by Fran Stewart
“Luckily, there are plenty of hotels that allow dogs.”
“How long have you had Silla as a companion?”
His brow furrowed. “She was a rescue from a puppy mill. I guess I saved her life, but you could just as well say she saved mine.”
“Oh?”
“I went through a really bad spell a few years ago, and Silla came along just in time to pull me out of it.” He paused for such a long time, I thought the conversation might have been over. I couldn’t think of anything to say. Finally, he sighed. “I wish my wife could have known Silla. And I wish Silla could have known Lorena.”
“Lorena? Your wife?”
“Not just my wife. She was the love of my life. Everything’s a little grayer since she died.”
“I’m so sorry for your loss.”
“It’s been four years. I still feel bad about not going to her funeral.”
He hadn’t gone to his wife’s funeral? My shock must have registered on my face.
“I couldn’t,” he said. “I was so broken up after sitting with her day after day, watching her go down like that. Even though she was . . . considerably older than I, she was still far too young to go.” He rubbed the flat of his palm along his jawline. “I just fell apart.”
“I guess I can understand that,” I said.
“I wish a few other people felt the way you do.”
I raised my eyebrows, but he didn’t elaborate, and I didn’t want to push it; his grief still seemed to be so raw.
“After she died, I laid myself down on our bed and hardly got up for three weeks. One of her brothers picked the coffin, her sister planned the service, and they both cursed me to the end of forever. I didn’t even care. Not until Silla came along, my brave little trooper.”
Trouble was, I could see both sides of the argument. Lorena’s siblings must have been the ones he’d mentioned a moment ago—the ones who didn’t understand. I wouldn’t be surprised. On the other hand, grief could be paralyzing. I studied the piece of bacon I held. “Did your sister-in-law sit with Lorena while she was sick?”
“No,” he said slowly. “She was too busy.”
“What about her brothers?”
“No. They had their own families.”
Armchair psychologist that I was, I had to say, “Then what the heck have they got to complain about?”
I shoveled in a bite of maple pancake, waited a moment until I could swallow, and said, “I was planning to attend the caber toss tomorrow to cheer you on.”
He sort of shook himself. “I’d be honored to have you rooting for me.” He thought for a moment. “Would you be willing to watch Silla for me while I compete? That way I won’t have to leave her in the hotel room.”
“I’d be happy to.” He thanked me, and we ate the rest of our meal in companionable silence.
He insisted on paying for my lunch. “I like to keep my cheering section happy.” He gave a little wave. “See you around ten tomorrow?”
“I’ll be there, but I’m sure I’ll see you this evening at the opening ceremonies. Bye, Silla.”
Big Willie smiled and gave me another friendly wave before he bent to pat his little dog.
7
Something is rotten in the state of Denmark.
ACT 1, SCENE 4
Fairing couldn’t stand it any longer. She headed for the Porta Potties. Halfway there, though, she pulled up short. Two guys, one of them a dead ringer for Mr. Mug Shot, strode across the meadow like they owned the place. Made sense. Anyone skulking around would look suspicious, so why not stand up straight and act like you belonged here? Nobody had said anything about two men working together, but she had to stay open to the possibilities. That’s what Harper always said.
Look at the structure of the face, she’d learned at the police academy. Cheekbones don’t change. She checked this guy’s face, the left side. The only side she could see. Yep. Could be. He’d shaved his beard, and cut his hair shorter, but it was still light colored, and she could detect even lighter hair at his left temple.
They were headed toward the piper’s stall, a low structure off to one side where the strident sound of bagpipes wouldn’t disrupt the main events too much. She followed, staying far enough behind them not to be spotted, but close enough not to lose them. She wasn’t surprised when they skirted the pipers and headed straight toward the old Sutherland place. The more she thought about it, the more she was sure she had them. The top floor of that old house was a perfect spot for a sniper to station himself. Without her uniform, without her duty belt, she felt helpless. She was certainly in no position to apprehend a big guy like that alone—and since she knew he had a confederate, she was even less willing to confront them.
Her cell was dead. Damn. She should have checked it. She should have plugged it in last night. She backtracked to where she’d last seen Murphy. He wasn’t there, but she found him a few minutes later. “I’ve got them,” she said under her breath. “Two men headed for the Sutherland place.”
It didn’t take Murphy any time at all to see the possibilities. “Sniper.”
Fairing nodded. “Good chance. I’ll head back to the piper’s stall and keep them in sight. You round up the troops. Tell them to come in from the back.”
Murphy headed off toward the path, pulling out his phone as he went.
For just a moment, Fairing considered what might happen if she could sneak up on the men and catch them in the act of setting up a scope mount of some sort.
Murphy stopped, turned around. “Don’t do anything stupid.”
Mind reader.
* * *
I double-checked that we had enough sets of Urquhart Castle bookends. Those had been a big seller so far this year. Luckily, I’d gotten in a big order just last week. Five sets sitting out, with another set next to Scamp’s ottoman in the display window and almost two dozen pairs still in the storeroom. Four of the big coffee-table books, three copies of each in tasteful stacks. We didn’t sell a lot of those—the prices were fairly hefty—but they sure looked good. I doubted I’d order any more for a while, though. As I passed by the Fair Isle sweater rack, I couldn’t see Scamp’s feet peeking out the way they usually did. That meant he was either hiding deeper or else he was out winning friends and influencing buyers—I hoped that was the case.
Sometimes I wondered where I got the energy to get through all these days of the Games. Although the flow of customers tended to ebb and then surge, there was hardly ever a moment when we didn’t have a bunch of folks looking at merchandise. Fortunately, a goodly portion of those people who looked ended up buying. Especially during the Games, when shopping seemed to be one of the major goals. With all the different kinds of people who came in, though, we all had to be constantly ready to shift gears. Sometimes we just rang up sales; sometimes we answered questions about everything from how to strap on a sgian-dubh—the small knife that fits into the top of the long stockings men wear with their kilts, although for people who’d flown to Vermont for the Games, we had a fake version without a blade so they could make it through airport security—to the geography of Scotland. I’d fastened a detailed topographical map to the back wall near the bookcase, and I can’t tell you how many times I pointed out just where the Lowlands ended and the Highlands started. The good news was that most everyone seemed to be in a good mood. This early in the Games, people weren’t tired out yet. Sometimes there were people who got cranky by Sunday afternoon.
Gilda was back at the jewelry counter, showing earrings to a group of teenage girls, who seemed to have their squeal-meters tuned to high. Every time one of them held a pair up, the rest would practically gargle in glee. Had I been that silly at that age?
Probably.
Sam seemed to collect the stares of the women shoppers as he walked through the store in one of his favorite kilt sets. He certainly looked imposing, and I smiled at the un
dercurrent of sighs that followed his progress. I had to admit, though, that I got plenty of admiring comments about my arisaidh. Women coming to the Highland Games either had their own arisaidh, or were primed to buy one. All I had to do was match the right name up to the right pattern of tartan and let the Highland magic in the air do the rest—that and a little judicious coaxing on my part.
I circled the store again. Four bookend sets. Good. We’d sold another one.
* * *
Harper didn’t want to stand around waiting. “I’ll head back out—see if I can spot the guy.”
A small muscle lifted at the side of Fenton’s mouth. “You’re just going to hope you run into him?”
Harper made an almost painful effort to unclench his fist. “In a town this small, it’s a possibility.”
While he was out, he’d check at the hotel. See if anyone there had seen the fellow. It was about the only place Harper hadn’t looked. And he wanted to locate Shay Burns. Maybe he’d see her on the way. Or maybe she and Mug Shot were still together.
Fenton waved him away. Harper gritted his teeth and headed for the Hamelin Hotel. Something about Fenton rubbed him the wrong way. Lots of things about Fenton. Harper didn’t like the way he’d taken over. He didn’t like the way Fenton looked at Moira, like there was some sort of secret between the two of them. Of course, Moira could take care of herself, but Harper still didn’t like it. And that wave of Fenton’s hand, like Fenton was the queen of England dismissing an incorrigible subject.
If Harper caught the guy in the mug shot—or even if Fairing or Murphy caught him—maybe Fenton would see the light. See the value of a local crew. But, he reminded himself, it really didn’t matter who caught the guy. What mattered was stopping him before he did any damage. Especially to the president.
Harper passed the hotel practically every day for one reason or another, but he seldom paid much attention to the details. Like the elaborate marble cornerstone with 1927 carved in a four-inch font. What a time to start a new business, Harper thought. Just a couple of years before the Great Depression hit. He wondered how close, and how often, the hotel had come to closing its doors.
He glanced up at the decorative sign above the imposing entrance. He knew Peggy’s woodworking father had made the sign, but somehow having a bed on one side of the sign and bagpipes on the other didn’t advertise a very restful stay.
* * *
Fairing had to pause as Shay Burns crossed in front of her. She wondered what Shay would think about the possibility of a presidential assassination attempt. They’d had quite a long discussion about it at the station when they’d first learned there might be an assassin in town. Harper had been in favor of telling Shay, but Fairing and Murphy had convinced him that she was probably the worst person in the world if one needed a secret kept—well, secret.
Everything she was thinking always showed on her face. And if Shay looked worried, people would start to get antsy, and then there was no telling what would happen. The town relied on the reputation of the Hamelin Highland Games as a fun event, one to bring the family to. What if people didn’t trust that anymore?
But here was Shay Burns looking positively forbidding. What was she unhappy about? The news of the mug shot guy couldn’t have surfaced. It had to be something else. But what? When Shay was upset she looked like she’d just swallowed too big a bite of sauerkraut. Maybe she’d been turned down by somebody she was trying to charm out of a big chunk of money for her precious Games.
This wasn’t the time to worry about Shay Burns, though. Marti Fairing had a job to do, keeping her eyes on the mug shot guy and his buddy—his coconspirator? How lucky she was to have spotted him. Now, if she could just keep him in sight until backup could get in place.
* * *
I hoped Dirk was enjoying the festival. He must be relieved, I thought, to find something in twenty-first century America that is so similar to those Gatherings he’s mentioned.
Of course, thinking about Dirk reminded me of what he’d said. If I hadna told ye what those twa did, ye wouldna ha’ known ’til ’twas too late. He was right, doggone him. I wouldn’t have known. I looked around the shop. People picked up books and ties and scarves. They tried on shirts and sweaters and shoes. They examined bookends and kilt pins and clan badges. Every single person in the room was a potential shoplifter, and I felt woefully inadequate to stop it. To protect myself and my shop. Where was Dirk when I needed him?
A woman with rich chestnut hair nodded at me and smiled. “I love your store,” she said. “I come to the Games every year, and I always stop by here.”
“That’s lovely.”
“My whole house—and my closet, too—is full of ScotShop merchandise.”
“I hope you—” I’d been about to say I hope you paid for it all. “I hope you enjoy all of it.”
“Oh yes!” She held up a set of a dozen padded hangers, each one with a different plaid pattern on the padded part that clamped together to hold skirts or slacks. I thought they were incredibly hokey, but Gilda had talked me into ordering them, and I was constantly amazed at how many sets of them we sold. “Won’t these be perfect for my tartan skirt collection?”
“I should think so.” Berating my wild suspicious thoughts, I rang up the sale and wished her a pleasant day. “Come back again.”
“Of course.” She walked away smiling.
Right behind her was an older woman with a brown paisley scarf in hand. I thought she might have been the woman I’d seen in the meadow earlier, the one eating a Cornish pasty, but I wasn’t sure. The way people swirled around town, how could anyone keep track? I rang up the sale, wished her a pleasant day, and smiled at the next person in line. I loved it when business was brisk like this.
* * *
Fairing ducked into the shadow of the piper’s tent. She nodded briefly to the men gathered around a selection of piping accessories spread out on a green felt cloth, but they hardly noticed her. She was fairly sure none of them would serve as a dependable witness if—when—they caught the two men up ahead.
She watched the two suspects separate to approach the Sutherland house from opposite sides. She lost sight of one when he ducked toward the back. The other one, the one who looked like the mug shot, glanced around as if making sure nobody was watching, then disappeared through the front door.
He hadn’t even tried it to see if it was locked. How had he known it was open? Only the locals knew that. So he must have cased the building earlier. Where was Murphy? Couldn’t he hurry up?
There! She saw movement. Good. He’d brought plenty of backup. Unfortunately, it looked like Mac was one of them. She sure hoped he’d be quiet.
* * *
The high-ceilinged lobby of the Hamelin Hotel still looked like something out of the 1920s with overly elaborate couches squeezed into tight seating areas. All the lamps had off-white shades hung about with loops and doodads. Harper shuddered. Too busy for his taste.
“Ayuh,” said the redheaded guy at the front desk, a new hire Harper hadn’t seen before. “That could be the fellow in 124, Mr. Bowman. Little black dog?” Harper nodded. “Cute little thing,” the clerk continued. “That’s why he wanted a ground floor room on the back.” He took another look at the mug shot. “Doesn’t do him justice. The hair’s not the same, either, and the beard’s a little different. I’m not even sure it’s the same guy, but”—he tapped the photo—“if you say this guy’s in town, then it must be him.”
I didn’t say that, Harper thought. “Thanks. Know if he’s in?”
“Saw him leave a couple of hours ago. He could have come back.” He reached for the desk phone. “I can give him a call.”
Harper held up a hand. “I’d rather you didn’t.”
The clerk’s eyes got very round. “Oooh.” He pointed. “His room’s that way if you want to check. It’s right next to the back entrance. So he can take the dog ou
t to do its business, you know. We put extra insulation for soundproofing around the first three rooms on that hall; that’s where we put the people with dogs. Or the ones who look like they’ll be partying half the night. That way nobody can hear the barks. Or the shouts.”
Harper nodded his thanks, put a finger to his lips, and headed for the hallway the clerk had indicated. As he turned the corner, he glanced back and saw the young man elaborately zipping his mouth shut.
* * *
I watched Scamp disengage himself from a trio of women whose oohs and aahs sounded like a flock of doves. Usually he was perfectly happy being fawned over. I wondered what was different with this group.
But then I heard his medium-loud woof and knew what the problem was. Gilda recognized it, too. She spotted me. Pointed toward Scamp, back at herself, and at the door to the back room. Scamp needed to go out. The alley behind the shop had a convenient grassy verge. I nodded and waved them on their way. I loved the clarity of sign language.
When they returned—Scamp was fast—she waited for me to complete a sale. “I sold another complete kilt set,” she said. “Just before you rang up those bookends.”
“That’s great, Gilda.” I really meant it. We sold a lot of ties and scarves and shawls, but someone who bought a complete kilt set—which meant not only the kilt itself, but shirt, jacket, hose with flashes and sgian-dubh, ghillie brogues, belt, and sporran (was I forgetting anything?)—sometimes took less time than a customer trying to decide whether to buy a tie and a scarf or a set of bookends and a pair of earrings. And there was no comparison at all when it came to considering the cash flow. Gilda had gotten very good lately at encouraging the larger sales without being at all pushy about it. “What does that make? Have you sold four so far today?”
She nodded, setting her blond curls to bobbing. Her head wasn’t shaking. Her hands looked steady. Her eyes were clear. She narrowed them, her usual response when I studied her. I tried not to do it too often, but I wondered when I’d get to the point where I felt like I didn’t have to keep checking. I was glad she’d gone to rehab when she needed it. I wish I hadn’t been so blind to the symptoms of her drinking for so long.
