Chapter 10
As promised, Paislee dropped Brody off at school Wednesday morning at quarter till nine and tried not to take offense when Headmaster McCall politely clapped his hands. Arrogant man.
She could own up to her mistakes—but would he? Judging her on who knows what merit, and wrong about it besides.
Biting back a colorful complaint, she drove with her grandfather to Cashmere Crush. The idea of losing this place, so close to the bandstand and free parking, and downtown festivals like the one this Saturday, physically hurt her heart.
She entered the shop with Grandpa on her heels, his brown work boots clomping against her polished cement floor. “Get the light?” she asked.
He did, and she relaxed in the familiar space. The interior was cozy and bright with rows and rows of color-coordinated skeins of yarn. Granny’s voice was at the back of her head—change, she’d say, was inevitable.
How could she manage this situation best? She would have to talk with Flora, whose natural-dyed-yarn website business was thriving, about ways to increase her online sweater sales. She’d started out her business that way but had changed her focus to the storefront.
“I hear ye sighin’,” Grandpa complained. “What now?”
“Nothing new—but I think I have plenty tae worry about, don’t you?”
“Your choice, but it’s a waste a time.”
“You know, I used tae have a few minutes of quiet in the morning?”
“I’m happy tae go home.”
They both bit their tongues at the fact that he didn’t have one.
His home with her was temporary—as he kept saying.
“Sairy,” Paislee said, putting her purse beneath the register. “I didnae sleep well last night. I kept dreaming of Isla.” The girl had been crying and asking for help.
He crossed his arms, the elbows of his blue chambray shirt a lighter blue but clean. “It’s a shame we havenae heard what happened tae her, and odd that it’s been out of the news.”
“I’m going tae call my friend Amelia again today—she was out sick yesterday; otherwise we might know something already.”
He whistled dismissively. “If ye want tae know what’s happening, call the detective.”
“On what grounds?” She opened the safe and brought out the money for the till. “Curiosity?”
He snorted and tapped his nose. “Mibbe too . . . ?”
Paislee loaded the change drawer and checked the receipt tape, then switched the radio on with the sound low. The door opened and in walked the detective, minus his rain jacket as the morning was bright, the skies clear. For now. Weather in Nairn could change in an instant.
“Speak of the devil,” Grandpa Angus said, taking a seat on the stool by the register.
“The devil?” Detective Inspector Zeffer asked. His blue suit looked Italian and very stylish for a man of the law. His black shoes had a shine as if polished. Did anybody polish their shoes these days?
“Never mind,” Paislee said, blowing her bangs back. She was immediately self-conscious in her denims and loose bohemian-style blouse in light blue. Her hair was straight at her shoulders. Casual for work, but compared to the detective, she felt too casual in her own shop.
If he weren’t married already, he’d be a handsome match for Lydia, who was always looking for her next love. Then again, the detective might give her frostbite, so Paislee wouldn’t suggest it.
“I had a few more questions about Isla Campbell.” The detective pulled a skein of yarn from a plastic bag and set it on the counter—no rings on any of his fingers.
She recognized the skein as the one Gerald’s dog, Baxter, had been running around with, and realized it must have come from inside Isla’s flat. “Is that the same . . .” she trailed off.
Detective Inspector Zeffer’s pale green eyes seemed to bore into her for the truth before he’d even asked a question. “Aye.”
“How did she die?” Paislee blurted. Though less than forty-eight hours had passed, it felt as if she’d been waiting for days for some piece of news.
He stepped back and tucked his hands in his trouser pockets. “Her death is under investigation.”
“What does that mean?” Grandpa Angus asked.
Detective Inspector Zeffer cleared his throat. “I cannae say.”
“For how long?” asked Paislee.
“Until we locate her next of kin. Isla used tae work for you. Do you have an emergency contact number for her?” The detective pulled his slim black leather notebook from his suit jacket pocket.
Cheeks flushed, her personal redhead curse, she said, “Naw, Isla never filled out an application. I have Isla’s mobile number, but that willnae help.”
“Do you happen tae have her mother’s?”
“I dinnae. Don’t even know her name. They didnae get along well. I think she lives in Edinburgh.”
“The number we have has been disconnected. It’s possible she’s moved.”
“Is that why ye’ve kept it out of the news?” Grandpa held up yesterday’s paper. “I’ve been looking for a notice in the obituary.”
“It’s policy,” the detective said. His no-frills tone reminded her of Headmaster McCall. Maybe arrogance bred success at a young age? She would teach Brody a different way.
“It’s sad,” Paislee countered, taking her place behind the counter next to the register. “I spoke with Tabitha, her best friend. They used tae share a flat on Dartmouth Street.”
Detective Inspector Zeffer’s eyes narrowed. “What did you talk about?”
“Well, nothing exactly. Tabitha burst into tears and hid in the office,” she said. “Her co-worker mentioned the two had fought before Isla had moved.”
He winced. “Tabitha . . .”
“Drake,” she supplied. “She works at the flower shop across the street.” Paislee hoped that if she helped him, then maybe the detective wouldn’t be so closemouthed.
“I see.”
She poked the yarn with a knitting needle that had been lying by her register. One end had been knotted, as if Isla had been ready to start a project. “You know that Isla took heart medication?”
Detective Inspector Zeffer gave a slight nod. “You said that before. Digoxin.”
“Did she die of heart failure?” The prescription bottle had been out on the table when she usually kept it in her purse. She hated for anyone to know she needed medication. Then again, it was her home, and Paislee was probably reading too much into it. She wanted to tell the detective about the shortbread cookies, too—Isla didn’t eat sweets of any kind, and didn’t like dogs.
“I cannae tell you that,” he said, folding his arms. “This is an open investigation, which means that I get tae ask the questions and you get tae answer them.”
Grandpa Angus chortled and turned away.
Paislee straightened. “Well then.” She would keep her observations to herself.
“I also wanted tae ask you about this wool? Amelia Henry said you might be able tae help, since you have a yarn shop.” He sounded doubtful.
On the verge of saying she knew absolutely nothing, she restrained herself on Isla’s behalf.
She ran her finger over the grayish-beige skein. “This is merino wool, untreated, undyed, but excellent quality.”
“Where can you buy it?”
“There are many sheep farms around Scotland that sell their wool for commercial yarn.”
“I’ve noticed.” His sarcasm was unmistakable. His accent was Scottish but had a unique cadence that meant he wasn’t from around here. Not Edinburgh, either. Isla had been from there, and she hadn’t sounded like the detective. It was a subtle difference in how the words were spoken.
“More sheep than people,” Grandpa said.
The land was dotted with them, part of the countryside’s charm. “Local crafters, such as myself, pride themselves on using local wool. It’s what makes us unique tae the area, and tae those who visit.”
“Have ye seen this before?” Detective Inspector Zeffer held up the wool and glanced to the thousands of skeins on her shelves along the walls.
“I can’t be certain. It helps tae have a label from the farm.”
“It’ll be like finding a needle in a haystack without one.” The detective quickly closed his notebook and zipped the skein back in his plastic bag.
“Is it important? I can ask around. I know some distributors in Inverness and Edinburgh.”
“There are close tae a hundred,” he said. “I have an officer checking them out.”
“That many?” Grandpa Angus asked in surprise.
Wool was a big business in Scotland, and while not as much a moneymaker as the oil and gas industries, sheep were still important for not only textiles but food. She enjoyed a leg of lamb as much as the next lass. “Isla worked for Vierra’s Merino Wool Distributor, but what you have there was never treated, which they usually do before selling it. Vierra’s is a large upscale operation near Inverness.”
He shrugged. “I’ve spoken with her former boss.”
“Maybe he has her mother’s number?”
“It wasnae on Isla’s application.” Zeffer patted his suit pocket. “I’m new and you don’t know me, but rest assured I willnae stop until I find answers.” He firmed his lips and left, the sun glinting through her frosted front window to shine on his russet hair, turning the brown and auburn to burnt gold.
“He willnae get folks tae open up tae him like that,” Paislee remarked. “In Nairn, people help each other out.”
Grandpa pulled a worn fishing magazine from his back pocket and placed it on the counter, then helped himself to a wrapped candy—only five were left in the bowl. “I bet he’s from Glasgow. I fished with a mate from there—crazy times.”
“I’ll ask Amelia. Poor dear, having tae work with him all day.” She dropped her knitting needle in the cup holding her pens and pencils. “Can ye believe that Isla’s mum might not know about her own daughter yet?” What pain and sorrow the woman had in store. “I wonder if Billy would have her phone number or address. . . .”
“Billy?” Grandpa popped the toffee into his mouth and balled up the foil wrapper.
“Isla’s boyfriend, or ex, if her neighbor is correct and they broke up. Tabitha would have his number for sure. I’d like tae ask him if he has Isla’s mum’s number, and let him know that I cared for her, too.”
“If they broke up, I have me doubts he cares at all.”
She ignored that. “Isla had such high hopes when they left together, tae start a new life. She mentioned marriage.”
Grandpa snorted. “Men and women have different ideas about that all the time.”
Paislee walked to the front window and peered out to the flower shop. Ritchie was carrying a large bouquet of assorted flowers, which he placed in the back of the floral delivery van, and then sped off.
Tabitha would be alone, and maybe more talkative.
“I’ll be right back, Grandpa.”
He grunted something but read his magazine.
She quickly crossed the street to the flower shop, the scent of gardenia more potent than the roses had been the day before.
“Morning,” she said cheerfully.
Tabitha was at the same back table as yesterday, only this time she worked on a bouquet of gladiolas and irises, perfect for spring. Low dishes of snow-white gardenia blossoms around the shop created a distinct perfume. “Hello.” Tabitha’s greeting was laden with reluctance. Her hair was in a tight bun, and Isla’s scarf was absent.
“Feeling better?” Paislee kept her tone light and had even decided to let her questions about the scarf go in order to help find Isla’s mum. “I’d hoped tae speak tae you. . . .”
“Ritchie told me.” Tabitha peered between the tall floral stems. “Now’s not a good time.”
Paislee took a step forward. “Tabitha, I’m sairy about Isla. I dinnae want tae bother you, but I’d hoped ye could give me Billy’s phone number?”
“Why?” Her knife clattered to the table.
“Tae help the police locate Isla’s mother.”
“Isla hated her.” The florist glared at Paislee, her brown eyes dull. With regret? Sadness? “Ye know she did nothin’ but complain aboot her.”
“Still, she deserves tae know her daughter’s dead, don’t you think?”
Tabitha picked up her knife and trimmed a purple gladiola. “I dinnae even ken the woman’s name.”
“Me either. But Billy might. They lived together.” Paislee watched Tabitha closely to see if the girl would give anything of her cheating nature away. If Ritchie was right, then Tabitha had been no friend to Isla, and it was all Paislee could do to be polite.
Tabitha chose another flower.
“Do you have it?” Paislee asked again.
Tabitha’s gaze veered to the purse on a shelf below the tall worktable, and probably her mobile. What was that red package next to it? Biscuits? “Naw.”
What a liar and cool as ye please. “What about the name of where he works? It’s important, Tabitha.” She wasn’t leaving until she got an answer.
Another minute passed. “He’s shearing sheep at Lowe Farm.” Tabitha broke the stem of a dark purple iris.
“Thanks.” Just to give the girl a push back for being difficult, Paislee shrugged and said, “I might run up tae see him.”
Tabitha flinched. Why wouldn’t Tabitha want her to talk with Billy? The girl was hiding something, or jealous maybe of her unfaithful boyfriend? Paislee wanted to tell her that any man she couldn’t trust wasn’t worth having.
Paislee couldn’t force Tabitha to give her Billy’s number—it was childish when Paislee just wanted to help. As a mum, she couldn’t imagine not knowing her child was . . . gone.
She decided to try kindness one more time. “I’m sairy that you and Isla argued before she moved.” Paislee squinted at the shelf, Tabitha’s purse, and the red packet. Those were shortbread cookies, the same brand as had been at Isla’s. “Were you able tae patch things up when she returned?”
“I never spoke to her after she left for Inverness.” Tabitha’s eyes glittered with tears. “If ye don’t mind? I have work tae do.”
“Cheers.”
Paislee hurried out of the flower shop with a sour taste at the back of her throat. Tabitha was a liar—and not any better at it than Gerald had been about telling the detective he’d been at the movies the night Isla had died.