X Marks the Scot

by Kaitlyn Dunnett

  “The library has a subscription.”

  “The library is only open twenty hours a week, most of them when I’m working.”

  “Point taken. So it’s a good thing I have my own account.” Coming around to Liss’s side of the counter, Margaret appropriated the computer that doubled as a cash register to call up the family tree she’d created for the Chadwicks. “There’s nothing in the rules that says it has to be your own family you chart. Now, here is the last of the Moosetookalook branch.”

  With a few deft key strokes, she took Liss back four generations and clicked on the lozenge for Jeremiah Chadwick, born in 1799. Liss read the information in the pop-up, surprised to see that he had been born in Chadwick, Nova Scotia.

  “He had a town named after him?”

  Margaret shook her head. “His family founded it two generations earlier. There may or may not still be Chadwicks living there, but here’s the thing: what if the chunk of land shown in your map is someplace in that area? In Canada.”

  “That’s a stretch.”

  Liss reached under the counter for her feather duster. Keeping hundreds of small items and the surfaces upon which they were displayed clean was a never-ending task in a shop that sold just about every Scottish-themed knickknack available. She started her chore with the figurines on the shelves to the right of the counter.

  “Is it? I wonder. . . .” As her voice trailed off, Margaret’s eyes took on an unfocused look, as if her thoughts were miles away. “The library,” she said after a short silence.

  Not so far away, after all, Liss thought. Moosetookalook Public Library was on the second floor of the municipal building right across the town square from the Emporium. “What about it?”

  “As librarian, Dolores keeps files of clippings of local interest. Surely she has one on the Chadwick family.”

  Moving from pewter pipers to ceramic Highland dancers, Liss had to admit that her interest was piqued. Margaret’s enthusiasm was contagious. “She does. I borrowed it back when I was working on turning the Chadwick mansion into a haunted house for Halloween, but I never got around to reading much of what was in it. Do you suppose she still has it?”

  Margaret chuckled at that. “Dolores never throws anything away if she can help it.” She glanced at the clock on the wall behind the sales counter. “She’ll be coming in soon. I’ll go over there and check it out as soon as I see the light go on. In the meantime, we should think about what we’re going to do when we get to Nova Scotia.”

  “When we what?” Without dusting it, Liss abruptly replaced the ceramic Loch Ness Monster she’d just picked up. She stared at her aunt. “I can’t just go haring off to Canada at the drop of a hat.”

  “Why not? You’ve been saying for months that you need to find some new items for the shop. Scottish-themed gifts made in the Canadian Maritimes will sell almost as well as those imported direct from Scotland. Besides, what better opportunity to find a new kilt maker?”

  “Margaret—”

  “We can combine hunting for answers about the Chadwicks with a buying trip, and as an added bonus we can take in the highland games at Antigonish.”

  Liss had fond memories of trips to Antigonish in the days when she’d competed in Highland dancing. Later she’d turned professional, touring for several years with a dance company in a show called Strathspey. “Think Riverdance, only Scottish,” she’d always told people when they asked about it.

  “Confess. You want to go. A buying trip is long overdue and a side trip to Chadwick will satisfy our curiosity.”

  “I’m tempted,” Liss admitted.

  She’d been without a reliable kilt maker since the previous year. She didn’t get all that many orders, but she’d sold quite a few ready-made kilts and the rack was half-empty. There were only three left in Royal Stewart, the most popular tartan.

  Tossing the feather duster back beneath the counter, she brought up her online calendar. At first glance, leaving seemed impossible and she felt a stab of disappointment.

  “If we’re going to hunt up new suppliers as well as attend the games, that will put us in Canada over Fourth of July weekend. That’s a bad time for the Emporium to be closed.”

  “There’s no need to close up shop,” Margaret said. “Remember what I told you about Beth Hogencamp? She’s eager to work for you and she’s the perfect temporary employee. It’s a match made in Heaven.”

  “I haven’t talked to Angie yet.”

  “Do it today. Heck, do it now. I’ll mind the store.”

  “Even if Beth is available, there will barely be time to train her before we have to leave. And what about accommodations? Every hotel and motel and B&B near Antigonish is probably booked by now.”

  “I’m working on it,” Margaret assured her. “Trust me. We won’t have to sleep in the car.”

  “What about Dan?”

  Margaret’s eyebrows shot up. “What about him? He can take care of himself for a week. He did just fine on his own before you two got married.” She wagged a finger at her niece. “And don’t tell me he’ll want to come along, not to Nova Scotia, and especially not to Antigonish. You know he can’t stand the sound of bagpipes.”

  Liss literally threw her hands in the air to signal that she surrendered. “Okay. Okay. I give up. Dan can stay here and take care of the dogs and the cats. If her mother agrees, I’ll spend the next few days training Beth so she can run things here in the Emporium. Happy now?”

  “Delirious,” Margaret said with just a touch of sarcasm. “Go talk to Angie.”

  * * *

  Six months after reopening, the bookstore still smelled of new wood and fresh paint. And of books—one of the most delightful scents on the planet. A little less than two years earlier, Angie’s building had been completely destroyed by fire. Then there had been delays getting started on the rebuilding. She’d had insurance, but in cases of arson insurance companies tend to drag their feet before coughing up a payment.

  Ruskin Construction had begun work the moment the money came through. They did good work, but getting everything just right took time. In this case, they had to duplicate the architecture of the original two-story clapboard house so that it would match its neighbors around Moosetookalook’s historic town square. They’d succeeded admirably, and the icing on the cake was that they had modernized and improved both the retail space on the first floor and the apartment on the second.

  Liss looked around her with a sense of great pleasure, taking in the brightly painted open bookshelves and the sparkling glass surface of a display case that held first editions. She didn’t see Angie at first, but she could hear the faint murmur of voices from a far corner of the shop. Following the sound, she rounded the end of a six-foot-high bookcase and found herself in the local history section.

  “Oh, hi, Liss,” Angie said, momentarily looking up from her customer.

  “Hey, Angie. Hello, Benny,” Liss added, recognizing the other woman’s distinctive height and bouncy yellow curls.

  Most of Benny’s slight form was hidden behind Angie. The bookseller was only a few pounds over her ideal weight and wasn’t all that big to begin with, but her disproportionately small customer made her look like the Hulk. Liss had to fight the urge to stoop when she asked Benny how her back was doing.

  “It’s fine. Why do you ask?” A puzzled frown made Benny’s pale eyebrows knit together. Her voice was as annoyingly high-pitched as Liss remembered.

  “Last time I saw you, you said you thought you’d pulled something trying to move that heavy trunk.”

  At once Benny’s expression cleared. “Oh, that! It was just a twinge. I slapped on some liniment and by the next day I’d forgotten all about it.”

  “Lucky you,” Angie said. “After all the packing and unpacking and lugging boxes of books around before we reopened, I ached in every muscle for a month.”

  “Well, you’re old,” Liss teased her friend. They’d known each other long enough that she could get away with the remark. Since
Angie was only in her late forties, she wasn’t all that much older than Liss.

  The much younger Benny didn’t seem certain how to take their easy banter. Apparently deciding to ignore it, she settled herself on the floor to better examine the books on a bottom shelf.

  “Finding what you need?” Angie asked.

  “I’m all set,” Benny said.

  “Then I’ll leave you to it.”

  “You’ve done a great job here, Angie,” Liss said as the two women made their way to the front of the store. “The place looks wonderful.” She’d said so several times before, but it bore repeating.

  “Thanks. We’ve finally got the apartment whipped into shape too.” She held up crossed fingers. “This summer, I think I can actually relax and enjoy the good weather and the tourists.”

  “Business coming back okay?”

  Angie waggled her hand back and forth. “Slowly. Thank goodness I started to sell online while the building was going on. That gives me a second customer base to augment the brick and mortar store.” Gazing out at the street through a display window with a colorful arrangement of new hardcover titles, she smiled. “All in all, I can’t complain.”

  “Margaret tells me Beth is looking for a part-time job.”

  Angie chuckled. “She’d like to get out from under Mom’s eagle eye.”

  “Because you’re such a tyrant?” Liss knew better!

  “She’s eighteen. Her first year at college gave her a taste for freedom.”

  “I’m surprised she didn’t look for a job at the coast for the summer.”

  “Moosetookalook still has its attractions. The biggest one is your cousin.”

  “Boxer?”

  “Please! Now that he’s almost twenty, he’s dropped the nickname, or so Beth tells me.”

  “So . . . Teddy?” That was what his mother had always called him.

  Angie shook her head. “Ed.”

  “Not Edward?”

  “Have you read the Twilight series? No boy his age wants to be accused of sparkling!”

  “Huh.” Obviously, it had been too long since she’d last seen her much-younger cousin. Liss wondered if Margaret knew about the name change. She probably did. She was his grandmother, after all.

  “So, about Beth working for you,” Angie said. “Do you really have enough to keep her busy? If it’s just make-work, I can come up with that here.”

  “I can’t say for certain about the rest of the summer, but I do need someone full-time next week. Margaret and I want to take a trip to the Maritimes.” Standing beside Angie, Liss had a good view across the town square of the front of Moosetookalook Scottish Emporium. She saw a couple stop to study the display in the window, then enter the shop, and her heart did a little flip of joy at the thought that they might be paying customers.

  “Buying trip?” Angie asked.

  “Mostly.”

  Angie’s eyebrows rose in a question.

  Liss shrugged. “There are Highland Games at Antigonish.”

  But Angie knew her too well and could tell there was more to Liss’s plans than she’d said. “And?”

  Liss saw no reason not to tell her. “We plan to visit a little town in Nova Scotia called Chadwick.”

  “Same name as the family that built our haunted mansion?”

  “Exactly the same. We’ve been trying to solve a little mystery. Margaret thinks stopping there might provide a clue.”

  “Okay. Be that way.”

  “What way?”

  “You’re wearing that cat-that-ate-the-canary look.” Angie wagged a finger at her in mock disapproval. “I expect to hear the full story sooner rather than later.”

  Liss laughed. “Send Beth over to start training with me tomorrow morning and I’ll think about spilling the beans.”

  With a wave, she headed back to the Emporium. She’d tell Beth all about the portrait and the map and let her, as a good, dutiful daughter, pass the story on to her mother. They’d both get a kick out of Liss’s treasure hunt, just as they’d both think her chance of success was right up there with spotting a unicorn or winning the next Megabucks drawing.

  * * *

  On the first Sunday in July, Liss and Margaret drove as far as the border between New Brunswick and Nova Scotia. The next day, they set out early in the morning and reached the small community of Chadwick by quarter to nine. In common with many places in the Canadian Maritimes, it had started life as a fishing village, growing and shrinking with fluctuations in the economy and the occasional change in government.

  “I imagine the original settlers in this area were French,” Margaret remarked.

  Liss made a noncommittal sound, concentrating on maneuvering her car along a narrow, twisty, treelined street. She kept an eye out for street signs, slowing to a crawl so she wouldn’t miss their turn.

  “The Acadians were thrown out by the British,” Margaret continued, spouting knowledge she’d gained from her recent reading. “The English-speaking population was then bolstered by Scots who came in droves because troubles at home made staying in the old country unbearable, and later they were joined by American Loyalists, who suddenly found themselves very unpopular in the brand-new country to the south. Some of them fled to Canada even before the end of the Revolutionary War.”

  Liss spotted the sign she’d been looking for and signaled a left turn. She wasn’t much interested in history. Besides, the map wasn’t that old. If it had been made in the eighteenth century, surely it would be about to crumble away from sheer age.

  No matter what era it came from, Liss hadn’t wanted to damage it with careless handling or, worse, spill coffee on it. The map, still protected by its clear plastic sleeve, was inside a file folder, the folder was inside a padded envelope, and the whole thing was tucked into a pocket in her sturdy tote bag, the one with the zipper to keep the contents from spilling out.

  Catching sight of the number she sought on a nondescript white two-story clapboard building with green shutters, Liss made another left into a miniscule parking lot. Only after she’d shut off the engine did she locate the small sign identifying the place as the Chadwick Historical and Genealogical Society.

  “Remind me again who it is we’re meeting,” Liss said as she freed herself from her seat belt.

  “He’s the town historian,” Margaret said. “An archivist by the name of Orson Bailey. I made the appointment last week. He was very encouraging in the e-mails we exchanged. He said there were quite a few things available on the Canadian branch of the Chadwicks and that he’d make copies of them for me. He also said he has a nineteenth-century atlas that will show us the exact location of the original Chadwick property.”

  “But there are no actual Chadwicks left in Chadwick?”

  “That’s what he said in his first reply. Apparently, it was a fairly small family to begin with and, as with the American branch, it dwindled down to nothing.” Margaret got out of the car, shading her eyes against the bright morning sunlight. “The only Chadwick not accounted for is a younger son who left here back in the nineteen thirties and was never heard from again.”

  Together they walked toward the building’s entrance, a door that was also painted green. The society’s hours were posted next to it. Ordinarily the place was closed on Mondays, but Margaret had made special arrangements to consult with the town historian on the premises.

  “His instructions were to just come on in and give a holler,” Margaret said. “His office is at the rear of the building.”

  But when Liss tried the door, she found it locked. She rapped on the glass. “Maybe he’s not here yet. I don’t see any other cars.”

  “Why don’t I stay put,” Margaret suggested, “while you take a quick look around. Maybe there’s another entrance.”

  Liss followed a flagstone-lined path and discovered a second, even smaller parking lot at the back of the building. One vehicle was already there and a second was just pulling in. A redhead wearing tailored slacks and three-inch heels emerged fro
m the driver’s side of a nondescript four-door car and reached into the back seat to retrieve a stack of papers. She gave a start when Liss called out a greeting.

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you. My aunt and I were supposed to meet Mr. Bailey here, but he’s not answering the door.”

  “He probably forgot to unlock it,” the redhead said, shaking her head. “The man’s brilliant but he fits right into that old cliché of the absent-minded professor. I’m Cindy Fitzgibbons, by the way, executive secretary of the Chadwick Historical and Genealogical Society. Wait just a second and I’ll let you in.”

  Although there was a back door, Cindy escorted Liss around to the front, where Margaret was waiting. Liss introduced herself and her aunt as Cindy inserted her key in the lock.

  “Nice to meet you both.”

  Once the door was open, Cindy indicated that they should follow her past the receptionist’s desk. Its surface was bare except for a stack of fliers about the society. Liss snagged one to study later and tucked it into an outside pocket of her tote.

  To their left they passed an old-fashioned, book-lined reading room filled with library tables and wooden chairs. On their right, a short corridor branched off from the main hallway that ran front to back. Cindy stopped at the intersection.

  “Keep going. He should be in his office. It’s the last room on your left. If he’s not there, sit tight and I’ll be along in a minute to help you track him down.”

  Juggling her armload of papers, she unlocked the first door along the short corridor and disappeared inside. As instructed, Margaret continued on with Liss trailing behind her.

  “Mr. Bailey?” Margaret called out. “We’re here.”

  Silence greeted this overture.

  “Maybe he can’t hear you,” Liss said, thinking of the ever-increasing number of older people she knew who were slowly going deaf.

  Together, they peered into the office that belonged to Orson Bailey. The lights were off and no one was there. Turning back, Liss tried the other doors off the hallway, one after the other. The first two were locked. Offices, she supposed. Or archives that were off-limits to the general public. The third door opened to reveal a break room, nicely furnished with a half dozen chairs arranged around a cloth-draped table. A stove, a counter with a sink at one end and a coffeemaker at the other, and a full-size refrigerator were ranged along one wall, with brightly painted kitchen cabinets above them.