Murder in a Scottish Shire

by Traci Hall

  Roderick lived in Inverness with his fancy silver car, and the detective had only been checking Nairn’s registered vehicles. Perhaps there was a way to check into whether he’d gotten repairs as of late?

  Didn’t matter. Roderick had tinted windows, and she hadn’t recalled a black grill behind her.

  It had happened so fast, though. She didn’t remember a front plate on the vehicle, either, now that she thought back.

  She pulled the pattern with the measurements for the torso of the man’s sweater from her knitting bag and began to stitch, knit one, purl one, starting from the bottom up. She would attach the sleeves and collar last.

  Isla’s mother would be in town today—at this very flat. Did the two ladies look alike? Was the woman sorry now that she hadn’t been kinder to her daughter?

  Paislee looked up as she heard Brody’s laugh, smiling automatically. He’d had something on the line, but it slipped off and back into the harbor’s waters.

  Grandpa clapped Brody on the shoulder, and helped him attach another bit of bait. Wallace didn’t relax his vigil.

  She returned to her knitting, and musing. Gerald had an alibi that satisfied the detective. Did Detective Inspector Zeffer even consider Roderick a suspect? She was glad she hadn’t sent him the pictures of Roderick. Tabitha and Billy claimed to have alibis for that night, but Isla had died in the morning—

  “Mum!” Brody shouted from the pier.

  She stood right away, her pulse skittering at his yell. Shielding her face, she narrowed her eyes—Brody had caught another fish! Silvery white and the length of her shoe.

  Joy filled her and Paislee raced to the edge of the pier with her phone to snap a few pictures. “Well done!”

  This was a first, and deserved her attention. Wallace barked from behind her, racing around her feet, his tail wagging.

  Grandpa grinned proudly.

  * * *

  Well, Gran? What would you make of this?

  Four skinny size-eight fish later, the Shaw men were ready to eat their sandwiches and crisps. They’d returned to the picnic spot for shade, the fish cleaned and deboned, on ice in a plastic cooler.

  Her son had a blush of color across his pale cheeks and a sprinkle of freckles along his nose.

  “Sunscreen next time,” she said, ruffling his hair.

  He ducked but grinned.

  At four that afternoon, Paislee cleaned up the remains of their sandwiches and trash from their picnic and suggested a movie when they got home to rest before the big fish fry. “Something superhero?” Her son loved humans with superpowers more than magical beasts.

  She looked up as she was folding the plaid blanket and sucked in a breath. A police car had parked at the complex, and an officer was opening the door to Isla’s flat.

  Isla had been an exact replica of her mother and for a minute Paislee’d thought she’d seen a ghost. Blond hair and cute nose, a petite frame.

  The two disappeared inside the apartment.

  Brody and Wallace played fetch with a yellow tennis ball. Grandpa Angus sat on the picnic table watching, too.

  “What’s goin’ on now?” He shoved his tam back on his head.

  “Isla’s mother.They could be twins.” She patted her rapidly beating heart. “Thought it was a ghost.”

  He glanced at her. “Ye want tae have a word?”

  “I would, but I wouldnae.” Tears burned the backs of her eyes. “Does that make sense?”

  Her grandfather shrugged. “Sometimes what we feel doesnae make sense.”

  “Isla didnae have nice things tae say about her—and now Isla’s dead. I wonder if she’s sorry for how she treated her only daughter.”

  “You’ll probably never know that, lass.”

  “Yer right. I just wish that things had turned out differently. Isla had good in her. I know she did.” Her heart ached.

  Minutes later, the front door of the flat opened and Isla’s mother marched out, her arms crossed. The police officer scrambled to lock up behind her.

  They were talking, but Paislee couldn’t hear what was said.

  Isla’s mum flung her arms about as though upset and climbed into the front seat of the patrol car.

  “Nothin’ there she wanted,” Grandpa observed.

  “Including her daughter.”

  Grandpa scratched his beard, his eyes hard. “Some women arenae meant tae be mothers. You are like your gran, and dinnae see it that way, but trust me, lass, not every woman has the maternal gene.”

  Paislee flushed at the compliment of being like her grandmother, the woman she loved most in the world. “You forget about me own mum. She moved off tae America and never calls. After a while, I gave up trying. Last I heard, she has a whole new batch of bairns with her new husband.”

  “Ach. I hadnae realized she’d left and that yer on your own.”

  “I manage well enough,” she said, shoulders tight in defense of any unsolicited advice.

  He chuckled. “I was just going tae say that yer doing a fine job, raising Brody Shaw.”

  “Thanks.”

  “What happened tae the father, if ye don’t mind me askin’?”

  “If you plan on being part of our lives, then you won’t question me on that.”

  Paislee held the old man’s gaze, knowing that she would drop him off at the train station if he decided to rock the boat on that issue. It was a line that nobody could cross.

  “I hear ye,” he said after a full minute. “Doesnae he ask?”

  “He knows that he belongs to me, and only me.”

  She watched as her grandfather thought of many things he wanted to say, but he finally settled on, “I dinnae know ye well, but I trust ye have yer reasons. Guid enough.” He swished his hands together like brushing off dirt from his palms and she knew that would be the end of it.

  She bowed her shoulders briefly before calling, “Brody! Wallace! Time tae go.”

  They arrived home tired but cheerful after their afternoon at the harbor. The ocean was part of her soul and she, Brody, and Wallace often spent their Sunday Fundays on the sand, chasing waves. Now that she knew how to make a kite, maybe they could do that next Sunday. She had in mind one of Mrs. Martin’s more complicated patterns.

  As they neared the house, she noticed Detective Inspector Zeffer’s SUV in the driveway.

  “What could he want?” she asked. Maybe he’d found Isla’s killer?

  Grandpa pulled the rented white car up alongside the navy SUV and parked. Brody and Wallace scrambled from the back seat, the terrier barking. Paislee and Grandpa got out, exchanging a glance, and he took a place beside her, next to the porch stairs, his hands intertwined before him.

  The detective exited, pocketing his keys. It was late afternoon and the sun shone on his russet hair, bare of a hat. “Paislee. I was just about tae leave a note on the door. Can you come tae the funeral home? Mrs. Campbell would like tae meet you.”

  She’d been on the fence about it, but it seemed fate, or the detective, had decided for her. Paislee remained still.

  “Go ahead, lass,” her grandfather urged, handing her the keys to the Sentra.

  “I can drive,” the detective offered, gesturing to his SUV.

  “Naw. I’m fine.” Paislee shook her mind clear. The last thing she wanted was to ride through town in a police vehicle. Tongues would wag, then. “I should change.” She’d dressed for a day at the park in jeans and a lightweight top, her hair in a side braid that had come loose.

  The detective shrugged. “I wouldnae take the time. I called your mobile, but you didnae answer. I volunteered tae ask you, but be warned.The woman is . . . emotional. She’s offended two other officers already.”

  She pulled her phone free and saw that she had a missed call; she’d put it on silent when she’d snuck up on Roderick, and then he’d caught her checking out his car. “I saw her at Isla’s flat. She didnae stay long.” Paislee couldn’t blame the poor woman for being upset—her daughter was dead.

  “Li
sten, Charla Campbell knows what her daughter was doing tae people, and that you were her only real friend.”

  “I’ll go.” The last time she’d been at the funeral home had been for Gran.

  Detective Inspector Zeffer scrubbed at his chin. “I’ll be tae the side tae give you privacy, but just say the word when you’re ready tae leave. I want tae talk tae you afterward.”

  Paislee gave a deep sigh and got into the Sentra, driving the five minutes to the funeral home next to the church. The detective drove behind, slowing to a crawl around the traffic circles. Was he trying to prove his merits as a safe driver? She flipped on the radio, not wanting to think about what had been so difficult that they’d sent the detective to bring her.

  She parked at the funeral parlor. The single-story stone building was wide, with a deep basement where they kept the bodies ready for burial. Three stone steps led up to the front door, painted a subdued gray.

  Detective Inspector Zeffer hesitated with his hand on the knob, as if ready to offer advice or caution, but in the end, he said nothing.

  They entered the dim interior, the low lighting a comfort in sorrowful times. A section of couches was to their left, an empty desk to the right. To her relief, Father Dixon was speaking with Isla’s mum on one of the couches.

  “Hello,” Paislee said.

  The priest rose swiftly and hugged Paislee, saying he would prepare a mass for Isla, who was to be buried in their churchyard. “And this is Charla Campbell,” Father Dixon said. The detective stayed by the empty desk.

  The woman was forty, just, and had smooth skin and Isla’s blue eyes. Hers were hard, and her mouth stern, and Paislee got a glimpse of what Isla would have looked like in twenty years—had she lived.

  Father Dixon introduced Paislee, and gave her hand an extra squeeze before departing in a whir of black on black.

  “Thank ye for coming.” The woman extended her hand, not rising from her place on the soft fabric couch, also in a somber gray. Paislee had sat on that couch herself, crying tears of grief.

  There was no sign of Isla, or a coffin, though that would be in the private viewing room the day of the burial.

  “I’m so sairy for your loss.” Paislee sat opposite her on a matching gray sofa.

  The woman’s face scrunched in anger. “Och, I know all about ye, Ms. Goody-Two-Shoes. Church on Sunday. A swear jar.”

  Paislee gasped and brought her hand to her rapidly beating heart. What exactly had Isla told her mother about her?

  “Son with excellent marks in school. An entr—” Charla searched for the word, couldn’t find it, and said sourly, “Ye own yer own business and aren’t even thirty. Pretty, too.” Charla squinted at Paislee as if searching for flaws.

  Paislee had no idea what to say and folded her hands over her knee to keep her leg from trembling. She felt under attack. “Aye, Isla worked at Cashmere Crush.”

  “I heard, I heard. Isla looked up tae ye, then off she went tae Inverness, and now she’s dead.” Charla dabbed at her nose with a crumpled tissue. “Me poor lass.”

  Paislee’s first thought was to offer a hug of comfort, but Charla’s bristling body was like a porcupine baring poisoned quills. Yet she’d just lost her only child. Paislee softened and patted the woman’s knee. “I cared for her.”

  “She stole from me. From the moment she was born, she stole.”

  Paislee was certain she’d heard wrong. “Sairy?”

  Charla’s garish smile revealed yellowed teeth. “She ruined me.” Tears streaked down her cheeks in black mascara streaks. “I lost my womb for a sickly babe that did nought but scream. When she left home, she had my diamond ring.”

  Paislee relied on her bravado to face the surly woman. What an awful way for Isla to grow up, as if owing for her very breath. “You wanted tae see me?”

  Charla dotted tissue to the corner of her eye, staring down at the thin gray carpet. “I dinnae know where I’m going tae be in the future, and I certainly don’t belong tae no church, so Isla should be at rest here. It’s peaceful; I’ll give ye that.”

  “Nairn is quiet,” Paislee agreed.

  Charla bowed her head, and when she looked up again, her mood had grown even darker. “Isla had nothing at her flat—nice place like that and she didnae have any jewelry, or cash?” She jerked her head toward the detective by the desk. “I think his blokes stole it.”

  Oh. That explained a lot.

  She suddenly understood the gestures Charla had made outside Isla’s apartment and matched them with the words. A bit of greed? An instinct to look out for herself in the bitter world? If she’d accused the police of theft, no wonder they were “offended.”

  Detective Inspector Zeffer had an elephant hide, she’d bet, letting nothing through.

  “I hadnae heard from Isla since she and Billy moved away—only the email she sent, what, maybe two weeks ago, now, that she wanted her job back.” She wiped her hand across her damp forehead. Was it hot in here? No, she just didn’t care for Charla Campbell, or the truth about Isla.

  “You were only one line in the water.” Charla sneered and lost whatever prettiness she’d had, giving Detective Inspector Zeffer a sideways glance. “Billy, getting back with that tramp Tabitha. Aye, I know all aboot it. Me daughter was an emotional mess when Billy caught her in bed with her boss, and left her high and dry. Then Vierra had the gall tae fire my girl? I told her tae charge that bastard or rat him out tae his wife.”

  So that was how Isla had come up with the blackmailing scheme—her own mother. Paislee exchanged a brief look with the detective, who only gave away his thoughts by the muscle jumping at his tight jaw.

  “I ken, that isnae how you would do things, but this isnae aboot you, Ms. Prim and Proper.” Charla smoothed a blond lock of hair behind her ear. Cheap pearl earrings dangled from her lobes.

  The joke of that was enough to make Paislee scoff. She kept her calm somehow and said, “I’m here right now because of Isla. You said ye wanted tae meet me? Well, we’ve met. I’ll be going.”

  Charla sniffed, her eyes brightening. “Arenae you the cool cat? I wonder if Isla had found out secrets about you.”

  Paislee froze.

  Charla waved her hand. “Yer diary would be hardly worth the peek.”

  Her cheeks flamed. Detective Inspector Zeffer pushed himself off the desk and entered the fray. “Mrs. Campbell. You wanted tae invite Paislee tae your daughter’s service, and grant her authority for Isla’s affairs within the church?”

  Charla exhaled, suddenly looking eighty. “Aye.”

  “What authority?” Paislee asked the detective. “She’s passed on.”

  “Just as a contact number, in case Charla cannae be reached,” the detective explained.

  Paislee quickly read between the lines. This woman would disappear in one fashion or the next. Paislee was being asked to take responsibility for Isla in her death. She only wished she’d been able to better protect her in life.

  “I will.” She would visit Isla when she visited Gran, and say a prayer for both their souls.

  The detective nodded, as if he’d known this would be her answer.

  The woman burst into real tears. “Thank ye. Now, leave me with me grief.”

  Detective Inspector Zeffer led Paislee from the funeral home and out again to the parking lot. She wrapped her sweater around her against the chill as the spring sun lowered. They stood by the front end of his Police Scotland SUV.

  “Thanks for coming,” he said. “She insisted on wanting you involved, but after how she treated the other officers I wasnae going tae leave you alone. She’s a viper.”

  Paislee covered a smile with her fingers and then dropped her hand to her cardigan pocket and the keys to her rental. “I’m glad I can be here for Isla in some small way.”

  He wore another blue suit and she wondered if he had a closet full of them in different shades and styles.

  Maybe it was time to update her wardrobe or risk being left in the last decade. “I should
’ve asked when the funeral was. . . .” She eyed the door leading to Charla Campbell but couldn’t bear the idea of going back inside.

  “Father Dixon will know,” he said, as if reading her mind.

  “I’ll call tomorrow.”

  “Will you be awright driving home?” He rested his hip against the SUV. “You look knackered.”

  “Och, thanks.” She swallowed and rubbed her throat, grateful to have gone all day without the soft brace. “Have ye had a day off since you’ve moved here?”

  “No. I’ll take one after Isla’s murderer is found.”

  She nodded, appreciating his work ethic if not his manner. “What did you want tae talk with me about?”

  “How’d you know that Isla was murdered?”

  She would not give up Amelia. “You told me when you brought in the yarn from Isla’s flat.”

  His pale green eyes narrowed and made her think of sea glass tumbled onto the surf. Full of mystery. “We have a leak in the department.”

  “How can I help with that?” She shifted toward the church next to the funeral parlor. “I thought maybe you’d want tae discuss Billy, or Gerald.”

  “Gerald called in, right before I pulled up tae your house, accusing you of harassment.” He held up a hand. “But refused tae actually fill out paperwork.”

  She rolled her shoulders, wanting her couch and a cup of tea. “I promise not tae bother him again.”

  “What were you doing there?”

  “I was actually across the street at the pier with my family. Grandpa is teaching Brody tae fish.” She shrugged. “I saw Roderick taking boxes out of Isla’s flat, and thought tae capture him in the act of stealing.”

  The detective slapped his hand to his thigh. “You didnae.”

  “Aye. He informed me that he owned the place.” But she’d gotten a look at the front of his Audi.

  “What were you going tae do?”

  “I was taking pictures tae send tae you, for proof that he was breaking the law.”

  They stared at each other and his mouth lifted the tiniest bit, but he didn’t smile. Since she’d already made a fool of herself, she didn’t bother sharing what she’d learned about Billy getting sick off bad cod at the pub.