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

Portaloo—at the mouth of the trail. I excused myself to make use of it. I couldn’t recall it from the last time I’d hiked here, but was quite grateful for it this time.
    Why, I thought, had I chosen to come here rather than to explore more of the Pitlochry shops? This trip was short to begin with, and here I was wasting several hours.
    Mr. and Mrs. Sinclair had gone ahead. They sat on a large stone outcropping a few minutes up the trail, waiting patiently. “Thank you,” I said, and we headed uphill.
    The climb to the summit is supposed to take less than an hour, but I’ve never been much of a hiker. Oh, I like to take long walks, but I have a tendency to stop—often—to look at odd stones, bits of plant, and puddles of mud. Also, I must admit, I do get out of breath if I try to keep up a regular pace. So I’m afraid I slowed the Sinclairs down, but they were used to me. We’d taken this walk before. They adjusted their pace to mine, and Mrs. Sinclair stopped occasionally “to look at this lovely view,” she said, but I knew it was so I could catch my breath.
    I spotted a charming meadow a ways off the main trail and called to the Sinclairs.
    Mrs. S cocked her head at her husband. “Did I not tell ye?”
    He didn’t answer, just disrupted his hair again with both hands.
    We drank our tea from pottery mugs. Mrs. Sinclair disliked plastic and Styrofoam as much as I did. The grassy meadow flowed down the hill beside a gurgling brook that tumbled toward the loch below. Most of the mountainside was covered in heather, which tends to be prickly, but this one place sported grass, and a towering larch spread its deep green branches like a billowing cape. There were other trees on Ben y Vrackie, but none so large as this. How could I have missed it on my previous hikes?
    After we munched a bit on filberts and walnuts, Mr. Sinclair stretched out on the turf beneath the tree and pulled his hat forward over his eyes. “A wee nap,” he muttered—an unnecessary explanation.
    “A lovely idea, my dear,” Mrs. Sinclair said, and settled down beside him, her back up against the enormous larch. She smiled sweetly at him and then at me. “Rest yourself, Peggy,” she said, and patted the ground beside her.
    I felt restless, though, and shook my head. “I’m going to walk down by the brook.” She waved gaily, and I turned my back on her.
    The grass was spongy beneath my feet. I’ve always thought the smell of newly cut grass was the best smell in the world. This grass didn’t look newly shorn at all, but the smell was there just the same. Heavenly, I thought.
    I’d chosen to travel in a sturdy calf-length walking skirt. I felt very old-world when I wore it, because it wasn’t the sort of thing Americans wore on airplanes or on hikes. I’d packed some jeans, of course, but the skirt felt better somehow. My hiking boots laced above my ankles. I’d learned the hard way that my tendency to slip on any uneven surface required me to buy good footwear. When I reached the stream, though, I slipped off the boots and my practical white socks. After a moment’s hesitation, I dipped my toes into the cold water and quickly out again, tucking them beneath the soft folds of my skirt. I pulled the shawl off my left shoulder, where I’d been carrying it, and wrapped it around me, covering the back of my neck, for I’d begun to feel a chill. I glanced back up the hill. The Sinclairs were, fortunately, out of sight behind a slight rise in the meadowland. What lovely solitude.
    Mason, damn him, floated into my mind. I was better off without him. If I were completely honest with myself, I hadn’t really trusted him, ever since the day I’d found him rummaging through my purse, my checkbook in his hand. No, I was not going to let him ruin this day. The utter peacefulness of the meadow slowly sank into me the way butter melts into hot toast. I took a deep breath and then another.
    I didn’t hear anyone walk up behind me, but the