Murder in a Scottish Shire Read online

  Murder in a Scottish Shire

  TRACI HALL

  KENSINGTON BOOKS

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, or events, is entirely coincidental.

  KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  119 West 40th Street

  New York, NY 10018

  Copyright © 2020 by Traci Hall

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.

  Kensington and the K logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.

  ISBN-13: 978-1-4967-2600-1 (ebook)

  ISBN-10: 1-4967-2600-6 (ebook)

  ISBN: 978-1-4967-2599-8

  First Kensington Trade Paperback Printing: July 2020

  To Christopher, for climbing the mountain with me.

  And to Judi, Brighton, Destini, and Kennedi—can’t say enough how much I love my family.

  Acknowledgments

  Thank you to the McGavin family for acting out the ending of the original version to show me a better way. I wish I could have been a fly on the wall. You’re lucky the neighbors didn’t call the cops.

  Thank you to Allan Thornton for all of your incredible assistance in adding local authenticity. Any mistakes are my own! Your generosity and time allowed this book to flourish.

  Thank you also to my editor, John Scognamiglio, for this opportunity to tell my stories. And always to Evan Marshall, who transformed my career.

  Chapter 1

  Nairn, Scotland

  United Kingdom

  Paislee Shaw eyed the clock above the cooker as if Father Time were her mortal enemy. Half past eight already? She whirled to her son, just finishing breakfast at the round kitchen table, and caught him sneaking bits of sausage to the dog.

  “Brody, if ye give Wallace one more bite it’ll be oatmeal tomorrow!”

  Their black Scottish terrier lowered his ears even as he licked his whiskers and plopped down on the braided rag rug beneath Brody’s chair.

  “Mum!”

  Paislee wiped her hands on a cotton dishcloth and glared at her ten-year-old. “Tell me why I should take the time to make a special breakfast, then? Ye could have had a bowl of cereal and we’d both be happy.” And not running late. Her own fault, because she couldn’t leave the dishes until later like a sane single mother, short on time and long on responsibilities.

  “Sairy,” Brody mumbled, dark auburn hair falling over a pale forehead. He was growing again, all teeth and gangly limbs as he propped bony elbows on the worn-smooth wooden surface.

  If Paislee knew one thing, it was that her son detested oatmeal. She’d added brown sugar, sweet cream, orange currants—nothing swayed him. Most mornings they had Weetabix and blueberries, but since it was Monday and neither wanted their Sunday to be over, she’d made eggs, Lorne sausage, and toast. And the minute she wasn’t paying attention, the little imp fed Wallace on the sly.

  Brody brought his empty plate to the sink, and she brushed off the crumbs, then dunked it in the soapy water. Modern appliances were what she dreamed about at night—there was nothing that sent her to a sweeter sleep than imagining a stainless-steel dishwasher and matching refrigerator. She rinsed the dish in the white double sink and put it in the dish rack on the laminated counter.

  “Quick! Go brush your teeth and get your books for school. We have tae stop at the shop before I drop ye off.”

  She didn’t wait to hear an argument as he stomped toward the downstairs bathroom but climbed the stairs to her bedroom for her cardigan. The third and fifth steps creaked, but such things were to be expected in a one-hundred-year-old house.

  Two bedrooms upstairs, and a bathroom, for her and Brody. Gran’s suite of two rooms, mostly storage since Gran had died, a kitchen, living room, and covered back porch that led to a long and narrow garden for Wallace to chase squirrels.

  The old sweet chestnut and wild cherry trees provided nuts and berries for birds and squirrels alike—sometimes leaving enough for her to make jam. She told herself that if things got too tight, she could clean the bottom bedroom and rent it out during the three summer months when tourism in Nairn was at its peak.

  Grabbing the sweater off the back of her dressing room chair, Paislee dared a peek into the mirror. She groaned, glanced at her watch, and knew she didn’t have time for more than a slash of lip gloss. “Pale as moonlight,” her da used to tease; her face had nary a freckle to add color. Sky-blue eyes with auburn lashes and auburn hair that was so thin she was happiest with it up in a messy bun for the illusion of body. She applied the gloss as she ran down the stairs, pocketing the tube.

  “Ready, Brody?” Her yarn order was supposed to arrive at nine on the dot and she’d promised to unlock the back door for Jerry, in case he arrived while she was dropping her son off at school. Even in heavy traffic, the two miles round trip should be no more than ten minutes. She hoped Isla, a very part-time rehire, could start right away and mornings wouldn’t be such a chore. They had an interview today at nine thirty.

  Miracle of all miracles, her son had his jacket and runners on and was waiting by the door. “Have yer lunch?”

  He smacked his forehead and ran to the kitchen for his cheese sandwich.

  She expected a full morning of crafters at Cashmere Crush and had promised to help Mary Beth with the fancy soft pink hem around her blanket whose wool Paislee’d special ordered from Jerry. A christening gift for a wee baby girl. Aye, babies were adorable, but she was glad that her son was now able to brush his own hair, usually. Reaching for his head, she smoothed a defiant lock.

  “I know, I know, ye cannae take one more thing.” Brody stuck out his lower lip and shrugged away from her touch.

  She hated getting her own words tossed back at her. “Bein’ smart, are we?”

  He grinned and she ushered him out the door and into the faded silver Nissan Juke. A carport protected her eight-year-old vehicle from the elements—usually rain, and lots of it, though compared to the rest of Scotland, Nairn had the driest weather with the most sunshine, something the Earl of Cawdor had been using in his slogans to repopulate the town and create prosperity for all.
r />   They drove the mile to Cashmere Crush, her specialty sweaters and yarn shop on Market Street—hers was on the end of a long row of single-story brick businesses the length of a block. Market Street was a main thoroughfare in front, and the road was separated from the shops by a narrow, uneven sidewalk.

  Seaside scents and gulls’ caws rode the winds from the marina. In the back was a proper alley big enough for the delivery trucks, and across Market a row of two-story businesses in old stone. Behind the alley, she was back-to-back with a string of restaurants.

  Her favorite restaurant across the alley was the Chinese one because she liked the fortune cookies. She and her granny used to make up funny fortunes that had them in stitches, and now she and Brody carried on the tradition—the sillier the better, like, the fortune you seek is another cookie.

  “Brody, how do ye feel about chicken lo mein tonight for supper?”

  “Aye! And orange beef?”

  She nodded, her taste buds watering as she justified the expense with a full day ahead at the shop, which meant money in the register. Making a left on Hammond, she thought back to when she’d moved in with her granny, grateful for her insistence that Paislee could make it as a very young single parent—the belief that she owed nobody an explanation and had to hold her head high.

  After her da had died, before her graduation from S6 at the age of seventeen—back when she’d still considered going to university—her mum had gone mental and married an American within the year just to get as far away from her grief as possible.

  Paislee, grieving herself, had given up on ideas of college and moved in with her granny, who’d taught her to knit sweaters, sharing family patterns with pride. Somehow, ten years later, Paislee had managed to keep her and Brody fed—not smoked salmon or Aberdeen Angus, but they didn’t starve.

  She’d been raised on stories of a big family, with aunts and uncles and cousins, but she’d grown up an only child and after her da’s death and her mum’s desertion—who fled the country, for mercy’s sake?—Granny had taken her in without judgment, showing unconditional love as Paislee was forced to navigate adulthood.

  With a sniff of sorrow for her granny, Paislee parked her Juke behind Cashmere Crush to unlock the back door for Jerry’s delivery of local yarn, specifically, the light pink for Mary Beth’s blanket. “I’ll be right back,” she said to Brody, who ignored her and jumped out of the passenger side.

  “Ye always say so, but . . .” Brody followed behind her, his sneakers scuffing the rough pavement. “Somethin’ happens. I can’t be late again. Mrs. Martin doesnae like it.”

  “I’ll hurry.” After receiving Isla’s email last Sunday asking for her job back, Paislee had crunched numbers. Things were tight, but she could just manage fifteen hours a week and prayed that Isla would accept, because tourist season started at the end of April.

  They entered through the back door of the shop, and Paislee flipped up the light switch just inside the storage area. The bulb above flickered, flared, and then fizzled. Did she even have a spare?

  Brody giggled nervously in the dim interior. The store was a long rectangular shape less than eight hundred square feet and any natural morning light was blocked by the buildings across Market.

  She carefully maneuvered around the crates, armchair, oval table, and small television she’d set up for Brody when he had to be at work with her to the switch for the overhead lights but then stopped, her gaze drawn to the shadowy entrance. Her heart hammered in her chest and she reached for Brody as she made out two silhouettes peering through the frosted glass of her front window.

  “What?” he said, sliding free to walk around her to the register where she kept a jar of candy.

  “Stop—they’ll see you.”

  He froze like a squirrel targeted by Wallace in the garden. “We don’t have time tae open, Mum.”

  “I know!” But she hated to turn away business. Too late—they’d been spotted. A light tap sounded against the frosted pane.

  And now she didn’t feel comfortable leaving the back door open for Jerry, either.What if the strangers decided to find another way in?

  Two of her ladies were due in this morning and they sometimes came early for tea and a blether. Could this be them? Not with those shoulders—not even Mary Beth at two hundred pounds.

  Torn, Paislee slowly stepped to the door. Maybe if she explained that they didn’t open until half past nine, the two would come back . . . but she had a wild feeling in the pit of her belly that warned against a warm welcome.

  Granny’s gift of premonitions hadn’t been handed down with the knack for knitting—this was something else. Fight or flight. She rubbed the goose bumps on her nape.

  One shadow straightened and, moving to the door, pounded a heavy fist. The brass knob shook.

  “Open up!” a man called.

  “Mum.” Brody was suddenly at her side. “I don’t think that’s Jerry.”

  “No. He’d use the back door.”

  “Mibbe we should wait for him?”

  Was she transferring her anxiety to her child? Get ahold of yourself, Paislee Shaw. With a heft of her chin, she smiled confidently. “I’m sure it’s nothing.”

  Another firm knock sounded.

  Taking a deep breath, she pulled the bolt and opened the door. A square-jawed gentleman with cool green eyes, shiny black shoes, and a Police Scotland rain jacket stood on the threshold next to an older man, seventy-ish, in a long tweed trench coat and with a dark green Tam-o’-shanter on his head.

  The older man had dark glasses, a silver beard, and a brown suitcase.

  Her breath caught. The last time a police officer had been at her door her da had died in a boating accident.

  Brody stuck to her hip like a burr.

  The officer smiled down at her son, then looked at her with mild reproof, as if reminding her of her manners. “May we come in?”

  “Aye, of course.” She widened the door and then sucked at her teeth as she studied the older man.

  It couldn’t be.

  “I’m Detective Inspector Mack Zeffer,” the officer said. “I found this gentleman down at the park, sleeping on a bench. He says ye’re his only family.” He escorted the man in by the elbow.

  “Grandpa Angus?” She’d seen him at Granny’s funeral five years ago. He lived with his son in Dairlee . . . or so she’d thought.

  “You recognize him, lass?” The officer’s tone held more than a hint of relief.

  “Aye.”

  “Yer my grandpa?” Brody asked with a welcoming smile. Were they that starved for family that Brody had no reservations? The man hadn’t bothered to come around for years.

  “Great-grandfather,” he corrected. The words were sharp and Brody lost his exuberance.

  She pulled her son back to her side.

  The clock tower chimed from the center of town, and she bowed her head as Brody pulled her cardigan. Nine on the dot. They were late. Again. “I have to go. . . .”

  “All right, then, I’ll leave ye tae it,” the detective said as he headed for the door.

  Grandpa Angus stayed put. “Wait—what do you mean?” Panic rose.

  Detective Inspector Zeffer halted by a chest-high worktable stacked with pattern books and looked from the suitcase at her grandfather’s feet to Paislee. Zeffer’s russet hair, groomed into place, didn’t budge. “You are his only kin. He cannae go on sleeping in the park.”

  Paislee shook her head. “I don’t understand.”

  “I have nowhere else tae go.” Grandpa Shaw crossed his arms as if she were being purposefully dense.

  A knock sounded on the back door and Jerry marched in. “Mornin’, lass. I’ve a wee bit of bad news—the pink yarn isnae ready yet.” Jerry McFadden joined them with a clomp of work boots and the scent of fresh spring air. He stopped at the counter separating the front of the shop from the supplies and nodded with chagrin at the police officer and her grandfather, then Brody. “Sairy—I thought ye’d be alone. Is everything all
right?”

  “Fine,” Paislee said automatically. “When will it be in?”

  Jerry scrubbed his hand along his jaw. “Tomorrow, first thing. The dyeing machine broke, but it’s fixed now.”

  She inhaled, clenched her fingers, and counted to five for patience. Mary Beth needed the pink yarn to finish the christening blanket—and to be billed. No yarn, no blanket, no money, no lo mein. Losing her temper was not an option. As a single mum, she had to set a proper example.

  The front door swung open with a clatter, and in walked her landlord.

  “Mr. Marcus?” The owner of the building was a man in his mid-fifties who’d rarely made an appearance in the last year due to ill health. She and the others in their brick row had worried aloud what might happen to their prized leases and Paislee was not the only business owner to say prayers of gratitude when Mr. Marcus had miraculously rallied, as evidenced by his brown comb-over and plump cheeks.

  “How’re ye the day?” Glancing at her company, Mr. Marcus cleared his throat and handed her a letter with a green certification stamped on the front. “Ye can open it later, but it is time sensitive.”

  Paislee frowned at the nervous gentleman. His skin wasn’t Scots pale but had an orange tint. A spray tan? Using her thumbnail, she lifted the adhesive and pulled out a sheet of paper on a solicitor’s letterhead.

  She reeled backward as the black type swam before her eyes. Her grandfather steadied her elbow. “What is it, lass?”

  “An eviction notice? But my lease is good for another year!” And she’d hoped to keep renewing until she could buy her own shop.

  “Which is void on point of sale.” Mr. Marcus realized that Paislee was not taking the news well, and backed up, quickly wiping the smile from his face.

  “How long?” Jerry asked in a threatening growl that made the detective look at him with warning.