Hooked on Ewe (21 page)

“I’m not arrested?” Harry asked, as surprised as I was that he was still free. “I didn’t kill her, ye know. I had no reason tae kill her. Isla did a good job with the volunteers
and sure, she could be overbearing at times, but she took care o’ business as though it were her own.”

Harry would have done himself a big favor by keeping quiet for the time being. He was off the hook for the moment and he should have taken advantage of it. Instead he gave the inspector more food for thought.

“Yet ye had words with her after the meeting,” Jamieson said. “Over discrepancies and by then ye knew from the audit that she’d been embezzling from the hospice. That sounds like a possible reason tae me.”

“But why would I murder her? All I wanted was the money returned. I was willing tae look the other way once that happened. No sense destroying the woman. She was misguided, was all.”

All the while we’d been in Harry’s office, I’d wanted to mention Bill’s accusation, even though I was certain that the drunk had misread the meaning of the discussion between Harry and Isla. But Harry had been beside himself as it was, without that particular rumor raising its ugly head. Was I exceptionally sensitive to hurtful gossip and its lasting effect on others? Was that why I had been reluctant to broach it? Since the inspector hadn’t, either, I had to assume that I’d made the right decision to let it go.

But I was learning quickly that Jamieson did things in his own way in his own time.

“The local blether circulating has Isla creepin’ around on her husband,” he said now. “Your name came up in the mix o’ things.”

Harry’s mouth dropped open. When he composed himself, he said. “Ye cannae mean that! Our relationship was
strictly business. Her husband is a good friend . . .” he sputtered out.

“Perhaps she was involved with someone else?” I offered.

“Herself?” Harry said. “Not likely.”

“We’ll be in touch.” The inspector motioned to me that we were finished. “Harry, I expect ye won’t be leavin’ toon until this is cleared up tae my satisfaction.”

I stood up and gathered Andrea’s kit supplies.

Then we slipped out, leaving Harry with what would probably be a very long, agonizing day and a sleepless night.

As we walked to our cars, the inspector said matter-of-factly, “Harry didn’t kill Isla Lindsey.”

“I honestly hope not.”

“He didn’t.” He said this with utter conviction.

“And how did you determine his innocence?” I asked, bewildered.

“Harry Taggart is left-handed. Whoever killed Isla was right-handed.”

I thought about that as we paused by my car. Jamieson gave me the time to do so, waiting patiently to see if I would come to the same conclusion as he had based on one singular genetic characteristic. My mind passed over the cupcake and the sleeping pills. Nothing there that would exclude a lefty.

If the inspector was so certain that the murderer was right-handed, it had to have something to do with the yarn around Isla’s neck. If that had anything to do with the declaration that Harry was innocent, I was at a disadvantage.
I hadn’t been examining her throat that night. I’d only been handling the fallout.

My mind flicked back to the difficulty I’d had learning to tie my shoes. My mother had to find another left-handed adult to teach me. That’s when I realized that we lefties make the first loop using our left hand rather than our right, and the entire bow is backward. The same would apply to a knot.

“I got it!” I told him, making the connection. “The yarn used to strangle her had been knotted in such a way as to confirm that the killer was right-handed.”

“I dinnae even make the right-handed connection myself until Harry turned out tae be left-handed and then it clicked intae place.”

I tried to imagine tying the yarn around her neck as a right-hander would. Impossible. And especially in the heat of a moment such as that one must have been. Harry couldn’t have tied that knot any other way if his life depended on it.

The inspector seemed pleased with me, and I couldn’t help feeling like I had earned some of his respect this day.

“Well, there ye go, Constable,” he said, opening the door of his police car. “Well done. I’m off tae pester Senga Hill again.”

Just to be thorough, once the inspector had driven off, I went back inside. Harry was
not
happy to see me.

“Here,” I said to Harry, handing him the knitting needles and the yarn. “Give it a try with your right hand.” If Harry was ambidextrous, if he was a switch-knitter, we needed to know.

“That won’t work well,” he told me.

“Try,” I prodded him, wondering what percentage of the population could use both hands with equal skill. Very few, I imagined.

“I don’t see the point,” Harry balked.

“Humor me.”

And so Harry gave it a whirl.

And it was as awkward as it would have been for me. It wasn’t an act. He messed it up in exactly the same way that I would have.

As I started the Peugeot and headed toward the MacBride farm, I went over the conversation with Harry Taggart in my head. Everything that he’d said and done made sense—maybe not exactly the best way he could have handled the situation, but it rang true. Harry had been embarrassed to go public with his hobby, and so had resorted to what he thought were little fibs that turned into big falsehoods after Isla’s murder. Especially since he had to suspect that his missing yarn had been used as the murder weapon.

While I drove, I also considered again whether it was possible that Harry could have had enough wits about him, if he were the killer, to knot and bow the yarn as a right-hander would? Even after seeing the mess he’d made of right-handed knitting I had to admit to myself that it was not impossible, but highly unlikely. If I were asked to demonstrate a right-handed knot, I wouldn’t know how to begin. And I suspected that a right-hander couldn’t do a lefty tie,
either, even with practice. And the inspector, left-handed himself, had clearly reached the same conclusion.

But there still was the information supplied by Bill Morris. What was I to make of that? I had to believe it happened since Oliver saw them arguing and Bill confirmed that by saying he’d overheard Bryan accuse his wife of adultery. Then Lily had attested to some kind of affair without naming the other man involved, later retracting her statement. So something had gone on. And that could have a whole lot to do with her murder.

A cuckolded husband could have killed a cheating wife.

Or a bitter ex-employee with a knack for baking could have killed for revenge.

In my opinion, Harry was off the hook. Not only would it have been a stretch for him to accomplish the deed, but he hadn’t exactly had nerves of steel during the interrogation. Frankly, I didn’t think he had the audacity required to have killed Isla with his own yarn, tie a knot in a manner against his left-handed nature, then coolly disappear into the crowd. He’d practically fallen apart under questioning. The inspector was correct. Harry wasn’t our killer.

I found Vicki in the barn working with her beautifully dyed wool while her two Westies ran together in the field across the lane, steering clear of the alert sheep who watched their every move with unblinking intensity. The flock might be skittish around the border collies, but they were significantly larger than Coco and Pepper, and the Westies wisely respected that.

While observing the wool-drying process, I picked up Jasper and worked my hand along the barn cat’s black fur while he purred in contentment.

Vicki had fashioned drying racks from wood slats and chicken wire and had draped the wool over it. At the moment, she was fluffing the fleece.

“Almost dry,” she announced. “I can’t wait to begin spinning the Merry Mitten yarn.”

Vicki was back to her normal, happy self, so when she asked, “How’s the investigation going?” I gave a little shrug of dismissal and said, “Nothing much to talk about.” Which was true in a way. I wasn’t going to talk about it.

“Kirstine apologized to me for hiding the kits,” Vicki said next, which might have been one more reason why my friend was so content. “We’re back on firm ground with each other.”

“She spoke with me, too. Things are going to work out. And you did a wonderful job with the fleece.”

“It’s really turning out better than I expected,” she said. “Thanks for giving me the push I needed.” Vicki stretched with satisfaction. “After all this hard work, I think I’ll take a nap.”

“Expecting an exciting night?” I smiled. “Or recovering from one?”

“Aren’t you the nosy one,” she said with a wink, then headed for the house.

I released Jasper and sat down on a hay bale to think.

As much as I hated the thought, Senga Hill was still the most likely suspect at the moment. As it turned out, she had as much opportunity to steal Harry’s kit and commit murder as anyone else. She also had a motive, since Isla had had her dismissed from her bookkeeping position at the hospice without sufficient cause.

I envisioned two possible scenarios.

In the first, I imagined Isla as the thief, herself, accusing Senga of stealing, threatening to sully Senga’s name and future job prospects to get rid of her before Senga could stumble across her secret. And Senga subsequently lashing out.

In the second scenario, Senga
had
caught on to Isla, or maybe was becoming suspicious, and decided to blackmail her. But if Senga was cashing in by blackmailing Isla, why would she get rid of her source of revenue?

I was back to square one, theorizing without proof. Something had happened on Saturday to trigger her death. But what?

Jasper rubbed up against me as I called the inspector on my cell phone.

“Any luck with Senga?” I asked.

“She’s tougher than she looks. She insists she had no part in the murder. Unless we can drum up a witness who can place her near Harry’s truck or saw her near the van, we won’t likely be charging her. We need tae keep digging.”

Not through any more trash, I hoped.

“What about Bryan Lindsey? His wife might have been cheating on him. Even if she wasn’t and he thought she was . . .”

The inspector interrupted. “Lily Young has backed down on her claim, and Bryan says it was just a misunderstanding with no basis in actual fact. His sister agrees. Unless ye have new information . . .”

Which I didn’t.

“Eden, ye did yer job well and narrowed down the kits. Ye can go back tae yer writing noo if that suits ye.”

I was expecting as much, and I really needed to, so why
was I so reluctant? “I guess I should,” I said without any real conviction.

“Aye, I thought ye might.”

“You’ll call if you need me?”

“Aye. I will.”

We rang off but before I got up, I spent a few more minutes on my own. I rubbed the barn cat around each ear and scratched the top of his head, enjoying the serenity of his purr and the quiet of the farm. Jasper had been standoffish at the beginning. Now, he was becoming a real family member.

I decided it made sense for me to go to the pub to check my e-mail. As I strode toward the Peugeot with Jasper at my heels, Oliver’s white van pulled up and parked next to my car. Jasper turned tail at the intrusion and disappeared inside the barn, leaving me staring at the side of Oliver’s van. All the details of that horrible experience came rushing back when I saw that van.
My hand on the door handle, opening it, Isla’s body falling out . . .

“As ye can see, I’m behind the wheel once again,” Oliver said after getting out of the driver’s side. “I was determined tae sell it, but now that I’m driving her again, it’s getting easier. I always loved this van and hate the thought of trading her in.”

I nodded as though I understood, although I didn’t understand one bit. If the vehicle I drove had been the scene of a murder, I wouldn’t get back in it for all the money in the world. Those awful memories of finding her body would stay fresh in my mind for the rest of my life, without adding in that daily reminder. But that was me. Obviously Oliver was made of tougher stuff in that regard.

“And,” he went on, “it’s handy tae carry my boat supplies back and forth.”

“You have a boat?” I asked. Mention of one brought Leith to mind and our ride on the sea. And the promise of another.

“Aye, a bonny wee thing. She’s called
Slip Away
.”

“I like that name.”

Oliver smiled. “She’s a right good boat, she is.”

“What brings you out here today?” I asked him.

“Tae see how ye’re getting on and tae let ye know that it was amazing how ye took control o’ the situation on Saturday. And me as helpless as a newborn bairn.”

“You weren’t the only one having trouble,” I pointed out. Despite his police uniform, Sean Stevens had been just as paralyzed with shock as Oliver, maybe even more so.

“It was the trauma o’ having the dead body o’ somebody I knew so well falling out like that. I wasn’t prepared.”

“Totally understandable. It was a shock to me, too, but I didn’t know Isla nearly as long as the rest of you, so it wasn’t quite as personal.” Murder up close was personal enough no matter how you looked at it, but I was trying to make Oliver feel a little better. I went on. “Oliver, I’m glad you came by. I’d like to talk about that day and events leading up to it.”

“Aye, if we must.”

“You were at the Kilt & Thistle for that final planning meeting last Friday,” I said. “Harry tells me he mentioned his concerns about possible financial discrepancies to the group. Did that come as a surprise to you?”

“Aye, it did. None o’ us knew what tae say. Why would
anybody steal from the hospice? I’ve been involved in the planning and execution o’ every one o’ the events, and never got a whiff o’ anything underhanded. I still cannae believe it and hope an audit will put that worry tae rest.”

So, Oliver didn’t know that the audit was over or that Isla had been revealed as a thief. Unless Harry chose to make it public, or it gained prominence in the investigation, I supposed nobody would ever know now. Perhaps that was just as well.

“Let’s go back to the day of the trials on Saturday,” I said, deciding to throw out one of my theories. “I’m pretty sure that Isla made arrangements to meet someone in your van.”

Oliver’s face registered surprise. “Wha’?”

“Either before Saturday or earlier that day.”

“I highly doubt it.”

I pressed on. “But she insisted that Sean Stevens park your van on the very far side of the lot. And when he put it on the side of his own car nearest to the traffic and shop, she made him move it to the other side.”

“That isn’t much proof,” Oliver decided after a brief pause to consider.

“So I take it you don’t know anything about her meeting anyone?”

“That is only speculation on yer part. I understand that the inspector has asked fer yer help, and that’s well and good, but I hope ye don’t intend tae run riot with wild ideas.”

“Of course not.” I felt the beginning of some bristling on my part. “Do you have a better explanation as to why she was murdered in your van?”

“Bryan Lindsey is the one who needs watching,” Oliver said. “He’s a hard drinker. I can attest tae that. Friday night he had a few drams too many by the time we concluded our meeting and was in fine form. That sister o’ his likes tae stir him up. She was over at his table right after our meeting, putting ideas into his head. She caused quite the quarrel between her brother and his wife.”

Which I’d already found out, but not through Oliver. “Why didn’t you mention Andrea when you first told me about that situation?”

“I didn’t want to shine a bad light on her then. But I’ve since thought it over and I think she could have caused a dangerous situation with her nonsense.”

“Andrea Lindsey seems so harmless,” I said mildly, although Andrea had admitted to me that she
had
been trying to sabotage her brother’s marriage.

“If that’s what ye want to think. But I saw Isla go tae freshen up after our meeting and Andrea run over tae Bryan’s table. Then she took off and he had a face-off with Isla when she came and joined him.”

“The rumor going around is that Isla had a lover,” I said, just to see how he’d react. The truth was, I couldn’t imagine Isla with any man on the face of the earth. I could sort of understand Isla and Bryan’s marriage—they’d been together a long time, perhaps long enough for her to change from a decent woman to the hard person she’d become. But a new man on the side, with her dysfunctional personality?

No way!

Oliver apparently felt the same, because his reaction was to guffaw. “That’s preposterous! And one more reason
why I stay away from that sort o’ talk. Isla Lindsey was as loyal a wife as could be.”

I thought about some of her comments that day before she was killed—about Oliver being late as usual, and how he always left the keys in the ignition. More than casual acquaintances? “How close were you with Isla?”

“And what exactly are ye implying?” Oliver’s fair features were darkening.

“I’m not implying anything! In a murder investigation questions sometimes are sensitive. Please don’t take them personally.”

He calmed himself with a deep breath. “A murder inside his own vehicle will do that tae a man, make him touchy. And ye hardly dodge around a subject, do ye?”

“Just routine questions,” I told him, using the same line I’d heard the inspector employ when under scrutiny from a witness. “You knew her well?”

“To a degree. The lot o’ us have worked closely all summer. Sure, she got on my nerves, but she did a bang-up job. I used tae stick it tae her in small ways just tae get some say in.”

Yes, I recalled Oliver being a source of aggravation for Isla. Perhaps I was focusing too much on those small isolated occurrences, because I spoke without thinking the next question through. “Did you see Harry with the knitting club kit he picked up?” I asked.

“Noo, what’s that got tae do with the price o’ haggis?”

He had a point. Oliver didn’t have inside information, didn’t know that Harry’s kit had been stolen or that the skein from it had been used to strangle Isla. Harry and his truck would be of no importance as far as he was concerned.