A Heist at Harvest: The Highland Horse Whisperer Mysteries, #4

By R.B. Marshall

A daring theft. A reputation in tatters. And a troubling trifle.
Scottish horse trainer Izzy Paterson has double trouble to deal with: an audacious financial crime, and a perplexing equine enigma. The victims of both mysteries—the unconventional local vicar and a talented teenager-—are innocents caught out by the machinations of dastardly villains.

It's a race against time—and some wily criminals—as Izzy tries to track down the perpetrators before the reverend's reputation is ravaged and the village gala day is ruined.

Can she unearth the truth before the conflicted cleric is charged with a crime he didn't commit?

:: A Heist at Harvest is a Highland Horse Whisperer Cozy Mystery set in autumnal Scotland and features eccentric characters, a charming village, a Nigerian Prince, and a mystery you will be desperate to solve.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Aye Alba Publishing
• Release date: Oct 1, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223294306

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

August 2018

It would’ve been okay if it wasn’t for the trifle.

At this time of harvest, the vicar intoned, we have much to be thankful for. Reverend Brian May—not the Queen guitarist, although he bore a resemblance—was a curly haired man in his forties with a round face and welcoming expression. Today, he was wearing flowing robes and a dog collar rather than his usual golf sweater and jeans.

So, this year, he continued, we’ll donate the proceeds from our charity events to farmers in Bulungi. Their harvest has failed, and they direly need our help.

The service proceeded much as I’d have expected, given that I wasn’t someone who made a habit of going to church. But Brian and his wife Martha were among my favourite people in the Scottish village of Glengowrie. To show my support for them, I’d decided to attend at least the major services each year—Christmas, Easter, and now Harvest.

After a particularly rousing hymn, Brian stood at his lectern and smiled beatifically at us. Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, it’s now time for our harvest offering. Can I invite you to come to the front with your first fruits?

Soon, a diverse pile of goods had accumulated in front of the altar—baskets of crusty bread, bags of red apples, tresses of pungent onions, and even a small box of thin-skinned potatoes. The vegetarian in me thought it looked delightful.

Since I was a horse trainer, not a gardener or farmer, a tin of espresso was the best I had to offer. Coffee was my elixir, making the early starts my job demanded almost bearable for someone who was more of an owl than a lark. It was the good Italian stuff I’d brought, too, not sawdust-flavoured supermarket rubbish. I hoped the beneficiary of my gift would appreciate the pick-me-up.

The Episcopal church in Glengowrie was stone built, with a circular apse at the far end of the nave where three colourful stained-glass windows filtered the warm August light and patterned the flagstone floor with dappled jewels. To get to the altar, I had to traverse the carpeted aisle, then negotiate a step into the apse.

And that’s where it all went wrong.

Somehow—don’t ask me how, I blame my clumsy gene—I caught a toe and tripped, dropping the coffee, which rolled off under a wooden lectern and was never seen again.

Hands outspread, and embarrassment dialled up to one hundred, I fell into the pile of Lammas gifts. Which is where the trifle and I got intimately acquainted.

Slimy cream, cloying custard and sticky sponge clogged every orifice on my face, and then when I tried to wipe my eyes, my fingers got covered too.

The minister came to my rescue, pushing a large cotton handkerchief into my hands and helping me up. There’s a washbasin off the vestry, Izzy, he whispered, directing me towards a narrow door under the pulpit. If you come back during the next hymn, nobody will notice.

Throwing him a grateful smile, I made my escape. Hunching my shoulders, I tried to ignore the chorus of sniggers emanating from the congregation, glad that neither my boyfriend, Craig MacDonald, nor my friend Trinity Allen had been there to see me making a fool of myself. But my cheeks would surely be flame red for at least a week. Would I ever live it down?

Afterwards, when the congregation spilled out of the heavy oak doors onto the dusty street, Brian shook my hand. It was great to see you today, Ms Paterson. I hope you’ll come more often.

Izzy, I corrected him, suppressing a smile at his sales pitch. I feel like I’m in trouble if I get my full title.

My apologies. Izzy. He leaned in a little closer. I can promise we won’t have any trifle next time.

That made me laugh. I’m relieved to hear it.

He looked from side to side, then whispered, You probably did us a favour, actually. I’m not sure the cream would have kept till the ladies of The Rural deliver to the old folks’ home tomorrow. It’s probably safer in the bin.

Glad to be of service.

Reverend May! A small, round woman with tightly permed grey hair and beady eyes bore down on us like a force of nature: Edie Large, retired postmistress and active gossip. In her wake trailed her sister Ina, a thinner, slightly taller version of her sibling. I hear you’re to be our Gowrie Man this year, Edie continued. You should be very pleased. I think this is the first time an innkeeper has been given that honour.

I winced.

Aye, first time for an incomer. Ina—thankfully—always translated Edie’s malapropisms.

Brian nodded graciously. I know it’s one of the deadly sins, but I have to admit to being secretly very proud that the village has accepted me. He changed the subject. I’m told you ladies are running the cake stall at our sale of work on Saturday? We’re relying on the income from that event to top up our donation to Bulungi.

This seemed like an opportune moment to make my excuses. I’ll leave you to talk tactics. Giving them a small wave, I headed for my car, glad to be out of range of Edie and Ina.

I’d been the subject of their tattle more than enough times already, and I was sure they would be having a field day today, what with the trifle incident and my disruption of the harvest service. I didn’t want to stay around to hear what they had to say—no doubt I’d have it recounted to me, with bells on, at Kaffe Kalista when I picked up my customary cappuccino tomorrow morning.

Once I was safely in the driver’s seat of my trusty Volkswagen, I put my hands on the steering wheel, dropped my head between them, and puffed out a breath. That had not been how I’d expected my morning to go. I was such a klutz. And I’d never willingly look a trifle in the face again.

With a shake of my head, I put the car into gear and pulled out of the car park, mentally reviewing my plans for the afternoon. It might be a Sunday, but I still had work to do, and then I had a busy week ahead.

My friend and colleague, Trinity, was on holiday in London visiting her family, so it was up to me to keep things running at the stables. The horses at Glengowrie Stud might be talented, but they couldn’t yet look after themselves.

CHAPTER TWO

Isobel, my dear girl! I had only just stepped out of my car, back at the stables, when I was waylaid by my employer, Lady Alice Letham. Dressed in a purple tweed skirt with a red floral-print blouse and an orange striped cardigan, she waved her polka-dot walking stick at me. Could I possibly bother you for just a minute?

Of course. Would you like to sit in the tack room?

Glengowrie Stud boasted a number of horses—mostly well-bred mares plus one stallion with equally good genes—who were situated in various paddocks around the estate and also on this stable yard. U-shaped, there was a line of stone-built loose boxes for the horses, with a hay barn at one end. At the other, behind an enormous oak tree, was ‘Stables Cottage’, an L-shaped apartment on two levels where Trinity and I lived. Beside the cottage front door was the tack room, where we kept all the saddles, bridles and other equipment. Informally, I treated it as my office. For the horse training, at least. My other work I did in the evenings in our apartment.

Lady L shook her head. I don’t intend to take up a large portion of your time, I know you are very busy, what with Miss Trinity being away at the moment. Leaning a hip against a nearby stable door, she pointed at her house, which was within walking distance of the stables. For the sale of work next weekend, I’ve been asked to look after the plant stall, sell some of my orchids. But as you know, my ankle is quite useless these days, therefore I won’t be able to stand for long. Would you be a dear and accompany me, so you can help to deal with the customers?

On Saturday? I asked, trying to remember what was on my calendar for the weekend. I think I’ve got a show booked, but I can’t remember which day. Let me check. I pulled out my phone, then swiped and prodded at the screen. It’s on Sunday. But Trinity is still away, and Craig has a big weekend shoot on. That means I’ll need to get ready for it on my own, which will take most of Saturday afternoon.

But that’s perfect! The sale of work will be finished by lunchtime on Saturday.

Inwardly, I groaned. I’d need to get up at stupid o’clock to get all the day-to-day equine chores completed in time for the start of the sale. And then I’d be run ragged in the afternoon getting everything prepared for the competition.

I’ll ask Jimmy to assist you—he will be able to do the mucking out first thing while you deal with the horses, she said.

I gave her a sideways look. Had she read my mind? Jimmy Harkin, the handyman, was a hard worker and would probably get the bulk of the chores done before I’d even finished my morning coffee. Thank you. That’ll be a big help.

Excellent! She clapped her hands. You have taken quite a weight off my mind. I shall very much look forward to having you there.

Watching my employer’s back as she jauntily tapped her way across the concrete—if one can be jaunty when walking with a stick—I wished I could share her enthusiasm for the village event.

She was much more of a people person than me and would probably be in her element. But the thought of dealing with random strangers for even just a few hours on a Saturday was about as appealing to this introvert as a root canal treatment. In fact, I might possibly prefer a trip to the dentist…

Since Craig had been driving a horse back to Scotland from England last weekend and would be busy this upcoming weekend getting organised for The Glorious Twelfth—the official start of the grouse shooting season in August—he said he wanted to make it up to me by taking me out midweek for a slap-up meal and then a movie.

"We could go and see that new Mamma Mia film if you want," he said on the phone. I could almost hear him rubbing the back of his neck as he said it.

"Or there’s a new Mission Impossible release I haven’t seen yet?" I suggested.