Hooked on Ewe

by Hannah Reed

  Isla must have been extremely nervous having someone around who knew a little about debits and credits and reconciling accounts. No wonder she’d been anxious to get rid of Senga.

  “Why would Isla steal?” I wondered out loud.

  “That’s what I can’t understand. She dinnae have any financial problems that I knew aboot. No major medical expenses. She coulda asked fer help if she needed it. Although it’s no secret that hospice wages are low. And she did complain from time tae time.”

  “How much money are we talking about?” I asked.

  “There’d be no way o’ knowing about all o’ it,” he told me. “Because part of the loss is in cash we bring in from the events. It’d be easy tae pinch some o’ that with no one ever the wiser.”

  “But a few pounds wouldn’t have made you suspicious,” I pressed.

  “Projections fer last month’s charity golf day were off by twenty percent. Goin’ back through each one o’ the events, I found the same thing—each o’ them off by about the same, twenty percent. Between an estimate o’ cash skimmin’ at the time and checks payable tae cash in her handwriting that the auditors found . . .”

  Harry seemed reluctant to go on, still trying to protect the reputation of a dead woman, who herself hadn’t apparently given a second thought to stealing from the sick and dying in the hospice. “It amounts tae quite a lot,” was his final remark on that subject.

  “What did you decide to do?” I asked him, taking notes as quickly as possible.

  “I thought I’d give her a way out. If she’d come tae me with a confession and return the funds, I wouldn’t bring up charges against her. So I decided if I told the group about my suspicions, and that I was considerin’ an outside audit, she’d come tae me. I even directed a good deal o’ my comments in her direction at the meeting, hopin’ she’d pick up on my concern.”

  “You pretended as though the audit hadn’t been already conducted, and that you were already aware of the results?” I really needed to speak with Dale and Marg about that evening. The pub owners may have noticed some of this interaction.

  “Aye, it was fer Isla’s benefit, tae give her a chance tae come clean.”

  “And this occurred at that last meeting the night before the event, on Friday, early in the evening at the Kilt & Thistle,” I said, being very specific.

  Harry nodded. “I asked her tae stay behind when the others left and put it tae her that whoever had done such a thing could make amends without involvin’ the police. That there’d be no reason tae put a body’s dirty linen on public display, that it would all be hushed up.”

  “What was her response?”

  “All huffy, saying she was only the bookkeeper, merely recording in the ledger what was given and if I had an issue, I should speak with some o’ the other volunteers who’d helped collect the funds after each event. She was in such a snit, I told her we’d discuss it again under different conditions that didnae involve alcohol.”

  “Had she been drinking?” I asked.

  “Aye, we all had a pint or two, but Isla’d downed more than her fair share.”

  “And did you bring it up with her again later?”

  “No, I never had another chance.”

  Later, when Harry went out to his truck, I realized with a start that I’d forgotten to ask him about the yarn kit he’d picked up for his sister. Luckily, I remembered just in the knick of time and managed to catch Harry before he drove away. (More carefully this time, staying out of the way of his truck.)

  He told me that, unfortunately, his sister had already taken the kit home with her to Glasgow. After discussing its recovery with him I went back inside and sat for a time considering all that I’d just learned. Isla Lindsey, with her superiority complex and holier-than-thou attitude, had been a common thief. Worse than common. She stole from the very group of people she was supposed to be helping. No wonder she had to be in control of every situation, every second of the time!

  I went over the notes I’d taken, adding a few, rehashing, wondering if Isla’s stealing had anything to do with her murder. It seemed possible. But it would be wise to find out if her husband knew about his wife’s sticky fingers and where the money had been stashed. Finding out that Isla Lindsey had been embezzling from the hospice fund-raising events was overwhelming.

  Part of me longed to go back to my romance writing, to escape into my make-believe world where love conquers all, where things like this didn’t happen.

  With a sigh, I left the cottage and walked to the main house.

  CHAPTER 19

  I found Vicki at the stove (or rather at the cooker, as the Scots call it), standing over an enamel canning pot, wearing her apron, protective gloves, and a masklike contraption. The door had been thrown open and the windows were raised for cross-ventilation. She saw me and motioned me to stay outside.

  “I’m setting the dye in batches,” she said when she joined me, tugging off the mask. She picked up one of her latest creations and presented it with pride. “The hand painting went well. Now it’s steaming time.”

  I’d watched this process when she dyed the Poppy Red yarn. She’d inserted a steamer basket into the pot then added the wool. After simmering it for an hour, making sure there was plenty of steam, she’d rinsed the fleece and hung it to dry.

  The next step would be spinning it into yarn.

  Vicki’s Merry Mitten yarn was going to be gorgeous. The fleece was multicolored with the colors running in sequence—apple green, lime, and then sunshine yellow.

  “But how in the world will two mittens match?” I asked, perplexed as only a non-knitter could be. “Won’t each one be completely different?”

  “You simply start knitting both mittens in the same place in the color run.”

  “Color run?”

  “The color run is the pattern. See? You’d begin both at the beginning of the length of apple green or one of the other colors. As long as you start both mittens at the same place, you will have matching mittens.”

  “Ah,” I said, sort of understanding the concept.

  “How did it go with Harry?” Vicki asked.

  I related my “near miss” experience in the field. “Near hit” was more like it. But I was no worse for wear. An adrenaline rush was pretty much the extent of the damage.

  After Vicki made the appropriate sounds of concern, she asked, “And his sister’s yarn?”

  “Unfortunately, it’s in Glasgow. His sister was passing through on her way home from a vacation on the Isle of Skye, and took the yarn kit home with her. Harry said he’ll have her send it back.”

  “It’s one of only two still out there. Hers and Andrea’s.” Vicki shook her head sadly.

  “He promised to contact her today and will stress the importance of shipping it before the end of the day. Maybe I should have offered to drive there and pick it up.”

  “The drive to Glasgow would take you over three hours,” Vicki announced. “More like four or five, the way you drive.”

  “If I even made it.” Seven to eight hours of driving, counting there and back? Forget it. I’d only recently started to get over my fear of driving between the farm and Glenkillen. Inverness, a forty-mile drive away that felt like four hundred when traversing all the curves, hills, and dips, was another accomplishment. But I wasn’t eager to repeat even that one unless I absolutely had to.

  “Okay, we’ll have to wait then,” Vicki said. “I have a hard time believing that Harry’s sister or Andrea might have murdered Isla.”

  “As the inspector said, we can’t jump to conclusions.”

  “Andrea Lindsey is a mouse of a woman. There’s no way she could’ve done it.”

  I shrugged, noncommittal. “Who knows what goes through a disturbed person’s mind?”

  “And when it came to Isla, a person didn’t need much of a disturbed mind to consider d
oing her in.”

  “That’s the truth. I’ve been trying to reach Andrea, but no one is answering at her house or at Bryan’s.”

  “You’ll be able to find her tonight at the Kilt & Thistle. The Lindseys can’t hold the funeral yet, since Isla’s remains won’t be released until who knows when. But some of us have arranged to meet and have a dram or two in her honor at the pub.”

  Mention of the pub reminded me that I hadn’t checked my e-mail recently, so I decided to drive into Glenkillen to do that and maybe jot down some of my ideas for the next book.

  “I think I’ll drive to the pub now,” I told Vicki.

  “Get a table near the fire,” Vicki suggested. “It’s going to turn cold tonight and a fire will be a comfort. By late afternoon, all the tables will fill up, and we don’t want to be buried way in the back where you usually like to perch. Tonight, we want to be where the action is. So it’s on your shoulders to get us a good table.”

  As I drove to Glenkillen, I thought about the community’s favorite meeting place. The Kilt & Thistle had been one of the last places Isla visited before her death. First to meet with the organizers of the fund-raiser for one last time before the big event, followed by a conversation with the head of the hospice regarding financial concerns. After that she’d been seen with her husband, and from several accounts, they’d quarreled.

  But about what? That was the question I wanted answered.

  I was able to park close to the front of the pub. When I stepped onto the cobblestone walkway, carrying my laptop in a tote, I spotted Sean coming from the direction of Senga’s apartment and called out. We walked to meet each other.

  He still wore his uniform, but it had suffered some serious wear and tear. His shirtfront was stained, the cuffs streaked and dirty, and overall he looked worse for wear than ever before. Dumpster diving will do that to a person.

  He also had an unsavory aroma about him that reminded me of my own dip into the contents of the rubbish bins.

  “Did you find that sleeping pill sample?” I asked, though I had a pretty good idea he hadn’t been any luckier than I’d been. Sean tends to wear his emotions on his sleeve, and his expression was as grim as the grime he’d collected.

  “Not a sign o’ it,” he confirmed. “I informed the inspector o’ such, and fer now the powers that be order us tae keep the facts tae ourselves. And no further questioning o’ that suspect until advised tae do so.”

  “I wonder why.”

  Sean leaned against a lamppost and said, “He wants tae go after her himself now that we’ve done the legwork. Senga Hill worked at the hospice financial office with Isla Lindsey. Did ye know that?”

  “I did. And Isla was the one who had her let go.”

  “And Senga Hill baked the cupcakes, one of which knocked Isla out cold due to the addition of sleeping pill sprinkles . . .”

  “. . . which Senga admitted to having in her possession,” I finished for him. “Things aren’t looking good for the woman.”

  “She’s a suspect, fer sure,” Sean agreed, “but the evidence is insufficient tae charge her with the offense.”

  “We need iron-clad evidence,” I said, remembering the training manual chapters I’d helped Sean with. Scottish procedures mirrored those in the States.

  “Cast-iron,” Sean echoed. “The evidence has to be supportable before incarcerating a subject. That’s the challenge facin’ us at the moment.”

  “What’s next for you?” I asked Sean.

  “I’m tae do a wee bit o’ chatting up potential witnesses at the pub tonight.”

  “You might want to change clothes first,” I advised him in case the stench coming off him had deadened his ability to smell himself.

  After Sean went off muttering to himself about trash picking not being in his job description, I phoned the inspector before entering the pub. He didn’t answer, so I left a message that I’d be in attendance at the gathering coming up in a few hours and hoped to touch base with him then.

  Outside of the Kilt & Thistle, I paused to think about how much I liked this place. Scottish pubs are the heart and soul of every village in the Highlands. They are the glue that holds the community together. Births, deaths, marriages, every imaginable milestone—all are celebrated and honored within their sturdy walls. Pubs are havens from life’s stresses and worries, refuges from blustery weather and stormy seas.

  Friendships are renewed in these pubs, opportunities explored, humor and banter enjoyed, and for this romance novelist, characters and plots come alive in the recesses of this one in particular. The Kilt & Thistle brings out the best I have to offer.

  I set up for a writing session at a rustic wooden table near the open hearth, in view of the door and directly in front of the bar, where at the moment a handful of patrons sat on stools watching rugby on a large flat-screen television.

  “Are ye hungry?” Marg asked, arriving with the bill of fare.

  “Yes, please. Oh, and Marg, I’ve been hearing a bit of talk circulating.”

  “Wha’ a surprise,” she said with a smile.

  “I heard that Isla and her husband were having a row Friday night.”

  “Aye. That’s the rumor.”

  “You didn’t see an argument between them?”

  “Me and the husband had all we could do tae keep up with business last Friday night. We had a full crowd and wouldn’t ye know our waitress called in sick tae boot?”

  “Dale might have seen or heard—”

  “—only he didnae,” she interrupted. “We both heard the rumor circulating and discussed it among ourselves. All we can vouch fer is that the two o’ them were here as was the fund-raising group. Wish I could be more helpful.”

  “You do a great job,” I said, hiding my disappointment.

  “I’ll be back shortly tae take yer order. Do ye want something tae drink in the meantime?”

  “Water is fine,” I said.

  “I’ll bring ye a glass.”

  I was starving, so I settled in with the menu before powering up my computer. I studied the list of traditional pub fare—including fish and chips; haggis; sausage rolls; Scotch eggs; mince and tatties, which was a Scottish favorite of minced beef and mashed potatoes; something called “cock a leekie” (described as chicken and leeks in a puff pastry); and steak pie, which was the dish I decided on. Not a light meal, but practically nothing was low-calorie here. I chalked it up to necessary research as I did every time I splurged.

  After Marg returned with the water and took my order, I glanced around, not recognizing most of the customers, except Bill Morris, who rarely vacated his table in the corner. He was situated away from the walk-through traffic but close enough to the bar to catch the rugby match and pick up on conversations. That is, assuming Bill was sober and alert enough to focus.

  While I waited for my food, I started up my computer and went searching for information on the local hospice. According to the Glenkillen Hospice website, the hospice received one-third of its funding through the NHS, the UK’s publicly funded health-care system. The organization relied on other avenues of revenue for the remainder. The hospice was also supported through legacy gifts, willed to the organization through those who used its service in the latter stages of their lives. Volunteers also helped support the hospice in care services, fund-raising, and in various administrative duties.

  Harry had been vague about the actual dollar amount taken, speaking only in terms of percentages, but news sources announcing this year’s charity events placed current estimates of annual operating expenses at well over a million pounds, with these fund-raisers considered a key element in meeting those needs.

  If Isla had been embezzling funds, and if Harry’s twenty-percent estimate was close to accurate, and if I arbitrarily chose half of the required million as a conservative annual income marker, then I’d guesstimate that she coul
d have made off with as much as one hundred thousand pounds this year so far. Not a sum to be taken lightly.

  If Isla had been caught in the act, she could have gone to prison and—maybe even worse in her estimation, since she viewed herself as an upstanding member of the community—she would have been ostracized, and rightly so. Nobody likes a crook. Especially one who would steal from a facility that meets the emotional, spiritual, and pain management needs of the terminally ill and their family members.

  She’d been self-righteous and angry when Harry had spoken with her, but she’d had the night to sleep on the idea. Why hadn’t she taken Harry up on his offer of restitution outside of the public view? If I had been in her shoes, I would have gone to find Harry the next morning and agreed to his terms. Had that been her plan? Had she intended to meet Harry at the van and confess?

  But if that was the case, Harry would have mentioned it to me earlier. Wouldn’t he have?

  My attention was diverted by a heated discussion going on amongst the rugby fans during a commercial break. They were loudly discussing secession from the United Kingdom, a hot topic in the Highlands and one that produced plenty of rants, especially after a pint or two. The most recent referendum had come and gone, but it had been a closer race than ever, and the subject of Scottish independence was one that perennially enflamed Scots’ passions.

  “The future should be in the hands o’ the Scots!” one of them said.

  “Aye, we’d have our own voice on the world stage,” said another. “Not tae mention control o’ the oil and gas in the North Sea.”

  “But Britain would withdraw the pound, and who would protect us from invasion?” This from a courageous individual with a different opinion than his rugby buddies.

  “Stuff that!”

  They went on this way, back and forth, until the game resumed. Then Bill piped up from his corner. The volume must have drowned out his suggestion because none of those watching acknowledged him, but I heard him say, “The lot o’ ye might as well haff let the Loch Ness Monster decide the vote fer all the sense ye’re talking!”