A Wee Murder in My Shop (A ScotShop Mystery) by Fran Stewart

my other hand on my lap.
    “That I canna say.” She tapped my palm. “Ye may not want to tell me what happened on yon mountainside, but I do know ’twas something that will change your life.”
    I stared at her in some consternation. I honestly didn’t know what to say. Had she seen the ghost? Did she know?
    “Nae, dearie. I dinna ask that ye tell me anything. All I want is for ye to take care of your sweet self in a way that maybe ye havena thought to do in the past.”
    I lowered my head, studied my hands, and when I looked up, she’d picked up the plates and moved to the sink. At that point, Mr. Sinclair walked into the kitchen and told me the car was ready for me “if ye be ready for it.”
    I stood. “Mrs. Sinclair?”
    “Yes, dearie?”
    “The next time I’m here, I may be able to tell you some of this.” I bent to give old Bruce a good-bye pat on his wiry head, and he woofed gently. “Is that all right?”
    She smiled slowly and her eyes crinkled up at the corners. “Whenever the time is right for you.”
    My thoughts bounced between the ghost—and Mason, damn him—all the way home.
    *   *   *
    I ran into a heavy Vermont rain soon after leaving the Burlington airport. Even though it stopped halfway to Hamelin, I was a good deal later than usual getting home. Karaline opened my front door and headed toward me as I backed into my driveway. Part of me wanted to talk with her for hours, to tell her everything that had happened. The other part of me just wanted to take a hot shower and sleep for three days.
    She bounded down the ramp, her dark pink knee-length sweater bouncing around her black-clad legs. At six foot one, New York–model thin, and with a nose that preceded her in grand style, Karaline always looks something like a wading bird, maybe a blue heron. This evening, in that sweater, she looked like a flamingo. Next to her, I was nothing but a bedraggled wren.
    She opened the back door and pulled out my carry-on. “Come on in. I’ve got dinner ready.”
    Karaline’s idea of dinner is always leftovers from the Logg Cabin. Fine with me. I hoped I could keep my eyes open long enough to taste something.
    I bent to scratch Shorty between the ears and run my hand along his silky back. He meowed his welcome. It was good to be home.
    The fire crackling in the wood stove drew me to its heavenly warmth. I rubbed my hands together and then turned so my backside could absorb some of the heat. Karaline grinned. “Still a little bit chilly in the evenings.”
    I looked around my comfy living room at the vases of scarlet long-stemmed roses placed here and there around the room. “What’s with all the roses?” Even as I asked, I had a sinking feeling I knew the answer.
    Karaline read my mind. “You’re right. They’re from Mason. No cards, just like before. Ruth’s been delivering them every day. I called her and asked her to stop since you were out of town, but she said they’d been prepaid, and she felt obligated to deliver them.”
    This was all just part of his pattern. The whole time we’d been together, every time he hurt my feelings, said something nasty to me, or forgot something I’d asked him to do, he’d sent me flowers or buy me a piece of jewelry, and he thought that would wipe out whatever he’d done. The roses were another link on that chain. I used to like roses, but I’d gotten to where I hated them—he seemed to think they would make everything all better, when what he really needed was a change of attitude. Maybe Andrea had done me a favor at that.
    What did he expect—a thank-you note? If he wanted to waste perfectly good money on me, that was his problem, but I didn’t have to respond. “I’ll take them to the compost pile tomorrow,” I said.
    I took the carry-on from her, pulled out the shawl, and draped it over my arm. It wasn’t that cold here in the living room, but I’d probably need it in the rest of the house.
    “Nice,” she said. “New?”
    “New to