Murder in a Scottish Shire

by Traci Hall

  “What does that mean?”

  “I cannae sell them like this.” She got the four she’d put on the shelf and tossed them in the box. “I’ll have tae ask Flora what happened.”

  “I meant, what does fixed mean?”

  “Dyes are set with a fixing agent, in order tae keep their color. While Jerry McFadden uses chemical dyes, Flora uses all-natural ingredients. She fixes them with minerals, copper or tin. But tae achieve colors like this, she’d have tae use chrome.”

  Grandpa leaned back, his elbow near the register. “That’s the poison stuff you were telling me aboot earlier.”

  “Aye.” She brushed loose sage flakes from her hand into the box. “Chrome is more toxic than the rest, but sometimes creates a better sheen. Usually she’s so particular about her product.” It was a good thing Paislee hadn’t sold it after all.

  Paislee took the scissors from her drawer and scraped at the wool with the flat side. Underneath was grayish beige, the same shade as what Baxter the dog had absconded with out of Isla’s flat that morning.

  How had Flora ended up with it?

  “Oh no.” She remembered the detective asking her if she’d bought stolen yarn.

  “Ye have tae speak plainly, lass. I cannae read yer mind.” Grandpa tapped his temple.

  “I have tae see Flora and return this yarn.” Isla had said that she had quality merino wool she would sell at a discount—yarn she’d stolen from Roderick Vierra.

  Had Isla also contacted Flora to buy the yarn? Who knew who else?

  Perhaps Flora was cutting corners because of Donnan’s medical expenses since the stroke.

  “Isnae it ruined? Ye should ask for yer money back.”

  “I’ll talk to her and ask her to make the order again. I think she bought this from Isla’s stolen stash.”

  Grandpa stepped back in surprise. “Ah. You can tell?”

  “This yarn was never treated, and that would change how the dye reacts to each strand.” She hated to be right about this, but she knew her yarn. “I feel bad for her, I really do, but this yarn isnae the place tae cut corners.”

  “Not when your reputation is on the line,” Grandpa agreed. “Want company?”

  “I can handle this, Grandpa. She only lives ten minutes away. I’ll be back shortly.” She clicked her tongue behind her teeth. “I wish she would have talked tae me first!”

  “She probably saw that it was quality wool, as ye say, and thought she was gettin’ a bargain. Nothing wrong with that.”

  She scooped up the yarn and dropped it in the box. “There is if I cannae sell it.”

  Grandpa grunted. “Ye have a point.”

  “Let me check the yellow she brought in that day, too—”

  “Let me help ye.” Grandpa retrieved the ladder and opened it so she could reach the taller shelves.

  “I’ve never had a problem before.” Paislee examined the other six colors she carried of Flora’s yarn—only the sage was flaking. She climbed down the ladder. Maybe the yarn had needed more time to dry?

  “That’s manageable then,” Grandpa said.

  “It had to be the batch she got from Isla.” She recalled all the yarn Flora had sold on Saturday and truly felt awful for the poor woman. There would be complaints.

  “I’ll be back in an hour.” Paislee grabbed her purse and the box, loading it in the back of the Sentra. She missed her Juke, which had more room. She’d get it back sometime this week, if all went well.

  She started the car and texted Lydia about Billy’s death. Her friend called back, but Paislee didn’t answer. She was already on the road and the Sentra’s hands-free hadn’t been set up.

  Paislee, after driving through a few older neighborhoods, reached a more rural area where the houses were on bigger lots and not packed so tightly together. No fences, just open fields of wildflowers between homes.

  Taking a right down a long dirt driveway, she approached Flora and Donnan’s brown bungalow with an attached garage. She’d only been here once, years before Donnan’s stroke, when she’d been invited to see Flora’s yarn-dying operation in her industrial-sized kitchen, where she created her large pots of dyes and mordants.

  There were neighbors on either side—but the lots were large and backed up against a park, making the place relatively private.

  She parked behind Flora’s white Volvo and got out. She suddenly felt like she should have called ahead. It could be between them, and nobody else needed to know—so long as Flora didn’t use the stolen yarn. Did Donnan even know?

  Paislee loaded her purse on top of the box and stepped past the Volvo.

  She recalled the relief on Flora’s face the night Paislee’d handed her the check. There was no shame in that. She’d been flat broke a few times herself.

  Paislee climbed the four wooden steps to the porch, rested the box on her hip, and knocked. Something metal rattled inside the house. Flora peeked out the curtain.

  Paislee waved, shifting the box to the other hip as she admired the flowers in the front garden.

  Her heart froze in her chest.

  There, not ten feet away, below the windshield’s early afternoon glare from the sunshade on Flora’s white Volvo, bright silver with a long eyehole on the driver’s side, was a smashed front bumper. Silver flashed in the white. The Juke’s silver paint?

  Chapter 33

  The door opened and Flora’s welcoming smile faded as she noticed Paislee eyeing the crumpled bumper of her car.

  Paislee took half a step back, but Flora ushered her and the box inside the large living room of the house. Earth-toned furniture was grouped together before a fireplace and framed nature scenes on the walls. Afghans in many colors had been tossed everywhere, providing a homey atmosphere.

  Flora wore an apron over a sleeveless floral tunic top and brown leggings—obviously at work.

  “Am I interrupting?” Apprehension buzzed a warning.

  “Och, arnae we always busy? I’m glad to see ye, lass.” Flora tilted her head toward the box full of sage-green yarn.

  Paislee prayed that her friend would have a good explanation for everything. She wanted to be fair. Flora had given her dried comfrey leaves for the aches—but only after sending her to the hospital. She couldn’t comprehend it.

  “Flora.” Her voice sounded strained and she cleared her throat. “I . . .” She searched the room for a place to set the box down.

  “Anywhere,” Flora said tightly. Her long hair was in a braid, a yellow Scots broom blossom above her ear. “Do ye have a problem with the yarn?”

  Paislee set the box on the sofa, took her purse, and handed a skein to Flora. “I think you didnae add the mordant to this before you dyed it?”

  Flora started to deny it but couldn’t after she saw the flaking strands. “Heavens, Paislee, I’m sairy.” She brought her hand to her forehead. “I’ve been under so much pressure that—I cannae believe it. I’ll fix it, of course. You should have called. You didnae have tae drive out.”

  A commotion sounded from the kitchen, where Flora created her large pots of dyes and mordants. Flora took a step toward the racket but then stopped, contemplating Paislee.

  A gruff voice sounded. Donnan? He shouted something unintelligible.

  “What was that?” Paislee glanced to the kitchen and then to the unlocked front door. Should she make a run for it?

  Flora shook her head, mute as a second noise clamored.

  Paislee’s belly tightened. “He sounds hurt.”

  “He’s fine.” Flora peered at the front door, her brown eyes hard. Instead of checking on Donnan, she stood by Paislee, and squeezed Paislee’s upper arm as if to keep her from going anywhere.

  Another crash echoed.

  “What’s going on?” She shook loose and ran toward the kitchen. Flora darted in front of Paislee.

  “Stay back!” Flora blocked the doorway with her arm. Her eyes were wild; her mouth quivered. Green dye stained the tips of her fingernails. A harsh metallic scent filled the air. S
he remembered that vaguely from when she’d been here before—tin, or copper? And honeysuckle.

  Paislee pushed at the woman, but Flora remained firm.

  “Mind yer own business, lass.”

  Over Flora’s shoulder, she saw the industrial-sized cooker and sink. Two tall iron pots of liquid with wide handles boiled atop the burners. Paislee fought her way past, and the woman grabbed her by the waist, heaving Paislee to the kitchen floor.

  She fell onto her back, her purse sliding out of sight. Flora hovered over her, her face brick red with fury.

  To her left, Donnan groaned, his skin tone yellow and jaundiced. He was tied to a dining room chair, his cheeks sunken. A strip of silver duct tape stuck across his mouth. His eyes flashed with bewilderment.

  Paislee scrambled to her feet, thinking to untie him.

  “Stop!” Flora had retreated to the cooker beside him, where an enormous vat boiled. She partially lifted it, as though she’d pour it over her husband. Her pale arms shook at the weight.

  Paislee froze. “Have ye gone mental?”

  Donnan’s next yell ended on a weeping wail that went directly to Paislee’s heart. He kicked at the leg of his chair, trying to get loose.

  “Chrome mordant!” Flora shouted. “Not one more step.”

  “How could ye do this tae him? He’s helpless!”

  Hysterical, Flora sobbed but didn’t lower the vat. “I’ve been giving him Scots broom since his stroke. And I havenae once missed me Friday night beatin’s, now, have I?”

  “You know we care about ye, Flora—all the ladies at the Knit and Sip.”

  “Doesnae matter if ye do or don’t.” She raised the wet handle slightly. “Isla tricked me into buyin’ that stolen yarn. I thought it’d been already treated at the factory. Then the demon-child figured out that I was dosing Donnan and demanded more money than I’ve seen in years. I couldnae pay!” Her brown eyes narrowed, and her mouth turned down. “She had tae be sent on her way!”

  Sent on her way? Was that how she referred to murder? “You mean the way you tried tae send me on my way, by running me off the road?”

  Donnan stopped crying and looked pleadingly at Paislee.

  Flora sniffed, then clanked the pot down—exchanging it for a silver knife from a butcher’s rack on the counter.

  Paislee stepped back.

  “You were stirring up trouble. Paying a visit to Billy, and Roderick Vierra? I could tell you were getting tae the bottom of things and needed a warning.” For an instant, her expression warmed and Paislee shivered at the madness in Flora’s eyes. “I wasnae trying tae hurt ye none, just send a warning is all.”

  “You sent me tae the hospital. I could have been killed!”

  “Fer that I’m truly sairy.” Flora wiped her runny nose with the back of her hand, the blade close to her face.

  “Flora . . .”

  Flora pointed the blade at her whimpering husband. “This one says he loves me, then gives me his fists? Enough, I say.”

  “Flora!” Paislee stifled a cough as the pots continued to boil, sending wafts of toxic steam into the air. Donnan’s head swung low against his chest, as he lost the fight against the vapors and who knew what else. “He needs help.”

  “Ha! We all need help.” She brought the knife dangerously close to her husband’s neck as Paislee half-stepped forward. “When I saw that Isla took digoxin, I knew that a spot of foxglove in her tea would do the trick. Looked like an overdose—until that detective wasn’t satisfied.”

  Donnan was unconscious and she feared him dead unless she acted fast. “Please, I’m going tae call an ambulance for Donnan.” She scanned the floor for her purse, and saw it by the table leg. “No one has tae know what happened tae him. We’ll say it was an accident.”

  Flora pressed the knife against his throat. “I will see him dead this instant, if ye move another hair’s breadth.”

  Paislee, by the threshold, stayed still but searched the kitchen for a possible way to defend herself and Donnan. A cluster of pots and pans hung on a rack nearby. “Did you also send Billy ‘on his way’?”

  Flora’s eyes glittered with madness and she gave a shrill laugh. “He’s dead? Guid. Can you believe the nerve? With Isla out of the way, he and Tabitha planned on steppin’ in, having me make payment tae them.” She cackled. “Over my dead body, that’s what I told Tabitha. Ye were right not tae trust her, Paislee.”

  Paislee shuffled another half step, and Flora jumped for her—stabbing at her chest. Paislee fell back, grabbing an iron skillet.

  Flora stabbed again.

  The blade sank deep into Paislee’s left shoulder as they struck the floor, Flora’s muscular weight landing on her. The madwoman grinned down at her, twisting the blade as Paislee let the skillet fly. She swung it up with all her might, striking the side of the woman’s head.

  Dazed, Flora collapsed to the side.

  Paislee screamed at the pain shooting through her shoulder.

  Donnan roused, alive, thank heaven, and struggled against his ties. His chair tipped, and he toppled. Something cracked, and she winced, hoping it was wood and not bone.

  A crimson stain gathered from the knife wound at her shoulder. Pain radiated. Coming to, Flora lifted her head, gazing at Paislee like a wild animal. Terrified, Paislee whacked the woman once more, as hard as she could. Flora crumpled, her legs sprawled on the kitchen floor.

  Over the sound of the pots bubbling on the burners, Donnan whimpered. Managing to stand, Paislee withdrew the blade with a torturous gasp. Kneeling, she untied the man.

  She studied him but couldn’t tell whether anything was broken. “Thank ye.” Donnan sobbed, sitting up and glaring daggers at his unconscious wife.

  Paislee propped herself against the wall, grabbing an oven mitt to press firmly against her bleeding wound.

  How awful. Her head swam.

  Donnan had beaten Flora their entire marriage, and she’d slowly poisoned him for it.

  Far off, Paislee heard the welcome sound of sirens getting closer.

  She shouted when she heard the knock, and Detective Inspector Zeffer was first into the kitchen. His perusal of her from head to toe made her feel as if things would be set right. Drawing the medics’ attention to her shoulder, he looked down, and she too noticed the steady trickle of blood catching at the cuff at her wrist.

  Paislee blinked as the room tilted. It was good to be sitting against the wall. The medics administered assistance to Flora and Donnan. Paislee explained her ordeal to the detective. How Flora had been poisoning her husband with Scots broom. Flora had a wide knowledge of herbs and flowers.

  “How’d you know?”

  Zeffer peered down at her, his arms crossed. “Your grandfather said you were headed here when I returned your call. I dialed the shop when you didn’t pick up your mobile. Amelia mentioned she’d told you that Tabitha was in custody.”

  “Tabitha didnae—”

  “I know. During her interview, she told me how she and Billy had planned tae blackmail Flora about Donnan.”

  A medic in green trousers and shirt sterilized and dressed Paislee’s wound with gauze. “This should be stitched,” the medic said. The pain was fierce. Her shirt and jeans were covered with her blood.

  The paramedics lifted Flora’s unconscious body onto a stretcher and wheeled her out of the kitchen, headed for the waiting ambulance outside. Another pressed against Donnan’s arms, legs, and torso, checking for injuries.

  All the while, a crime team took pictures and asked questions.

  Detective Inspector Zeffer oversaw things as he conversed with her. “Tabitha told us Flora had apologized tae them that evening at the pub, the one where you’d mentioned Billy’d gotten sick. She’d bought them a round, agreeing tae meet with them later tae discuss terms. Billy drank the beer, which is why he’s dead. It seems Tabitha prefers stronger spirits, which was a good thing for her.”

  Paislee arched her brow at him—everything else hurt to move.

  “A
ye. I should’ve done more than just called Billy’s mobile.” He crushed the lapel of his blue suit. “Also, Tabitha said Billy gave her the scarf. Isla had left it behind when she’d moved from Billy’s tae Roderick’s flat.”

  Another question answered. Paislee glanced up at him, her bangs sliding back from her forehead. “Flora said that she’d slipped foxglove, which acts like digoxin, into Isla’s tea.”

  He nodded. “I’ll tell the coroner tae look for that with Billy, too.” Detective Inspector Zeffer pointed at the gauze on her shoulder. “I think you should go tae the hospital.”

  “Naw. I’m fine.”

  His mouth thinned. “Why were you here? Did you know that it was Flora? That was a very idiotic thing tae do, if ye did—”

  She cut him off. “Hold up! I’d realized that Flora had bought the stolen yarn from Vierra’s and wanted tae let her make it right. I didnae know she was the one tae run me off the road until I got here and saw her car. I had you looking for silver cars, but I guess white looks silver when you’re half-blind from glare and worried for your life.”

  “Ah.” He bowed his head—was that a smile he was hiding? Medics strapped Donnan to a stretcher. A yellow oxygen mask covered his nose and mouth.

  This situation wasn’t at all amusing. “I had tae hit Flora over the head with a pot. She was going tae kill Donnan.”

  Zeffer scratched the back of his neck. “You’d told me that you saw Flora at Dr. Whyte’s for allergies, but she was actually taking antidepressants that werenae helping. The doctor had warned her that the herbal remedies she was using might interfere with the medication and prevent it from working.”

  “Natural doesn’t mean safe,” Paislee said softly. “It can be deadly.”

  “The doctor was about tae make a call tae Social Services. They hadn’t seen Donnan since his stroke and they were getting worried by Flora’s erratic behavior.”

  “She was abused for many years by Donnan. She just wanted peace.” Paislee reached for her purse by the table leg and retrieved her phone. Sure enough, five missed calls: the detective, Amelia, Grandpa, and two from Lydia.

  “Why didn’t they just get divorced?” the detective asked in all seriousness.