Kilt at the Highland Games (13 page)

“But I am. He was a sleaze. I know that. But—”

“Sometimes it doesn't take much.”

They sat in silence for a few minutes, sipping coffee and staring out into the night.

“The state police will handle the homicide,” she said after a while. “The fire marshal takes the lead on the arson. The vandalism was probably kids, which means one of them will brag about it eventually and we'll round them up. That leaves it to me to figure out where Angie is.”

“Any ideas?” Pete asked. “PLS is the bookstore two days before the fire, right?”

PLS—point last seen. Sherri sighed. “Right.” Another acronym summed up the area still to be searched: ROW—rest of world.

“No luck tracing her under another name?”

“Not so far. You know what really bugs me? With all the friends Angie made during the last twelve years, not one of them has come up with a single helpful suggestion.”

“Do you think someone knows more than she's saying?”

“Someone must. Someone left that anniversary card at Liss and Dan's.”

“Angie herself?”

“Doubtful. But if she gave it to a friend to deliver, that suggests she meant to disappear. Planned ahead. But why? And where is she now?”

“What about Beth's friends? Any luck there?”

“None, and I've talked to at least a dozen of them. And Bradley's teacher gave me the names of his best buddies. Nothing. Nada. Zip.” She took another sip of the coffee, brooding. “I wonder if Boxer knows more than he's saying.”

Pete was shaking his head even before she finished asking the question. “That kid is really broken up over this whole mess. If he had any idea where they are, he'd have headed there like a shot.”

“Maybe. Maybe not. Don't forget, I took off when I was around Beth's age. No one bothered to look for me.”

Pete shifted in his seat. “Are you kidding? Your dad was frantic. When there was a report that you'd been seen in New York City, he went down there to look for you. He searched for over a week before your mother finally persuaded him to give up and come home.”

Stunned, Sherri stared at him. The hand holding the go-cup started shaking so hard that she had to put it down in the cup holder. “I . . . I never knew. I figured they didn't care. After the things I said before I left, I wouldn't have blamed them if they'd written me off.”

“Not that easy to do.”

It wasn't until Pete reached across to wipe moisture off her cheek that she realized she'd been crying. God! She was a mess over this!

Get a grip,
she ordered herself.

She fumbled for a tissue, blew her nose, and took another long swallow of the coffee. Feeling more in control, she forced her thoughts away from her own checkered past to focus on the present.

“It's stupid to compare myself to Beth. We're apples and oranges. Beth is with her mother and brother. If she wants to contact Boxer, what is there to stop her?”

“That's the real question, isn't it? What's to stop any of them from letting their friends know they're okay?”

* * *

On Saturday morning, Liss had consumed three cups of coffee before she remembered that this wasn't just the first full day of the Western Maine Highland Games. It was also her sixth wedding anniversary.

Seeing Dan walk into the kitchen carrying a humongous, heart-shaped box of chocolates was her first clue.

“I know,” he said when she started to laugh. “It's hokey. But I have it on good authority that the sixth anniversary is supposed to be celebrated with candy.”

“Or with wood.” Suddenly the dull headache she'd had when she woke up was gone.

Liss ducked into the combination pantry and laundry room and came back with a small box topped with a big red bow. “Mine's not at all romantic, but I wanted to give you something I was sure you'd like.”

Grinning like a little kid at Christmas, Dan ripped open his present. He gave a whoop and pumped one hand in the air when he saw what was written on the slip of paper inside.

After listening to her husband grumble for the last few months about how the orbital sander in his woodworking shop kept breaking down and needed to be replaced, Liss hadn't had any trouble deciding what to give him for their anniversary. “You'll have to pick it out for yourself,” she told him. “I'm not qualified to select specialty woodworking tools.”

“Well, now I feel like a cheapskate,” Dan said when he'd given her a thank-you kiss. “This will cost a lot more than a lousy box of chocolates.”

“Don't worry about it.” She was already biting into a chocolate-covered cherry. Who cared if it was eight o'clock in the morning? “It's the thought that counts, and it
is
the candy anniversary.”

“And wood, you said.” He brightened. “Just to clear my conscience, pick an item of furniture you'd like to have and I'll make it for you.”

“Deal,” Liss said with a laugh. “I want a new dresser for the bedroom. One with big, deep drawers. Those little narrow ones on the one we've been using drive me crazy. Put away two folded T-shirts and they barely close.”

“You got it,” Dan promised, and sealed the agreement with another kiss.

One thing led to another, with the result that Liss was almost late setting out for The Spruces. She was feeling much more chipper as she drove the short distance to the hotel.

Chapter Eleven

M
argaret was hard at work at her desk when Liss entered her office at The Spruces, but she at once dropped what she was doing. “Coffee? Or would you prefer tea?” She rose and headed for the side table that contained the fixings for both.

“No time, but thanks. I'm just here to collect that box you were keeping for me.” It contained the most valuable of the small, easily portable items she offered for sale.

Since Liss's “booth” at the Highland Games was in fact a tent, she had rolled down the sides and tied the sections together after setting up the previous day. The whole structure was anchored to the ground, and the treated canvas did a good job of keeping out the elements, but it didn't offer much protection against a thief with a sharp knife. Although there was a guard patrolling the grounds at night, he couldn't be everywhere at once.

Liss's plan was to grab her box and run, but Margaret was too fast for her. “Nonsense. You can't go off to work without fortification. I have scones.”

“Margaret, really, I—”

“And I expect a nice cup of chamomile tea would be just the thing to go with them. It's only natural you'd be frazzled after everything you went through last night.”

“I'm fine,” Liss insisted. “And I'm already awash with coffee. I don't need anything else to drink.”

Margaret turned away from the side table, a worried expression on her face. “Are you going to be able to manage all right?'”

“Trips to the port-a-potty? I'm pretty sure someone will cover for me if I need to go.”

Margaret gave a ladylike snort. “That's not what I meant, and you know it.”

Liss hefted her box. “I'm a little short on sleep, but I'll manage. And I have a lovely big box of chocolate to tide me over if I'm feeling hungry.”

For a moment, before chagrin replaced that expression, Margaret looked puzzled. “It's your anniversary, isn't it? Sixth is candy? How . . . sweet.”

Liss made a face at her. “Thanks for thinking of the scones.” They were a particular weakness of hers. “But I've been fed and watered, and if I don't get going I won't be ready by the time the first customers show up. I'll talk to you later, okay?”

“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 own 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.