A Wee Murder in My Shop (A ScotShop Mystery) Read Free Page A

had been in the family for so long? I was being spun a tale. Still, I liked the feel of the shawl. “I’ll take it,” I said, and cringed. I’d just made the worst mistake a buyer can make. The woman knew I wanted it, so the price would go up accordingly.
    “Of course ye will, lassie,” she said. “It’s been waiting for ye all these years. Ye are the one.”
    I’m afraid I gawked at her. The one what?
    “’Tis so,” she said. “The shawl is yours. It always has been. Can’t ye tell?” She reached out and took it from me, holding it up under my chin. She nodded. “Aye.”
    At that moment, feeling almost as if I were in a trance, I think I would have paid any amount for it. But the price she named was reasonable indeed, and I paid it without hesitation, silently blessing the woman for her lack of avarice.
    “It’s a Farquharson,” she said. “Did ye ken that?”
    “No,” I told her, “I’m not familiar with that clan,” and started toward the door.
    “Och, ye soon will be,” she said.
    I held the shawl tight against me as I headed back toward the main street. I couldn’t imagine what she meant.
    For some reason, I wasn’t much in the mood for shopping that afternoon. I kept thinking about Ben y Vrackie, the mountain a mile or so north of town. I felt an urge, almost a yearning, to climb it. I hugged the shawl more tightly, relishing its softness. “Let us climb,” an inner voice urged me. At least, that’s what I imagined. Maybe it was a fragment of an old poem I’d read but couldn’t recall. I laughed the thought away and returned to the cottage, surprising both the Sinclairs.
    I placed the shawl over their hall tree. “Mrs. Sinclair? Would you like to take a walk up Ben y Vrackie?”
    “Today?” Her eyebrows rose right into the wrinkles across her forehead.
    “No. You’re right. It’s too late for that, but maybe tomorrow?”
    For some reason, she looked at the shawl.
    “That sounds lovely,” she said, glancing at her husband, who raised his bushy eyebrows and shrugged.
    “Of course.” She sounded like she was answering an unspoken question. “’Twould be a lovely day for a walk, dearie. We’ll leave here just after midday and take our tea with us.” She headed into the kitchen.
    “I don’t want to be any bother,” I protested.
    “Nonsense, lassie.” Mr. Sinclair looked toward where Mrs. Sinclair has disappeared into the back. “We’ve not been up on Ben y Vrackie for . . .”
    “. . . nae for a year or twa,” she called.
    I ate a quick dinner at the pub down the lane and turned in early. I’d set my clothes out on the chair beside the window with the shawl draped across them. Tomorrow, the mountain. Why did I feel so excited about climbing a big hill? With the moonlight streaming across the bed, I slept.

3

    A Wee Ghostie in the Meadow
    B reakfast was the usual porridge, sausage, and a coddled egg. Mrs. Sinclair set them in front of me with an admonition to “eat heartily. ’Tis hungry you’ll be on the mountain this afternoon otherwise.”
    I passed the morning pleasantly enough wandering around town and ate lunch at a small pub. It was such a lovely day, I’d left the shawl in my room.
    Finally, I couldn’t stand the wait any longer, and headed back to the B and B.
    Within moments Mrs. Sinclair appeared, tucking in the flap of a rucksack, two others slung over her arm. “Tea, nuts, and biscuits,” she said, handing one pack to Mr. Sinclair and one to me.
    I ran upstairs and grabbed the shawl. It was likely to be chilly on the side of the mountain. As I climbed into the back of their little car, I hoped I wouldn’t regret that I hadn’t taken the time to go to the bathroom. Karaline always accused me of TBS—tiny bladder syndrome—whenever we hiked at home.
    Mr. Sinclair parked in a small graveled area at the beginning of a well-defined trail. He hefted the rucksack. Some well-meaning person had placed a blue porta potty—here it was called a