by Fran Stewart
I’d put a hefty price tag on the necklace—mostly because of the weight of the thing. Maybe I really should discount it. “I’ve had this on hand for quite some time,” I told the woman. “If you’re interested, I could come down on the price. Maybe by twenty-five percent?”
Her husband grunted and walked away. He looked familiar—something about the cheekbones reminded me of someone, but I couldn’t place who it was. Or maybe it was just that he’d come in with his wife a couple of times. That was it. He wandered over to the poet shirts, which we’d placed near the window display. He passed perilously close to Dirk, who stepped back out of his way, but then the man’s attention seemed to be caught by something going on outside. I could see yet another crowd gathered around the front window. Scamp must have parked himself there on his tartan-draped ottoman again. Now, if all those folks would just come inside. They must have needed tartan doodads to wear or carry, and I was the one to provide the goods.
As I watched him, the man doubled over, coughing heavily. I kept my eye on him. Just as I was getting worried, he pulled a water bottle from somewhere and took a long drink. The cough didn’t come back. Thank goodness. The last thing I needed was somebody choking in the ScotShop.
I heard the rattle of the necklace as the woman draped it back over its black velvet stand. When I looked back at her, she shook her head and walked away. I replaced the stand, locked the sliding door, and decided to rope in some paying customers. At least I hoped they’d be paying.
* * *
Harper listened as the two agents left in the room joked about what Fairing had done earlier. He watched Mac shuffling papers back in his office—he must have finished his candy and his smoke because he’d opened the door, allowing a draft of noxious fumes to escape—and waited for a lull in the conversation. “Keating does look like the mug shot,” Harper finally said. “I thought that myself, only I knew he was one of you. The way I see it, Fairing was doing her job. She’s spent hours out there, searching. If I’d been in her place, I hope my eyes would have been sharp enough to spot him.”
Fenton came out of the restroom and must have heard that last sentence. “You’re right, Harper.” Turning to the agents, he motioned to the door. “It’s time for you two to relieve Eggles and Davis.”
“I thought we got to accompany—”
“Not now you don’t. Send them back here, and tell them to round up two others on their way.”
Harper watched them leave. “Thank you,” he said to Fenton.
“It’s easy in this job to forget that police officers out in the real world have a tough time—sometimes tougher than our job.”
“Mind if I head down to the meadow and tell that to Fairing?”
“Be my guest. She’s on her toes. Think she’d like a job in the Service?”
Harper could hear the capital letter in Fenton’s tone. “You can always ask her, but we’d hate to lose a good officer.”
Fenton glanced over his shoulder at Mac’s door. “All of you?”
“Well, the ones of us that know quality when we see it. We’re lucky to have her. She’s former NYPD, decorated after 9/11.”
Fenton raised his eyebrows. “Why is she here, then?”
“In the backwoods?” Harper shrugged and headed toward the door. “Family, I think.”
Fenton nodded, but didn’t say anything.
* * *
Closing time varied each night of the Games. Saturday was always our busiest day, and I kept the shop open until eight. On Sunday we shut down early for the closing ceremonies—everybody in town wanted to see the awards and the bonfire. Thursday and Friday, my posted hours said we closed at six, but it just didn’t make sense to stay open that late on opening night. I should have paid attention to the reason I’d be closing early on Sunday; all the potential customers attended the opening. By five o’clock Thursday, everyone in town would have migrated toward the meadow. The ceremonies never begin officially until seven, but Shay schedules opening acts to keep people entertained. Most folks spread out picnic blankets or wander around the booths.
By five, just as I’d predicted, nobody was in the store. At five fifteen, I started closing procedures. As I ran my eyes down the sales lists, everything looked pretty good. But then I went back and double-checked. The computer said we hadn’t sold any bookends. None. Nada. I went over to the display. Four sets of Urquhart Castle bookends. I knew there had been five there earlier in the day.
“Gilda?”
“Yeah?”
“Did you sell any bookends today?”
“No, although I noticed you sold a set.”
“But I didn’t.”
“Sure you did. There were five this morning. The next time I looked there were only four.” I shook my head. “Maybe Sam or one of the temps rang one up,” she suggested.
“It’s not showing on the list here.”
She checked with the guys back in the storeroom. “Nope. Nobody sold any.” She took a better look at my face. “You think somebody stole a set? No. Those things are big. How could anybody smuggle a set out without our noticing?”
“Darned if I know.” I hated the thought.
I looked up. Dirk had his eye on me. As clearly as if he had spoken, I heard his earlier comment. If I hadna told ye what those twa did, ye wouldna ha’ known ’til ’twas too late.
I needed another two or three ghosts to keep an eye on my merchandise.
Around five thirty, I sent Gilda down to help out at the tie booth, and my two cousins tagged along with her and Scamp.
I locked the door behind them and decided to wander around the shop while I had a few moments, straightening hangers, refolding or restacking items that were only slightly askew. Dirk was uncharacteristically quiet.
I almost ignored the locked jewelry counter, but something made me glance at it. Maybe the stolen bookends and the almost-stolen Green Book were on my subconscious mind, or maybe it was a trick of the light reflecting off the glass. Whatever the reason, I noticed that the big plastic leaf necklace wasn’t hanging quite straight on its stand.
I unlocked the cabinet and lifted the stand onto the countertop. It didn’t feel right. I adjusted the necklace, picked it up, and examined it more closely.
“Dirk?”
“Aye?” He was closer than I’d thought.
“Have you ever looked closely at this necklace?”
“Aye. That I have. ’Tis bonny indeed.”
“Does it look different to you?”
He bent to peer at it. “Did ye clean it somehow? The silver looks more shiny than ’twas.”
“Fake silver,” I said. “But you’re right. This looks shinier. And it doesn’t feel as heavy as it did.” I held it out to him, but then laughed. Ghosts couldn’t pick things up—at least my ghost couldn’t.
“None sae heavy? How is that possible?”
“Well, that’s the problem. It’s not possible. But I’d swear this isn’t the same necklace.”
We stared blankly at each other and back at the necklace.
“When did ye last hold it? Have ye mayhap forgotten the weight?”
I thought back. “No, it was just this afternoon, I guess, when that woman was here.”
“What woman?”
“The one who’s been coming in every day to try it on.”
He tilted his head. “Oh? Aye? I didna notice her.”
“That’s right. You were over by the window this afternoon.”
He looked at me quizzically. “How would ye remember that?”
“He almost walked into you. The woman’s husband.”
“Och. Aye. I do recall him. He was the one who coughed so much.”
On impulse, I tucked the necklace into the cloth bag that dangled from my belt. I needed to look at it in better light.
* * *
I had the ca
sh register closed and the deposit prepared by 6:05, and was ready to leave when Karaline showed up a couple of minutes later, wearing a neon pink caftan over heavy black leggings, topped with an extravagant pink-and-black-plaid shawl that—if I’d been wearing it—would have looked like a horse blanket, but, on her six-foot frame, simply looked magnificent. “And what clan would that pink plaid belong to?”
“Clan Armani,” she shot back without hesitation, readjusting her enormous shoulder bag. “Don’t I wish?”
Dirk looked curious. “I havena heard o’ that clan.”
“Nor will you ever. She made it up.” I held the door for him, and locked the ScotShop behind us. I decided not to say anything to Karaline about the necklace. Not yet. Not until I had a better idea of what was going on. “I met the nicest man this morning,” I said.
Karaline raised an eyebrow. “What about Harper?”
“Not that kind.”
“What kind?” Poor Dirk. He so often couldn’t follow a conversation between us two women.
“He has a little Scottie dog,” I said, “and he’s a longtime champion here at the Games. Only he hasn’t competed for the past three or four years, ever since his wife died. He looks like Santa.”
“You mean Big Willie Bowman?”
“You know him?”
“Sure. He’s eaten at the Logg Cabin several times.”
“I know. I had lunch with him there today. Outside.”
“Of course, outside,” Karaline said. “Health department rules against dogs in restaurants.”
“What would be a health department?”
After Karaline explained it to him—I wasn’t about to try—she waved her arm in a dismissive gesture. “He’s the reason we put those six tables outside. I’m not sure why I never thought of it before. People enjoy eating alfresco.”
“’Tis a good thing they dinna have the Games during the winter.”
We passed under the flower-bedecked arch, and I veered left toward the tie booth, passing Sam on the way. I could see that business was brisk; Gilda had stepped in to help the two temps, and all three were fully occupied. I motioned for Sam to get in there and help them out. Shoe wasn’t anywhere to be seen, but I would have been willing to bet he was at the piper’s tent absorbing hints about those toodleloogas or whatever they were called.
Karaline put a hand on my arm. “Stop worrying. They’re handling it just fine.” Pushing her way past two blue-suited men—hadn’t they heard about the dress code? Comfortable or plaid or, preferably, both—she headed for a relatively clear area on the gently sloping land. She whipped a blanket out of her bag and unfolded it on the ground. “Sit.”
“How’d you get that thing to fit in your purse?”
“It’s some special kind of fabric. Thin, durable, takes up almost no space.”
Before I could answer, a set of sword dancers moved into the open area before the stage and we all settled down to watch. Dirk wandered up there, placed his sgian-dubh and his dirk on the ground in an X, and danced. He was magnificent, with his plaid billowing out around him as he spun across weapons only he and Karaline and I could see. The crowd showered the visible dancers with quarters and dollar bills. If they’d been able to see Dirk, I’m sure he would have gotten tens and twenties.
Once I could breathe again, I watched Dirk gather up the two crossed implements. It was funny how nobody tried to walk over that space while he was in it. He headed our way, and once again, people seemed to melt away in front of him.
“I’m hungry,” I told Karaline. “If you’ll save our place here, I’ll go get us some food.”
“Not to worry.” She pulled out her voluminous purse again and produced two Cornish pasties wrapped in aluminum foil. “Eat before they get cold.” She placed a large cloth napkin on my lap.
Dirk eyed her. “Mistress Karaline, your goats give the best milk.”
“Huh? She doesn’t have any goats.” Dirk was silent. Why did everybody always cock an eyebrow at me? Karaline had been raised on a farm in the Midwest, but goats? Where had that come from?
“What I meant to say is she gives verra good value.”
“Oh.”
Karaline had a silly grin on her face, so I threw my napkin at her. “Sit down, Dirk. You’ll block people’s view.”
“That I will nae do.” But he sat between us anyway. Karaline and I scrunched ourselves toward the blanket edges to make room for his massive shoulders. She looked at me—sort of through Dirk—and we both laughed.
“Macbeath,” I finally said, “I had no idea you could dance like that.”
He gave an apologetic shrug.
“No. Really. It was magnificent.”
He kept his eyes forward, as if studying the stage, but he inclined his head. “I thank ye for the lofe.”
Love? Had he said love? I realized in that moment that I did love him—in a special sort of way. Human to ghost. This time to that time. Did that count?
Karaline wasn’t afraid to ask. “Loaf? What kind of loaf?”
“Lofe. It means . . .” He groped for the right word. “It means honor.”
Oh.
10
Run barefoot up and down.
ACT 2, SCENE 2
Silla did not like it when her person’s voice got loud. Except when he laughed. Then it was okay. But now, it was not fun to listen to. She did not like the other person’s loud voice, either. She grabbed the fabric at the bottom of that other person’s leg and tugged. She barked. She jumped away from a kick that could have bowled her over. She snarled. That was when her person grabbed her.
“Get out,” he shouted. “I can’t prove it yet, but I know what you did.”
Silla added her own voice, although she would have liked to take a chunk out of that leg first.
Silla reached for her person’s face and licked away the wet. She had never tasted such salty water before. It would have tasted good except for the sad in it.
“Leave well enough alone, Silla,” her person said, and bent to place her on the floor.
When he fell down so fast, right on top of her, she squirmed and wiggled. She tried to dig in her claws and stop when her person’s body was dragged across the floor, but her collar was stuck on her person’s belt and her person’s arm was trapped somehow underneath him, sort of around Silla. As the floor beneath her changed from soft and warm to hard and cold, she tried again to dig in her claws, but her person was too heavy. She could not get away.
She felt her person’s head and chest lift, and her own head popped free for a moment. That horrible other person lifted the noisy awful thing off the bed where Silla and her person slept and wound part of it around her person’s neck. Silla growled. She barked and struggled and heaved her body as hard as she could. When she managed to almost break free, she grabbed the closest part of that person she could reach—just barely reach—and bit as hard as she could, growling all the time. She heard the shout of anger but it did not matter. She had to stop that person. She had to save her person.
That person, that horrible person, grabbed her neck. Silla could feel the dangle on her collar begin to dig into her throat. She tried to bite harder. The pressure on her neck increased. She didn’t know where the dark spots came from, but they filled her eyes. She could not take a breath. But she would not let go. She could not let go. Her person needed her. Her person—
* * *
When she woke up, the horrible one was gone. Silla struggled to free herself from the weight of her person. She worked so hard, one of her toenails tore, but she finally squeezed out from under him.
She licked his head and his ear, his hands, his shoes, his neck. She butted her head against his side. She investigated the closed door. She jumped up on the white place where her person sat sometimes. From there she jumped up onto the place where the water came from. She did not know what to do.
* * *
Marti Fairing thought back to her conversation with that Secret Service guy. Did you check the attic? It has a secret door, she’d said. And he’d said, We found it. All clear. And then he’d called her ma’am, like she was decrepit or silly or something. Maybe he was just being polite, but she didn’t think so. Patronizing. That’s what it was.
She scanned the crowd, spotting dozens of Hamelin residents dotted here and there on blankets or folding chairs. People she knew. Maybe not well, but she knew what hours they were at work, what kind of cars they drove, who their neighbors were, whether or not they decorated their houses for the various holidays. Old Mr. Marley, the guy who had fallen off his roof putting up a big sleigh display last December, sat beside his son and grandchildren in a sturdy folding chair, with his leg propped up on a makeshift stool and his crutch leaning against the chair back. He still had trouble and had to keep his foot elevated as much as possible. She eyed a young man sitting by himself on a nearby blanket. He was within reach of the crutch. The crutch would make a good weapon.
But the president was going to be at least thirty yards away. No chance for the young guy to create a problem. Anyway, he didn’t look anything like the fellow in the mug shot. She waited for a group of drummers to pass in front of her.
She spotted Peggy Winn and Karaline Logg moving farther apart on the blanket. Were they mad at each other? No, they were laughing at something.
Her gaze passed over the Sutherland house and back again. The secret door into that second attic room wasn’t easy to find. Most of the kids in town knew where it was, but by some unwritten rule, nobody ever told a younger sibling how to get into it. They had to find the secret door for themselves. With the place abandoned, kids had plenty of time to explore every nook and cranny.
