Kilt at the Highland Games

by Kaitlyn Dunnett

  “Wrong. Wrong. Wrong,” Grant muttered.

  Liss repressed a sigh. “What is, Mr. Grant?”

  “Look at that spelling!” He indicated the skean dhus sign. “You need an adviser to help you with your Gaelic, my good woman. For one thing there is no letter K in Gaelic. For another, dhu is a non-word. If there were such a word, it wouldn’t be pronounced correctly for the second word in the Scottish term for a stocking knife. The correct nomenclature is sgian dubh.”

  To Liss’s secret amusement, Grant butchered the Gaelic pronunciation, although he followed that up by spelling the words correctly.

  “You have a point, of course.” The customer is always right, she reminded herself, no matter how obnoxious he is. Clearly, this issue was important to him. “The thing is, Mr. Grant, we are not in Scotland. My customers are Americans and Canadians, many of whom do not have a drop of Scots blood in their veins. The Anglicized version of the term—”

  “One should always stick to the spelling of the relevant language.” Leaving the display case, he stomped over to the sales counter to glare at her.

  Liss knew it was futile to argue, since nothing she said would change his mind, but hasty words popped out of her mouth before she could stop them: “The relevant language is American English.”

  Grant’s piggy little eyes narrowed. The term “hot under the collar” took on new meaning as a dull red color crept upward into his face. Liss had no intention of changing her sign, but since he looked as if he might be about to explode, she rushed into a partial apology.

  “I realize that the spelling I chose must be annoying to someone as familiar with Gaelic as you are. Shall we agree to disagree?”

  Grant clearly did not find any kind of compromise acceptable. He started to sputter, so riled up that his words were incomprehensible.

  Martin Eldridge cleared his throat.

  Grant, belatedly remembering that they had an audience, closed his mouth and turned toward the other man.

  Eldridge said, “Perhaps you might continue this another time, my dear fellow? It’s past time we were heading back to the hotel.” Before Grant could spit out any more venom, he added, “Didn’t you say your wife has plans for this afternoon?”

  Liss sent the older man a grateful smile. “Are you here for the Highland Games, Mr. Eldridge?”

  “My stay is indefinite at this point.” With a slight nod of farewell to Liss, he steered Grant toward the exit.

  “That’s another thing,” Grant complained to his companion. “She’s one of the people behind bringing Highland games to this backwater.”

  Liss bit back a retort. She’d been on the committee, but it had been her aunt, as the hotel’s events coordinator, who had done, and was still doing, most of the work. Best not to antagonize him further, she decided, and he didn’t need to know that she and Margaret were related.

  “I do not have high hopes for the event.” With that final condemnation, Grant left the Emporium.

  Shaking her head, Liss watched the two men walk past her window. She was just about to turn away when a flash of bright yellow caught her attention—a loose section of the police barrier on the far side of the square.

  The diversion over, she was plunged back into wondering and worrying.

  “Where are you, Angie?” she whispered.

  Liss had racked her brain to think of where a woman, a teenaged girl, and a young boy might have gone. She came up blank every time. She had no idea where to begin to look for them. For all Liss knew, they might have run off to Canada, or California, or the moon!

  Frustration had her reaching for one of the college-ruled yellow legal pads she kept on the shelf beneath the sales counter. Felt-tip pen in hand, she stared at the blank spaces on the top sheet.

  What did she really know about Angie? She had birthdays, or at least she had the dates Angie, Beth, and Bradley had been celebrating. She wrote them down, together with the years in which Beth and Bradley had been born. She wasn’t sure how old Angie was.

  What else? Angie collected designer teddy bears. Had she done so before she came to Moosetookalook? Was there any way to trace them if she had?

  Not when they had burned up along with the rest of Angie’s possessions! Liss sighed.

  Angie had a sister-in-law. Maybe. Liss tapped the pen on the pad. Had Sherri followed up on that? She hadn’t said. Maybe Liss should ask around. Someone must have gone into the bookstore that day, when Angie was selling books at the hotel. But would anyone remember details more than six years later?

  She made a sound of frustration. If the police couldn’t pin down Angie’s real name, what hope did an amateur have of finding even more elusive information?

  It was then that a possible course of action occurred to her. When you needed specialized knowledge it made sense to consult an expert. Before she could talk herself out of the idea, she reached for the phone.

  Chapter Seven

  Early the next day, shortly after Liss opened the Emporium, the bell over the door jangled. She looked up in time to see a man come into the shop. His dark brown hair was on the short side but not especially neat. His face was unlined, making it impossible to guess his age. He was about her height, but somehow managed to look shorter. The only distinctive thing about him was the steady movement of his jaw. He was chewing industriously on a wad of gum. As she watched with reluctant fascination, he blew an enormous pink bubble.

  Inevitably, it popped, leaving gooey residue on his chin and upper lip. In a nonchalant manner, he sucked it in before tipping an imaginary hat in her direction.

  “You’re looking good, sweetheart,” said Jake Murch, Private Investigator.

  “Liar,” Liss retorted, but she couldn’t stop a smile from spreading over her face. “How have you been, Jake?”

  “Same old, same old.” His broad, friendly grin faded as he approached the sales counter. “But it looks like you got trouble. That’s a heck of a mess out there. Arson, huh?”

  “That’s the general consensus.”

  Shaking his head, Jake extracted a small, dog-eared notebook and a stub of a pencil from his shirt pocket. “The way I hear it, it’s officially arson.”

  “Then you know more than I do.”

  Liss decided to take this as an encouraging sign. Jake Murch might strike some as a caricature of a private eye, but he had the kind of street smarts she lacked, not to mention the contacts. She had a sneaking suspicion he could tap into more sources than the police could, maybe even more than Dolores had access to as a librarian. She had done the right thing by contacting him.

  “I did some checking after your phone call,” Jake said. “I’ll level with you. I’m not sure I can do any more to find your friends than the police have.”

  “Please don’t say that!”

  “I don’t mislead clients, Liss. There have been no sightings of Angie Hogencamp’s car. There have been a few reports of seeing one or the other of the children, but none of them panned out. Did you come up with any more photos? The ones the cops are circulating aren’t the best. Driver’s license for the mom. School pictures for the kids.”

  Liss produced a folder she’d left on the shelf beneath the counter and pulled out an 8½ by 11 print of a snapshot she’d taken with her cell phone a few months earlier. It showed all three of the Hogencamps.

  “Bradley’s grown some since then.” She pointed to a twelve-year-old with an infectious grin. “Add at least another inch in height.”

  She hoped nothing had happened to dim that smile.

  The photo had been taken inside Angie’s Books during Moosetookalook’s annual March Madness Mud-Season Sale. Back then, there had been no hint of trouble on the horizon. Angie’s business had been booming, and as far as Liss had been able to tell, the bookseller hadn’t a care in the world.

  “It’s a good clear shot of Angie and Beth. Unless they’ve deliberately changed their appearance, this is what they looked like when they disappeared.”

  Angie was an ordinary-
looking woman in her mid-forties with dark, wavy hair, worn short, and big brown eyes that always, now that Liss thought about it, seemed a little sad. She was a few pounds overweight, but in good physical shape. She had to be to haul cartons of books around.

  Her daughter favored her, having inherited the same coloring, but her hair was shoulder-length and her build was slighter. Beth had taken up Scottish dancing for a while—first with Liss as her teacher, and later, after Dance Central opened, with Zara—but over the last couple of years she’d given it up in favor of various extracurricular activities with her friends in high school. Even though Moosetookalook’s children were bussed to the consolidated school in Fallstown after eighth grade, a good twenty minutes away by car, most of them managed to bum rides back and forth when they needed them, just as Liss and her friends had done back in the day.

  “Who’s the other boy?” Murch asked, pointing to a young man who had an arm slung around Beth’s shoulders.

  “That’s my cousin Edward. His mother calls him Teddy, but he prefers the nickname Boxer. He’s Beth’s boyfriend.”

  Liss perched on the stool behind the counter while Jake studied the photograph. She didn’t need to look at it to call Boxer’s appearance to mind. He had his father’s plain, square face, but he had inherited his reddish brown hair from his grandmother, Liss’s Aunt Margaret. In the picture he was a few inches taller than Beth, but he was still growing.

  Murch studied the smiling group for a long moment before returning the photo to the folder and setting it atop the counter. “I assume Boxer doesn’t know anything either?”

  Liss shook her head. “Believe me, he’d have said if he did. He’s crazy about her. I haven’t seen him myself, but I know he’s talked to Sherri and to Margaret.”

  She felt certain Murch remembered both women from the time, six years back, when he’d been hired to investigate another crime with ties to Moosetookalook. Despite an uncanny ability to give the impression that he couldn’t keep two facts straight at the same time, the PI had a mind like a steel trap.

  “Did you talk to all the neighbors?” he asked.

  “Not all of them, but Sherri Campbell did. She says no one saw them leave, and no one noticed any unusual activity around the bookstore before the fire started. Of course, it broke out around three-thirty in the morning, so everyone was asleep.”

  “And no one has any idea where the Hogencamps would go?”

  Liss shook her head. “Believe me, I’ve asked everyone I thought might know. And Sherri has made it clear how important it is to find them. I can’t imagine anyone in town holding back information, not in a situation like this one.”

  Murch looked skeptical. “Someone knows, sweetheart. Okay, we’ll start with Angie’s closest friends. Who did she hang out with in her free time?”

  Liss had already opened her mouth to rattle off a list of names when she realized she didn’t know the answer. Frowning, she closed it again. What free time? You didn’t have much when you ran a one-person business, and Angie had also had what amounted to a second full-time job taking care of her two children.

  “I don’t think she had much leisure for socializing.”

  “No girls’ nights out? No bridge club? No choir practice?”

  Liss rolled her eyes. “No martial arts classes and no early morning jogs to get in shape for the Beach-to-Beacon Road Race, either. She worked long hours in the bookstore, made sure Beth and Bradley got three squares and did their homework, and turned in early. As far as I know, the only organization she was active in was the Moosetookalook Small Business Association.”

  “Don’t know her as well as you thought, do you?”

  “I guess not,” Liss admitted. If she did, surely she’d have a clue where Angie and her children had gone.

  Murch turned so he could look out through the plate-glass display window at the front of the shop. He leaned back, resting his elbows on the sales counter as he studied the view. “This is a self-contained little community you’ve got here, and yet no one saw anything,” he mused. “Nope, I don’t buy it. Someone got up to take a leak and looked out his window. Or a restless sleeper heard a car engine and glanced at the bedside clock. And I’m betting someone’s lying to the cops when they say they don’t know anything.”

  “Then maybe duplicating what the police have already done isn’t such a bad idea after all.” Liss started to feel a bit more optimistic.

  Still regarding the view through her window, Murch asked, “Who’s the local nosy parker?”

  His use of the old-fashioned term for snoop surprised Liss into a laugh. “Who isn’t?”

  Turning around to pick up the notebook he’d left on the counter, Murch flipped to a blank page. “Names, please, sweetheart.”

  Liss gave the question a bit of thought before answering. There was more than one likely possibility. After a moment, she rattled off the first four that sprang to mind—Julie Simpson, Betsy Twining, Dolores Mayfield, and Francine Noyes. “Start with Dolores Mayfield at the library on the second floor of the municipal building,” she suggested, “but expect to have to fend off her recruitment efforts.”

  As succinctly as possible, she explained about Dolores’s campaign to overturn the board of selectmen’s decision. She did not give him details of the meeting at the Mayfield house. They weren’t relevant to the case she’d asked him to investigate. More importantly, as far as Liss knew, no one had reported the incident to the police. There was an unspoken agreement among those who had been there to spare Moose any trouble with the law. It wasn’t as if he’d hurt anyone.

  When she’d finished her account, Murch gave a low whistle. “She sounds like a formidable woman, and a bad enemy. I’d watch my back if I were this Graye fella. Okay, which one of these others should I talk to after the librarian?”

  “Since you’ll be right there in the municipal building, try Francine Noyes, the town clerk. The police department is in the same building, by the way. You should probably touch base with Sherri Campbell.”

  “Already talked to her.” His fleeting grin was impish. “She never did know what to make of me, but she can’t stop me from making inquiries.”

  “She knows you’ve helped me before. That ought to be enough.”

  “Okey-dokey. If you say so.”

  “Julie Simpson is our postmaster, and Betsy Twining owns and operates the Clip and Curl, which is in the back half of the same building.”

  “I noticed the plywood over the window,” Murch said.

  Of course he would. Liss repeated what little she knew about the incident.

  “Huh,” he said. “Okay. Anyone else who keeps an eagle eye out on this backwater burg?”

  “Do not insult my hometown,” Liss warned him, even though she knew he was kidding.

  “Just answer the question, sweetheart. Time’s a wasting.”

  “The only other person I can think of is Patsy at Patsy’s Coffee House, but I doubt she’ll tell you anything useful. There isn’t much that goes on in this town that she doesn’t know about, but unlike the others, she’s not the gossipy sort. She just . . . hears things.”

  “I like a challenge,” Murch said. “I’ll just have to sweet-talk her into confiding in me.”

  “Good luck with that,” Liss said with a laugh. Patsy would make mincemeat of him.

  “Anyone else who knows all the players?”

  “Not that I can think of.”

  “Okey-dokey.” He closed the notebook and tucked it back into his pocket, then picked up the folder with the photograph. “I’m off to take a preliminary look around.” The impish grin reappeared. “You’ll have noticed that I parked the truck a couple of blocks away. I’m practically incognito.”

  “Uh-huh. Are you sure that piece of junk didn’t just die on you?” As far as Liss knew, he was still driving a dilapidated red pickup. Looks, however, could be deceiving. The interior was outfitted with all the latest gadgets and amenities.

  He pulled a face, somehow managing an
expression of deep regret. “There are times when it’s just not a good idea to advertise.”

  Liss needed a moment to understand what he meant. Then she remembered. The truck sported a vanity plate that read MURCH PI.

  He was halfway to the door when he turned back, doing a good imitation of that classic TV detective, Columbo. “Just one more question. Are there any strangers in town?”

  “I’m afraid so. And more coming. The Western Maine Highland Games take place at The Spruces this coming weekend. They get under way on Friday with fireworks and an opening ceremony.” Margaret, regretfully, had abandoned her more elaborate plans in favor of an audience-participation talent show.

  Murch paused to consider this. “The fire was in the wee hours of last Friday. You notice any new faces on either Thursday or Friday?”

  She told him about Angus Grant and answered his laugh with a rueful smile. “Grant is definitely here for the Highland Games. There was a second hotel guest watching the fire, too. His name is Martin Eldridge. He came into town to buy stamps and stopped in here to ask why the post office was closed. I think he’s still around, too. He told me his stay was indefinite.”

  “What’s he look like?”

  Liss had already started to describe Martin Eldridge when she glanced through her front window. She broke off. “Serendipity is at work. He’s right over there, near the gazebo in the town square. See? The white-haired gentleman carrying the walking stick.”

  “Who’s the other guy?” Murch, who had been hovering by the door, about to make his exit, leaned closer to the glass, his face scrunching up as he squinted to see better.

  “No idea. He’s too far away for me to see him clearly. If it wasn’t for Eldridge’s distinctive bearing and that shock of white hair and his cane, I wouldn’t be certain I was identifying him correctly.”