Page 3 of What Would Dolly Do?

I had tried to tell myself the Grayson family business was not my problem.

I was just a hired hand and, even though I had loved the job more than I expected to at first, it was just a job, I could always find another one.

But Robbie’s news meant the risk of losing yet another source of income was impossible to ignore, and I could feel my anxiety about the shop was rising.

It wasn’t just Guy’s business methods I had reservations about.

Guy was arrogant, entitled and seemed to think I was part of the shop’s merchandise he could manhandle.

I could deal with lairy hecklers in a club, but Guy’s invasion of my personal space was a whole other level of creepy and inappropriate.

More than once he’d intimated that he fancied more from me than an honest day’s work …

even hinting I should be grateful to provide it as part of my duties.

He even seemed to expect me to be flattered by his oily attention, inappropriate comments, and wandering hands.

For all his talk of modernising Grayson’s, Guy was a dinosaur in his attitude to women.

He might be the boss’s son but that didn’t mean he could molest the staff.

I needed to find a way to handle him and put him back in his box, if I was going to be able to carry on working with him.

As I made my way through the streets I tried to appreciate all that my beautiful home city had to offer that morning, despite my low spirits.

It had rained overnight but now shafts of light shone down here and there, spotlights of sunlight finding their way through any gap they could, illuminating the hustle and bustle of a weekday morning.

The golden light brought a warmth to the traditional dark stone walls of the buildings around me.

Edinburgh was a rare place in many ways, and particularly unusual in the way it looked its most beautiful after it had rained, which was fortunate given the local climate.

Still, despite the usual rain, most days I felt beyond lucky to live among such brooding, gothic architecture and have a route to work that took me along streets unchanged for centuries, through steeply stepped tunnels and passageways, like I was an extra in a magical movie.

But today Edinburgh wasn’t casting its usual uplifting spell on me.

I quickened my pace as I walked down through Grassmarket.

I was due to open up this morning and it wouldn’t do to be late in case Guy or JoJo decided to come in early to try and catch me out.

I had the distinct impression Guy would relish the chance to trap me in a corner and give me a dressing down. Or worse.

I was walking so determinedly, with my head down, full steam ahead, that I was almost at the shop before I registered the commotion going on outside.

A police car pulled up at an angle right outside the bay window, its blue light silently flashing and jarring horribly with the Dickensian appearance of our little street. What the …?

Sprinting quickly forwards I checked the small square windowpanes in the bay to see if they were broken …

had there been a smash and grab? I couldn’t see any shards of glass on the floor.

Or maybe the cops were there for my new boss?

A flash of hope surged through me. I knew Guy Grayson was up to no good: had he pushed his luck too far?

Made one shady deal too many or committed some despicable crime like ripping off another poor customer and the law had finally caught up with him? My heavy heart gave a little leap.

Pushing the shop door open, the bell dinged above my head to signal my arrival.

Usually I was greeted by the beeping of the burglar alarm before keying in my code to unset it.

But not today. Today three people were already inside the store as I stepped onto the parquet flooring and they all turned to glare at me as though I was the unwelcome intruder.

‘What’s happened? Have we been robbed?’ My pulse was hammering with the shock of seeing uniformed cops in their fluorescent hi-vis vests standing in the genteel surroundings of Grayson’s.

No one replied, but the female police officer glanced towards Guy who stood behind the counter wearing a fixed grim expression on his sun-tanned face.

Why was no one saying anything? I tried again:

‘What is it? What’s happened?’

This time Guy rolled his eyes and made a noise that sounded like ‘Hmmff!’

The male copper cleared his throat then and, without taking his eyes off me, asked Guy, ‘Is this her?’

Guy’s face remained expressionless, which wasn’t that surprising given his addiction to face-fillers, but his eyes slid away from me as he nodded and whispered, ‘Yeah.’

Everything happened so fast I didn’t have time to catch my breath. The male officer stepped forward and addressed me directly.

‘Becky Mooney, I am arresting you for theft. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.’

Simultaneously the female officer stepped around and grabbed me firmly by the arm.

‘Ow, you’re hurting me!’ Even as I said it I was dimly aware this phrase may not be something that would help my case if given in evidence at a later date.

I should have been shouting my innocence instead.

But my mind was whirling too much to summon a more sensible reply or even voice the thousands of questions running through my brain.

What the hell was going on? This wasn’t my life.

I was a part-time Dolly Parton impersonator, part-time shop girl … not some career criminal.

But before I could find the words to tell them there had been some kind of wild mix-up, I was back outside in the street being frog-marched to the police car, a hand placed firmly on the back of my head as I was guided onto the backseat of the police car, and then we were off.

I’ve never liked Mondays all that much, who does?

But this Monday morning was an absolute corker.

It was barely 9.05 a.m. and I was under arrest.