Competition Can Be Murder (2 page)

I threw my legs over the edge of the bed, instinctively watching for the dog I was accustomed to seeing asleep on the floor beside me. Unfortunately, we couldn’t bring our big red Lab, Rusty, with us. The UK’s laws on quarantining pets that come into the country made it impractical, which was probably the real point of the law anyway, more so than the supposed one of keeping the country rabies-free. Well, it was only for a couple of months that I’d have to do without canine companionship.

After a quick trip to the bathroom and brushing my teeth, I slipped on jeans and a light sweater. A sound outside caught my attention and I went to the window and peered down. From our second-floor bedroom I couldn’t see the source so I padded down the stairs in my socks and pulled aside the drape covering the sliding glass door in the living room. The noise had elevated and I picked out two male voices in a heated exchange, although I couldn’t make out the words. No one was visible here, on the south side of the cottage, so I went into the kitchen.

From the small window over the sink I could see a young man stalking toward our driveway, two border collies trotting along at his heels. His back was to me and I could only see that he had reddish-blond hair and wore khaki work pants, heavy boots, and a plaid shirt. He carried a long shepherd’s crook. The two black and white dogs stayed right with him and I was suddenly overcome with the need to pat a friendly doggy head. I sidestepped quickly to the front door and went out, belatedly realizing that I didn’t have shoes on and that it was raining a steady, light drizzle.

The man looked my way as I closed the door behind me, somewhat louder than necessary.

“Hi,” I ventured.

The golden brows, which had been pulled tightly together over an upturned nose, relaxed somewhat and his expression became a tad less surly.

“I’m Charlie Parker,” I said, putting more perkiness than necessary into my voice. “We’re renting the cottage here for a couple of months.”

He was gentleman enough not to ignore the hand I extended to him. “Ian Brodie,” he replied as he stepped forward.

“Are you a neighbor?”

“Near enough.” His head tilted toward the long drive that led to our cottage.

“Beautiful dogs,” I commented. “I really miss ours.” I leaned forward and the two collies came immediately to sniff my hands. I ruffled their ears and patted both heads at once.

Ian softened considerably now that I’d gotten down on one knee and was letting the dogs lick my face. “Aye, I can see that ye do.”

“We’re just here for the rest of the summer,” I said. “Not long enough to try to bring him with us.” I told him about Rusty and his friendly manner.

“These are working dogs,” he said. “We run sheep.”

“Nearby?”

“Here on the property. We rent from the Dunbars, too.” Something hardened in his face but I had no clue what caused it.

Our landlords were, I guess in the most literal sense, land lords. The family Dunbar went back just about to the dawn of time, and the thousands of acres where we now resided contained a few rental cottages, plenty of farm land, and one real, authentic castle. I could see its turrets from our upper windows, but had caught only the merest glimpse of the whole structure the day we arrived to pick up our keys from the estate manager’s office.

I told Ian briefly what we were doing here and suggested that he drop by anytime, and bring the dogs.

“Well, my wife and I are around a lot. You can always find a friendly dog or two with us. Our place is the second turn after the bend in the road.”

“I thought I heard voices a minute ago,” I mentioned.

Ian stared pointedly at my feet, which were clad in thoroughly soggy socks now, and shrugged. “Was nothin’.” He turned and gave a sharp whistle to the dogs, who immediately snapped to attention.

I stood slowly and watched the three of them follow the drive toward the road. Something had sure touched a nerve.

The phone was ringing when I opened the front door. My socks made squishy noises as my feet hit the tile in the entryway. I reached to peel them off, trying to hop toward the kitchen phone, and nearly landed on my face in the effort. It took about three giant stumbling steps to recover and reach the telephone. I managed a breathless, “Hello?” as I slid the last two feet and knocked one knee into the refrigerator. “Shit!”

“Excuse me?” a cultured female voice answered.

“Oh, I am so sorry,” I breathed. “I was outside.”

“In this weather? No wonder.” She paused a long few seconds. “Is that Charlie Parker, then?”

“Yes, yes it is,” I stuttered, wondering who on earth had our number here. Meggie was the only female I’d spoken to, and this voice was a few decades older than hers.

“Yes, Charlie. It’s Sarah Dunbar, up at Dunworthy.”

“Oh.” Brilliant, Charlie. What a charming answer to the lady of the castle. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Dunbar. I didn’t mean to be rude.”

“Oh, nonsense, girl. The weather’s a fright today. I should give you a minute to towel off. Would you like me to phone back later? And, please, it’s Sarah.”

“No . . . Sarah, this is fine. No need to make another call. I’m doing just fine.” I was, in fact, toweling off as we spoke, rubbing a kitchen hand towel vainly over my hair in an effort to keep the water from dripping into my eyes. Why hadn’t I noticed how wet I was getting while I petted the dogs?

“Actually, I just phoned to see if you and your husband might be free this afternoon for tea? Say around four?”

Tea with the gentry? I wondered if she extended this invitation to every renter on the castle grounds? “Four would be lovely,” I said, picking up on the few manners I’d once possessed. “I’m not sure what time to expect Drake in, though . . .”

“Well, then, you come—with or without him. I’m looking forward to meeting you.”

I replaced the receiver softly and caught a glimpse of myself in the reflection of the microwave oven’s small door. Shoulder length hair hanging in damp strands, bangs pasted to my forehead, no makeup. And my dripping socks had now made sizeable puddles on the tile floor. Yes—I’m going to tea at the castle. I couldn’t help it, I broke up laughing.

I peeled off the socks and squeezed them out over the kitchen sink. Thirty minutes later I’d changed clothes and dried my hair, toasted an English muffin, and switched on the electric fire in the fireplace. It glowed orangely through its fake logs and emitted a surprising amount of warmth. Stretched out in a hugely padded armchair with feet on a matching ottoman, I nibbled my muffin and contemplated my plans for the day. Buying an umbrella or two should definitely be part of the plan, I decided. I’d known, leaving New Mexico, that we would need them but since we didn’t own any, the purchase had been put off.

The keys to our rented Vector hung on a hook by the door. Drake had been driving Brian’s company vehicle and I’d been watching the way he handled the right-hand drive and getting a feel for the art of driving on the “wrong” side of the road. I thought I could handle it, at least for the short ride into the nearby village where I’d spotted a tiny general store, one gas pump, and the offices of the Royal Mail. Tackling the bigger town of Inverness, where they had traffic lights and everything, would have to wait.

The rain abated during the time I’d eaten my breakfast and tidied the kitchen so I donned boots and pulled a light jacket from the hall closet. The air felt cool and pleasantly damp as I walked the short distance down the cottage’s flagstone path to the grassy area beside a stone wall where we’d been directed to park the cars. From habit I walked to the left side of the car and almost sat in the passenger seat before I caught myself and circled back to slip in behind the wheel. Luckily, no one had seen me; I felt like such a tourist.

I took a few minutes to familiarize myself with the controls—gearshift on the left, pedals the same way I was used to, locating the wiper switch and turn signals. Finally, I felt ready to tackle the driveway.

The three miles into the village went uneventfully and I began to get the feel for thinking in drive-on-the-left mode. I pulled into a small dirt parking area beside the one all-purpose building. Inside, the small store was a combination gift shop and general store. Touristy items like mugs, scarves, and ceramic models of Nessie filled the gift shop portion, while the rest of the store clearly catered to locals. Bins of staple food items like potatoes, onions, and other vegetables stood along the wall near the cash register. Three short aisles carried a surprisingly complete selection of groceries, while high shelves along the walls were filled with household items ranging from extension cords to toasters to lamp shades. A portly woodstove in the center of the room told me that this was a year-round operation, frequented by local residents, and not merely a seasonal tourist shop.

I browsed the shelves, getting a feel for the stock, and tried hard to resist the smell of the freshly baked bread being set out on the counter by a plump lady in tweed slacks and heather-gray sweater.

The door creaked open while I was involved with deciding between chicken noodle or tomato soup for lunch, the sound of male boots clumping against the wooden floor and the door swinging shut with a solid thump.

“ . . . believe the price we’re given?” one of the male voices muttered.

“Makes ye ill, doesn’t it?” the other said.

“I’m goin’ broke, I’ll tell ye. We don’t get wool prices back up, there’s no point in doin’ this.”

The two sets of boots made their way to the counter, where the clerk apparently pulled bakery goods as they pointed. I heard the rustle of paper and the clink of coins. When I stepped to the end of the aisle and looked that direction, I noticed both men held some kind of puffy pastry in a slip of bakery tissue. The tall, dark haired one dropped a few more coins onto the counter and the woman passed across two paper cups of coffee. The man took a large bite of his pastry and picked up the coffee in his other hand. The shorter man was Ian Brodie, the farmer with the collies I’d met this morning. I took one step back so he wouldn’t see me.

“Aye, this bein’ dictated to by the government—” The dark haired man mumbled an expletive as he stuffed more pastry into his mouth. They had nearly reached the door again.

“Well, I for one ain’t standin’ for it,” Ian agreed. “Somethin’ bad’s gonna—”

His words were cut off as the door thumped shut behind him. I stepped to the window in time to the see the two men approach a dark green Range Rover with a crooked front bumper. Ian brushed powdered sugar from his fingers onto his pant leg before he reached for the door handle. His face was contorted in anger as he said something to the other man, who had climbed into the driver’s seat. The vehicle backed sharply out of its parking spot and turned left onto the road. I glanced toward the woman at the counter, but she seemed busy stacking boxes of shortbread and didn’t indicate that she’d paid the men any attention.

I’d gathered a small basket of grocery items—some cans of soup, fresh fruit and salad makings—and took them to the counter.

“Umbrellas?” I asked.

“Oh, in the gift shop,” the woman told me. “Just pick one up. You can pay for it in here with your other things.”

I spotted a display spinner and pulled two umbrellas from it.

“Guess we didn’t come very well prepared,” I commented to her.

“Staying long?”

“A couple of months. I’m sure I’ll become a regular in here over the next few weeks.”

“Aye, well you’ll need these, then.” She finished totaling my groceries and told me what I owed.

As I was struggling to remember the denominations of the strange-looking coins, she spoke again. “You the couple who’s renting out at Dunworthy? Those pilots?”

Beauty of a small town. You never have to introduce yourself. I grinned at her. “Yes, we’re the ones.”

“Amanda Douglas,” she said. “Think you got some mail here.”

“Mail?” I couldn’t imagine what we’d be receiving so soon.

Amanda stepped through a doorway that led to the third section of the small building, the post office.

“Yeah, here you go,” she announced, bringing a small parcel with her. “Looks like it’s from New Mexico, USA.”

I looked at the return address. The box was from Elsa Higgins, my surrogate grandmother and neighbor who was watching Rusty for us during our stay in Scotland. What on earth could she be sending? Probably some little item I’d forgotten, something she thought I couldn’t live without.

Amanda was watching me with frank curiosity.

“Let’s see what she sent,” I suggested.

A pair of scissors appeared like magic from below the counter and Amanda watched as I opened them and used one blade to slit the tape on the package. Beneath a cushion of crumpled newspaper sat six small cans of Hatch green chile. I couldn’t suppress the laugh that bubbled out of me.

“Whatever . . .?” Amanda was examining one of the cans, her face screwed up in puzzlement.

“It’s hard to explain,” I chuckled. “Guess she knew Drake and I wouldn’t last long without a chile fix.”

She set the can back into the box with the others.

“It’s a Southwestern thing, I guess. Kind of like, if you went to live in the U.S. for awhile and couldn’t find haggis.”

“Ah . . ..” She nodded in complete agreement. “Like that.”