A Wee Homicide in the Hotel

by Fran Stewart

  Karaline held the governor’s other hand and kept up a running patter. “You’ll be all right. Help is on the way. Just try to breathe evenly. We’ll get you to the hospital . . .”

  Thank the Lord for paramedics. Surely it had been only seconds we’d held the governor’s arm, but I was never so happy as when I heard, “You can let go now. We’ll take it from here.”

  I clambered to my feet, wondering what I was going to do about all the blood on my hands. The good thing about wearing an arisaidh is that you always have a lot of extra fabric around. I lifted one corner of it, but before I could start wiping, Dirk placed his hands over mine.

  “I maun be able to help a wee bit.” His cool watery touch felt so very different from the urgent hands of the aide.

  He rubbed gently, and the blood dissipated. “How did you do that?”

  I was whispering, but the aide beside me, busy wiping his own hands with what looked like an entire packet of tissues, must have heard. “Got here so fast, you mean? I think I ran a couple of people down on the way.”

  “I dinna ken.” Dirk looked at his hands, and I was pretty sure he was thinking about when he’d helped Karaline last winter. “It felt the right thing to do.”

  “Well,” I said, knowing full well that I was speaking to both men—man and ghost, that is—at the same time, “thank you.”

  “Could you make a little room for us, ma’am? Sir?” The paramedics rolled a gurney up beside the governor, lifted him onto it, and strapped him down. One of them handed back my shawl, and the ambulance headed toward Arkane. The hospital there was a good one—I knew from personal experience.

  “As you can see” came Archie’s voice over the speakers, “the president is safe and the perpetrator has been apprehended.” Perpetrator? Apprehended? Archie’s been watching too much TV. “Our governor sustained a small wound, but he’s receiving expert medical care, thanks to our alert and well-trained ambulance crew.”

  Small wound? I looked down at the bloody shawl in my hand. Absentmindedly I handed it to Dirk. A woman beside me gasped, and I couldn’t say I blamed her. After all, shawls don’t usually disappear into thin air.

  Dirk laughed. “Ye maun be a wee bit more careful.”

  I turned to the woman. “I’m an amateur magician,” I said, “and I finally got that trick right.”

  She looked doubtful. “Can you make it appear again?”

  Half a minute ago people were terrified, and now I was doing fake magic? I arched an eyebrow at Dirk. “It depends on whether the forces of magic in the air will cooperate.” Where on earth did that bit of blather come from? Dirk and I ought to have been in a circus. I held out my hand behind me, Dirk placed the shawl in it, and I produced it, noticing that Dirk had folded it so the blood didn’t show. “Ta-da!”

  “That was really good! Will you do it again? Let me get my husband over here.”

  I didn’t have to respond because Shay chose that moment to wrest the microphone from Archie’s grasp. “Lads and lassies!” The mike squealed and Shay grimaced. “Sorry about that.” She pointed to her right. “Porter,” she ordered, “bring your pipes up here and give us ‘Amazing Grace’ in honor of the brave Secret Service agents who averted this possible crisis, and, uh, in honor of our brave governor who, uh, who bravely took the brunt of the attack as he, um, bravely saved the president’s life in such, uh, in such a brave way.”

  Find another adjective, Shay.

  People pulled themselves to their feet as Porter Macnaughton mounted the stage and made those preparatory bellows that everyone who’s heard a bagpipe knows all too well. One lone drummer from behind the crowd began to strike the beat, and we all quieted. A great many people sang along as the time-honored strains of “Amazing Grace” soared across the crowd. For a moment we had been at risk. Horribly at risk. And now we felt safe. What a good reason to sing. Shay’s voice at least was in tune. Now that I was closer to the stage, I could see what had caused that blink of light from her hand. She turned the microphone slightly, and an enormous diamond ring sparkled with sudden fire. I’d never seen her wearing that monstrosity before. I heard a deep melodious bass voice just behind me and looked over my shoulder.

  Harper.

  Beside me, Dirk muttered in Gaelic, and I couldn’t help wincing. I was glad I didn’t understand a word.

  * * *

  Harper had been headed toward Peggy and the governor, but then another man had vaulted into action. Harper knew better than to overcrowd a crisis scene. He did his best to calm the people around him, quietly working his way closer to where she bent over the governor’s body. Paramedics. Ambulance. Exit. Some woman beside her looking excited. What was all that about? And then he stood behind her, ready to reach out. He felt glad the gunman hadn’t been Bowman, the Santa with a Scottie. But he was more glad to be here almost within touching distance of the woman he loved.

  Shay’s voice. The shuffling of the crowd. The drum beat. “Amazing Grace.” He could wrap his voice around her.

  She turned and looked at him. He was so ready to fold her in his arms right that moment. But then she grimaced. Maybe he should have left her alone. So much for the ring he’d carried in his pocket for months.

  He kept on singing, but more softly now. His heart wasn’t in it anymore.

  * * *

  Last winter I’d had a conversation with Harper. He’d told me some things about himself, and I’d been all ready to tell him about Dirk, but somehow the look on his face hadn’t been the kind I wanted to dissipate by saying, By the way, I have a fourteenth-century ghost who follows me around everywhere. Once that chance was gone, there just hadn’t been a right time in the intervening months to introduce the topic.

  Now I felt like maybe we were back on track, but then something in his voice shifted—I didn’t know why—and he looked away from me, so I turned back to face the piper.

  When the song concluded, Shay snatched up the microphone again. “We’re going to continue the Games, lads and lassies!”

  Continue? Is it safe? I wondered. What if there’s another assassin?

  “I conferred with Archie a moment ago,” Shay said, “and he’s been assured by the Secret Service that the perpetrator has been arrested. We will not let the actions of a lone criminal stop the Hamelin Highland Games.”

  A roar of approval went up from the crowd. I could feel the palpable relief overflowing from them. After all, a lot of these people planned their vacation every year around this event. Why would they want to lose their fun? It would have been different, I was sure, if the president had been shot or the governor had died. But both men were safe, the weasel who’d shot at the president had been caught, and Shay was acting in full cheerleader mode as the late-summer sun sank behind the mountain to the west of town. Lights around the meadow came on as Shay called out, “Let the Games begin!”

  As soon as Shay’s final word faded, the drummers began. Fiddlers dotted around the meadow struck up “Scotland the Brave,” something they did every year as if it were spontaneous, even though I’d heard them timing it. Four beats later, the bagpipes were going at full blast. It never failed to thrill me.

  Off to my left, I heard a sour note. Several sour notes, in fact. Shoe. I should have known he’d try to join in. Dirk had explained to me that the leumluaths were either three—or was it four? I wasn’t sure—trilling notes played very quickly. And the taorluaths were four—or three?—sort of like grace notes, only he hadn’t used that term. It hadn’t been invented yet when he was alive.

  12

  ’Tis now the very witching time of night.

  ACT 3, SCENE 2

  Nobody wanted to listen to speeches. Even Congressman Leonzini was smart enough not to try to hold anyone’s attention for long. If the governor had been available, I think people might have settled down, but as it was, there was almost a fever pitch of energy flowing through the crowd.

/>   I looked for Harper, but he’d faded back into the throng. Each time I spotted him, it seemed he was farther from me. So much for all the dreams I’d had about us. Finally, I gave up and looked for Big Willie instead. Even with Karaline and Dirk’s help, Big Willie remained invisible.

  “Mayhap he didna come,” Dirk said.

  “He wouldn’t miss the opening.” I think I sounded as indignant as I felt. “Nobody misses the opening.”

  Karaline wrapped her pink-and-black horse blanket around her. “If he and Silla took those two long walks today, maybe they were both tuckered out. I wouldn’t worry if I were you.”

  I wasn’t completely convinced, but I sort of halfway agreed with her.

  The dancing competitions were always one of my favorite parts of the Games, but tonight they seemed forced, frantic almost. The sun had set, and the stadiumlike light poles around the meadow blazed with garish intensity. Here and there, campfires sent sparks whooshing up into the night sky. I could hear the cries of babies, the squeals of toddlers awake long past their bedtime, the brash expectancy as groups of men recounted where they had been and what they had thought when the rifle shot was first heard. I saw the gathering in of families as mothers rounded up small children, as fathers made sure their daughters were safe within the fold. Who, I wondered, would make sure I was safe? Who would care if someday I didn’t show up when and where I was expected?

  I clutched my arisaidh more tightly around me. No Willie. No Harper. No wonder the night already felt cold.

  But then Karaline smiled at me, and Dirk said, “I am so verra glad the twa o’ ye are safe.”

  What was I worried about? Karaline and Dirk would care. That was all I needed. Across the meadow, though, I saw Harper pause in front of the piper’s tent, and a chill breeze surrounded me.

  * * *

  We left before the first round of Highland dance competition was completed. Tomorrow would be a long day, and I wanted a hot shower and a great deal of sleep. I was glad the failed assassination hadn’t put a complete damper on the festivities. At the same time, I was appalled that people seemed able to forget so soon what could have been a total tragedy.

  K and I said a brief hello to Mr. P, my neighbor, who stood on the edge of the crowd, but we didn’t stop. Karaline and Dirk preceded me through the flower arch. We were about the only ones leaving, except for a couple towing two disgruntled children. As I watched, the father scooped up the shorter child. Far ahead of them, a long-skirted woman passed through the puddled gold of one of the streetlights, but she was traveling faster than we were, so I soon lost sight of her. We didn’t talk. I was too tired, and Karaline seemed distracted. Dirk appeared—well—more ghostly than usual. I could see details through him that usually were obscured—not just the streetlights, but the lampposts themselves, the closed blossoms on the daylilies that surrounded the trees along Main Street, the lone bicyclist who passed us.

  I always walked during the Games. Parking was ample, but with thousands of extra people—and cars—in town, feet were a better mode of transportation. It wasn’t far from the meadow to my house, but we detoured to see Karaline safely home. By the time we circled back to Hickory Lane and passed Mr. Pitcairn’s dark house, my feet were dragging.

  I sensed Dirk stiffen beside me, and he placed his hand on the hilt of his dagger. “Who would that be?”

  I’d forgotten to leave the front porch light on. “Who? What are you talking about?”

  “There is a person—nae—a woman sitting on the . . . the moving bench.”

  To Dirk, swing was a verb, not a noun.

  As I walked up the wheelchair ramp—installed several years ago after my twin brother fell off the frame around a dinosaur skeleton he was repairing—the dark figure stood. There wasn’t enough moonlight to see her. Dirk moved slightly in front of me.

  Her voice was a slightly breathy contralto. “It’s about time you got home. I’d have brought my sleeping bag if I’d known you’d take this long.”

  I thought she might be the woman I’d seen walking so quickly up the hill ahead of us. She looked vaguely familiar. Maybe she’d been in the shop? But what on earth was she doing here? And why was she so grumpy? “Can I help you somehow?”

  She brushed a wispy curl back from her rather prominent forehead. “My name is Paisley Mackenzie. My husband and I built this house right after we married in 1950. I couldn’t imagine anyone would take as good care of it as I did.”

  I took a breath and opened my mouth to thank her.

  “And I can see I was right.”

  I closed my mouth.

  She gestured to her right, seeming to indicate the sweep of my bird- and bee-friendly front yard. “Why on earth did you take out our lovely front lawn? No, don’t even try to explain yourself. You’re probably one of those back-to-nature would-be hippies.”

  Hippies? That was more my mother’s generation than mine, although the thought of my straitlaced mother as a hippie was more than I could imagine. “I’m not—”

  “I can see you flitting through all those . . .” She shuddered. “Those dandelions, probably making daisy chains to wear in your hair. Do you picnic in the clover?”

  The night washes away most vestiges of color. There was just enough moonlight—and the stars seemed particularly bright—so the yard looked good, no matter what she said. I loved the texture of it, trees, wildflowers, weeds, and all. The white clover blossoms looked like little stars. “Clover provides nectar for bumblebees and honeybees.”

  “Ye needna raise your voice, Mistress Peigi. She is mourning what was once hers and isna any the now.”

  I moderated my tone. “If you saw it in the daylight, Mrs. Mackenzie, I’m sure you’d be able to appreciate all the lovely flowers.”

  “We’ll see about that. When I come back, I’d like a tour through the inside, although from what I’ve seen out here, you probably painted every wall a different color.”

  She thought I was going to invite her back? Dirk was uncharacteristically quiet. Why didn’t he do something? Like draw his hand across her forehead. Then I could watch her screech before she ran away.

  Wind murmured though the branches of the beech tree. My unwelcome visitor pulled her cardigan more tightly around her. She looked old. She looked vulnerable. I felt ashamed of my unkind impulses.

  I nodded toward the beech. “Are you the one who planted the trees?”

  Even as dark as it was—Hickory Lane doesn’t have any streetlights—I couldn’t miss the look of horror. “Of course not. Those people did that”—she invested the word with so much venom, I took a step backward—“the ones who bought the house when Ken and I had to move to Chicago.”

  Dirk took a step toward her. “Why did ye have to go?”

  As often happened, I halfway expected her to answer Dirk’s question.

  “This has been a wasted trip.” She dusted her hands together, as if ridding herself of unwelcome grime. “At least the hotel is still well run.” Dirk moved out of her way, and she paused at the top of the ramp. She seemed to be looking at Mr. P’s house next door. “I’ll be back tomorrow.”

  My feet were screaming. “No. I mean, I’m not here during the day. Not until the festival is over. I own the ScotShop, and we have a booth in the meadow.”

  “The ScotShop?” She touched the paisley scarf at her neck. In the pale moonlight it was nothing but pattern, with no discernible color.

  I was pretty sure it came from my store. Of course. She was the woman who’d been in the ScotShop this afternoon, the one who’d been eating the Cornish pasty in the meadow this morning. I wondered if she’d try to return the brown scarf now that she knew the store owner had ruined her precious lawn.

  “I’ll see you next week, then,” she said. “I’m staying for a few weeks, so there’s time for me to see everything.” She glided down the ramp. Despite her girth, there was nothin
g even vaguely elderly in her stride. I wondered if she practiced yoga. Halfway down the driveway she turned and looked at the Pitcairn house. Mr. P was still in the meadow watching the dancing, so his house was dark. Almost foreboding. She shook her head and left.

  “Ye maun go in, Mistress Peggy. I can tell ye favor your feet.”

  I unlocked the door. “I’m trying to get them to stop hurting.”

  “Aye, is that no what I said?”

  I slipped out of my shoes and into my softest pair of slippers. Breathing a sigh of relief, I scooped Shorty into my arms and headed upstairs. A long hot shower, followed by enough hot chocolate to fell a horse, and I’d be ready for bed. But first, I removed the plastic necklace from my belt bag and stretched it out on my dresser. It still looked different; I could swear it was newer, shinier somehow.

  * * *

  “I wish I knew what went on in that old house this evening,” I said to Dirk about half an hour later.

  “Mistress Fairing, the constable, surprised the man with the . . .” His voice trailed off.

  “Rifle,” I suggested.

  “Ryefull. Is that what ye call it? Aye. She made him miss his mark.”

  “And just how would you know that?”

  “I heard her tell the other constable.”

  “You mean Murphy?”

  “Aye. That is his name.”

  I turned my cup of hot chocolate back and forth on the kitchen table. Dirk had remarkable abilities—although it was a shame he couldn’t open doors or turn pages—but I didn’t think his hearing was that acute. “Even you couldn’t hear that far away.”