Murder at a Scottish Wedding Read online

  Praise for Traci Hall and her Scottish mysteries!

  MURDER IN A SCOTTISH GARDEN

  “Inquisitive and down-to-earth, Paislee makes a charming sleuth

  in this suspect-packed mystery.”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  “In her second Scottish Shire mystery, Hall capably juggles

  multiple story lines and vividly evokes the Scottish backdrop.”

  —Booklist

  MURDER AT A SCOTTISH SOCIAL

  “Witty characters match the well-crafted plot.... Cozy fans will

  want to see a lot more of the compassionate Paislee.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Our heroine solves her mysteries with aplomb against a delightful

  Scottish background replete with good friends and a loyal dog.”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  Books by Traci Hall

  MURDER IN A SCOTTISH SHIRE

  MURDER IN A SCOTTISH GARDEN

  MURDER AT A SCOTTISH SOCIAL

  MURDER AT A SCOTTISH WEDDING

  And writing as Traci Wilton

  MRS. MORRIS AND THE GHOST

  MRS. MORRIS AND THE WITCH

  MRS. MORRIS AND THE GHOST OF CHRISTMAS PAST

  MRS. MORRIS AND THE SORCERESS

  MRS. MORRIS AND THE VAMPIRE

  MRS. MORRIS AND THE POT OF GOLD

  Published by Kensington Publishing Corp.

  Murder at a Scottish Wedding

  TRACI HALL

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  Praise

  Also by

  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

  Epilogue

  KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  119 West 40th Street

  New York, NY 10018

  Copyright © 2023 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.

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

  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.

  The K and Teapot logo is a trademark of Kensington Publishing Corp.

  ISBN: 978-1-4967-3925-4 (ebook)

  ISBN: 978-1-4967-3924-7

  I’d like to dedicate this book to Christopher Hawke, husband.

  We prepped for our own wedding as I wrote this, which made

  it surreal.

  I love you so much and I’m glad that our beach wedding had

  none of the drama of a murder to solve, but was more of a

  romance, with a happy-ever-after!

  Acknowledgments

  I would like to thank my editor, John Scognamiglio. This series would not exist without him giving me a chance.

  Thank you, Evan Marshall, best agent ever, hands down.

  My mom is my first reader, and a close second is Sheryl McGavin. It takes a team to make a story really shine and I am so grateful to have such dynamic folks around me.

  Thank you to the crew at Kensington, from the cover artist to the copy editor. Thank you, thank you!

  Chapter 1

  A light ratatat sounded on the dressing room door in Old Nairn Kirk, and Paislee peered over her shoulder at her best friend to see if she’d heard it, too. Lydia Barron, fifteen minutes away from walking down the aisle to be Mrs. Corbin Smythe, had started her special day with yoga on the beach. Mimosas. Om. She had focused on the joy of marrying her soul mate, which would make the nightmare of the past twelve months worthwhile.

  All signs of the Zen bride were eradicated as her bonnie bestie shoved tissues and hairpins across the crowded vanity with searing curses. Her muttered oaths were sure to burn the church down around their coiffed ears.

  “Should I answer the do—” Paislee began.

  “Wait!” Lydia lifted her bridal bouquet in the holder, examined the space around it, and returned it with a plonk. The red roses trembled. “I cannae wed Corbin withoot that brooch. Minister Angela placed the box right there.” She pointed a slender arm, the silver gown capped at her shoulders, as fragile as a Victorian heroine. Caramel curls framed her perfectly made-up face. “It has tae be here!”

  Paislee had searched every inch of the room for the dark wooden box containing the pin, but it had vanished like a ghost at dawn.

  Corbin had chosen the Luckenbooth brooch for Lydia as a betrothal gift from the family coffers, and pandemonium had ensued within the Smythe clan. It seemed the double-heart-shaped pin had a history unknown to him and was supposed to bring bad luck if the bride wasn’t the right one for the groom—and Mary, his stepmother, had her doubts that Lydia was on par.

  “We’ll find it. It has tae be here.” Paislee spoke in a calm tone she used to soothe her son, Brody, when he was hurt. She stepped toward the door after a second, more insistent, knock. “Maybe this is news.”

  “If it’s the wedding photographer again, tell him enough already!” Getting hitched hadn’t been an easy road for Lydia but she’d managed most of it with grace. She was only human for the few times she’d cracked under pressure. The orbs of Lydia’s gray eyes grew wild. “I shoulda eloped with Corbin, and the family be damned.”

  Paislee remembered the panicked call she’d gotten a year ago from Lydia when Corbin had asked her to elope. Lydia had tried to break the relationship off completely, but Corbin wouldn’t have it. He loved her—she loved him. They’d told Lydia’s parents, Alistair and Sophie Barron, who’d suggested a wee church wedding so they could celebrate her happy day. Nothing grand necessary, they simply wanted to witness Lydia and Corbin’s joy together.

  Mary Smythe, Corbin’s stepmother, fussed and complained. In the end, it was decided that if Corbin was determined to marry a divorcee, then he would, by God, do it right. They insisted on their family church, Old Nairn Kirk. The historic building had a tall Gothic spire and room for two hundred. The Smythe clan packed the pews.

  “It’s almost over,” Paislee said, her fingers on the doorknob. “What’s the worst that can happen now?” She regretted the question immediately.

  Lydia wrung her hands. “Mary dislikes me and uses that brooch tae cause trouble. I’ve heard her spur the girls on. I have tae do this right, and then, and then . . .”

  Paislee hated for confident Lydia to be so overcome. She opened the door a crack to see who it was and then widened it with relief. Lydia’s father, an average-looking man
of fifty-five, smiled worriedly. “Matthew’s askin’ if we’re ready, pet.” Alistair peered into the room.

  Matthew Dalrymple was Corbin’s best man. The other groomsmen were his three brothers. Paislee was Lydia’s matron of honor, and her bridesmaids were Corbin’s stepsisters, Rosebud and Hyacinth, and a Smythe cousin. There’d been a drawing among the many girls and Senta had won.

  “Did ye find the brooch, Da?”

  “Not yet, love. The lasses are askin’, discreet as they can.”

  By lasses, he meant bridesmaids. The guests were already seated but none of the wedding party had yet made it to the altar or things would really be awkward. Paislee’s son, Brody, sat with Lydia’s mother, and Paislee’s grandfather, Angus, on the bride’s section.

  Paislee was the only one Lydia had chosen for herself, and she wasn’t budging from her best friend’s side. Alistair, in a tidy kilt of navy blue with black and silver accents, entered the room fully. The silver matched Lydia’s silk gown.

  Alistair often joked that he and Mrs. Barron were plain Janes blessed with a changeling for a daughter, who was all things beautiful and kind. He put his steady hand on Lydia’s lower back. “Think tae where ye saw it last.”

  “Aye. That’s a guid idea—retrace me steps.” Lydia glanced at Paislee and then her dad. “The bridal party was crammed in here getting all dolled up with the makeup artist.”

  There’d been six altogether. Paislee gestured to the vanity. “The minister brought in the box with a handwritten note for Lydia, wishing her luck.”

  “Mary offered tae have the brooch professionally cleaned.” Lydia touched the diamond engagement ring on her finger. The couple was going to exchange platinum bands at the altar. “It’s agony that Corbin is at odds with his family over me. It’s bad enough I’m divorced. I didnae have a title, or family money.” She gave an annoyed snort. “Sairy, Da.”

  “No offense taken here,” Alistair said gruffly. “Ye’ve done quite well for yourself, and your mum and I are that proud.”

  Harlow Becker entered the room. “Ye find it?” The lass was barely twenty and dating the youngest Smythe brother, Drew. Her fine features and bright blue eyes conveyed a delicate prettiness; her family was old railroad money. She’d been welcomed with open arms, unlike Lydia. She was also a friend of Hyacinth’s, who must have enlisted her help in the search.

  “No,” Lydia said, her voice shaking.

  Harlow’s gaze took in the messy vanity top before returning to Lydia. “Matthew wants tae know what the holdup is.”

  “We cannae worry Corbin.” Lydia paced the room, arms crossed.

  “We had tae tell the boys something”—Harlow shrugged—“so Rosebud said you suffered a case of nerves.”

  At that, Lydia raised her chin. “I do not have nerves. I want tae marry Corbin.”

  “So, forget the pin,” Alistair suggested. “It’s not that important.”

  Lydia whirled toward her father. “He willnae want tae marry me, if I didnae have it!”

  “He does, too!” Paislee said. It was his stepmother stirring the pot about bad luck.

  “He wants tae,” Lydia conceded, “but it will be World War III if I didnae have the Luckenbooth pin attached tae the Smythe plaid ribbon in my flowers. During the dress rehearsal, Mary strongly hinted that Corbin should replace the brooch with another, but he didnae, out of principle.”

  Alistair’s expression grew concerned. “Is the brooch expensive? The Luckenbooth I gave your mum was silver. We can buy another.”

  “You’re sweet, Da, but this one is gold, and been in the family for generations. Mary feared I would lose it.” Lydia groaned. “And now look!”

  Harlow snickered—not without sympathy. “Here come Rosebud and Hyacinth,” she said. “They dinnae seem hopeful. Senta either.”

  Alistair stayed in the dressing room as the other bridesmaids filed in. It was a sea of red, blue, and black fabric with Lydia as the silver star of the show. Not white, because it wasn’t her first marriage, and Mary had advised another color . . . for Lydia’s own good. Paislee had never met a more superstitious woman than Corbin’s stepmother.

  Lydia had a silver horseshoe, blue thistle, and a sprig of heather to go along with the Luckenbooth pin. She’d agreed not to wear white and signed a prenup that if Corbin and Lydia divorced within five years, she would forfeit any rights to the Smythe fortune. The brooch would be returned to the family.

  Lydia hadn’t told her parents of the rude treatment, they only wanted for their daughter to be happy, but Paislee knew all the dirty details. Corbin had reminded Lydia often that he’d wanted to elope for a reason. He’d watched the fuss his older brothers had gone through, and that was with brides the family approved.

  “The box was next tae your bouquet,” Senta said. Her ebony hair was in a loose bun, the soft red gown flattering to her slim figure. “With an ivory ribbon. Right, Hyacinth?”

  “Aye. Mum wanted it tae be special, Lydia.” Hyacinth’s light brown brow arched in a superior manner.

  “Neither the box nor the pin is in this room.” Paislee stepped between Lydia and Hyacinth, staring the girl backward toward the door. Rosebud tilted her nose with a sniff. Paislee didn’t understand their antagonism toward Lydia, but she wouldn’t tolerate anything besides rainbows and sunshine until Lydia was wed to her man.

  Lydia smoothed the beads on her designer gown. The unique style, and color, was sure to be copied by other summer brides—if, no, when they got her down the aisle.

  “Let’s ask the wedding coordinator if anything’s been turned in,” Paislee suggested. Perhaps the box had gotten snagged in fabric and flowers when they’d dashed out for photos with Bruce Dundas, the wedding photographer, in the courtyard by a picturesque alder tree.

  “I’ll go!” Harlow said. “People are gettin’ antsy.” She hurried out of the room, slamming the door. A row of holders along the wall with the bridesmaids’ bouquets—blue thistle, red roses, and the Smythe plaid ribbon—shook. Alistair righted one before it fell.

  Paislee’s main duty as matron of honor was to make sure Lydia was all right. She rooted through the makeup kit that Lydia had brought from home for anything resembling the antique Luckenbooth pin. She knew it was gold but had personally only laid eyes on it twice before Mary had asked for it back, to be professionally cleaned. Two hearts entwined. A red stone. Ruby that Corbin had chosen for Lydia because it was her birthstone.

  The wooden box delivered this afternoon had been heavy, so it didn’t make sense for it to be caught up in tulle without noticing. She hated to think someone, like one of Corbin’s stepsisters, might have hidden it to create drama but she also wouldn’t put it past the spoiled girls. Hyacinth was twenty, and Rosebud nineteen. Their mother behaved as if they were related to the king instead of token nobility. Landing Laird Garrison Smythe, Corbin’s dad, had been a feather in her cap and now Mary watched with an eagle eye to ensure her daughters got their fair share.

  “Will this work?” Paislee lifted a colorful butterfly pin she’d found among the lipsticks.

  Lydia crossed the room and held it to the light, then eyed her bouquet. “No. Mary willnae be fooled.”

  “Nobody truly believes ye willnae marry Corbin withoot it, do they, love?” Alistair fiddled nervously with a button on his silver vest. The pouch on the front of his kilt, the sporran, was black leather.

  “Oh, she cannae,” Rosebud said in all seriousness. Her light brown hair had been pulled back in a tight bun, with wisps to fall around her cheeks. “The marriage will be doomed. We didnae want tae tell ye, Lydia, but Mum had her psychic friend cleanse the brooch with sage smoke, then blessed by the minister, tae free it of the curse. I simply cannae believe it’s gone!”

  “It’s a sign from above.” Hyacinth glanced at the ceiling and her long braid shifted to the side.

  Curse! “I’ll tell ye what’s a sign.” Paislee strode toward Rosebud with indignant anger. “Lydia has jumped through every hoop for your family becaus
e of her love for Corbin. That is what matters—not some pin!”

  Rosebud smirked.

  “Here, here,” Alistair echoed. “What hoops, pet?”

  “It’s nothing, Da. Paislee, help me put this butterfly on the ribbon?”

  Paislee knelt before the bouquet, her lightweight thistle-blue dress pooling around her legs, and fixed the pin to the ribbon so that just a hint of the enamel wing showed. “There.”

  “It will have tae do,” Senta said. “I dinnae blame you for ignoring their grumbles, Lydia. You’re marrying up.” She flushed as if she’d just remembered Alistair was still in the room.

  The sisters turned on their cousin. “It’s terrible luck tae not use the blessed brooch,” Rosebud said.

  Hyacinth plucked her red rose and blue thistle bouquet from the holder, then handed Rosebud’s to her, leaving Senta to reach for her own in a silly snub.

  “I dinnae care aboot money or station.” Lydia gritted her teeth. “I love Corbin and pray someday we can laugh aboot this, but right now? I dinnae see it.”

  “Laughter is verra important in a marriage,” Alistair agreed. Paislee read his wariness as he tried to navigate the undercurrents in the dressing room.

  Paislee peeped into the hall to see the wedding coordinator hustling toward them with Harlow at her side. Eliza Wilbur was from the Caribbean and dressed in bright colors. Today’s skirt and blouse were cerulean blue with orange accents.

  “What’s wrong?” Eliza asked as soon as she was inside the dressing room. “Darling Lydia, what can I do? Your groom is waiting for you and sends his love and encouragement. You have the nerves?” She shook her hands as if to show Lydia how to release negative energy.