Hooked on Ewe (A Scottish Highlands Mystery) - Softcover

Reed, Hannah

Softcover

ISBN 10: 0425265838 ISBN 13: 9780425265833

Publisher: Berkley, 2015

Synopsis

In this novel in the national bestselling Scottish Highlands Mystery series, aspiring romance novelist Eden Elliott discovers the landscape isn’t the only thing that’s dramatic when a local woman is done in...

It’s early September in Glenkillen, Scotland, when American expat (and budding romance novelist) Eden Elliott is recruited by the local inspector to act as a special constable. Fortunately it’s in name only, since not much happens in Glenkillen.

For now Eden has her hands full with other things: preparing for the sheepdog trial on the MacBride farm—a fundraiser for the local hospice—and helping her friend Vicki with her first yarn club skein-of-the-month deliveries. Everything seems to be coming together—until the head of the welcoming committee is found strangled to death with a club member’s yarn.

Now Eden feels compelled to honor her commitment as constable and herd together the clues, figure out which ones are dogs, and which ones will lead to a ruthless killer...

About this title

About the Author:

Hannah Reed is the national bestselling author of the Queen Bee Mystery series and the Scottish Highland Mysteries. Her own Scottish ancestors were seventeenth century rabble-rousers who were eventually shipped to the new world, where they settled in the Michigan Upper Peninsula. Hannah has happily traveled back to her homeland several times, and in keeping with family tradition, enjoyed causing mayhem in the Highlands.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.:

Queen Bee Mysteries

Scottish Highlands Mysteries

CONTENTS

CHAPTER 1

“You should’ve asked my opinion before you went off half-cocked,” Kirstine MacBride-Derry scolded her half sister Vicki from behind the counter of the wool and yarn shop they owned together on the outskirts of Glenkillen, a small village in the Scottish Highlands on the North Sea, along a protected bay called Moray Firth.

No way was Kirstine going to take her eyes off of Sheepish Expressions’s cash register for a single second, or relinquish that spot to anybody else. She was in full command of the till, even though the shop wouldn’t open for a few more hours.

“What do you think, Eden?” Vicki said, dragging me into the middle of the sisters’ dispute, which served me right for walking into the shop and getting between them. Before I could think of a reply she went on, “Should I have to postpone my first yarn club skein-of-the-month deliveries just because of the charity sheep dog trial event? I mean, the club members have paid dues in advance, and I promised the yarn kits would be ready on the first of every month. Today is the first of September, in case anybody needs a reminder. When the shop opens, my members are going to start showing up. I’ve made a commitment to them.”

Vicki’s eyes pleaded for my support. I looked away as her trademark perfume wafted my way, the light fragrance of roses and jasmine mingling with the tension in the air.

I really didn’t see the big deal, but I was making an effort to understand both sides.

Today the MacBride’s farm was hosting the September sheep dog trials in the field next to the lane, an annual charity event sponsored by the Glenkillen Sheep Dog Association to raise funds to keep the town’s hospice operating in the black. And since Kirstine and her husband, John, have been responsible for the majority of the work in preparation for the trials, it wasn’t surprising that Kirstine was stressed. She was a bit grouchy even on a regular day.

The Glenkillen Hospice Center had taken quite a hit during the most recent economic downturn and needed an infusion of cash to assure its continued service to the community. The sheep dog competition was only one of many events held for that purpose throughout the year, but this one was the grand finale and the largest. Others had included 5k runs, a cycle challenge, several charity golf days, and lucky-number drawings that operated much like lotteries—tickets were purchased, winners were announced, and prizes awarded.

Spectators at the sheep dog trials could support the hospice in a number of ways. Aside from paying an entrance fee, they could buy a printed program with the dogs’ running order so they could support their favorite local shepherd. Or purchase teas, sandwiches, and cakes from the massive refreshment tent that had been set up near the trial field. Or—and this one was sure to be the most popular—they could buy raffle tickets for the opportunity to win products from local businesses, including many donated by Sheepish Expressions.

“How many yarn members do you have?” I asked Vicki, glancing at a pile of beautiful and bright-red-colored skeins that my friend had hand-dyed herself. Not only was the wool from the MacBride farm’s sheep, but it had all been handspun by Vicki as well.

“Thirty-five!” Vicki replied with visible pride. “Fifteen more than I expected just starting out. I even had to close membership until I can figure out how to speed up production, and already just in the last few days there’s a waiting list of another fifteen or so who want to join.”

“Wow!” I said, sufficiently impressed. Vicki had only recently come up with the yarn club brainstorm and had done little in the way of promoting it beyond a few handmade flyers strategically placed in hot spots around Glenkillen (and, of course, inside Sheepish Expressions). Word of mouth was a powerful tool, especially in the Highlands. News of any sort traveled dizzyingly fast around here.

Originally, I’d signed up for the skein-of-the-month club as a show of support for Vicki’s new venture, even though I can’t knit a stitch. But as new membership requests poured in, I’d bowed out to make room for those with actual ability.

“I’ll teach you soon,” Vicki had assured me, obviously appreciating my commitment to her cause, but relieved at the same time. We both knew I needed to start out with a simpler project, like a pot holder. Besides, I was left-handed and Vicki was right-handed. She was going to need a lot of patience when that day came.

Kirstine scowled, not used to anyone else in the shop making decisions, no matter how minor or insignificant, no matter how little it might affect her personally. Forty-two years old, a few years younger than Vicki, she would be pretty if her mouth turned up more. Instead, she had deeply furrowed frown lines.

After a lengthy estrangement, Vicki’s appearance after their father’s death to claim her share of the MacBride estate inheritance (a sizeable fortune in land holdings and business enterprises), had been difficult for Kirstine to accept. Kirstine had been educated in England, but had spent the better part of her adult life managing this woolen shop, and her Welsh husband, John, continued to run the farm operations as he always had. Vicki and her mother, her father’s first wife, had lived in London and California, and Vicki had only visited the MacBride farm on occasion as a child. Even so, she was now committed to making a go of her new life here.

“You decided this without checking with me first, I might add,” Kirstine continued, with only a faint hint of a Scottish accent. She couldn’t let it go. “I would have informed you that we’d be too busy with the trials to deal with your yarn club members traipsing in at the same time,” she said. “Between tourist buses arriving and spectators underfoot, I’d have thought you could have waited to begin next month. Or at the very least until next week.”

“Kirstine,” I said, “it doesn’t really seem like it would be much effort to keep the kits behind the counter and distribute them to members. Aren’t those club members who come for their yarn kits going to be likely to stick around for the trials and drop more cash?”

Kirstine didn’t seem to hear my voice of reason. Her lips were pressed together in a line of discontent. “Look at you, causing trouble as usual, Eden Elliott,” she said, not mincing words. “Why don’t you go off and make yourself useful elsewhere. Go on.”

That’s me. Eden Elliott. Troublemaker and major meddler, according to Kirstine. She hasn’t come right out and said it aloud, but I know she wishes I’d disappear for good. And she wouldn’t be too concerned about the method of my departure as long as it took me far away from the farm and shop. It’s in her tone and in the snarky comments she reserves exclusively for me.

I’m an outsider in this community, having arrived here in Glenkillen from Chicago three months ago. The trip had been unexpected, courtesy of my overly pushy and well-off best friend back home, Ami Pederson, who’d decided I needed a change of scenery and had bought me a ticket to the Highlands. Generous to a fault, as they say . . . the fault in Ami’s generosity being that my return ticket had been for six months down the road, which, as she explained to me, was the maximum length of time I was allowed to stay in Scotland on the standard travel visa.

In spite of my doubts and resistance, those first months had flown by. I suppose I had needed a change. I’d gone through some stressful personal events—a divorce and my mother’s death—but now I had a small amount of cash and the freedom at thirty-eight years old to go on this adventure.

Amazingly, I’d also accomplished what I’d set out to do, which was to write a hot contemporary romance novel set in the Scottish Highlands. Glenkillen turned out to be the perfect backdrop for my inspiration to flow, and the first draft of Falling for You had practically written itself.

Which is a good thing, because to make it equally scary, I was already under contract to write it. I’m convinced that Ami pulled some strings with her publisher (yeah, she’s that Ami Pederson, international mega-bestselling historical romance author), though she denies having anything to do with landing this amazing opportunity for me. But even if she had helped orchestrate the beginning, it was still up to me to make it all come together in a real-life happy ending.

The pressure, mostly created by a mind that tends to overthink things, was on. I had to perform and perform well.

Gulp.

Regardless of my current insecurities, however, the beautiful Scottish Highlands saved my sanity, restored my self-confidence, and I’ve made lasting friendships here. I’m planted firmly at the MacBride farm, after an invitation from Vicki. I met her on my first day of travel on a connecting flight to Inverness out of London, and we’ve been fast friends ever since.

And to my good fortune as well as hers, she’d commandeered the farm’s main house that had been vacant after her father passed. Kirstine and John have their own home in Glenkillen near the harbor, and no intention of actually living at the farm, claiming they had devoted enough of their lives to the family enterprise without needing to live and breathe it any more than they already did. “Besides,” Kirstine had sniffed, “Da should have built a bigger house, but he was as thrifty as they come. John and myself, we need more space.”

The MacBride farm’s lands might extend in all directions, the estate enormous with the house, shop, several cottages, barn, and numerous outbuildings, and the bank balance most likely above anything I could imagine, but no one involved was allowed to slack off. These people were hard workers. My friend included.

Vicki had brought so much to Sheepish Expressions in the short time she’d been a contributing partner. In my opinion, the current arrangement had the potential to benefit all concerned. The sisters might snipe, but they really complemented each other. Kirstine oversees stocking of the woolen wear that graces racks in one section of the shop—kilts, accessories, tartans, scarves, and much, much more. And although the MacBride farm’s own Glenkillen yarn is featured, she also orders other Scottish yarns, skeins of which fill every nook and cranny in the other half of the shop.

Vicki’s talent lies in dealing with customers, something sourpuss Kirstine could learn from. People skills go a long way in selling gifts to tourists. Tour buses stop at intervals throughout each day of the week, either on the way to or returning from several attractions, whether hoping for glimpses of minke whales, harbor porpoises, and bottlenose dolphins off Moray Firth, or following the whisky trail and visiting the numerous distilleries in the Highlands. A bright and cheery welcome from the person behind the counter could sell more stock than the surly one who usually greeted them.

Vicki had also started knitting classes, and she’s hoping to add spinning lessons if there’s enough demand. The woman is amazing with fibers, from the moment the wool is shorn from the sheep all the way through the spinning and dying process.

Kirstine’s husband, John, has his own niche, too, tending to the fields and animals. Anyone who meets the gruff Welshman can tell how much he cares about his sheep and working dogs. He’d rather be with them than with people, which is exactly how I feel some days.

Vicki, with my help, had taken on the task of restoring one of the two cottages on the property that had fallen into disrepair. The other one had been past fixing, its stonework crumbled, the interior little more than a shell. But we’d managed to salvage the other. Last week I’d suggested that I move out of the main farmhouse and into the cottage. Vicki hadn’t put up much of an argument, knowing I needed my personal space.

The cottage consists of a small kitchen and sitting room on one end of the rectangular building, and a bedroom and bath on the other end. The furnishings are simple—a scarred dresser in the bedroom and an iron bedframe with squeaky springs, yellowing wallpaper in the sitting room, and two armchairs before a small wood-burning stove set in a corner. The kitchen is nothing more than a wooden table, two chairs, sink, stove, a tiny counter, and a hodgepodge of cookware. But it’s adequate for my needs, especially if I’m only going to be in the country for a few short months more. The most important features are indoor plumbing that actually works as it should, along with an electrical system John updated after being coerced into repairing the rodent-chewed wiring.

Right this minute, I missed the coziness of the little cottage, and the solitude it provides.

Vicki had turned her attention back to her skein-of-the-month kits, which were beautifully packaged in a paper satchel with a fancy label that read A Sheepish Expressions Exclusive: Poppy Sox Knitting Kit. Each kit contained an exclusive pattern for cable-knit stockings along with a special knitting needle, and the yarn that Vicki called Poppy Red, because of its rich red poppies-in-the-field hue.

I glanced up and out one of the shop’s windows, noting the dawning day. September in the States would mean shortening days, but in Scotland we were blessed with close to fourteen hours of daylight. I smiled at my good fortune—to be here in this rural setting, at this beautiful time of the year. Since Kirstine suggested I make myself useful, I went outside and stood on the shop’s porch to admire the view, trying to decide what to do next.

My scenic view was partially hidden due to the arrival of the sheep dog competitors, which had been going on since well before dawn. The day was shaping up to be another unusually sunny one. We’d been having a rare run on sun since Thursday, and it was expected to continue through today. Perfect weather for a fund-raising event. I’d give anything to duck out of the responsibilities I’d agree to early on. Vicki and I had both volunteered our services for the sheep dog trials, and Kirstine had decided that Vicki would be giving spectators tractor rides out to the far fields for the competitions (a role assigned, I suspect but can’t prove, to keep Vicki away from the shop), while my assignment was to help at the welcome table right outside Sheepish Expressions. I, along with several other volunteers who worked for the hospice, would disburse information, sell programs, and in general, handle any minor problems.

I shuddered at the thought of a full day wasted at the welcome table. I’d much prefer to spend that time out in the field, watching the working dogs round up sheep. A few stragglers driving vans and trucks, some hauling trailers, were still pulling off the main road and parking up and down the lane wherever they could find space. I could see them starting to double-park as spots became scarce.

The parking lot before me was empty though, due to a large sign Kirstine had erected warning that the area was strictly for Sheepish Expressions customers and carried an accompanying threat of prosecution. Ignore at your own risk.

A famili...

About this edition

• Publisher: Berkley
• Publication date: 2015
• ISBN 10: 0425265838
• ISBN 13: 9780425265833
• Binding: Mass Market Paperback
• Number of pages: 304