by Fran Stewart
He tilted his head to one side, just like Big Willie’s dog had done earlier today.
“I dinna ken precisely how I did it, but when ye said ye wanted to know what they were saying, I . . . somehow . . . was there, listening to them.”
I snorted, not my most ladylike sound. “You never left my side.”
“Ye wouldna ha’ known. Ye were busy wi’ the wee man bleeding on the ground.”
“Oh,” I said. “Aye. I mean, you’re right.” But then I thought about it. “You couldn’t have left. I was using the shawl on the governor.”
His face went blank for a moment, and he spread his hands. “I dinna understand it, but I do ken where I was and what I heard.”
A moment of silence ensued. How did I know what sort of natural laws ruled ghostly comings and goings? Once more, I wished I’d known my great-grandmother. But I couldn’t think about that right now. “So, what happened? What else did they say?”
When he told me, I decided I wanted to do something really nice for Marti Fairing. The police department would probably give her a certificate or something—or maybe not, what with Mac as the chief—but I could envision that necklace from the ScotShop, the one that was now on my dresser. It would look great on her. Yes. I’d give it to Marti as a little thank-you present. It wasn’t much, but hopefully she had a simple black dress to wear it with.
“. . . said she misdoubted what the other constable would think about her actions.”
“The other? Oh. You mean Mac?”
Dirk looked at me.
He’d gradually gotten used to the way I tended to fade out when I was thinking about something else, but I don’t think he liked it. “Mac will probably chew her out for not stopping the guy sooner.”
“Chew her out? What would . . .”
Sometimes I felt like a walking dictionary.
Eventually we lapsed into one of those comfortable silences. After a few minutes, I glanced sideways at Dirk. I hadn’t asked my grannie all those questions I should have about her mother’s ghost. But maybe I could figure out some of this shawl-ghost thing simply by asking the resident expert. “Tell me more about Peigi and the shawl,” I said.
He must have been thinking about her because he didn’t even seem startled by my question—more like I was voicing a thought of his.
“I had known her all my life,” he said. “The last time I saw her . . . she hadna come to me for nigh on a fortnight. We used to meet on the side o’ the mountain, in the meadow where I first saw you. After she didna come to me for all that time, I went to her house early one morn to call on her. Her sister tried to turn me away, but I wouldna leave. ‘She canna see you,’ Gertruda—that’s her sister—told me. ‘She doesna want to see you.’ But I didna believe that for even a moment. I pushed past her into the front room. She came from a wealthy family, ye ken. Their house was the biggest I had ever seen . . .” He paused and glanced around him. “Until I came here.”
He was quiet for so long, I almost thought he’d forgotten I was there. “Did you get to see her?”
“Och, aye. She was there, at her loom, weaving. She took one look at me, though, thrust her hand up over her mouth, and ran out of the room. I could hear her retching, but couldna go to her, for Gertruda and five o’ her brothers blocked my way. ‘Have ye no done enough to her?’ Those were Gertruda’s very words. I didna understand. I would never have hurt my . . . Peigi.” He whispered her name. “How could she think that?”
How indeed, I thought. “So, that was the last time you saw Peigi?”
“Aye. I went back each day for weeks, begging to see her, but Gertruda and her entire family were against me. I found finally that Peigi had been sent awa’ to the home of a distant kinswoman, but they wouldna tell me where. Seven months later, they told me she was dead. I think it must ha’ been the fever, for that was sweeping through the towns, moving up from the south. There was no avoiding it.”
Seven months? I thought over what he’d said. Peigi had been sick—throwing up. And then seven months later she was dead. I was pretty sure what had happened. Having a baby was a risky business in the fourteenth century. A lot of women died if the baby was turned sideways or the mother hemorrhaged. Heck, there were a hundred things that could go wrong. But why hadn’t she told Dirk? I had to find out. “Why didn’t you marry her?”
He turned his face away and spoke so softly I almost couldn’t hear. “She was promised already to another.” Well, that answered why they’d sent her away.
“Dirk?” He raised his head and looked in my direction, but I had the distinct feeling he was looking, not at me, but at the ghost of the woman he loved. “Dirk,” I said again to get his attention, “did you have any sisters?”
“What? Sisters? Aye, but only the one. Three older brothers and five younger, and the wee lassie who was no more than twelve the last time I saw her. Before I died. But why ask me this?”
He might very well not have known Peigi was expecting his child, if he’d never had older sisters to watch as they got married and bore children.
“. . . yon shawl,” he said, breaking into my reverie.
“What? What about the shawl?”
“I wanted it. I asked Gertruda for it, but she said me nay. She used it for her wee babe to crawl upon.”
“She had a baby?”
“Och, aye. A tiny lassie.”
The man was absolutely oblivious. “When was it born?”
“Eh? I didna ken. I was too full of grief to notice. The first I saw it was when I went to ask for the shawl after I learned of the death of . . . of my love.”
“Hmm.” Were all men that dense, or was Dirk some sort of anomaly? That baby Gertruda raised—I was sure it was Peigi’s baby—must have been the first of the great-grandmothers in a chain that had lasted more than six hundred years.
Why, though—why had the shawl come to me? Unless it was through the Winn line, from Wales. And through my great-grandmother, who’d been in Scotland when she died. Had she taken the shawl back to Scotland with her? Had she known Dirk? He claimed never to have known any other life but the one in 1359 and the one now, but maybe he forgot between . . . between visits. It was too much to comprehend.
“Ye look a bit like her, do ye ken?”
“Like Gertruda?”
“No. Like my Peigi.”
The mother of that child—your child, I thought, but didn’t say a word, for I was pretty sure this wee ghostie of mine was my great-grandfather—about forty times great.
No wonder I loved him so much.
* * *
Silla did not know what to do. Her person did not smell right. She needed to go outside, but he would not wake up. She scratched at the door, whined, poked her nose against her person’s leg. Finally, she jumped onto the side of the hard white box and pushed her way behind the curtain. She scrunched into the farthest corner and took care of her business. Then she went back to her person. She licked his face in apology, turned around three times, curled up beside him, and sighed.
* * *
Amy Harper didn’t like working two shifts back-to-back in the emergency room, especially on what should have been her “weekend.” But a friend needed a favor. And Amy had sure pulled in a few favors herself over the past two or three months, so this was payback time. This afternoon there’d been four people with broken bones, two DOAs from a car wreck, and two men with drug overdoses. This evening, a man with a broken leg and then the governor, no less, with a gunshot in the arm—plus all the usual ER problems. She was so tired, it felt like this ought to be the middle of the night. Oh wait; it was the middle of the night. Almost. That was okay. She’d have tomorrow to rest up and then back here the next day. Why had she ever agreed to switch to the ER? She missed her nice quiet ward.
The man in front of her looked—from the blood—like he had a nasty wound under that towel. “Damn dog,” h
e complained through gritted teeth as Amy unwound the plain white bath towel from around his left calf. The man’s baggy pants sported a ragged hole. When she looked closer, she could see several smaller holes, too, as if the dog had snapped at him repeatedly. “Stupid beast practically took my leg off.”
Not hardly, Amy thought. But she could tell he was in pain; no wonder he exaggerated. Luckily it wasn’t too serious a bite. She’d seen bites where the dog’s whole mouth was involved. This one had the clear imprint of only the front few teeth—he already had a nasty bruise—but only two teeth had broken through the skin, and he’d need a stitch or two. She was glad he hadn’t called 911. Most people in his situation would have. Her blood pressure rose when she thought of the number of people who called 911 when all they needed was some soap and water and a Band-Aid. Someday somebody was going to die of a heart attack while the closest ambulance unit was off attending to a minor wound that elementary first aid could have dealt with.
She took a deep breath. “Who’s with you, Mr. Smith?” she asked. “Would you like us to call someone in from the waiting room?”
He hesitated, but then he practically snarled at her. “Drove myself. Don’t need anybody else.”
Yankee independence in its most irritable manifestation, she thought, trying to suppress a yawn. Fine with her. Amy often ran out of patience as her energy ebbed, but today she was particularly pooped. If he was that independent, why didn’t he just keep on whining and see if he enjoyed having to sew up his own leg?
This would, however, make a good story. She didn’t usually share hospital events with her cop brother-in-law—privacy rules being the word of the day—but this was one she had to tell him. She wouldn’t mention a name, of course, though she doubted it would matter here. John Smith sounded like the stereotypical alias. She glanced up at the computer screen beside the examining table. No picture ID provided—pt. said left drv. license at home. Drove directly to AH.
Lucky he’d made it to Arkane Hospital, Amy thought. It’s a wonder he didn’t drive into a ditch somewhere. She knew even minor dog bites hurt like crazy—something in dog saliva was particularly irritating to human tissue. “Did you talk to the owner? Do you know whether the dog has had a recent rabies shot?”
Smith’s face went even whiter. “I could get rabies from this?”
The doctor paused, the point of the numbing hypodermic just inches from Smith’s leg. “Did the dog have a silver tag on its collar?”
“Yeah,” Smith said, and for some reason, he looked at his hands. They were shaking, and Amy could see purple bruises on the pads of some of his fingers. “Yeah, it did.”
“That could mean the dog has had a rabies shot, but,” the doctor added cheerfully, “there’s a possibility the tag could have been expired. You’ll need to report to your primary care physician as soon as you can. He or she can keep an eye on the wound and any symptoms you might develop.”
As Amy listened to the doctor’s instructions, there was a little piece of her mind that wondered what this man had done to the dog to incite the attack. Amy liked dogs. And she knew without a doubt that most dogs wouldn’t attack without a reason. Just to be thorough, she added a note to the computer about the bruising on the pads of his middle fingers. “Do you know the owner’s name, Mr. Smith? We can contact him for you.”
Smith hesitated again. “No.” Amy wondered if growling was his preferred method of communication. “Stray dog. No owner.”
Then why would the dog have tags and a collar?
She glanced up at a series of boxes on the right side of the computer screen. There was a checkmark next to will pay cash. She hoped he had enough with him. Even with only a couple of stitches, it was going to be pricey. She wished, not for the first time, that there was a diagnostic code for royal pain in the rump.
13
O my offense is rank, it smells to heaven.
ACT 3, SCENE 3
Friday morning dawned bright and clear. I stretched and spent a few minutes stroking Shorty’s silky back. “Did you know the Games are hardly ever interrupted by rain?” Shorty purred in response. Thus encouraged, I kept going. “There was that one misbegotten tornado in, uh, 1955 maybe? Or thereabouts . . .” Misbegotten? I sounded like I’d been hanging out with an ancient ghost. “. . . but nobody was injured. Once they righted the tents, the Games went on.”
Shorty yawned, and I took the hint and stopped the history lecture. He hopped down onto the fuzzy area rug, and I slipped on my robe. While I was at it, I detoured into the spare room and rummaged for some wrapping paper. Might as well get that mystery necklace out of my hair. It folded into a surprisingly compact package.
When I walked downstairs in my Winn tartan arisaidh, Dirk smiled. Great-great-etc.-granddaddy, I thought. Nope. I wasn’t going to go there. Maybe someday I’d tell him, but not now.
“Ye look quite bonny,” he said. I’d paired it with my most lightweight chemise and a silk bodice that had almost no heft to it at all. No sense cooking myself in heavy clothing.
“Thank you.” I turned into the kitchen, not to eat but to feed Shorty. “I’m headed to the Logg Cabin for breakfast. Do you want to come along?”
He thought for a moment. “’Twill be crowded, aye?”
“I think you can bet on that. All these tourists in town.”
“I will wander down to the wee meadow and listen in on conversations.”
“Why?”
“For to see what people think o’ the happenings yestreen.”
“Yester-what?”
He gave me one of those looks. “E’en.”
“Oh. Evening. I get it.” I patted Shorty, tucked the end of my arisaidh more firmly into my belt, and held the door open so Dirk could pass outside.
At the top of the ramp I stopped and studied the yellow dandelions and white clover dotting my yard. My dandelions always seemed to bloom from early spring to early autumn. I was delighted. Poor Mr. P, though, probably thought I had some sort of weed conspiracy going. Butterflies flapped lazily in the echinacea blossoms. Even this early in the morning, I could hear the comfortable drone of bumblebees investigating nectar sources.
“She didna ken what she was missing,” Dirk said. He was a particularly perceptive ghost. Maybe they all were, but he was the only ghost I’d ever known.
“You’re right. I felt so angry with her stinking attitude last night. But now, seeing this, I just feel sorry for her.”
He inclined his head toward the purple coneflowers. “Let us simply enjoy the day.”
I felt like skipping.
I had no idea how soon that feeling would change, but a few hundred feet down Hickory Lane, I began to get those premonitions once more of a monster rising from the lake. It was nonsense. I knew that. But I couldn’t help the feeling.
* * *
Moira looked up as the station’s front door opened. With all the goings-on yesterday, there was no telling what was in store today. Her nephew walked in and grinned at her. She removed her headset and ran to hug him. “What are you doing here? I thought you left with the president yesterday.”
He patted her cheek. “You wanted me to leave my favorite aunt without saying good-bye?”
She felt her back stiffen, and didn’t realize until that moment how much she’d hoped he was here for at least one more day. “So, it’s good-bye?”
“No.” His grin widened. “I followed everybody to Burlington last night, but then I thought to myself, I haven’t taken a vacation in so long I’ve forgotten what the word means. All it took was a phone call—a long phone call, what with all the debriefing. But now I’m here for three weeks. If you want me around.”
I’m too old to be jumping up and down like this, Moira thought. “Want you around? You’re more welcome than Grandma’s pecan pie.”
He made a mighty frown. “Think the chief will put me to work?”
; “Not if I have anything to say about it. I’m overdue for some vacation myself.”
Harper walked in just then. “Hello, Fenton. You have to be kidding, Moira. If you take a vacation, the station will fall apart.”
“Well, darlin’, just think how happy the chief will be to have me back in a few weeks. Maybe he’ll give me a great big raise.”
Harper’s gesture was dismissive. “Cold day in you-know-where before that’ll happen.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll wait until Monday to leave. I do know you can’t function without me during the Games.”
“That’s for sure. When are you going to tell Mac? Right away so he can be mad at you all the rest of the weekend? Or on your way out the door Sunday night so he can take it out on Fairing and Murphy and me on Monday?”
Moira looked Harper up and down like a butcher considering the best cuts of meat. “Don’t tempt me, honey child.” She turned to her nephew. “Why don’t you run down and take a look at some of the competitions? They’re a lot of fun.”
“Trying to get rid of me already?”
“Never in a million years.” Moira noticed Harper looking at her funny. “He’s my nephew,” she said. “Haven’t seen him in umpteen years. We’re gonna take some vacation time together.”
They slapped a high five, and Mac walked in the door.
* * *
“Dirk?”
“Och, aye?”
“Do you really think Big Willie was just too tired to attend the opening ceremonies last night?”
As often happened, Dirk didn’t answer my question. He answered the question behind my question. “Ye are worriting about him.”
I studied the cracks in the sidewalk. “I know it’s silly of me, but what if he’s ill?”
“Ye have said he will compete in this day’s games?”
