Chapter 7
The ladies left by noon, and Paislee’s stomach rumbled. She poked her head behind the divider to see her grandfather watching the news.
“Not a word about yer girl Isla,” he informed her.
Between customers, she’d searched the online news, thinking she’d missed it earlier, but Isla’s death hadn’t warranted a snippet anywhere. “It breaks my heart. Can you watch the place for a few minutes?” She hated to be the bearer of bad tidings, but Tabitha deserved to know that her best friend was dead. She, Billy, and Tabitha were all that Isla’d had in the world.
Grandpa straightened in his armchair. “I thought I’d step out fer a bite—ye could take it against my pay.”
Oh, he did, did he? So far he hadn’t done more than learn how to ring up a skein of yarn and empty her candy dish. “There’s a packet of crackers below the television. I’m off across the street tae speak with her best friend, who works at the florist’s, in case Tabitha doesnae know that Isla is gone. Then we’ll discuss lunch.”
He waved her off.
Guilt pinched like an ant bite. The old man wasn’t used to working. What had he done with his time while living with Craigh? “You can go home after I get back for the afternoon, awright? I have a cupboard full of food.”
“Take yer time.”
“Can you turn the telly off and listen for customers?”
He grumbled something she couldn’t hear but flipped off the switch. “I’m just supposed tae sit at the counter and count sheep?”
Paislee compromised with, “You can listen tae the sound on low, but yes, I’d like you tae sit at the register and look . . . busy. Or you can read the news online; the laptop is open.”
Grandpa shuffled his boots but pulled a stool to the counter and sat, propping his elbow on the laminate like a surly silver-haired teenager. Was this what she had to look forward to? Ach.
“Thank you.” She left her shop and breathed in deep of the salty sea air—it gave her a bit of clarity after the morning’s drama, brought on strong and steady no thanks to her grandfather. She had to put finding her uncle Craigh at the top of her list.
Everybody would be happier.
Both feet on the crooked sidewalk, her gaze was drawn toward the beach, and the police department on the right side of Market Street. She couldn’t see the Moray Firth from her corner, but she could smell the salt and brine. Her friend Amelia would know what was going on, since Paislee hadn’t heard a word yet from the detective.
She crossed the street, reflecting that this two-story row of gray stone businesses wouldn’t be affected by the sale of their building.Was there an open spot for lease? She could ask Tabitha.
Paislee entered the flower shop, assaulted at once by the scent of roses—the heady perfume was thick in the chilled air: air conditioning? That must have cost the owner a pretty penny, as most of the old buildings didn’t have it.
Two designers stood at back tables, surrounded by buckets of pale pink roses and vases of pink arrangements, each in the midst of arranging flowers.
“Hello!” the man singsonged. Wisps of black hair fell over his broad, pale forehead and dramatic black brows. A silver hoop adorned each ear. Thin and short—Tabitha, at the other table, was taller than him by a hair despite his black cowboy boots with heels. Each designer had a red-handled knife with a silver blade they used to slice the ends of rose stems and slide them into vases as if racing the clock.
“Is this a bad time?” Paislee asked.
“Wedding,” the man explained. “Can I help you?”
Tabitha’s brown eyes were red rimmed and puffy, her blondish-brown hair in a halfhearted bun.
Paislee took a hesitant step forward.
Tabitha sniffed and lowered her knife to the table. She knew, then, that her friend was dead, poor lass, and still had to work. It was obvious that the shop was busy and understaffed.
Paislee nodded with empathy, glancing to the sage-green scarf around Tabitha’s neck and then zeroing in on it.
Paislee had made that for Isla as a going-away present. She recognized the tassel and her signature crocheted flower. The scarf was crafted with Flora’s perfected sage color. Why did Tabitha have it?
Maybe Isla had given it to her before she died—but that wasn’t really like Isla to give away her things. Now that she thought about it, Isla’d had a platter of shortbread cookies on the dining room table of her flat when she didn’t eat sweets ever, because of her heart health, and a cup of tea, Lipton, when she was careful with caffeine.
Had Tabitha been to see Isla before she’d died, sharing tea and cookies? Her borrowing the scarf?
“Tabitha, I’m so sairy,” she said. “You must be devastated tae lose your best friend.”
Tabitha burst into sobs, dropped her knife, and ran into the back office, where she slammed the door closed.
Paislee made a step to follow her. “Should I?” she asked the designer.
“No—and dinnae feel too bad,” the designer quipped. “Those aren’t tears of grief, love.” He pursed his thin lips and sliced a diagonal cut off the bottom of the next stem, fast and precise as he placed the pale pink rose in the bouquet with some sort of fern and a pink bow. “Guilty conscience, more like.”
“Guilt?”
“They fought like two cats in a bag before Isla moved tae Inverness, and never made up,” he said in a dry tone.
“What did they fight about?”
He pushed the vase of roses aside to get a better view of Paislee. “Same thing at the bottom of most squabbles—a man.”
The only man Isla had been seeing was Billy—who she’d moved away with and, according to Gerald, was still hung up on after moving back to Nairn.
“Did Tabitha like Billy?” She heard the rise of her voice and reminded herself to calm down; she didn’t know the whole story.
“Maybe she still does,” he said smugly.
And now Isla was dead. Would that bring on tears of guilt? Or shame?
Maybe both. “Would you have her call me, or drop by, when she’s feeling better?” Paislee wanted answers about how Tabitha had come by Isla’s scarf.
“Sure.”
Paislee had thought the two girls were best friends, and Isla had never said otherwise—of course, Isla hadn’t called Paislee, either, just emailed her asking for a job. “Did Isla stop here recently, like in the last two weeks?”
“Heavens no. The only drama I condone is my own.” He waved a rose stem and winked at Paislee.
She peered toward the office door, but Tabitha didn’t make an appearance. “I dinnae think we’ve met. I’m Paislee Shaw. I own Cashmere Crush, across the way?”
“Ritchie Gordon, overworked manager and lead designer around here.” He leaned in close and whispered, “It means I get a pound more an hour. Some days it isnae worth it.”
A smile tugged at her mouth. “The roses are beautiful.”
“Aye, but after twenty dozen, I’m over it.Why can’t a lassie marry her true love in yellow?”
Paislee laughingly agreed. “I don’t suppose you know if there are any spaces for lease on this side of the street?”
“Planning a move?” Ritchie sliced another rose stem and placed it in the vase. “I heard from Theadora that yer building is up for sale.”
“Sold.” She tightened her cardigan around her waist against the chill.
“Too bad. It’s a prime location.” He set the finished bouquet on the floor next to five others just like it. “It’ll be hard tae find something else that centrally located and affordable.”
She didn’t think she could feel worse, and yet Ritchie’s outside observation had done just that.
“Good luck with the wedding,” she said, lifting her hand in a good-bye wave. “Tell Tabitha that it’s important we speak?”
“Ta!”
Paislee left the flower shop. Where could she move her business? She’d worked so hard to build up Cashmere Crush. Most of her clientele lived nearby. Though she’d been mainly joking about having their Thursday nights on her back porch, she couldn’t actually run her business from her home. She required a lot more space for her yarn and specialty sweaters.
She stuffed her hands in her pockets. Ned, the dry cleaner across the street, watered the begonias in his flower boxes. All six of the businesses on her brick row had them built in. James had put green fern in his, Margot at the lab pink petunias, Lourdes and Jimmy at the office supply shop had yellow and white daisies, while Theadora on the corner had white impatiens and blue bonnets.
Her gaze was naturally drawn from Theadora’s to A96, and the police station to the right. There was room for twenty cars in the half-full lot. Gerald Sanford parked his silver BMW closest to the entrance, got out—gorgeous in jeans and a button-down black Oxford—and raced up the four stairs to go inside.
Had Detective Inspector Zeffer discovered something more about Isla’s death? Why hadn’t he been in touch, as he’d said he would be?
Gorgeous, yes, but she stayed away from Gerald’s type. She’d stayed away from all men since Brody’s birth, living like a nun beneath the scrutiny of her small town. Lydia dared her on occasion to let loose for a weekend—stealing away to Edinburgh, or London—but Paislee refused. Brody was her everything until the day he’d turn eighteen. And she had a feeling it would last beyond even then.
Instead of crossing the street to Cashmere Crush, Paislee walked toward the police station. Maybe she could text her friend Amelia and suggest a quick ten-minute break, bribing her with a treat from the tea shop.
Had Gerald remembered something about Isla that he’d needed to share with the detective, or had he been called in?
How had Isla died? She hoped that Tabitha and Isla had made up after their argument; otherwise Tabitha’s guilt was sure to last a very long time.
Her phone rang, jarring her out of her curious musings.
“Paislee speaking,” she answered.
“This is Headmaster McCall,” a masculine voice said.
Her heart leapt in her chest. She could hardly breathe. Was Brody okay? She imagined an accident on the playground, or . . . “Aye?”
“I’d like for you tae come in this afternoon,” his very controlled voice droned.
She glared at her phone. “Is Brody okay?”
An audible sigh, then the man said, “He is. Come see me in my office at four? Good day, Ms. Shaw.”
The headmaster hung up without waiting for her to agree. Surely this couldn’t be about her being late—she’d been right on time this morning.
How rude! But Paislee would grit her teeth and deal with the pompous headmaster for Brody’s sake. She would do anything for her son.