Hooked on Ewe (A Scottish Highlands Mystery, Band 2) - Softcover

Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

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.

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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...