by Fran Stewart
“Which direction did she come from?”
Harper laid a finger on the map.
The flowered arch. At the end of Main. Where the hotel stood only a few blocks up the street.
Fairing couldn’t see Shay as Cord, though. First of all, she didn’t move like somebody who’d studied martial arts long enough to know how to give a killing—or at least a paralyzing—blow to the back of someone’s neck. She voiced her concern, and Murphy snorted.
“Secondly,” she said, “doesn’t Shay live farther up Main?”
Harper nodded. “Third house above the hardware store.”
How would he know that? Fairing stared at him.
“Moira told me.”
Moira ought to know. She knew everything about everybody in town. Except who had a reason to kill Big Willie Bowman. “So, why couldn’t she have been coming from her house?”
“You on her side?”
“I’m on the side of reason, Murph.” Even as she said it, she knew it sounded corny.
Murphy saluted. “Truth, justice, and the American way?”
“You got it.” She stood her ground. She was on the side of justice. Justice represented by the statue of the blindfolded woman with the scales. Not because justice was blind, but because justice should be dispensed equally for everyone. And she couldn’t think of a single reason why they should concentrate solely on Shay Burns.
“You’re right.” Harper lifted his finger from where it hovered over what Fairing assumed was the location of Shay’s house. “And we don’t have a motive for her.”
Murphy made that disgusting sound again. “We don’t have a motive for anybody. Why kill Santa Claus?”
Fairing fiddled with her pencil. Murphy and Harper both had a point. They needed a motive.
“There is one thing,” Harper said, and Fairing could feel her ears perk up. Something about his tone of voice. “We have a witness, Gilda Buchanan, assistant manager at the ScotShop, who heard Ms. Burns accuse William Bowman of letting her sister die.”
Murphy looked confused. “Whose sister?”
“Burns said, ‘You let my sister die.’ That appears to be why she ordered him to get out of town.”
“Bingo,” said Murphy. “Motive.”
“Did you ask Ms. Burns about it, sir?”
“Not yet, Fairing. I saw Ms. Buchanan in the street just this evening. She approached me and told me about the argument she’d overheard.”
Murphy asked, “So, why aren’t we talking to Ms. Burns about this?”
“She’s not home and not answering her phone.”
Fairing still couldn’t see Shay as Cord. “What happened to the dog?”
Harper’s hand, roving over the map again, paused. “Peggy Winn took her home.” He got a funny look on his face that Fairing couldn’t interpret. “I’ll be right back,” he said, and left the station.
* * *
I placed one of the chairs against the side wall to make room for Drew’s wheelchair and settled at the kitchen table across from him. Tessa crawled under the table. Dirk leaned against the counter beside the sink. Silla curled into a ball at my feet. Shorty was nowhere to be seen. I missed her usual greeting, but couldn’t blame her, what with a strange dog in the house. Was this even going to work out? Nonsense, I told myself. Big Willie probably had a will directing who would get Silla if . . . if anything happened. I reached for a tissue.
Dirk stepped forward, but I waved my hand. “I’m okay.”
“No, you’re not. Okay, sis, give. Tell me what’s wrong.”
I couldn’t talk coherently for a minute or two. By the time I had myself under control, Karaline was at the door. Drew wheeled out of the kitchen to let her in. It took the two of them a few minutes to get back to me. I spent the time stroking Silla’s head. She didn’t even move.
Karaline came in, hugged me, and dished up meat loaf, while I sat there like a lump.
The first bit tasted like cardboard, but I gradually thawed out a bit as Karaline and Drew prompted me with gentle questions. Dirk, naturally, added his comments, which Karaline could hear but Drew couldn’t. “Harper told me not to talk about it,” I said, “but I can’t just hold it all inside.”
After I told them everything I could remember, we stared at one another for a few minutes. “It sure would be good,” Karaline said, “if we could solve the case, sort of like we did the other ones. Well”—she looked at me—“like you solved them.”
“I want part of the action this time,” Drew said.
“Fine with me. Any ideas where to start?” But none of us had any ideas at all. Any worth following up on, that is.
“I liked Big Willie so much,” Karaline said. “He reminds me—reminded me—of my uncle Arnold. He’s in his eighties, but still farms. He always has a dog or two following at his footsteps. Always has a big genuine smile for everybody.” She glanced at Drew. “You’ll love him when we—” She clamped her mouth shut.
I looked from her to my brother and back again. “When you what?” Drew shook his head, but he looked guilty and, somehow, pleased at the same time. “What’s going on?”
They stared at each other and I saw some sort of silent signal pass between them, but I couldn’t for the life of me figure out what they were saying. I glanced at Dirk and he raised both hands, palm up in that don’t ask me gesture.
“Cat’s out of the bag,” Drew said.
“Well, now it certainly is.” Karaline smiled at him. She reached out and took his hand, then splayed her other hand, her left hand, flat on the table so I could see the sparkly diamond on her fourth finger.
I jumped to my feet, narrowly avoiding a collision with Silla, and grabbed both of them in the biggest bear hug I could manage.
“I am most pleased for ye, Mistress Karaline. I have great respect for your intended.”
“Thank you. We’re planning a trip next month, so Drew can meet my family.” She looked from me to Dirk. “The rest of my family.” She smiled.
I burst into tears.
“I thought you’d be happy for us,” Drew said. “I’m sorry we didn’t tell you sooner.”
“She is happy,” Karaline explained. “It’s just that, coming so fast on Big Willie’s murder, this feels like it’s too much to take in.” She turned to me. “Is that right, my friend?”
I couldn’t do anything except nod. I felt like a war was waging inside me. I felt so angry over Big Willie’s murder—with his own bagpipe cords. How could anybody have been so cruel? And to lock little Silla in there with the body of her master, somebody she loved with all her little doggie heart? I couldn’t think of a punishment harsh enough for somebody who would do that. And now here I had to shift gears. The love I’d seen developing for a long time between Drew and Karaline, the love I felt for both of them separately and now, soon to be, as a unit—how could I ever express my happiness for them?
I thought of Justice, blindfolded and stately, holding her scales in an outstretched arm.
Hate balanced by love.
Anger balanced by joy.
Which way would the scales tilt?
The doorbell rang.
* * *
Harper wasn’t surprised when Karaline answered the door. After all, her car was in the driveway. Next to Peggy’s brother’s van. “It looks like there’s a party going on,” he said. “Do you mind if I come in for a couple of minutes?”
Karaline reached for his arm and drew him in. “It’s not a party, as I’m sure you’ve already figured out.”
But Harper could sense something—something not related to murder and despair, something buoyant—underneath her words. “I have some things to get out of my car first.”
“Do you need help?”
He shook his head. “Be right back.”
Karaline waited for him to load up with dog bed, red
retractable leash, water bowl, and food.
“I had to sign my life away to remove these from the crime scene,” he told her.
“Thanks,” she said. “Peggy’s going to be so grateful.” She paused. “It may take her a while to thank you, though.”
“I understand.” He followed Karaline to the kitchen.
Peggy sat with a supersized box of tissues next to her plate. She looked up—her eyes were red and swollen—but she said nothing as Harper placed his armload of stuff on the counter. “Where do you want this?” He held out the dog bed. Drew took it from him and set it down beside Peggy’s feet. Harper shifted position a bit so he could see Silla’s reaction.
She perked her ears, looked around, and dropped her head. Peggy reached down and lifted the little dog, setting her gently inside the bed. Silla didn’t even bother to do the doggie-turn-around-three-times thing. Harper thought they always did that. But all she did was sink down and rest her head over her curled-up feet. The perky eyebrows that normally stuck up, giving most Scotties an aura of faint surprise, seemed droopy somehow.
“You want something to eat?” Karaline didn’t even wait for an answer. She pushed him into a chair, the one next to Peggy, whipped out a plate, and piled it with food. “Here. You need your strength for what’s ahead of you.”
“Thanks.” Before he took a bite, he looked at Peggy. “You told them?”
She didn’t meet his eyes. “I know you told me not to talk to anybody about it, but this is my twin.”
“I know. You and he tell each other everything.”
“Not quite everything.” She looked at her brother, and Harper thought the stare was a bit pointed. What was going on?
“And what about me,” Karaline said, taking her place beside Drew. “Don’t I count?”
“Well, of course I’d tell you. Harper knows that.”
The funny thing was, he did know that. He’d known a few hours ago that she was going to tell Karaline everything. And Drew as well, only Harper had thought he was out of town.
The meat loaf was delicious; everything Karaline ever cooked was delicious. But the good food wasn’t enough to stop him from being a cop. “I assume you haven’t solved the case yet,” he said. “Otherwise you would have called me, right?”
He hadn’t meant to be funny, and he was pretty sure he hadn’t been, but for some reason, all three of them burst out laughing. Even Peggy. It didn’t last long, but it lit her face. Harper had to restrain himself from reaching out to her. Hadn’t she made it clear enough she wasn’t interested?
* * *
Silla did not want to leave her bed when this new person tried to coax her out of it. Her bed still smelled like her person. She could not find his smell anywhere else except, just a little, on the floor by the soft cave in that other place. Where the other dog licked her foot.
When the new person picked up the bed, with Silla still in it, Silla simply buried her head deeper into the soft pillowy side and waited to see what would happen. Waited to see if her person would come back.
She barely registered the new room, the gray cat who hissed at her and jumped up on the big person-bed. None of it mattered. Silla would wait as long as she needed to for her person. When he came back for her, she would be ready.
19
O, this is the poison of deep grief.
ACT 4, SCENE 5
Saturday morning, Moira knew she’d be late for work, for the first time ever, but she hoped Mary Beth wouldn’t mind staying a little longer than usual. She didn’t really care, though. Not even with a murder to solve. It seemed like she’d practically lived at the station for, what?—twenty-two years? Had it really been that long? Was she getting burned out? Was that what this attitude—or lack of one—was called? All she wanted to do was stay home today with Russ. She wasn’t even tempted to walk down to the meadow to see any of the exhibits or events.
She had this little one-bedroom house, tucked into a corner lot where Hickory intersected with Maple. Her fridge was ten cubic feet. Her stove had only two burners. Her bathroom was minuscule. She loved it. She really did. And she’d always thought if she ever retired, she’d like spending time here. But now she kind of wondered if maybe she should have bought a bigger place. A house with a guest room.
Yesterday, Russell had insisted he’d get a hotel room, but once he’d made the rounds and found every place booked solid, he’d called her and admitted as how her living room couch sounded mighty fine. When he’d knocked on her front door, he carried a grocery bag full of food. She liked the idea of a man who could cook his own breakfast—and one for her at the same time. He’d make some woman a great husband someday. Maybe they’d settle down right here in Hamelin.
“So, did you sleep okay, Russ? That couch isn’t nearly long enough.”
He plopped some scrambled eggs onto her plate. “Grab yourself some bacon. The couch was fine. Once the Games are over, I’ll get a hotel room and get out of your hair.”
Moira surveyed her full plate, picked up her fork, and said, “You can stay in my hair as long as you want to, sonny, and as long as you can stand that couch. I ain’t complaining.”
He laughed and joined her at the tiny table. “Too bad you have to work. I’ll walk you to the station and then check out the town.”
She scoffed. “Walk me to the station? Ha! You just want a chance to get in on the investigation. Am I right?”
He sure looked cute when he was shamefaced. Just like when he was a little kid.
* * *
The early-morning sunlight poured through my bedroom window. I was already dressed and ready to go, but Silla hadn’t moved. Not even when Shorty investigated her soon after dawn, sniffing almost every hair, one at a time, poking at her tail (what she could see of it) and her ears, and finally placing one gray kitty paw on top of Silla’s head as if to say, I the conquering hero-cat, you the subservient dog. I had a feeling that once Silla got to feeling better, that dynamic might change. If she ever got to feeling better. Maybe she was sick. “Do you think I should take Silla to the vet, Dirk?”
“What would be the vet?”
“You know, a doctor for animals.”
When he didn’t respond, I stopped patting the unresponsive Silla and looked up at my ghost. “What?”
“A doctor? For animals?”
I couldn’t see why the concept should be so alien to him. “Didn’t you have doctors—healers—who helped animals when you were alive?”
“I spent many a sleepless night wi’ the does when ’twas time for kidding.”
Kidding—that meant the birthing of the baby goats. And a doe was a mama goat. I’d learned that much at least over the past year, but there was still a boatload of goat lore I had no clue about.
“Although,” he added, “to be perfectly honest, our family’s goats didna have many the problems.”
“But it sounds like you worried about them.”
“Nae. No so much about the goats as about the wildies who would come around when the sounds o’ the new kids attracted them. Only on occasion did I ha’ to pull on a wee one.”
“Well, I don’t have those sorts of skills, and I’ve never to the best of my knowledge even seen a wildie,” I said, “but I do know when somebody’s drooping.” Before he could question the word, I asked, “Don’t you think Silla should get a checkup?”
“Ye ha’ told me she was naught but a tiny pup when Large William found her in the puppy grinder.”
“Puppy mill,” I said automatically.
“Aye, is that not what I said?”
“Not quite. But never mind that. What was your point?”
“She is a grown dog the now, is she no?”
“Aye. Yes.”
“So-o-o”—he drew the word out until it was several heartbeats long—“he is the only master she has known for the most o’ her life—is that na
e true?”
“Uh-huh.” I thought I could see where this was headed.
“When a woman loses a child, does she no grieve? When a man loses his wife or a wife her husband, do they no mourn?”
I nodded. Dirk was getting downright poetic in his old age—not that he’d ever be anything other than thirty years old, but he seemed to have learned a lot in the past 654 years.
“Why can ye no bear to let the wee doggie grieve in her own way?”
When he put it like that, I had to agree. I gathered up Silla’s red leash, snapped it onto her collar, and picked her up. She hung limp in my arms, and I tucked the end of my arisaidh around her. Maybe she’d get a little comfort from the warmth of it.
I looked back at Dirk. When I was seventy years old, he’d still be thirty. The thought unnerved me, and I hugged Silla a little bit closer.
* * *
Gilda was once again at the ScotShop ahead of me. We seemed to be starting a new trend.
“Are you ready for our extra-long day?”
She nodded. “I slept pretty well last night, so I think I’m up to it.”
Sam knocked on the glass. I could see Shoe right behind him. I let Gilda open the door for them. My arms were still full of Silla. I halfway wished I’d brought her dog bed.
“Shoe,” I said, “will you count on spending most of the day at the tie booth?”
He shrugged. “Sure. I could take my pipes and lure people into the tent that way.”
“You can leave your bagpipe behind,” I said pointedly, “and help with matching people to their clan ties. Understood?”
“Grump,” he said, but his voice was quiet enough that I could pretend not to have heard him. I couldn’t risk his alienating people with the squawks and wheezings of his inexpert playing.
“Where is your bagpipe, by the way?”
He looked hopeful, but only for a moment. Then his eyes strayed back toward the storeroom.
“You didn’t,” I said. “That room is for ScotShop’s excess merchandise—”