“Liss, wait.”
Reluctantly, she turned.
“It occurred to me last night after I left your place that I might be considered a suspect in Jason Graye’s murder. I did quarrel with him.”
“Yes, you did. But you also have an excellent alibi. You were here, surrounded by witnesses.”
“Everyone was watching the fireworks, not me.”
“You introduced them, didn’t you?”
Margaret shook her head. “Joe Ruskin did the honors. I stayed in the background—so far in the background that I was probably invisible. There’s nothing to say I couldn’t have zipped into town and killed Jason Graye. Do you think I should talk to Gordon Tandy before he comes looking for me?”
Not for a moment did Liss believe her aunt was a murderer, but she was right in thinking that Gordon would want to interview her. “It couldn’t hurt. I, uh, didn’t think to mention you to him. I only ratted on Dolores.”
“Oh, yes. The crisis over the library. Well, I can’t imagine Dolores taking such drastic measures when she had a perfectly good plan in place to force a recall election and boot Graye out of office.”
Liss wondered if Margaret had heard about the shooting incident at the Mayfield house. She hadn’t been at that meeting. Instead of asking, she made a production out of looking at the clock on the wall. Exclaiming over the time, she fled before Margaret could say any more about last night’s horrific discovery or, worse, launch into an account of her plans to mitigate the bad publicity that was sure to come out of it.
* * *
On her way to her booth, Liss gave herself a stern lecture. She would not even think about Jason Graye for the rest of the day. Her sole focus would be on selling all things Scottish.
In short order, she had turned the tent back into an awning, rolling up and securing the side panels to reveal four long display tables arranged in a square. She’d left a narrow aisle at the end of one of them to allow customers access to racks of ready-made kilts, tartan skirts, and other clothing.
Liss quickly unpacked the box Margaret had kept for her, rearranged a few more items of stock, and unlocked and removed the lid on the tray that contained money for change. Then she booted up her iPad, silently blessing modern technology for making it possible to accept credit cards using a small swiping device and the hotel’s Wi-Fi. Such a simple thing, and yet it made transactions so much easier, as well as much less expensive for a small businessperson like herself. It wasn’t all that long ago, she reflected, that she’d had to lug two small cash registers with her to this event. Today, once she’d placed a battery-powered hand calculator within easy reach and made sure she had plenty of pens and receipt pads, she was ready for business.
All around her, other vendors were making similar preparations. The hotel’s vast green back lawn, the approximate size of a football field, was jam-packed with tents and awnings. Moosetookalook Scottish Emporium had a prime location between a seller of Scottish-themed books and a T-shirt vendor. Farther along their row, a falconer had set up shop, offering instruction manuals and demonstrations as well as the paraphernalia associated with keeping hunting birds in a society that no longer rode out with hawks and hounds. Beyond his booth was another perennial favorite—a demonstration by two women who still practiced the ancient arts of spinning and weaving. They also sold the results of their labor.
Dozens of Scottish clans had booths, as well as several Scottish societies. Beyond them, nearer to the “gate,” there was a cluster of registration centers—one for dancers, one for pipers, and another for athletics.
There were food vendors, too. Liss could already smell the delightful aroma of baking scones. Janice Eccles, known far and wide as “the Scone Lady,” had brought her portable ovens. Knowing Janice, she’d also been the one who had supplied Margaret MacCrimmon Boyd with an assortment of the uniquely British treats.
By the official opening time, there were at least a hundred people lined up to get in. Liss had to smile as she watched them surge through the banner-draped entrance to the grounds and descend on the venue. Small children tugged their parents’ hands, urging them to hurry. Girls dressed for the dance competitions rushed toward the registration tents. A stage had been set up for them at one side of the grounds, on the way to the open field at the side of the hotel that was the designated site for the sports competitions. Liss picked out one or two people she felt certain would be among the athletes—strong, burly men wearing T-shirts with their kilts.
The lawn at the other side of the hotel had been earmarked for performances by pipe bands. The day would end with that most stirring of events, the massed bands, when every pipe and drum corps in attendance would join together to play some of the most enduring bagpipe music. Dan always covered his ears for that portion of the program or left the area entirely, but Liss loved every minute of it.
A smaller field had been roped off for animal events. Sheepdog trials were standard fare at Scottish festivals. This being Maine, there would also be a performance by the local llama drill team.
Liss shared the sense of anticipation that flowed in with the crowd, and not just because she expected to make a profit on the day. Her buoyant mood lasted until she caught sight of Angus Grant at the forefront of the horde. The bright smile on her face faltered.
Go somewhere else, she thought, looking at him. Get yourself a scone. Buy a book. Find someone new to pick on.
Janice Eccles’s cheerful voice rose above the noise of the crowd. “Fresh-baked scones,” she sang out. “Get ’em while they’re still warm!”
Being Maine born and bred, Janice rhymed scone with stone.
Grant veered off just before he reached the Moosetookalook Scottish Emporium booth and headed for the scone-maker’s stand. At once, Liss felt guilty for wishing him on anyone else. She watched, appalled, as he marched right up to the counter, cutting ahead of the three people already in line.
“If you are going to bake and sell scones,” he said, rhyming scone with con, “you should know how to pronounce the word correctly.”
Janice was not impressed by bluster. “That’s a matter of opinion.” She leaned around him to address the next paying customer in line. “What can I get for you, hon?”
Grant waited only long enough for her to fill one order before he started in again. “As any true son of Scotland knows—”
“You speak for all of them, do you?” Janice lifted one finely shaped eyebrow. “That surprises me, especially when a recent survey taken in the UK proved that not everyone there agrees with you. In the U. S. of A., of course, we never did pay much attention to pronunciations from across the pond.”
Liss stifled a laugh, silently applauding Janice’s put-down. She was even more tickled when a woman standing in line chimed in with her two cents.
“I don’t see what’s wrong with rhyming scone with cone. I’ve heard more than one of those television chefs pronounce it that way.” That was clearly enough to settle the matter in her mind.
“You aren’t going to win this debate, mister,” Janice said, “and unless you intend to buy something, I suggest you take yourself elsewhere.”
The customer at the end of the line backed her up. “Move it along, bub. I don’t care how you say it as long as it tastes good. What difference does it make, anyway?”
Face almost purple with suppressed outrage, Grant abandoned the scone stall and headed for Liss’s booth. Out of sight behind a display case on the front table, Liss’s hands were curled into fists. Only with concentrated effort could she relax her fingers. Angus Grant hadn’t yet said a word to her, and she was already fighting the urge to throttle him. Vowing to hold on to her temper, Liss braced herself for yet another unpleasant encounter.
“Still haven’t learned to spell sgian dubh, I see.” Grant jabbed a pudgy finger at the hand-lettered sign next to a small dagger. One of the items Liss had stored in Margaret’s office, the little knife had a handle that was silver-mounted and hand-carved, and it came with its ow
n leather sheath.
Liss replied through gritted teeth. “Shall we compromise? I’ll go all the way to English and change the sign so it reads BLACK DAGGER.”
“Compromise? There is no compromise. What’s right is right. What’s wrong is wrong.”
Liss enjoyed a momentary fantasy in which she reached into the display case, withdrew the knife, and told him what he could do with it. According to one of those traditions he seemed to value so highly, a warrior never returned a black dagger to its scabbard without first spilling blood.
A split second later, this pleasing if unpleasant image was replaced by a vivid memory of Jason Graye as Liss had last seen him, his lifeless body sprawled on the floor just inside his front door. Her imagination added the weapon used to kill him—a skean dhu with a hand-carved, silver-mounted handle.
Swallowing bile, she blinked to dispel the image.
Focus on business, she ordered herself. Be pleasant to the customer. Heck, why not try for a sale?
Like many of the men at the Highland Games, Grant was wearing Highland dress. Liss recognized his clan’s tartan, a pattern that looked a little like Royal Stewart, except that it had no yellow in it. She had just the thing to go with that kilt.
“Have you thought of purchasing a plaid?” she asked. “I know I have one in the Grant tartan.”
She also knew that he wouldn’t find cause for complaint in her pronunciation of plaid. She was well aware of the difference between a plaid, pronounced “played”—the rectangular woolen cape in a tartan pattern that was worn over one shoulder—and plaid, pronounced “plad”—the pattern. Of course, when it came to Scottish clothing, the proper word was tartan rather than plaid. Each clan had one or more tartans that distinguished their members, just as each clan had a distinctive crest and motto.
Grant scowled. “I own a plaid already.”
“A new dress sporran, then?” The one he was wearing was a very plain, black leather pouch decorated with three tassels.
“No.”
Grant wore a Balmoral on his head, one of the two most popular styles of hat for men wearing kilts. Liss was debating whether or not to bother suggesting that he try on a Glengarry when he abruptly changed the subject.
“Fireworks do not belong at a Scottish festival!”
Liss blinked at him in surprise. Where had that come from?
“A proper Highland games should have been opened with a ceilidh.” Grant looked so smug that Liss wanted to smack him.
She wished she knew what his problem was. At a ceilidh, the main attractions were folk music and dance. There had been both on the previous evening at the hotel, together with a procession of pipe bands, all offered at no extra charge to hotel guests.
“How odd,” she said aloud, her tone of voice carefully neutral. “I was under the impression that, leading up to the fireworks display, there were performances by two of the bagpipe bands, a virtuoso on the Scottish harp, a group of fiddlers, and a team of Highland dancers.”
As for pyrotechnics, there was no rule against them. In fact, she could remember seeing a documentary about the famous Edinburgh Tattoo on television and was quite sure there had been fireworks.
Liss’s jaw ached from holding her shopkeeper’s smile in place as Grant droned on. It didn’t help that she could see potential customers, one after another, giving her booth a wide berth. No one wanted to risk catching the attention of someone as obnoxious and belligerent as Angus Grant. Until he decided to move on or someone else was brave enough to challenge him, she was going to keep losing business.
Like an answer to a prayer, such an individual appeared.
He did not wear a kilt, having realized on a previous visit to the Western Maine Highland Games that he did not have the knees for it. Civilian clothing, however, did not dampen the effect of his arrival.
“Angus Grant, right?” The newcomer grabbed Grant’s hand in a death grip. “I’m Murch. Jake Murch. Private investigator extraordinaire. I’ve been looking for you.” Without giving his victim any opportunity to escape, Murch shifted his hold to Grant’s elbow and steered him away from Liss’s booth.
“What’s this all about? What do you want with me?” Grant tried to break free, but Murch was by far the stronger of the two.
The detective’s jovial voice drifted back to Liss as they disappeared into the crowd: “Nothing to worry about, Grant. Not unless you have something to hide. I understand you were a witness to that terrible fire last week in the village.”
Murch to the rescue, Liss thought.
The last time Jake Murch had attended the Highland Games, she’d been in mortal danger. She’d managed to save herself, but the private detective had provided very welcome backup.
She wondered if he truly suspected Angus Grant of setting the fire. The idea seemed absurd. If Grant was going to torch any of the businesses in Moosetookalook, the Emporium would have been a more likely target.
That horrific thought provoked an involuntary shiver. Liss was glad to have the distraction of a customer. Then, for the next hour or so, she was far too busy to dwell on any of the troubles that had plagued her hometown.
* * *
Liss worked on her own until noon, when her young cousin Boxer reported for duty. She had recruited him weeks earlier to help out at the booth. He pitched in with a will, and since business was brisk, it was not until there was a lull that Liss noticed how haggard he looked. She didn’t have any trouble figuring out why. He’d been worrying about Beth Hogencamp.
“When did you last get a good night’s sleep?” she asked him.
“Do you really need to ask?” He brushed an unruly lock of reddish brown hair out of his eyes and sent her a rueful look.
“I wish there was something I could say that would help, but all I have are more questions.”
“Questions for me?”
She nodded.
“Might as well ask them, then. Maybe one of us will come up with something.” The hopeful look on his plain, square face broke Liss’s heart.
“Did Beth ever talk about any of her mother’s friends? Maybe someone from out of town?”
Boxer shook his head. “I’ve been asking myself that. Beth and I were good buddies long before we started dating, but I never paid all that much attention to her mom.” He shrugged. “She never liked me much.”
When she’d first met him, Angie had thought Boxer was a wiseass and a troublemaker, and he had been back then. That his mother was a Snipes hadn’t helped his reputation. Members of that family tended to be shiftless and hard on their wives. Boxer, however, had turned out to be the exception that proved the rule. He was headed for college in the fall and had a bright future ahead of him.
“They can’t have vanished so completely without help.” Liss fished a bottle of water out of the cooler Boxer had brought with him and tossed a second one to him.
“Seems to me you’re the one Beth’s mother was closest to.” Boxer opened the bottle and took a long swallow.
It wasn’t abnormally hot for summer in Maine, but it was late July. The air was just muggy enough to make Liss sweat if she did more than take in money and rearrange stock. She held the cold bottle against her forehead before she followed Boxer’s lead.
“Besides me, who else?”
He shrugged. “I guess that would be Gloria Weird.”
“Gloria Weir.” The correction was automatic, as was Liss’s smile. Gloria was an odd duck. “I didn’t realize she and Angie were particularly friendly.”
“She lives right across the street. I guess they see a lot of each other.”
Did Gloria know anything? Sherri hadn’t seemed to think so after she’d talked to her. Murch, too, had interviewed the owner of Ye Olde Hobbie Shoppe and come up empty.
“Anyone else?”
“Patsy, I guess.” Suddenly he grinned. “Hey, all you old fogeys go to Patsy’s.”
Caught by surprise, Liss had no comeback. Then the arrival of a customer kept her from responding. Where d
id the kids hang out? He was right. It wasn’t at Patsy’s. Graziano’s Pizza, maybe? Deciding that it probably didn’t matter, she took another pull on her water.
The more time that passed, the clearer it became that Angie must be staying away deliberately. Was she in hiding? If so, was it because she was a fugitive from the law or because she was afraid to show herself for some other reason? The only other possibility Liss had been able to come up with—that she and her children had been prevented from returning—didn’t bear thinking about. What kind of psychopath would kidnap an entire family?
Liss was glad to be pulled from such fruitless speculation by a customer wanting to buy a kilt pin. As she wrapped it in tissue paper and tucked it and the receipt into a small red bag with the Moosetookalook Scottish Emporium logo emblazoned on both sides, she listened to the music filtering through the noise of the crowd. The sound soothed her troubled mind.
There were performances scheduled throughout the day—singers, fiddlers, and harpists as well as pipers. At the moment, somewhere not too distant, a woman with a lovely soprano voice was singing a ballad to the accompaniment of a guitar.
“Liss, do you carry Scottish-themed bumper stickers?” Boxer asked.
A boy of about fifteen stood on the other side of the display table, a look of deviltry in his eyes. “I want one for my dad,” he said. “The one that says ‘Old Pipers Never Die. Their Bags Just Dry Up.’”
“The gentleman selling T-shirts also has bumper stickers,” Liss called back, trying not to grimace at that old chestnut.
“How come you don’t stock them?” Boxer asked when their customers had moved on. “You’ve got all this other Scottish stuff.”
“I’m aiming for a slightly more high-class clientele.”
“But you do sell T-shirts.”
“Only the ones that have thistles or Scottish lions on the front. No risqué slogans. When I first took over the business, I discontinued all the truly tacky items in the inventory.” She was careful not to mention the fact that it had been Boxer’s father who had ordered most of them in the first place.
Kilt at the Highland Games Page 14
