Margaret’s thoughts were apparently running along the same lines as those of her niece. “Do you suppose Sergeant Childs will contact the Maine State Police?”
“I don’t know.” She thought for a moment. “Probably. If he’s good at his job, he’ll check up on everyone connected to Orson Bailey.”
“Well, it isn’t as if we have anything to worry about. Neither one of us has a criminal record.” Margaret sounded uncharacteristically prim.
“If Sergeant Childs talks to one particular state trooper, he’ll get an earful.”
Margaret chuckled. “Maybe he’ll skip Gordon and contact the Moosetookalook chief of police. Sherri will vouch for our sterling characters.”
Liss bit back a groan and felt her hands tighten on the steering wheel. “I think I’d rather he talk to Gordon. If he calls Sherri, Dan is sure to find out that I’ve found another body.”
“You’ll tell him, surely.”
“Yes. We don’t keep secrets from each other. But I’m hoping to put off true confessions until I can talk to him face-to-face.”
Call him at the first opportunity? Or hope that he wouldn’t find out from someone else? She couldn’t decide.
“Why does this sort of thing keep happening to me?”
“Karma?” Margaret suggested.
Liss made an incoherent sound and a concerted effort to focus on the road signs up ahead.
“I am not, repeat not, going to fall into the temptation of trying to solve the mystery of Orson Bailey’s murder, not even as an intellectual exercise. Canada’s finest does not need the help of Liss MacCrimmon, girl detective. I’m nearly forty years old. It’s time I concentrated on being Liss Ruskin, sole proprietor of Moosetookalook Scottish Emporium, all grown up and fully capable of minding my own business.”
Margaret was smiling by the time Liss wound down. “Of course, dear. After all, the sergeant seems quite capable. And of course, he was very polite, even when I asked him why he wasn’t dressed in his fancy red uniform, the one you see Mounties wearing when they ride in parades. I expect he gets asked that a lot.”
This observation, coming as it did from out of left field, made Liss chuckle. “Well, don’t keep me in suspense—what was his answer?”
“He said those fancy duds are the ceremonial uniform. They don’t wear them for every day. Do you know why?” She waited a beat, aware that timing was everything when delivering the punch line of an old joke: “The spurs get caught in the carpeting!”
Liss groaned, but as she continued driving toward Truro, she was in a much better frame of mind.
* * *
Later that afternoon, Liss and Margaret entered the shop of Duncan MacTaggart, Custom Kilt Maker. On display were finished kilts and all the paraphernalia that went with them, from sporrans and kilt hose to clan crest kilt pins and other jewelry. The lone salesclerk was busy with a customer, trying to explain to him the difference between plaid, pronounced “plad” and plaid pronounced “played.”
“The first is a pattern. It is applied to what should properly be called tartan. The second refers to an item of Scottish dress.” She selected an example from a nearby rack. “It’s worn draped around the upper body.”
“That’s a shawl,” the customer said in a drawl that pinpointed his origins as somewhere south of the Mason-Dixon line. “Or maybe a cape.”
Liss exchanged a been-there-done-that look with her aunt and set about exploring the shop until the clerk was free. They were a bit early for their appointment with the proprietor and she welcomed the opportunity to get a feel for what kind of business she’d might be dealing with. Inspecting the merchandise he carried was a good way to start.
While Margaret browsed in a display of ladies’ skirts made in various clan tartans, Liss headed straight for the rack of kilts. She remembered fondly the time that Margaret, who had made a kilt or two in her time, had tried to teach her niece how to sew one. The effort had not been a notable success, but it had left Liss with a firm knowledge of the basics. She could appreciate the finicky, time-consuming work that went into producing each garment. It was well worth the cost to let others deal with making all those pleats, but only if they did it well.
She was not impressed by what she saw of MacTaggart’s offerings. When she ran her fingers over the fabric of a kilt in the Royal Stewart tartan, she thought it had an odd feel to it. A peek at the tag told her why. She was frowning when Margaret came up beside her.
“I’m willing to cut MacTaggart some slack, since he hasn’t been in business long,” she whispered, “but a kilt made of viscose and acetate?”
“It’s lightweight,” Margaret whispered back. “And it’s machine washable. No need to fuss with dry cleaning.”
The sign above the rack advertised CASUAL STARTER KILTS and Liss supposed that might appeal to those who weren’t sure they wanted to invest a lot of money in an outfit they’ll only wear once or twice a year. The synthetic fiber would be cheaper for outfitting pipe bands, too. The kilt she was looking at was priced at 199 dollars Canadian. Imported to the States and translated into U.S. dollars, that would still be a bargain price.
“The kilts sold in Moosetookalook Scottish Emporium have always been made of wool.”
“Neither of us are purists when it comes to Scottish traditions,” Margaret reminded her.
“Not usually, no. But there’s just something about mixing acetate with the ancient tartans that strikes me as wrong.”
Margaret’s tone of voice was soothing. “Since we’re here, let’s see what Mr. MacTaggart has to say.”
MacTaggart turned out to be a fast-talking little man with a patter that wouldn’t quit. He extolled the virtues of his in-house shop, but did not offer them a tour. Instead, he pulled out kilt after kilt, all in the same twenty-four-inch length. Without exception, they were made of lightweight synthetic fabrics, which he seemed to think was a plus, and he was inordinately proud of being able to offer both “fashion kilts” and “camouflage kilts.”
“Just send us the measurement and we’ll fix you right up. Not the pant size. Measure at the waist, at the level of the belly button.”
“We’ll think it over.” Liss had to struggle to remain diplomatic. MacTaggert pushed all the wrong buttons.
“Can I interest you in children’s kilties? They come in the Royal Stewart, Black Watch, Cape Breton, Nova Scotia, and Maple Leaf tartans, although for Maple Leaf they have to be special ordered. Retail, they’re forty-two ninety-five, but for you—”
“No. Thank you.” Liss began to edge toward the door. Margaret followed.
“You won’t find better prices anywhere,” MacTaggart called after them.
Over her shoulder, Liss managed a credible smile, but it took an effort. “That’s very likely true. Will you be at Antigonish this weekend?”
MacTaggart’s friendly demeanor never slipped, but his eyes hardened. “We’re much too busy here.”
“We’ll let you know,” she promised, “but we do plan to speak with the vendors there, and before that we’ll be visiting several other kilt-making establishments, including MacIsaac on Cape Breton.”
“Overpriced,” MacTaggart grumbled. “And too heavy. Lightweight polyviscose, that’s the wave of the future.”
Liss exited the shop so quickly that she almost ran head-on into a dark-haired gentleman just passing by the storefront. Head down, he sidestepped and kept going. She stared after him, beset by the odd sensation that she had seen him somewhere before.
“Is something the matter? You look confused.” Margaret had been right behind her niece, but Liss’s body had blocked her view of the man she’d nearly bowled over.
Liss shook her head. “Nothing’s wrong. For a minute, that guy reminded me of someone, although I can’t think who.”
That bothered her. As they walked to the car, parked just down the block, she kept glancing in the direction the stranger had gone.
“I hate it when that happens.” Margaret slid into the passenger se
at. “Half the time it turns out that the person I was thinking of wasn’t anyone I actually knew. The sense of familiarity was because he or she bore a passing resemblance to some movie or TV star. It would be nice if he were a celebrity. I mean, who wouldn’t mind bumping into George Clooney or Hugh Jackman?”
Liss rolled her eyes and started the engine. “This wasn’t either of them. For one thing, his hair was too dark—oh!”
“You’ve remembered? Was it someone you know?”
“I . . . I’m not sure, but at least I’ve figured out who it is he reminded me of. It was the man who bid against me for the painting of the Grant piper at the auction.” Liss checked her rearview and side mirrors before pulling away from the curb. “The bidder was a stranger. I never talked to him and I never got a very good look at him, either—hardly more than the glimpse I just had of that man in front of the shop. I suppose that’s why I thought there was a resemblance.”
She put the incident out of her mind. After all, it would be a heck of a coincidence if she’d run into the same person in both Moosetookalook, Maine, and Truro, Nova Scotia.
Chapter Four
The next couple of days went smoothly. On Thursday, Liss and her aunt visited the Gaelic College in St. Ann’s, a Cape Breton institution where traditional music, dance, language, and crafts, including kilt making, were taught.
“I could happily spend a week here,” Liss said as they left the weaving studio and turned their steps toward the Outdoor Performance Centre.
At the moment, they were enjoying spectacular summer weather, but she felt certain that their surroundings would be just as impressive in winter. The campus overlooked St. Ann’s Bay and boasted panoramic views of the Cape Breton Highlands. The whisper of a summer breeze provided counterpoint to the murmur of voices and the distant skirl of bagpipes.
“My parents would love this place,” she added. “I wonder if they’ve ever been here.”
When Margaret didn’t immediately reply, Liss turned her head to look at her. Her aunt’s face wore a peculiar expression, one she could not interpret, and Margaret’s thoughts seemed to be a million miles away. Whatever she was pondering, it was not a pleasant subject.
“What’s the matter?” Liss asked. “Aren’t you feeling well?”
“Let’s sit down for a moment.” Margaret indicated the bench seating on the hillside. At this hour of the afternoon, it was deserted.
Something about Margaret’s demeanor warned Liss that whatever was troubling her, it was serious. Unsettling explanations weren’t hard to find. They came thick and fast for the remainder of the short walk. Liss’s first thought was that Margaret was having more eye trouble. She’d undergone surgery for a vision issue a couple of years earlier. Or was it something new? Something worse? Was Margaret having chest pains? Anyone could have a heart attack, especially after they hit their sixties. Her aunt didn’t seem to be in any physical distress, but she was clearly hesitant concerning what she was about to confide in her niece. What if she had been diagnosed with cancer? That situation was all too common, and the symptoms weren’t always obvious.
As soon as they were seated, Liss demanded answers.
Margaret took a deep breath. “I’ve been putting off telling you this. I didn’t know how you’d take it, but I can’t wait any longer.”
A giant fist squeezed Liss’s heart at Margaret’s words. Tension tightened every muscle in her body. Braced for terrible news but determined to think of Margaret first, not her own growing sense of despair, she burst into speech. “Whatever it is, we’ll work it out. Anything you need, you know Dan and I—”
She broke off at Margaret’s shocked expression.
“It’s not about me!”
At a loss, Liss just stared at her. “Then what . . . ?”
“Oh, dear. This is going to be harder than I anticipated. All right, here goes. Now don’t panic, but it’s your parents.”
Liss felt the color leave her face. All the concerns she’d had about Margaret returned, but with Don and Vi MacCrimmon taking her place. Liss’s always abundant imagination supplied a vivid slideshow. Pictures of her parents seriously injured in a car accident were followed by a series of scenes of them in a hospital ICU, stuck full of tubes and hooked up to frantically beeping machines. She swallowed convulsively.
“What about my parents?”
“They’re moving back to Moosetookalook.” Although Margaret kept her voice calm and soothing, her words had the same effect as a spray of shrapnel.
Liss spoke without thinking. “Oh, God! It’s worse than I thought!”
At once, she clapped both hands over her mouth, horrified by what had come out of it.
Margaret burst out laughing. Before she could regain her self-control, she had to fumble in her bag for a tissue to wipe away her tears.
Liss fidgeted, embarrassed by her thoughtless words. Thank goodness Margaret understood the whole tangled history of Liss’s relationship with her mother.
“Why?” she asked when Margaret had regained her composure. “Why are they coming back home? It makes no sense for them to relocate in Maine at this stage of their lives. They’ve spent the last twenty years in Arizona. They’ve been happy there, or so they’ve always told me.”
They’d moved to the Southwest shortly after Liss graduated from high school with the hope that the weather would ease her father’s arthritis. Thanks to wise investments, he’d been able to leave the family business in his sister’s capable hands and abandon the cold Northeast. As far as Liss knew, he had never looked back. As for her mother, a history teacher, she’d found a new job and been able to continue molding young minds until she’d put in a full thirty-five years in the classroom.
Margaret patted Liss’s hand. “I don’t know all the details, but I’ll try to answer your questions as best I can.”
“Has something happened? Is one of them ill?”
“They aren’t as young as they used to be.” Margaret shrugged. “None of us are.”
“But what about Dad’s arthritis? That hot, dry climate was good for him. How is he going to manage here?”
“He’s actually doing better after his hip surgery, and he had his knees replaced a few years ago. His hands are the biggest problem.”
“And Mom? Is she okay?” Liss’s imagination was working overtime. The onset of a terminal illness would certainly explain her sudden desire to return to her childhood home.
“As far as I know, she’s fine, although she does have a few medical issues.”
“I wouldn’t know.” Liss couldn’t quite keep the bitterness out of her voice. “Despite the fact that I talk to my parents on the phone almost every Sunday afternoon, Mother repeatedly fails to share information about her health. It was months after the fact before I found out that she’d had a radical mastectomy. When I asked her about it, and told her I’d have been happy to come to Arizona and help out while she recovered, she said she hadn’t seen the need to bother me.”
“Yes, that sounds like Violet, although you’d think she’d want to let you know about the breast cancer. After all, as her daughter, you’re now at a higher risk yourself.”
Liss sent her aunt a fulminating look. “You’re a fine one to talk. If you hadn’t had a bad reaction to the anesthesia, we’d never have known you had eye surgery.”
“You’re comparing apples to oranges,” Margaret protested. “And aside from your mother’s surgery, I doubt she’s keeping anything from you.”
“Then why are they moving back to Moosetookalook?”
“Sometimes nostalgia is a powerful motivator.”
“For Dad, maybe. For Mother? No.”
“You are their only child,” Margaret reminded her.
“Does that mean they are in need of my help? I’ll take care of them, of course. That goes without saying. Heck, if it comes to that, we can always add one of those ‘mother-in-law apartments’ to the house.”
Margaret’s snort had Liss turning to stare at her aunt.
>
“Liss, dear, I know you love your parents, but—”
“Of course I do!”
“But there’s no denying that you get along much better with them, especially your mother, when there are at least a dozen states between you. Besides, I don’t think there’s anything serious wrong with Violet. She has high blood pressure, but then she always has.”
Liss knew that only too well. When she’d been a small child, she’d thrown the occasional temper tantrum. Every time she did, her mother’s response was the same. “You’re driving my blood pressure right through the roof,” Vi MacCrimmon would say. “If I have a stroke and die, then you’d be sorry!”
It had been years before she’d realized that although she loved her mother, there were times when she didn’t like her very much. Margaret was right. They rattled along well enough when there was distance between them, but any time they were in the same room together for more than a few hours, sparks were sure to fly.
Don’t panic, Liss warned herself. She took several deep, calming breaths. Just because her parents were moving back to Maine didn’t mean they’d need constant care or that they planned to move in with her and Dan.
“Do you know if they’re thinking of buying a house?” she asked. “Or will they be looking to rent an apartment?”
The worried look was back in Margaret’s eyes. “They’re interested in the new assisted living facility that’s going to be built on the old Chadwick property.”
“I thought you said their health was okay.”
“I imagine they’re just planning for the future, and the distant future, at that, since the new owner has yet to break ground for the facility.”
“So, they’ll need a place to live until it’s ready.” And they were back to the possibility that she’d be living at close quarters with her parents for an undetermined length of time.
Stop being selfish, she chided herself. They took care of you for your first seventeen years. The least you can do is give back a few lousy months.
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