A Wee Murder in My Shop (A ScotShop Mystery)

by Fran Stewart

  “Twenty—what? What are you talking about?”

  “I’m talking about the weekly deposits of two hundred dollars to your checking account over the past three months. Don’t tell me you weren’t aware of them.”

  Those bank statements I’d never reconciled. Crudbuckets! “I wasn’t,” I said. It sounded awfully lame.

  “How can anyone not know of twenty—”

  “I can prove it. You just follow me.” I stomped down the hallway to my home office and turned, rather dramatically I must admit, when I reached the desk. “There!” I pointed to the stacks of paper.

  “That’s supposed to prove something?”

  Dirk pulled his dagger from the scabbard at his belt. “Dinna use such a tone with a lady.”

  I held up my hand, hoping Dirk would behave himself. “In this stack, or . . . or maybe it’s in that one, there are unopened bank statements that I haven’t looked at for at least three or four months.” Dirk must have been sitting at my desk sometime in the recent past. There were delicate spiderwebs draped between the stacks, catching the morning light spilling through the window.

  “Very convenient,” Harper said.

  “Do ye doubt her word?”

  “Are you calling me a liar? If I’d opened them, if I’d seen those deposits, I would have known there was some kind of a mistake. I’d certainly enjoy having some extra money, but not like that.” I crossed my arms over my chest. “I know where every cent of my money comes from, and it’s certainly not from Mason Kilmarty.”

  I picked through the stacks and separated the bank statements. Six of them.

  God, it was even worse than I’d thought. How had I let myself get so far behind? At least they were obviously unopened.

  I whipped out my iPhone. “I want a picture of you with these so I can prove they were unopened when you took them.”

  “I’m not taking them.” He sounded disgusted.

  “Then why are you here?”

  “I’m here”—he motioned around the room, narrowly missing a collision with Dirk, who stood with drawn knife just behind Harper’s left shoulder. “I’m here,” he repeated, “because you asked me to follow you back to this room. And I am fully aware that you could have been using the phone to call your bank each week. Or banking online. You wouldn’t have had to look at these.” He pushed the envelopes away from the edge of the desk, inadvertently destroying two spiderwebs in the process.

  “You can’t be serious. Surely you don’t think I was mixed up in any of Mason’s underhanded dealings.”

  He gritted his teeth. I could hear that grinding sound, and it felt like fingernails on a chalkboard. I shuddered.

  “I’m just following the evidence,” he said. “When there’s murder, there’s usually a money trail.”

  “You think I stole that money in cahoots with Mason?”

  “I don’t think anything, but I know one thing: Mason left a ledger showing twelve deposits in cash to an account he called PW. He deposited them in person. The teller identified him.”

  “He couldn’t have. He didn’t know my . . .” I remembered three or four months ago when I caught him rummaging through my purse.

  “You just thought of something. What?”

  “I . . . he might have taken some of my deposit slips.”

  “I intend to find out why you have that money.”

  “I’m not going to have it for long. As soon as I can get to the bank, I’m moving it out of my account.”

  “Just what were you planning to do with it?”

  “I’ll give it to his mother.”

  “It may not be hers, either.”

  “You think I don’t know that? I’m the one who asked for a town audit. Why would I do that if I’m involved?”

  “We had someone take a look at the town books. There’s nothing wrong with them. That money came from somewhere else.”

  “And you think I had something to do with it? I’m innocent.”

  “A lot of crooks feign innocence.”

  “Crook! You’re calling me a crook?” This was the same man who’d washed out my kerchief when I was in the hospital room? The same man who’d mixed up right and left? The same man who . . . who’d kissed my cheek so briefly last night? “How dare you? You’re absolutely crazy! Get out of my house. Now.”

  “I wasn’t . . .” His lips tightened, and he turned toward the door, just barely avoiding my outstretched arm.

  “Shall I speed him along for ye?” Dirk raised that wicked-looking blade of his and lunged.

  “No! Stop!”

  Harper wheeled around and collided with Dirk, who jumped back as if he’d been burned. Harper staggered, stumbled, fell to one knee.

  “Ohmigosh, are you hurt?” I ran to him, silently cursing Dirk’s excess of testosterone and Harper’s excess of . . . of copness.

  Harper swung his head back and forth as if trying to free it of spiderwebs. Or ghost webs. “What just happened?”

  “You fell,” I said, conveniently neglecting to mention that he’d had a collision with my resident ghost.

  He twisted his head around as if his neck had a crick in it. “You told me to get out, and then you told me to stop.”

  “No, I didn’t.” I was telling my ghostie to stop.

  His eyes said yes, you did, but he didn’t say it out loud. “Guess I’d better leave, then.”

  He looked too shaky even to stand, much less to walk. I placed my hand along the side of his jaw. He’d shaved, but even so, I could feel a texture there that made my fingers tingle. “Why don’t you rest on the couch for a little bit first? I’ll . . . I’ll get you some water.”

  I helped him to his feet. He was a lot shakier than the man in Pitlochry had been. I thought back to that day in front of the display of chocolates. That man had walked into Dirk’s arm, maybe even just his hand, and he had stumbled. But Harper had spun full-bodied into Dirk, head to head. No wonder he didn’t feel well.

  Once I got him settled on the couch, I threw the shawl over him without thinking. He clutched one edge of it as if he needed to hold on to something real and solid. Dirk towered over him, standing just to my left. The white line on the edge of the shawl shimmered between Harper’s hands. He shook his head one more time and looked up at me. “I could use that water, if you don’t mind.”

  I walked, sedately, into the kitchen. “He couldn’t see you,” I hissed as quietly as I possibly could and still have it be a hiss. “He held on to the shawl and he still couldn’t see you. Why not?”

  “How should I know?”

  “Oh, quit sounding so reasonable. Karaline could see you; I can see you; why can’t he?”

  I heard Harper’s voice and shut my mouth. I had a jillion questions, all of them unanswerable. How the heck did I know how ghosts worked?

  “What?” came the plaintive question again from the living room.

  “Just wanted to know if you’d prefer ice in your water.” If I didn’t watch out, I’d be lying every other sentence.

  “No thanks.” He sounded awfully weak.

  I put both hands on my hips and faced Dirk. “You quit running into people,” I whispered between clenched teeth. “It’s not nice.”

  Dirk placed his hands on his hips. “I didna intend to do it. And I dinna like the feel of it, otherbye.”

  “Other-by? What kind of word is that?” Without waiting for his answer, I filled a glass and left the kitchen.

  After he drained half the water, Harper asked, “Is there a radio playing out there?”

  “Uh, yeah, it’s . . . it’s a talk show I listen to sometimes. I turned it off.” Does having your own private ghost make lying easier, or am I simply becoming decadent? I knelt beside the couch. “Are you feeling better?”

  “I don’t know what came over me.”

  It’s called a g
host incident.

  He raised himself onto one elbow. “I’ve never felt that dizzy before.”

  And I hope you never do again. I lifted the shawl out of his way. “I’m sure it was a one-time thing.”

  “I dinna intend to repeat it.” Dirk managed to sound arrogant and apologetic at the same time. How did he do that? Come to think of it, there was very little apology in there.

  Once Harper seemed to regain himself, I asked if he had come to arrest me.

  “No. Of course not.” He ran a hand through his hair, leaving it slightly disheveled. I tried not to stare. I was still very angry with him. There was no need to look at how his hair fell forward on his forehead. “I’m going through everything,” he said. “Everything I can think of to try to learn who killed Mason. If this money’s involved, I have to track it down.”

  “I honestly don’t know why Mason would have put money in my account. We never combined our finances.” Something niggled at the edge of my consciousness, but I couldn’t bring it into focus. “I can’t think of a single reason why, unless he felt guilty about cheating on me.”

  “Probably not,” Harper said. “The deposits started three months ago. Every Monday. Mac—the chief, I mean—is the one who thought to check bank records.”

  I gaped at him. “Mac? He never does anything worthwhile except look at himself any time there’s a shiny surface.”

  I could see him press his lips together as if zippering his mouth. Mac was the boss, after all. “The deposits went in every Monday.”

  I groaned. “Maybe the Andrea story started back then and I just never knew it.”

  “What would be an andree story?”

  I did not even look at Dirk.

  “I think you did the right thing, throwing him out.”

  “Yeah, I know I did. But I did not kill him, even if I wanted to for a while there.”

  “I never thought you did.”

  “Then why are you here?”

  He sat a little straighter on the couch. “To give you a chance to explain what was going on.”

  “But I don’t know what’s going on!” I tried—unsuccessfully—not to whine.

  “I believe you.” He touched my shoulder, and a low sound emanated from Dirk. “I need to get back to the station. There are a few other leads to follow.” He stood and put out a hand to help me to my feet. He didn’t let go as he walked to the door.

  I turned the handle and looked up expectantly.

  He leaned closer and squeezed my hand. “Go balance your checkbook.”

  * * *

  Crudbuckets! I gave him long enough to get into his car. Then I very deliberately kicked my front door.

  “I dinna think that will help.”

  “Oh, hush! I have never been so humiliated in my life. How could that . . . that man think I could possibly be involved with thievery? How could he? How . . .”

  Without thinking, I turned, nuzzling my face against Dirk’s chest, and sobbed my heart out. For about five seconds. I jumped back. “How did I do that?”

  “Why did ye no get dizzied?”

  “Why didn’t I walk right through you?”

  We stared at each other. Dirk shifted his plaid and blinked a couple of times. “I dinna understand.”

  I reached out a shaking hand to lay it against his chest. It just kept going, and my hand felt that cold watery feeling again. “Something is going on here.”

  He reached an equally tentative hand toward my face, and I felt something rather like a cool breeze float from my temple to my chin. “I canna touch ye.”

  I put both hands over my face and growled as loudly as I could. “This is ridiculous! I’ve never been able to touch you, and now all of a sudden I can, and then I can’t.”

  “Ye touched my arm once. Dinna ye remember?”

  I sank into the wingback chair. “That’s right. I did, but I didn’t really feel anything except . . . water, sort of. This time . . . you were . . . solid.”

  “Mayhap there is some rule that we simply dinna ken.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “May-hap.”

  He stepped back, looking like he suspected sarcasm. Which was not too surprising under the circumstances. This was getting me nowhere. “I’m going in to the shop.”

  “Ye said the shop is closed today.”

  “That’s a good reason to go. I won’t have customers. I want another look at that safe.” I hauled myself to my feet. “I’ll be down in a few minutes.”

  “Ye canna move the bookcase by yourself.”

  Crudbuckets! Shoe had mentioned he’d be fishing today, and I knew Sam and Gilda were off on a jaunt of some sort, if she wasn’t still sick. How long could migraines last? Who did that leave? Drew could help a little, but I needed muscles. I didn’t want to let anyone else in on the secret, so that excluded Ethan and Mr. P and every other male in town. I deliberately did not even consider Harper. He wasn’t available, anyway. And might not ever be again. Not that I would ever even think of asking him. Ever. Even though those shoulders of his would come in handy on a job like this. But I was absolutely not going to ask him. “You’re right. I can’t think of anybody.” I started up the stairs.

  “What about Mistress Caroline? Can she no help ye move it?”

  “Karaline?” The Logg Cabin was closed on Mondays, too. “Thanks, Dirk. Be right back.”

  In my bathroom, I took off the scarf and probed the lump on my head. It was still tender, and I almost wanted to leave it open to the air, but I still felt uncomfortable going out in public with the left side of my head shaved. I eased my kerchief on and tied it loosely. Not that anybody would see me, but I felt a little better covered up.

  26

  Taking Your Measure

  I could see Karaline by the front door when I turned the corner onto Main Street. I tooted the horn at her, just for a chance to try it out. She didn’t recognize my car at first, of course, but when I waved out the window, she waved two-handed, one wave for each of us. I made a U-turn and pulled in right next to the shop. Mondays were always unbearably quiet in Hamelin. Everybody was closed. I saw two other cars, period. I didn’t even consider looking to see whether Harper might be anywhere in sight. He wasn’t.

  Karaline opened Dirk’s door.

  “I thank ye.”

  “How’s it going?”

  Before he could spill anything about that man who’d come to my house this morning, the one I was never going to think of again, I said, “Come on inside, K. I have something I want to show you. Drew and I discovered it last night.” I patted my pocket, the one where I’d shoved the papers, and purposefully put Harper out of my mind.

  “What is it?”

  “You’ll see.”

  We paused while I opened the front door. Dirk, always intrigued with my display window, studied the mannequins.

  Karaline laid her palm against the window. “They look kinda silly, don’t they?” The same reaction I’d had a few days ago.

  “Come on in.” I made sure the sign said Closed and locked the door firmly. Karaline, without my even asking her, shut the blinds and curtains.

  We went into the back room once the place was secure. I needed to explain what we’d learned about the code before we accessed the safe.

  I spread out the paper, and Karaline read it over a couple of times. “See,” I said, pointing to the lines at the top of the paper. “This is what it said on a piece of paper they found in Mason’s sporran. We have no idea why he had it, but it looks like it’s a code to the combination on the safe.”

  “Why would you think that?”

  “Because Harper . . .” My voice faltered a bit. “Harper is something of an expert, and he says our safe has five numbers in the combination. These are the clues to show us what those numbers are and how many times you have to turn the dial before you stop on a numbe
r.”

  “So why don’t we open it?”

  I indicated the two blank lines beside stars. “We don’t know what number goes here. And we can’t figure out what the first line is supposed to mean.

  She studied it for a moment. “It was written by two different people.”

  “Huh?”

  “Yeah. See how the handwriting is different in this first line? And the pen has a wider stroke.”

  Now that she mentioned it . . .

  She read it out loud. “Left side eighteen to wl.” She looked at me and then at Dirk. “That’s pretty obvious, don’t you think?”

  “Huh?” I was beginning to sound like an echo.

  Dirk looked affronted. “Nae, ’tis not so obvious as all that.”

  “No, look,” she said. “It tells where the safe is located. It’s completely hidden, right? No way to tell where it is, right?”

  I nodded, not sure where this was headed.

  “So, the left side of the safe is eighteen feet from the wall.”

  “When you put it that way, I guess it is obvious.” I braced my elbows on the table and leaned my forehead on my clenched hands. “I sure hate to admit how long we worried over that line.”

  “Think of all the time you would have saved if you’d asked me right off the bat.”

  “What . . . off the . . . ?” Dirk paused and straightened his plaid. “Would ye be referring to the base bawbat?”

  “No, Dirk,” I said. “Off the bat means right away.”

  He crossed his arms and gave me a disgusted look. “This language, as ye use it, doesna make a great deal of sense.”

  I seriously considered blasting him with Whan that Aprille with his shoures soote, but decided that might start an argument. “Guess not,” I said.

  Karaline had a sort of faraway look. When she came out of it, she asked, “If this was the combination the guy who killed Mason needed to get into the safe, why did he put it in Mason’s sporran?”

  “Mayhap Mason took it from him.”

  “But the guy didn’t get the safe open. He didn’t even find it, but I’d be willing to bet he hasn’t given up. He still needs the clues. So why wouldn’t he have taken it back after he killed Mason?”