A Wee Murder in My Shop (A ScotShop Mystery) by Fran Stewart Read Free Book Online

He crossed his arms in front of his chest. His massive chest, I noticed. Had he always been that brawny, or was I only now beginning to see him for real?
    “Let’s head up that way.” I gestured to my right. “There aren’t as many people, and there’s a store I want to visit.”
    “Ye didna answer my question about the wee shop back there.” He thrust his chin in the direction we’d come from.
    “They sell all different kinds of candy.” When he looked blankly at me, I added, “Sweets? Desserts? Like shortbread?”
    His rather grim countenance lightened. “Ah, shortbread. The aulde grannies bake it as often as we have sugar. ’Tis verra dear.”
    “Expensive, you mean?”
    “Aye, that is what I said.”
    I considered heading back down the street just to pick up a box or two, but one look at my ghost convinced me not to. He couldn’t eat it, and I couldn’t possibly enjoy eating it with him watching me.
    “Here, look at this.” I stopped in front of a small store I’d been in before, where I usually bought notecards, enough to last me between visits to Scotland. I was old-fashioned about some things, and writing letters—well, notes—was something I enjoyed doing. People were always so surprised when they received something other than junk in their mailbox.
    Maybe I could write Mason a poison pen letter. I shuddered.
    “Have ye caught a chill? Mayhap we should go inside, out of the breeze.”
    “Sorry. No, I was just thinking about writing a letter to somebody.”
    “Ah, a letter?” The awe in his voice was palpable. “I saw a letter once. ’Twas to Father Marcus, from Father Godfrey at the Church of All Hallows by the Tower. In London.” I started at the name. I’d toured that church once when I spent a few days in London. It was still in pretty good shape, considering its age. He looked around, almost as if he expected to see the good father sauntering down the street. “Father Marcus let me practice my reading using that letter. ’Twas all about church matters and didna make a great deal of sense to my young mind.”
    “Nowadays, letters aren’t quite so weighty,” I said, opening the door.
    I nodded to the shopkeeper, who eyed me over her thick glasses. After all, I appeared to be talking to myself. I picked out an assortment of finely crafted notecards with matching envelopes, too good to waste on the likes of Mason Kilmarty, may he rot in hell, but I wasn’t going to think about him.

6

    A Wee Town of My Own
    T he rest of the day went much the same, although I was glad we had no more collisions with live people, and I slept well that night, tired from all the walking. The next day we went back into Pitlochry—this was a buying trip after all—and I couldn’t help but think how much I loved this little town, almost as if I had some deep connection to it. Well, I did. I’d spent lots of time and money here over the past six years.
    The first shop I stepped into, one I’d never seen before, was perfect. Beautifully handwoven scarves and shawls abounded, hung from clever wrought iron racks. A young woman with a dark brown braid that hung halfway to her waist stepped forward. She pushed her hair off her shoulder, and said, “Let me know if I can be of any service to ye.”
    “She looks like my goddaughter, my niece Lioslaith, my oldest brother’s second child.” Macbeth’s voice was right behind me. “Ask if she’s of the Clan Farquharson.”
    I ignored him. “These scarves are beautifully made.” I ran my hand along one with a particularly vivid purple stripe down the middle.
    “They’re all natural dyes that I make from plants. The wool comes from sheep in this shire.”
    “This is your work? How do you ever find the time to do it and keep the store running as well?”
    “Aye, weel, the winters are a bit long.” She smiled. “I dinna mind the weaving for hours at a time. It soothes me like, and I can make enough to last me through the tourist season.”
    “I’m