A Wee Murder in My Shop (A ScotShop Mystery) (3 page)

I looked away from the spider into his disturbingly alive-looking eyes. “So you’re really a ghost?” The idea was beginning to sink in.

He nodded slowly. “’Twould appear so, but I’ve not known it till now.”

“And you’re here because of the shawl.” I fished my socks out of my boots and pulled them on while he thought.

He shook his head. “No. Not just that. I think I came when Peigi called.”

“But—but,” I sputtered, “she’s been dead for”—I did a quick calculation—“almost seven hundred years.”

He heaved a heart-wrenching sigh. “So, it would appear, have I.”

Without another word, he followed me uphill. When we were almost within sight of the Sinclairs, just before we reached the top of the rise, I turned to him. “Don’t say anything, anything at all, while we’re with the Sinclairs.” I spread my hands in the age-old gesture of helplessness. “They wouldn’t understand.”

He nodded solemnly. “Nor do I.”

He trailed disconsolately behind me. I couldn’t make up my mind what to say.
I have a ghost named Macbeth.
No.
My shawl is haunted.
Nope.
You won’t believe what just happened to me.
They certainly wouldn’t.

He circled behind me and approached the tree. I took a deep breath. “I hope you had a good nap, Mr. Sinclair.” I sat gingerly on Mrs. Sinclair’s left and accepted a cookie. Biscuit. I had to remember to call it a biscuit. If I could remember
a bracing cup of tea
—one of which I could definitely use right about now—I could certainly remember
biscuit
. “The clouds are lovely today, aren’t they?”

Mrs. Sinclair looked at me as if she thought I’d lost my mind. Maybe I had.

I looked over my right shoulder. The ghost had his hands up, pressing them against the tree’s crenellated bark. He looked up at the lowest branches, which were a good eight feet above his head. I wondered if he could feel the bark or if his hands would pass through it. He looked up, as if he were trying to gauge the larch’s height, and light glinted off the handle of his dirk.

“Yes, they are lovely, but what are ye looking at, lassie?” Mr. Sinclair’s voice broke into my reverie. “It is no the clouds,” he added.

“The, uh, the tree?”

Mrs. Sinclair chuckled. “Is it us ye’re asking, dearie?” She swiveled her neck around to her left, surprisingly flexible, I thought, for a woman her age, and looked up at the larch. She studied the tree longer than I would have expected, and when she turned back to me, her gaze felt laserlike, but all she said was, “The tree, was it?”

“I wonder how old it is?” I stole a quick look at the ghost. He had turned his head to look at Mrs. Sinclair and then at me. I could feel his gaze, and I shivered.

“Pull your shawl more tightly round your shoulders, dearie. Ye look like ye’re catching a chill.” She handed me the little tin of cookies. Biscuits. She smiled. “To tell the truth, ye’re acting like ye’ve seen a wee ghostie.”

Mr. Sinclair laughed. “Not so wee, from the look on her face.”

The wee ghostie under discussion circled around to my left and knelt in front of me. The light of the setting sun poured through his hair, turning the black to liquid charcoal.

“Can she see me?” he whispered. “I canna tell.”

“I don’t know,” I said.

“Don’t know what, lassie?”

Damn. I couldn’t talk to him when other people were around. They’d think I was crazy. I put on a bright smile. “I don’t know . . . uh, but I just felt a little faint. I’m fine now, though.”

Mrs. Sinclair looked at Mr. Sinclair, and they both turned back to me. “Are ye now?” They spoke at the same time, echoing each other.

I looked at my watch, remembered I wasn’t wearing one, and took the last cookie. Biscuit.

Mr. Sinclair stood and helped his wife to her feet. We packed our few belongings in the rucksacks and headed back to the trail. I turned to look at the peaceful meadow one more time.

“It was here we—my Peigi and I—were together for the last time.” The ghost stood close to my right shoulder but did not touch me.

“When was that?” I asked.

Mr. Sinclair turned around. “When was what, lassie?”

This was going to be harder than I thought. “Just muttering to myself,” I said. And to the resident ghost. I waited until the Sinclairs walked farther downhill. “I guess this is good-bye,” I said. What was I supposed to do? Shake hands? Nuh-uh.

He inclined his head.

I walked a few yards and tuned back to wave. He was right behind me. “Go away! I don’t want you following me.”

“I believe I must. My Peigi’s shawl . . . I canna seem to . . . ” His words drifted away into a silence almost as confused as the look on his face.

Whatever was I going to tell Karaline?

At the bottom of the trail, I veered off toward the porta potty.

“We’ll wait for you . . .”

“. . . in the car,” the Sinclairs said.

I opened the blue door. “Inside, you,” I whispered with my teeth clenched.

We were fairly cramped. These things were designed for one person at a time. His head brushed the top. Damn, he was tall. I thought people had been short in the fourteenth century. As close as we were standing, I had to tilt my head back. I got an unexpectedly good look at his upper incisors. They were big, strong, and very white.
This would be a great place for him to turn into a vampire. Stop it, Peggy.

“What is this place?” He sounded a bit awed. Maybe that was why his mouth had been hanging open.

“It’s a porta potty.” When he looked blank, I added, “A loo.” Still blank. “A privy.”

Understanding dawned. “A necessary?”

I nodded.

“Why did ye bring me in here? I dinna have to pass water.”

“We’re here because it’s the only place I can speak to you in private. Now, you listen. We’re about to get into a car—”

“A what?”

“Hush. A car. It’s like a little house on wheels.”

“Why would we get into—?”

“No, wait, it’s more like a wagon that’s all closed up.”

“And how d’ye open it?”

“That’s not the point!” It’s hard to shout when you’re whispering. “The point I’m trying to make is that you have to be absolutely quiet. You cannot ask a single question while we’re in the car. Do you understand?”

“Why not?”

“Because I won’t be able to answer you. Mr. and Mrs. Sinclair are already looking at me funny. I don’t want them to think I’ve gone barmy.”

“What is barmy?”

“Mad. Crazy.” I threw up my hands. “Now, will you keep your mouth closed until we’re alone again.” It wasn’t a question.

“Ye tell me I have been deid for more than six hundred years. In all that time I have not said a word, and now ye want me to keep my mouth closed?”

“Yes. That’s right.” I almost felt sorry for him. Almost.

A small spider dangled down between us, slowly spinning out her silk as she passed in front of his face. I backed out and held the door open. This was ridiculous. How was I going to . . .

It was worse than I could have imagined. I slipped into the backseat behind Mr. Sinclair, motioning surreptitiously for the ghost to follow me in. But of course I had to slide to the other side to make room for him. And the door was still open. “You stay here,” I said to him, hoping the Sinclairs would think I was talking to them. “The door seems to have stuck.” I got out, walked around the car, checked to be sure his dirk was out of the way, closed the door, walked back to the passenger’s side, and got in.

Mr. Sinclair adjusted the rearview mirror so he could peer at me. Mrs. Sinclair had swiveled around in her seat.

“The picnic lunch was a lovely idea, Mrs. Sinclair. I enjoyed it thoroughly.”

She made a sound, low in her throat, and turned around to face forward. “Drive us home, Mr. Sinclair. I think our lassie could use a wee lie-down before bed.”

I heard a whispered comment at my side. “Where are the horses?”

A Wee Pub of My Own

I
conducted an extremely sketchy history lesson in a whisper while the Sinclairs thought I was napping. Finally, I asked, “Did you ever meet Chaucer?”

“Chaucer?”

“You would have loved the Wife of Bath.”

“The wife—”

“Never mind. That’s an English major joke.”

“A joke? Ye’ve stolen my Peigi’s shawl, I am apparently dead, and ye
jest
?” Each syllable sounded like a dirge tone. “Ye are most unladylike.”

I expelled a heavy breath. “You think so? It’s a good thing you aren’t coming with me to America. You’d be appalled.”

He looked faintly puzzled. “And where would that be? I know of no town by that name. Is this where your Mr. Shakespeare lives?”

I was supposed to teach a comprehensive history lesson to someone who’d never heard of the Declaration of Independence? Who last took a breath around the time of Chaucer? “And just to set the record straight, I did not steal this shawl. I paid for it.”

“My Peigi would never sell that shawl.”

“I didn’t say I bought it from
her
. What are you doing wearing a belted plaid, anyway? They weren’t in common use until the end of the fifteenth century.”

“My plaid?” He patted the fabric draped across his chest. “I wear it all the time.”

“Tell that to the historians.”

“Ye make no sense, woman.”

“Come on, I’m hungry. There’s a pub down the road where I usually eat my evening meal.”

He trailed along beside me. When we got close, he sighed. “At last,” he said, “some place I recognize.”

“You know this pub?”

“Weel, not this precise building. I dinna ken your word
pub
.” He looked at the surrounding hills as if to orient himself. “There was an inn here—built of wood it was, not fine stone like this. It was here when I was . . . when I used to . . .” His voice faded away. “More than six hundred years? How can that be?”

“I wish I knew.”

“Aye. Me, too. But I suppose it would take more than six hundred years to design a way to put a hundred tiny horses underneath a carriage.”

He obviously hadn’t understood the internal combustion engine. “Too bad I don’t have my college history book here. You could read up on what’s been happening in the world for all this time.” Thanks to my dad, I had a hefty interest in a lot of subjects, history included. Not that I always remembered the details.

“Read? Aye. I can read. But—ye own a book?”

“A book? Of course. I’ve got dozens of them.”

He stopped walking. “I didna ken ye were wealthy.”

“Huh? What are you talking about?”

“Books. Ye said ye had dozens of them.” He sounded a bit exasperated. “How is that possible if ye are not wealthy?”

Six or seven hundred years ago, the only books were in churches and monasteries, and possibly the homes of the nobility. No wonder he thought I was rich. Even one book would have been a priceless treasure.

I put my hands over my face and shook my head. “There was this guy named Gutenberg, about two hundred years after you.” I gave up for the moment and opened the pub door. “Let’s eat.”

“I wish I could,” he said as the light streamed onto the pavement. He didn’t cast a shadow.

I ordered at the counter, chose a relatively quiet corner, and pulled a chair out for him before I sat down.

He hesitated and sat carefully. “I didna ken if I would be able to sit on anything except the earth,” he said with such a simple yearning in his voice, my heart went out to him.

“Looks like you made it,” I said, careful to keep my voice low. “Congratulations. But you sat in the car, remember?”

“Och, aye. I’d forgotten that. I was so worrit about where the horses were, I didna stop to think about sitting.”

I laughed, but then we lapsed into silence, which was a good thing because the waitress brought the soup and tea I’d ordered. “Anything else I can get for ye?”

“No. Thank you.”

She looked at the chair pulled out away from the table. “Are ye expecting someone?”

“No. No, I’m not.”

Her forehead furrowed.

“I like to stretch my legs out,” I said.

“Shall I take awa’ the chair then?” She moved toward it and Macbeth scrambled to stand.

“No! No, it’s fine just the way it is. Thank you.”

She gnawed a bit at her lower lip. “If ye say so.”

I nodded, and she left with only one backward glance.

I wasn’t much of a companion. Whatever was I going to do with a ghost? I couldn’t spend the rest of my life toting him around, could I? Did my great-grandmother ever have to pull out a chair so a ghost could sit? Did she ever have to watch her conversations so people wouldn’t think she was crazy?

Doggone it. The whole family
did
think my great-grandmother was crazy. Was this why? Did she know a ghost? Ghosts? Was I hallucinating or had I somehow inherited this ability? Was I going to be able to see other ghosts? I looked around the pub. Surely over the centuries people had died here. Would their ghosts be hanging out? Everybody looked alive to me, but then, so did the hunk—I mean the guy—at my table.

“Are ye worrit?” His soft voice called me back to the pub. “That scowl on your face reminds me of my aulde auntie who had a roily stomach.”

Could I tell him?
You show up in my life and I’m wondering how to get rid of you.
“I’m just a little worried about something going on at home.” That was true enough. My cheating former boyfriend, who I did not want to see ever again. “Still, I can’t do anything for a couple more days. I have to shop tomorrow.”
And stop thinking about Mason. Oh, good grief, Winn. Chill out.
“And then we have to leave. I’ve already paid for the ticket. . . .”

“Ticket? What would . . .”

“. . . and it’s not transferrable. I suppose you’ll be coming with me.”

His voice rang out in indignation. “I dinna intend to leave.”

“Whyever not?”

“My Peigi, my pearl, is here.” He spoke simply, but sincerely.

I hugged the shawl around me. “I don’t think you have much choice in the matter.”

“Ye could leave the shawl behind.”

“No!” Our voices, except for that one burst of laughter, had been quiet, but my startled cry in response to his request stopped the party in progress across the room. Everyone turned to look at me, and the proprietor, Mr. Graham, hurried over to our table. To my table.

“Is something wrong, miss?”

I groped about for an excuse. “I’m sorry, I just read something that startled me. I didn’t mean to disturb anyone.”

He looked at the table, at my lap.

I didn’t have a book with me. Should have thought about that. “On my cell,” I said. “On the Internet.” I lifted my phone from my purse and waved it in front of me. “I should know better than to read during a meal.”

He nodded and hurried away to the other tables, probably to assure them that all was well with the eccentric American. I’d eaten here so many times over the past six years, I felt like I owned part of it, but Mr. Graham still didn’t understand me.

I finished my soup quickly, paid, and left with my wee ghostie in my wake.

We walked for several blocks before he said anything. “Why can ye no leave the shawl?”

“I just can’t, that’s all. I just can’t. It would be like leaving a part of myself behind.”

Until I said it, I hadn’t realized how important the shawl had become to me. I didn’t want to be without it. Ever. I glanced down, and the white stripe seemed to shimmer in the moonlight.

*   *   *

It was when
we walked in the front door of the Sinclair cottage that I realized there might be a problem.

Bed.

I looked at the broad shoulders of my wee ghostie.

The Sinclairs sat in front of their telly, as they called it, and waved to me as I walked toward the stairs. “Did you have . . .”

“. . . a lovely meal?” they asked in their back-and-forth pattern.

I barely paused. “Yes, thank you, but I’m tired. I think I’ll go on to bed now,” and kept walking.

“Sleep well, dearie, and we’ll . . .”

“. . . see you at breakfast, lassie.”

I climbed the stairs, unusually aware of the ghost behind me. The dimly lit stairs were too narrow for two people at a time, and I was glad he couldn’t see my face. We reached the top, and I paused outside my door. “I have to tell you something,” I said. “You can’t come in my room. I wouldn’t feel comfortable with you hovering around while I’m trying to sleep.”

“I do believe I know how ye feel. I wouldna verra much like to spend the whole night hovering, as ye say, either.”

“Can you stay out here in the hall?”

He looked around him, considering the question. He stepped—or rather, tried to step away from me, but about six feet from me, he pulled up short, as if he’d walked into a wall. “I canna.”

“Why not?”

Mrs. Sinclair’s voice came up from the bottom of the stair. “What did ye say, dearie?” She climbed a step or two. “I was on my way into the kitchen, and I thought I heard ye call. Are ye alright now?”

I looked over the bannister. “I’m fine, Mrs. Sinclair. I was just . . . humming to myself.”

She retreated, and he whispered, “It doesna look verra comfortable out here, and I dinna think I can move verra far awae from you, from my Peigi’s shawl.”

“You don’t have to whisper,” I grumped in as quiet a tone as I could manage. “She can’t hear you.” I opened my door and glanced back at the utilitarian hallway. “This is ridiculous. Okay. Come on in if you must. And close the door, please.”

There was a deep silence, and I looked over my shoulder. “I canna,” he finally said, shrugging helplessly.

“Sorry. I forgot.” I motioned him inside, brushed past him, and closed the door quietly. “You can sit over there,” I pointed to a wingback chair of extra-large proportions, “but I’m going to turn it around to face the window. You’ll have to promise not to peek.”

He rubbed his hand over his chin, and I could hear a faint rasping. I guess his last shave was six or seven hundred years ago, plus about two days. I grinned, but he wasn’t looking at me. “Would it no be easier if ye just folded the shawl and set it aside?”

“What?”

“All this day I have been with ye, and ye have been wearing yon shawl. What would happen if ye took it off?”

It seemed such a reasonable suggestion, I was surprised I hadn’t thought of it myself. I lifted the shawl from my shoulders, folded it into a soft bundle, and set it on the chair. And he was gone.

I snatched the shawl back up again, and he stumbled into view.

“Dinna do that!”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t . . . It was . . . I was . . . Did I hurt you?”

“No, but ye scairt the . . . ye scairt me something terrible.”

I folded the shawl once more. “I’ll see you in the morning,” I said, and laid it gently down.

“Rest ye w—”

I took a quick bath and got ready for bed, but I was too restless. This was crazy. Absolutely insane. How could I have a ghost in my life? Was I imagining it? I touched the shawl with one finger. It was real enough. If I’d gone mad, then this was all pretty convincing. I paced around the room two or three times, sat on the side of the bed and brushed my hair, stood and stretched as high as I could onto my tiptoes. I’d been lazing off. Hadn’t gone through my usual yoga routine this morning. If only Mason . . .
Stop it!
I moved the chair to one side and folded myself into
Sukhasana
, open palms resting on my crossed legs, hoping it would settle me down.

I guess it helped a little bit. Or maybe it was that, after I’d blown out the candle, I lifted the folded shawl from the chair, pushed Mrs. Sinclair’s puffy pillow out of the way, and curled up with my head on an ancient white line.