by Fran Stewart
“Aye. I mean, yes.”
“Could ye no bide a wee bit to see when he appears?”
Even looking at my feet I could see him finger the shawl and pull it more tightly around the hilt of his dagger.
“’Tis nae so verra long ’til the caber toss.”
Eventually I looked back up. “I guess you’re right.” But I didn’t really believe it. It felt like time was standing still. And the monster was getting closer.
* * *
Mac was in a dour mood. He knew it. But he didn’t care. That upstart young agent—well, not so young; maybe in his mid-forties—hadn’t said a thing about recruiting Mac for the Service. No. He’d asked about Fairing. Fairing! A female! She was the one who’d sent them all on a wild-goose chase. Didn’t Fenton remember that?
He stormed through the station door and found Fenton there, and Harper and Moira acting like it was somebody’s birthday or something.
“What are you doing here? I thought you’d be back in D.C. by now.”
“Took some vacation time. But first I thought I’d fill you all in on the details from yesterday.”
The last thing Mac wanted was to hear Fenton brag about the Secret Service, so he took a pen from his shirt pocket and fiddled with it while the story unfolded. Eventually—not soon enough—Fenton headed for the door. “See you soon,” he said.
Harper and Moira did another high five. Stupid. What did they think they were, teenagers? “What are you two doing?”
“We’re celebrating,” Moira said.
Celebrating what? he wondered. But he wouldn’t ask. He wouldn’t give her the time of day, much less the pleasure of a question. “Well, keep it quiet,” he growled, and slammed his office door. A few seconds later he opened it again. “Harper! Put on a uniform and get out there to the meadow. Do something useful for a change.” There. That felt better. Just for good measure, Mac slammed his door. Again.
* * *
Before breakfast, I detoured to the tie booth to load the register with plenty of change and be sure my two temps were ready to go. Sam was with them, and I felt confident all would run smoothly.
Unfortunately, I spotted Andrea interviewing her aunt Shay Burns, and the short squat fellow who’d been in the ScotShop yesterday. Shay was acting thoroughly gracious—ha! That meant the rotund fellow in yet another limp polo shirt must have been one of the sponsors Shay was so good at finding. Probably under rotting logs. Why was I suddenly in such a lousy mood?
I said good-bye to Dirk and headed up the hill toward the Cabin. Harper came walking toward me. My heart flip-flopped, and my mood improved considerably. But then I remembered how Harper had looked away from me during the singing of “Amazing Grace.” I swallowed and adjusted my shoulders. “What are you doing wearing a uniform? I thought detectives never did. Or are you filling in for someone?”
He shrugged. “Mac wants a show of force. I keep a uniform at the station just in case.” He turned to walk beside me.
“Does he do this often? Mac and his power plays?”
“Only when he wants to prove who’s in charge.” He paused at the flower arch. “Have you heard what happened behind the scenes yesterday?”
How could I answer truthfully? Dirk told me all about Marti wrestling the gunman to the floor? “Well,” I hedged, “everybody thought somebody tried to shoot the president from the old Sutherland place. Thank goodness he missed. And I’m glad the Secret Service caught him.” That wasn’t lying. They were the ones who’d driven off with the guy after all.
“You’ll never guess who really stopped the guy.” Harper had a big grin on his face. I couldn’t blame him. Marti had done a spectacular service.
“Looks like you want to tell me.” There. Another not-a-lie. “Whoever stopped him deserves a medal.” That was the truth.
“Fairing.”
“Fairing?” I hated all this prevaricating around Harper. How—when—could I tell him about Macbeath Donlevy Freusach Finlay?—Stop it, Peggy. I needed to pay attention. I tried to look surprised. “Marti Fairing?”
“Turns out the fellow lived in Hamelin years ago when he was a kid. Bob Turner. That’s how he knew the secret to getting into that hidden room off the attic.”
Dirk hadn’t told me the name. Maybe Marti hadn’t mentioned it in his presence. So at least I could really be surprised about something. “Bobby Turner? I remember him when he was in elementary school. He pushed a friend of his out of a tree.” Another truth.
“I wouldn’t call him much of a friend.”
“But I don’t remember him after that.”
“They moved away when he was eleven.”
“Oh. No wonder.” What else could I say?
I heard a commotion off to my right and turned in time to see two men exchanging punches. Real ones. Harper took off running. There weren’t usually too many problems like this at the Games; everyone was in too good a mood for the most part. I knew better than to add to the throng of testosterone congregating around the fighters.
Murphy was headed that way, too. And I was hungry. Logg Cabin time.
* * *
I surveyed the six full tables, hoping to join Big Willie for breakfast. But of course he must have already eaten. He wouldn’t want a full stomach this close to his competition time. So I went inside. Karaline seated me at what I thought of as my table. Mine and Harper’s. Or at least it had been ours.
I hadn’t even gone on a date with the guy. We’d solved a couple of murders together—did that count? But despite the distance between us, I had this feeling that if he ever asked me to marry him, I’d say yes. A big if. I knew he never would, but I could imagine . . . I felt a blush starting at my toes. Luckily, Dolly walked up then to take my order.
“The usual?”
“Of course,” I said. “What else?”
14
O, what a rash and bloody deed is this!
ACT 3, SCENE 4
Dirk was already there when I let myself into the ScotShop. “How’d you get in here?”
He shrugged. “I followed Mistress Gilda and the wee dog when they came in.”
Gilda poked her head up from behind the cash register. “I let myself in. I have a key, remember?”
Gilda doesn’t know the meaning of sarcasm, so I took her comment at face value. Before I could answer, Scamp pushed his way out of the storeroom and bounded up to the front window. “Are you ready, Gilda? Once Scamp gets in the window, we’ll have people flocking in, no matter what hours the sign says we’re open.”
Shoe knocked on the front door. One of the temps I’d hired was with him. Good. I didn’t want to be short-staffed today. I could see the customers lining up behind them already.
“Let everybody in,” Gilda said. “The only thing I haven’t done yet is restock the Loch Ness Monsters.”
I looked the shelf over. “We still have two on display. I’ll bring out more in a few minutes.”
Of course, there was an inrush of people wanting to buy the dog in the window, and all too soon it was time to head to the caber toss. “I’ll be back in an hour or so.”
She waved me away. “We can handle it.”
“I will go wi’ ye.”
I waited to answer him until we were outside. “You don’t need to. I’ll be fine. I’m not carrying any money.”
“Did ye no think I might wish to see the caber toss for myself?”
I knew that Highland Games began in a formal sense in the early 1300s, chartered by Robert the Bruce, so they would have been a long-standing tradition by the time Dirk was old enough to compete. “You did compete, didn’t you?”
“Och, aye. Stone toss and hammer throw, mostly.”
“Not the caber toss?”
“Nae. My da was the local champion, but I could never get the caber to flip.” He shrugged. “’Twas no great loss. I came near
to crashing the caber back on my own noggin more than the once. I decided to quit while I still had a heid to think wi’.”
Dirk was in his element. It made me wish we had three or four festivals each year. Of course, that thought only lasted about three seconds. The amount of extra work I put in—I and every shop owner in town—for these four days of brute strength and blatant commercialism would leave me wrung out by Sunday night. Still, he was enjoying it thoroughly.
“I need to swing by the tie booth before I pick up Silla,” I said. “Why don’t you wander around? I’ll meet you in about ten minutes at the caber toss?”
“Aye. I will be there.”
I saw Marti Fairing standing in front of the ring where the next round of dancers was scheduled to compete. Forgetting the ties, I headed her way. She wore her full uniform today. I guess Mac wanted obvious police presence. Not that I thought there was any more danger. After all, this was Friday. No politicians around. Just some anxious competitors and a lot of happy spectators. Sunday, though, at the closing ceremonies, with Senator Calais here, that’s when I’d be worried if I were Mac.
I was glad I’d brought the necklace with me, I thought. But then I reconsidered. She wouldn’t have any place to tuck it away. She practically bristled with accoutrements. No wonder her arms were all akimbo. Well, I could always hold on to it for her if she wasn’t able to take it today. “Sergeant Fairing,” I said. “I wanted to thank you for what you did yesterday.”
“What I did?” She looked genuinely confused. “What do you mean?”
She had a horrible bruise on her forehead. She’d tried to cover it with her bangs, but I wondered if the assassin—the would-be assassin—had hit her with something. “I heard how you stopped that gunman.”
“Oh. That. It was . . . well . . . anybody could have done it. I almost didn’t make it in time.”
“But you did.”
She looked beyond me. “I’m not sure I should be talking about this.”
“Of course. I’m sorry. I just wanted to say I appreciate you.”
The blush went quite nicely with her dark blue uniform.
“And I have a present for you.” I dug out the small package, glad that I hadn’t put it in a bulky box, and handed it to her. “Just a little thank-you gift.”
She hesitated. “I don’t know if I should . . .”
“It’s nothing very valuable—it’s just interesting looking, and I thought you’d enjoy it.” This was awful. Why was I giving her a cheap necklace and telling her it was cheap? What on earth was I thinking? I wanted to snatch it back. “If you don’t like it, feel free to pass it on to Goodwill. It’s only plastic.”
“Well,” she said. “Okay. Thanks.” She seemed relieved to know it wasn’t anything of value. She tucked it into a zippered pocket on her leg. “I hope you don’t mind if I don’t open it here.”
“I understand. You have to stay—”
Someone blew into the stage microphone. “Caber toss contestants, please report to the field.”
Marti and I exchanged a glance. They didn’t usually make such announcements. I was right behind her as she headed to the designated area. Not that I thought anything was wrong—I just needed to get Silla so Big Willie could do his warm-ups. I’d looked at the detailed schedule. He wouldn’t compete until next to last, but I wanted to see all the competitors.
Marti stopped next to the judge’s table. I heard her ask, “Something wrong here?”
A gray-mustached man shook his head. “We’re missing one of our contestants, that’s all. We like to start with the full slate lined up.”
I looked at them and counted—eleven well-muscled men standing in a loose group, some of them stretching, some of them swinging their arms to and fro, all of them wearing kilts and knee-high socks. They all, I knew, wore shorts of some sort under their kilts. In these Games, particularly in the hammer throw, their kilts swung around and up, far enough up that, for their own protection, the men made sure they were well covered. From what I understood, this whole group of men generally went from one Highland game to another, from state to state through most of the summer and, in the Southern states, part of the autumn. They knew one another. They’d know Willie, too.
Willie wasn’t there, though. No Silla in sight, either. I scanned the crowd. That announcement should have brought them running. Where was he?
The only one who came running was Dirk.
He followed me over to the contestants. I knew I’d have only a few moments before the contest began. I picked one man at random and approached him. “Excuse me. Have you seen Big Willie around anywhere?”
“Big Willie? No, and he’d better get his tail here in a hurry so I can beat him.” He’d spoken loudly enough for all the men to hear, and his braggadocio got the laugh he was expecting.
I saw the man who’d been in the ScotShop with his necklace-shopping wife. I hadn’t realized he was a competitor, although now that I thought about it, maybe that was why he’d looked familiar to me; I’d seen him at prior Games. If I remembered right, he was the reigning champion. Big Willie always used to win, but this fellow—what was his name? Winston or something like that?—had won the last few years in a row. Of course, Big Willie hadn’t been here to compete recently. I hoped Big Willie wasn’t too out of shape. More than that, I hoped he’d show up. And when Big Willie got here, I hoped this guy would have another coughing fit.
Nobody, it turned out, had seen Willie at all. Not since yesterday afternoon in fact.
But then they called the first contestant, and Dirk and I had to retreat to the sidelines. Well, I had to. Dirk stayed within the roped-off area. I couldn’t blame him. Here behind the barrier, people were too crowded together for a ghost to be comfortable.
I looked around, knowing full well I wouldn’t see Big Willie. If he were here, he’d be out with the other contestants. I couldn’t help hoping, though. Instead, I saw half a dozen Hamelin residents I recognized in among dozens—make that hundreds—of tourists. The woman in the paisley scarf who hated my yard was off to one side. Luckily, she wasn’t looking my way. Today she had on a green scarf. I wondered if paisley was her trademark. Well, of course it is, I thought. Hadn’t she said her first name was Paisley?
The people in front of me stepped aside, and I moved up right next to the rope. Dirk stepped closer so I could talk to him without being overheard by the live people.
* * *
It made sense for them to go ahead with the caber toss without Big Willie. But it hurt to think that he’d traveled all the way to Vermont and was going to miss out on a chance to compete. If he missed this first round, he’d be out of the running.
I watched the first competitor, a brawny man from South Carolina, get the balance of the top-heavy eighteen-foot-long pole and begin his run along the field.
“Where do you think he is, Dirk?”
“I havena any notion. Did ye think I was a soothsayer, forebye?”
The crowd groaned as the caber fell sideways. Luckily the field was wide enough that none of the observers was in danger.
“You’re tall—that’s what I think. You can see over the heads of this crowd.”
“Aye. That I can.” He matched his actions to his words. “He isna any the where in sight. Neither he nor the wee doggie.”
“Of course you wouldn’t see the wee doggie.” I tried to whisper without moving my lips too much. “Scotties stay with their people.”
“What is it ye are saying? Dinna clummest so.”
“I’ll kloomayst if I want to.” A woman standing a couple of yards away stared hard at me. I smiled at her. Best way to disarm suspicion.
The crowd groaned again, and the woman looked back at the second competitor, another brawny fellow—they were all brawny. They had to be to control the 150-pound caber. He appeared to be having trouble keeping the pole upright even before he had hi
s hands under the narrow end of it.
“I can’t stand this.” I started toward the archway. “Marti Fairing may be looking for him—she probably is—but she’s only one person. Let’s try to find him.”
He caught up with me. “Aye. I think ye maun be correct. If we find him, we can notify the constable. Mayhap Large William has been injured?”
“Hurt, or sick, or . . . or something.” An unpleasant vision of my ex-boyfriend’s corpse flitted past. Even as I banished that thought firmly from my mind, I walked faster.
“Where d’ye suppose he is?”
“How would I know?”
There was a mighty cheer from the crowd behind us—the caber must have flipped—but I didn’t turn around to look. There was another groan, which most likely meant the pole had fallen at a bad angle instead of the straight twelve o’clock position the rules required. At least the man had three tries to get it right and would be judged on the best of his throws.
“Where would ye be going, forebye, if ye dinna ken where he might be?”
I paused and waited until a gaggle of middle-aged women passed by us, on their way to the center of the meadow. “I don’t know, but we have to look somewhere.” One of the women glanced back at me. I smiled, but I think it was a little forced.
“Mayhap he is still at the inn.”
“The inn? Oh, you mean the hotel. You could be right.”
I increased my pace. By the time I passed under the flower arch, I was practically running.
* * *
Marti Fairing didn’t like it when things like this went awry. She didn’t believe in dire premonitions, but she couldn’t ignore the twist in her gut that said something might be wrong. Was wrong.
She liked the old man. And his dog. Not that he was so very old, not if he could compete in the caber toss. No, not old; but he seemed settled somehow. Sure of himself in a way Marti had never felt. Except when she’d been holding Bobby Turner’s wrists. And when she’d broken his nose. Then she’d felt alive. Like something made sense.
She rubbed her forehead and made sure her bangs covered the bruise.
