Kilt Dead

by Kaitlyn Dunnett

  No, she was definitely not going to apologize, but she would offer an explanation, if only to forestall further complaints. “Fingerprint powder. Fabric. Not a good mix.”

  “Fingerprint—? Oh. Oh, dear, that’s most distressing.”

  “Why? Did you and Mr. Graye leave prints when you stopped by?”

  The raised watering can bobbled. For a moment Liss thought Barbara might drop it, but she recovered. When she spoke, her voice was bland and unconcerned. “What makes you think we were there?”

  “The neighbors saw a couple peering through the front windows. I assumed it was you two.”

  “Oh. Oh, yes. We did take a peek. The store was locked up tight, of course. We were just curious, and it was on the way home.” Abandoning her watering, she crossed to the desk and pushed the button on the intercom. “I’ll just tell Mr. Graye you’re here, shall I?”

  “Wait. Did you see anyone else around the shop? Anyone who looked out of place?”

  “How on earth would I know who was out of place and who wasn’t?”

  She had a point.

  Five minutes later, Liss was seated in the inner office. She’d refused an offer of refreshments.

  “Well, Ms. MacCrimmon, what can I do for you?” Graye was all charm this morning. Amazing what the scent of a commission could do for someone’s personality. His attentive, encouraging expression did not alter once in the time it took Liss to explain about her unexpected inheritance and her supposed interest in selling Mrs. Norris’s house.

  “I don’t want to put it on the market quite yet,” she added. “I mean, the poor woman hasn’t even had her memorial service yet. But as soon as all the paperwork’s done and it’s decent to put a for-sale sign up . . .”

  “You’re wise to plan ahead. I know the house, of course. Lovely old Victorian. I’d have to take another look. Make sure it’s structurally sound and in good repair. I can stop by this evening.”

  “Better wait a few days.” Liss didn’t want him tramping around in Mrs. Norris’s house at all, but she smiled encouragingly. “Anything before the memorial service and people will talk.”

  “As you wish.” His smile was as phony as hers. “Next week, then?” He thumbed through an appointment book as if looking for a blank slot.

  “Will you be attending the service? It’s scheduled for Saturday morning.”

  “I think not. I never met her, you see. Terrible loss, of course.” He oozed counterfeit sympathy and waited only a beat before shifting the conversation back to business. “Now, then. Are you also thinking of selling the contents of the house? I can recommend an excellent firm that does estate auctions.”

  “I hadn’t thought about it,” Liss admitted. The idea of getting rid of Mrs. Norris’s things left her feeling vaguely unsettled, but what else could she do with them? All those books! She’d have to buy another house just to keep the library.

  Or stay in the one she already owned.

  Keeping a smile in place took effort but Liss managed it. She reminded herself that she’d had a reason for coming here and it hadn’t been to sell Mrs. Norris’s house. “I’m afraid I’m still reeling from what happened Saturday,” she confided, leaning forward to rest her elbows on the edge of his desk. She looked up into his eyes. “If only I’d done as you asked and gone back to the shop for that fabric. I might have been able to prevent what happened.”

  He seemed startled by her comment but reached across the desk to pat the back of her hand. “Now, you mustn’t think that way. No point in blaming yourself.”

  Liss cringed inwardly at the contact but didn’t let her reaction show. “I suppose you’re right. And the police think she was probably killed later in the afternoon. Shortly after you were there.”

  “I beg your pardon?” He withdrew his touch with a jerk. His face closed and his shoulders went stiff.

  “You were there, weren’t you? One of the neighbors said—”

  “Yes. Yes, certainly. We, uh, stopped by to look at the window display. Didn’t go in, of course. The shop was closed.”

  Had she succeeded in rattling him? It was hard to tell, and even harder to decide if he’d been momentarily thrown off stride because he’d killed Mrs. Norris or because he’d suddenly realized that he might have been standing outside the Emporium while murder was being done inside. Most likely the latter. She couldn’t think of any reason why he’d have wanted Mrs. Norris dead. He hadn’t even known her.

  “It’s so frustrating that the police can’t discover anything about the crime,” Liss said, keeping a close watch on his expression. “Did you happen to notice anything out of the ordinary while you were there?”

  Graye considered for a moment, his face unrevealing. “Might have seen some dry rot in your aunt’s porch.”

  Dry rot? He was thinking about dry rot when a woman had been murdered? The man’s utter callousness pushed all of Liss’s hot-buttons. Consumed by an overwhelming need to force him to think of Mrs. Norris as more than the former owner of a house he might put on the market, she blurted out the first thing that came into her head.

  “She had secrets, you know.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Mrs. Norris. She had secrets. That being said, there are a few special items in her effects that I want to . . . sell separately.”

  “Oh?” He paused, pencil over yellow pad, waiting expectantly.

  “Mrs. Norris collected . . . information.” Liss hesitated. Graye’s expression showed mild curiosity but not the slightest flicker of concern. “Uh—local history. She was working on a history of Moosetookalook and had a looseleaf full of details she’d accumulated. It would only be of value to someone who was in it. Or whose family was. If you see what I mean.”

  He didn’t have a clue what she was talking about—for that matter, neither did she—but Liss could tell he thought there might be money in it for him. She wondered if he was a partner in that auction house he’d mentioned. At the least, she expected he got a kickback on any business he sent their way.

  “I’m sure I can find a buyer for anything you choose to sell.” Graye produced two business cards from a drawer. One was his own, the other the auctioneer’s. “We’ll talk further when I come to take a look at the house.”

  Dan removed yet another window from the second floor of The Spruces and looked through the opening to see Liss’s car pull into the parking lot. “Taking a break,” he called to Sam.

  He’d been thinking about Liss ever since they parted company the previous night—when he hadn’t been obsessing about the contents of Mrs. Norris’s looseleaf. After he’d dropped Lumpkin off with Liss, he’d taken it home with him to read all the way through. Maybe the cops had decided it wasn’t important, but he was no longer so sure. Most of it had been incomprehensible, but there was that one passage . . . .

  How had Mrs. Norris found out? And what had she planned to do with the information? He still couldn’t picture her as a blackmailer, but if that wasn’t the answer, why had she written what she had? Only a small portion of the entries seemed to refer to anything truly scandalous, and even fewer to anything potentially illegal. Some of them were benign in the extreme. But she’d kept that looseleaf for a reason. And she’d known. Somehow, she’d known.

  Dan made it to the lobby just as Liss pushed through the main door and stopped to gape in astonishment at the interior.

  “Wow!”

  Her admiration momentarily banished darker thoughts. Dan was justifiably proud of his father’s accomplishment. “Like it? We started the restoration in this area and used the results to get publicity for the project. Helps investors visualize how it will be.”

  “It’s . . . it’s incredible. I remember how it looked when we were kids, but this is so much more grand.”

  The check-in desk gleamed in the early morning sun, its rich woods polished to a high gloss. Dan ran a hand over the surface, proud of the job he’d done. He’d also restored the wall behind it, with its old-fashioned cubbyholes for gue
sts’ keys and messages.

  Taking Liss’s arm, he led her deeper into the lobby. The Ruskins had left the beautiful wood floors intact, although they planned to put down large, plush rugs in the seating areas. Pillars created small pockets of privacy. A huge fireplace no longer provided the only heat, but it looked very fine with its Victorian mantel and the mirror above. The ceiling, a carved wonder of animals and flowers, had been painstakingly cleaned and painted, returned to its former glory with hours of hard work.

  “See that trim? I painted that, inch by picky inch.” And he’d loved every minute of it.

  The sound of a crowbar ripping into wood struck a discordant note. Then Liss turned to face him and he noticed the troubled look on her face.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Aunt Margaret phoned this morning. Ned never called her. I had to tell her about Amanda Norris’s murder.” Speaking rapidly, as if she wanted to get this over with, she summarized their trans-Atlantic conversation.

  “You aren’t going to go all weepy on me, are you?”

  She managed a laugh. “No. I’d rather punch someone. Preferably my good-for-nothing cousin. But he wasn’t home.”

  “So you came here instead?” He meant it as a joke, but she wasn’t laughing.

  “Dan, I checked the contents of the safe. I looked through my aunt’s papers. I wasn’t snooping, but . . . things look bad. She’s nearly broke. If this hotel doesn’t pay off, she could lose the Emporium.”

  Dan stared into the empty, tile-lined hearth, avoiding Liss’s eyes. He couldn’t brush off her concerns the way he had Ned’s. “We’re all in the same boat,” he said at last. “If we go down—”

  “You go down together?” Temper simmered beneath the question.

  He shook his head. “We’ll help each other stay afloat.”

  “Why don’t I find that reassuring?”

  A wolf whistle echoed across the lobby, cutting short their exchange. Sam Ruskin sauntered over, a big grin on his face. “Liss MacCrimmon, as I live and breathe. Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes.”

  “Hello, Sam. It’s good to see you again.”

  “So, did my little brother ask you the burning question yet?”

  Dan’s head snapped around and he stared at his brother. What the—?

  Sam sniggered. “We’ve been trying to decide what color that car of yours is.”

  Dan breathed again. Liss actually smiled.

  “The manual calls it ‘light almond.’”

  Sam shook his head. “Where do they come up with these names? House paint’s going the same way. All ‘big country blue’ and ‘festive orange’ and, my personal favorite, ‘funky fruit.’”

  “He’s been decorating his kid’s toy box,” Dan whispered in an aside.

  That was Sam’s cue to haul out pictures. When Liss had duly admired little Samantha in a dozen different poses, Sam switched to bragging about his other pride and joy, The Spruces.

  “The roof’s done. We’ve removed nearly thirty miles of old piping and replaced it with all new state-of-the-art plumbing. Ditto on the electrical and heating/cooling systems. Now we’re working on the cedar siding. I don’t even want to think how many miles of that needs to be restored, but I do know how many windows have to be taken out, sanded, painted, and reglazed: seven hundred and twenty-seven.”

  “So the renovation is going well?”

  “The renovation is going great.”

  “Don’t get him started on the wallpaper,” Dan warned, sotto voce. They’d discovered eight layers of the stuff, all of which had to be removed from every bedroom.

  “Everything will look as great as this lobby does when we’re through,” Sam predicted.

  “And when will that be?” Liss asked.

  The light in Sam’s eyes dimmed. “Hard to say. Dad’s still taking on other jobs, but we spend at least a couple of days a week here. After the roof, the first thing we did was reconfigure the guest rooms. There aren’t as many now, only a hundred and forty, but the new ones are more spacious and comfortable and every one has a spectacular view.”

  “It’s an expensive project.” Liss’s cautious tone should have been a warning to Sam, but he was a natural-born optimist.

  “Well, yeah, but you can’t scrimp and expect results.”

  “My aunt put a good deal of money into The Spruces.” Solemn, reproachful green-blue eyes shifted from Sam to Dan.

  “No one twisted her arm to invest,” Dan said carefully.

  “I know that, but—”

  Belatedly catching on, Sam barreled forward. “We can’t tell you the hotel is a sure thing, Liss, but your aunt knew that going in. She believes in what we’re trying to do here.”

  “We cut costs by doing the work ourselves,” Dan reminded her.

  Liss didn’t seem to find that reassuring.

  “When we open, rooms will go for $250 to $300 a night.”

  “I can do the math as well as you can, Sam. It will take a long, long time for The Spruces to start paying off for investors.”

  “What can I say? Our dad and your aunt think the risk is worthwhile. Margaret Boyd isn’t the only one out on a limb. Dad went into hock up to his eyeballs to finance his dream.”

  Liss drew in a deep breath. “Okay. Okay, I get that. And . . . it is beautiful.” She let her gaze rove over the luxurious lobby again. “But I can’t help but worry about what might happen to Aunt Margaret.”

  “Money aside,” Dan said quietly, “this place is part of our heritage. We’re committed to preserving it.”

  Liss spent the evening brooding. It had been a mistake to visit the construction site. Nostalgia . . . or something . . . had gotten to her. She’d come within a heartbeat of offering to put a chunk of Mrs. Norris’s estate into the hotel project.

  Temporary insanity—there was no other explanation. The place . . . or the man . . . had cast a spell on her.

  She certainly hadn’t dropped in on Dan with investment in mind. When she’d seen the state her aunt’s finances were in, she’d been appalled. She’d started thinking about them again on the way back from Fallstown, prompting her to stop first at Ned’s apartment and then at the construction site. Assuming she got Mrs. Norris’s money—that she wasn’t arrested for murder and barred from collecting her inheritance—the Emporium had priority. If she put any money into Moosetookalook’s economy, it should be in her aunt’s shop.

  Liss went to bed late, exhausted, but her sleep was restless. The slightest sound woke her. A dog barking. A car with a faulty muffler. And the third time, an odd thunk, as if someone had bumped against a piece of furniture.

  Groggy, Liss lay in the darkness staring at the ceiling. Straining to hear, she didn’t move a muscle. At first her own quiet breathing, a little fast from being jolted awake, was the only sound in the stillness. Then she heard it—a soft footfall, then another. Someone was in the apartment.

  A quick glance at the clock on the bedside table told her it was 3:35 in the morning. She kept a small travel flashlight on the nightstand, too, and closed her hand around it as she slid out of bed. There was no extension in the guest room but her cell phone was in her purse. Liss tried to remember where she’d left it and realized with a silent groan that it was in the living room next to the sofa. Damn!

  Moving to the door, she put her ear against the wood and listened hard. She thought at first that she must have been mistaken, that she’d imagined the earlier sounds. Nothing seemed to be stirring beyond the barrier. She felt for the knob and slowly turned it, praying the door hinges wouldn’t squeak. Inch by inch, perfectly silent, the portal swung inward and Liss peered out through the opening.

  At first she could see nothing but a few pale streaks of light from the streetlight. They slitted through the edges of the living-room drapes. Then she saw it, off to her right, the illumination from the screen on her laptop.

  Only she distinctly remembered closing it before she went to bed.

  Was someone still there? With as much
stealth as she could manage, she started to move toward the kitchen then stopped. Cliché much? “Our intrepid heroine, clad in filmy nighty, walks straight into the villain’s clutches.”

  No, thank you!

  She prudently retreated, stopping only to feel around for her shoulder bag. She still had the small flashlight in her hand but she didn’t dare use it. Her bag was not on the floor next to the sofa where she’d left it. It was on the sofa, and open. Someone, whoever was in the apartment, had rifled through it.

  Liss didn’t need the soft curse from the kitchen to spur her on. Grabbing the bag, she fled with it back to her room, locking the door behind her. A moment later, she had her cell phone out and had hit the speed-dial number she’d programmed into it only a few days earlier.

  Dan picked up on the third ring. “Wha—? Hello? Who is this?”

  “Dan, wake up. There’s someone in my aunt’s apartment.” She sank down on the end of the bed, her legs too shaky to hold her any longer.

  “You sure it’s not just Lumpkin?”

  He still sounded only half awake. Liss hoped he wasn’t going to need two cups of coffee before he’d be coherent.

  “Liss?” She heard a creak and a curse on his end and hoped that meant he’d gotten out of bed.

  “I don’t know where Lumpkin is, but I’m fairly certain he doesn’t have the dexterity needed to search my purse. There’s someone out there, and by now I’m pretty sure he’s figured out that I’ve locked myself in my room because I know it.”

  “Stay put and call 911,” Dan ordered, and broke the connection.

  Liss had just finished talking to the emergency dispatcher when she heard an unearthly howl from the direction of the kitchen.

  “Lumpkin!” Springing to her feet, Liss dropped the phone and unlocked the door.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Across the town square, Dan pulled on the jeans he’d left on the floor by the bed. He didn’t bother with shoes or a shirt. He stopped only long enough to collect the heavy-duty flashlight he kept handy for power outages and was in such a rush that he left the door of his own house unlocked. Eyes glued to the windows above the Emporium, he sprinted across the green. There were no lights showing. He wasn’t sure if that was a good sign or a bad one.