Kilt Dead (4 page)

Coffee, cereal, and toast awaited Liss in the kitchen,
but she barely had time to finish eating before Aunt Margaret, watching out the window, announced that Sherri
had arrived and whisked Liss off to the stockroom. It had
been the kitchen when the building was a single-family
home. Now it was lined with floor-to-ceiling shelving and
crowded with boxes and bins.

“Still making kilts?” Liss asked, nodding toward the
bolts of fabric stacked on several shelves.

“Every once in a while. The profit margin is good”
Years before, Margaret had tried to teach her niece the basics of kiltmaking, but Liss had lacked the patience to do
complicated, exacting needlework.

“Hello, Liss.” Sherri Willett, a petite blonde, had already begun carrying boxes out to the truck she’d backed
up to the side entrance that led directly into the stockroom. The merchandise going to the fairgrounds was
stacked beside that door, all neatly labeled.

Liss grabbed a carton and followed suit. She wasn’t
sure what to say to Sherri after the first greeting. Once
she’d envied her, for her size if nothing else. Liss had
spent her teenage years being the tallest girl in their high
school. Not that she was a giant. But the other girls-and
most of the boys, too-had been shorter than her five foot
nine.

“Are you going to reunion?” Sherri asked.

Liss vaguely remembered sending a card back months
ago to say she couldn’t come. She’d expected to be on
tour. With a sinking feeling, she asked when it was being
held.

“Next weekend”

“I’m just not sure I want to … to-“

“Face the inquisition?” Sherri finished for her.

Liss winced. The truth was, if she could have attended
her tenth high school reunion as a successful professional
dancer, she’d have gone in a minute. Her present circum stances made her reluctant. What if her former classmates saw her return to Moosetookalook as slinking back
home, tail between her legs -a failure, washed-up, a hasbeen?

“If you’re worried about intrusive questions, don’t be.
Just tell them you’re `resting.’ Isn’t that what people in
show business call it when they’re between gigs?”

Liss couldn’t help but laugh. “I don’t know why I care
what anyone thinks. I never used to”

From an early age, Liss had been totally involved in
the peculiar hobbies her family encouraged. She’d taken
lessons on the bagpipe instead of the piano. She’d learned
the Highland Fling rather than ballet. And in lieu of participating in field hockey or basketball or softball or trying out for cheerleading, she’d entered Scottish dance
competitions.

“Maybe I will go,” she said. “It might be fun to find
out what everyone is up to these days” With what she hoped
seemed only casual interest, she asked, “So, who did Dan
Ruskin marry?”

“Dan?” A note of astonishment came into Sherri’s
voice. “Unless he’s eloped in the last twenty-four hours,
he’s still single.”

“Really? What’s he want with a house, then?”

“No idea. Maybe he’s fixing it up to sell.”

“Whatever happened to that girl he used to date?”

“Karen? Believe it or not she’s an executive with a
software company. She’s also been married and divorced.
Two kids.”

Liss was still trying to imagine Dan as a homeowner
and Karen as a mother when Ned arrived, bleary-eyed
and grumbling. He didn’t offer to load boxes. When he’d
gone upstairs after his mother’s luggage, Liss and Sherri
exchanged a look.

“Same old Ned,” Liss said. “Such a sweetheart. Does
he do anything to help out around here?”

“Oh, sure” Sherri’s truck was full, so they began stacking merchandise in the back of Liss’s car. “About six months
ago, he made an all-out effort to convince your aunt to
sell items with higher mark-ups so she’d make bigger
profits. He ordered these. Suggested retail price is twelve
dollars plus tax”

She opened one of the boxes they’d just carried out.
Inside were refrigerator magnets with a bagpipe and thistle design. When Liss pushed on the spot marked “press to
play,” the first few bars of “Scotland the Brave” sounded
in a tinny imitation of a bagpipe.

“This is just … tacky.”

Sherri shrugged. “Your aunt is betting that a good
many of the folks at the games will think it’s a perfect
memento of the day. She’s knocked the price down to five
bucks apiece in the hope we can get rid of them”

“Sounds like a plan to me”

They’d just loaded the last of the stock earmarked for
the Highland Games when Aunt Margaret emerged, purse
and passport in one hand and cash box in the other. “Here
you go, Liss. Keys to the house are inside, along with
plenty of change. Sherri’s name is on the bank accounts
so she can pay any bills that come in.”

“I hate to see you leave so soon,” Liss whispered as
they embraced. “We’ve barely had time to catch up “”
Dozens of unanswered questions remained, not the least
of them concerning her aunt’s surprising involvement in
the renovation of “the castle.”

“You take Amanda Norris up on that offer of a piece of
apple pie and gossip,” Aunt Margaret urged, nodding toward the house next door. A flutter of movement at the
bay window indicated the retired teacher was awake and
keeping an eye on them.

Aunt Margaret was on her way moments later. Liss
watched Ned’s car until it turned the corner, then took a moment to appreciate the beauty of the day before going
inside to shower.

She hadn’t really had the chance to study her surroundings the previous afternoon. Early morning light
gave all the old houses around the square a mellow look.
Directly across from her aunt’s store, one large brick edifice stood out in a sea of white clapboard: the municipal
building. It housed the town office, the police station, the
firehouse, and the public library. As for the town square
itself, picturesque didn’t begin to describe it. It contained
everything people expected of a rural New England town
gazebo-style bandstand, monument to the Civil War dead,
flagpole, even a playground with a jungle gym, a slide, a
small merry-go-round, and swings big enough for adults.

When she had time, Liss promised herself, she’d take a
stroll through the old neighborhood, but right now she
had to get a move on. The Highland Games were scheduled to open in less than two hours.

“Look quick!” Sherri shoved a pair of binoculars into
Liss’s hands and pointed toward the athletic field.

Liss managed to adjust the focus in time to see Pete
Campbell throw the clachneart the Scottish version of
the Olympic shot put.

Most people would have kept their eyes on the twentyeight-pound granite stone Pete held at shoulder height,
wondering if it would break the local record of thirty-five
feet. Forewarned by the laughter in Sherri’s voice, Liss
watched Pete’s kilt. He spun three times in a circle. Each
rotation sent the fabric billowing higher. The final revolution, just before he let go of the stone, lifted the hem
above his thighs.

A traditional Scot wasn’t supposed to wear anything at
all beneath the kilt, but this was an American version of
the Highland Games and Pete Campbell, though he’d passed on the more usual cut-offs and bicycle shorts, wasn’t about
to risk arrest for indecent exposure. Swim trunks patterned
in fluorescent purple and chartreuse flowers winked at
spectators for a split second before the concealing folds
of the Campbell tartan settled back to knee level.

“Oh, God!” Sherri had watched through a second pair
of binoculars. “Did you see that?” Her cheeks were bright
pink. “He said he’d wear them but I didn’t think he would.”

Grinning as much over Sherri’s delight as at Pete’s unconventional choice of attire for the Stone of Strength
competition, Liss waited on the next customer. “That will
be ten dollars and sixty cents,” she told a middle-aged
brunette wearing a MacDougall tartan sash over jeans and
a camp shirt.

While the woman searched her pockets for exact change,
Liss shoved a damp lock of hair out of her face, tucking it
behind her ear. For the most part she’d been able to ignore
the heat and humidity. The hot, sticky weather wasn’t exactly a surprise, not in late July, but Liss did wish she
wasn’t dressed in an ankle-length wool skirt and a longsleeved blouse.

Suck it up and keep smiling, she told herself. It was
part of the job to be a walking advertisement for the
store’s line of Scottish women’s wear. At least the smiles
came easily. They’d had a steady stream of paying customers ever since the gates opened.

Liss wrapped her customer’s purchase, a ceramic mug
decorated with a thistle, the symbol of Scotland, in tissue
paper, sliding both it and the receipt into one of the small
red bags Aunt Margaret special-ordered with “Moosetookalook Scottish Emporium” emblazoned on both sides. She
watched the woman trot off, package in hand, toward the
clan tents, and felt a sense of satisfaction. Business was
brisk. Aunt Margaret would be pleased.

Both Liss and Sherri were busy for the next half hour.
Sherri was still ringing up sales when Liss finally man aged a short break. She used it to take in the sounds and
smells and sights peculiar to Scottish festivals.

A very welcome breeze carried a snatch of song in a clear
soprano voice above the general hubbub of the crowd.
According to the program, a series of performers were
scheduled throughout the day.

The same stirring of fresh air also brought a variety of
smells wafting Liss’s way, including one that made her
stomach growl. Nothing in the world smelled better than
freshly baked scones. They’d always been a weakness of
hers.

The area around the Moosetookalook Scottish Emporium booth was a virtual forest of tents and awnings.
Along one side were vendors of goods and food. Clans
and societies, together with registration centers for various events, dominated the other. Liss had a good, if distant, view of the athletic field used for sports competitions
and the parade field where everything from the performance by the massed bands to the sheepdog trials took
place.

Along with the chatter, laughter, and occasional cheers
of the crowds, bagpipes skirled. Now and again Liss picked
out a few stray notes of a reel or strathspey being played
by the lone piper assigned to accompany the dancers. She
was too far away to see the stage set up for that competition and thought that was probably just as well. Watching
young girls do what she no longer could would be difficult.

Distance didn’t help, however, when she recognized
the current tune as “The Battle of the Somme” She’d
danced to it on dozens of stages just like the one at the
other end of the fairgrounds. A flash of memory assaulted
her with painful clarity. She was nine years old and wearing Arisaidh dress, an outfit that had evolved as a sort of
national costume for female dancers after the organizers of the Aboyne Highland Games in Scotland refused to
allow women to wear the kilt. Liss’s version of Arisaidh
dress consisted of a gathered skirt and a green velvet
jacket that laced up the front. A plaid in MacCrimmon
colors was attached to the waistband at the back and
came up and over her right shoulder to fasten to the jacket
with a brooch that displayed her clan crest. She moved
gracefully and energetically with the music, feeling no
pain, easily beating out the competition in the Scottish
lilt.

“Liss?”

Sherri’s voice brought Liss back to the present with a
jolt. Feeling as if someone had just doused her with cold
water, she shivered and had to take a moment to reorient
herself.

“Do you need to sit?” Sherri’s worried gaze fixed on
Liss’s hip-shot stance.

Liss straightened abruptly. She was not supposed to
favor her left leg. Shifting position and gears, she forced
a smile. “I’m fine.”

She was, too. Keeping busy was the best cure for any
ailment and the morning’s flood of customers had resumed. Liss sold a cashmere scarf while Sherri rang up a
pewter figurine of a bagpiper and two kilt pins.

“I want that,” said a young man in shorts and a t-shirt
decorated with a Scottish lion. He pointed to a small dagger, silver mounted and hand carved, in its own leather
sheath.

“Do you know the traditions associated with the sgian
dubh?” Liss asked as she wrapped the knife. “Sgian dubh
translates as `black dagger’ and in the old days warriors
believed it should never be drawn and returned to its
scabbard without spilling blood. Later, when the English
passed laws prohibiting Scots from carrying weapons, they
exempted the sgian dubh from the ban. Their reasoning was that one of these little knives was only big enough for
a Scot to slit his own throat with, and that was a good
thing.”

“TMI, lady,” the young man said. “I’m buying it to use
as a letter opener.”

“Too much information,” Liss murmured when he was
gone. Granted, not everyone found Scots trivia as fascinating as she did, but why would someone attend a Scottish festival if he didn’t have any interest in Scotland’s
history and traditions?

“Only his opinion,” Sherri said. “Don’t let him get you
down”

“No, he’s probably right. I do go on. Do me a favor? If
I start to babble again, smack me”

“I think you should babble all you like. You really
know this stuff cold.”

“That doesn’t mean other people want to hear it.”

“Hey, when you’re passionate about something, you
have to share, right?”

A new customer arrived and began flipping through a
box of Scottish-themed bumper stickers. “You got any
more of these?” he asked Sherri, holding up one that read
“Old Pipers Never Die. Their Bags Just Dry Up “”

“Another of Ned’s selections,” Sherri whispered before she dutifully trotted over to help out.

Liss turned her attention to a woman examining a row
of figurines piper, drummer, soldier each six-and-ahalf inches tall and all in Highland dress. She blinked in
surprise when she recognized Mrs. Norris. “Well, hello
again. I didn’t expect to see you here”