Murder at a Scottish Halloween

Book 8: Scottish Shire Mystery

by Traci Hall

Genres: Mystery; Animal Cozy Mysteries

Synopsis

As Halloween descends upon the Scottish seaside town of Nairn, reluctant sleuth and knitting enthusiast Paislee Shaw finds herself investigating how an ancient ghost inspired a modern murder…

While Paislee will be celebrating All Hallow’s Eve by handing out candy to the trick or treaters at her Cashmere Crush sweater shop, her teenage son Brody seems to have given up the ghost. Uninterested in donning a superhero or monster costume, he’s just going to attend a party with his friends at the ice rink.

But Brody got swept up in the spirit of the season after all. Dared by the older kids, he went to the supposedly haunted Rait Ruins to capture video of a vengeful ghost. The local legend of the Rait Wraith has been passed down for generations—and still gives Paislee the creeps. While no specter actually roams the grounds, the lifeless body of university student Ailis Barclay is discovered there.

Ailis was at the ruins dressed as the ghost to prank Brody, only something went wrong. With her son traumatized and deemed a suspect, it’s up to Paislee to string together whether Ailis was a victim of the real Wraith of Rait Ruins—or of someone dangerous among the living . . .

Release date: June 30, 2026

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 288

Sample

All Hallows’ Eve

Thursday morning at the Shaw household was unusually loud as Paislee’s grandfather, Angus Shaw, and her son, Brody Shaw, debated right versus wrong. The reason for the exuberant back-and-forth was that vandals had graffitied the entrance of Lady Shannon Leery’s mansion with Down with Tories and the word SAORSA, which meant freedom.

“Just the porch, though?” Brody asked. The three sat around the wooden table for breakfast. He waved his piece of toast, sending crumbs flying that an alert Wallace, Brody’s black Scottish terrier, quickly licked up from the hardwood floor.

“It’s not right tae destroy anyone’s home,” Grandpa stated firmly. “Lady Leery’s family has always been a boon tae Nairn.” Her grandfather was in his late seventies, and his silver-gray hair had become more silvery-white. He was very fit, as he fished and had an active lifestyle. He wore black-framed glasses, and his full beard was the color of snow.

Paislee agreed but was swallowing tea so couldn’t say so.

A snapshot of the Leery Estate had made the front page of the newspaper with pictures of Lady Shannon Leery, her son Shawn Marcus, and her daughter, Aila Webster. They were the last of the Leery bloodline despite valiant efforts by Shannon’s children. The tall bronze nymph in the koi pond had been knocked over and painted blue.

“I’ve got brilliant memories of the Leery gardens,” Brody replied. “I hope it’s only paint, which will wash off. That stag statue used tae be bigger than me, remember, Mum?”

“I do,” she said.

“The article states the Leerys are Conservative, and that isnae always popular.” Brody drank his orange juice, on his second bowl of Weetabix. Paislee didn’t begrudge a pence of what it took to feed him. He was now taller than her. He had auburn hair and brown eyes, like her da.

“So, vote,” Paislee said. “Don’t deface property.” When her bestie Lydia Barron-Smythe had returned from a trip to Greece with her husband, Corbin, she’d been shocked that many of the Grecian ruins were covered in graffiti with no respect for the ancient monuments. In Scotland it was illegal to wield spray cans and kids under sixteen couldn’t even buy aerosol.

“I’ll vote when I’m able,” Brody said in a very serious tone at odds with his changing voice and freckles.

“And which party will ye join?” Grandpa tapped the photo, then returned to his oatmeal and toast.

Brody would rather starve than eat oatmeal, no matter what they did to spruce it up, though Paislee and Grandpa both liked it—especially with cream and fresh berries.

Grandpa was a member of the Labour Party, and Paislee was in the middle, a Liberal Democrat who just wanted everyone to get along.

Brody, in his second year, offered intelligent observations thanks to the Citizenship class he was taking in the Key 3 courses required for his certificate of completion. Paislee’s mother said she might come for the commencement ceremony. Brody hoped to nab a football scholarship and get his Bachelor of Science degree in sport, fitness, and coaching, like Calum Waters, Brody’s latest hero. “Not sure. A unionist.”

There were six main political parties in Scotland. The Scottish National Party wanted independence from the UK. The group’s rise in popularity had been affected by a scandal involving missing funds, and their leader, Nicola Sturgeon, had cried innocent of embezzlement although her husband, now ex, had been charged. Some members of the SNP had defected and created Alba in 2021. The other four were: Conservative (Tories), the Labour Party, the Liberal Democrats (Lib Dems) and the Scottish Greens—all unionists. They didn’t want to leave Great Britain. There were pros and cons to each position.

“Guid lad.” Grandpa circled the word SAORSA in the article with his finger. “It’s a shame aboot all the bloody wars over ‘freedom’ where people died for an ideal.”

“War is romanticized in the movies,” Paislee said, “though I like Outlander as well as the next person.” Fit Highlanders in kilts? Jamie and Claire’s love story? She sighed and sipped her tea.

“You think Jamie is verra fine,” Grandpa joked.

Paislee hid her smile by ducking her head.

“Would you fight tae the death”—Brody stabbed his spoon toward his grandfather—“over something?”

“Cannae say there’s been an issue in me lifetime I would’ve fallen on me dirk for besides protecting me family. I earned enough to provide food and shelter.” Grandpa nodded at Paislee. “Stories of the Highlanders are told with pride but in truth, the sides were muddied. Our ancestors fought for freedom and in the end, we had tae learn tae compromise. Not much has changed. I believe Great Britain and Scotland can help each other.”

Paislee shifted, impressed by his insight. “We are blessed tae live in a time where we have plenty tae eat and means tae provide, even the poorest of us in this community. It wasn’t always so.”

“Money, food, and shelter are worth fighting for?” Brody asked.

“And love!” Paislee said.

Grandpa waggled his brows. “I’m too old for that. Your future has more at stake. Mibbe you can go intae politics after your football career.”

Brody burst out laughing, sounding like the child that he was. How she wanted to protect him, but he was a young man now. He knew about his father and had forgiven her for her transgressions, accepting that her choices had been made from love.

“No, thanks. I want tae coach when I retire, at like, forty. That’s older than Mum.”

“Funny lad.” Paislee chuckled at the poke. She was about to be thirty-one next week and it stung.

Grandpa passed Paislee the part of the paper with the sales—Halloween costumes at Tesco were half off for the very late shopper.

Brody and his mate Edwyn, both thirteen, weren’t dressing up this year and Paislee was more than a little misty eyed about it. They’d attend a boy-girl Halloween party at the ice rink, which ended at ten, as there was school tomorrow.

Emma would be at the ice rink. Would she wear a costume? Brody had a mad crush, but they weren’t official.

Edwyn didn’t have a girlfriend by choice. He had blond ringlets and green eyes like his da, Bennett Maclean. He was into gaming and no longer played football. The split had left Brody at odds, and Paislee hoped her son didn’t get hurt by Edwyn’s wilder choices.

In America, her half-siblings, Natalie and Josh, were dressing up to go guising, or trick-or-treating, as they called it. Her mother promised to send pictures later. Nairn was seven hours ahead of the States. Natalie would go as Barbie, and Josh, a Ninja Turtle.

Paislee’s nod to Samhain was a white T-shirt she’d embellished with a knitted black cat wearing a witch’s hat. She had a matching hat for when she and Grandpa would hand out candy, and she’d knitted bat wings for Wallace. Grandpa had fake vampire teeth and a black cape for his role as Dracula. The wee bairns in costume always made her smile.

“Are you sure you won’t want tae dress up tonight?” Paislee showed Brody a Batman costume, on sale.

“Naw.” Brody scratched his nape, about due for another trim. He kept his hair in a short style, similar to Calum. Paislee encouraged the fandom as it meant university aspirations and regular haircuts. “I’m no wean. What’s the plan then?”

“I’ll drop you off at six at the rink, for pizza,” Paislee said. “Four hours seems like a long time tae hang out with your friends. If you want tae come home early, just call me.”

“I willnae,” Brody assured her.

Paislee bit her tongue.

“You doin’ anything fun?” Brody asked.

“We’re giving candy oot,” Grandpa said. “Wallace will be a bat.”

“Brilliant!” Brody brought his empty dishes to the sink, rinsing them and putting them into the dishwasher that none of the Shaw family were tired of using. He let Wallace outside, then raced upstairs to prep for school. He took extra time with his appearance these days.

“Brody might end up a Lib Dem like you.” Grandpa sighed. “Wanting everybody tae get along.”

“So?” Paislee said. “It’s better than being so wound up that you graffiti somebody’s house. We can all agree it wasn’t right.”

“Not just somebody,” Grandpa said. “But Lady Leery. Nobility, aye, but the guid kind. The Leery family would share their food—deer, fish, whatever—withoot a qualm, tae anybody in need.”

“I wonder if she was the only one tagged?” Paislee traded the adverts page for the article and skimmed it. Darcey McClintock was a controversial journalist who often had her pieces featured.

“We would’ve heard aboot it, I think,” Grandpa said. “Mibbe not though. The election is over. The SNPs lost ground. I’ve always been a Labour man meself.”

“They gained seats due tae the SNP scandal. So did my party, but not enough tae take over the Conservatives,” Paislee said.

Wallace barked at the back door, and she let the pup in. Brody skipped down the stairs, sliding around the corner post of the railing to the foyer.

“Can Emma give me a ride tae the ice rink tonight?” Brody balanced on one leg, phone in his hand, then hopped to the other. The boy was always in motion.

“Emma doesn’t drive.”

“Emma’s mum.” Brody rolled his eyes.

Paislee realized she had no reason to say no other than it meant not being in charge. “Okay.”

Emma’s mother was a hardworking lady with three part-time jobs trying to make ends meet after her divorce. Janet … no, not Janet. Crystal? Paislee couldn’t remember, though they’d met twice now at school. She’d had an opinion about Paislee’s lack of dating, thinking it strange.

Paislee and Brody were all right after she’d told him about his dad, and that was all that mattered. She and Mack, well. She averted her face as it heated with the memory of the detective inspector’s kisses. Back in August he’d promised to kiss her often and he hadn’t stopped.

Brody looked up from his mobile. “Emma and her mum will pick me up at five thirty. Emma wants me tae dress up but I’m not wearing a costume. No way. I’d be laughed oot of the ice rink.”

“That’s up tae you, honey.”

If there was one thing that could make a boy change his mind about what was cool, it was a girl.

“Not gonna do it,” Brody repeated. “It’s not like she’s my girlfriend.”

Paislee laughed. “Do you want her tae be?”

“Not enough tae dress up.” Brody’s lip jutted and Paislee silently wished Emma luck in getting him to change his mind.

“We have tae hustle.” Paislee and Brody called goodbyes to Grandpa, who murmured a reply from his chair at the kitchen table. Today was his day off and he planned on relaxing by reading or working on a puzzle.

Cashmere Crush, Paislee’s yarn and bespoke sweater shop, kept not only Grandpa employed part-time, but also Elspeth Booth. Elspeth and Grandpa worked alternate days from noon to six. Rhona Smythe was her only full-timer, clocking hours Monday through Friday, starting at ten. The end of October meant business quieted down until December, when things picked up for Christmas.

Gran had taught her that business had an ebb and flow. She dearly missed her grandmother. Seven years had passed since her death and so much had changed, yet the values she’d instilled remained important. Her granny believed that one should never discuss politics or religion outside the home, unless you were with close friends. She wouldn’t have approved of the graffiti on Lady Leery’s porch, believing it a right-or-wrong issue.

After dropping Brody off, Paislee drove to Cashmere Crush. Rhona’s red sportscar was parked in the back by the cement stairs.

The nineteen-year-old brunette hopped out with her customary enthusiasm. She and her boyfriend, Artie, were moving to Inverness in the spring, and until then were saving every pound. Aibreann, her best friend, was going with them and the young women planned to open a dance studio.

Lydia, an excellent estate agent as well as Rhona’s family by marriage, was locating a property with a business and living space to buy. Artie’s mother had sold their house and given her son half as a nest egg while using the other to buy herself a condo overlooking the Moray Firth. Artie, close to his mum, lived there with her for now and shared the expenses.

“Morning!” Rhona’s tiara sparkled despite the clouds. Her pink princess costume reached the pavement.

“You look adorable,” Paislee said.

“Thanks. Artie is going tae be my Prince Charming for the parties tonight.” Rhona flashed a dimple. “There’s a costume contest at the Grotto with a cash prize.”

“I want tae see pictures.” In a few years, would Brody be willing to dress up to make his girlfriend happy? Paislee hoped so.

They went up the stairs and inside, Paislee flicking on the lights as they prepped for the day. She was going to miss Rhona terribly when the lass went on to greener pastures.

“I’ll bore you with them tomorrow,” Rhona promised.

“Not possible.” Paislee located the witch’s hat she’d knitted to go with her shirt, and put it on.

“Cute!” Rhona said. “And they all sold oot, too.”

“Good thing.” Paislee cringed at the clutter. “My back storage room is so full I don’t have space for merchandise that isn’t selling.”

Rhona jerked her thumb behind her to the storage area. “What if you had new shelves fitted exactly tae the walls so it was organized tae make the most of it?”

Paislee considered the slew of cardboard boxes, yarn, patterns, and junk. “Not a bad idea.”

“Mum just got it done for her closet and it created double the space,” Rhona said.

The Smythes had buckets of money, so Paislee winced at what that might cost.

“I know that expression, Ms. Thrifty.” Rhona powered on the store laptop. “There’s a program we can use tae get plans. For free. And I bet Lachlan Felling, Gemma’s boyfriend, would give us a guid deal on hardware.”

Gemma was Artie’s mother. She’d quit her prior job to be a manager at Lachlan Construction. Within an hour, Rhona had put in the backroom dimensions and created a shelving design that appeared very promising, all without spending a thing.

“That’s incredible.” Paislee eyed the current situation of overstuffed, lopsided metal shelves. “And, overwhelming.”

“I’ll help,” Rhona promised.

“When?” Paislee arched her brow at the hardworking teen. “Between here and teaching dance tae the kids, there is no spare time.”

“I like tae be busy. Besides, I can work on it when things are slow. Or on a Sunday, when we arenae open tae the public.”

That had merit. Knock it out in one fell swoop.

The front door opened, and Paislee turned to greet the first customer of the day at—she gulped—eleven. There was slow, and then there was sllllowwwwww.

Her welcoming smile widened as Lady Shannon Leery came in, with Dowager Countess Sorcha Grant at her side. Though Sorcha was younger by twelve years, the ladies appeared practically the same age until you looked closely.

The dowager countess was an actual noble, able to trace her ancestry to the first king of Scotland, while Lady Leery held an honorary title given hundreds of years back to those with money and estates, like Lydia’s father-in-law, Laird Garrison Smythe.

Shannon Leery was now Shannon Leery Thornton as she’d married Gavin Thornton, a longtime admirer who’d stayed in the background of her affairs and loved her always.

“Good morning!” Paislee left the mess of the backroom and walked toward them.

The dowager countess wore her gray hair with pride. Sorcha’s clothes were subdued but quality. Tweed and fine wool, while Shannon had the latest fashions. Neither wore a Halloween costume.

Paislee’s happiness faded as she could think of only one reason for the pair to be here together, and it had to do with the article in the paper about the vandalism of Lady Leery’s porch.

The astute older woman broke into a grin as she elbowed Sorcha. “Paislee is ontae us. I told you, Sorcha, she’s no fool.”

The last time they’d arrived at Cashmere Crush they’d wanted her help to solve a crime. What could she do about someone with a spray can and a grudge?

“Dinnae be frightened,” Sorcha admonished good-naturedly. “I’m also here tae discuss gifts for Robert’s wedding party over Christmas. He and his bride will tie the knot on December twenty-sixth, and I’ll host the event at Ramsey Castle.”

Rhona, though related to Laird Smythe, wasn’t nobility herself and dipped her head respectfully. “Guid morning.”

“Lady Leery, and Dowager Countess Grant, meet Rhona Smythe.”

“Related tae Laird Garrison Smythe? A grand family,” Lady Leery said. “If large. Call me Shannon.”

“I’m Sorcha.”

“Oh, I couldnae do that. Mum would have my hide,” Rhona said. “Will Ms. Shannon, and Ms. Sorcha be all right?”

“And who is your mother?” Sorcha asked with a twitch of her lips. “She taught you wonderful manners.”

“Petra Fuller. My da is McDermot Smythe.”

“Petra Fuller?” Shannon tapped her chin. “She was a bonnie lass and didnae last long on the marriage mart.”

Rich as well as beautiful, Petra would not have been interested in Sorcha’s philandering son Robert, or Shannon’s partying offspring, Shawn, though the ladies would be aware of her as a possible mate.

“Why don’t you do inventory of the skeins?” Paislee suggested. “Start with the cashmere.”

“Sure.” Rhona grabbed a clipboard and pen, leaving to give them privacy. Soft music played.

“She’s a pretty thing,” Sorcha said. “Polite and wealthy too.”

“Way too young and sweet for either of ours,” Shannon said.

“Robert had tae go oot of the country tae find his bride, but he managed it.” Sorcha leaned her elbow on the counter by the register. “I was a wee bit worrit, I can admit now.”

“The bride tae be, Princess Dona de Chevron, is from a small European country I cannae recall the name of but she is quite beautiful.” Shannon smiled at her friend in understanding. “Robert did well, in the end.”

Sorcha sighed. “He just has tae not muck it up and aye, Ramsey Castle will be saved for the next generation.”

“What are you thinking?” Knitting items for a noble wedding would up Paislee’s credentials, which was good for business.

“I suggested the vests and ascots in cashmere,” Shannon said. “Scarves in the Grant tartan.”

“Which was an excellent idea. I’ll need four for the men. Robert, Patrick. The bride’s brother and her father. Matching sashes for the ladies—the bride, me, her mother. Cinda. Patrick insisted she be included.” Sorcha tilted her head, her cunning eyes narrowed. “I know it’s October thirty-first, but can you complete this by December twentieth? We’ll need photos. The sooner the better, actually.”

“Absolutely.” Paislee would work around the clock to deliver. This would be a feather in her knitted witch hat.

“Splendid.” Shannon smiled and changed the subject, as Paislee had known she would. “Did you read the paper this morning?”

“Yes. It was awful, what happened tae your property.” Paislee glanced toward Rhona at the front of the yarn shop as she counted the skeins of cashmere, about to move to the next shelf of merino wool.

“It was unacceptable.” Sorcha’s gaze burned with anger equal to her friend’s.

“Did they catch the vandals?” Paislee asked. “Not only graffiti on the porch, but the statue in your koi pond was painted blue.”

“No,” Shannon said. “It just happened this morning.”

“Like they even tried!” Sorcha scoffed.

“I’m assuming you called the constables,” Paislee said. She couldn’t think of a reason not to do so. “What did the police say?”

“I had tae fill oot reports.” Shannon’s mouth pursed. “I miss the old days when I could simply give the information and someone else would file it. My handwriting is not what it used tae be.”

“It was a sacrilege.” Sorcha’s regal brow rose.

“I’m really sorry,” Paislee said again. “What can I do tae help?”

“Well, what can you do, darling lass?” Sorcha asked.

Her thoughts precisely.

“What we mean tae say, is that you are not local nobility, so you cannae understand what it’s like tae be targeted in such a vicious way.” Shannon shivered.

Paislee realized that the lady was sincerely bothered and responded with her heart rather than a smart comment. “What happened, exactly?”

“Well, I’m living at me and Gavin’s home, so I wasnae at the estate. Shawn and Aila are both staying there as they will inherit and need tae figure it oot. Shawn called me at five a.m.—not the call you want from your grown son in a panic, having heard the vandals. I think Malcolm chased the intruders off with the hunting rifle, truth be told.”

Malcolm was the butler at the Leery Estate and not one to back down from an intruder. Paislee would trust Malcolm with an emergency far more than Shawn.

Shannon paused to take a breath. Sorcha patted her shoulder and took over for her friend. “Aila had been ill, so she’d taken cold medicine and was zonked. Didnae hear a thing. Shawn had his girlfriend Margot with him …”

“They called the police,” Shannon continued, “and then me. I went right over. The stag in the maze had been knocked over as well as the nymph, and graffiti sprayed everywhere. Doon with Tories? How unoriginal.”

“Was anything taken?” Paislee asked.

“No. Just ruined,” Shannon said.

“Are you able tae clean it up?”

“The police just finished photographing the damage, so aye.” Shannon tilted her chin. “Shawn will handle it.”

Shawn Marcus was the landlord for the businesses on their street, and he was dating Margot, who managed a wellness clinic a few doors down. He’d had many health scares…was it a liver transplant? Maybe a kidney. Her memory wasn’t what it used to be. No matter—the operation had been a success, and he was healthy.

Everyone seemed to be in a steadier frame of mind. Paislee had learned that just because your children were grown didn’t mean that you stopped worrying over their sometimes idiotic choices.

“That he will.” Sorcha stepped back from the counter. “SAORSA was painted everywhere. Freedom. Freedom from what? Following the law? I want these people caught and punished. What right do they have tae destroy private property?”

“We’re going tae the paper and have a talk with Darcey McClintock. Where did she get that photo? The paint was still fresh. Makes me wonder if she could be behind it,” Shannon said.

“Why would she do that?” Paislee asked. It was risky if one wanted to keep their job.

“Why not?” Sorcha shrugged. “The Scottish National Party is prevalent around here. Could be she’s a member and protesting against us.”

“Us?” Paislee queried.

“Tell her,” Shannon said. She looked at Sorcha with an expectant expression.

Paislee braced herself for what was to come. One never knew with these two.

“Well.” Sorcha sighed. “The Leery Estate was not the only one under this SAORSA’s spray can, that’s all.”

“What do you mean?”

“They were at Ramsey Castle the day before yesterday.” Sorcha folded her hands before her. “Spray-painting. Knocking things doon.”

“Did they do damage?” Paislee asked, incredulous. She hadn’t heard of the disturbance, and they read the paper every day.

“Aye,” Shannon said when her friend didn’t respond. “They trampled her entire corn field. Cowards.”

“What did the police say?”

“We didnae call them,” Sorcha said. “Robert, Patrick, and I cleaned it up ourselves. Radicals want one thing—publicity. We cannae have word of this reaching the de Chevron family. It’s challenging enough tae hide my daughter’s mental illness.” She exhaled. “From the way Dona’s mother, Queen de Chevron, spoke on the phone, they think Scotland is still full of raging Highlanders ready tae plunder, and they’. . .