A Wee Murder in My Shop (A ScotShop Mystery)

by Fran Stewart

  The rest of the day went much the same, although I was glad we had no more collisions with live people, and I slept well that night, tired from all the walking. The next day we went back into Pitlochry—this was a buying trip after all—and I couldn’t help but think how much I loved this little town, almost as if I had some deep connection to it. Well, I did. I’d spent lots of time and money here over the past six years.

  The first shop I stepped into, one I’d never seen before, was perfect. Beautifully handwoven scarves and shawls abounded, hung from clever wrought iron racks. A young woman with a dark brown braid that hung halfway to her waist stepped forward. She pushed her hair off her shoulder, and said, “Let me know if I can be of any service to ye.”

  “She looks like my goddaughter, my niece Lioslaith, my oldest brother’s second child.” Macbeth’s voice was right behind me. “Ask if she’s of the Clan Farquharson.”

  I ignored him. “These scarves are beautifully made.” I ran my hand along one with a particularly vivid purple stripe down the middle.

  “They’re all natural dyes that I make from plants. The wool comes from sheep in this shire.”

  “This is your work? How do you ever find the time to do it and keep the store running as well?”

  “Aye, weel, the winters are a bit long.” She smiled. “I dinna mind the weaving for hours at a time. It soothes me like, and I can make enough to last me through the tourist season.”

  “I’m looking for a Farquharson tartan.” Macbeth—I hated that name—made a slight harrumph, but didn’t say anything.

  “Like your own shawl, ye mean? That’s a fine one. May I touch it?”

  “Of course you may.” I extended one corner of it. “Isn’t it soft?”

  “Aye,” she said. “Soft indeed.” She ran her hand along the white stripe. “Here’s the weaver’s mark.” She must have seen my confusion. “Many of us put one unexpected line in our favorite pieces. It’s like a signature.” She bent almost as if to smell it, but instead she placed her cheek against the smooth wool. “An old shawl, is it? It feels like it has the years behind it.”

  I knew what she meant. While I nodded, she turned and lifted a particular scarf from a stack on a nearby shelf. She held it beside my shawl. “See? This Farquharson is bright and springy and new.” I nodded again. “While yours”—and she smoothed the flat of her hand along the curve of my arm, tracing the pattern of green overlapping stripes—“yours has more weight to it, like someone has cried over it.” She stopped self-consciously. “Laughter, too. That’s in it as weel.”

  “Ask her clan,” the ghost urged.

  “May I ask what your name is?”

  Her smile was sweet, like an early spring dawn. “It’s Leslie Gordon.”

  “Gordon,” he sputtered. “She couldna be—not with a chin like that.” I ignored him and smiled encouragingly at Leslie.

  “My husband’s a Gordon, but I”—and she held the blue and green tartan under her chin—“was born a Farquharson.”

  He gave a grunt, somewhere between satisfaction and vindication.

  “That’s lovely,” I said, and a ripple of something—amazement? delight?—ran up my back. I extended my hand. “I’m Peggy Winn,” I said.

  Behind me, Macbeth said, “Wynne? I didna know ye were Welsh.” I ignored him. Again.

  “Wynne,” Leslie said. “That’s a Welsh name, isn’t it?”

  I couldn’t win. I cringed at the unintended pun. “We spell it W-i-n-n. My dad’s family is Welsh,” I explained, “but my mother’s family left here in the seventeen hundreds.”

  “Ah, yes,” she said. “The forty-five.”

  “What would be a forty-five?”

  This was no time for a history lesson. “No,” I said. “They emigrated well before Culloden. Our town was founded in seventeen twenty.”

  “What would ye be meaning by before Culloden?”

  I had no intention of telling him about the slaughter of the clans at Culloden in April of 1746. That was one part of history he did not need to know.

  By the time I left the shop, I’d bought five scarves—hopefully with nobody attached to them—and arranged to ship a large quantity of her shawls and scarves to Vermont. By being able to order directly from her, I could keep the price fairly reasonable for my customers, and she’d make more money than if she had sold her scarves through a catalog company. We were both delighted.

  A few minutes later I detoured off the Atholl Road to revisit the shop where I’d found my shawl—Peigi’s shawl. I walked past several stone buildings, each behind a low stone wall, looking for the arbor and the dark peach-colored flowers with the cinnamon scent.

  When I finally found it, the flowers didn’t smell the way I’d remembered. I walked in and found, to my dismay, a brightly lit showroom of standard tourist fare. Not an ancient plaid anywhere, and no trio of old women, either. This time, the ripple down my spine was definitely not delight.

  * * *

  That night before bed, I made up my mind. “I have to take the shawl back with me,” I told the ghost, “but I’m going to release you.”

  “Release me?” The moon shining in through the window shimmered just behind, and partly through, his head when he cocked it to one side. I never used the Sinclair’s electricity if I could help it. Candles gave such a gentle light, and now it shimmered on the folds of his kilt.

  “Yes. Leave you behind. There has to be a way to do it.” He frowned, and I hastily explained. “I’ve thoroughly enjoyed meeting you, but this whole arrangement is a bit, um, unwieldy. I thought if you stayed here, without the shawl, you might be able to . . . to go back . . . to get back, that is, to where you came from.”

  He looked around. “But I came from here.”

  “I mean, to when you came from. You can’t possibly enjoy being so . . . so tied to me.”

  There was a glint in his eyes, but he turned away and looked out the window.

  “If I can figure out a good way—and it must involve a ritual of some sort—wouldn’t you be happy to go back to your own time?”

  “Only if Peigi . . .” His voice died away to a whisper.

  I turned to the dresser and lifted the pewter candlestick.

  Three years ago I’d read a book about the ancient religions of the world. A lot of it had struck me as nothing but mumbo jumbo, but I had been drawn to something called the Ritual of Letting Go—useful, the book said, when someone was dying a lingering, painful death. That was about the time my twin brother had fallen off the dinosaur skeleton he’d been repairing and broken his back, and I remembered reading the chant and praying I’d never have to use it, but I’d memorized it just in case. He’d survived, even though his legs were useless.

  My wee ghostie wasn’t leaving life, really. That was for sure, but in a way he was leaving the shawl, and it was a sort of life to him. Anyway, he must be delighted at the thought of finding Peigi again.

  So I lit the yellowed beeswax candle. He was astonished when I used a match. Once we got that straightened out, I sang softly about leaving this world behind, about moving into the place where souls go, about cutting the ties that bind. Halfway through, he sat on the chair and looked at me. Finally, he lowered his head.

  “Good-bye,” I said.

  “I thank ye.”

  I folded the shawl, tucked it in my carry-on, and blew out the candle.

  He was gone. And I felt bereft.

  7

  Home to Hamelin

  Mrs. Sinclair was such a dear. She always had a full breakfast ready for me, even though my departure was so early in the morning. I would be exhausted by the time I reached Hamelin, but this trip, what with finding Leslie Farquharson Gordon and her magnificent handwoven pieces, had been particularly rewarding. Ultimately, it would turn out to be highly profitable for both of us. I was sure of that.

  The
n there was the shawl.

  Mrs. Sinclair placed a well-laden plate in front of me and admonished me to “Eat hearty. Ye’re as light as duck down.”

  I did as she said, knowing that the airplane food would leave a great deal to be desired.

  With a big dose of regret that my visit was over so soon, I ate the last bites of my sausage, downed my tea, and wiped my mouth. “Absolutely lovely, Mrs. Sinclair. I cannot thank you enough.”

  I’d paid my bill the night before. I liked my last morning, short as it was, to flow smoothly without interruption.

  Instead of clearing the table as was her wont, though, Mrs. Sinclair sat down across from me. “Will ye be careful, dearie?”

  “Oh, the trip is nothing. I’ve done it so many times, I think I could change planes with my eyes closed.” I smiled at her sweet concern.

  “That is no what I’m talking of, as ye well know.” She took hold of my hand across the narrow table and turned it palm up. “At least your life line is long.” She traced a line that ran from between my thumb and forefinger and wound around the fleshy base of my thumb and onto my wrist.

  I opened my mouth, but she forestalled any comment by pointing to what I can only describe as a starburst of lines that radiated out from my life line a third of the way along it. I’d never noticed it before.

  She laid my hand carefully on the table, as if afraid it might break. “In all the years I’ve read palms, yours is only the second one I’ve ever seen with this.”

  “But what does it mean?” I folded my other hand on my lap.

  “That I canna say.” She tapped my palm. “Ye may not want to tell me what happened on yon mountainside, but I do know ’twas something that will change your life.”

  I stared at her in some consternation. I honestly didn’t know what to say. Had she seen the ghost? Did she know?

  “Nae, dearie. I dinna ask that ye tell me anything. All I want is for ye to take care of your sweet self in a way that maybe ye havena thought to do in the past.”

  I lowered my head, studied my hands, and when I looked up, she’d picked up the plates and moved to the sink. At that point, Mr. Sinclair walked into the kitchen and told me the car was ready for me “if ye be ready for it.”

  I stood. “Mrs. Sinclair?”

  “Yes, dearie?”

  “The next time I’m here, I may be able to tell you some of this.” I bent to give old Bruce a good-bye pat on his wiry head, and he woofed gently. “Is that all right?”

  She smiled slowly and her eyes crinkled up at the corners. “Whenever the time is right for you.”

  My thoughts bounced between the ghost—and Mason, damn him—all the way home.

  * * *

  I ran into a heavy Vermont rain soon after leaving the Burlington airport. Even though it stopped halfway to Hamelin, I was a good deal later than usual getting home. Karaline opened my front door and headed toward me as I backed into my driveway. Part of me wanted to talk with her for hours, to tell her everything that had happened. The other part of me just wanted to take a hot shower and sleep for three days.

  She bounded down the ramp, her dark pink knee-length sweater bouncing around her black-clad legs. At six foot one, New York–model thin, and with a nose that preceded her in grand style, Karaline always looks something like a wading bird, maybe a blue heron. This evening, in that sweater, she looked like a flamingo. Next to her, I was nothing but a bedraggled wren.

  She opened the back door and pulled out my carry-on. “Come on in. I’ve got dinner ready.”

  Karaline’s idea of dinner is always leftovers from the Logg Cabin. Fine with me. I hoped I could keep my eyes open long enough to taste something.

  I bent to scratch Shorty between the ears and run my hand along his silky back. He meowed his welcome. It was good to be home.

  The fire crackling in the wood stove drew me to its heavenly warmth. I rubbed my hands together and then turned so my backside could absorb some of the heat. Karaline grinned. “Still a little bit chilly in the evenings.”

  I looked around my comfy living room at the vases of scarlet long-stemmed roses placed here and there around the room. “What’s with all the roses?” Even as I asked, I had a sinking feeling I knew the answer.

  Karaline read my mind. “You’re right. They’re from Mason. No cards, just like before. Ruth’s been delivering them every day. I called her and asked her to stop since you were out of town, but she said they’d been prepaid, and she felt obligated to deliver them.”

  This was all just part of his pattern. The whole time we’d been together, every time he hurt my feelings, said something nasty to me, or forgot something I’d asked him to do, he’d sent me flowers or buy me a piece of jewelry, and he thought that would wipe out whatever he’d done. The roses were another link on that chain. I used to like roses, but I’d gotten to where I hated them—he seemed to think they would make everything all better, when what he really needed was a change of attitude. Maybe Andrea had done me a favor at that.

  What did he expect—a thank-you note? If he wanted to waste perfectly good money on me, that was his problem, but I didn’t have to respond. “I’ll take them to the compost pile tomorrow,” I said.

  I took the carry-on from her, pulled out the shawl, and draped it over my arm. It wasn’t that cold here in the living room, but I’d probably need it in the rest of the house.

  “Nice,” she said. “New?”

  “New to me,” I said, “but it’s really rather old.”

  She gave it a long look and nodded. “The sixties? You’ll look like a hippie in it.”

  “Older than that,” I said, moving away from her. I took a quick look at my bonsai tree and the jade plant. In the kitchen, I headed for the African violets in the window. Karaline always cared for them when I was away. “The plants look great. Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome.” She slid my suitcase across the hall to the bottom of the stairs while I washed my hands, then waited for Shorty to settle on my lap. I wrapped the shawl around my shoulders. Shorty snuggled against it and purred.

  “Rough trip?” Her voice, rich and smooth as the pure maple syrup she used in her restaurant, settled around me like comfort food.

  “Not really. I just spent a lot of time worrying about . . . well, you know.” She nodded grimly. I smoothed the shawl, wondering why I felt so reluctant to tell her about the ghost I’d met and left behind.

  She ladled a hearty stew into one of my handcrafted-pottery soup bowls. “You look like a crumpled ball of paper. You need some sleep.” With each crisp sentence she plopped another ladleful into the bowl. “But first, eat.” She lifted a cutting board laden with one of her homemade loaves onto the table and set to work slicing it into good-sized chunks.

  If my ghost were here—if he could eat, that is—he’d probably spear a chunk with his sgian-dubh. I missed him. Had I made a mistake in leaving him behind? Had he found his Peigi?

  We chatted without much enthusiasm. Karaline was right. I felt exhausted. Just eating was effort enough.

  She used a slab of bread to sop up the last of the stew juices. “I’m gonna wash these dishes, and you’re going to take a nice hot bath and go to bed.” She held up her hand. “I know it’s early, but you’ll probably sleep for fourteen hours.”

  I grumbled a bit but finally agreed.

  She waited for me to finish my last bite, picked up the bowls, and shooed me out.

  At the door, with Shorty under my arm, I turned back to thank her. My ghost! He stood behind the chair I’d just left. My ghost. “What are you doing here?”

  He shrugged.

  Karaline looked over her shoulder at me. “I just told you. I’m washing the dishes. Now, go to bed. You’re more exhausted than you think.” She flicked her wet fingers at me and turned back to the sink. “I’ll lock the door on my way out.”

  I looked
back once as I headed up the stairs. The ghost, trailing behind me, raised his shoulders and his hands in that gesture that said What could I do?

  * * *

  “Why aren’t you in Scotland?” I spoke even before I’d opened my bedroom door.

  “What?” Karaline called from the kitchen.

  “Nothing. I mean, good night.” I motioned him into my room. “You were supposed to stay there.”

  “Weel, now.” He reached out a hand toward Shorty, who sniffed once and nuzzled his head into the crook of my arm. “Your singing over the wee yellow candle sounded lovely, but I canna see that it did much good.”

  “It wasn’t all that wee,” I said, and was appalled at the petulance in my voice. It hadn’t worked.

  He ignored my whining. “Mayhap ye should ha’ asked Mistress Sinclair for help.”

  I didn’t even try to whisper. “I couldn’t do that. She’d think I was crazy.”

  “She wouldna. She is a very wise woman, aye?” He waved his hands at me, palm down. “And hush your voice a bit.”

  I thought back to her reading of my palm. He hadn’t been there then. He’d been in the shawl. “What makes you think she’s so wise?” I think I sounded suspicious.

  “I do believe she saw me but chose not to talk about it.”

  “No. She couldn’t have.”

  He frowned, and his very blue eyes seemed to darken, but maybe it was just the shadows. My bedroom drew in the morning light, but it tended to get a bit gloomy in the early evening. And it was downright dark at this hour. I turned on the overhead light. His head jerked up as it came on. “How did ye do that?”

  “It’s called electricity. I’ll tell you all about it later.”

  A sound that wasn’t quite a growl started in his toes and went right up to his head. “I’m thinking there is far too much to learn in this world ye live in.”

  “Yeah? You think so?” I dropped Shorty on the bed. “And what if I told you I don’t know how to start a fire without matches?”

  “What are—”

  “Those things I used at Mrs. Sinclair’s to light the wee candle.” I sounded positively vitriolic. “I also don’t know how to skin a rabbit. I don’t even know how to kill a rabbit, much less skin it.”