now, with the rain, those chores would have to wait a little longer.

  Oliver’s van was nowhere in sight. Neither was the Lindseys’ camper van.

  My drive into Glenkillen was mostly uneventful despite my windshield wipers flapping against a steady downpour of rain, except for one abrupt and harrowing moment when I rounded a blind curve to discover a shaggy red-coated, long-horned Highland cow calmly strolling across the narrow road. I slammed on the brakes, practically standing the car on end. The cow didn’t even acknowledge my presence.

  After catching my breath and stilling my pounding heart, I drove slowly away, cautious of more than my own faulty driving abilities. The cow had been an importan
t reminder that four-legged creatures also traveled these roads.

  Soon, though, my driving concerns gave way to wonder. I never grow tired of the view, even on a rainy day like this, when Glenkillen comes into sight below as I wind down from the towering Highlands to the village situated at sea level. Or the drive along the harbor with its stunning and sweeping panorama of the North Sea. Fishing boats and sailboats bob in the harbor, many in slips along the pier, others tied to moorings, and some traveling the waves on the way in to shore or out to sea. Watching the whitecaps kissing the surface of the water, I wondered if Leith’s boat was one of those going out, or if he and his charges were out of sight by now.

  Next, I passed the beach, empty now due to the rain, but during the summer months it had been a popular gathering place for the community and visitors.

  It’s always a joy, too, to turn away from the harbor and drive the few blocks on Castle Street to the town center, especially now that I’m more familiar with the businesses and the owners. I love Glenkillen’s cobblestone streets, red-tiled rooftops, and whitewashed buildings. Among other assorted establishments, the town has a charming bookstore whose shelves I hope my own books will one day grace, a whisky shop where the proprietor is generous with the samples, an inn for out-of-town visitors, the most amazing bakery with Scottish delectables, and my particular favorite, the Kilt & Thistle pub, where my writing muse has decided to take up residence.

  After parking and entering the pub, I greeted the owners, Dale and his wife, Marg, and put in a request for a pot of strong black tea. I also gave a passing hello to Bill Morris, owner of the Whistling Inn next door. His veiny bulbous nose and bloodshot eyes reminded me what alcohol has the potential to do, the destruction it has the power to wield in its wake.

  Bill’s daughter, Jeannie, has operated the Whistling Inn ever since Bill took a dive into a bottle of Scottish rye and never crawled out. A sad story, but Bill is a regular at the pub, or rather a permanent fixture unless or until he passes out. In which case, a good-hearted soul or two helps him to his feet and sees him to his bed in one of the rooms next door. The old coot hears plenty from his perch at a dark table close to the bar, but his soggy memory tends to be unreliable. And he’s been known to tell the rest of us to “bugger off” when it suits him.

  Today, he ignored my greeting, making me wonder for the umpteenth time why I bothered to make the effort.

  “I’ll deliver the tea to yer usual spot?” Marg said, and I thought she looked tired. It was rare when either of the pub owners had time off. They seemed to live at the Kilt & Thistle. “Ye have a visitor waiting.”

  So even before I could steel myself to power up my laptop and force myself to take a look at my in-box, I found Inspector Jamieson sipping tea in my favorite writing nook.

  “I’m going tae need yer help after all,” he said in his thick Scottish brogue. “Ye best sit doon.”

  CHAPTER 7

  In the brief time it took to set my laptop on the table and situate myself in a chair opposite Inspector Jamieson, my emotions vacillated between annoyance and elation.

  Annoyance, because he hadn’t wanted my assistance last evening at the scene of the crime when he was taking statements from potential witnesses. Hadn’t I been the one to discover Isla’s body? Wasn’t Jamieson the one who’d suggested that I become a special constable? Shouldn’t I have had this choice from the very beginning?

  But I also felt happy that the inspector, who wore his badge, job, and emotions so close to his chest, had chosen to put his trust in me. Better late than never, as they say.

  “How could I possibly be of assistance?” I asked, wondering what had caused his change of heart.

  “Tae be perfectly honest, I need somebody intelligent tae bounce ideas back and forth, and that’s where yerself comes in.”

  I smiled, pleased in spite of myself. His flattery had worked. “What about Sean?” I quipped. “Isn’t he your right-hand man?”

  “Aren’t ye the funny lass? As ye well know, Sean tries his best, and I’m not saying he won’t make a good police officer one day, but following all the leads that present themselves isn’t his strong suit. He isn’t much fer the sort o’ forward thinking required o’ detective work. And asking him to carry on with more than one task at a time is a recipe fer disaster.”

  “I see your point.” And I did. Sean was a kind man with a keen sense of justice, but he wasn’t cut from the same cloth as the inspector. But was I? Hardly.

  “Besides, he’s a changed man, less intense in his devotion tae extra duties, since I believe he’s set his sights on Vicki MacBride.” The inspector chuckled. “I just noo sent him out tae the farm, and have high hopes that I won’t see him again until the sun rises on another day.”

  Marg arrived with my tea and more hot water for the inspector’s own pot. Her two redheaded twins ran through the pub, weaving around tables, making enough noises for a classroom of boys. “Shush, you wild loons,” she called after them. “Ye’re making enough clatter to raise the dead. Watch yerselves, or I’ll put ye to work scrubbin’ pots.” But her warning fell on empty space; they’d already disappeared out the door. She smiled as only a mother can and said, “Sundays are always making me wish fer Monday and a nice day o’ rest.”

  “Today is the day of rest, Marg,” the inspector reminded her.

  “Not the way I see it. Monday is my day. The boys are in school and ’tis my day off from working here at the pub. Monday can’t arrive soon enough tae suit me. Well, I’ll leave ye tae yer business.”

  “Have you brought my pepper spray?” I asked after Marg had gone off. “That was part of the deal we struck, if you remember.” I couldn’t wait to have that small canister of security.

  “Ah, I knew I’d forgotten tae bring something,” the inspector said with an expression that suggested he wasn’t being completely honest with me after all and didn’t care if I knew it. “So, now that ye’ve had a night o’ rest to think on it, what do ye make of Isla Lindsey’s murder?”

  “I wouldn’t exactly call it a night of rest,” I groused, thinking of how much of the night I’d lain awake.

  “I hope it was better than if I’d put the burden o’ stayin’ at the crime scene on ye. I was wanting tae spare ye that ugly task.”

  That was a surprise. I’d just assumed the inspector was getting rid of me—yet all along he’d been trying to be considerate?

  “Our Sean had words with the victim yesterday,” he went on.

  I almost blurted out, “Oh, good, I was hoping he would tell you about that,” but caught myself just in time. Instead I said, “Oh?”

  “Aye. He came clean about that early this morning, after feeling responsible fer her death the entire night, thinking she wouldn’t have gone off by herself if he hadn’t provoked her. I told him after all the meanness she’s directed at others, he can’t blame himself fer giving her a little o’ her own medicine. And I suspect she stomped off in a snit, but forgot about it the minute he was out o’ her sight. She was a hard one, she was.”

  “Isla was a piece of work, that’s for sure,” I agreed wholeheartedly. “She wasn’t usually one to walk away from a fight.” Thinking back, I realized that Sean hadn’t elaborated when he’d mentioned their altercation, and I hadn’t thought to ask. “What could Sean possibly have said to her to get that sort of reaction?”

  The inspector surprised me with a hardy chuckle. “Ye sure ye want to know?”

  “Of course.” I picked up my teacup and took a sip, leaving the cup between both of my hands, appreciating the warmth.

  “She was bossing him around. ‘Put the van here.’ ‘Sit there.’ ‘Say this when they ask this.’ ‘Do that.’ Finally, in exasperation Special Constable Stevens replied . . . let’s see if I’ve got this right . . . his exact words if I’m not mistaken were”—and then the inspector did a perfect imitation of Sean—“‘Perhaps ye should accompany
me tae the loo. Ye could hold me private parts so the aim is more tae yer liking.’”

  I burst out laughing so hard that tea sloshed from my cup. Nothing about Isla’s murder was funny, but Sean’s comeback to her was priceless, and I could almost see the expression on her face when he made that off-colored suggestion.

  I noticed that the inspector’s composure had a slight crack in it, too, for a change. “Never a dull moment with our Sean,” he added.

  I wiped up the drops of tea I’d spilled on the table and composed myself. “So we know that Isla was still alive sometime in the afternoon.”

  The inspector nodded. “That’s been confirmed by witnesses.”

  “I saw her myself. She was making rounds about noontime.” Then I remembered a detail that probably was insignificant, but thought I should mention it anyway. “She had a bag on her shoulder, one I hadn’t seen earlier. I noticed because it was plaid and her skirt was a tartan and I recall thinking the patterns didn’t go together. They clashed.”

  “That woulda been the messenger bag used tae collect cash periodically throughout the day tae deter would-be thieves.”

  “Is the bag missing?” Had it been stolen? That was a whole new possibility I hadn’t considered—had the motive been theft all along?

  “No, no, it was tucked away safely in the Lindseys’ vehicle. Isla had picked up what was available and locked it up fer safekeeping. Bryan turned it over tae Harry Taggart fer an accounting after I made a record o’ the contents.”

  “So we still don’t know when she was murdered.”

  “Not precisely, but I have a witness who said tha’ she was in the queue fer the loo at aboot half past one. But ye know how many people were out and about. Those I’ve interviewed so far didn’t see anything unusual. And certainly not a one o’ them can account fer every minute of their time after that, so proper alibis have been scarce tae come by. It’s going tae be a tough nut tae crack.” He leaned back. “Ye found her body slightly after five o’clock, and that’s been confirmed by several o’ the others who were still on the grounds. Meaning she was murdered in aboot a three-and-a-half-hour time frame.”