"I'm a doctoral student," Maggie enthused. "Would I be able to get a key if I could show some proof of that?"
"Well, let's see," said the woman pulling a large register from a shelf under the counter. "What's your name, love?"
"Er, Margaret Devereaux, but—"
"Are you already enrolled this semester?"
"I'm supposed to be—"
"And you said you're a doctoral student?"
"Yes."
"What department?"
"Celtic."
"Of course. Celtic." She slid a finger down the handwritten entries of the book. "Yes, here you are. Studying under Prof. Macintyre, correct?"
"Er, right." Maggie was stunned. Obviously this woman should be running the university.
"Yes, we have you right here. Would you like to sign out your key now?"
A smile unfolded across Maggie's face.
"Absolutely," she replied, and inside of three minutes she had provided proof of her identity, signed the check-out card, and looked down in her hand to see the key to the library's ancient book collection.
"Is there anything else I can help you with?" the librarian asked with a friendly smile.
Maggie did have one more question.
"What are the library hours?"
"Ah, good question. The reading room is open Monday through Friday from 9:30 until 4:30. We ask you to sign the register," she pointed at a book on the counter near the door, "on each visit. And of course there are certain simple rules we ask you to follow for the preservation of the books. The subbasement is available any time the reading room is open."
"It closes at 4:30?" That seemed a bit early.
"Aye. The Queen Mother Library has longer hours."
"But no ancient book collection?"
"But no ancient book collection," the librarian smiled. "But it's just as well. The sun sets rather early here in the winter. And it's best not to be out after dark. Especially—"
She stopped.
"Especially what?" Maggie asked.
"Well, it's just—" The woman was clearly debating whether to give voice to her thoughts. "Well, that awful business Saturday night. Ghastly. And right here on campus, too. That poor girl."
Maggie nodded as sympathetically as she could.
"It's just terrible." The librarian leaned forward and lowered her voice. "I read what they did to her body—all cut up like that. They say it's devil-worshippers. Or worse. So don't you be staying out late studying and walking home alone. It gets dark quickly here. Either get home while it's still light out or have a companion to walk you home. At least until the police catch whoever did it."
Maggie nodded again. "Thanks for the advice. And the key. And don't worry, I'll be careful. I'm sure the police are hard at work right now trying to catch her killer."
The librarian regained herself a bit and stood up straight.
"I'm sure you're right," she agreed.
7. Hard at Work
"The lass sure liked 'er lacy panties, eh?" Officer MacGregor pulled a black thong from the top drawer of the late Annette Graham's dresser. "I wish I could get me wife to wear things like this."
"Don't worry, lad," came the shouted reply of another officer. "She wears 'em for me often enough!"
"All right!" Sgt. Michael Willis interjected over the hooting and laughter of his patrolmen. "Have some respect for the dead. We're here to look for clues to her murder, not rifle through her unmentionables."
The word 'unmentionables' caused even greater laughter. Until Sgt. Warwick entered the flat.
"Where's Sgt. Willis?" she demanded of the officer nearest the door.
"In the bathroom," was the reply. Then, as Warwick shot a glance back at him, he added, "Sergeant."
"Warwick, is that you?" Willis stepped out from the bathroom, the end of his sleeve wet and dripping. Looking around Willis and into the bathroom, Warwick could see the lid to the toilet tank had been removed and set precipitously on the edge of the bathtub. She decided not to ask.
"Find anything yet?" Warwick inquired instead.
"Nothing worth reporting." Willis shot a glance at MacGregor in the bedroom. "Although," he added, leading her back into the living room, "the drawers to the desk are locked. There might be something in there, do you think? But I didn't know if we needed a warrant."
Sgt. Warwick looked expressionlessly at Willis. He really was a nice enough fellow, just not the sharpest knife in the drawer.
"She's dead, Willis," Warwick explained. "I hardly think she'll file a citizen's complaint with the local magistrate."
Warwick tilted her head and examined the writing desk critically. It was wooden, but most likely wood veneer over particle board, not solid wood. There was a thin top drawer centered just under the desktop and to either side was one slightly larger drawer. Each had a metal lock embedded just above the handle. Warwick grabbed the top drawer and gave it a respectable but controlled tug. The entire desk jerked lightly forward, confirming it was not solid wood, but the drawer remained steadfast. Looking around she caught glimpse of MacGregor's 6'1", 240 pound frame.
"Officer MacGregor." MacGregor looked at the sergeant to confirm it was he she meant. "Come over here and give us a hand."
As he stepped into the front room, Warwick asked, "Can you open the top drawer? It's locked."
MacGregor looked at the desk, then at the tall but slight figure of Sgt. Warwick. "What's the matter, Sergeant? Can't you open it yourself?"
Warwick could hear the chorus of gasps and stifled laughter behind her. Willis' face went white.
"MacGregor—" Willis started, but a sharp wave of Warwick's hand stopped him. She locked eyes with MacGregor for a moment, then resolutely crossed to the kitchen, where she pulled from a wooden block a 10"-long butcher knife. Then, holding the knife at her hip, point up, she returned just as quickly to her previous position next to the desk. Without warning, she thrust the knife forward—causing MacGregor to jump back startled—and plunged the blade three inches deep between the desk top and the top of the center drawer. Pulling the knife handle firmly up, the metal lock was forced through the flimsy pressed board of the desktop. The drawer popped open.
Warwick pulled the drawer the rest of the way open and handed the bent knife to MacGregor without looking at him. "Put this back, Eric," she commanded, "or consider yourself on report for disobeying the order of a superior."
MacGregor looked around sheepishly, then took the knife and shrugged over to the kitchen to the friendly jeers of his compatriots.
"Get back to work, you lot!" Willis tried to sound forceful, but his men just looked at each other and shook their heads before returning to their tasks of their own accord.
"Look here." Warwick's words pulled Willis' attention back from his disrespectful patrolmen. In the top drawer were several sheets of stationery, both thin blue airmail paper and standard-weight white, some envelopes and stamps, a journal, various ballpoint pens, and an old photograph. On top of the stack of standard stationery was a half-written letter. Warwick pulled the letter out to examine it as Willis picked up the photograph for a closer look.
"What does the letter say?" Willis inquired. He turned the photograph over, looking in vain for some identifying inscription.
"It's only half-finished," explained Warwick, her forehead creased in contemplation. "It's a rough draft by the looks of it. It says: 'Dear 'Mother''—the word 'mother' is in quotations—'Dear "Mother," While still pained by the vast distance which once separated us, my anguish has been alleviated in some small part by your wise decision to own up to your obligations of years past.'"
"Then the next paragraph starts, 'Unfortunately' but then the word 'unfortunately' has been crossed out, replaced with 'However, as you can well imagine, the cost of child support rises with each passing day and I am unable to extend my generous offer of previous letters. Although I understand this may present some hardship for you and your husband, it will pale, I dare say, in comparison to what might befall your
reputation and status should—"
"Should what?" Willis inquired, the photograph still clasped between thumb and forefinger.
"Well, she's crossed a bit out. Looks like she wrote, 'should I be forced to,' then crossed it out and wrote, 'should our family secret see daylight.' Then the rest of the letter is 'I therefore must require—" and then it stops and she's written, 'Cold Blood' seven times down the remainder of the page."
"Hmm," Willis said.
"Damn odd, that," Warwick said, only half to Willis.
"Sure is," Willis agreed immediately. Then, after a few moments, he asked, "What is?"
"Several things," Warwick replied. "First off, this Annette Graham girl was Canadian, right?"
"Sure." Willis' tone betrayed his ignorance.
Warwick looked at her colleague impatiently. "She was. She was studying at MacGill University in Montreal. But this letter is written on regular stationery, not the airmail sheets she also had. And the only stamps in the drawer are for domestic postage."
Willis looked in the drawer to confirm this observation.
"And the business about 'mother' in quotation marks. And she wrote 'you and your husband.'"
Willis craned his neck to look at the letter. "So what?"
"What do you call your mother's husband?"
Willis pursed his lips and looked to the ground, his chin supported by his fist. After a moment he looked up and replied, "'Dad.'"
"Mm-hmm," Warwick confirmed, then she picked up the journal.
"What's it say?" Willis asked.
"I'm not sure," Warwick had to admit. "It's all in French." Her two years of secondary school French enabled her to do no more than recognize the language. "But this is interesting."
"What then?" Willis tried to see into the journal.
Warwick held it over for him to see. "Every page she's written on has the initials 'S.F.' scrawled on it somewhere." She flipped ahead until the pages turned blank again. "Every one."
"Who's S.F.?" Willis asked.
Warwick shut her eyes to keep from rolling them. "Well, that's the question, isn't it?"
She thought for several moment, checking off possibilities. Then she stated more than asked, "That photograph—It's of two young women, taken probably twenty-five years ago?"
Willis looked down at the photograph in his hand. "Dead on!" he exclaimed. "But how—?"
Pointing at Willis in a friendly but forceful way, she instructed, "Confirm she was Canadian. Then call and get a copy of her birth certificate. Call the university or the Provincial vital records or the R.C.M.P. for all I care, but get it. Then bring it to me."
With that Sgt. Elizabeth Warwick walked out of the flat. Sgt. Willis looked after her in sincere admiration, and said more to himself than aloud, "Yes, ma'am."
* * *
The walk from the campus to the MacTary's store had been quite pleasant. The nice weather was holding out and Maggie had taken a route which allowed her to admire some more of the local architecture. She now found herself admiring the wooden sign above her. In the shape of an overly wide shield, it was painted a beautiful red tartan, with white, yellow and light blue lines threaded through it. Atop the tartan, white letters with gold trim boasted 'MacTary's Woolens—Est. 1897.' As Maggie grabbed onto the door handle she found herself looking squarely at the brass door knocker. It was a clan badge, a boar's head surrounded by a circular strap containing the words 'BE TRAIST.' The badge of the Clan Innes. She grinned at the familiar symbol and pulled the door open.
Upon entering the store, she was impressed by the combination of order and comfort she felt as she surveyed her surroundings. The three walls ahead of her were actually dark wood shelves stuffed floor to ceiling with bolts of fabric. Several tables in the center of the shop held piles of finished products: sweaters, coats, and, of course, kilts. To her right was the counter with its cash register and jars of last minute impulse buys such as miniature bagpiper dolls, tourist maps of Aberdeen, and clan badge refrigerator magnets. Behind the counter, carved out of the shelving, was a door covered by a red tartan curtain. On the front of the counter was a full sized shield, white with three blue stars. Again a symbol of the Clan Innes.
There were several customers in the store. A middle-aged woman with graying hair was thumbing through the sweaters on the table nearest the windows. A young couple was admiring pants folded in the back right corner. And in the back left corner stood Iain Grant, speaking earnestly with a couple who were probably in their late 50s. Judging by their brightly colored windbreakers, white tennis shoes, and the camera slung over the man's shoulder, Maggie guessed they were American tourists. Iain was holding a bolt of green and blue tartan.
"Now, ye say you've Campbell blood in ye?" Iain was speaking with a decidedly heavier accent than he had displayed that morning at breakfast.
"Well, my father's grandmother was named Agnes Campbell," the man replied in a flat, yet nasally voice.
Yup, they're American.
"Then she married Thomas Meckel," the man went on. "And their daughter, Alice Meckel, married my grandfather, Peter Wisniewski."
"Well, then, Mr. Wisniewski," the Scots brogue was getting thicker. "You've a claim tae clanship in th' Clan Campbell, one o' th' greatest an' most powerful clans in Scottish 'istory. Och, I could tell ye legend after legend of th' Clan Campbell. But, if I might say so, sir, it would be a shame fer a grandson of Scotland such as yerself to come all th' way back to th' motherland an' not claim yer bloodright tae wear th' tartan of your ancestors."
The man smiled. "Well..." he started. He was obviously interested, but also not completely ignorant of Iain's salesmanship.
"Oh, go on, Stan," his plump, dark-haired wife twanged out. "Everyone back in Libertyville would think it's so cute!"
Iain just smiled and raised an encouraging eyebrow.
"Well," Stan Wisniewski said as forcefully as he could muster, "we'll think about it." Then he added, "What time do you close?"
"Six o'clock, sir," Iain said, trilling the 'r' in 'sir' for all it was worth. "But we'll glad stay late tae take your measurements fer the kilt. An' the plaid as well, should ye so decide."
"Okay, thank you," and they turned to leave. As the couple passed Maggie on their way to the door she could hear them debating the novelty of an authentic Scottish kilt against the fashion impracticality inherent in kilt ownership. As they closed the door behind them, Iain crossed over to Maggie.
"The Clan Wisniewski?" she asked, arms crossed.
Iain laughed. "Aye, well, 'Devereaux' is hardly a sept of the Stuarts, now is it?"
Maggie narrowed her eyes at this barb. "My mother was a hundred percent Scottish."
"Aye?" Iain asked. "Was she clanned?"
"I think so. 'Ingram.' I think that's clanned. But I can also trace back along her mother to the Clan Innes," she pointed at the shield affixed to the counter.
"Aye, then?" Iain nodded approvingly. "Well, then you truly are come home. MacTary's a sept of Innes as well."
Maggie recalled the clan crest door knocker and considered the heraldic shield. "So I gathered." Then, returning the conversation to its original subject, she said, "But still, selling a kilt to that nice old man? You're quiet the salesman." Her voice gave no clue as to whether this was a compliment.
Iain appeared to take it as one just the same. "Och, no," he protested. "The kilts sell themselves. Either you've Scottish blood or you don't. If you do, why not get a kilt and plaid while you're here? They'll be back after lunch to order the kilt. If we're lucky, they might order a great plaid as well and maybe even a neck-tie."
Just then a large stack of seven or so bolts of fabric came walking through the curtain to Maggie's right. Behind it was Aunt Lucy.
"Let me help you there, Lucy," Iain offered, seeing her teeter her way toward a shelf in the back.
"Nonsense," Lucy shot back. "I've these. You help the customers." She then spotted Maggie from behind a bolt of Harris tweed. "Ah, there you are, lass. Just let
me put these away, and we'll be ready in a minute." With that she dropped the bolts on the floor and quickly stacked them onto a half-empty shelf. A moment later she had disappeared again behind the curtain.
"So Lucy works at the shop too, then?" Maggie inquired of Iain.
"Aye, they both own it and they both work it every day. Lucy'd taken the day off to spend with you, but when you decided to nose about the college, she came into work straight away."
As Maggie considered this, Iain made sure the remaining customers did not desire any immediate assistance. Then he returned his attention to Maggie.
"So, how'd you like the college?"
"Oh, it's wonderful," Maggie enthused. "Just what a Scottish college should feel like." Then, recalling her difficulties with the registrar, she added, "And I'm properly enrolled and all that. I'll be doing independent study, not regular class work."
"Independent study?" Iain cocked his head to one side.
"Yeah, I'm here on a fellowship grant. I'm basically working on one big project all year. So I do my own research and meet with one of the professors periodically to check my progress. I can sit in on classes if I think it'll help, but I don't have to."
"So you don't have any classes tomorrow then?"
"No," Maggie replied cautiously. She wondered where this was going.
"Well, then, I was thinking, if you'd like, I know of this really rather good restaurant down on Crown Street. Serves traditional Scottish fare, but a very nice atmosphere. Would you like to go tonight?"
"Tonight?" she repeated to buy herself a moment to think. Is he asking me out on a date? It couldn't be. He's just met me. He's just being nice to his employers' niece. That must be it. Besides I've already agreed to dinner with Ellen Walker. "Sorry. I can't. I've—Well, I've actually already got plans tonight."
Scottish Rite (Maggie Devereaux Book 1) Page 6
