by Traci Hall
Her voice cracked and she stood over Isla, looking to the living room and bedroom. “Hello?”
Nobody answered.
Grandpa’s narrow shoulders let in the daylight at the doorway before he entered the kitchen and knelt at Isla’s side. He pressed his fingers to her wrist.
“The police,” Paislee whispered. She studied Isla and gulped a sob. Pale lips with a tinge of blue, white skin, a fixed gaze.
“Aye. Ye have a phone?” Grandpa asked, rising unsteadily. “No pulse.”
It was too late for CPR on Isla. With trembling fingers, Paislee pulled her mobile from the pocket of her cardigan and dialed her friend Amelia Henry, who answered the phones at Nairn Police Station.
She struggled to think clearly, her mind in a thick mist.
“Nairn Police Station.”
Yanking her gaze from Isla’s curled hand, the blue fingernails, she said, “Amelia, Isla is dead.” Paislee swallowed a cry that hurt her chest. Dead.
“What? Slow down.” Amelia’s tone switched from cheerful to serious. “Where are ye? I’ll send an ambulance right away—are ye all right?”
“Fine.” She took a breath and closed her eyes, then opened them again, finding a center of calm in emotional turbulence. Just the facts, and don’t look at Isla. She isnae there anymore.
“Where are you?” Amelia asked in a steady tone.
“Harborside Flats.” Her belly tumbled and twisted. “Number ten. My car is parked out front. Isla isnae breathing, Amelia.” Paislee wrapped her arms around herself for comfort, but it didn’t work.
“I’ve dispatched an ambulance—help is on the way.”
It was too late to save Isla. Tears for her slipped hotly from her eyes. “Now what do I do?” She couldn’t help but peek at Isla’s foot, clad in a crocheted sage-green slipper that Paislee remembered her working on at Cashmere Crush. Not moving. She gulped more tears down her throat.
“Just wait there,” Amelia instructed. “Dinnae touch anything.”
“I won’t.”
“Yer sure she’s . . .”
She glanced quickly at the rigid body, grateful that her grandpa had checked for sure. “Aye.”
“Five minutes, Paislee. Do ye need me tae stay on the line with you?”
“No, no. Thanks.” Paislee hung up and pocketed her phone.
“They’re on the way?” Grandpa accidentally bumped into the dining room table, knocking over an orange prescription bottle.
“Five minutes. Careful, now.” Paislee scowled at him but read the label. “Digoxin. Isla Campbell.” The container lay on its side, empty.
A mug of tea, the Lipton tea bag visible, and a plate of shortbread cookies—the plastic container with the popular red band on the kitchen counter as if the package had just been opened. The chair she must have been sitting in askew from when she’d fallen to the floor. The opposite seat had been tucked tidily against the table.
Paislee got the sense that Isla had lived alone, though there was another mug in the sink.
Grandpa gestured to the empty pill bottle. “Suicide?”
“Naw—that’s her heart medication.” Paislee shivered and rubbed her arms. “Let’s go outside for the ambulance.”
Paislee and Grandpa waited on the sidewalk. Lost in thought, she recalled how fervent Isla had been regarding living life to its fullest. Her fragile health had given her a strong will to survive and she hated to be thought of as weak.
Isla’s mother and father had divorced, and Isla’s mother had little time for her daughter. After her mother found another man, who also had no time for Isla, Isla had moved out during her last year of school with an older boyfriend.
Paislee wiped a tear. They’d shared a few quiet moments at the shop, Paislee knitting and Isla crocheting. Paislee had even told Isla about her own mum’s desertion to America after Paislee’s dad had been killed in a boating accident. She’d seen glimpses of herself in Isla, and if the girl had hard edges, well, she had reason.
Despite her hardships, most days Isla had been sunshine to the point of needing sunglasses.
A navy-blue SUV pulled into the parking lot, taking the number 12 spot, to Paislee’s left.
To her dismay, Detective Inspector Zeffer got out of the vehicle. He wore a tailored blue suit with a white shirt and black tie and had lost the hat and coat in today’s warm weather.
When his cool green eyes settled on her, she had to remind herself that she hadn’t done anything wrong.
“Hello,” she babbled. “Paislee Shaw. We met this morning, when you brought Angus tae my shop.”
“I recall,” he said, his voice deep, his expression letting her know that he wasn’t pleased to see the Shaws twice in one day. “What happened?”
She pointed to the front door, which was now open behind them. “Isla Campbell is dead.”
“Did you go inside?”
“Uh, a little bit . . .”
He hiked his russet brow.
“We were both in the kitchen; Grandpa checked for her pulse. We bumped the table. There was a dog.”
The detective stepped around where she and Grandpa stood to see inside Isla’s flat, though he was also on the cement walkway.
She slid her hands into the pockets of her cardigan. “I mean to say that I called for Isla. The door wasn’t latched all the way. And when she didn’t answer, I nudged it open a bit more, and then a dog ran out with a rabbit, stuffed, I think, and . . .”
He rubbed his clean-shaven chin with his thumb and forefinger, assessing her once again.
Grandpa Angus whistled low beside her—was that code for haud yer weesht?
The detective edged past her inside the flat. “What did you touch?”
“Nothing!” She stayed on the threshold peering in and Grandpa remained on the walkway.
The detective’s gaze landed on the door handle and back at Paislee.
“Other than that. I just saw her, Isla”—Paislee’s voice broke—“and we called you—well, not you, but the police. Grandpa felt for her pulse; it was obvious that she was dead. Isla was supposed tae be at my shop for an interview at nine thirty, but she didnae show.”
Zeffer dropped to Isla’s side much more fluidly than Grandpa had done, fingers pressed to Isla’s wrist despite her rigid body and the blue lips.
The staring eyes, into nothing.
Paislee circled away to face the pier and breathed in deep of the fresh air.
Grandpa slid his arm around her shoulders. “It’ll be awright, lass.”
Suddenly the door to the right, number 8, opened and a movie-star handsome man in denims and a fitted polo shirt exited with the white mutt and the rabbit—which was no rabbit, but a skein of beige yarn that she could tell was quality wool. Merino, possibly. Was that what poor Isla had been working with when she died?
The young man startled at noticing her and Grandpa on the walkway; then he peeked inside Isla’s apartment to where the detective was now standing and blocking the view of Isla’s prone body. His friendly smile faded. “What’s going on?”
The DI braced his shoulders. “And you are?”
“Oh—Gerald Sanford. I live next door.” He lifted the yarn. “I was just going tae return this tae Isla.” The dog whined from his place tucked in the crook of the guy’s arm. “Is she all right?”
“There’s been an accident,” Detective Inspector Zeffer informed him. “When was the last time you saw your neighbor?”
“Yesterday,” Gerald said. He had a thick chest and muscled biceps, as if he worked out daily at the gym. He shifted so that he was speaking over the detective’s shoulder. “Though she and Baxter here were guid friends, we didnae socialize.”
Paislee didn’t believe him—he’d looked away like Brody did when trying to pull the wool over her eyes.
Why would he lie about how well he knew Isla?
He was very good-looking, as Isla was pretty. Paislee didn’t believe for a second that he wouldn’t want to “socialize” with her.
Gerald shuffled his feet and tightened his grip on the white dog, who panted, pink tongue out. “She’d moved in two weeks ago. Didnae really know her. She seemed hung up on her ex.”
Oh, had Isla and Billy broken up? Paislee brought her hand to her heart. They’d seemed so in love. Poor Isla.
“Billy Connal,” Paislee supplied. Another tear slid down her cheek, and she wiped it with the back of her hand.
“Yeah, that’s the guy,” Gerald confirmed. “Had an old pickup truck.”
“You know him?” Zeffer asked Paislee.
“I never met him, but he was the reason Isla left Nairn three months ago and moved tae Inverness.” Paislee buttoned her sweater against a cool breeze from the inlet.
“What do you do?” The detective checked his watch and made a point of noticing Gerald’s shiny new BMW.
Was he wondering, as Paislee did, why the man wasn’t at a nine-to-five job, with a car like that?
“Weel, I’m actually a law student.” Gerald’s grin had just enough boy in it for Paislee to place him around twenty-five. “I work weekends as a reenactment actor in Inverness.”
He must come from money, she thought. Law school was expensive. Unless actors pretending to be Braveheart made a good deal more than she’d realized?
“Have ye been home all day?”
“Studying.” Gerald scratched Baxter’s ears, the yarn in his hand.
“Where were you last night?” the detective asked Gerald.
Gerald flushed red. “At the movies.”
The man was a terrible liar, Paislee thought. Behind her, Grandpa Angus coughed into his fist to show his disbelief at the answer.
Detective Inspector Zeffer widened his stance on the walkway and stared Gerald down.
“Listen, I havenae seen Isla since yesterday,” Gerald said, this time in a more normal tone. “She sometimes watched Baxter for me, so she must have let him in tae play.”
Paislee had a hard time believing that.
“I’ll need your phone number,” the detective said, his leather notepad and black pen out as suddenly as a magic trick.
Gerald rattled it off and then handed over the yarn. The dog woofed. “I have tae go hit the books.” He didn’t say good-bye as he returned to his flat.
The detective, holding tight to the yarn and notebook, focused his attention on her. She took a half step back.
“You said she moved from Nairn tae be with her boyfriend?”
“Aye. I wrote a recommendation for her tae get a job there. I thought she was happy.”
“Place of employment?”
The man was glacial with his questions, not letting an emotion slip free. Did he have no compassion that someone she cared for had died?
“Vierra’s Merino Wool Distributor.” Her chin hefted a notch.
The detective jotted something down.
Paislee touched the hollow at her throat and sniffed.
Dead.
It just didn’t make sense.
The officer tapped pen to pad. “What else can ye tell me about her?”
“Isla had heart problems,” Paislee said. “She took medicine for it—but she was so careful about her health. We saw her prescription on the table. I hope . . . Will you tell me what ye find out?”
Detective Inspector Zeffer didn’t move from his position before Isla’s door. “I’ll be in touch.”
The ambulance arrived, sirens blaring and lights flashing.
“Can we go?” She no longer felt like eating. Or going back to her wonderful shop. She yearned to be at the beach with her toes in the sand and the wind in her face to dry her tears. Not gonna happen. Chin up.
“Aye.” He kept the skein of yarn in his hand and poised his pen over the open page of his notebook. “What is the best number tae reach you at?”
“My mobile.” She gave him the information and he gave her his business card. She and Grandpa got into the Juke. Tears burned her eyes.
In a gruff tone her grandpa said, “I’m sairy for yer loss, Paislee.”
She sniffed and rummaged in her purse for a tissue, dabbing at her nose and cheeks. “Thank you. She was just so young . . . it doesnae make sense.”
“Death?”
“Her death.”
“It’s never easy.”
She wondered if he was thinking of his son, Craigh, missing.
Wiping her eyes, she started the car and backed out, avoiding the emergency personnel casually removing a stretcher from the back of the ambulance.
Her gaze moved from Isla’s open door to Gerald’s flat. He was peeking out the window at them. He hadn’t seemed the least bit upset by his neighbor’s death—then again, he’d been surprised to see her, Grandpa, and the detective, saying that he was returning the yarn Baxter had taken from Isla’s. There had been an extra mug in Isla’s sink. Had it been Gerald’s? Was that what he’d been lying about?
The space inside had been tidy, which made her wonder what was in those boxes by the leather sofa. The girl probably hadn’t had the chance to unpack, and here Paislee was, butting her nose in. She shook her head. “A strong cuppa tea is in order.”
“With whisky,” Grandpa Angus said.
“That’s just what I need, tae pick up Brody from school smelling like Glenlivet fumes. I’d be the one sent tae the office, maybe jail, and I don’t think the detective wants tae lay eyes on us again today.”
He adjusted his tam and settled back in the cloth seat, his trench coat unbuttoned. “Then what’s yer plan?”
“I dinnae have anything scheduled for the afternoon. Let’s go home and get Granny’s room sorted so you have a place tae sleep.”
“Just for a few days,” he insisted, glaring out the passenger window as she left the harbor.
They both knew that was wishful thinking.
Chapter 5
By three fifteen, Paislee had stacked enough of Granny’s things to the side for Grandpa to reach the bed. Gran had been a high school English teacher in Nairn for thirty years and most of the boxes were books. Paislee gave him the vacuum, clean sheets, and a comforter. “I willnae be gone long,” she told him. Her black Scottish terrier growled at the old man. Wallace had been a gift to Brody after Granny had died, and the pup didn’t let Grandpa out of his sight.
“This is only temporary,” groused the old man.
Raising her palm to keep the peace, she didn’t argue or bother saying good-bye. She climbed into the Juke and called her best friend, Lydia, on the way to Brody’s school. “Lydia!” The skies had changed from the blue earlier to gray and stormy, which was somehow appropriate.
“Paislee—what’s up?”
Her dearest friend was the best estate agent in all of the Highlands. If anybody could help her find a new space, it would be Lydia. She sniffed back tears, her throat thick and scratchy. She rarely cried, but Isla’s death was tragic.
“What’s wrong, love?”
She found a tissue in the console and dabbed her nose. “Isla’s dead, I got an eviction notice, and my long-lost grandfather was dumped off at my shop after being picked up for sleeping in the park.”
Lydia started laughing. “Ye have tae be kidding.”
“I’m not.” She tossed the tissue to the empty cupholder.
“Wait—your Isla?”
“Aye. I told you she’d emailed me about wanting her job back?” Tension bit behind her eyes.
“She was supposed tae be there today, I thought.”
“She didnae show . . . so, I went tae her flat . . . and found her . . . dead.Well, me and Grandpa Angus.” She tightened her grip on the steering wheel.
The call went silent. “Sairy for laughing. I cannae believe it. What will ye do?”
“About which part?”
“Ah, Paislee,” Lydia said. “Only you.”
She supposed her grandfather was the most immediate need. “Grandpa showed up at the shop this morning, e
scorted by a new detective in Nairn. Busted for snoozing on a park bench. His plan was tae buy a tent and camp. Can ye believe it? Completely mental.”
She heard a swift intake of air and then, “Paislee Ann Shaw, do not tell me that ye’ve invited him tae live with you? You dinnae know him! What if he murders ye in yer bed?”
“Where else is he supposed tae go?” She slowed to round a traffic circle near the primary school. Because Fordythe was in a family neighborhood, controlling speeders mattered more than the annoyance, or so she reminded herself on a daily basis.
“Yer granny didnae care for the man,” Lydia reminded her.
As if Paislee didn’t know that? Her nerves shot up into a raging headache. “I don’t think he’s dangerous. Cantankerous, aye.”
She neared the school and the queue of cars waiting to enter Fordythe. She was the last of the line, but at least she wasn’t late.
“I dinnae think it’s a good idea.”
“She also preached compassion, Lyd.” Paislee opened her purse to search for ibuprofen, but there was none. “Aren’t I living proof ?”
Lydia clicked her tongue, which sounded like nails on a computer keyboard. “But moving in? Let me poke around and see what I can find.... Where are old people supposed tae go? My grands are passed already, so I dinnae ken.”
Paislee inched forward in the line of cars. “Dinnae forget, that’s not my only problem. I need you tae find Cashmere Crush a new home—something in as good of a location as Market Street, and at a better than cheap price.”
Lydia groaned. “I’d rather take on Social Services. You know ye got a good deal on that old place. What happened?”
“Shawn Marcus sold it right out from under us.”
“Too bad—that probably voids the lease.”
“That’s what he said, the spray-tanned prig.”
Brody waited on the curb as she pulled forward. “I have tae go, Lyd. Call me tomorrow if you find anything?”
She wasn’t looking forward to telling Brody about Isla, or their new “temporary” roommate.
“Love ya!” Lydia said before ending the call.
Brody climbed in the front passenger side of their SUV with a hangdog expression that could give Wallace a run for his whiskers. “Hey, Mum.”
She pulled out of the queue and onto the street. “How was school?”