by Hannah Reed
“Between one thirty and five.”
“That’s the best we can do fer the moment.”
“What about her husband, Bryan?” I asked. “How’s he coping?”
“He claims he can’t go on living without her, but I’m beginning tae think he’s going overboard with his grief. But as tae killing his wife . . . he would have had plenty of other opportunities to get rid of her that wouldnae involved the risk this killer took. Bryan stays on the list o’ suspects fer the time being, however. Nobody can be ruled out this early in the investigation. Though I really hope Isla didn’t die at his hand. He’s a respected member o’ the community, and it would be a blow tae us all.”
I agreed. I didn’t know the man, but Bryan Lindsey had just been through a nightmare, and I really hoped the community would rally around him rather than condemn him without any proof whatsoever. However, I had to ask: “Is there any possibility that another woman was involved? Someone on the side?”
The inspector sighed as he was busy preparing his tea, adding milk and sugar while keeping his features neutral as usual. Watching his smooth motions, I was again reminded of one characteristic the two of us shared: we’re both left-handed.
“According tae the gossipmongers, there’s always another person involved,” he said dully, as though he’d run into this sort of hearsay often. “Best to ignore that kind of idle talk, or at least tuck it away fer the time being unless we can prove it’s more than just indulging in poppycock.”
“Poppycock” reminded me of poppy socks and that in turn reminded me of Vicki’s bloodred yarn. The disturbing image of my encounter with the dead Isla flashed through my head as it had many times since that shocking moment when she fell at my feet. I tried willing those memories away, but they refused to scurry far, remaining lodged at the edges of my mind.
“Who else is suspect?”
“All those on the fund-raising committees who had tae deal with the victim’s sharp tongue. Isla was expert at putting people off. We also have tae include anyone who came in contact with those knitting kits, either the members themselves or anyone who mightae pinched one. Who knows besides that? Even my special constable had opportunity and as much motive as anybody else.”
“You don’t really suspect Sean!”
“O’ course not. It’s the least likely person I’m most interested in, the one careful tae remain out o’ sight and off the radar.”
For a short time we sipped tea in a comfortable silence while contemplating possibilities. A few minutes later I asked about Oliver Wallace. “Since Isla was murdered inside his van, what does he have to say about his own whereabouts?”
“The man is a basket case. Says that he never locks the van. The silly bloke even leaves the keys dangling in the ignition as though he’s begging fer thieves tae make off with it. And he says he hadn’t been out tae it since unloading the tent first thing. Sean says the keys were in the ignition when he moved the van tae the back of the parking lot and he left them there and the van unlocked just as he’d found things. I can’t fault him fer that.”
“Oliver claimed I could vouch for him,” I said, wanting to clear up any misunderstandings on that front, “but I hardly saw him until right before we found Isla’s body.”
“I imagine he was a bit shook up and frightened when he said that. Understandable, considering the murder occurred in his van. Unfortunate fer us, there are so many fingerprints inside the van and out, I don’t know where tae begin sorting through them. A needle in a haystack would be easy compared tae this.”
“What does Oliver do for a living?” I asked. “I’ve heard he’s very active on fund-raising boards, but that hardly pays a mortgage.”
The inspector considered briefly then said, “Wallace wasn’t born with a silver spoon in his mouth even if he’d like ye tae think that. He married well enough, though.”
That surprised me. I hadn’t noticed a wedding ring or seen him with a woman who could be his wife. “Oliver is married?”
“Was. He got a bit o’ settlement out o’ the dissolution back a few years ago, seeing as how she came from money. Nothing tae brag aboot, I suspect, but enough tae get by. He isn’t flashy and his van is an example o’ that. Noo, what’s yer take on our killer?”
“I’ve gone over what happened, and it just doesn’t make sense to murder someone at such a public event. Unless the killer felt he had no choice.”
“Ye’re certain it’s a he?” he asked, stirring his tea.
“I think so,” I said, remembering that Isla was a solidly built woman. “Someone strong enough to hold the yarn tightly with a steady grip and plenty of pressure. I’m confident that Isla would have fought back against her attacker. She wouldn’t just sit there while she was being choked to death without putting up a good fight.”
He seemed pleased, probably because my assessment matched his.
I went on, aware that we were going over ground he must have already considered on his own. But if he wanted a second opinion, I’d give it to him. “Perhaps Isla saw something she shouldn’t have, or discovered something damaging that triggered her death. But who knows what goes through the mind of a person capable of such violence?”
In the next moment, the inspector’s mobile phone rang. He checked the incoming number and rose as he answered it, moving away. Out of sight as well as earshot. Ten minutes or more must have elapsed before he returned and sat down at the table, long enough that I had begun to wonder if he was coming back at all.
“An important piece of information just came tae light,” he told me, “which I’m wanting tae share with ye. It’s in regards tae the autopsy performed on Isla Lindsey. The cause of death was as we would have expected. Ligature strangulation.”
That was hardly surprising. My expression must have said as much because he went on, “Aye, both o’ us made that assumption, but nothing is cast in stone until the coroner’s examination is concluded. Now we know it fer certain.”
I’m pretty sure I looked disappointed.
“But there’s more tae consider,” he said.
I raised an eyebrow questioningly.
“Fortunately fer the investigation, Isla Lindsey had undigested food materials in her stomach, which have been identified. Based on that information, I rang up the baker a few minutes ago.”
“Baker?” My first thought was of Taste of Scotland, which was just down the cobblestone street from the pub. “Was it shortbread?”
He shook his head just as I got a flash of insight. “Cupcake,” I said with pride as he changed that shake into a nod. “She’d eaten one of Senga Hill’s sheep-shaped cupcakes.”
“Aye, though Senga said just now that she’s positive Isla didn’t buy one from her directly. But one important piece o’ information as I said—some o’ the ingredients were still undigested. Not semi-digested. Undigested.”
The inspector was watching me carefully, as though waiting for a math student to figure out a complex equation. Digested, undigested, semi-digested, I’d have to be a coroner to hazard a guess.
I didn’t know what he expected, so I shrugged instead. “I’m not following.”
“That’s because there’s more. Trace elements of a certain compound were discovered along with those miniature marshmallows and candy eyeballs. It turns out that someone doped Isla Lindsey up on sleeping tablets prior to her death.”
“Oh my goodness! Sleeping pills? Were they mixed into the cupcake somehow?”
“Aye. The coroner suggested tablets could have been crushed and sprinkled on the frosting without herself detecting anything amiss. And the quantity of the drug was such to ensure she was rendered unconscious.”
“Massive quantities of sugar also could have disguised any unusual taste,” I said, thinking out loud, “no matter how bitter, and those cupcakes were a sugar lover’s dream.”
All kinds of thoughts went
through my head. None of them warm and cozy. Someone had fed our victim a loaded cupcake then somehow enticed her into Oliver’s van, and once she was unconscious, had wrapped yarn around her neck and strangled her.
“Has the type of sleeping pill been identified yet?”
“Aye. ’Tis a new one on the market, just recently approved, in a certain class called Z drugs.”
That didn’t mean much to me, not yet anyway.
“Isla likely knew her killer,” Inspector Jamieson added. “She wouldn’t have climbed into a vehicle with a complete stranger.”
“But we can’t assume she even went to the van with another person,” I pointed out. “She might have been sitting there alone.” But why? Isla and her husband had driven in their own vehicle. If she’d needed a place to find a bit of solitude or rest, a place to take a nap, she’d have gone to her own camper.
Perhaps she went there specifically to meet with someone. That could have been the way it played out. Isla could have eaten the doctored cupcake a little in advance. The killer wasn’t taking unnecessary chances. That person had waited for Isla to drop off into la-la land, then it was a simple maneuver to wrap yarn around the incapacitated woman’s neck and strangle her.
Most important, it meant that the killer wouldn’t have had to be particularly strong after all. He—or she—would’ve had the effects of the sleeping pills on his or her side. Isla wouldn’t have struggled, or even known what was happening to her.
“At this point all our ideas are nothing but guesswork,” the inspector said. “It’ll take solid detective work to find the truth o’ the matter. And I’m forced tae admit that we need Sean’s assistance as well.”
“Where do we begin to sort this out?” I asked.
“We need a list of all yarn club members and their addresses for starters. We will have tae systematically exclude those kits that are intact. We begin by working our way through the list, one name at a time, eliminating suspects as we go along, and that’s only one o’ the burdens facing us.”
No wonder he wanted my assistance. Thirty-five members to track down and question and as many kits to inspect. Then looking into any others around them who might have had access. A daunting task.
“I can get that list of members from Vicki for you,” I said, as the rational part of my brain protested. An appropriate phrase came to mind: When you find yourself in a self-made hole, at some point you should stop digging.
“Excellent,” the inspector said before I thought to stop digging, showing rare enthusiasm. “And I’ll track down those sleeping pills. They’re available only by prescription. It’s a good lead, a lucky break.”
“Yes, lucky,” I agreed. Isla hadn’t been nearly as lucky. She’d eaten a cupcake containing a high dose of sedatives and then had been finished off by a vicious killer, the life literally choked out of her. I stared glumly into space.
Jamieson rose and placed a hand gently on my shoulder. “Murder investigations take a bit o’ getting used tae,” he said. “But I believe you’re up to the task, Constable Elliott.”
With that, he had me stand and take an oath of allegiance. I repeated word for word after him, promising to preserve peace and prevent offenses against persons and Scotland. After the swearing in, the inspector presented me with a card that he’d already had made up with my name, the letters “SC” for Special Constable, and my new title of police officer.
“That’s yer official warrant card,” he told me. “Be sure tae carry it on yer person at all times.”
“Can I make arrests now?” I asked.
That earned me a worried scowl. “I strongly advise against it. If ye find yerself in a difficult situation, dial 999 and request assistance. Then remain at a safe distance until help arrives.”
“That’s hardly the actions of a law enforcement official,” I complained. “Anybody can call for help and hide until it arrives.”
“Hopefully ye won’t encounter any problems off on yer own.” He was still scowling as though just now realizing that stumbling upon trouble was a distinct possibility considering my history. Perhaps he was having regrets already.
Too late, I thought. For both of us.
I gave my new boss a weak smile that probably came across as a grimace, if the way I was feeling at the moment was any indication of my outward appearance.
I stared at my new Scottish police badge.
I was now a card-bearing authority.
Constable Elliott. Writer of romances, investigator of murders. A new title and position that twenty-four hours ago, when Inspector Jamieson had first approached me with his request, I’d taken so lightly.
I hoped he wasn’t being overly optimistic with his encouragement and decision to recruit me.
So much for pretending the part.
I’d been cast in the role of special constable.
And I still didn’t have that pepper spray.
CHAPTER 8
After a perfunctory handshake to seal our deal, the inspector departed to conduct more interviews with those closest to the murder victim. He gave me his solemn word that he would keep me informed every step of the way. I gave him my own verbal commitment to make myself available to assist in any way I could, starting with obtaining a list of the yarn club members.
I suddenly realized that our new working relationship had the potential to turn our casual friendship into a much more formal arrangement. I hadn’t considered that and wasn’t sure I liked the idea.
I issued a warning to myself. Belated, this time, but I needed to remember it for the future:
Be careful what you ask for—you might actually get your wish, Eden Elliott.
I’d been pleased as punch when Inspector Jamieson had first approached me with his offer to replace Sean as special constable. I’m sure his proposal fed my ego, as I’d already been fantasizing about the power that came with the position, conveniently forgetting that it also came with enormous responsibility.
The take-charge part of me really wanted to stay involved in a hands-on way, carry on with the duties I’d sworn to, make sure this killer was brought to justice. Once I’d managed my way through the initial discovery of the body, I felt pretty good about the actions I’d taken on Saturday. I’d risen to the occasion. Unlike Sean Stevens or Oliver Wallace.
However, the saner part of me was shouting—Run! You don’t have any experience or proper training! Quit while you’re ahead, it murmured. What is a romance novelist doing meddling in crime solving of any sort, especially when it comes to the most evil and horrible kind of all?
I made an effort to weigh both sides of the argument waging war in my head. But from the very beginning it was a no-brainer, which in my case meant I ignored my brain and instead chose to follow my sappy, misinformed heart, romanticizing all the way. I’d serve up justice by bringing down a killer. Maybe not single-handedly (I’m perfectly aware that I am not Super Woman), but as one of the lead characters, side by side with the detective assigned to the case.
So, I reasoned, all the inspector and I had to do was follow a series of steps. Something had happened, most likely during the morning sheep dog trials, to force Isla Lindsey’s killer to take drastic action in spite of extremely high risk. At the moment, a motive wasn’t apparent. It was crucial that we find one. A tall order to fill.
Just as difficult, we had to pinpoint a spectator with plenty of opportunity. At this point, that could be pretty much anyone who was out at the farm in the afternoon. Isla went to the van sometime after one thirty in the afternoon to meet a person who chose that time and place and took that opportunity to commit murder. All within an approximately three-hour window.
As to the killer’s means, we already knew it involved yarn from one of Vicki’s club member kits. Add to the mix two hundred cupcakes baked by Senga Hill to track down, stir in a prescription for sleeping pills, and there was the perfect recipe
for murder.
The task seemed impossible when I looked at all the pieces at once.
One thing I’ve learned from my career as a professional writer, whether ghostwriting, editing, or romance writing, is to become as organized as I can and methodically plot the story line. The whole picture doesn’t have to be viewed from the start. Some of it evolves over time. One thing leads to another. Hopefully, that skill, to look at parts first and let the whole come naturally, would translate well into detective work and come in handy to solve this crime.
So, the first item of business was to get that list of yarn club members and start working it.
Except . . .
I hadn’t navigated my way through the challenging, narrow, and winding roads of the Highlands just to brainstorm what was behind a murder plot. I could have done that from the cottage. I was here because I needed to make my book better before I could begin outlining the second book in my series. Falling for You, the first book in my Scottish Highlands Desire series, is set in a fictional village called Rosehearty and tells the story of Gillian Fraser, a Scottish lass returning to her hometown to heal her broken heart, and Jack Ross, the ruggedly handsome owner of a local distillery (and also an avid fisherman, based more than loosely on Leith Cameron).
My plan after that book was to introduce a new romance for Gillian’s friend Jessica Bailey and Jack’s half brother, Daniel Ross. To put off worrying about Ami’s response, and because tweaking the manuscript had ceased to be fun, I tossed around ideas for the second title. It had to fit with the first title, leaving no question that they were part of the same series. Made for You? Or Loving You? For sure something with the word “you” in it. Keep it simple. Sweet, easy to remember, definitely one that a reader would instantly recognize as a romance. How about Crazy for You? Or Hooked on You?
Hooked on You resonated at the moment, so I opted to use it as a working title. That decided, I powered up my laptop, brought up my e-mail, and with a great deal of trepidation peered into my in-box.