Murder at a Scottish Castle

Book 5: Scottish Shire Mystery

by Traci Hall

Genres: International Crime & Mystery; Amateur Sleuth; Craft & Hobby Cozy Mysteries

Synopsis

Sweater shop owner Paislee Shaw never feels more at home in Scotland than when she hears the bagpipes. But a murderer is about to introduce a sour note . . .

With the summer days getting shorter in the seaside village of Nairn, the annual bagpiping competition at Ramsey Castle promises to be quite the end-of-season blowout. Paisley has snagged a special invitation from the dowager countess, who wants to showcase her cashmere goods in the castle gift shop, and she’s brought her son Brody, Grandpa, and their black Scottish terrier Wallace.

There’s a fierce rivalry between Robert Grant, the Earl of Lyon, and last year’s winner Jory Baxter, with Grant loudly vowing to show up the blowhard Baxter and claim clan bragging rights. But the reigning champion has barely put the reed to his lips when he turns red and collapses, soon to take his dying breath. DI Zeffer suspects foul play.

With a possible murderer in their midst, the rest of Nairn won’t breathe easy until Paisley applies her sleuthing skills to make sure justice is served and the killer pays the piper . . .

Release date: January 23, 2024

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 304

Sample

Paislee Shaw winced as the Juke’s tire hit a large rock in the barren field designated as a car park for the annual end-of-summer bagpiping event at Ramsey Castle.

“Mum!” Brody complained from the back seat.

“Careful, lass,” Grandpa Angus groused from the passenger side. “Cannae afford tae chip me teeth!”

“Sorry!” Her grandfather’s teeth were his pride and joy as they all belonged to him.

The clock on the dash read nine, and there was only one other vehicle parked as the competition didn’t start until noon. A van with CLAN MACTAVISH stenciled across the side had various musicians climbing out to help unload instruments and gear.

She, along with Grandpa, Brody, and their Scottish terrier, Wallace, had arrived early to meet Dowager Countess Grant, who’d arranged to carry Paislee’s cashmere knitted goods in the new gift shop.

After the contest, a feast of roasted meats for two hundred folks would be prepared by Lord Patrick Grant, who was right proud of his barbecue—for good reason. She’d never had better. She’d attended the annual event off and on since her youth, though not as often when Brody was little. Now that her son was older, she didn’t worry about him running into the field, or falling off the metal stands, and she could relax a wee bit.

Paislee parked and turned off the engine. “Everyone out and on their best behavior,” she said. “It’s important we Shaws make a brilliant impression.”

She eyed Grandpa, who had a tendency to wander off, and then Brody, who was twelve and constantly distracted, and finally, she met the near-black gaze of Wallace. The pup chuffed. Of the three, he was the best behaved, though it had taken much training to get beyond his willful terrier streak. Recalling the scuffles of last year, she told Brody, “No wrestling, no jumping, no hitting.”

“Mum, you never lemme have any fun,” Brody said. “I’m no wean!” He was in jeans and trainers with a comic book figure on his T-shirt, his auburn hair tousled but clean, his hand on Wallace’s blue collar.

“I get paid extra tae ruin your life, don’t you know?” Paislee was only half-listening as she dropped the keys into her handbag.

“He’ll be fine,” Grandpa announced. “You dinnae need such a tight hold on the lad. Boys will be boys.”

Paislee only half-listened to that, too. The pair occasionally ganged up on her, so she’d had to put her foot down. “Grab everything you need,” she instructed as she slid out.

She ruled the roost at the Shaw home. Aye, they could share their opinion, and heaven help her they did, but hers was the final vote. Bedtime, bath time, brushing teeth, homework, and chores. If she gave even a smidge, Brody wanted more.

It was the way of things, Fordythe Primary’s headmaster, Hamish McCall, assured her, but it was a point of tension with Brody in S1 and no longer attending primary school.

Grandpa’s moodiness was a thing of the past since he now knew that his son Craigh was alive and living undercover in America. He cooked, which was a timesaver. He had strong opinions and liked his newspaper folded a certain way, but they got on quite well. He worked four afternoons a week at Cashmere Crush, giving him a bit of income and her a much-needed assistant.

Odd as it may be, Paislee felt like her late gran approved of the situation.

It had rained cats and dogs earlier that morning, a normal occurrence in lush Nairn, but for now the September sky was clear. The air smelled fresh after the deluge. Wallace raced around the SUV, sniffing at the damp earth.

“Brody, he needs tae be on a lead. We don’t know what other dogs might be here.”

“Mum, he hates it.”

“That was the deal: you keep him on the leash, or he was tae stay home. You promised. No going back on your word now.”

Brody blew out his breath but attached the leather lead to Wallace’s collar. Paislee had one job in this world, and that was to raise a fine young man. Everything else in her life was secondary to that goal since she’d chosen to be a single parent.

“Thank you.” Brody came to Paislee’s shoulder, but Doc Whyte predicted that Brody would be tall, like her da. He and Grandpa both had brown eyes, while hers were light blue. Besides their red hair, she and Brody had a similar chin that tilted toward stubborn.

“Welcome,” Brody mumbled, giving Wallace enough of the leash to run ahead after a bird, with him following close.

How on earth did Brody already have dirt on his shoes? Och. Paislee pulled her gaze away and opened the back hatch.

Ramsey Castle loomed to her right. This structure had been around since 1820, built after the previous building had burned. To make sure that didn’t happen again, the walls were thick stone meant to last. It was imposing, as were the tall doors banded with metal to withstand any enemy. It looked medieval, like a proper castle.

“Can I help?” Grandpa tilted his blue tam over his silver-gray hair at a rakish angle.

“Aye, please!” Paislee selected a box of scarves and gave it to him, leaving the two bulkier boxes for herself.

He whistled and pretended to drop it.

Paislee gasped. “Grandpa!” Had it been too heavy? “Let me.”

“I’m fine.” Grandpa’s back stiffened because she hadn’t realized he’d been kidding. “Jokin’ with ye.”

“Now’s not the time!” Paislee gathered the other two boxes and shut the hatch. Her specialty items were the finest cashmere and a dredging in the mud wasn’t remotely amusing after the hours she’d poured into each. “Should we go tae the front door?”

“I dinnae see another entrance,” Grandpa said.

“The dowager countess told me tae park in the field.” Paislee balanced both boxes and her handbag. Lady Shannon Leery had championed Paislee’s bespoke cashmere clothes and accessories, suggesting them to her friend. This had resulted in a golden opportunity to showcase her finer goods and add an income stream besides the online orders and her storefront.

“It was kind of Shannon tae put me in touch with the dowager countess, wasn’t it?”

“Aye. Lady Leery is a special woman,” Grandpa said. He’d known the beauty all his life and held her in high regard.

Paislee glanced at her grandfather over the top of the boxes, her stomach tight. “What if the dowager countess doesn’t like what I’ve brought?” They’d discussed over the phone a few items to begin with.

“You have a braw talent with yer knitting needles, lass, so dinnae fash.” Grandpa winked at her, his glasses slipping down his nose.

“Ah. Thanks, Grandpa.”

Paislee had dressed in boots for a day outdoors on the castle property, paired with a lightweight, thigh-length floral jumper she’d knitted from merino wool over leggings rather than jeans. Lydia Barron-Smythe, her best friend in the world, had suggested the outfit.

They followed a gravel path toward the front of the castle. She’d been inside several times but not since the sunroom had been remodeled for the gift shop.

“Have you been here before?” she asked her grandfather.

“Not in many a year,” Grandpa said. “Used tae hunt with the previous earl, Dermot Grant.”

“Well, now it’s Robert Grant who is Earl of Lyon,” Paislee said. “And Patrick does the hunting. The dowager countess hinted that the men aren’t embracing modern improvements, but she sounds like a force of her own. Something she and Shannon have in common.”

On either side of the gravel path was a carpet of verdant grass. Paislee led the way, pausing as they neared the tall double doors of the castle. It had no stoop, and barrels overflowed with late summer flowers, creating bold color. The blossoms didn’t soften the medieval doors.

Wallace sniffed a red geranium and snapped at a bee. Paislee noticed actual mud on Brody’s shoes and worried he’d track dirt inside. “I’d like you tae stay here while we go in. Try tae keep the dog away from the flowers. We’ll be right out after delivering the cashmere.”

“Sure.” Brody studied the metal bands on both tall wooden doors like a scientist with a magnifying glass. “Can we get doors like this?”

“I don’t think they’d match our house,” Paislee said with a laugh. They had, thanks to Gran, an older standalone home, two stories with a back garden for Wallace and Brody to run around in. Two bedrooms and a bath upstairs; a long bedchamber downstairs, with a bathroom. Lounge, kitchen, and covered back porch.

No castle, but perfect for them.

“Those metal straps probably kept oot the battering rams.” Grandpa held the Cashmere Crush box in one arm and peered closer. “See that dent? These doors mighta been in the action.”

“A battering ram?” Brody asked, joining Grandpa for another look.

“Maybe a cannon or two.” Grandpa nodded. “Castles had tae be strong against the enemy. A fortress.” He connected the iron knocker to the metal plate. The sound reverberated.

“That’s pure barry,” Brody gushed. “Let’s ask the earl aboot it.”

Robert Grant would play in the piping competition as his family had done for decades, providing food and drink afterward in celebration. There would be twelve bands competing in total for a small cash prize.

The front door opened. A pretty lass in a blue maid’s uniform widened it. “Welcome tae Ramsey Castle!”

Behind the maid was Dowager Countess Sorcha Grant, a tall woman with sable-brown hair, green eyes, and lean, lightly made-up features. According to the research Paislee had done online, the DC was sixty-three. While Paislee had been to the castle before she’d never officially met the family.

Grandpa removed his tam. He was seventy-six and his heart belonged to her granny, but that didn’t stop him from appreciating the ladies.

“Paislee Shaw! Come in, come in. Cinda?” The dowager countess gestured for the maid and another woman standing near, a cute blonde with an upturned nose, to take the boxes.

Paislee released her hold to Cinda and turned to Brody, who waited near the threshold with Wallace. “Stay around here—we’ll be back shortly.”

“No need,” the dowager countess said. “Boys and dogs are more than welcome in this castle. I’ve two sons and a daughter—grown now, but they once brought a newborn calf inside because they were worried aboot it being too cold. What a mess! The calf survived and it did my heart guid tae see them care.”

Brody smiled at Paislee with a glint in his eye, then bobbed his head toward the dowager countess. He stomped his feet before entering. “Thank ye!”

The castle floors were stone and covered with thin rugs that were probably easy to clean. A cow? Brody better not get any ideas!

“I’m Cinda Dorset.” The blonde tapped the lid on the top box. “I manage the gift shop.”

Paislee feared that she’d made a mistake bringing everything to the front doors. “Was there a different entrance?”

“You couldnae have known! It’s around the back tae the right, and we’ve just added gravel for a dedicated parking area,” the dowager countess said. “Making the gift shop accessible with its own door.”

The woman was very kind, Paislee thought. Down to earth. Like Shannon Leery, though Shannon dressed fancier and was twelve years older than the dowager countess.

“Not tae worry,” Cinda said with a sunny smile. “We’ll cut through the castle.”

Paislee brought her hand to her heart, relieved she hadn’t made a faux pas after telling Brody and Grandpa to be on their best behavior. “Thank you.” She gestured to Grandpa. “This is Angus Shaw, my grandfather, and my son, Brody.”

“Nice tae meet you. Call me Sorcha,” the dowager countess said. “And the pup?”

“Wallace,” Brody answered.

Paislee was glad Brody didn’t call her Sorcha, despite the invite to be familiar.

The interior of the castle was wood and stone. A chandelier overhead and lots of electric lamps created abundant light. There was a large fireplace to the right, and a closed door. To the back of the room was a wide staircase leading to the second and third floors, with an open gallery.

“This way,” Sorcha said. She went to the left, following a narrow hall. “Downstairs is the kitchen; after the original house burned because of a kitchen fire, this one was built from rock quarried near the river. Tae the right as we go are various public rooms—library, an office, a lounge. Everything in use. The family’s private rooms are upstairs.”

Paislee peeked into each as discreetly as she could, loving the history of this home. It felt alive and vibrant, due to the extravagant lighting. She’d hate to pay their energy bill.

Grandpa and Brody strode ahead of her, and Wallace heeled at Brody’s side—something new they’d worked on with the trainer because of Lydia’s wedding a few months ago. Cinda walked with her, while the maid and Sorcha led the way.

Paislee offered to take one of the boxes, but Cinda shrugged her off with a wink. “I’ve got it,” she said.

They arrived at the end of the hall and turned right, the only way to go, and continued along the length of the house until they reached the far corner.

“Here we are!” The dowager countess opened a door that had been painted white and they went inside. The glass walls from the sunroom allowed natural light, which helped lift one’s spirits even on a dreary day. Plants crowded the many shelves and a door led to an outdoor sitting area with a round table and benches; the car park was marked by gravel so new it sparkled. Beyond that were fields yet to be harvested, a barn, and a greenhouse.

“How spectacular,” Paislee said.

Cinda deposited the boxes on a long counter, as did the maid. “As ye can see, we have plenty of room. We plan tae sell jams from fruit harvested here at the castle, sausage from Lady Leery, jerky from our own venison. Patrick oversees the process. The dowager countess has collected a book of recipes still used today from their Grant ancestors.”

“A cookbook?” Grandpa asked with interest.

“Aye.” Sorcha removed the lid of a box, taking out a fine-as-silk cashmere shawl in the Grant red, green, navy, and lighter blue tartan. “Oh! This is lovely.”

Grandpa elbowed Paislee as if to say I told you so. It warmed Paislee to see the admiration in Sorcha’s eyes. Cinda’s, too. “Thank you. I brought two jumpers, shawls, and several scarves.”

Paislee showed the items, the softness of the cashmere beneath her fingers a testament to the quality. It was more expensive, but worth it to the right buyer.

“These will fly off the shelves!” Cinda held up a scarf. “Starting with me. I’m fair fond of cashmere.”

“We’ll see aboot that,” Sorcha said with a look at the blonde that wasn’t so fond.

“Mum!” a feminine voice called somewhat impatiently. “Where are ye?” The door pushed all the way open and a sturdy lady with the same sable-brown hair and green eyes as Sorcha stopped short when she saw that her mother had company. “Oops!”

The dowager countess tisked. “Here I am, Lissia. Lissia, meet Paislee, Angus, Brody, and the dog is Wallace. She’s the knitter we’ve hired tae fill the shelves with tempting goods. Feel this cashmere.”

Lissia’s cheeks colored with a hint of embarrassment. “Sairy for yelling like a dairy maid. Hallo.” She walked across the room, fitted out in a Grant tartan kilt with a white shirt and navy-blue jacket. Was she also in the band?

“See?” Cinda touched the scarf to Lissia’s flushed cheek. She smelled of the fresh outdoors—rain and grass.

“Ooh!” Lissia said. “This is nice. And in the Grant tartan? Yer right, Mum. These will sell withoot a problem. Should tick Robert off.” She grinned at the idea of her older brother being upset.

Sibling rivalry? Different views of where the castle was headed?

Sorcha’s lips twitched in a smile. Lissia must be an ally. “And where were you, my pet?”

“Ootside, saying a wee prayer that it willnae rain us oot today.” Lissia scrunched her nose and told Paislee and Grandpa, “Robert’s in a snit aboot Jory and Clan Cunningham winning last year. The only thing that will make it right is for him tae regain the title as champion. Doesnae matter that we’re all in the band—he takes it personally.”

“Robert is the earl,” Cinda said, as if that forgave everything.

“Clan pride,” the dowager countess proclaimed.

Lissia twirled her finger in the air. “The Grant clan will not let the fans doon.”

“You’re in the band?” Brody inched closer to Lissia. “A bagpiper?”

“Naw.” Lissia smiled at Brody and tapped invisible drumsticks to the counter. “I play the snare drum.”

Brody, thoroughly impressed, gave a wistful sigh. “That’s amazin’. I want tae be a drummer!”

“Do you play? I was a bairn when I first started, wasnae I, Mum?” Lissia turned to Sorcha, who nodded.

“You were. Following in your da’s footsteps.” Sorcha patted Lissia on the shoulder. “He’d be proud.”

“Brody wants tae be a footballer.” If he wanted to try a musical instrument, Paislee would support that. Better the drums than the bagpipe, to her way of thinking. The music was fine, but pipes could be screechy if not done properly. She’d been a screecher, and never pursued it.

“I’ll show ye sometime,” Lissia offered. “Right now, I need tae confer with Robert over a bit of timing on the roll at the beginning attack. It would kill Robert if Jory and the Cunninghams won two years in a row. Where is he?”

“Robert’s in the music room,” the dowager countess said. “I thought I’d give the Shaws a tour of the property after we finish here, if you want tae find us. Consignment okay with you, Paislee?”

It was a leap to leave the expensive items without pay, but worth the risk in terms of a new income stream. “Aye.”

Lissia left, along with the maid. Cinda showed Brody and Grandpa toys, trinkets, and a calendar with castle photos going back to the original wooden structure, while Paislee filled out paperwork for the items to stock. She overheard her son ask Cinda about battering rams.

Before long, Sorcha straightened. “Well, I believe that’s it. We’ll both profit by this arrangement. Robert doesnae like tae discuss the cold fact that running a castle takes money, especially as we change with the times.”

“Shannon says the same,” Paislee said.

“She’s a dear friend who has helped me bring ideas tae fruition, on a larger scale of course, than the Leery estate.” Sorcha rounded the counter. “Care tae see the grounds?”

Paislee checked her watch—not even an hour had passed. A private tour by the dowager countess was not something she’d turn down. “If it’s no bother?”

“Nane. Cinda, if you dinnae mind pricing the items?” Sorcha gave directions to her employee in a firm tone.

“Aye. So nice tae meet you all!” Cinda headed to the counter while they exited.

Brody raced out with Wallace as if he’d been cooped up for years. Paislee bit her tongue to keep from telling him to calm down. He’d been very engaged and well-behaved so far. Did she have his recent birthday to thank?

Sorcha’s long legs in brown pants easily covered ground. She wore a plaid red-and-beige shirt tucked in, and a narrow brown belt revealed a slender waist. “You can tell by the scent that we have cows, horses, and sheep. Lots of deer. Fish in the river. The trees are harvested for firewood. We’re almost completely self-sufficient, except for electric. Robert has a conniption each time I suggest solar panels.”

A dark-haired man on a horse followed by two hounds sped by them to the barn and out of sight.

“Who was that?” Brody asked. “He’s so fast! Was it the earl?”

“Naw. My other son, second child of three, Lord Patrick Grant.” Sorcha’s voice held pride. “He’s provided the meat for our barbecue later.”

“Does he play in the band, too?” Grandpa asked, tam once again on his head. The sky was overcast, the morning cool, but at least it wasn’t raining.

“No. Patrick is no musician—I’m not, either. We do other things, like hunt and manage the accounts,” Sorcha said in a teasing tone. “We all know our duties here at the castle.”

Sorcha crossed to the greenhouse and opened the door. Inside, a man with a weathered face, as if he lived permanently outdoors, bowed over a row of greens. A knit cap covered black hair threaded with a hint of silver strands.

“Finn McDonald, groundskeeper and gardener.” Sorcha entered fully. Steam frosted the glass panels of the greenhouse from their breaths.

“Hi!” Paislee said.

Finn looked up and tipped his head. He might have smiled but it was hard to tell. “Hallo. Shall I leave . . . ?”

“Dinnae go,” Sorcha said. “I’m just showing the Shaws around. Paislee will be a frequent visitor now that her items are in the gift shop. Are the stands already up for folks tae watch the performance?”

“Aye.” Finn pinched a green leaf and pocketed it, moving on to the next plant. “Me and the lads did it this morn.”

“It was pouring!” Brody said.

“If I was tae stop an activity because of a sump o’ rain, I’d never get anythin’ done,” Finn remarked with a twinkle in his eye.

“Thank you, Finn.” Sorcha turned and gestured them back outside. “Finn is my right-hand man on this place. He knows each blade of grass. Patrick manages the cattle and horseflesh while Robert tends tae the castle property. Lissia and I manage the inside, like the kitchen and staff. We are a well-oiled machine here at Ramsey.”

There was no mention of Cinda.

They left and Sorcha headed toward the trees: evergreen, firs, chestnut, oak. Paislee recognized everything except for something that resembled very tall bamboo.

“What are those?” Grandpa asked.

Sorcha saw what he pointed at. “Giant Reed.”

“Giant Weed?” Brody repeated.

“No.” Sorcha laughed good-naturedly. “The name is Giant Reed. It’s been grown for use on the bagpipes since the first records in the Ramsey Castle logbooks.”

“What for?” Grandpa asked, giving his beard a scratch.

“The reeds. I dinnae play”—Sorcha raised both hands—“but Dermot, and now Robert, insist that the natural cane reed makes the warmest sound.” She briefly brought her finger to her lips. “I zone oot when they go on aboot them. I’ve asked him tae put them in the gift shop along with the clan history. He’s not behind it yet but he’ll see that every wee bit of income helps.”

Paislee nodded, understanding that very well.

They reached the edge of the forest, guarded by tall reeds and pine trees. Grass was springier beneath her feet. Wildflowers grew in pink and yellow clusters. Moss covered the trees.

Wallace strained against Brody’s hold to chase a fat red squirrel waving his tail like a matador teasing a bull. “Brody!” Paislee warned. Too late. Wallace got loose, barking ferociously after the wily squirrel.

Brody darted for the trailing leash grip but missed and followed Wallace into the forest. The trees covered him from view as they ran. Paislee’s blood pumped with adrenaline—she hated not being able to see her son, or their dog.

“Stay here a second.” Sorcha strode after them while Paislee and Grandpa waited. The three returned within moments that felt like a lifetime.

Sorcha had Wallace’s lead in one hand, and her other on Brody’s shoulder. “Those squirrels are excellent foragers,” she said. “They get nuts. Berries. Mushrooms. Even the poisonous ones.”

“They could die if they eat them!” Brody said, his eyes round with worry.

“Nope. Squirrels can digest the poison, but it would make your pup sick.” Sorcha handed Brody back the lead. “Need tae be careful, is all.”

Wallace, panting, lowered his head when Paislee gave the terrier the stink-eye. “Did he get into something poisonous?” She had the veterinarian, Dr. Kathleen McHenry, on speed dial.

The dog’s black muzzle was flecked with dirt and grass. The gloating squirrel chittered from the treetop.

“No. Wallace was just pawing at the tree tae get tae the squirrel. Let’s stop at the barn so Wallace can drink from the trough.” Sorcha moved away from the forest.

“Thank you,” Paislee said. “Brody learned about mushrooms on a field trip when he was eight. Do you remember?”

“Not really,” Brody said. “So, I just stay away from all of them. Yuck.”

“Finn harvests them and other herbs,” Sorcha said. “Our chef makes a divine brandy and wild mushroom soup that will . . .