“That Jason Graye bid on The Spruces. He drove up the price, then dropped out leaving Joe Ruskin as high bidder. Word is that Graye planned to tear down the hotel.” She held up a hand to forestall Liss’s protest. “I know. It’s a stretch, but Graye and defraud just seemed to go together. I’ll bet he uses substandard construction, too.” She sighed. “Do you think I’m trying too hard to find suspects?” She sounded discouraged.
“I don’t know. I do know that I hate being so suspicious of everyone all the time.”
But Liss was also relieved that Sherri hadn’t thought “Joe Morelli” might be Joe Ruskin. Sherri had assumed Mrs. Norris meant Jason Graye. She might even be right, but that didn’t mean Graye was a murderer. Did it?
“Pete said there had been some complaints about Graye,” Liss added in a thoughtful voice.
Sherri’s expression brightened. “That’s right. And it was Gracie Lomax I talked to last night. She works at one of the banks in Fallstown. She’s a solid source.”
Liss moved the looseleaf aside to serve brunch. They talked of other things while they ate. Not all the memories of the previous night’s gathering were bad ones. It wasn’t until they were clearing the table that she noticed a tiny bit of paper clinging to one of the rings of the blue binder. It looked as if someone had ripped out a page.
Dan? Or Pete or Sherri before Dan took the looseleaf home with him? Or someone else? Was this what her intruder had been looking for? And had he gone on to search Dan’s house after leaving here? Dan had mentioned leaving his front door unlocked.
Liss didn’t like any of those possibilities, but they forced her to reconsider why Mrs. Norris had been making her odd notes in the first place. “Everybody has secrets,” she murmured.
Sherri paused in the act of putting the maple syrup away to give Liss a curious look. “You already know mine. Feel free to share yours.”
Liss told her.
“In theory, both of those incidents should be in this looseleaf, with the names changed to protect the not-so-innocent.”
“I didn’t spot anything last time.”
“You only read a quarter of the entries.” Liss divided the pages in half and started reading. “It’s not in here,” she announced a short time later.
“Yours or mine?”
“Neither.”
“Nothing here either,” Sherri said after another few minutes. She sounded relieved. “Not on you. Not on me. And nothing I can connect to Dan or Pete or your family, unless Margaret is Agatha Christie’s Miss Marple and Ned is Miss Marple’s nephew.”
Liss glanced at the entry Sherri indicated. It suggested that the nephew had hatched a “nefarious plot” to augment his income. “Well, that could be Ned, I suppose, but it’s hardly a secret worth killing over.”
“He didn’t come to the memorial service.”
“No, he didn’t, but I doubt that means anything. It’s not as if he was close to Mrs. Norris. He told me the other day that he hadn’t been inside her house in years.”
She pondered another entry, this one involving an unlikely combination of fictional characters—Joan Hess’s Claire Malloy, an Arkansas bookseller, and Aaron Elkin’s “skeleton detective,” Gideon Oliver—and a plan to smuggle prescription drugs into the U.S. from Canada. “I wonder . . .”
“What?”
“Your father said there were some ‘shady characters’ hanging around the Emporium. Do you have any idea who he might have meant?” She ran water to wash the few dishes they’d used and Sherri automatically reached for a dishtowel.
“Not a clue. Dad’s not the most reliable witness when it comes to your aunt,” she added after a bit. “Maybe he just made that up.”
“Maybe. I certainly can’t see Aunt Margaret in league with smugglers.”
Sherri giggled. “Oh, I don’t know. She does import all kinds of things. Maybe there’s something hidden under the stitching at the top of the kilts. Diamonds? A small one would just about fit inside each pleat.”
“Naw. Got to be microchips.” The silliness relieved the tension and Liss was glad of it, but she couldn’t quite shake the feeling that they’d overlooked something important. “There’s a page missing from the looseleaf.”
Sherri sobered as Liss showed her the torn bit of paper. “Maybe someone does think Mrs. Norris was writing down local gossip.”
“You said Graye dropped out of the bidding on the hotel.” Liss let the soapy water drain away while Sherri hung her dishtowel over a rack to dry. “I wonder why?”
“You think Mrs. Norris put pressure on him to give up his plan for The Spruces, thus making sure Joe Ruskin got the winning bid?”
“Far-fetched, huh?”
“Very. Maybe she recorded gossip. But blackmail? Sorry, Liss. Doesn’t compute.”
“Well, then, maybe Jason Graye is one of your father’s ‘shady characters.’”
But Sherri shook her head. “Wishful thinking, Liss. It’s not that I don’t believe Graye’s shady, but Dad said ‘characters,’ right? More than one. And that missing page? Face facts—the logical person to have removed it is Dan Ruskin.”
Late Sunday afternoon, when Liss saw that Dan’s truck was back in his driveway, she headed across the town square. She’d been steeling herself to face him ever since Sherri left.
He was in the carriage house he’d converted into a workshop. The sight of all those woodworking tools took her aback. She’d had no idea he had such a professional setup at home. She supposed she shouldn’t be surprised. About some things, Dan Ruskin was a perfectionist.
“Hey, Liss,” he greeted her. “I was going to come over in a bit. I have to make a run to Portland tomorrow afternoon to pick up a special order coming in by air. I won’t be back here till late.”
“No problem.” She really did not want to suspect this man of hiding something. He was so open, so genuine. Or seemed to be. “Nice place you’ve got here.” She managed not to wince at how lame that sounded.
His pride in the pieces he’d created was evident in his tone of voice and in the expression on his face as he gave her a quick tour. He felt every bit as strongly about the fruits of his labor as she had about her performances with Strathspey. For a little while longer, Liss put off what she had to ask him and let her senses revel in the moment.
The workshop had its own special smell. She didn’t know what the components were, but the result appealed to her. She ran her fingertips over the satiny surface of a small clock, delighting in the feel of it and in the look of the wood. Dan had used more than one kind of tree in the construction. The inlaid pieces gave the whole a unique quality she found quite beautiful.
“Like it?” When she nodded, he pressed it back into her hands. “Take it. A gift.”
“I couldn’t—”
“Why not? Think of it as my version of flowers and candy.” When his brows lifted questioningly, Liss knew her expression had betrayed her. “What?”
“I have to ask you something.”
He caught her by the elbows, holding her so that they were facing each other with the clock between them. “Ask.”
But she couldn’t quite pose it as a question. “There’s a page missing from the looseleaf.”
Very slowly, he released her. “And you think I took it. Even though someone might have gotten into my unlocked house after searching your place.”
“I don’t know, Dan. Everybody has secrets. Maybe you found yours in those pages.”
“I didn’t.” Stepping back, he ran his hands over his face, as if trying to clear his thoughts.
“I’m sorry. I know I should automatically trust you, but—”
“No, you shouldn’t. You shouldn’t trust anybody when there’s a murderer running around loose. I did rip out a page.”
Liss blinked at him, at a loss. “Why?”
“It wasn’t my secret.” He picked up an awl and put it down again, finally turning to face her from a distance of some six feet. “Hell, I don’t know if it was anybody’s
secret. But it was too damn close for comfort to something my sister was involved in years ago. I didn’t want to take the chance of it getting out. Not now, when everything’s going so well for her. I know the cops have Mrs. Norris’s computer and that stack of printouts I saw. They might figure it out anyway, but—”
“But they won’t. I mean, they aren’t even trying. You know they aren’t looking into the blackmail angle anymore. The only reason LaVerdiere is still fixated on me is because of Mrs. Norris’s will.”
“The entries in the looseleaf could still refer to local people.”
“Some of them. Maybe. But not all. Not even most of them, which doesn’t make much sense.” Liss hated being this confused about anything.
“None of this makes any sense. And we have no way of knowing if there are more missing pages. I did leave the house unlocked. It was coming home and realizing someone could have gotten in that gave me the idea to remove that one page in the first place.”
Chapter Eighteen
On Monday morning, Liss awoke to the realization that she was running out of time. More than a week had passed since the murder and in a little less than two weeks her aunt would be home. Liss wanted this mess resolved before Aunt Margaret returned.
Unfortunately, she still didn’t have any clear idea how to proceed.
With the shop closed for the day, she took her time with her morning exercises and breakfast. This time the scones were almost edible. After she tossed them in the trash and made do with whole-wheat toast and cornflakes, she ventured out into the town square. Although it was a pleasant summer day, dry and not too hot, the playground was deserted. Liss put one foot on the merry-go-round and used the other to set it spinning.
Fond memories rushed back. When she was in grade school, all the kids in town had come here to play. The merry-go-round had served as the magic castle when they reenacted fairy tales. She glanced at Dan’s house, suddenly reminded that the favorite game among the boys had also involved the merry-go-round. They’d used it for puke competitions.
She made a face. They’d piled onto the merry-go-round, all except the designated spinner. He’d set it in motion, around and around, faster and faster, until everyone aboard was dizzy . . . and more. The “winner” was the one who didn’t puke. Charming game, and yet she could view even that with nostalgia now.
Children, she thought, didn’t appreciate childhood. She’d give anything to be young and carefree again. Aside from the family interest in things Scottish, she’d had a pretty normal rural childhood. Although she’d grown up with computers and video games, there had been plenty of times when she and the others had amused themselves with nothing more than imagination.
She let the merry-go-round slow to a stop and only then realized she was no longer alone on the playground. The girl had dark hair that hung in thick waves around a thin face. Her big brown eyes were solemn. “You’re Liss MacCrimmon,” she said in a voice so soft Liss had to strain to catch the words. “My mother says I can ask you.”
“Ask me what? And who is your mother?”
She found the answer to the second question for herself. Angie Hogencamp was watching from the doorway of her bookstore. Glancing from the woman to the child, Liss saw the unmistakable resemblance between them.
The girl scuffed one foot in the dirt, overwhelmed by shyness.
“I won’t bite.” Liss sat on the side of the merry-go-round, which put her at eye-level with the child. “What’s your name?”
“Beth.”
“Well, Beth, what can I do for you?”
The whispered reply took a moment to interpret. When Liss finally understood, she had no idea how to react. She cut her eyes to Angie and sent Beth’s mother a pleading look.
Beth grew bolder, an expression of longing on her small, pinched face. “Please? I really want to learn.” She held out a hand. “My mother said I could invite you to come for coffee so she can talk to you about it.”
The kid was getting downright chatty, but her smile faded when she realized Liss wasn’t exactly jumping for joy. “You want me to teach you to dance.” Liss’s voice was leaden.
“Yes, please.”
Liss sighed. “I’m not making any promises, but I will talk to your mother.”
A short time later, after Angie had sent Beth off to play in her room, the two women once more sat at the kitchen table in the apartment above the bookstore, just as they had almost exactly a week earlier. Liss hadn’t felt half as uncomfortable then.
“I’m sorry if she put you on the spot,” Angie apologized. “I should have approached you first myself, but Beth was so excited. We went to the Highland Games on Sunday and she watched the dance competition. She’s talked of nothing else since, and then someone at the memorial service told me that you used to compete. I pointed you out to Beth this morning. I said maybe you could give her a few pointers. Get her started. She jumped from that straight to lessons.”
“I’m not a teacher. I’m not even a dancer anymore.” To Liss’s surprise, it was less painful than she’d expected to explain why to Angie. And somehow she found herself talking about the first competition she’d entered and how much she’d loved learning new steps. Her mother had been her first teacher.
“If you could just get her started. Show her a simple dance—”
“I don’t have any experience with children.” She took a sip of the coffee in front of her and found it had grown cold while she’d talked. “I can’t even guess how old your Beth is.”
“Eight.”
“I won my first competition at eight.”
“Anything would mean a lot to her, even just talking about your experiences. I tried to find someone for her to take real lessons from on the Web, but there doesn’t seem to be a teacher closer than Boston.”
“I’ll probably be leaving as soon as my aunt comes back,” Liss warned her. She could feel herself weakening. So much for her determination never to teach!
“Well, who knows how much longer the Emporium will be around anyway? But any amount of time you’d be able to spare would be much appreciated. I can pay—”
“Wait a minute. What did you just say about the Emporium?”
“Oh, well, it’s just that I expect, now that Mrs. Norris is gone, her heirs will sell her place. Graye Realty made her an offer a couple of months ago, so I’m sure Jason Graye will be in touch with whoever inherits.”
Liss barely had time to take in the remarkable fact that Angie hadn’t heard that Liss herself was the heir before her hostess was speaking again.
“Stu at the ski shop has been talking about selling out to him, too, if he’ll just go a bit higher. And since the Emporium sits between those two properties, I’m sure Graye wants your aunt’s land, too.”
A tight lump formed in Liss’s chest. “The Emporium is also my aunt’s home.”
“Can’t stop progress,” Angie said cheerfully. “Especially when Jason Graye has the town planning board in his pocket. He’s a Moosetookalook selectman, you know. Besides, from what I hear, all the houses on that side of the town square are in terrible shape. They may look nice on the outside, but inside they’ve got mold and carpenter ants and who knows what all.”
By the time Liss left Angie’s kitchen a short time later, she’d agreed to give Beth dance lessons at the Emporium during the hours the shop was open.
She’d also learned considerably more about Jason Graye.
Sherri hesitated in the doorway of Willett’s Store. She hadn’t set foot in the place in almost three years, ever since her father, shocked by the news that she’d come home with a child but no husband, had informed her she was a disgrace and told her she should go back to whatever sewer she’d been living in.
So much for welcoming the prodigal home.
She hadn’t left. She’d run into Margaret Boyd at Patsy’s and ended up with the offer of a job and a temporary place to stay. Within a month, she’d landed full-time work as a dispatcher and corrections officer at the jail and, w
ith her mother’s help, bought a second-hand mobile home. They weren’t living in the lap of luxury, but they were getting by . . . without any help from her father.
So why was she here now? Because she owed Margaret Boyd a debt of gratitude and Margaret’s niece needed help. Swallowing a lump in her throat that was the size of Cleveland, she went the rest of the way into the store.
“What do you want?”
Sherri ignored the surly tone and ferocious scowl and studied his eyes. The haunted look she saw there floored her . . . and made her remember the affectionate father of her early childhood, before constant quarreling between her parents had turned their home into a battleground.
“I need your help,” she said.
“How much?”
“Not money. Answers.” She glanced around the store. No customers wandered the aisles. For the moment, at least, they had privacy.
“Liss MacCrimmon came and talked to you. You said there had been ‘shady characters’ hanging around the Emporium. Who did you mean?”
Someone pulled up to the gas pumps, but for once Ernie Willett ignored a customer. “That real estate fella. Graye. And the bimbo he hangs out with.”
Sherri let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. She’d been afraid her father would refuse to talk to her.
“Never did like that fella. Didn’t vote for him when he ran for selectman. He wants to buy the whole block of Pine between Ash and Birch and tear down the old houses.”
The impatient blare of a horn interrupted them. “Go,” Sherri said.
He hesitated. “You’ll still be here when I come back?”
“If you want.”
A curt nod conveyed his satisfaction with her answer. Sherri wiped her hands on the sides of her jeans, wishing she could relax. She didn’t know where she stood with her father, but she hoped she was about to find out.
Once again seated in Jason Graye’s office, Liss studied the Realtor with a new intensity. He was up to no good. Of that she was certain. What she couldn’t tell was just how big a villain he really was.
Kilt Dead Page 21
