Hooked on Ewe (3 page)

The inspector seemed put out, but it wouldn’t be for long. I continued on with growing glee. “Isla could use him in the welcome tent,” I told him. “I’m sure Sean won’t mind lending a hand there.”

“Brilliant!” the inspector exclaimed, getting his enthusiasm back.

It
was
brilliant on my part, if I did say so myself.
Jamieson would be rid of Sean, I’d be free from Isla’s clutches, and Sean really wouldn’t mind, especially since Vicki was giving tractor rides from a position right next to the welcoming committee. With a small amount of effortless reorganization, I’d just made all three of us very happy.

“The two of us need tae have a chin wag,” the inspector said next, placing a hand lightly on my elbow. “A private one, if ye don’t mind.”

Isla, as if sensing she was about to lose one of her minions, called over, “We could use a helping hand over here with the tent, Eden. We don’t have much time left. Ye cannae expect the others tae do all the work!”

“I’m afraid Ms. Elliott is occupied in a matter o’ important police business,” the inspector informed Isla with the proper authority in his tone. Then, lower to me as we moved farther away, “Let her stew over that fer a while. Besides, it won’t hurt the nag tae work with her own hands for a change instead o’ exercising her mouth muscles.”

We handed an amiable Sean over to the welcoming committee, where Isla promptly put him to work moving Oliver Wallace’s van into the shade of a silver maple at the far end of the parking lot.

“Over there,” she ordered, pointing to the general area of Sean’s own Renault. “On the far side o’ that beat-up old clunker.”

Sean grimaced at the insult, but Isla didn’t notice. “Oliver always leaves the keys in the ignition, so no need tae track down the slacker,” she complained. “I don’t know how he manages tae disappear every time I turn my back.”

“And yerself,” she turned to Lily Young, who’d appeared on the shop porch with Vicki, whose arms were filled with paper satchel kits containing this month’s skeins of yarn. “Pull yer finger out.”

Pull your finger out?
I shot a questioning glance at the inspector, who clarified. “It means tae hurry up.”

Instead of obeying, Lily ignored Isla. As we watched, Vicki shook her head firmly and tucked the kits protectively against her body. Lily was obviously disappointed as she walked slowly over to help erect the tent.

“What’s the story there?” the inspector asked me.

I explained about Vicki’s new project with the yarn club and how overly successful the venture had been (if such a thing even exists in the business world—I suppose it does; too much demand, not enough supply). “I suspect Lily didn’t get in on the initial wave of members,” I said as Vicki joined us, “but was still hoping to claim a kit.”

“That’s it exactly,” Vicki agreed. “She’s on the waiting list, but that one has a bit of push and shove in her makeup, I’d say. I’m going to enlist Sean to help me hand these out to the
actual
members and to guard them from the likes of Lily.” And off she went, still defensively clutching her treasures.

After that, the inspector and I walked up the lane. Despite what he’d told Isla about having important business to discuss with me, whatever was on his mind didn’t seem to be too pressing. Why, I wondered, was he still here?

Perhaps the inspector’s official business announcement had been for Isla’s benefit. Or rather mine, to get me out of there. Whichever, I appreciated the excuse to escape. If he had anything to discuss, he’d get around to it. Our conversation centered on topics such as the current sunny skies, and which of the sheep dog competitors stood the best chance of winning the trials. The inspector favored Bryan Lindsey.

“Herself has hen-pecked that man practically into an early grave,” the inspector said, referring to Isla. “But he’s still the
best sheep dog trainer in Glenkillen. Nothing like a wife such as that tae keep a man’s nose tae the grindstone.”

I laughed. The inspector had found some positive in with the negative, but he was more generous than I was. In my opinion, Isla and her ilk were best appreciated from afar. Life is too short to let others drag you down.

I heard the tractor start up inside the barn, which was a honey-colored structure that fit the Highland landscape to a tee. We stood aside as Kirstine’s husband, John Derry, drove it out through the open barn doors, pulling a large wagon filled with hay bales intended as seating for arriving spectators. The trial field wasn’t especially far out from the parking area, but those who had difficulty walking or who were accompanied by small children would appreciate the ride. John nodded an almost imperceptible greeting as he drove past us, and slight as it had been, I decided I was making progress with him, if not with his wife. I’d take the nod as a hopeful sign.

While the inspector stayed outside to answer a call on his cell phone, I went inside the barn to collect a couple of lawn chairs to carry over to the field. Jasper, the farm’s barn cat, greeted me with a soft meow from the hayloft above. Ordinarily he’d be sunning himself outside the barn doors, but he was a classic introvert who chose to disappear when too much activity was going on around him.

“Does that call mean you have to leave?” I asked when Inspector Jamieson returned the phone to his pocket.

“I have a bit o’ time tae spend.”

We walked past the refreshment tent and over to a spot along the perimeter of the field where another group of volunteers had just finished putting up gates in strategic
places. Six sheep bleated and huddled together nervously within an enclosed pen. Since spectators were beginning to assemble, I knew it must be nine and the show was about to begin.

As the newcomer that I am to Glenkillen’s community events, experiences such as this sheep dog trial have an aura of mystery and excitement about them. I could feel it in the air, an unmistakable electric energy. Vicki’s next-door neighbor, Leith Cameron, and his border collie Kelly would be competing in the early afternoon. Kelly had been a superior herding dog in her youth, and was sure to take the older dog division.

As Leith had explained to me, sheep trials were an important part of Highland life. They were healthy competitions among shepherds to see which of them had the best sheep dogs. While a sheep dog could be any type of dog capable of learning the ropes, the Scots insisted that the only true herder was the border collie—based on what I’d seen of Kelly, they were highly intelligent, blazingly fast, and really loved to work.

“Trials are run over an obstacle course,” Leith had told me, “and competitors are assigned points by the judges based on their performance. Each dog is scored on different aspects, including the time it takes to complete the course. The object is to move yer sheep as steadily as possible without spooking them. If that happens they run every which way. That’s why ye’ll see the handlers signaling to the dogs to lie down before approaching slowly.”

I couldn’t wait to see the trials with my own eyes.

Harry Taggart, the man responsible for spearheading these events and one of today’s judges, arrived on the field,
signaling the beginning of the sheep dog trials. Harry was tall and thin, well into his fifties, and had never married. Perhaps that accounted for his coltish physique, not having access to as much comfort food as the typical married man. With his round shoulders and wire spectacles, I’d easily pegged him as the financial type. A banker, perhaps. Which I’d learned he had been at one time, before accepting the position at the hospice several years back. Now he was the chief executive officer of the Glenkillen Hospice Center.

The spectators gathered, some with their own dogs—all on the required leashes. An eager young black-and-white border collie and his handler appeared on the field, the apprehensive sheep were released, and the youth division was under way.

It was fascinating to watch the dogs and handlers work together. Sharp varying whistles combined with short voice commands were all the dogs needed to herd the sheep from one end of the immense field to the other, with some pretty impressive maneuvers through a maze of gates, culminating with the remarkable feat of separating the herd into two groups of three sheep each, and finally corralling the herd inside the pen.

According to the program, twenty-five handlers and their dogs would be competing in three separate divisions based on age and ability—young dogs, older dogs, and those in top-notch condition, but most of the competitors aside from John and Leith were unknown to me.

I suspected that much like John Derry, the other handlers probably tended to prefer the company of animals to humans, and so didn’t frequent the same places I did, or
at least not at the same time. John had his share of pints at the Kilt & Thistle in Glenkillen, but I was done with my writing and gone from town before his day at the farm usually ended.

I’ve been spending a lot of my time at the Kilt & Thistle, which was where I did most of my writing. The farm doesn’t have Internet access, which I need for my research as well as for communication with Ami and the rest of the outside world. So nearly every day I make the twenty-minute drive into the main thoroughfare of Glenkillen, taking my life into my hands on the Highland narrow roadways, navigating as best I can on the left side (which is the wrong side where I come from).

The other reason I leave the farm to write is that Vicki isn’t very good at giving me the privacy I need to feed my creative spark. If she isn’t interrupting my train of thought for one thing or the other, her two white Westie terriers, Pepper and Coco, are. The dogs are as sweet as can be, but they demand a lot of attention without any regard for my other obligations.

So I take my laptop to the pub to write. It may seem counter-intuitive, but I find it easier to concentrate when I’m at the pub surrounded by people. I easily tune out pub noise and enter my characters’ world. The drone of voices actually acts as white noise.

Of course, these days, I mostly stare at the monitor, practicing deep breathing exercises to control my blood pressure, and checking for incoming e-mails of the disastrous sort. Right now, Ami Pederson, that pushy and sometimes crazy friend whom I admire so much, is reading the
manuscript in spite of my resistance. I’d wanted to go right into yet another round of revisions, but she’d been adamant that I needed to step back for a few weeks and give her a chance to look it over.

Any day now I was expecting an e-mail from her telling me the storyline of
Falling for You
didn’t work, and I should head back to Chicago to return to the occasional freelance editorial job or ghostwriting contract augmented by any special projects Ami could come up with for me.

To say I was a little nervous about her opinion would be an enormous understatement. My fingernails would be nibbled to stubs if I were the nail-chewing type. It’s disturbing to find out just how paralyzed with fear I can become when my writing is under this kind of intense scrutiny.

I pushed all thoughts of my work in progress aside and concentrated on the trials in front of me.

The last dog in the youth division drove his sheep through a gate and back into a small pen. The pro division was next, and had the most contenders. We watched John work his dogs, then the inspector pointed out Isla Lindsey’s husband, Bryan, as he took the field. Bryan was a slight, unremarkable man who I bet wouldn’t have stood out on his own off the field. Here, though, he had an opportunity to shine. And he did.

From what I could tell as a layperson, both John Derry and Bryan were top-notch handlers, a cut above the others they were competing against. I couldn’t imagine how the judges would be able to decide who would be the winner. It was as clear as mud to me.

I couldn’t take my eyes off the action, caught up in the excitement of the moment. After several more of the working dogs had strutted their stuff, I glanced over and caught Inspector Jamieson watching me instead of the sheep. He quickly shifted his gaze away.

“I don’t know about you, but I’m thirsty,” I said hastily, standing up, feeling uncomfortable after having been observed without being aware of it. What had the astute inspector found of such interest?

“Then it’s tae the big tent fer us,” he muttered, rising with me.

We sauntered over to the tent, which was as big an attraction as the trial field. It had taken major effort to erect yesterday and had required massive manpower. Whoever had decided it needed to go up the day before knew what they were talking about. At the moment, the tent was the place to be.

I’ve discovered in my three months in the Highlands that the Scots love all things deep-fried. The food committee had outdone itself in that department. In addition to the basic fish and chips, there were Scotch pies and sausage rolls, bacon rolls and fried pizza (which I’d been advised was really good with a sprinkle of salt and a little vinegar), and my particular favorite—deep-fried Mars bars. Dangerously delicious.

My eyes took in those offerings, but were drawn to Senga Hill’s cupcake table. Senga, who had been born Agnes but decided to spell it backward and rechristened herself Senga, was a retired bakery owner in her sixties who had sold her business but never lost interest in baking sweet, delectable treats. Today, she was selling adorable
sheep-shaped cupcakes, decorated with mini marshmallows for fleece, candy eyeballs, and . . .

“What did you use to make their little heads?” I asked her after gravitating to her table while the inspector stood in conversation with one of the locals.

“Toffee,” she said, wrapping one wayward strand of her gray bob behind an ear to keep it off her face. “I warmed them up a bit tae shape the heads and used a toothpick tae poke holes fer the nostrils. Do ye want one?”

“Yes, absolutely, but later,” I told her.

“They’re goin’ fast,” Senga warned.

“Save one for me. Please?”

“Aye. I can do that for ye, Eden.”

Once the inspector rejoined me, I followed his lead, passing up all those
un
-heart-healthy choices—for now. We both ordered tea, which we took to the end of a long table. The other side was occupied by Dr. Keen and Paul Denoon, Glenkillen’s postmaster. We sat down and exchanged pleasantries. Or at least most of us did. Denoon hadn’t bothered to be friendly with me from the beginning, and he didn’t start now.

Dr. Keen and Paul Denoon were in their eighties, and both refused to retire. Denoon had thick, coarse white eyebrows that jutted in every direction, and a shriveled frame that reminded me of a wiry, aging terrier. His aim was to be the longest-servicing postmaster in the Highlands and at this point he was only two years away from his goal.