Died in the Wool

by Melinda Mullet

  “Let’s see?” I prompted.

  Katherine pulled out her phone and held up a picture. I needed a laugh today, but I knew this wasn’t the time. I held out until Katherine started to giggle, then we both gave in and laughed till the tears ran down our cheeks.

  “Oh, God, your face when you were struggling to be polite.” Katherine blotted a tear from the corner of her eye. “Why do women do this to women they supposedly like? All that pale pink and tulle. I’m going to look like the last of the sugar plum fairies.”

  Laughing made me feel better and I smiled across at Katherine, glad of our growing friendship. “Everything else on track?”

  “Believe it or not, Trish is taking all of this quite seriously. I never would have thought it of her, but she has everyone marching like a drill sergeant.”

  Trish Robinson was my part-time assistant at the trust. Her style was best described as garish and her secretarial skills were uncharted waters, but she was a whiz with numbers and had proved her value more than once with her social media skills.

  “When it comes to wedding planning, she seems to have hit her stride,” Katherine observed.

  “Hidden depths,” I remarked.

  “In more ways than one. Brenna’s done wonders with the flowers. She has a florist friend in Edinburgh who gave Reverend Craig an ecclesiastical discount and looks like she can bring the whole lot in under budget. Fiona’s over the moon.”

  As long as we were on the subject of Brenna, I decided to jump in. “Did Brenna mention that there might be wedding bells in the future for her?”

  Katherine turned to look at me in surprise. “No, she did not,” she said, enunciating each word sharply. “Really? I mean Grant, I presume, but really?”

  Maybe I shouldn’t have thrown the question out there, but I wanted to know if Brenna had told anyone else. Maybe hinted to the wedding crew. I shrugged trying to look unfazed by the news. “She referred to herself as his fiancée this afternoon. I guess it’s something in the water.”

  “But I didn’t think they were that serious.” I could tell Katherine was teetering between good manners and curiosity. Curiosity won. “I actually thought there might be something between the two of you.”

  “Respect and friendship”—I trailed off, not knowing what to say next—“but no commitment.”

  “That doesn’t sound at all convincing.” Katherine swung her legs down from the lounger and turned to face me full on. “Don’t do something you’ll regret. This is no time to hold back if you’re interested. You cannae expect a man to say no to what’s on offer if he doesn’t know there’s something better available.”

  “We’ll see,” I demurred. I’d started this conversational thread, but now I felt like it was unraveling. “Let’s talk sheep instead,” I insisted. “Shearing’s tomorrow.”

  “Not before time. I’ll stop by later in the day with some antibiotic salve in case we have any nicks.”

  “Do they usually get cut?” I asked.

  “Often, but don’t worry. They’re thick-skinned.”

  Good to know. Wish I could say as much for me.

  * * *

  —

  I spent a restless night, chasing illusive fragments of sleep. I tried counting sheep, but they all needed shearing, which brought me back around to worrying about the flock. God love Hunter. He had coffee on the go when I staggered into the kitchen the next morning. He looked remarkably spry for a man who’d put three-quarters of a century into this hard life and had spent most of it in and around the village of Balfour. I’d essentially inherited him as part of the estate when Ben died. A retainer of sorts, today he was on deck to supervise the shearing.

  The plan was to start close to home with my two favorites, Agatha and Oscar, before moving on to the rest of the crew. I whistled for Liam and Hunter escorted us out to the home pasture where I saw three faces looking back at me.

  “Who’s this?” I asked Hunter, entering the enclosure.

  Hunter mumbled something indistinct.

  “This isn’t one of mine,” I insisted, bending down to look at the undercarriage. “This is a new sheep.”

  “How can ye possibly tell one sheep from another,” he groused. “They have a leg at each corner and wool in between.”

  “They all have unique personalities if you look close enough,” I replied. “Who’s the new one and where did she come from?”

  “Me cousin Dell dropped her off this mornin’. She were found along the coast not far from Dell’s place. Standin’ on the beach starin’ out to sea like she was contemplatin’ the meanin’ of life. She were a right mess. Covered in sand from top to tail. No one claimed her and they were going to send her to the—”

  I shook my head in resignation. “I know, I know, and someone said to bring her here.”

  “I mighta mentioned to Dell that you had a bit of a collection goin’.”

  “We have a nice round twenty now. That’ll do me,” I said firmly.

  “What do we call her?”

  Hunter now looked on my eccentricities with amused tolerance. I’d given all the sheep literary names as they arrived, but now that we were at twenty it was getting harder. Oscar Wilde and Agatha Christie had most recently been joined by Will i Am Shakespeare, Shake to his friends, and Hawthorne, as in Nathaniel, and Aldous as in Huxley. Maybe it was time for a more contemporary name. “Lisa Scottoline,” I replied.

  “Bit of a mouthful that,” Hunter said, looking confused.

  “Just call her Lisa. I recently finished Scottoline’s book I’ve Got Sand in All the Wrong Places. Suits our newcomer, I think.”

  As usual, my handyman looked at me as if I was a bit daft before going to get some rope from the garden shed. Hunter had called in a local man named Brock Andrews to handle the shearing. Lisa was going to need it more than most after her adventure at the shore. Brock’s one demand was that the sheep all be corralled in one place before he arrived. Oscar, Agatha, and Lisa would have to join their fellow wooly wordsmiths in the lower field.

  Hunter took Agatha and Oscar, and I grabbed Lisa. Liam brought up the rear, pretending he’d had something to do with the herding. We processed down the lane, through the courtyard of the Glen, and over to the gate leading to the lower pasture.

  I stopped briefly to watch Brock work, amazed at how easily he handled the sheep. The trick, he said, was to keep their feet off the ground and make them comfortable. Oscar lay on his back looking totally bemused and less than comfortable as the shears peeled the wool off him like the skin off an orange. The boys seemed to have things well in hand, so I returned to my car and headed into town for class with a clear conscience.

  When we finished for the day, I walked through the old section of town and down into the Princes Street Gardens, sidestepping a crowd of tourists taking photos of the looming facade of Edinburgh Castle rising above them on the volcanic rock that pierced its way into the heart of the city. I’d spent most of my life as a Londoner and thought I would never leave, but my affection for Edinburgh was growing. It was a manageable city. Well laid out, walkable, and friendly. First-class pubs abounded and not only were there Michelin-starred restaurants, they were somehow less pretentious than their London counterparts.

  Patrick was making it his personal mission to explore them all, and I’d arranged to meet him for lunch at his current favorite. I fought for a quiet table in the rear of the Cork and Vine, made it through half my drink, and ordered by the time Patrick arrived.

  “Sorry, sorry,” he huffed. “Running on a deadline, as always. Photos not loading the way they should. You remember all that grief.”

  “Happily distant from it now,” I said, lifting my glass in his direction. “Order up, you’re behind,” I said, flagging down the waitress.

  Patrick ordered a Merlot and a sandwich before turning back to me. “So what’s new with
you?”

  “Sheep shearing with a side of social justice.”

  “In English, please.”

  “Reverend Craig’s hooked me up with a local women’s shelter called the Shepherd’s Rest.” I explained briefly about Amanda, the fleeces, and my sudden inclusion on the board. “The founder blackmailed one of the other board members into a lease arrangement that was very favorable to the shelter, but now that she’s passed on he’s trying to bully his way out of it. I said I’d see what I could do to help.”

  “That would be Richard Urquhart, I presume,” Patrick said, retrieving his phone from his jacket pocket.

  I nodded. “What did you find?”

  “He’s a corporate solicitor with a bit of a reputation as a shark. When you said Templeton, I figured you wanted information on the relationship between Templeton Trucking, Ltd., and Urquhart. He represented them for more than twenty years. His name’s on all of their contracts, leases, import/export licensing, you name it.”

  “What kind of things did the company ship?”

  “Anything and everything, looks like. From priceless works of art to consignments of loo paper.”

  “Any legal issues down the years?”

  “Usual contract disputes and insurance claims. One, however, I think you might be interested in. Templeton Senior was named as an accessory in litigation surrounding the theft and transshipment of a painting stolen in Prague and shipped to Moscow.”

  “Interesting. Was Templeton prosecuted?”

  “In the end, no. The charges were dismissed. Judge agreed there was insufficient evidence to show that Templeton knew the goods were stolen.”

  I sat back and regarded Patrick with a frown. “Insufficient evidence. Could simply mean that he was careful, not innocent.”

  “Certainly doesn’t guarantee he was clean,” Patrick agreed.

  Could Moureen have known that her husband was guilty? Did she find out that Urquhart was in some way complicit? That would certainly give her leverage to make him sign an agreement to provide rent-free housing to Moureen’s favorite charity. “Who’s in charge of Templeton Trucking now?”

  “Moureen Templeton sold the business after her husband died. She put some of it into a charitable fund and used the rest to bankroll the early operations of a farm on the estate.”

  “Justice takes all forms,” I murmured. After years of abusing his wife, his earnings went to fund a shelter for other abused women. No doubt he was spinning in his grave.

  “I found some information on Urquhart’s real estate holdings if you’re interested.”

  “Lay it on me.”

  “Urquhart’s father was a commercial real estate developer. Made a small fortune purchasing warehouses in the Leith district before the mass gentrification began, and then made a large fortune reselling those buildings and others along the coastline. Urquhart took over the property management after his father died.”

  “Not a conflict of interest?”

  “He had to sell off a couple of properties because of client conflicts, but most of his firm’s work is criminal defense. He’s the only one who does corporate and white-collar crime. Not too much crossover in the real estate arena.”

  “Are they mostly residential or commercial properties?”

  “Commercial. Restaurants, hotels, and retirement communities.”

  “Can you pull me a full list of his registered holdings?”

  “In my spare time?” Patrick grimaced.

  “I know you’re busy, but please.”

  Patrick leaned back in his seat and crossed his arms across his chest like a spoiled child. “What’s in it for me?”

  I played the best card I had. “The first bottle of single cask Abbey Glen when it rolls off the line.”

  “Oh baby. Now you’re talking.” Patrick’s eyes sparkled. “Alright, I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Anything on the property I flagged in Campbell Street?”

  Patrick turned back to his notes. “Urquhart bought that particular property about eighteen months ago from a hotel chain that went bankrupt. They fancied turning it into a bed-and-breakfast, but changed their minds and ended up letting it go for a song. Property’s not in a great neighborhood, and I’d guess it’s got its share of issues. If you want, I can try to get you the name of an inspector who would be able to give you an honest assessment.”

  “Thanks. I’ll bet Urquhart’s using his own people to assess the property. People willing to turn a blind eye to its deficiencies. He’s trying to move the women’s shelter out of the building they’re in and put them in the place on Campbell Street.”

  “Bastard.”

  “Sums him up in a word. I’m attending my first board meeting tonight and I’d like to know if there are any other buildings he owns that might be suitable for the shelter.”

  “Gotcha. I’ll see what I can do. How’s Grant?”

  “He and Cam went to see Rory about the decanters yesterday. He’s willing to give the ceramic bottles a try. I’m excited to see what he comes up with.” I hesitated for a long moment, toying with the glass in front of me before deciding to skip the news about Grant and Brenna. I wasn’t ready to face my feelings on that score just yet.

  I left the Cork and Vine and walked back along the Royal Mile. I had a couple of hours to kill before I was due at the board meeting for the shelter. Not long enough to go home and come back. I wandered aimlessly through the tourist district, lost in my own thoughts, before slipping down a narrow alley to Lady Stairs House, home of the Edinburgh Writers’ Museum. I spent a distracting hour and a half there exploring the storied lives of Scotland’s national treasures Walter Scott, Robert Burns, and Robert Louis Stevenson. I made a mental note of the names. Perhaps there was room for three more sheep after all. Good God, what was I saying?

  I fled the scene, arriving at Woolies just as Amanda was showing the last of the customers out the door. She let me in and locked up behind me.

  “We’re meeting in the classroom downstairs,” she said, tucking a wisp of hair behind her ear. “I’ll apologize in advance, it’s not going to be pleasant. We’ve had an awful time at the Rest today and I tried to get Urquhart to postpone this meeting, but he’s still on a rampage about the wretched new building and wouldn’t budge.”

  Patrick hadn’t gotten back to me yet with details about Urquhart’s buildings and I felt less prepared than I would have liked, but it couldn’t be helped. “I’m sure we can manage Urquhart,” I said firmly, “but what happened at the Rest?”

  Amanda turned at the top of the stairs and dropped her voice to a whisper. “Jenny, the young woman you met yesterday, was found dead in her bed this morning.”

  Chapter 5

  “No.” I looked at Amanda, stunned. “She seemed perfectly fine yesterday. What on earth happened?”

  “We don’t really know yet. One of the other girls found her when she went in this morning. Cold as a stone. The police seem to think it was an accidental overdose of some kind.”

  “Did she leave a note?” the reporter in me asked.

  “No. Nothing.”

  “I’m so sorry,” I said. I knew the words were trite and hollow, but they were all I had to offer.

  Amanda looked exhausted and the bloom had left her cheeks. “The police were poking around all morning. It was so upsetting for everyone. Thank God the Templeton twins were there. Colin kept a close eye on things and finally called Reverend Craig to come over and provide some moral support.”

  “Can’t believe Urquhart wasn’t willing to wait on this.”

  “Believe it. You’ll see when you meet him. His exact words were, ‘Your residents come and go. You can’t allow yourself to develop sentimental attachments.’ ”

  “Wow. What a sweetheart.”

  “The shelter’s residents are expendable as far as he’s con
cerned, and the rest of us don’t rate much better.” Amanda’s hand trembled slightly as she grabbed the handrail. “We’d better get a move on.” She straightened her back and took a deep breath before heading down the stairs. I was left to follow along, questions still buzzing around in my head.

  We walked into the lower-level classroom. Baskets of wool were scattered around the room and two large yarn winders sat idle in the corner. Four people sat around the table toying with paper cups of sludgy coffee, and Amanda introduced me to the group at large. I recognized Richard Urquhart from my brief glimpse of him yesterday. He had a sour look on his face, but stuck a hand out and gave mine a brief shake.

  “Now that we’re all here, perhaps we can get on,” he said pointedly.

  The woman across the table from me rose and shook hands with a rueful smile. “Greer Templeton,” she said. “Excuse Richard, he’s always in a hurry.”

  “Colin,” said the young man beside her, rising to extend his own hand. The two were not identical, but they were definitely twins. Their hair was exactly the same shade of dark blond, both wavy. Colin’s came nearly to his shoulders and Greer’s was gathered into a high ponytail. The four brown eyes that looked back at me were exactly the same color. The smile in Greer’s seemed warm and friendly while Colin’s was inquisitive and mildly flirtatious. Greer was dressed in faded jeans and a flannel shirt that hung loosely around her. She didn’t seem to register that there was dirt under her short nails. She was a child of the earth. Colin, on the other hand, wore slacks and a dress shirt with the cuffs turned back. He looked more like a hip young whiz kid from the city.

  “Duncan Ross,” murmured the man at the end of the table raising a hand in greeting. I noticed he didn’t stand up, but he studied me from his perch at the far point of the table. He reminded me of a lizard. Watching intently from beneath his hooded eyes, his movements slow and deliberate. Every time his tongue appeared to wet his lips, I expected it to shoot out and snag a fly. There was something unsettling about his gaze and I found myself wishing he would turn his attention elsewhere.