Murder at a Scottish Wedding

Book 4: Scottish Shire Mystery

by Traci Hall

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

Synopsis

As her friend's matron of honor, Paislee Shaw vows to solve the mystery of a missing brooch and a dying wedding guest . . .



Paislee's specialty sweater shop and yarn business Cashmere Crush, in the charming Scottish village of Nairn, is closed today for a special occasion. Her bonnie bestie Lydia is moments away from walking down the aisle of the church at Old Nairn Kirk to wed Corbin Smythe. Gramps and Paislee's eleven-year-old son Brody are seated in the pews with the other guests—the only family not in attendance is their black Scottish terrier Wallace. As matron of honor, Paislee is at her friend's side when Lydia lets out a frantic cry. The Luckenbooth brooch her betrothed gave her is missing. A traditional Scottish love token, the gold heirloom has been in his family for generations and not wearing it could bring bad luck—according to the superstitious Smythes.



But the real misfortune falls on a distraught cousin who suddenly disrupts the ceremony and dies with the brooch in her hand. The Smythes insist it's the curse. But Paislee must broach the subject of . . . murder. And was the intended victim the guest—or the bride? Only Paislee can determine who to pin the murder on . . .

Release date: January 24, 2023

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 304

Sample

All signs of the Zen bride were eradicated as her bonnie bestie shoved tissues and hairpins across the crowded vanity with searing curses. Her muttered oaths were sure to burn the church down around their coiffed ears.

“Should I answer the do—” Paislee began.

“Wait!” Lydia lifted her bridal bouquet in the holder, examined the space around it, and returned it with a plonk. The red roses trembled. “I cannae wed Corbin withoot that brooch. Minister Angela placed the box right there.” She pointed a slender arm, the silver gown capped at her shoulders, as fragile as a Victorian heroine. Caramel curls framed her perfectly made-up face. “It has tae be here!”

Paislee had searched every inch of the room for the dark wooden box containing the pin, but it had vanished like a ghost at dawn.

Corbin had chosen the Luckenbooth brooch for Lydia as a betrothal gift from the family coffers and pandemonium ensued within the Smythe clan. It seemed the double-heart-shaped pin had a history unknown to him and was supposed to bring bad luck if the bride wasn’t the right one for the groom—and Mary, his stepmother, had her doubts that Lydia was on par.

“We’ll find it. It has tae be here.” Paislee spoke in a calm tone she used to soothe her son, Brody, when he was hurt. She stepped toward the door after a second, more insistent, knock. “Maybe this is news.”

“If it’s the wedding photographer again, tell him enough already!” Getting hitched hadn’t been an easy road for Lydia but she’d managed most of it with grace. She was only human for the few times she’d cracked under pressure. The orbs of Lydia’s gray eyes grew wild. “I shoulda eloped with Corbin, and the family be damned.”

Paislee remembered the panicked call she’d gotten a year ago from Lydia when Corbin had asked her to elope. Lydia had tried to break the relationship off completely, but Corbin wouldn’t have it. He loved her—she loved him. They’d told Lydia’s parents, Alistair and Sophie Barron, who’d suggested a wee church wedding so they could celebrate her happy day. Nothing grand necessary, they simply wanted to witness Lydia and Corbin’s joy together.

Mary Smythe, Corbin’s stepmother, fussed and complained. In the end, it was decided that if Corbin was determined to marry a divorcee, then he would, by God, do it right. They insisted on their family church, Old Nairn Kirk. The historic building had a tall Gothic spire and room for two hundred. The Smythe clan packed the pews.

“It’s almost over,” Paislee said, her fingers on the doorknob. “What’s the worst that can happen now?” She regretted the question immediately.

Lydia wrung her hands. “Mary dislikes me and uses that brooch tae cause trouble. I’ve heard her spur the girls on. I have tae do this right, and then, and then . . .”

Paislee hated for confidant Lydia to be so overcome. She opened the door a crack to see who it was and then widened it with relief. Lydia’s father, an average-looking man of fifty-five, smiled worriedly. “Matthew’s askin’ if we’re ready, pet.” Alistair peered into the room.

Matthew Dalrymple was Corbin’s best man. The other groomsmen were his three brothers. Paislee was Lydia’s matron of honor, and her bridesmaids were Corbin’s stepsisters, Rosebud and Hyacinth, and a Smythe cousin. There’d been a drawing among the many girls and Senta had won.

“Did ye find the brooch, Da?”

“Not yet, love. The lasses are askin’, discreet as they can.”

By lasses, he meant bridesmaids. The guests were already seated but none of the wedding party had yet made it to the altar or things would really be awkward. Paislee’s son, Brody, sat with Lydia’s mother, and Paislee’s grandfather, Angus, on the bride’s section.

Paislee was the only one Lydia had chosen for herself, and she wasn’t budging from her best friend’s side. Alistair, in a tidy kilt of navy blue with black and silver accents, entered the room fully. The silver matched Lydia’s silk gown.

Alistair often joked that he and Mrs. Barron were plain Janes blessed with a changeling for a daughter, who was all things beautiful and kind. He put his steady hand on Lydia’s lower back. “Think tae where ye saw it last.”

“Aye. That’s a guid idea—retrace me steps.” Lydia glanced at Paislee and then her dad. “The bridal party was crammed in here getting all dolled up with the makeup artist.”

There’d been six altogether. Paislee gestured to the vanity. “The minister brought in the box with a handwritten note for Lydia, wishing her luck.”

“Mary offered tae have the brooch professionally cleaned.” Lydia touched the diamond engagement ring on her finger. The couple was going to exchange platinum bands at the altar. “It’s agony that Corbin is at odds with his family over me. It’s bad enough I’m divorced. I didnae have a title, or family money.” She gave an annoyed snort. “Sairy, Da.”

“No offense taken here,” Alistair said gruffly. “Ye’ve done quite well for yourself, and your mum and I are that proud.”

Harlow Becker entered the room. “Ye find it?” The lass was barely twenty and dating the youngest Smythe brother, Drew. Her fine features and bright blue eyes conveyed a delicate prettiness; her family was old railroad money. She’d been welcomed with open arms, unlike Lydia. She was also a friend of Hyacinth’s, who must have enlisted her help in the search.

“No,” Lydia said, her voice shaking.

Harlow’s gaze took in the messy vanity top before returning to Lydia. “Matthew wants tae know what the holdup is.”

“We cannae worry Corbin.” Lydia paced the room, arms crossed.

“We had tae tell the boys something”—Harlow shrugged—“so Rosebud said you suffered a case of nerves.”

At that, Lydia raised her chin. “I do not have nerves. I want tae marry Corbin.”

“So, forget the pin,” Alistair suggested. “It’s not that important.”

Lydia whirled toward her father. “He willnae want tae marry me, if I didnae have it!”

“He does, too!” Paislee said. It was his stepmother stirring the pot about bad luck.

“He wants tae,” Lydia conceded, “but it will be World War III if I didnae have the Luckenbooth pin attached tae the Smythe plaid ribbon in my flowers. During the dress rehearsal, Mary strongly hinted that Corbin should replace the brooch with another, but he didnae, out of principle.”

Alistair’s expression grew concerned. “Is the brooch expensive? The Luckenbooth I gave your mum was silver. We can buy another.”

“You’re sweet, Da, but this one is gold, and been in the family for generations. Mary feared I would lose it.” Lydia groaned. “And now look!”

Harlow snickered—not without sympathy. “Here come Rosebud and Hyacinth,” she said. “They dinnae seem hopeful. Senta either.”

Alistair stayed in the dressing room as the other bridesmaids filed in. It was a sea of red, blue, and black fabric with Lydia as the silver star of the show. Not white, because it wasn’t her first marriage, and Mary had advised another color . . . for Lydia’s own good. Paislee had never met a more superstitious woman than Corbin’s stepmother.

Lydia had a silver horseshoe, blue thistle, and a sprig of heather to go along with the Luckenbooth pin. She’d agreed not to wear white and signed a prenup that if Corbin and Lydia divorced within five years, she would forfeit any rights to the Smythe fortune. The brooch would be returned to the family.

Lydia hadn’t told her parents of the rude treatment, they only wanted for their daughter to be happy, but Paislee knew all the dirty details. Corbin had reminded Lydia often that he’d wanted to elope for a reason. He’d watched the fuss his older brothers had gone through, and that was with brides the family approved.

“The box was next tae your bouquet,” Senta said. Her ebony hair was in a loose bun, the soft red gown flattering to her slim figure. “With an ivory ribbon. Right, Hyacinth?”

“Aye. Mum wanted it tae be special, Lydia.” Hyacinth’s light brown brow arched in a superior manner.

“Neither the box nor the pin is in this room.” Paislee stepped between Lydia and Hyacinth, staring the girl backward toward the door. Rosebud tilted her nose with a sniff. She didn’t understand their antagonism toward Lydia, but Paislee wouldn’t tolerate anything besides rainbows and sunshine until Lydia was wed to her man.

Lydia smoothed the beads on her designer gown. The unique style, and color, was sure to be copied by other summer brides—if, no, when they got her down the aisle.

“Let’s ask the wedding coordinator if anything’s been turned in,” Paislee suggested. Perhaps the box had gotten snagged in fabric and flowers when they’d dashed out for photos with Bruce Dundas, the wedding photographer, in the courtyard by a picturesque alder tree.

“I’ll go!” Harlow said. “People are gettin’ antsy.” She hurried out of the room, slamming the door. A row of holders along the wall with the bridesmaid’s bouquets, blue thistle, red roses, and the Smythe plaid ribbon shook. Alistair righted one before it fell.

Paislee’s main duty as matron of honor was to make sure Lydia was all right. She rooted through the makeup kit that Lydia had brought from home for anything resembling the antique Luckenbooth pin. She knew it was gold but had personally only laid eyes on it twice before Mary had asked for it back, to be professionally cleaned. Two hearts entwined. A red stone. Ruby that Corbin had chosen for Lydia because it was her birthstone.

The wooden box delivered this afternoon had been heavy, so it didn’t make sense for it to be caught up in tulle without noticing. She hated to think someone, like Corbin’s stepsisters, might have hidden it to create drama but she also wouldn’t put it past the spoiled girls. Hyacinth was twenty, and Rosebud nineteen. Their mother behaved as if they were related to the king instead of token nobility. Landing Laird Garrison Smythe, Corbin’s dad, had been a feather in her cap and now Mary watched with an eagle eye to ensure her daughters got their fair share.

“Will this work?” Paislee lifted a colorful butterfly pin she’d found among the lipsticks.

Lydia crossed the room and held it to the light, then eyed her bouquet. “No. Mary willnae be fooled.”

“Nobody truly believes ye willnae marry Corbin withoot it, do they, love?” Alistair fiddled nervously with a button on his silver vest. The pouch on the front of his kilt, the sporran, was black leather.

“Oh, she cannae,” Rosebud said in all seriousness. Her light brown hair had been pulled back in a tight bun, with wisps to fall around her cheeks. “The marriage will be doomed. We didnae want tae tell ye, Lydia, but Mum had her psychic friend cleanse the brooch with sage smoke, then blessed by the minister, tae free it of the curse. I simply cannae believe it’s gone!”

“It’s a sign from above.” Hyacinth glanced at the ceiling and her long braid shifted to the side.

Curse! “I’ll tell ye what’s a sign.” Paislee strode toward Rosebud with indignant anger. “Lydia has jumped through every hoop for your family because of her love for Corbin. That is what matters—not some pin!”

Rosebud smirked.

“Here, here,” Alistair echoed. “What hoops, pet?”

“It’s nothing, Da. Paislee, help me put this butterfly on the ribbon?”

Paislee knelt before the bouquet, her lightweight thistle-blue dress pooling around her legs, and fixed the pin to the ribbon so that just a hint of the enamel wing showed. “There.”

“It will have tae do,” Senta said. “I dinnae blame you for ignoring their grumbles, Lydia. You’re marrying up.” She flushed as if she’d just remembered Alistair was still in the room.

The sisters turned on their cousin. “It’s terrible luck tae not use the blessed brooch,” Rosebud said.

Hyacinth plucked her red rose and blue thistle bouquet from the holder, then handed Rosebud’s to her, leaving Senta to reach for her own in a silly snub.

“I dinnae care aboot money or station.” Lydia gritted her teeth. “I love Corbin and pray someday we can laugh aboot this, but right now? I dinnae see it.”

“Laughter is verra important in a marriage,” Alistair agreed. Paislee read his wariness as he tried to navigate the undercurrents in the dressing room.

Paislee peeped into the hall to see the wedding coordinator hustling toward them with Harlow at her side. Eliza Wilbur was from the Caribbean and dressed in bright colors. Today’s skirt and blouse were cerulean blue with orange accents.

“What’s wrong?” Eliza asked as soon as she was inside the dressing room. “Darling Lydia, what can I do? Your groom is waiting for you and sends his love and encouragement. You have the nerves?” She shook her hands as if to show Lydia how to release negative energy.

“I dinnae have nerves!” Lydia exclaimed. “I also dinnae have the brooch his stepmother gave me.”

“Ah!” Eliza raised a finger. She’d picked up enough undertones over the last few months to realize that this was a big deal. She immediately got on her knees to examine beneath the table, then lifted the box of tissues, the flowers, and the little mirror. All places Lydia and Paislee had repeatedly checked.

“Could you please let Corbin know aboot the brooch?” Lydia asked. “Mibbe I should go see him myself.” She stepped toward the open door.

“No!” the ladies exclaimed in unison.

“Talk aboot bad luck,” Rosebud sniffed. “It’s like you’re not even trying, Lydia.”

Paislee glared at the younger lass, who had the intelligence to look away. Lydia had done so much more than just try.

Eliza scanned the dressing room once more but finally nodded. “Yes. I’ll tell him what the problem is, but I am quite sure he just wants to marry you.”

“There’s more tae it than that.” Lydia explained that they had a different pin as camouflage if Corbin was all right with the ruse. Mary would know once she was close enough. She looked at his stepsisters as she said, “I dinnae believe in curses.”

“Curse? Oh, no.” Eliza clucked her tongue, then admired the pin on the ribbon. “Today is a beautiful day for your wedding. I’ll be right back. Come with me, Harlow. You can alert the guests that we are about to begin.”

Paislee clasped Lydia’s hand. “You ready, hon?”

“I am.” Lydia breathed out. One, two, three. “I had tae let him know. I cannae start off my marriage with a lie.”

“What he doesnae know cannae hurt him,” Senta advised.

“Corbin will not go through with it,” Rosebud said. “Mum warned him what would happen if he married you withoot everything just so.”

When this was all over, Paislee was tempted to stop by for a one-on-one visit with Mary Smythe. The woman was a menace.

Eliza returned with a folded paper that she slipped to Lydia. Her best friend opened the note with a pent-up breath, then her shoulders relaxed, and she burst out laughing.

Paislee read the note that Lydia handed her. If you aren’t down the aisle in the next five minutes, I’ll run off with you. Scandal, curse, whatever. Your call, Lydia. Corbin.

“The wedding is on!” Lydia exclaimed with bright eyes.

“Wonderful.” Eliza hurried out, skirts swinging. “I’ll inform the band.”

The wedding march sounded, and the bridesmaids left the dressing room to take the arm of the accompanying groomsman. Each man wore a magnificent kilt of red, blue, and black with silver accents. The sporrans were of black leather. The bridesmaids’ ribbons on their bouquets matched the kilts. Drew, the baby, escorted Senta. Duncan, the “spare,” escorted Rosebud, and Reggie, the heir, hooked arms with Hyacinth.

Paislee watched the others through the partially opened door. “It’s beautiful, Lydia.” She turned to her friend. The harp melded with the bagpipe and the sound echoed harmoniously around the stones of the old church.

“Really?”

“Aye.” For the first time in months, Paislee detected true happiness on Lydia’s face. She blinked back tears. “I’d ask if you’re sure he’s the one, but I can see it.”

“He is,” Lydia said. “And worth a million evil stepmothers. Remind me of this moment, eh?”

Paislee used her mobile to click a photo of her best friend’s wide grin. “Got it!”

She tucked her phone into her wristlet—a purse just big enough for her mobile, credit card, and lip gloss—in the bottom drawer of the vanity, grabbed her bouquet, and stepped past Alistair to the lobby. A June breeze wafted in through the slightly open front doors—a must, or else the building would be too stuffy for the two hundred guests.

Matthew, a blue thistle boutonniere attached to his light gray jacket lapel, held out his arm for Paislee. Joy shone around Corbin from his position near the altar like a halo.

“Ready?” Matthew asked. “Corbin’s chuffed. Makes me want tae believe in marital bliss when I see him so in love with Lydia.”

“She’s ecstatic, too,” Paislee assured Corbin’s best friend. They’d become allies over the past few months of wedding preparation in getting their pals married.

The door of the restroom next to the dressing room banged open and a young woman with ebony hair charged between Alistair, Paislee, and Matthew. The slightly large nose on her pale face seconded her status as a Smythe cousin, confirmed by the red tartan shawl drooping from her shoulders.

“Excuse me, excuse me,” she said, barreling toward the front entrance of the church. The bathroom door slammed shut.

“Are you all right, Felice?” Paislee recognized the young woman from the pre-wedding festivities. She often hung out with Rosebud and Hyacinth, giggling.

“I cannae see!” Felice covered her eyes with her palm, her tone panicked.

“Where are ye off tae?” Matthew released Paislee’s arm in alarm and followed the young lady. “The wedding’s aboot tae begin.”

Felice wrestled the closest door all the way open, crying as if in pain. She exited, tripping on the stone threshold. Matthew tried to grab her elbow, but she flailed and knocked him away.

Alistair joined Paislee with concern. His duty was to his daughter, so he stayed near the dressing room door, but it was clear by his stance that he was torn. His nature was to help.

“What is it?” Lydia asked from the doorway. She held her bouquet before her and glanced from the commotion with Felice, to the altar in the opposite direction, and the guests inside all standing, waiting for the bride.

This was not rainbows and sunshine. “Give me a second!” Paislee hurried toward the church entrance to assist Matthew.

“Felice, stop!” Matthew shouted.

Paislee accidentally jostled Matthew on the stoop. Two dozen steep stairs descended to the cobble street where cars weren’t allowed to park. Felice’s nose was splotchy, and she blinked rapidly.

“Help me!” Felice whirled her arms and teetered on the top stone step.

Matthew reached for her and snagged her Smythe tartan, but it wasn’t enough to stop Felice from tumbling down. She landed at the bottom on her back, her neck at an odd angle. Silent.

“No!” Paislee’s stomach knotted.

“What on earth?” Alistair bellowed from the stoop. Lydia, on his heels, stared down at the broken body. Ebony hair spilled to the side. “Go tae the room, love,” he said, urging Lydia backward.

Lydia shook her head in disbelief. “No. Impossible.”

Matthew pulled his mobile from a pocket in his vest and dialed for emergency services. “Felice Smythe has fallen down the stairs at Old Nairn Kirk. Come around the front.”

Paislee dropped her bouquet and climbed down in a rush, slipping on the stone, but catching her balance before hopping over the last two steps to the sidewalk. She leaned next to Felice and took her pulse at her right wrist. Nothing.

She gasped. Something gold glinted in Felice’s left hand.

Lydia’s missing Luckenbooth brooch.

She stood on shaky legs. Matthew clambered down the stone stairs. “Paislee, is she . . . ?”

Swallowing hard, Paislee didn’t answer Matthew as she looked up. She recognized Harry, Corbin’s uncle, and more Smythe cousins with ebony hair directly behind Matthew.

“What? Felice!” Harry shoved Matthew aside to kneel by his daughter, only in his shock, he sprawled on his hip as if to gather her into his arms. He stopped, realizing her neck was at an odd angle. His semi-lined face paled of all color. “Oh, God.”

“Felice?”

Matthew hauled a tall young man back from grabbing Felice. “Oliver, mate, ye cannae touch her. The paramedics are on the way. Jocelyn, leave your sister be. I’m so sairy.”

Poor dears were Felice’s siblings. It was too late for an ambulance though the blare of sirens could be heard.

“Is that a Luckenbooth pin?” Jocelyn swiped big tears from her cheeks and her teeth chattered as she hovered by her sister, uncertain. “Wasnae Lydia missin’ hers?”

Oliver’s nose turned red. “Dinnae be daft. Felice wouldnae have taken it.”

Harry smoothed the hair back from Felice’s forehead. “What’s wrong with her skin?”

The prickled spots around her eyes reminded Paislee of a heat rash. While it was a warm afternoon, it wasn’t hot enough for that.

“Don’t know.” Jocelyn lowered herself to the ground and patted her sister’s arm. She sniffed, sad, but also a wee bit put out. “Her and Rosebud were crackin’ up. I asked aboot what, and she told me tae mind me own business.”

“When was this?” Paislee asked.

Gaze dull with sorrow, Jocelyn said, “Before you all went oot for pictures with the photographer. Felice was jealous of Senta. She wanted tae be a bridesmaid, too.”

Harry’s chest heaved with emotion as he stared at Felice in disbelief. “What happened tae my sweet lassie?”

Felice and Rosebud, laughing over something. Had Felice swiped Lydia’s brooch? Encouraged by Rosebud? A prank, most like, just as Paislee had feared.

Jocelyn reached for the brooch, but Matthew cleared his throat, glancing at Paislee. “You should probably leave it for the police tae sort.”

So, he had also sensed more to the story though she wasn’t surprised. Matthew was a solicitor in Edinburgh. He and Corbin had met at university and remained friends despite Corbin moving away from law to pursue the tech industry, and work for himself.

“Police?” Oliver dug his fingers in the back of his dark hair.

The police car arrived just ahead of the ambulance and parked in the middle of the street. The EMTs jumped out first and brushed by the family surrounding Felice. “Stand back, please,” a medic said.

Paislee edged away and looked up at the people collected in the foyer of the stone church—both doors were now wide open. Lydia waited on the stoop peering down. Minister Angela descended the stairs, robes billowing around her thin frame, as she murmured a prayer for the deceased.

Paislee raced up the steps to Lydia, who clasped Paislee’s hand. “Da went tae check on Mum. What happened?”

“Felice Smythe fell,” Paislee whispered. “Her neck is twisted. Lydia—she was holding a gold Luckenbooth pin.”

“What?” Lydia scowled but it was fear-based, not angry. “Was it mine?”

“It was gold with a red stone. I can’t be sure but what are the chances of yours going missing and her turning up with one not related somehow?”

“Oh, lordy, lordy.” Lydia’s lower lip quivered.

Corbin strode toward them, kilt swinging, followed by Garrison. Father and son joined them with curious yet cautious gazes. Corbin noticed Felice sprawled on the street and his body bowed.

“I . . . I was worried something had happened tae you.” Corbin slid his arm around Lydia. “Poor Felice.”

“Damn it,” Garrison blustered. “Did Felice slip?”

Mary arrived with a screech as she brought her hand to her mouth, then pointed her finger at Lydia. Her dyed platinum hair had been styled in a net with a blue thistle tucked above her ear, her plump body stuffed into a too-small Smythe-t. . .