by Hannah Reed
“How’s business inside the shop?” I asked Sean.
“Booming” was the reply. Judging by the number of cars in the Sheepish Expressions parking area, Kirstine should be in a good mood. A full till and a successful fund-raiser. Even the distribution of yarn kits was being handled without her having to lift a finger.
After a little more small talk, I scampered off before Isla could make a reappearance. I wasn’t about to give her an opportunity to turn her attention my way and make any demands of me.
I headed back, making a short detour through the refreshment tent. Senga’s sheep-shaped cupcakes were all gone, but the fried delectables were still available, including the Mars bars I’d been avoiding. If I wanted to live a full and long life without clogging every single artery in my body, I needed to stay away from fried food. But I liked my life exactly as it was. I had plenty of time later to slim down.
So I ate a fried Mars bar, relishing every single bite.
“Enjoyin’?” I heard at my elbow, recognizing the playful voice as Leith’s.
“Yum.”
“The judges are aboot tae announce the winners,” he said, taking me by the elbow then turning his attention to his dog. “This way, Kelly girl.”
Lily Young passed us, and I saw her collecting the final afternoon’s sales for the charity coffers. Leith and I wandered back to our chairs.
The youth division winner was announced. Handler and border collie accepted the trophy to great applause.
“Next, we haff the senior division,” Harry said. “And that honor goes tae . . .”
I held my breath.
“. . . Leith Cameron and his dog, Kelly!”
I let my breath out in a burst. Yes! They’d won! I knew it, knew it. My smile was a mile wide as they went up to accept the award. Leith was obvious in his pride, while Kelly accepted the applause in stride.
In my excitement, I rose and hugged Leith when he returned. “Well done!”
“It was all Kelly,” he said, sitting back down and stroking her coat.
As it turned out, two competitors had tied for top dog. There would be a runoff. I guessed correctly before Harry Taggart even announced the names of the two who had tied. They were John Derry and Bryan Lindsey. Hoots and hollers rose in the air.
There were nothing but bragging rights hanging on a win—no sort of cash prize or entry to qualify them for a more prestigious sheep dog trial—but everyone carried on as though this were the most important event of the year.
I decided I really wanted John to win. Out of a sense of loyalty to the farm, but also for a purely selfish reason. Neither I, nor the rest of the community, would ever hear the end of it from Isla if her husband took the trophy. Although I felt bad for Bryan; he might need to win to keep his spirits up with a wife like he had.
I’d seen Isla off and on throughout the day, but had managed to keep my distance and avoid her sharp tongue. The last time had been right before Leith and Kelly had competed, when she’d marched toward the refreshment tent with a satchel of some sort draped over her shoulder, its plaid pattern clashing with the tartan skirt she wore. Now, with Bryan about to compete in a final round, I searched for her, but his wife was nowhere to be seen.
Vicki and Sean stood off to the side of the empty tractor wagon.
“I’ll be right back,” I told Leith and headed over to the pair.
“A successful fund-raiser if I ever saw one,” Sean said. “This will bring the hospice into the black fer all o’ this year and intae the next.”
“How many printed programs did the welcome committee sell?” I asked him.
“All o’ them, and too many entrance fees tae count on the spot.”
“The food’s gone, too,” I told them.
Vicki smiled. “An all-round success.”
I addressed Sean. “Congratulations on your acceptance into police school.”
“I couldn’t haff done it without yerself and Vicki,” he said, beaming.
“And I see you survived Isla.”
“She drove me tae the end of my tether, so I wound up giving her a piece o’ my mind.” He puffed up like a peacock. “The uniform and the man inside it kept her in line.”
“What really happened was Sean drove her away,” Vicki said fondly. “She went off in a snit and we haven’t seen her since. She sure can dish it out better than she can take it.”
Oliver and Andrea joined us. I turned and saw Leith looking our way. I held up a be-there-in-one-minute finger. He smiled and nodded.
“Has anyone seen Isla?” I asked. “And what about all the cash? Who’s handling it?”
“Lily has put it safely away,” Oliver responded. “And as tae Isla? Yer guess is as good as mine.”
“Good riddance, I say,” Sean said.
“Did most of the other members pick up their kits?” I asked Vicki.
“Some did, and I expect the others will come by tomorrow. And look, a few are already knitting away.”
I followed Vicki’s line of sight over to a group of women sitting on lawn chairs, recognizing a few of the other volunteers as well as cupcake queen Senga Hill. Sure enough, they were all knitting away, needles flying, conversation brisk among them.
“It’s about tae begin,” Sean announced as Harry and the other judges passed on the way to the field. I hustled back to my seat beside Leith.
Isla’s husband, Bryan, as president of the Glenkillen Sheep Dog Association, went first. The judges converged on the perimeter with watchful eyes as Bryan and his dog went through the run with whistles and calls. Next, John was up with his border collie. I couldn’t begin to guess who would triumph, the two dogs were so evenly matched. The judges had their work cut out for them.
After consulting with the other judges for what seemed like forever, head judge Harry Taggart stepped forward and announced the winner: Bryan Lindsey had won today’s sheep dog trials. He held his trophy high, and the crowd responded. I applauded, too, but inwardly I groaned. The man might be the nicest guy in the world, but his win meant one more thing for his loudmouth wife to crow over. I vowed to stay even farther away from her in the future.
Where was she anyway?
“It’s over then,” Leith said, rising. “I expect ye have some finishing up tae do.”
“Yes, quite a bit. Several hours’ worth at least.”
“And I need tae do some work on my fishing equipment fer tomorrow’s charter. I’ll see ye again soon.” With that, we parted ways for the evening.
Vicki and Sean made multiple trips back and forth with the tractor and wagon from the field to the parking lot, while Oliver and Andrea left to help direct traffic before taking down the welcome tent. Since Isla was missing in action, I began to feel a little guilty for ditching my committee even though I’d been assisting with clean up at the refreshment tent, so I went to help when I saw them gathering near the shop. Lily arrived and pitched in, too. The tent came down easily and we all worked together to bag it and clear the table.
By the time we finished, most of the vehicles parked along the lane were gone. I checked the time. Five o’clock. It had been a full day, and I looked forward to kicking off my shoes and relaxing.
I took the bag of tent stakes Oliver handed to me and followed him over to the van. He had the bagged tent in his arms, so he stepped aside to let me pass. I tried to open the back of the van. It wouldn’t budge. I tried again.
“It’s jammed,” I told him.
“Bloody thing must be rusted. It gave me trouble earlier, the bugger. Would you be a lamb and open the side door?”
I sidled between Sean’s Renault and the van. The side door was the sliding kind. Only it refused to slide more than a crack. So I dropped the bag of stakes to free both hands and tugged on the handle. The door caught at first as though the weight of something solid and heavy had lodged up against it.
I tried peeking inside through the window to see what might be obstructing it, but the tinted glass prevented me. I leaned into the door hard and finally felt it give way.
As it began to fully open, I caught a flash of red and at the same time sensed movement from within. Startled, I instinctively stepped back. Then something pitched out of the van, rolling in what I would later describe as a tight summersault, and landed at my feet with a dull thud. Face up, presenting empty, vacant eyes and a slack mouth. And no mistake as to the identity.
I’d been avoiding that sunburnt face all day.
Isla Lindsey was on the ground, one arm slung over my left shoe.
I edged my foot out from beneath her, feeling light-headed.
I wouldn’t have to go out of my way to avoid the woman anymore. Even in my confused state, I was able to make a judgment of my own, one much more final than any made on the trial field this day by Harry Taggart or any of the other judges.
Isla was most definitely dead and gone from this world. CPR wasn’t going to help her. Nothing on this green earth would.
At my elbow, Oliver uttered an oath.
There wasn’t any doubt about it. Not only was Isla very much dead, but she’d been helped along into the afterlife. The flash of red I’d seen hadn’t been blood; it had been a length of what I suspected was Poppy Red yarn, folded in cords several times to make it extremely strong.
Which someone had then drawn tightly around the dead woman’s neck and tied in a neat bow.
CHAPTER 5
I swung my head wildly, searching for someone else to take control of the situation.
Most of the vehicles along the lane were gone, as were the spectators, who had left for home immediately after the winner was announced. Isla and Bryan’s camper van was the only vehicle still parked on the side of the lane. I scanned the horizon for Bryan. How was he going to handle this? Not well at all, I imagined.
The shop’s parking lot was also empty, leaving only three remaining vehicles—Kirstine and John’s car close to Sheepish Expressions, Sean’s Renault, and the welcoming committee van itself.
I glanced over at Oliver. Apparently a tragedy like this one separates the men from the boys. Or in the current case, the women from the men. Oliver Wallace, alleged kin to the fierce warrior William Wallace, didn’t seem so fierce at the moment. He stumbled away, dropped the rolled-up tent, clutched his chest as though on the brink of cardiac arrest, and blanched pasty white right through his recent sun damage.
I saw Special Constable Sean Stevens at the far end of the Sheepish Expressions parking lot and frantically waved him over. He hurried over and swung into action, although hardly in the manner I expected. He took one look at Isla’s contorted face and promptly announced that he thought he was going to faint. Sean braced himself with one hand against the hood of his own car and teetered. Then he bent forward and tucked his head between his knees.
If I hadn’t been occupied with something far more serious and important, I would have given him a swift kick in the behind. If he couldn’t take command of this present situation, it didn’t bode well for his dream of following in the inspector’s footsteps.
I saw Kirstine come out onto the shop’s porch, keys in hand to lock up the door of Sheepish Expressions, a questioning look on her face. Her husband, John, and Vicki pulled up on the tractor, in what seemed like slow motion. The tractor ground to a halt near the porch. They both hopped down and hurried toward us, with Kirstine right behind.
I turned my attention back to the body and stared at the yarn around Isla’s neck. Then I followed the strand to its conclusion, to the rest of the skein. Without a doubt, it was my friend’s yarn.
Vicki, in her typical reaction to crisis, began screaming when she approached and saw what the fuss was about. With operatic vocal cords like hers, those few individuals left on the grounds came running. Harry Taggart appeared, as did Lily Young and Bryan Lindsey’s sister Andrea.
“Call the emergency number,” I yelled out, a little frustrated that I couldn’t remember the emergency code now that there was an actual emergency. But it hardly mattered. Harry Taggart started punching numbers on his mobile phone, probably relieved to be doing something useful.
“What’s going on?” I heard behind me. Turning, I saw Bryan Lindsey rushing forward. He stopped when he saw his wife on the ground and shouted, “Oh, no! Isla!” He charged forward and knelt down beside her. I suppose I should have ordered him back, but I just couldn’t bring myself to do so. If her body had still been inside the van, I would have worried more about disturbing potential evidence, but she’d already rolled out and taken an altogether different position than the one in which she’d been killed.
Lily and Andrea broke through the front lines, appearing beside Bryan, squeezing in beside the body, “oh, my”– and “oh, no”–ing, hands to mouths in disbelief.
I looked down and addressed the inverted Sean with as commanding a tone as I could manage (though to my ears, the words came out as squeaks). “Pull yourself together, get up, and keep everybody back! No one is to go near the van.” I glanced around, noting that there were only a few of us at the scene, including Oliver, who was still pretty much incapacitated.
To my astonishment, Sean pulled himself upright and snapped to attention. “Ye’ll haff tae step away,” he told the women. “Bryan as well.”
I’d already realized that I was in complete charge. The special constable wasn’t really as special as his title and needed to take orders, not issue them. I looked around for someone else to appoint leader, and didn’t spot a single capable or willing volunteer. Even John Derry, usually so gruff and self-confident, remained in the background with his wife.
“Step back,” Sean repeated when no one moved.
Isla’s husband didn’t seem to hear Sean. He began fumbling with the yarn in an attempt to remove it. “No, Bryan!” I said sharply, grabbing his hand, forcing him to stop, knowing that the knotted strands were too tightly tied to loosen anyway. That the act of removing the yarn wouldn’t help Isla. And that the murder scene had to remain as it was no matter how difficult that might be to accept.
Lily and Andrea, both ashen, helped Bryan to his feet. The sound that came from deep inside his throat was primal and heartrending. The three of them huddled together behind the van with Oliver and Vicki. Someone handed me a plaid blanket, and I draped it carefully over Isla’s entire body, thinking I might be sick any minute. “Everybody back a bit more,” Sean ordered, barely in control of himself let alone anyone else. “Come on now, do as I say.”
The group edged back, but only by a few steps.
Time seemed to crawl as we waited for the proper authorities to arrive and take charge. The only sounds came from Bryan, who wept uncontrollably, and the soft voices of comfort from the women.
All kinds of questions went through my head as we waited. Who would do such a thing? Granted, Isla Lindsey had been as obnoxious as they come, but she certainly didn’t deserve to die in such a violent manner. Nobody did. And why had she been in Oliver’s van? Why not her own camper van? I’d distinctly remembered that Isla had driven to the farm with her husband. Oliver, Lily, and Andrea had arrived together in the van after picking up the tent.
And why would anyone commit murder at a public event where chances of being seen were so great?
Granted, Oliver’s van was parked in the least traveled part of the lot, in the far corner, with Sean’s Renault partially blocking it from view. Was that the reason the van had been chosen? That, and how the tinted windows obscured any view of what was happening in the interior?
“Now look what you’ve done,” Kirstine said to Vicki in a sharp, loud, carrying voice.
She’d recognized Vicki’s signature yarn just as I had.
“What? You’re blaming me for what’s happened?!” Vicki had tears in her eyes and a tremor in her voice.
“Sto
p it, Kirstine,” I snarled, having reached my limit with the woman. “Things are bad enough. Do you want to make people think Vicki murdered Isla?” Then I thought of a more effective way to get her to clam up. “Starting a rumor like that won’t be good for business, now will it?”
Kirstine closed her open mouth and stepped away.
I heard sirens wailing in the distance, and soon Inspector Jamieson’s Honda CR-V appeared in the parking lot. Sean attempted to intercept him, but the inspector held up a hand in warning and kept moving forward. Without a word, he walked past the others to come and stand beside me, taking in the scene, hands in his trouser pockets, his intelligent eyes scanning the blanket, the surroundings, and then the bystanders.
The others, sensing his concentration and not daring to interrupt, waited silently.
Jamieson approached the covered body, crouched down, threw the blanket aside, and studied the dead woman. Then he rose and gestured to Sean, who hustled over to us after warning those around him to stay where they were.
“We have ourselves a murder, Inspector,” Sean said.
“I can see that,” the inspector said quietly. “What happened tae you? You look like death warmed up yerself.”
And so he did. Sean was functioning but he hadn’t regained the erect professional attitude he normally wore along with his uniform. He looked undone, like he’d just jogged a few miles after a life of complete inactivity—drawn face, panting from overexertion, sweat beading on his forehead and trickling in a thin line down the right side of his temple that he brushed away with his hand.
“I’m perfectly fine,” Sean lied. He nodded toward the body. “It’s Isla Lindsey.”
“I can see that.” The inspector took a notebook out of his breast pocket and clicked open a pen. “Who found the body?”
“That would be me,” I piped up. “Along with Oliver Wallace. We . . . I . . . opened the door to put the tent inside, and Isla . . . Isla’s body . . . fell out.”
The inspector swung his attention to Oliver, who stepped forward at the sound of his name. He’d gone from ghostly white to sickly green.