Competition Can Be Murder Read Free Page A

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