by Fran Stewart
If anybody from Washington came for a visit, though, she’d rather have had it be her nephew Russell Fenton. He’d left Cuthbert, their small hometown in southern Georgia, twenty-five years ago, about the same time she had, and all she’d known of him since then was from his chatty letters about the quiet life he lived in the nation’s capital. He worked in a bank or something—he’d never been too specific, but then Moira hadn’t been too specific about what sort of job she’d gotten. Her bootlegger relatives wouldn’t appreciate her working with the enemy. Better they thought she owned a fabric store.
She pulled open her top right-hand drawer, careful not to nick her red polish, and removed a framed photo. She balanced it on the clutter of notepads, pencils, call sheets, phone directories, paper clips, and maps that constituted her daily work environment. Ignoring the mess, she studied her family. Her whole family. Her parents, grandparents, all the siblings, nieces and nephews, everybody lined up in front of the high school on Russell’s graduation day. He sure did look like his daddy. She compared that picture to the latest one he’d sent her last Christmas; she’d stuck it in the corner of the frame. Russell, two and a half decades older, in front of a Christmas tree. No wife, no kids, not even a dog. She sure did hope he liked the bank, since he didn’t seem to have too much else going on. Of course, who was she to talk? No husband, no kids, and no dog, either.
She still had the picture in her hand when the front door opened and the photo came to life.
“Aunt Moira?”
What happened to his Southern accent? “Russell?”
“What are you doing”—he looked around him—“here?”
“I could ask you the same thing.” Only she didn’t have to ask. The careful dark blue suit, the subdued tie, the hint of a wire dropping from his ear and disappearing into his collar. She unhooked her headset and stood to embrace him. “So this is your bank job, huh?”
He hugged her back and swept his gaze around the station again. “Nice sewing shop you’ve got here.”
“There’s usually a lot of dark blue fabric around this place.” She smiled when he chuckled.
Over his shoulder she saw the blinds on Mac’s office door part. “Uh-oh. We’ve been discovered.”
“We could always keep people guessing, don’t you think?”
“Moira!” Mac’s voice boomed across the open space. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“Why”—she increased her drawl to maximum ooziness— “ah’m jest makin’ shore this little ole agent feels raht welcome hyeah.”
Mac scowled, and Moira felt her nephew’s shoulder shake with suppressed laughter as he turned to meet the Hamelin police chief.
* * *
This was looking to be one of our most successful Games. Gilda had already sold three full kilt outfits this morning, and I’d sold two to the man and his wife who asked about the ghillie brogues and, of course, the one for the governor. I gave a quick look around. The shelves seemed to be pretty well stocked, no empty places I could spot. “I’m going to run down to the meadow and check on the booth. They may need some change, too.” Gilda nodded, and I headed for the door. “I have my cell. Call me if you get an inrush.”
“Don’t we wish,” she said.
Gilda had a tendency to worry too much. We’d been pleasantly busy, although at the moment there weren’t many people in the shop.
“If I were you,” Sam said, “I’d take a few minutes to check out all the booths down there. You might not have another chance once the Games open officially.”
“You sound like a tour guide,” I told him. “But I may take a quick turn around the place.”
Scamp barked from his ottoman throne, and I’d swear it sounded like good-bye.
I glanced over at the Logg Cabin before I turned to my left to head down to the meadow. Six tables filled with people sat outside under the wide overhang of the roof. Whenever had Karaline thought about outside dining?
In the meadow, nothing official was going on, of course, but that didn’t mean nothing was going on. I decided to make the circle first and end up at the ScotShop Tartan Tie booth at the end of the circuit. Scarves and ties had always been a big seller during the Games, and they were easy to display in the tent. I turned to my right after I went through the flower-covered arch, but I glanced the other way and was happy to see money exchanging hands. Another tie sale, another boost to staying in business.
Dirk must have seen me enter the grounds. By the time I spotted him, he was striding straight toward me. I’m always faintly surprised at the way crowds of people simply move aside in front of him, as if they’re encountering an unseen wave of energy. And nobody’s ever aware of doing it. They just veer slightly off course and converge again once he’s passed by.
“Are ye enjoying the sights?”
Nobody was close enough to hear me, so I answered him. “I just got here, but it looks like everyone’s happy.”
He turned and walked with me. “Aye. There is much laughter and many smiles.”
“Did you have events like this back when you were alive?”
“Och, aye. We had market days that were something like this. And for certes, the Gatherings.”
I could hear the awe with which he said that word. “They must have been wonderful.” I was about to ask him to tell me about them, but a group of youngsters sidled by, eyeing me doubtfully. No wonder. I’d been talking to myself out loud. Or so they must have thought.
Dirk didn’t need any encouragement, though. “’Twas at a Gathering I first saw my Peigi.”
Even after 654 years of being dead, Dirk still spoke of her with a gentleness that caught at my heart.
A group of musicians left the stage as we approached it, and a bagpiper mounted the stairs. He pulled a massive amount of air into his lungs and inflated the bags in one big blow. Slapping at the bag and reaching overhead to tune the drones, he received a tentative nod from Dirk. “Aye. This one knows what he is doing.”
“He should. That’s Porter Macnaughton, the lead piper in the Hamelin Pipe and Drum Corps.” I waved at Mr. P, my next-door neighbor, but he didn’t see me. He must have headed out as soon as he finished his Wheaties. Wisps of thin pure white hair peeked out from under his light brown-and-blue-plaid tam. I tried to connect the tartan with a particular clan, but couldn’t remember. Holyrood, maybe? I’d never seen him wear it before. I wondered where he’d bought it. I sure hoped he’d bought it at the ScotShop.
He was staring in my direction, but he didn’t wave back. I looked behind me. Nothing but a slightly plump woman in a long tartan skirt eating a meat pasty, a couple of teenage boys throwing mock punches at each other’s shoulders, and three kilt-clad men conferring in a circle.
* * *
Silla was delighted with such a long walk. Especially when that other person turned around and went back the way they had come. Then it was just Silla and her person. And squirrels. And bushes to sniff. And deep leaf mold. And the fragrant footprints of raccoons and even a skunk.
Her person’s footsteps got slower and slower. When he finally stopped walking altogether, Silla went back and leaned against his leg. Her nose, so full of exciting smells, caught the whiff of sadness. And of pain. And of anger. Silla stood, stretched her legs wide apart, and growled, even though she was not sure what she was growling at.
Her person laughed and reached down to stroke her back. Silla liked that. She liked the fresh happy smell. She liked being able to change her person’s unhappy to gladness.
“As long as I have you, Silla,” her person said. “As long as I have you, all that other stuff doesn’t matter.”
Silla could have told him that. If he had asked her.
6
All the noble substance of a doubt.
ACT 1, SCENE 4
Around one o’clock I looked up at a commotion near the front door. Congressman Leonzini, fl
anked by four burly men—bodyguards, not aides, I thought, and the word goons came to mind—swept through my store, shaking hands with everyone he encountered. I motioned to Gilda and Sam to keep working and headed toward the throng. “Welcome to the ScotShop, Congressman.”
“What kind of name would be Kongrissmun?”
Naturally, I ignored Dirk, and Leonzini shook my hand as if I were the only other person in the room, which surprised me. No wonder he kept getting elected, if he could make people feel important with just a handshake. I’d always managed to avoid meeting him during his previous campaign swings. “My good friend the governor said I should stop by here and get a kilt.”
Good friend, my foot, I thought.
“He sounds verra sincere,” Dirk said. “Too sincere. I dinna trust him.”
Neither did I, but this wasn’t the time to say anything like that out loud. “Mm-hmm,” I said.
Leonzini turned from me and fingered a royal Stewart plaid.
Delusions of grandeur, I thought. That bold red would clash with his hair and skin tones. If he stood next to the governor, who looked elegant in his new brown plaid kilt, the congressman would look garish by comparison, rather like what had happened to Nixon in that infamous TV debate my US history teacher had told us about, only Nixon had looked tired while Kennedy looked fresh. In this case, Leonzini would look like a puffed-up bantam rooster standing next to a panther. If panthers wore brown plaid, that is.
I let him buy it.
* * *
Harper looked across the cramped room at Fenton, the agent who stood at the board examining what few puzzle pieces they’d managed to collect. Next to him, Mac groveled. Did he think Fenton would tap him as a Secret Service recruit? Mac was old enough to retire, had a gimpy leg after that accident last winter, and would make a lousy team player. Of all the ridiculous things to wish for. But Harper could see the look of hope on Mac’s face.
The duty room had never before felt so stuffed, not when it was just Harper and Fairing and Murphy and maybe two or three others from the Hamelin force working on a case.
But within the last hour the room had filled precipitately when the Secret Service contingent invaded. That’s what it felt like. An invasion. Fenton was obviously competent, but he had that indefinable attitude, the one that said agents trump locals any day.
Still, Harper thought, you couldn’t pay me enough to want to work Secret Service. Harper didn’t want the safety of the president hanging over his head. The president who had decided on a whim to visit the opening night of the Hamelin Highland Games. He’d attended the Hamelin Games once when he was a kid and thought it might be fun to show up unannounced. While he was here, he’d probably do a little campaigning for Leonzini, who was running for his fourth term.
The only trouble was, a guy suspected of having sent threatening letters to the president had been spotted at the Burlington airport. Somehow he’d evaded the agents who tried to apprehend him. Harper would be willing to bet they’d played their hand too soon at the airport, moving in to corral him while they were still too far away and giving him plenty of time to slip out of their noose and disappear.
But who was he to judge? He’d spotted the guy. And lost him.
“Why would somebody who was after the president bring a dog with him?” Harper thought that was a logical question.
Fenton scoffed. “You’d be surprised what sort of nuts are out there. Anybody can have an agenda. Even people with dogs.”
“Ayuh,” Mac said, and headed toward the men’s room.
The phone rang, and Harper was vaguely aware of Moira’s voice. Hamelin Po-leece.
Harper had to admit he didn’t want the big guy with the dog to be the one Fenton was looking for, partly because Harper didn’t want to be the one to have lost track of their only lead. But mostly because—if he were honest with himself, and he tried to be most of the time—the guy looked like Santa, even though his white beard was considerably shorter than Santa’s pictures always showed—and who’d want to arrest Kris Kringle?
He looked around the room. If push came to shove, that agent over there at the round table could just as easily be the fellow in the mug shot. Tall, sandy-haired with streaks of a lighter blond at the temple, square face, wide shoulders. A heavy five-o’clock shadow, even this early in the day, gave him the look of someone with a blond beard.
Fenton pointed to a rectangle on the big wall map. “What’s this place?”
“A lovely old empty house,” Harper said. “Three stories and an attic, in pretty good shape. Local lore says it’s haunted. People who buy it usually put it back on the market within two or three months. Hard to believe. It’s one of the finest old houses in town. There’s nothing inside to steal, and I guess somebody got tired of replacing broken locks, so they don’t ever lock the doors.”
Fenton traced an imaginary line from the house to the spot where the president would be speaking. “Great place for a sniper, then, wouldn’t you say? He could be there already—or he might have made some preparations.” He eyed the two agents sitting at the round table. “Check it out.” They abandoned their Pepsi cans, opened and almost full, took a quick glance at the map, and left the room. “Try not to give yourselves away this time,” Fenton said to their departing backs as Mac returned from the john and Moira disconnected the call.
* * *
A few minutes later, there was an unexpected lull. Gilda herded one of the temps, the one who’d worked for me a number of times in the past, into the storeroom. Within moments he reappeared, his arms full, and began replenishing the stock. I decided to take advantage of the quiet. “I’m headed to the Cabin for a quick lunch. I’ll eat as fast as I can.”
“We can handle it.” Gilda’s curls wiggled as she gave a quick survey of the room. “Oh, by the way, I wrote you a note to reorder paisley scarves. We’re a little low on the red ones and we only have one green left.”
It always amazed me how people seemed to buy in lumps. One month it would be nothing but blue kilts, and the next everybody wanted red. This past spring I couldn’t keep enough brown paisley scarves on hand, but here it was August, and everybody seemed to want green. “Thanks for keeping up with details like that, Gilda. I sure do appreciate you.” It was her job, but I’d been trying to show my appreciation more, ever since she’d returned from the rehab facility.
She beamed, which only served to reaffirm that I was on the right track.
“I’ll sit at one of the outside tables if I can,” I said. “If I see a flood of customers, I’ll get a doggie bag.”
The day was still a little brisk, so I lifted my plaid around my shoulders as I stepped outside. Across the small courtyard, Big Willie sat at one of Karaline’s outdoor tables. I headed their way. “Mind if I join you two?” I bent and scratched Silla under her hairy chin.
Willie stood and pulled out a chair for me. “I’d be delighted.”
Dolly appeared at my elbow. “The usual?”
I laughed. “You know me too well.”
She filled a coffee cup and placed it in front of me. “I saw you coming and already put in your order.”
“What if I’d changed my mind?”
“Hasn’t ever happened yet.”
Willie watched her walk away. “What’s this usual she referred to?”
“I love breakfast for lunch. Of course, I eat it for breakfast, too, when I’m here at the Cabin. Maple pancakes with extra-crispy bacon. Nothing better.”
Silla made a muffled sound, as if she agreed with me.
I unfolded my napkin. “Have you been down to the meadow yet today?”
It looked like a shadow crossed his face, but maybe it was only my imagination. Or his trim beard. “I was . . . detained.”
Shay. He must have been referring to his run-in with Shay.
“That’s too bad,” I said. “I like to see what I can bef
ore the crowds get too thick.”
This time I was sure of the shadow. “You have many years ahead of you to do that. For me, though . . .” His voice trailed away to nothing.
Even with all that white hair, he was too young to be thinking about dying, but I didn’t know quite how to say that without its being awkward.
Silla let out a little gurgle of protest, and I laughed. “Do you take her with you whenever you travel?”
“Oh, yes. I couldn’t leave her alone.” He leaned over and scratched Silla’s head. “I don’t have anyone to leave her with.”
That was sad. I waited as Dolly set down our plates. When I went on buying trips to Scotland, I could always count on Karaline to take care of Shorty and water my plants. If she was otherwise occupied, my twin brother was a good backup.
Silla woofed gently.
“Wonder what she’s trying to say.”
“She’s thirsty.” He was so matter-of-fact, it sounded like he’d read her mind. Of course, come to think of it, I can usually tell what Shorty’s various meows mean.
“Silla and I took a long walk this morning. And I’ve promised her another one this afternoon—just the two of us this time. I have a lot to think about.” He pulled a bottle of water out of a leather pouch he had slung across his body—it reminded me a little bit of the scabbard in which Dirk kept his dagger—and lifted a collapsible bowl from a pocket on the front.
“That’s a handy contraption.”
“It pays to be prepared when you’re traveling with a four-legged companion.”
We listened to the lap-lap-lap of Silla’s little tongue, surprisingly loud in the afternoon air. Between bites—ours, not the dog’s—Big Willie filled me in on the padded dog bed he toted with him, the dog seat belt that allowed Silla to look out the car window and still be safe, and the special behind-the-passenger-seat carrier he’d designed for all her dog food.