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

face wasn’t the only thing bashed in. His shirt looked like it had been pushed an inch or two into his chest in a narrow stripe right across the front of his body. What could have done this kind of damage? I thought for a moment. My bookcase would have done him in if the baseball bat hadn’t killed him first. The edge of one of the shelves, right across his heart, as the bookcase crashed down on him, could inflict this kind of wound, could leave this kind of mark. Death by bookcase? What a ghastly thought. His knees, completely untouched, must have lain under an open area above a shelf. There were bookends and clan plaques on and around the body, around Mason, where they’d slid off the shelf when it came crashing down on him. Guidebooks lay scattered around his head and shoulders.
    But why had Mason been in my store at night? And why would he have stood still while somebody hit him with a bat and dumped a bookcase on him?
    Sam touched my shoulder. “We have to call the police, Peggy.”
    I held out a hand for him to help me to my feet—I did feel a bit shaky—and reached for the counter where I’d set my phone. I gritted my teeth and called.

12

    Napoleon of Hamelin
    M oira, Hamelin’s sassy and thoroughly southern police dispatcher told me Mac Campbell was out of the office.
    Thank goodness. I didn’t need his officiousness this early in the day, especially when I had a dead body to worry about.
    Moira told me she’d send someone. It came out:
Ah’ll sin suhm-won raht awaee, sugah
. “You just sit tight, don’t touch anything, and don’t let anybody else in that store of yours. Do you know who it is?”
    “It’s . . . it’s Mason. Mason Kilmarty.”
    “Your boyfriend?”
    “My former boyfriend. I broke up with him last week.”
    “Well, honey, somebody finally done him in for you.” She paused, and I heard her voice in the background issuing orders. When she came back, there was a distinct clink as her ringed fingers cupped around the phone. “Was it you who did it?”
    “Moira!”
    “Well, honey,” she said, giving up her whispering, “everybody knew you two had problems.”
    “Everybody did not.”
    “They sure did after you asked to have the town books audited. Harper’s on his way there. You hold on.”
    My hands were shaking so hard, it took me two tries to hit the End button.
    Rather than just wait for someone to show up, I called my brother. He and Mason were—had been—friends. That’s probably why I got hooked up with Mason to begin with. He was always hanging out at our house, almost as much as Sam and Shoe.
    “Where are you, Drew?” Mobile technology is great, but I never know where anybody is when I call. Andrew travels a lot. He has a specially equipped van that lets him go practically anywhere. And Tessa to help him with all the details he can’t do himself.
    “Manchester. What’s up?”
    “Are you sitting down?” Rats! Of course he was sitting down. “What I mean is, are you okay to hear some bad news?”
    “Just a sec.” I heard him drop the phone into his lap, and his wheelchair squeaked the way it does when he lifts himself to reposition his legs. “Okay. Shoot.”
    “It’s Mason. He’s . . . he’s . . .”
    “What’s he done this time?” It was more a statement than a question.
    “No. Hush. He’s . . . dead.”
    “Did you say
dead
? He’s awful young for a heart attack. Are you sure he’s dead? Maybe he just passed out.”
    “Drew! Shut up and listen. Somebody . . . killed him . . . last night . . . in my shop.”
    “What was he doing in your shop?”
    “I don’t know. Look, Drew, I have to run. There’s a cop at the door. Just wanted you to know . . .”
    “When’s the funeral? I can be back for it.”
    “Are you nuts? How would I know?”
    “Call his mom.”
    “No! The cops can tell her.”
    “Peg.” He was using his big-brother voice, even though he’s only five minutes older.
    “I can’t call her. I broke up