by Fran Stewart
The other person said something, but Silla had lost interest as soon as her person closed the treat holder. She saw a squirrel cross the path up ahead, so she ignored all the rest of the words.
* * *
Harper turned left outside the hardware store and headed uphill into the residential area, moving slowly, hoping to look like he was out for a leisurely stroll. He wasn’t wearing a uniform. That would help, but people who were on the run often had a finely tuned radar for spotting cops. He’d learned that when he worked undercover in Poughkeepsie.
He’d already passed a dozen houses when he remembered the apartments above the hardware store. Would they have gone upstairs? He knew Shoe lived in one unit and Sam in another, but had no idea who rented the other two.
A quick phone check with Martin Cameron, owner of Scotsman Hardware, which everyone in town called Cameron’s, quashed that idea. Both units were empty. And locked.
So, where had Shay taken the tall man? Did she live up here in one of these quiet-looking houses?
Moira would know. Moira, the Southern-born dispatcher, not only knew everybody in Hamelin—she knew what most of them ate for breakfast and who was carrying on with whom. Harper had no idea how she came by all her information, but she was certainly a handy person to have in the station.
She answered with that drawl he loved. “Hamelin Po-leece. What kin ah do fur yew?”
“It’s Harper. Where does Shay Burns live?”
She paused for only a moment. Harper could almost hear her counting. “Third house,” she said. “Third above Cameron’s on the same side of the street; it’s beige with dark blue shutters. Next to that empty lot. You want her cell number?”
“Please.”
He called. No answer.
At the blah-colored house, nobody responded to his knock.
* * *
I took a quick look around to be sure nobody was close enough to hear me answer yet another of Dirk’s questions. It sure would be convenient if Dirk could read my mind. Then I considered some of the things I thought about on a regular basis. Cancel that wish. It was worth it for him to have to hear me out loud. “No, Dirk, shoplifting isn’t all that common. At least not here in the ScotShop. We don’t usually attract the thieving sort.”
“How would ye know, if ye didna see them? If I had nae told ye what those twa did, ye wouldna ha’ known ’til ’twas too late.”
“I would have noticed. Just not fast enough to have stopped them.” I headed toward a skewed hanger on the skirt rack.
He looked at me. He seemed expectant about something.
“You’re right, Macbeath. I haven’t thanked you.”
“I am right pleased ye used my proper name for the once, but I didna expect any thanks.”
“Thanked me?” A woman’s head peeked over the low-hanging rack of Fair Isle sweaters. “For what?” She raised herself—it looked like she’d been kneeling. “And how did you know my name?”
“Your name?”
“Mary Beth. I don’t think we’ve ever met.”
Dirk chuckled. I ignored him. “What were you doing on the floor? Are you okay?”
“My tennis shoe laces were too tight.” She stepped from behind the rack and rotated an ankle experimentally. “Much better.”
“Can I help you find anything?”
“I need a scarf or something. This is the first time I’ve been to the Highland Games, and I didn’t realize how underdressed I’d feel not wearing plaid.”
“Don’t worry. It’s not required. I’m sure you’ve seen plenty of people not wearing tartans.” I couldn’t remember seeing many, come to think of it, except for that short guy who was fixated on Andrea and the husband and wife who’d looked at the necklace.
“I think I might have some Scottish family way back when.”
“Do ye no ken your family?” Dirk sounded aghast.
“What’s your last name? Maybe I can help you figure it out.”
“Armstrong?”
Wasn’t she sure? It sounded more like a question than a statement. “Let’s go look at the clan chart. I’m not sure—”
Dirk interrupted me. “Armstrong would be Clan Fairbairn.”
“But,” I adjusted my sentence with the ease of long practice, “I think maybe your family is in the Fairbairn clan.”
“Really? You sure are knowledgeable.”
“It helps to have a—” I couldn’t very well say a ghost. “It helps to have a chart to look at frequently. I guess the names sort of sink in eventually.” I lifted the laminated chart and pulled it to the length of its light chain. After having had three of them misplaced, lost—okay, stolen—I’d resorted to attaching this one permanently to its wall rack. I hated having to do that.
Mary Beth eyed the chain. “Are you afraid somebody will take it?”
“If it’s not attached, I can never find it,” I said.
Dirk harrumphed.
We located her clan, which was indeed Fairbairn, and a lovely green tartan scarf. After she paid for it, I removed the tag for her and watched as she wound it around her ponytail. “I hope you’ll come back to the ScotShop soon.”
“Sure.” She flipped the tail of the scarf forward over her shoulder. “You still haven’t told me how you knew my name.”
She hadn’t forgotten.
Scamp, with impeccable timing, let out a low woof, and Mary Beth bent and held out her hand for him to sniff. “I love your dog.”
“He’s not mine.” I could hear a wistful tone in my own voice. “Scamp belongs to my assistant manager. His job is official greeter.” I beckoned to a nearby man who held a stack of merchandise. “I can help you here, sir.” Mary Beth moved out of the way. I met so many people so briefly, and then they were gone.
Once I’d finished ringing up that hefty sale, Dirk stepped behind the counter. “Have ye noticed that yon wee doggie seems to ken whenever ye dinna care to answer a question?”
I nodded. I couldn’t say anything, what with a line of customers waiting to pay, but Dirk was right. Scamp always seemed to break in at just the right moment. Uncanny. I wished, yet again, that I had a Scottie of my own.
* * *
Harper checked Shay’s backyard. Fenced in, no lock on the gate, no guard dog, no noticeable alarm system. Back door locked. Curtains open. Lights off.
He might as well give up. Go back to the station. Take his licks for having lost the guy.
He let himself out through the side gate and noticed a well-trod path leading across the empty lot beside Shay’s house. It disappeared into the woods. No harm in giving it a try. They could very well have come this way.
He hadn’t gone far when he spotted the relatively fresh, unmistakable calling card of a small dog off to one side of the path between two low clumps of woodland shrub. So, they’d passed by here recently.
But when the path forked, Harper couldn’t tell which way Shay and the mug shot guy—and the dog—had gone. The ground along that stretch was stony in both directions, and he couldn’t find a single footprint or paw print. He consulted his inner eeny-meeny-miny-moe and headed to his left.
4
How weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable.
ACT 1, SCENE 2
Sergeant Marti Fairing’s mouth watered as the smell of grilled sausage wafted past her nose. She felt vulnerable without her duty belt, but the chief didn’t want the man targeted by this operation to be scared off by a blue uniform. Even without her uniform, she found herself occasionally holding her arms akimbo, the way she’d learned to hold them to avoid bruising the inside of her arm on the butt of her weapon or brushing into any one of the half a dozen items she carried around her waist on a daily basis. Today her pistol was in an ankle holster under her wide-legged pants, but with that as her only resource, she felt . . . undressed. She watched, hoping she looked like an idle bystan
der, as dozens of tourists poured into the meadow through the flower-bedecked arches at the end of the path from town. The mug shot hadn’t been that clear. How was she supposed to spot one person in this horde? It would only get worse, too, once the scheduled events started. Of course, by then there’d be dozens of agents milling through the crowds.
She smiled to think that the agents hadn’t caught the guy. They’d had to ask the Hamelin cops for help. She bet that stuck in somebody’s gullet.
A group of musicians, most of them laden with small cases for violins or flutes, arrived and headed for the bandstand close to the path. One of their fellows brought up the rear, carrying a bulky bass violin. Why would anyone ever take up such an unwieldy instrument? Of course, a good bass player slapping those low notes could get feet tapping like nobody else.
The cop part of her brain wondered if maybe they had a rifle hidden in one of the cases. Maybe one of the fiddlers was the one they should be questioning. Maybe she was paranoid, seeing danger in everyone who walked into the meadow. Still, as a police officer, she was trained to look for the possibles before they became problems. Two fiddles, a couple of flutes, and a stringed bass. Too many places to hide a weapon. But none of them looked like the guy in the mug shot.
Without really thinking about it, she checked for abandoned backpacks near the stand. That’s where the president would be in a few hours, and the tragedy at the 1996 Olympics was etched into every police officer’s memory.
The musicians climbed up on the stand, shoved the chairs out of the way, and pulled out their instruments. Music wasn’t on the schedule. Heck, the schedule hadn’t even started yet. But the musicians began to play a lively reel. Sergeant Fairing felt her toes begin to tap, seemingly of their own accord. She looked around at the smiles. She noted the dollar bills being tossed into the conveniently placed open case at the front of the platform. Smart musicians.
Marti applauded when the music ended. She did a quick pivot, checking out who was where. She noticed a man, one of the wandering musicians, she supposed, disappearing into the woods near the old Sutherland place. Hadn’t he seen the Porta Potties? There were three different lines of them. No excuse for anyone to look for a tree. She shrugged. Some men couldn’t resist the chance to water the landscape. Her brothers were like that, peeing off the back porch just for the fun of it. It drove her mother nuts, but Dad thought it was funny.
She checked her watch. The agent who’d called Mac was probably already here. She’d meet him soon enough. And his backup people. The Hamelin force was ready, though. And wouldn’t it be great if she could spot the guy in the mug shot first?
* * *
It wasn’t even ten thirty yet, and I was already running short of ones and fives. Some days everybody paid with plastic. Other days, like today, cash ran rampant, and nobody seemed to have anything smaller than a twenty. I hated to go by the bank; this time of day there’d be a long line. Oh well, it wouldn’t hurt to make a quick run home, where I tried to keep a good stash of smaller bills.
I waited until Gilda finished a sale and told her where I was going.
“I will go wi’ ye,” Dirk said. “Ye needna be roaming about the wee town w’ money for the taking.”
“I’ll be perfectly safe,” I said.
“I know that,” Gilda told me.
“If someone would try to thieve a wee green book, would they no be tempted more by—”
I interrupted him. “Right. We’ll be back soon.”
“We?”
Whoops. “Sorry, Gilda. I meant, I’ll be back soon.” I bent to scratch beneath Scamp’s chin.
“Guard the shop weel, wee doggie,” Dirk admonished him. Scamp made a sound halfway between a woof and a growl.
Gilda made a hand signal. “Hush, Scamp. What’s gotten into you?”
“Maybe he’s saying good-bye,” I suggested.
“Mayhap he was agreeing to do as I asked,” Dirk said.
The sunken courtyard between the ScotShop and the Logg Cabin was filled with what looked like a family reunion. Adults of two or three generations sat on the benches, while children overflowed the rest of it. A block farther on, the street was empty. That wasn’t surprising. Although tourists overran the town every year, most of them avoided the residential areas, except for those places where townsfolk rented out rooms. Hickory Lane was always fairly quiet, though.
My elderly neighbor greeted me from his front porch. “Did you decide to take the day off?”
“Just picking up some supplies,” I called back. “Why aren’t you down at the Games?”
“I was. I came home to have an early lunch.”
A bowl of Wheaties. That, I knew, was what he usually ate. No wonder he was skinny as a fence post. “There’s some wonderful food in the meadow.”
“I know. I’ll indulge tomorrow. Would you like me to mow your . . . uh . . . grass this afternoon?”
Poor Mr. Pitcairn. He’d been about to say weeds. Or maybe jungle. He kept offering to mow, and I kept refusing. I loved my expanse of wildflowers and bumblebee-friendly weeds. Dandelions ran rife throughout my yard; the bright yellow flowers always looked so happy. Luckily the direction of the prevailing breeze blew the puffy seeds away from Mr. P’s yard. He would have had conniptions if all those seed heads ended up on his pristine lawn.
I laughed my refusal and headed up the ramp.
* * *
Mac paced the police station’s large front room. He knew the Secret Service—or maybe the FBI—would be showing up at any moment. He planned to be the first one to greet them. Never knew when they might be hiring. He had a lot of years of policing under his belt. Experience, that’s what counted. They could probably use a good steady man like him. He shifted his duty belt to relieve some of the pressure against his hip. It had bothered him ever since he broke his leg last winter. But that wouldn’t make a bit of difference in how he could carry out his duties in the White House. Maybe he wouldn’t mention his leg on the application form. He’d just stride right up to that agent when he walked in.
No, maybe it would be better if Moira had to call him. He could wait in his office. Nothing wrong with seeming like he’d been busy.
Maybe he should be out on the street looking for this guy the agents were hunting. No, he was the Chief—in his mind, the capital letter was automatic.
He walked back into his office and shut the door. Opened it. Shut it. Closed the venetian blinds on the window to the squad room. Opened them. Closed them.
* * *
I opened the bottom drawer of my desk and pulled out a small metal cash box. I usually bundled the bills into fifty-dollar stacks so I wouldn’t have to count them out each time I needed some.
Dirk made a disapproving sound. “Ye think such a wee box is a good hiding place? A wean could find it.”
“I don’t have many weans running around my house,” I said. This was an old argument between us, and he hadn’t convinced me yet. “I lock the doors whenever I leave. You know that.”
“Ye didna used to.”
“That was before.” Before the disturbing events of last summer. But I didn’t want to think about that. I wrapped the money in a legal-sized sheet of paper and tucked it into the cloth bag suspended from my heavy black belt. Much more convenient than a purse. “See? Perfectly safe.”
“Unless a cutpurse comes upon ye.”
I shortened the string so the bag wouldn’t bang against my knees and draped the plaid folds of my arisaidh over it. “Is that better? Does it meet with your approval?”
He nodded grudging agreement and we left the house. He paused outside the front door, blocking my way.
“What’s wrong? Why did you stop?”
“Ye didna lock the door.”
Oh. “Sorry.”
He opened his mouth, but apparently decided not to berate me.
I turned around and
locked up.
When we reached the ScotShop, I opened the door and waited for Dirk to precede me, but he stopped. “I will go to the wee meadow to look for Clan Farquharson.”
“That’s a good idea,” I muttered, careful not to move my lips too much in case somebody was watching me. “I’ll be down there later. Have a good time.”
I waited, pretending to study the display window, but I was actually watching the swing of Dirk’s kilt as he strode down Main Street. His shoulder-length black hair always seemed to be moving slightly, even when he was standing still, as if a fourteenth-century breeze stirred his locks, but when he walked, his hair really swayed, the same way his kilt did. I shook myself and walked into my shop. He was a ghost, for crying out loud. Nothing could ever happen with a ghost. But then I remembered that time I’d cried in his arms. I sighed. And then there was Harper. As if anything would ever happen there.
* * *
Eventually the path turned from the hard stone outcropping back to soft earth, and Harper realized his eeny-meeny compass had led him astray. He’d taken the wrong fork. He retraced his steps, considered trying the other path, but decided they had too big a lead on him. Better to head back into town. The big guy—and certainly the dog—couldn’t hide indefinitely.
Meanwhile, he’d have to let someone know about the possible involvement of Shay Burns. Just in case.
He wondered if Moira might have an insight into what was going on. You never knew what that woman had tucked under the reach of her bright red fingernails.
He stopped and pulled out his phone to make a note. He’d just remembered that Amy had called him about a surprise birthday party she’d planned for her husband. Harper’s brother. How long had it been since they’d talked?
5
This above all: to thine own self be true.
ACT 1, SCENE 3
Moira Pettis kept an eye on the front door, the phone, the computer, the officers, the chief, everything that moved, and a lot that didn’t. She smiled to herself as Mac’s door—and then his blinds—did a little dance. She couldn’t blame him for being nervous. It wasn’t every day the feds moved in on a small town. Wasn’t every day the president came to visit, either.