Hooked on Ewe Page 9

  There were three recent e-mails from Ami Pederson. I began with the oldest and least intimidating, because the subject line told me enough about the content. My friend seemed to have a one-track mind when it came to Scottish men. The subject was, “Have you seen under a kilt yet?” I decided to completely ignore the contents of that one since I could probably have recited it verbatim without even opening it. I sent that same-old-subject e-mail to the trash receptacle.

  The second e-mail was a status update that would have left me ripping my hair out if I’d read it right after it came zipping through cyberspace from across the pond. Another valid reason for not being overly hasty in checking e-mail too frequently. It read simply, “I’m almost finished with Falling for You!!!!”

  Really? That was the entire extent of it? One measly, nondescriptive sentence? Plus major overusage of exclamation marks. If I’d read this e-mail right after it had been sent, I would have had several carefully chosen, colorful adjectives to describe my best friend in Chicago. And a whole lot of hours to imagine my failure as a legitimate novelist. Not a single hint as to what she thought so far, unless the exclamation points were supposed to mean something good. Or, a much worse thought, what if she couldn’t find anything good to say about the manuscript?

  I talked myself down from a rocky cliff of anxiety and turned my attention to the third and final e-mail, which had been sent not long before I’d entered the pub. The subject line jumped out at me. “Finished!!” I took a deep breath and opened it . . .

  . . . To find a lengthy critique of my story. I took another deep breath, and began skimming, expecting the absolute worst. Instead my eyes landed on such phrases as “amazing sexual tension” and “fully realized characterizations” and “vivid sex scenes.” “I loved . . .” cropped up frequently.

  I began to relax, my spirits soaring, especially after her final comments. “You might not be making much of a love life for yourself, but you have created a scorching hot one for Gillian and Jack. Way to go! If you need to abstain from sex to write like this, if you need to keep it all bottled up inside of you to put it on the page as you’ve done, well then you have my blessing. No more pressure from me to explore those Scottish dreamboats. Well done! I still can’t believe you wrote this so fast! It’s good to go. Send it off to your editor. Scotland is obviously the elixir you needed.”

  Followed by lots more exclamation points and a series of smiley faces.

  All the tension I’d been carrying around these past few days drained away, even the stress of recent sad events. The knot in my stomach disappeared. My knitted brow straightened and my lips curled up with glee. I read Ami’s last e-mail over and over. And over again. I could have been one of the smiley faces she used in overabundance to make her points. Life was good.

  After I forced myself down from cloud nine, I wrote back, gushing with gratitude. What a friend she was. I even wrote, “I loved, loved, loved your use of exclamations!!!”

  Thinking back to her comment about the speed with which the book came together, I realized I really had finished like a flash of lightning. But I also knew that if I wanted to make a name for myself amongst other romance writers, I had to keep up with them in both quality and quantity.

  Which wouldn’t leave me any spare time for a personal life, let alone allow me to squeeze in work as a special constable. Were romance writers living vicariously through their characters because their own lives were so bound to writing deadlines? I’d have to consider that. Although Ami Pederson had a wonderful marriage, and from the tales she’d told me, it was as hot as her bestsellers. So that gave me hope that someday I really could have my cake and eat it, too. But right now I was a rookie at this. I’d eat my cake someplace down the road.

  For the moment, my focus had to be on my work.

  That’s what I told myself.

  Myself didn’t listen.

  I packed up my things, and headed for the farm with murder on my mind.

  CHAPTER 9

  I returned to the farm to find Sean and Vicki in the barn, sitting side by side on a hay bale, watching the rainstorm through the open doors. Rain swept in curtainlike sheets across the grass driven by gusts of wind. I waited in the car a few minutes in case the deluge subsided, but impatience got the better of me and I dashed for the barn.

  Jasper the barn cat had taken up temporary residence on top of a stack of hay bales, nonchalantly cleaning his black coat of fur while Vicki’s terriers, Coco and Pepper, wore themselves out trying to get him to come down to their level and play with them. They circled below, ears perky, tails wagging, taking turns emitting yaps of frustration while Jasper completely ignored them except for an occasional look of abject disdain.

  “These two Westies still think they can make friends with Jasper,” Sean said, shaking his head at the pointlessness of their mission. I noticed a bit more space between Vicki and Sean than when I had first pulled up outside. “Even despite the wee beasts both having had plenty o’ cat scratches tae show fer their efforts.”

  “Sean told me about the cupcake,” Vicki said right away.

  I leaned against the tractor and said, “The cupcake? Yes, I heard, too. I assume that information won’t go any farther than the three of us?”

  “Four o’ us,” Sean said, correcting me. “Countin’ the inspector.”

  “It couldn’t be worse,” Vicki said, looking as gloomy as the weather. “Senga’s cupcake. My yarn.”

  “And me own quick temper,” Sean added.

  “Enough,” I said. “You two have been blaming yourselves, and that is ridiculous. Sean, Isla Lindsey got under everyone’s skin. I bet she was told off plenty yesterday, and not just by you. You aren’t responsible for her murder, not even one iota. The only person responsible is her killer.”

  Then I turned to Vicki. “It’s unfortunate that yarn from one of your knitting kits was used to murder Isla, but that certainly isn’t your fault. If it hadn’t been your yarn, the person who did this would have found another weapon to use.” I glanced around the barn. “Look around you! This barn is loaded with potential weapons—hammers, screwdrivers, lengths of rope, all kinds of vet supplies, including medications for the sheep and syringes for injections.” I threw up my hands. “Maybe we should spread all this blame around even more, make sure Senga Hill gets her share for baking cupcakes. Now, wouldn’t that be ridiculous? Both of you need to buck up, stop moping around with all kinds of regrets for something you didn’t cause, and instead do your part to help solve this crime.”

  They stared at me like I had two heads.

  “What?” I said, realizing that this was the longest speech I’d given in quite some time.

  “Look at you, talking to us like that,” Vicki replied slyly, not at all upset by my little tirade. “What’s got you going all of a sudden?”

  “Nothing’s got me going. Except you both look so down in the dumps. Shape up! Think positive, or if you can’t, at least take small baby steps in the right direction.”

  Sean stood up. “There’s a rumor going about that you’re carrying a warrant card these days. Any truth to that blather?”

  Oh, no! I hadn’t stopped to consider how Sean might feel about my appointment to his position. Until now, he’d been the special constable, and it meant a lot to him. I struggled to find the right words to explain in a kind and gentle way. Except, judging by the smile on his face . . .

  “You don’t mind, do you?” I said.

  “Not a bit. I’m going off tae police college soon and somebody has tae try tae fill me shoes. Might as well be yerself. Besides, when I come back, ye’ll be taking orders from yours truly.”

  I groaned inwardly. No way was that going to happen. Was it?

  He went on, “In the meantime, I’ll teach ye all that I know, so ye can handle yerself properly in difficult situations.” It was all I could do to keep my expression serious and my mouth closed.
Which one of us had handled yesterday’s situation properly? Not Sean Stevens. He’d been ready to faint dead away.

  “Congratulations,” Vicki said to me, although she seemed hesitant. “But what about your books? Will you still have time to write them?”

  “Absolutely,” I told her with newfound confidence that somehow I would manage both. It’s not as if murder was a common occurrence in Glenkillen, I reasoned. “Once this case is solved, I’ll only be putting in a handful of hours each week, leaving plenty of time for my writing.”

  Sean nodded. “That’s the truth. The inspector doesn’t require much o’ me in the way o’ time commitment. And I hardly see him. He’s going one way, I’m going another. Which reminds me, I should check in with him. Do ye know where he is at the moment, Eden?”

  I shook my head. I truly didn’t know . . . although if I wanted to stay on my new boss’s good side, I would have denied knowledge of his whereabouts regardless. “I saw him at the Kilt & Thistle, but he left several hours ago.”

  “Oh . . . wait . . . I almost forgot.” Sean pulled a piece of paper out of his trouser pocket and unfolded it before handing it to me. “I’ve made both o’ us a copy of Vicki’s member list and also added those on the waiting list at the bottom, though we won’t be getting tae that one likely as that group didn’t get their hands on kits and so aren’t as likely to be our perp . . . that’s perpetrator in police talk, fer yer information.”

  I did an internal eye roll before scanning the names on the members list. I recognized very few of them. Then I skimmed the waiting list, even though Sean was correct that the wannabe yarn club members weren’t priorities.

  “You mailed out some of the kits in advance,” I said to Vicki as I scooped Jasper from his seat of power and stroked him. He went limp in my arms and began purring almost immediately. “When was that?”

  “Last week, Wednesday,” she answered. “I didn’t actually post them myself. I asked Kirstine to take them to the post office on her way home from the shop that day. On second thought, make that Thursday, not Wednesday, that they went out. She left the farm too late to get there before the post office closed on Wednesday.”

  “So she mailed them on Thursday?” I said, thinking out loud, wondering how long it took to deliver packages in the Highlands.

  Vicki answered that for me by saying, “I wanted them to be delivered by the first. I’d promised, and I’m a woman of my word.”

  “Those members would have had their kits by Saturday, then?”

  Vicki nodded, more pleased at that prospect than I was. “Most of them live within easy driving distance, but didn’t want to take the time to pick them up. Some are quite elderly and don’t drive. If luck was with me, they should’ve all been happily knitting by Saturday. You know how I am about honoring my commitments.”

  That’s what I’d feared. Now all those kits were going to have to be accounted for, too. I’d counted twenty-two members who had requested shipment. Twenty-two that might have been eliminated from this onerous process if only Vicki had been less diligent.

  “And there wasn’t any surplus yarn?” I asked. “None at all?”

  “Not more than a bit or two,” Vicki confirmed. “I used all of it and tossed a few leftover ends.” Vicki looked sad when she went on, “I suppose this is the end of the yarn club.”

  “Why?” I said, sensing earlier that this had been coming. “It was and is a great idea. You should be thinking about October’s kit.”

  But my friend didn’t respond.

  Then Sean piped up and said, “Out of the thirteen tae come get theirs, only six actually picked up kits during the event. Ye can see on the list. That little ‘x’ in front o’ the name means that person picked hers up.”

  That perked me up a bit. “So there are seven kits in our possession?” I returned Jasper to the top of the hay bales and he went back to grooming. “Where are they?” I asked. “You didn’t distribute them, did you?”

  “I’m not daft, ye know,” Sean said. “Or incompetent. I happen to have them right over there.” He indicated an open box, and sure enough, I saw Vicki’s paper satchels were inside.

  “And all seven skeins are accounted for?”

  “Every one,” Vicki replied. “And I’ve gone over the list and can say with certainty that I didn’t see any of the other seven knitters at the event. So they are in the clear, right?”

  “That makes sense,” I replied.

  “Does Inspector Jamieson know you have these kits?” I asked, directing my question to Sean.

  Sean nodded. “He does. I keep him appraised at all times.” Then he paused and muttered under his breath, “Not that he gives me the same courtesy. I’m tae take them tae him fer safekeeping.”

  All right. We had seven of the thirty-five kits accounted for. We were making progress.

  “What about the van and camper bus?” I asked next.

  Sean puffed up a bit, pleased that he had more police business information than I had. “Both haff been impounded fer thorough inspection.”

  “What’s your plan for the rest of the day?” Vicki asked me.

  “I think I’ll walk down to the shop and speak with Kirstine,” I decided in the spur of the moment, not especially thrilled by the prospect, but wanting to confirm shipment of the kits.

  “It’s raining,” Vicki said, reaching down to the side of the hay bale. She held up an umbrella. “Why don’t you take my brolly?”

  I gratefully accepted the offered umbrella, opened it, and began my walk down the lane, thinking about rain and the Scots and how they didn’t seem to care about the weather one way or the other. Whether it was blazing sun, torrential downpours, sky-high mounds of snow (or so I’ve been told, rain being the only weather I’ve yet to experience in the Highlands), or drizzles that lasted all day under the grayest clouds I’ve ever seen, the Scottish people went about their business without a single word of complaint. They weren’t grumblers when it came to adverse conditions.

  In Chicago, we complained plenty about the cold, and the snow, and every time it rained. But whatever precipitation we had, Scotland had double or triple that amount. On the bright side, that weather was what accounted for the incredibly stunning natural beauty hereabouts.

  The shop’s parking lot was nearly empty, with only a few vehicles occupying spaces, and one of them belonged to Kirstine. Lulls in customer traffic tended to come and go at Sheepish Expressions, depending on the month, day of the week, and the hour. Now in September, the crowds were thinning out, the foreign tourist business winding down, children back in school, and summer vacations fading memories. Tour buses arrived less frequently as the days became cooler and the nights chillier.

  All evidence of yesterday’s tragedy had been removed from the far end of the lot. Nothing remained, not the van or chalk marks, and whatever minute traces that might have collected had been washed away by now. Briefly, I wondered if any additional evidence had been found inside the van since Sean’s last update, and when it would be returned to Oliver Wallace—and whether he would keep it or sell it to some unsuspecting buyer who would never know what had occurred inside.

  I walked to the back of the lot, stepping over and around puddles, trying to estimate the exact location where Isla’s body had come crashing out of the van. I raised my eyes to the silver maple that had shaded the vehicle, and noted how its leaves were changing colors, green tinged with a hint of yellow. Soon they would turn the color of the sunset, then wither away and fall to the earth, to be renewed in the spring.

  While rain pounded down on Vicki’s umbrella, running from the edges in flowing streams, and with gray clouds hanging low in the Scottish sky, I thought about a life extinguished and a murderer somewhere out there.

  I shivered.

  Or perhaps it really was a shudder?

  CHAPTER 10

  Leaving the umbrella on the shop�
�s porch, I entered Sheepish Expressions and was immediately struck by the kaleidoscope of vibrant colors that always greets me. Inside, bright lights replaced gray skies, rainbows of color displaced the muted shades of the lightly fogged hills and distant mountain peaks. The shop’s interior felt warm and cozy even on the dampest, chilliest day.

  One side of the shop was filled with woolen wears in glorious shades, all made in Scotland, most even handcrafted. On the other side was a wealth of beautiful, luxurious yarns and a small knitting room in the back available for anyone who cared to use it. This was where Vicki had started up her knitting class, and from that small group the skein-of-the-month club had been born.

  The only gloom inside here resided behind the counter, sitting on a stool, watching the money with one eye and me with the other. Kirstine MacBride-Derry. She hadn’t seemed particularly pleased when she’d looked up to see who had entered. I was the interloper, the pest who wouldn’t leave.

  I like to think the best of people. I wanted to believe that Kirstine was a good person at heart. She certainly had the respect of the community. I’d even seen her smiling on rare occasions and socializing with some of the other locals. Kirstine didn’t strike me as a people person, though, not an extrovert by any stretch of the imagination, which was too bad for someone in retail. She had her friends and longtime acquaintances, but strangers and tourists seemed to sour her disposition.

  In my opinion, Kirstine would be better off hiring someone to greet customers and spend her time in the back office with accounts. There had been a few occasions in busy times when she had reluctantly accepted temporary assistance from Vicki. But suggesting that she hire more permanent help wasn’t an option. Nor was asking Vicki to take a more hands-on role. Vicki was a people person, but she’d made it perfectly clear that sitting behind a counter all day was not her cup of tea.