A Wee Murder in My Shop (A ScotShop Mystery) (5 page)

Home to Hamelin

M
rs. Sinclair was such a dear. She always had a full breakfast ready for me, even though my departure was so early in the morning. I would be exhausted by the time I reached Hamelin, but this trip, what with finding Leslie Farquharson Gordon and her magnificent handwoven pieces, had been particularly rewarding. Ultimately, it would turn out to be highly profitable for both of us. I was sure of that.

Then there was the shawl.

Mrs. Sinclair placed a well-laden plate in front of me and admonished me to “Eat hearty. Ye’re as light as duck down.”

I did as she said, knowing that the airplane food would leave a great deal to be desired.

With a big dose of regret that my visit was over so soon, I ate the last bites of my sausage, downed my tea, and wiped my mouth. “Absolutely lovely, Mrs. Sinclair. I cannot thank you enough.”

I’d paid my bill the night before. I liked my last morning, short as it was, to flow smoothly without interruption.

Instead of clearing the table as was her wont, though, Mrs. Sinclair sat down across from me. “Will ye be careful, dearie?”

“Oh, the trip is nothing. I’ve done it so many times, I think I could change planes with my eyes closed.” I smiled at her sweet concern.

“That is no what I’m talking of, as ye well know.” She took hold of my hand across the narrow table and turned it palm up. “At least your life line is long.” She traced a line that ran from between my thumb and forefinger and wound around the fleshy base of my thumb and onto my wrist.

I opened my mouth, but she forestalled any comment by pointing to what I can only describe as a starburst of lines that radiated out from my life line a third of the way along it. I’d never noticed it before.

She laid my hand carefully on the table, as if afraid it might break. “In all the years I’ve read palms, yours is only the second one I’ve ever seen with this.”

“But what does it mean?” I folded my other hand on my lap.

“That I canna say.” She tapped my palm. “Ye may not want to tell me what happened on yon mountainside, but I do know ’twas something that will change your life.”

I stared at her in some consternation. I honestly didn’t know what to say. Had she seen the ghost? Did she know?

“Nae, dearie. I dinna ask that ye tell me anything. All I want is for ye to take care of your sweet self in a way that maybe ye havena thought to do in the past.”

I lowered my head, studied my hands, and when I looked up, she’d picked up the plates and moved to the sink. At that point, Mr. Sinclair walked into the kitchen and told me the car was ready for me “if ye be ready for it.”

I stood. “Mrs. Sinclair?”

“Yes, dearie?”

“The next time I’m here, I may be able to tell you some of this.” I bent to give old Bruce a good-bye pat on his wiry head, and he woofed gently. “Is that all right?”

She smiled slowly and her eyes crinkled up at the corners. “Whenever the time is right for you.”

My thoughts bounced between the ghost—and Mason, damn him—all the way home.

*   *   *

I ran into
a heavy Vermont rain soon after leaving the Burlington airport. Even though it stopped halfway to Hamelin, I was a good deal later than usual getting home. Karaline opened my front door and headed toward me as I backed into my driveway. Part of me wanted to talk with her for hours, to tell her everything that had happened. The other part of me just wanted to take a hot shower and sleep for three days.

She bounded down the ramp, her dark pink knee-length sweater bouncing around her black-clad legs. At six foot one, New York–model thin, and with a nose that preceded her in grand style, Karaline always looks something like a wading bird, maybe a blue heron. This evening, in that sweater, she looked like a flamingo. Next to her, I was nothing but a bedraggled wren.

She opened the back door and pulled out my carry-on. “Come on in. I’ve got dinner ready.”

Karaline’s idea of dinner is always leftovers from the Logg Cabin. Fine with me. I hoped I could keep my eyes open long enough to taste something.

I bent to scratch Shorty between the ears and run my hand along his silky back. He meowed his welcome. It was good to be home.

The fire crackling in the wood stove drew me to its heavenly warmth. I rubbed my hands together and then turned so my backside could absorb some of the heat. Karaline grinned. “Still a little bit chilly in the evenings.”

I looked around my comfy living room at the vases of scarlet long-stemmed roses placed here and there around the room. “What’s with all the roses?” Even as I asked, I had a sinking feeling I knew the answer.

Karaline read my mind. “You’re right. They’re from Mason. No cards, just like before. Ruth’s been delivering them every day. I called her and asked her to stop since you were out of town, but she said they’d been prepaid, and she felt obligated to deliver them.”

This was all just part of his pattern. The whole time we’d been together, every time he hurt my feelings, said something nasty to me, or forgot something I’d asked him to do, he’d sent me flowers or buy me a piece of jewelry, and he thought that would wipe out whatever he’d done. The roses were another link on that chain. I used to like roses, but I’d gotten to where I hated them—he seemed to think they would make everything all better, when what he really needed was a change of attitude. Maybe Andrea had done me a favor at that.

What did he expect—a thank-you note? If he wanted to waste perfectly good money on me, that was his problem, but I didn’t have to respond. “I’ll take them to the compost pile tomorrow,” I said.

I took the carry-on from her, pulled out the shawl, and draped it over my arm. It wasn’t that cold here in the living room, but I’d probably need it in the rest of the house.

“Nice,” she said. “New?”

“New to me,” I said, “but it’s really rather old.”

She gave it a long look and nodded. “The sixties? You’ll look like a hippie in it.”

“Older than that,” I said, moving away from her. I took a quick look at my bonsai tree and the jade plant. In the kitchen, I headed for the African violets in the window. Karaline always cared for them when I was away. “The plants look great. Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.” She slid my suitcase across the hall to the bottom of the stairs while I washed my hands, then waited for Shorty to settle on my lap. I wrapped the shawl around my shoulders. Shorty snuggled against it and purred.

“Rough trip?” Her voice, rich and smooth as the pure maple syrup she used in her restaurant, settled around me like comfort food.

“Not really. I just spent a lot of time worrying about . . . well, you know.” She nodded grimly. I smoothed the shawl, wondering why I felt so reluctant to tell her about the ghost I’d met and left behind.

She ladled a hearty stew into one of my handcrafted-pottery soup bowls. “You look like a crumpled ball of paper. You need some sleep.” With each crisp sentence she plopped another ladleful into the bowl. “But first, eat.” She lifted a cutting board laden with one of her homemade loaves onto the table and set to work slicing it into good-sized chunks.

If my ghost were here—if he could eat, that is—he’d probably spear a chunk with his
sgian-dubh
. I missed him. Had I made a mistake in leaving him behind? Had he found his Peigi?

We chatted without much enthusiasm. Karaline was right. I felt exhausted. Just eating was effort enough.

She used a slab of bread to sop up the last of the stew juices. “I’m gonna wash these dishes, and you’re going to take a nice hot bath and go to bed.” She held up her hand. “I know it’s early, but you’ll probably sleep for fourteen hours.”

I grumbled a bit but finally agreed.

She waited for me to finish my last bite, picked up the bowls, and shooed me out.

At the door, with Shorty under my arm, I turned back to thank her. My ghost! He stood behind the chair I’d just left. My ghost. “What are you doing here?”

He shrugged.

Karaline looked over her shoulder at me. “I just told you. I’m washing the dishes. Now, go to bed. You’re more exhausted than you think.” She flicked her wet fingers at me and turned back to the sink. “I’ll lock the door on my way out.”

I looked back once as I headed up the stairs. The ghost, trailing behind me, raised his shoulders and his hands in that gesture that said
What could I do?

*   *   *

“Why aren’t you
in Scotland?” I spoke even before I’d opened my bedroom door.

“What?” Karaline called from the kitchen.

“Nothing. I mean, good night.” I motioned him into my room. “You were supposed to stay there.”

“Weel, now.” He reached out a hand toward Shorty, who sniffed once and nuzzled his head into the crook of my arm. “Your singing over the wee yellow candle sounded lovely, but I canna see that it did much good.”

“It wasn’t all that wee,” I said, and was appalled at the petulance in my voice. It hadn’t worked.

He ignored my whining. “Mayhap ye should ha’ asked Mistress Sinclair for help.”

I didn’t even try to whisper. “I couldn’t do that. She’d think I was crazy.”

“She wouldna. She is a very wise woman, aye?” He waved his hands at me, palm down. “And hush your voice a bit.”

I thought back to her reading of my palm. He hadn’t been there then. He’d been in the shawl. “What makes you think she’s so wise?” I think I sounded suspicious.

“I do believe she saw me but chose not to talk about it.”

“No. She couldn’t have.”

He frowned, and his very blue eyes seemed to darken, but maybe it was just the shadows. My bedroom drew in the morning light, but it tended to get a bit gloomy in the early evening. And it was downright dark at this hour. I turned on the overhead light. His head jerked up as it came on. “How did ye do that?”

“It’s called electricity. I’ll tell you all about it later.”

A sound that wasn’t quite a growl started in his toes and went right up to his head. “I’m thinking there is far too much to learn in this world ye live in.”

“Yeah? You think so?” I dropped Shorty on the bed. “And what if I told you I don’t know how to start a fire without matches?”

“What are—”

“Those things I used at Mrs. Sinclair’s to light the wee candle.” I sounded positively vitriolic. “I also don’t know how to skin a rabbit. I don’t even know how to kill a rabbit, much less skin it.”

He made that growl sound again. “Ye lie. Even a bairn learns early how to skin a rabbit.”

“We don’t eat many bunnies nowadays.”

“Bun—”

“I also don’t know how to work a butter churn—”

“That is so sim—”

“Would you hush? Children in this time know how to use a microwave and cook a frozen pizza and blend up a fruit smoothie.”

“Wha—”

“And they learn pretty quickly how to cross the street without getting run over.”

“Why—”

“Furthermore, they know the Preamble to the Constitution, while you couldn’t even find America on a wall map! But children in your time learn about butter churns and hunting and skinning things and starting fires. And if you’d stayed in Scotland when you were supposed to, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

I paused, but only long enough to take a deep breath. “The point I’m making—and there is a point to this—is that you have no more to learn in this time than I’d have if I somehow traveled back to your time, so would you please just can it until I can get you to a library? Then you can learn everything you need to know.”

Silence. For a long time. And then he said, rather huffily I thought, “Ye think that will help when I canna even turn the pages?”

He had a point, but I wasn’t going to concede. I cast about for a change of topic. “You need a name.”

“I have a name, a verra good name.” He turned his back on me.

“Yeah, right, but it’s unpronounceable, and
Macbeth
has really bad connotations nowadays. I can’t call you Mac, because everyone will think I’m talking to our chief of police. Mac Campbell,” I added by way of explanation.

He crossed his arms over his chest. I noticed the muscles roping up his forearms. “I dinna trust Clan Campbell.”

“Oh, yeah. Because of Glencoe?”

“What are ye speaking of? Glencoe is home to Macdonalds, not Campbells.”

I was a little sparse on Scottish history. Maybe the massacre at Glencoe hadn’t happened yet. If so, I wasn’t going to be the one to tell him about it.

“Never mind. I’m going to call you . . .” I looked him up and down. His long full-sleeved shirt was of a coarse grayish fabric. Homespun, I thought. Well, naturally it was homespun. The Industrial Revolution hadn’t happened yet. It took a woman an entire year to spin the thread and weave the kilt material. The blue-and-green pattern matched the shawl I wore, and the top ends were held in place over his right shoulder with a carved wooden circle, threaded through with what looked like a piece of antler. It was primitive and powerful and, somehow, exactly right.

He’d let go of the handle of his dirk, but it was still clearly visible in the . . . scabbard, I guess you’d call it . . . hanging from a heavy leather strap he wore over his left shoulder. I wondered how he managed not to whack people when he walked past them. “Hmm. I’m going to call you Dirk.”