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

of the mess. Dirk peered over my shoulder.
    “The wee holes look as if something was nailed there.”
    “They weren’t there when I bought the place,” I said.
    “What?” Shoe straightened up and squinted at me. Did he need glasses?
    “Nothing. Just talking to myself.”
    Dirk grinned.
    I set the tape down and walked into the employees-only part of the shop, intending to step into the small bathroom and see if the holes came through back there. Dirk followed me.
    The back door. That was how whoever had done this had gotten in. I forgot the bathroom and headed toward the door. Not only was it not locked, it wasn’t even closed all the way. Why did I have a good dead bolt lock on the front door and a puny thing like this on the back? Why was I thinking about this now instead of two weeks ago?
    Dirk wandered around the room, gazing at plastic bins, cardboard boxes, metal drawers. Life must have been a lot simpler way back when he lived.
    I poked my head outside. Nothing suspicious in the alley. The Dumpster, the rear doors of other businesses, the privacy fencing that separated the backs of the stores from the backyards of the homes on Beech Street. The usual stuff. I ran my hand over the outside of my door. No sign of a crowbar or anything like that. Well, heck, of course not. Shoe had told me all he and my brother ever had to do was lift the doorknob to make the whole thing pop open. I closed the door and pushed the little button. I’d send Shoe to the hardware store later for a real lock.
    I looked around. The old rolltop desk that had been here forever—or so I assumed—was still piled as high as before. The practical joker should have stolen my paper monster. I would have been eternally grateful. I had a fairly good idea of what was in my inventory, and nothing seemed to be missing, but I had to admit it was hard to tell in a space as crammed as this was. It wasn’t enough that I had to store all my own stuff—inventory, repair items, file cabinets with all my financial info—but Shoe still hadn’t picked up the things he’d left here when
last
year’s baseball season ended. I pushed his second-best glove away from the edge of a table and walked back into the showroom, pausing to let Dirk through before I let the door swing shut.
    Sam showed up fairly quickly, ready for work, wearing a Gordon kilt. “I like it better than the Winn tartan,” he’d told me a couple of years ago. “As long as I have to wear a kilt, it might as well be one that matches my eyes.” And he’d blinked his lashes in a parody of a 1930s showgirl.
    I took a discreet look at him. Had to admit, the blues and greens set off his blond hair better than our Winn burgundy would have. “Anyway,” he’d added, “the customers won’t care what I wear, as long as it’s a kilt.” He was right about that.
    Gilda locked the door behind him. Good. “Point me to this moving job,” he said.
    Gilda pointed. Sam gaped. Typical reaction. The bookcase was such a sturdy presence in the shop, its demise—because that was what it looked like—was downright disconcerting.
    “What’s the damage?” He spoke in an awed whisper.
    “I imagine everything is at least dented, if not smashed,” I said. “Everything except the Urquhart castles.”
    “Urquhart?” Dirk sounded confused. Of course.
    “Those little statues of the castle are pretty sturdy,” I explained.
    “Ah,” said Dirk.
    Shoe rolled his eyes. “We know that.”
    Sam smirked at the supine mannequin. “He’s come down in the world.” He wiped his face clear when I frowned at him.
    “I’ll thank you to remember he’s one of a unique line that’s been discontinued. Worth a lot to collectors.”
    “Somebody would have to be out of their gourd to collect mannequins.”
    I pushed him aside. Dirk was strangely quiet. I suppose he felt bad about not being able to help. “Come on, you two. Let’s get this bookcase upright.” Shoe stepped to the counter and put down another