Hooked on Ewe (8 page)

“Baker?” My first thought was of Taste of Scotland, which was just down the cobblestone street from the pub. “Was it shortbread?”

He shook his head just as I got a flash of insight. “Cupcake,” I said with pride as he changed that shake into a nod. “She’d eaten one of Senga Hill’s sheep-shaped cupcakes.”

“Aye, though Senga said just now that she’s positive Isla didn’t buy one from her directly. But one important piece o’ information as I said—some o’ the ingredients were still undigested. Not semi-digested. Undigested.”

The inspector was watching me carefully, as though waiting for a math student to figure out a complex equation. Digested, undigested, semi-digested, I’d have to be a coroner to hazard a guess.

I didn’t know what he expected, so I shrugged instead. “I’m not following.”

“That’s because there’s more. Trace elements of a certain compound were discovered along with those miniature marshmallows and candy eyeballs. It turns out that someone doped Isla Lindsey up on sleeping tablets prior to her death.”

“Oh my goodness! Sleeping pills? Were they mixed into the cupcake somehow?”

“Aye. The coroner suggested tablets could have been crushed and sprinkled on the frosting without herself detecting anything amiss. And the quantity of the drug was such to ensure she was rendered unconscious.”

“Massive quantities of sugar also could have disguised any unusual taste,” I said, thinking out loud, “no matter how bitter, and those cupcakes were a sugar lover’s dream.”

All kinds of thoughts went through my head. None of them warm and cozy. Someone had fed our victim a loaded cupcake then somehow enticed her into Oliver’s van, and once she was unconscious, had wrapped yarn around her neck and strangled her.

“Has the type of sleeping pill been identified yet?”

“Aye. ’Tis a new one on the market, just recently approved, in a certain class called Z drugs.”

That didn’t mean much to me, not yet anyway.

“Isla likely knew her killer,” Inspector Jamieson added. “She wouldn’t have climbed into a vehicle with a complete stranger.”

“But we can’t assume she even went to the van with another person,” I pointed out. “She might have been sitting there alone.” But why? Isla and her husband had driven in their own vehicle. If she’d needed a place to find a bit of solitude or rest, a place to take a nap, she’d have gone to her own camper.

Perhaps she went there specifically to meet with someone. That could have been the way it played out. Isla could have eaten the doctored cupcake a little in advance. The killer wasn’t taking unnecessary chances. That person had waited for Isla to drop off into la-la land, then it was a simple maneuver to wrap yarn around the incapacitated woman’s neck and strangle her.

Most important, it meant that the killer wouldn’t have had to be particularly strong after all. He—or she—would’ve had the effects of the sleeping pills on his or her
side. Isla wouldn’t have struggled, or even known what was happening to her.

“At this point all our ideas are nothing but guesswork,” the inspector said. “It’ll take solid detective work to find the truth o’ the matter. And I’m forced tae admit that we need Sean’s assistance as well.”

“Where do we begin to sort this out?” I asked.

“We need a list of all yarn club members and their addresses for starters. We will have tae systematically exclude those kits that are intact. We begin by working our way through the list, one name at a time, eliminating suspects as we go along, and that’s only one o’ the burdens facing us.”

No wonder he wanted my assistance. Thirty-five members to track down and question and as many kits to inspect. Then looking into any others around them who might have had access. A daunting task.

“I can get that list of members from Vicki for you,” I said, as the rational part of my brain protested. An appropriate phrase came to mind:
When you find yourself in a self-made hole, at some point you should stop digging
.

“Excellent,” the inspector said before I thought to stop digging, showing rare enthusiasm. “And I’ll track down those sleeping pills. They’re available only by prescription. It’s a good lead, a lucky break.”

“Yes, lucky,” I agreed. Isla hadn’t been nearly as lucky. She’d eaten a cupcake containing a high dose of sedatives and then had been finished off by a vicious killer, the life literally choked out of her. I stared glumly into space.

Jamieson rose and placed a hand gently on my shoulder.
“Murder investigations take a bit o’ getting used tae,” he said. “But I believe you’re up to the task,
Constable
Elliott.”

With that, he had me stand and take an oath of allegiance. I repeated word for word after him, promising to preserve peace and prevent offenses against persons and Scotland. After the swearing in, the inspector presented me with a card that he’d already had made up with my name, the letters “SC” for Special Constable, and my new title of police officer.

“That’s yer official warrant card,” he told me. “Be sure tae carry it on yer person at all times.”

“Can I make arrests now?” I asked.

That earned me a worried scowl. “I strongly advise against it. If ye find yerself in a difficult situation, dial 999 and request assistance. Then remain at a safe distance until help arrives.”

“That’s hardly the actions of a law enforcement official,” I complained. “Anybody can call for help and hide until it arrives.”

“Hopefully ye won’t encounter any problems off on yer own.” He was still scowling as though just now realizing that stumbling upon trouble was a distinct possibility considering my history. Perhaps he was having regrets already.

Too late,
I thought.
For both of us.

I gave my new boss a weak smile that probably came across as a grimace, if the way I was feeling at the moment was any indication of my outward appearance.

I stared at my new Scottish police badge.

I was now a card-bearing authority.

Constable Elliott. Writer of romances, investigator of
murders. A new title and position that twenty-four hours ago, when Inspector Jamieson had first approached me with his request, I’d taken so lightly.

I hoped he wasn’t being overly optimistic with his encouragement and decision to recruit me.

So much for pretending the part.

I’d been cast in the role of special constable.

And I still didn’t have that pepper spray.

After a perfunctory handshake to seal our deal, the inspector departed to conduct more interviews with those closest to the murder victim. He gave me his solemn word that he would keep me informed every step of the way. I gave him my own verbal commitment to make myself available to assist in any way I could, starting with obtaining a list of the yarn club members.

I suddenly realized that our new working relationship had the potential to turn our casual friendship into a much more formal arrangement. I hadn’t considered that and wasn’t sure I liked the idea.

I issued a warning to myself. Belated, this time, but I needed to remember it for the future:

Be careful what you ask for—you might actually get your wish, Eden Elliott.

I’d been pleased as punch when Inspector Jamieson had first approached me with his offer to replace Sean as
special constable. I’m sure his proposal fed my ego, as I’d already been fantasizing about the power that came with the position, conveniently forgetting that it also came with enormous responsibility.

The take-charge part of me really wanted to stay involved in a hands-on way, carry on with the duties I’d sworn to, make sure this killer was brought to justice. Once I’d managed my way through the initial discovery of the body, I felt pretty good about the actions I’d taken on Saturday. I’d risen to the occasion. Unlike Sean Stevens or Oliver Wallace.

However, the saner part of me was shouting—
Run! You don’t have any experience or proper training! Quit while you’re ahead,
it murmured.
What is a romance novelist doing meddling in crime solving of any sort, especially when it comes to the most evil and horrible kind of all?

I made an effort to weigh both sides of the argument waging war in my head. But from the very beginning it was a no-brainer, which in my case meant I ignored my brain and instead chose to follow my sappy, misinformed heart, romanticizing all the way. I’d serve up justice by bringing down a killer. Maybe not single-handedly (I’m perfectly aware that I am
not
Super Woman), but as one of the lead characters, side by side with the detective assigned to the case.

So, I reasoned,
all
the inspector and I had to do was follow a series of steps. Something had happened, most likely during the morning sheep dog trials, to force Isla Lindsey’s killer to take drastic action in spite of extremely high risk. At the moment, a motive wasn’t apparent. It was crucial that we find one. A tall order to fill.

Just as difficult, we had to pinpoint a spectator with
plenty of opportunity. At this point, that could be pretty much anyone who was out at the farm in the afternoon. Isla went to the van sometime after one thirty in the afternoon to meet a person who chose that time and place and took that opportunity to commit murder. All within an approximately three-hour window.

As to the killer’s means, we already knew it involved yarn from one of Vicki’s club member kits. Add to the mix two hundred cupcakes baked by Senga Hill to track down, stir in a prescription for sleeping pills, and there was the perfect recipe for murder.

The task seemed impossible when I looked at all the pieces at once.

One thing I’ve learned from my career as a professional writer, whether ghostwriting, editing, or romance writing, is to become as organized as I can and methodically plot the story line. The whole picture doesn’t have to be viewed from the start. Some of it evolves over time. One thing leads to another. Hopefully, that skill, to look at parts first and let the whole come naturally, would translate well into detective work and come in handy to solve this crime.

So, the first item of business was to get that list of yarn club members and start working it.

Except . . .

I hadn’t navigated my way through the challenging, narrow, and winding roads of the Highlands just to brainstorm what was behind a murder plot. I could have done that from the cottage. I was here because I needed to make my book better before I could begin outlining the second book in my series.
Falling for You
, the first book in my Scottish Highlands Desire series, is set in a fictional village called
Rosehearty and tells the story of Gillian Fraser, a Scottish lass returning to her hometown to heal her broken heart, and Jack Ross, the ruggedly handsome owner of a local distillery (and also an avid fisherman, based more than loosely on Leith Cameron).

My plan after that book was to introduce a new romance for Gillian’s friend Jessica Bailey and Jack’s half brother, Daniel Ross. To put off worrying about Ami’s response, and because tweaking the manuscript had ceased to be fun, I tossed around ideas for the second title. It had to fit with the first title, leaving no question that they were part of the same series.
Made for You
? Or
Loving You
? For sure something with the word “you” in it. Keep it simple. Sweet, easy to remember, definitely one that a reader would instantly recognize as a romance. How about
Crazy for You
? Or
Hooked on You
?

Hooked on You
resonated at the moment, so I opted to use it as a working title. That decided, I powered up my laptop, brought up my e-mail, and with a great deal of trepidation peered into my in-box.

There were three recent e-mails from Ami Pederson. I began with the oldest and least intimidating, because the subject line told me enough about the content. My friend seemed to have a one-track mind when it came to Scottish men. The subject was, “Have you seen under a kilt yet?” I decided to completely ignore the contents of that one since I could probably have recited it verbatim without even opening it. I sent that same-old-subject e-mail to the trash receptacle.

The second e-mail was a status update that would have
left me ripping my hair out if I’d read it right after it came zipping through cyberspace from across the pond. Another valid reason for not being overly hasty in checking e-mail too frequently. It read simply, “I’m almost finished with
Falling for You
!!!!”

Really? That was the entire extent of it? One measly, nondescriptive sentence? Plus major overusage of exclamation marks. If I’d read this e-mail right after it had been sent, I would have had several carefully chosen, colorful adjectives to describe my best friend in Chicago. And a whole lot of hours to imagine my failure as a legitimate novelist. Not a single hint as to what she thought so far, unless the exclamation points were supposed to mean something good. Or, a much worse thought, what if she couldn’t find anything good to say about the manuscript?

I talked myself down from a rocky cliff of anxiety and turned my attention to the third and final e-mail, which had been sent not long before I’d entered the pub. The subject line jumped out at me. “Finished!!” I took a deep breath and opened it . . .

. . . To find a lengthy critique of my story. I took another deep breath, and began skimming, expecting the absolute worst. Instead my eyes landed on such phrases as “amazing sexual tension” and “fully realized characterizations” and “vivid sex scenes.” “I loved . . .” cropped up frequently.

I began to relax, my spirits soaring, especially after her final comments. “You might not be making much of a love life for yourself, but you have created a scorching hot one for Gillian and Jack. Way to go! If you need to abstain from sex to write like this, if you need to keep it all bottled
up inside of you to put it on the page as you’ve done, well then you have my blessing. No more pressure from me to explore those Scottish dreamboats. Well done! I still can’t believe you wrote this so fast! It’s good to go. Send it off to your editor. Scotland is obviously the elixir you needed.”

Followed by lots more exclamation points and a series of smiley faces.

All the tension I’d been carrying around these past few days drained away, even the stress of recent sad events. The knot in my stomach disappeared. My knitted brow straightened and my lips curled up with glee. I read Ami’s last e-mail over and over. And over again. I could have been one of the smiley faces she used in overabundance to make her points. Life was good.

After I forced myself down from cloud nine, I wrote back, gushing with gratitude. What a friend she was. I even wrote, “I loved, loved, loved your use of exclamations!!!”

Thinking back to her comment about the speed with which the book came together, I realized I really had finished like a flash of lightning. But I also knew that if I wanted to make a name for myself amongst other romance writers, I had to keep up with them in both quality
and
quantity.

Which wouldn’t leave me any spare time for a personal life, let alone allow me to squeeze in work as a special constable. Were romance writers living vicariously through their characters because their own lives were so bound to writing deadlines? I’d have to consider that. Although Ami Pederson had a wonderful marriage, and from the tales she’d told me, it was as hot as her bestsellers. So that gave me hope that someday I really could have my cake and eat
it, too. But right now I was a rookie at this. I’d eat my cake someplace down the road.

For the moment, my focus had to be on my work.

That’s what I told myself.

Myself didn’t listen.

I packed up my things, and headed for the farm with murder on my mind.