A Wee Murder in My Shop (A ScotShop Mystery) Read Online Free

voice hardly startled me at all, it felt so much a part of this place. He called my name.
    “Peigi? Are ye now well then?” the voice said, soothingly, gently. Pay-ee-gee was how he pronounced it. I rather liked that, and I turned my head uphill to see who had spoken. My shoulder-length hair swung forward, and I brushed it back.
    “Och no!” the voice said. “Peigi! What have they done to your hair?” The distress of the burly gentleman who stood there was almost palpable, but there was a wavering shimmer around him, like heat waves above hot pavement, and I could—almost—see the far edge of the meadow through his billowing belted plaid. Heavy black hair blew back from his face, although I didn’t feel a wind. I began to think that perhaps I wasn’t the Peggy he was expecting. I began to wonder, too, if my great-grandmother had been telling the truth about seeing ghosts.
    “I knew ye were ill, my love, but they kept me from ye. Was it the Fever? Is that why they cut off your beautiful . . .” His voice faded a bit as he stepped nearer, and his left hand went to the hilt of his dirk. “Ye are no my Peigi,” he said in an accusing tone that contrasted horribly with the gentleness of his earlier words.
    I slid back on my butt, farther away from him. I was going to have grass stains on my skirt, damn it, and it was
his
fault. I pulled my shawl closer about me. This couldn’t be happening.
    “Ye are no my Peigi,” he repeated.
    “Well, no,” I said. “I’m Peggy, that’s true, but not
your
Peggy.” Why was I conversing with this lunatic? I should be yelling for the Sinclairs, who were, unfortunately, out of sight. “What are you doing here anyway?”
    “Doing here?” His indignation practically exploded. “What are ye doing on my land?”
    “What do you mean your land? This is a public walking trail. I have every right to be here.” It occurred to me that maybe I didn’t, since we’d strayed off the trail to this meadow. Come to think of it, I’d never seen this particular meadow before, despite all the times I’d walked up this mountain. Maybe we were trespassing, but I wasn’t about to admit that to this cantankerous guy. “Just ask the Sinclairs,” I said. “They walk here all the time.”
    “The Sinclairs?” He planted his booted feet wide apart and crossed his arms in front of his massive chest. “And what would ye be having to do with that clan?”
    “What are you talking about? They’re my friends, and they’re asleep under the larch up there.” I pointed.
    “What larch? The goats roam over this entire hillside, and there are no trees big enough to sleep under.”
    I gathered my skirt out of the way, picked up my boots, stuffed the socks in them, and stood in a huff. “You just come with me, sir,” I said, “and you can see for yourself.” Without waiting, I marched up the small rise and started across the grass toward the ancient tree. Mrs. Sinclair had apparently woken up. Or maybe she hadn’t slept at all. She held a small paperback book. When she saw me, she waved merrily.
    “See?” I said out of the corner of my mouth. “There they are and there’s the tree. And,” I added with some spite, “no goats anywhere.”
    I turned to look at him as he walked up beside me. The shock on his face stopped me in my tracks. “Where did yon tree come from? It wasna there yester morn.”
    I shifted my boots to my other hand and headed toward Mrs. Sinclair, who seemed to be rummaging in her knapsack. Her husband lay inert. “Peggy,” she called when she saw me, “come have a wee sit before we head back down the trail.” She patted the ground beside her, the way she had a little while ago, and held up a red tin. “I’ve biscuits for us to share. All three of us,” she added, and prodded her husband, “if the mister will deign to wake up.”
    Three of us? I looked sideways at the man standing right beside me. “I’ll be there in a moment, Mrs. Sinclair,” I called.