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

to be a way to do it.” He frowned, and I hastily explained. “I’ve thoroughly enjoyed meeting you, but this whole arrangement is a bit, um, unwieldy. I thought if you stayed here, without the shawl, you might be able to . . . to go back . . . to get back, that is, to where you came from.”
    He looked around. “But I came from here.”
    “I mean, to
when
you came from. You can’t possibly enjoy being so . . . so tied to me.”
    There was a glint in his eyes, but he turned away and looked out the window.
    “If I can figure out a good way—and it must involve a ritual of some sort—wouldn’t you be happy to go back to your own time?”
    “Only if Peigi . . .” His voice died away to a whisper.
    I turned to the dresser and lifted the pewter candlestick.
    Three years ago I’d read a book about the ancient religions of the world. A lot of it had struck me as nothing but mumbo jumbo, but I had been drawn to something called the Ritual of Letting Go—useful, the book said, when someone was dying a lingering, painful death. That was about the time my twin brother had fallen off the dinosaur skeleton he’d been repairing and broken his back, and I remembered reading the chant and praying I’d never have to use it, but I’d memorized it just in case. He’d survived, even though his legs were useless.
    My wee ghostie wasn’t leaving life, really. That was for sure, but in a way he was leaving the shawl, and it was a sort of life to him. Anyway, he must be delighted at the thought of finding Peigi again.
    So I lit the yellowed beeswax candle. He was astonished when I used a match. Once we got that straightened out, I sang softly about leaving this world behind, about moving into the place where souls go, about cutting the ties that bind. Halfway through, he sat on the chair and looked at me. Finally, he lowered his head.
    “Good-bye,” I said.
    “I thank ye.”
    I folded the shawl, tucked it in my carry-on, and blew out the candle.
    He was gone. And I felt bereft.

7

    Home to Hamelin
    M rs. Sinclair was such a dear. She always had a full breakfast ready for me, even though my departure was so early in the morning. I would be exhausted by the time I reached Hamelin, but this trip, what with finding Leslie Farquharson Gordon and her magnificent handwoven pieces, had been particularly rewarding. Ultimately, it would turn out to be highly profitable for both of us. I was sure of that.
    Then there was the shawl.
    Mrs. Sinclair placed a well-laden plate in front of me and admonished me to “Eat hearty. Ye’re as light as duck down.”
    I did as she said, knowing that the airplane food would leave a great deal to be desired.
    With a big dose of regret that my visit was over so soon, I ate the last bites of my sausage, downed my tea, and wiped my mouth. “Absolutely lovely, Mrs. Sinclair. I cannot thank you enough.”
    I’d paid my bill the night before. I liked my last morning, short as it was, to flow smoothly without interruption.
    Instead of clearing the table as was her wont, though, Mrs. Sinclair sat down across from me. “Will ye be careful, dearie?”
    “Oh, the trip is nothing. I’ve done it so many times, I think I could change planes with my eyes closed.” I smiled at her sweet concern.
    “That is no what I’m talking of, as ye well know.” She took hold of my hand across the narrow table and turned it palm up. “At least your life line is long.” She traced a line that ran from between my thumb and forefinger and wound around the fleshy base of my thumb and onto my wrist.
    I opened my mouth, but she forestalled any comment by pointing to what I can only describe as a starburst of lines that radiated out from my life line a third of the way along it. I’d never noticed it before.
    She laid my hand carefully on the table, as if afraid it might break. “In all the years I’ve read palms, yours is only the second one I’ve ever seen with this.”
    “But what does it mean?” I folded