1 Off Kilter (5 page)

Despite how horribly my first evening had ended, somehow I slept later the next morning than I thought possible, wrapped up in a fluffy duvet. I crashed hard from the combination of jet lag, time differences, stress, and emotional roller coasters. When I finally awoke, light slatted through the venetian blinds, streaking across the bed. I stayed where I was awhile longer, listening to the sounds of activity on the cobbled street below—voices, traffic: business as usual.

And then all the details of last night’s terrible discovery came back to me in a rush, stranger than any fiction I could have created. Imagination, I’ve learned, is always a runner-up to the real thing.

At least we hadn’t barged in while the killer was still there. What if that had happened? We could have ended up just as dead as the sheep shearer.

To stop my thoughts going from dark to darker, I quickly rose from the bed, hoping for a better day.

Breakfast was included in the cost of my room, and although I wasn’t hungry, I dressed and went downstairs, thinking I’d skip the traditional Scottish breakfast and instead eat light—yogurt or a bowl of cereal. Jeannie, the same young woman who’d checked me in yesterday, led me to a table beside a window overlooking the street, slightly away from several other guests.

Before I could tell her I wasn’t hungry, she placed an enormous plate on the table in front of me. Toast covered with baked beans, some kind of hash, cooked tomatoes, a thin slice of ham (which I’d find out later was the Scottish version of bacon), and runny poached eggs.

“So this is a traditional Scottish breakfast?” I asked, and she nodded. I pointed at something on my plate that looked round and dark and fried, but that I couldn’t identify. “What’s that?”

“Blood puddin’,” Jeannie casually informed me.

Blood? That brought back gruesome memories from last night. All the blood pooled around Gavin Mitchell’s body. The round fried thing could have been a cow pie and I would have been more okay with it. Well, maybe not, but really? What the heck was blood pudding?

“What’s in it?” the researcher in me just had to ask.

“’Tis only sausage with a bit o’ pig’s blood and some suet and other stuff that won’t hurt ye,” she said, setting down a cup of tea in front of me. “Go ahead. Give it a try.”

She trotted off, leaving me staring at the suspicious, unappealing thing. I took a small taste of everything on my plate except the pudding.

“Ye want porridge instead?” Jeannie asked a little later when she brought more hot water for my tea and noticed that my heaping plate was still heaping.

“No, thank you. I’m not very hungry, that’s all.”

“I’m not surprised, after wha’ happened last night.”

“You know about that?” In my growing paranoid state, I searched for any trace of hostility from her, but found none.

“Poor Gavin!” she went on. “Who would do a thing like that tae him? He didn’t haff an enemy in the whole world.” Before I could engage her further, she said, “Well, take yer time. I’ll come back and check on ye in a minute or two.”

And she went off to wait on other guests. I screwed up my courage, remembering why I was sitting in front of this particular plate in the first place. My story needed the kind of authenticity that only comes through actual experience. That meant digging in and eating a traditional Scottish breakfast. If I needed something to take my mind off yesterday’s events, maybe this experience would do the trick.

Reluctantly I picked up my fork, broke off a tiny piece of the blood pudding, and popped it into my mouth. There. That hadn’t killed me. Although, it was dry and overcooked in my opinion. I took another bite, thinking that I’d take good old American sausage any day over this.

Soon after, Jeannie was back and noticed my effort. “Yer a sport,” she praised me.

“Tell me,” I asked her, “are you part of the family who owns the inn?”

“Aye, me and me da keep it running. If ye can call him a help rather than a hindrance.”

“And how old are you?”

“Almost twenty-five,” she said.

“That seems so young to be running all this.”

“I grew up with it.” She shrugged. “An’ I hardly have a choice.”

“What’s there to do with your free time in a small village like this?”

“There’s nothin’ tae do at all,” she replied, a cloud passing over her features. “I’d love tae travel, see the world, leave this place far behind me, but my da needs me help. He cannae handle it all himself. He’s disabled.”

“So you’re stuck, just like George Bailey in
It’s a Wonderful Life.”

“Right, eh? But I’m not staying stuck forever like wha’ happened to that poor bloke in the film.”

I wanted to ask Jeannie more about her father’s disability, but she turned away and disappeared through the kitchen door. Perhaps another day I’d learn more of her story.

Leaving the dining area, I was surprised to find Leith Cameron, my hero from yesterday, waiting for me in the lobby.

“Enjoy your breakfast?” he asked.

“I wasn’t very hungry.”

Leith gave me a studied gaze. “I hear Gavin Mitchell’s dead,” he said. “And that ye and Vicki MacBride were the ones tae find him.”

“Yes. It was . . . awful.”

“A bloody bad business, that.”

“I’m so sorry. Did you know him well?”

“Well enough. He was born and raised here, and he trimmed sheep for everybody in the area. He’ll be missed by all. His murderer best be brought tae justice fast. It’s a sad affair, but what about ye? How are ye doin’?”

“I’ll be okay.”

He gave me a small, rather sad smile. “Come on, then. Ye and I have unfinished business tae take care of.”

We walked outside, and there it was: The car from hell.

“She’s all set to go,” Leith told me.

Terrific, just great.

“A driving lesson would do ye good,” he added. “I just happen tae have some spare time.”

“Now?”

He nodded, then hopped into the driver’s seat, which reassured me for a moment . . . until I remembered that he was on the
wrong
side of the car. Over here, that was actually the passenger seat he was sitting in.

“These streets are too narrow,” I told him through the open window, not moving from the side of the car. “I’m not used to them. Plus, after last night, I couldn’t possibly drive,” I tried next. “I’m shook up. Wouldn’t you be, if you’d found a dead person?”

“This will take yer mind off all other troubles.”

Well, of course it would. The sheer terror of the winding narrow roads and the speed at which these people drove would wipe out pretty much anything else I had on my mind. On the other hand, I also ran the risk of wiping out the two of us permanently, not to mention any unwary pedestrians unlucky enough to cross my path.

“As a reward, I’ll show you how to get to the MacBride farm,” he added, still sitting there all relaxed. That would change very soon, I knew, once I got behind the wheel.

“You could just drive me there,” I suggested.

“Get in the car, woman. It’s only about eight kilometers down the road. Besides, I have tae save Glenkillen’s residents from certain destruction. Ye’ve got to learn, eh?”

“Where is Kelly?” I asked, still stalling but also hoping for an ally in the sweet dog.

“Are ye mad? I wouldn’t risk her life!” And then he laughed.

Those eyes, that face. And the temptation he’d thrown out to me, to visit Vicki’s farm, to see how my new friend was doing after last night. What choice did I have?

I marched around the front of the car and slid into the driver’s seat.

Leith first gave me a verbal refresher on the mechanics of the vehicle, then went through the motions of using both feet and both hands at the same time, and had me shift through all the gears before turning on the engine.

After that, he had me wait until there wasn’t a single other moving car in the vicinity. Then we hopped and skipped out onto the middle of Castle Street.

If I killed this kind and handsome man, I’d never forgive myself.

Leith hadn’t mentioned that those mere eight kilometers it took to reach the MacBride farm involved driving along a very curvy, very narrow road, or that the trip would take well over twenty minutes. Maybe a more experienced driver could have made it there in less time, but this was me behind the wheel.

Neither of us chitchatted much on the drive. Steering and staying on the narrow road took every ounce of my concentration, and I assumed Leith was speechless with terror. The very worst moments of our harrowing drive came at roundabouts, which we had to enter heading left (so wrong) and which had way too many lanes to choose from and far too many exit options. And I used to think the traffic circles at home were challenging!

One of my favorite parts of the journey was when we got to stop for a bit because rugged-looking cows had taken over the roadway. They had thick red coats and impressive horns with shaggy manes of hair falling forward over their eyes.

“Highland cattle,” Leith told me before getting out and shooing them to the side.

By the time we pulled into the entrance to the farm, Leith had lost his lazy grin. His calm, cool demeanor had gone missing as well. So had mine, if I’d ever had one in the first place. I’m sure every sheep and cow alongside the road had smelled my fear right through the steel armor of the car.

Leith reached over and pulled the keys from the ignition, literally leapt from the car, and declared: “I’ll drive on the way back.”

“But I’m just starting to get the hang of it,” I lied, deciding it would be bad form to follow my instinct, which was to drop down on all fours and kiss the ground in relief.

I’d barely had any time to appreciate the scenery while driving, but when I stepped out of the car and gazed around, I found myself in what I can only describe as Shangri-la. Rolling green farmland, pastures covered in purple heather, lush mountains in the distance.

Leith had directed me to park next to a stone building that housed a shop called
Sheepish Expressions
, according to a sign out front. A few other cars were parked there, too, and as I gaped at my surroundings, a tour bus pulled in. A gaggle of tourists, mostly women, exited the bus and made their way inside the building.

“I thought we’d start here at the shop,” Leith said, “but since the tourists have descended, let’s leave the car here and walk up the lane a bit tae the house. The view is best appreciated on foot anyway.”

“Where is the house?” I asked, not seeing another structure of any kind up ahead, just a country lane that ascended ever so slightly.

“Around the hill up ahead. Let’s go.”

The MacBride “farm” wasn’t what I’d imagined a working sheep farm would be like. It was a massive estate with magnificent views in every direction. As we strolled up the gravel lane with sheep grazing lazily about, Leith explained that this area of the Highlands was highly traveled through the summer months, and Sheepish Expressions was a woolens shop, and a favorite destination with the tour bus operators. “After searching for whales along the firth,” he explained, “or following the whisky trail, they stop here for a bit of shopping on the return tae Edinburgh, Glasgow, or Inverness.”

“Look!” I said, pausing as at least a dozen sheep began to flock and walk toward us.

“They’re curious about our newcomer,” Leith said with a laugh.

The sheep stopped twenty yards or so away and stared at us.

I noticed a swath of pink paint on their hindquarters and asked about it. “Pastures in the Highlands are most often shared,” Leith explained. “The markings help us sort them out if they get mixed together. For example, my land came with communal grazing rights. If I raised sheep—which I don’t—mine could roam freely amongst the MacBrides’, and I’d just mark them differently.”

“Your land? Is it anything like this?”

Leith laughed. “Hardly, but it’s enough for me. It’s right next door tae here. Ye’ll have to visit sometime.”

“Doesn’t the paint wear off the sheep?”

He shrugged. “If it does, their ears are also marked.”

We watched a border collie halfway up a hill round up scattered sheep and move them toward another pasture under the direction of a man a good distance out.

“That was amazing,” I said, following as Leith walked along. “Is that John Derry whistling his commands to the dog?”

“That’s him. He tends the sheep, trains the working dogs, and keeps the farm in running order.”

“He and his wife put on quite a show at the funeral last night, didn’t they?”

“They’d all been drinking more than their share, and the situation was stressful tae begin with, and not much time tae get used tae the changes. James MacBride passed away on Monday, the family found out about the terms of the will on Tuesday, and the burial, as ye know, was only two days after. They’ve hardly had time tae adjust.”

“What will happen next?” I asked.

“The others are going tae fight to get the farm back. And they’ll likely win. They still tend the sheep and handle the shop as before. None of the family members want to see the place fail in the meantime.”

At least there was that. I could imagine pettier people willing to destroy the business out of bitterness.

Right then, the lane curved to the right and the farmhouse came into view. It didn’t look anything like a traditional American farmhouse. Instead of the kind of white clapboard Victorian-style building with a wraparound porch I thought of as a farmhouse, this was a plain rectangular two-story stone building with a gray sloping slate roof, gabled dormer windows on the second level, and no porch to speak of. Smoke spiraled from two chimneys, one on either side of the house.

“This is so beautiful,” I couldn’t help uttering. It really did take my breath away.

In spite of his reportedly large holdings, it seemed James MacBride had chosen to live a simple life. Several outbuildings were visible back behind the house, the closest one a barn made of honey-colored brick. Other, smaller ones farther out didn’t look to be currently in use, at least not judging from the overgrowth surrounding them.

Vicki appeared in the farmhouse’s doorway and waved in welcome. She was followed by two white West Highland terriers, whom I assumed to be Coco and Pepper. “What a relief to see some friendly faces for a change,” she called out. “Thanks for driving Eden out, Leith.”

Leith smiled, though it again had a certain sadness to it that reminded me that this village had just lost a dear friend. “Actually, it was Eden who did the driving,” he told Vicki.

“And we made it without any accidents or breakdowns,” I added.

“Are you accident-prone?” Vicki asked me.

“Apparently,” I said with a laugh.

“Ye just need some more practice,” Leith said more kindly than a few moments ago. He turned to me. “If ye don’t mind,” he said, “I’ll borrow the car for a wee bit, check on a few things over at my place, then come back and collect ye.”

“Of course,” I said, appreciating the chance to spend a little time alone with Vicki to discuss yesterday’s events.

With that, we made arrangements to meet up again in an hour outside of Sheepish Expressions. Then he left us, striding quickly down the lane in the direction of the car.

“That Leith is easier on the eyes than I remembered,” Vicki commented as we watched him go.

I couldn’t have agreed more. “What’s his history?” I asked.

Vicki shrugged. “No real idea. Other than he lives on the farm up the road, same as his parents before him. It’s been a long time since I was in Glenkillen. Everybody’s grown up, all in different directions. Why do you ask? Do you fancy him at all?”

I waved off her suggestion with a snort. “He seems like a nice guy, but I’m not really looking. I’m in Scotland to relax, do a little writing, and recover from a very bad year.”

“You deserve to find true love,” Vicki said, “and you will.”

I could have replied that as far as I was concerned, true love didn’t exist off the pages of one of those romance novels I was intent on writing, but instead I said, “Now that I’m free to do what I please and go where I choose, I don’t want any responsibilities or commitments other than to myself.”

Was that true? Or was I trying to convince myself of it?

“A man is a heap o’ work,” Vicki commented, in full agreement.

“My caregiver days are over.” And that part was absolutely true. No way would I ever willingly take on that role again, and from what I’ve seen of most male/female relationships, women were the ones who usually took on the supportive role.

It would take a strong, confident, and independent man to catch my eye the next time. If there ever was a next time.

“Sounds like there’s a story lurking in there.”

“Another time perhaps,” I said, then changed the subject. “This place is beyond beautiful, Vicki. But looks like it requires a ton of maintenance, what with all the sheep to tend to and the shop to run.”

“The family might not like me personally, but they’re committed to the business and are carrying on as though I don’t exist. My brother and sister still want nothing to do with me,” she said sadly.

“Because of the will,” I said, stating the obvious.

“Believe me, it was as much a shock to me as it was to them.”

“Hopefully time will heal their hearts.”

“You’re a good soul, my friend. How did you weather the night? I hardly slept a wink myself.”

I didn’t want to admit that I’d slept like a log, so I shrugged and refocused my attention on Vicki’s dogs, who were chasing each other around the yard.

“That one is Coco.” She pointed at one of them with obvious pride, although I couldn’t tell them apart. “And that’s Pepper, she has the tiniest bit of black marking on her belly. They’ve been trying to make friends with a cat named Jasper that lives in the barn, but he’s not cooperating.”

I looked off past the barn toward the neglected buildings off in the distance. “What’s over that way?” I asked.

“Cottages,” she said. “Farm workers used to live in them years ago. The one is past repair—it’ll have to come down—but the other just needs a little work. It’s in rather good shape considering the age of it. To be honest, I haven’t done much more exploring the grounds yet, mainly because I’m wary of running into the others.”

“That must be difficult,” I said.

Vicki tucked her arm through mine, and said, “Having a friend is going to help me get through it. But I sure do wish we hadn’t been the ones to find Gavin’s body. What a stroke of bad luck that was.”

“Not nearly as bad luck for us as for the sheep shearer.”

“If only I’d thought to visit him earlier. We might have scared off his attacker and saved his life,” Vicki said mournfully.

“It’s not as if you’d have had any time before the funeral,” I reasoned. “He must have been dead already by then. You couldn’t have saved him.”

Even as I worked to reassure Vicki, though, I wondered if the sheep shearer might have been fighting for his life while the funeral procession made its way to the gravesite, while I’d stood in the back, listening to the service and gazing into the tree at the bad-luck corbie.

A bad sign that was indeed
, I thought, as a shiver raced down my spine.