Dressed to Kilt Read Free

friend’s significant other.
    He was scheduled to return later tonight from police college, his initial classroom coursework completed. Monday he would begin the next part of his training—following in the footsteps of a certain unwilling but resigned inspector.
    â€œWell, I best get back to the shop,” Vicki said, rising and going about the task of wrapping up—boots, wool coat, scarf, mittens, and beanie hat, which she tied under her chin. “It’s unlikely that anyone will brave this weather. No onecan possibly expect the shop to be open, but there’s plenty of other work to be done.”
    I watched her pushing her way through the newly fallen wet snow with a Westie under each arm, since their short legs never would have made it through without her assistance.
    My phone rang, turning my attention away from the winter wonderland outside my window.
    â€œHow ye be managin’ out there?” came the inspector’s voice. “Are ye good and buried?”
    â€œYes, but perfectly fine with that, thanks to a bin full of firewood and a shopping trip for supplies earlier. Vicki knows how to prepare.”
    â€œShe’s one o’ us, and we know how tae manage in adversity,” he said with a chuckle. “There haven’t been any major tailbacks, thanks tae the gritters that have been treating the roads. And don’t ye worry, it’ll be over in plenty o’ time fer yer big event tomorrow evening.”
    â€œSo the gossipmongers are hard at work.” Keeping anything quiet in Glenkillen was impossible. News spread almost before it happened.
    â€œIt’s out and aboot that ye were invited.”
    â€œI
have
been wondering if it will have to be canceled.”
    â€œFer a few snowflakes? Hardly. What are ye intending tae wear?”
    That was an odd question, especially coming from this particular man. Since when does he care about my attire? Since when did he even notice? Oh, wait, he was up to something, judging by the teasing tone. “Don’t even think it,” I shot back. “I’m
not
wearing a police uniform.”
    That was worth another chuckle. “Ye’re on tae me as usual.”
    â€œYou’re an easy read,” I quipped, although that was far from the truth. Most of the time, he was completely unreadable. I suspected that the term “close to the chest” was coined after him.
    â€œNo drink drivin’,” he went on. “And no stirrin’ up trouble. Ye have an image tae uphold, Constable Elliott.”
    â€œI promise to be on my best behavior,” I said, disconnecting soon after.
    Inspector Jamieson’s personal life was an enigma to me. In some ways, I understood him. In others, he eluded me. In spite of time spent together sampling local fare and talking shop, I never felt that I had him completely pegged. Perhaps that was because of his skill in circumventing any mention of his life outside work.
    All I knew for certain was that he was in his fifties, that his wife had died of cancer some years ago, that he’d never remarried nor did he have any interest in the advances of the local women, and that he lived at some remote hunting lodge away from the village.
    I added a few more logs to the stove, after feeling a bit of a chill in the air, and used the fire iron to arrange the wood for best results. Then I sat down and picked up my knitting.
    I’d only recently learned to knit and had insisted (against Vicki’s better advice to start with a simple scarf) on beginning this new adventure with December’s skein-of-the-month club kit, which consisted of the appropriate yarn and a pattern that Vicki had named Merry Mittens. Some of the members had already whipped out their mittens and werewearing them, while I’d barely begun the first mitten, thanks to the confusing abbreviations associated with the pattern as well as my fumbling fingers. But I loved the color