A Wee Murder in My Shop (A ScotShop Mystery) (4 page)

Pitlochry

I
ate breakfast without him. It didn’t seem fair to subject him to having to watch me eat when he couldn’t touch or taste anything at all. A bit before it was time for the shops to open, I went upstairs, freshened my face, brushed my teeth, and opened the shawl.

“Did ye sleep easily?” He stood right before me, almost blocking the light from the window, but I could catch a glimpse of rose leaves behind him. Through him. His eyes widened when he looked down and saw my jeans, but he didn’t say anything.

“Yes, thank you. I did. And you?”

He ran his fingers through his silky black hair. “I wouldna call it sleep, exactly. Nor wakefulness, neither. I simply was. And wasna at the same time, if ye know what I mean.”

I didn’t, but I thought the concept of what he’d gone through might not be an easy one to explain, rather like some of the concepts he was about to encounter—mass transportation and libraries and world history, just to name a few. So I mumbled a platitude or two and set off briskly down the stairs.

We didn’t say much walking into town, and when we reached the Atholl Road, I found that I’d come a bit too early, so we strolled until the shops opened.

We passed the World War I memorial. A tall column that had the dates
1914
and
1919
carved on it, and the names of all the Pitlochry men who’d died overseas. I’d seen it often but still was moved by the incredible waste of all those young lives.

He paused and looked it over. “What would this be?”

“It’s a war memorial.”

“Ah.” His hand strayed to the hilt of his dirk, even though I could tell it wasn’t a conscious move. He nodded toward the names inscribed around all four sides of the base. “That’s many to have died in a battle.”

“Not just one battle,” I said. “Many. For five long years. They called it the War to End All Wars.” I could hear the capital letters in my tone of voice.

“I dinna think it did, for I know a bit about the way men think, and I canna believe they’ve changed all that much in six hundred years.” He paused to watch a bevy of young women pass by.

No. Men hadn’t changed much in six hundred years.

They parted and moved around him, oblivious to the energy he must have been putting out to prevent their running into him. Or through him, I thought.

By then the shops were open, and we walked up and down the Atholl Road, looking for handmade items, not the usual run-of-the-mill tourist junk that any shopkeeper could order from a catalog. I had a loyal clientele of leaf-peeper bus companies that brought their customers to Hamelin every autumn to see the riotous fall colors. They generally unloaded their tourists right in front of the ScotShop and directed people next door to the Logg Cabin, Karaline’s restaurant, for a meal. Naturally, those people peered in my windows as they walked past and usually returned to browse and buy something after their lunch. Wide-sleeved homespun shirts were a big item with the men, tartan skirts for the women.

Then there were the regular summer residents, most of whom had a house in Hamelin and another farther south, so they could enjoy mild weather year round. They bought mostly gift items for their friends and family. Plaques and postcards, kilt pins and tartan coasters, coffee-table books and clan warrior figurines.

The regular tourists, just passing through for a day or an hour at any season of the year, usually bought a scarf or a tartan tie—I sold a lot of those—but often they’d buy a big-ticket item such as an authentic formal kilt, with kilt hose and matching flashes, a sporran and ghillie brogues, a kilt pin, and they always wanted a
sgian-dubh
, the small knife that is slipped inside the hose. I included a DVD called
How to Put on Your Formal Kilt
with every kilt purchase. No sense having a kilt if you didn’t know how to wear it; those things could be confusing as heck to a beginner.

I glanced sideways. He inspected every passing car, probably listening for a horse whinny. His kilt wasn’t the military kind, with the pleats already sewn down along the top. No. His was real. Nine yards of tartan. That’s where the saying
the whole nine yards
comes from. The fabric had been cut in half and sewn together to make thirteen and a half feet of cloth that he’d have to pleat, lie down on, pull up around him, and belt. Next, he’d stand and arrange the top either around his shoulders or over one of them, securing it with his kilt pin, and finally he would pull up the front corners of the bottom half, tucking them into his belt so they wouldn’t hinder his stride.

And quite a stride he had. At first I’d felt I had to keep up with him, and then I gradually saw that he matched my pace, no matter what it was. If I strolled, he strolled, always within three or four feet of me. If I sped up, so did he. I adjusted the shawl, letting it fall open a bit. The day really was quite mild.

I went back to inspecting his garb, trying to do it surreptitiously, as he absorbed all the sights and sounds. His hose were hand-knit, of course, and the completely utilitarian handle of a
sgian-dubh
showed above the top of his sock. His left leg. He must be left-handed. I mulled that over.

“When ye have finished inspecting me,” he said, and I raised my head to find his eyes twinkling, “would ye explain this to me?” He waved his hand at a confectionary store with stacks of chocolates, boxes of shortbread, and goodies I didn’t even know the names of. Unfortunately, when he gestured, his hand swiped through a nearby man neither of us had noticed. The man stumbled, and I reached out to grab his arm. If he hadn’t weighed about twice what I did, I might have been a help. As it was, we both tumbled to the ground.

Passersby, both Pitlochry denizens and tourists, rushed to help us. By the time the man and I were hauled to our feet, I’d lost sight of my ghost in the frenzy.

“I don’t know what came over me,” the man said, shaking his head and speaking to the crowd. “I don’t normally become dizzy.”

A woman standing at my elbow spoke up. “I’ll just run down the side street and ask Dr. McLeod to come take a look at ye.”

I stepped forward. “I don’t think that’s necessary.” I looked the man straight in the eye, lying for all I was worth. “I’m afraid I stumbled into you. I caught my foot on . . .” I looked down at the perfectly even pavement. “Well, I don’t know what I caught it on, but I certainly hope you’re not injured. I think you cushioned my fall.”

I tried to smile endearingly, but it must not have worked. “Ye look a bit sickly,” the man said. “Perhaps we should call Dr. McLeod for
ye
.”

“No. Thank you. That’s very kind. I’m, uh, I’m fine.” I reached down and rubbed my knee. No blood. My jeans were sturdy. “I think I’ll just mosey along and do a little shopping.”

There was a collective murmur, with words like
elevate
and
careful
popping to the surface, but I nodded my head to each of the people surrounding me. “Thank you for helping me,” I said. “Thank you. Thank you.”

I spotted the ghost nearby, on the edge of the throng, and headed toward him. When I was sure we were far enough away, I said, “You’re going to have to watch when you throw your hand around.”

“Aye.” He crossed his arms in front of his chest. His massive chest, I noticed. Had he always been that brawny, or was I only now beginning to see him for real?

“Let’s head up that way.” I gestured to my right. “There aren’t as many people, and there’s a store I want to visit.”

“Ye didna answer my question about the wee shop back there.” He thrust his chin in the direction we’d come from.

“They sell all different kinds of candy.” When he looked blankly at me, I added, “Sweets? Desserts? Like shortbread?”

His rather grim countenance lightened. “Ah, shortbread. The aulde grannies bake it as often as we have sugar. ’Tis verra dear.”

“Expensive, you mean?”

“Aye, that is what I said.”

I considered heading back down the street just to pick up a box or two, but one look at my ghost convinced me not to. He couldn’t eat it, and I couldn’t possibly enjoy eating it with him watching me.

“Here, look at this.” I stopped in front of a small store I’d been in before, where I usually bought notecards, enough to last me between visits to Scotland. I was old-fashioned about some things, and writing letters—well, notes—was something I enjoyed doing. People were always so surprised when they received something other than junk in their mailbox.

Maybe I could write Mason a poison pen letter. I shuddered.

“Have ye caught a chill? Mayhap we should go inside, out of the breeze.”

“Sorry. No, I was just thinking about writing a letter to somebody.”

“Ah, a letter?” The awe in his voice was palpable. “I saw a letter once. ’Twas to Father Marcus, from Father Godfrey at the Church of All Hallows by the Tower. In London.” I started at the name. I’d toured that church once when I spent a few days in London. It was still in pretty good shape, considering its age. He looked around, almost as if he expected to see the good father sauntering down the street. “Father Marcus let me practice my reading using that letter. ’Twas all about church matters and didna make a great deal of sense to my young mind.”

“Nowadays, letters aren’t quite so weighty,” I said, opening the door.

I nodded to the shopkeeper, who eyed me over her thick glasses. After all, I appeared to be talking to myself. I picked out an assortment of finely crafted notecards with matching envelopes, too good to waste on the likes of Mason Kilmarty, may he rot in hell, but I wasn’t going to think about him.

A Wee Town of My Own

T
he rest of the day went much the same, although I was glad we had no more collisions with live people, and I slept well that night, tired from all the walking. The next day we went back into Pitlochry—this was a buying trip after all—and I couldn’t help but think how much I loved this little town, almost as if I had some deep connection to it. Well, I did. I’d spent lots of time and money here over the past six years.

The first shop I stepped into, one I’d never seen before, was perfect. Beautifully handwoven scarves and shawls abounded, hung from clever wrought iron racks. A young woman with a dark brown braid that hung halfway to her waist stepped forward. She pushed her hair off her shoulder, and said, “Let me know if I can be of any service to ye.”

“She looks like my goddaughter, my niece Lioslaith, my oldest brother’s second child.” Macbeth’s voice was right behind me. “Ask if she’s of the Clan Farquharson.”

I ignored him. “These scarves are beautifully made.” I ran my hand along one with a particularly vivid purple stripe down the middle.

“They’re all natural dyes that I make from plants. The wool comes from sheep in this shire.”

“This is your work? How do you ever find the time to do it and keep the store running as well?”

“Aye, weel, the winters are a bit long.” She smiled. “I dinna mind the weaving for hours at a time. It soothes me like, and I can make enough to last me through the tourist season.”

“I’m looking for a Farquharson tartan.” Macbeth—I hated that name—made a slight harrumph, but didn’t say anything.

“Like your own shawl, ye mean? That’s a fine one. May I touch it?”

“Of course you may.” I extended one corner of it. “Isn’t it soft?”

“Aye,” she said. “Soft indeed.” She ran her hand along the white stripe. “Here’s the weaver’s mark.” She must have seen my confusion. “Many of us put one unexpected line in our favorite pieces. It’s like a signature.” She bent almost as if to smell it, but instead she placed her cheek against the smooth wool. “An old shawl, is it? It feels like it has the years behind it.”

I knew what she meant. While I nodded, she turned and lifted a particular scarf from a stack on a nearby shelf. She held it beside my shawl. “See? This Farquharson is bright and springy and new.” I nodded again. “While yours”—and she smoothed the flat of her hand along the curve of my arm, tracing the pattern of green overlapping stripes—“yours has more weight to it, like someone has cried over it.” She stopped self-consciously. “Laughter, too. That’s in it as weel.”

“Ask her clan,” the ghost urged.

“May I ask what your name is?”

Her smile was sweet, like an early spring dawn. “It’s Leslie Gordon.”

“Gordon,” he sputtered. “She couldna be—not with a chin like that.” I ignored him and smiled encouragingly at Leslie.

“My husband’s a Gordon, but I”—and she held the blue and green tartan under her chin—“was born a Farquharson.”

He gave a grunt, somewhere between satisfaction and vindication.

“That’s lovely,” I said, and a ripple of something—amazement? delight?—ran up my back. I extended my hand. “I’m Peggy Winn,” I said.

Behind me, Macbeth said, “Wynne? I didna know ye were Welsh.” I ignored him. Again.

“Wynne,” Leslie said. “That’s a Welsh name, isn’t it?”

I couldn’t win. I cringed at the unintended pun. “We spell it W-i-n-n. My dad’s family is Welsh,” I explained, “but my mother’s family left here in the seventeen hundreds.”

“Ah, yes,” she said. “The forty-five.”

“What would be a forty-five?”

This was no time for a history lesson. “No,” I said. “They emigrated well before Culloden. Our town was founded in seventeen twenty.”

“What would ye be meaning by
before Culloden
?”

I had no intention of telling him about the slaughter of the clans at Culloden in April of 1746. That was one part of history he did not need to know.

By the time I left the shop, I’d bought five scarves—hopefully with nobody attached to them—and arranged to ship a large quantity of her shawls and scarves to Vermont. By being able to order directly from her, I could keep the price fairly reasonable for my customers, and she’d make more money than if she had sold her scarves through a catalog company. We were both delighted.

A few minutes later I detoured off the Atholl Road to revisit the shop where I’d found my shawl—Peigi’s shawl. I walked past several stone buildings, each behind a low stone wall, looking for the arbor and the dark peach-colored flowers with the cinnamon scent.

When I finally found it, the flowers didn’t smell the way I’d remembered. I walked in and found, to my dismay, a brightly lit showroom of standard tourist fare. Not an ancient plaid anywhere, and no trio of old women, either. This time, the ripple down my spine was definitely not delight.

*   *   *

That night before
bed, I made up my mind. “I have to take the shawl back with me,” I told the ghost, “but I’m going to release you.”

“Release me?” The moon shining in through the window shimmered just behind, and partly through, his head when he cocked it to one side. I never used the Sinclair’s electricity if I could help it. Candles gave such a gentle light, and now it shimmered on the folds of his kilt.

“Yes. Leave you behind. There has to be a way to do it.” He frowned, and I hastily explained. “I’ve thoroughly enjoyed meeting you, but this whole arrangement is a bit, um, unwieldy. I thought if you stayed here, without the shawl, you might be able to . . . to go back . . . to get back, that is, to where you came from.”

He looked around. “But I came from here.”

“I mean, to
when
you came from. You can’t possibly enjoy being so . . . so tied to me.”

There was a glint in his eyes, but he turned away and looked out the window.

“If I can figure out a good way—and it must involve a ritual of some sort—wouldn’t you be happy to go back to your own time?”

“Only if Peigi . . .” His voice died away to a whisper.

I turned to the dresser and lifted the pewter candlestick.

Three years ago I’d read a book about the ancient religions of the world. A lot of it had struck me as nothing but mumbo jumbo, but I had been drawn to something called the Ritual of Letting Go—useful, the book said, when someone was dying a lingering, painful death. That was about the time my twin brother had fallen off the dinosaur skeleton he’d been repairing and broken his back, and I remembered reading the chant and praying I’d never have to use it, but I’d memorized it just in case. He’d survived, even though his legs were useless.

My wee ghostie wasn’t leaving life, really. That was for sure, but in a way he was leaving the shawl, and it was a sort of life to him. Anyway, he must be delighted at the thought of finding Peigi again.

So I lit the yellowed beeswax candle. He was astonished when I used a match. Once we got that straightened out, I sang softly about leaving this world behind, about moving into the place where souls go, about cutting the ties that bind. Halfway through, he sat on the chair and looked at me. Finally, he lowered his head.

“Good-bye,” I said.

“I thank ye.”

I folded the shawl, tucked it in my carry-on, and blew out the candle.

He was gone. And I felt bereft.