A Wee Homicide in the Hotel

by Fran Stewart

  21

  There is a willow grows aslant a brook.

  ACT 4, SCENE 7

  I was surprised to see Shay come out of the police station as I approached the door. She had one of her storm cloud expressions on, and I was just as happy when she turned downhill, away from me.

  “Does she no look as if her milk had gone and curdled afore she had her churn prepared?”

  “If you say so. I thought she looked like a hurricane a-brewing.”

  “What would be a ‘herrikehna bruing’?”

  “I’ve shown you the weather channel. You know, those big storms out over the Atlantic?”

  “Och, aye. The large circles and . . .” He spread his plaid and gave it a quick sideways shake. It looked surprisingly like the swirling clouds of a major hurricane.

  “Swirls,” I said, and made the movement with my hand.

  “Swir-rels,” he said, using two syllables for the word, the same way he said squirrels. Poor Dirk. He’d never seen the ocean, and no matter how many pictures I showed him, he simply didn’t seem able to grasp the enormity of that much water. Or that big a storm.

  I stopped at the desk inside the front door, but heard Harper speaking my name before I could say anything. He walked toward me, and opened the little swinging door between the two major sections of the room. I slowed to let Dirk go through ahead of me.

  “It shouldn’t take too long,” he said, obviously misinterpreting my pause, and led the way to a back room.

  Dirk walked in ahead of me and nodded pleasantly to Marti Fairing. “Good day, Mistress, uh, Constable.” Of course, she didn’t respond.

  I said good afternoon, too, but she stood there as stiff as a store mannequin.

  The necklace lay on the table beside her.

  Behind me, Harper closed the door.

  “You probably think I’m an idiot,” I said, “to give away such an expensive necklace, but believe me I didn’t know what it was until just a little while ago when Gilda told me.”

  “Told you what?” He sounded genuinely curious. That was good. He didn’t sound angry.

  “That it was worth a lot of money. She said she’s known right from the start when I first put it up for sale, but I’d never let her polish it up because I thought it was fake and thought the silver paint might flake off and thought the plastic might discolor, only she thought I just wanted to keep it looking old, so she never mentioned its value and I never mentioned what I’d paid for it.”

  I wound down my spiel and turned to Marti. I hated to ask for a gift back, but I was fairly sure the police department wouldn’t let her accept such a valuable present anyway. “Do you want me to take it back? I have several other necklaces that you could choose from instead. I guess you can’t keep it. Not with its being worth as much as it is.”

  Marti Fairing didn’t answer me.

  Harper just kept looking at me, as if he were trying to piece together a puzzle. “Just out of curiosity, what did you pay for it?”

  “About three dollars if I remember right. I bought it at a flea market in Montpelier, beside the river, where all those willow trees are, shortly after I opened the ScotShop. Only then, yesterday—or was it the day before? I can’t remember—I picked it up and thought it didn’t look right and it didn’t feel as heavy, and I couldn’t figure out what had happened to it, so I just decided to take it out of my inventory. Nobody had even tried it on in about five years except for that one woman who’s been coming in every day for the past week and asking us—well, asking Gilda—to let her try it on, only she never bought it, and I couldn’t see hanging on to something that wouldn’t sell. I told her I’d mark it down by twenty-five percent, but even that didn’t entice her into buying it, so I thought I’d rather give it away and be done with it.”

  Why was I chattering like a magpie? Marti Fairing stood there like a statue, and Harper examined me like I was a fresh corpse—I shuddered at that thought—and Dirk hadn’t said anything at all.

  “You mentioned Gilda—that would be Ms. Buchanan, your store manager?”

  I nodded. He knew that perfectly well. Why was he asking me?

  “You said she thought it was valuable?”

  “She did. I didn’t agree. It looked kind of, well, dowdy, just hanging there on its stand. I thought it made all the rest of the necklaces in the case look better by comparison, though, which may be one reason I kept it. Then, just a little while ago, she told me it had been stolen and she was all upset to lose such a valuable item even though she said I wasn’t charging nearly enough for it, that it was worth ten times as much.”

  “How much were you trying to sell it for?”

  When I told him, he glanced at Fairing, and she shook her head. What was that about?

  “And why did Ms. Buchanan think it had been stolen?”

  “She didn’t know I’d taken it to give to Marti—to Sergeant Fairing.”

  “But you said it felt different to you?”

  I nodded and thought back, trying to remember when I’d gotten that impression.

  “’Twas just before you left the wee shop to go to the ceremony o’ the opening,” Dirk informed me helpfully.

  “That’s right. It was Thursday just after I’d closed the wee—the shop. I walked past the counter and it looked . . . I don’t know . . . different somehow. And when I picked it up, it felt lighter. Or something. It’s hard to explain.”

  “The necklace was heavy?”

  Why did Harper keep asking me all these questions about the stupid necklace? Didn’t he have a murder to solve? “Yes. I’ve told you that. It always felt, uh, like it mattered somehow, if you know what I mean. But now, it . . . doesn’t.” I turned to Marti. “I don’t want you to think I was giving you junk. It’s still a really cute necklace, especially if there isn’t a better necklace right next to it. I mean, I . . . I don’t know what I’m trying to say.”

  “I think I’m beginning to understand,” Harper said. “Tell me more about the woman who came in to try on the necklace.”

  I thought back. “Gilda usually handles the jewelry. I noticed the woman come in several times, but I didn’t pay much attention to her. I know she was there Thursday morning, but Gilda waited on her. I saw the woman try it on and then she left, only I wasn’t paying a whole lot of attention. But then she came back later to look at it again.”

  “On Thursday?”

  “That’s right. Gilda was busy with another customer, so I opened the case and let the woman try it on.”

  “And then,” Dirk said, “dinna forget about how her man began to cough.”

  “That’s right. I’d forgotten that.”

  “Forgotten what?”

  Oh dear. “Her husband choked or something. He was coughing so hard he doubled all the way over. I was about ready to run and help him when he pulled out his water bottle and drank something, and then he seemed to be okay.”

  “Where was he when he started coughing?”

  “Over by Dir—uh, by the poet shirts. He was looking at them. Next to the front display window.”

  “What was his wife doing during all this?”

  “I didna notice the wife.”

  I nodded. “She was finished trying it on, I guess, and she draped it on the stand—it’s one of those black velvet things for displaying necklaces—and I put it back in the case because she said she couldn’t make up her mind. And then they left without even looking at anything else. I thought he’d at least want to buy a poet shirt.”

  Harper looked back up at Fairing and she nodded.

  “And you’re sure Ms. Buchanan was convinced of the value of the necklace before that?”

  “Absolutely. When I told her I’d given it away, she about bit my head off.”

  “When was that?”

  I looked at my watch. “An hour or two ago.”

 
; “Can you describe the woman? And her husband?”

  Marti Fairing sat down and pulled out a notebook.

  * * *

  It was the same old song. Distract the storeowner; switch the merchandise. Only Marti Fairing couldn’t figure out how such an elaborate necklace played into this. Shay Burns must have been right. The real necklace, her mother’s necklace, was worth a minor fortune. But how had it ended up in a flea market? And how had the couple with the fake necklace known it was at the ScotShop? For that matter, how had they gotten the fake necklace in the first place?

  She knew thieves didn’t get a fraction of the value of stolen goods when they tried to resell them, but surely even a fence would have recognized the value of that ivory-and-silver piece. Especially a fence. Wasn’t it illegal to sell ivory? Or, if not completely illegal, at least there were a lot of restrictions. And now someone, this anonymous couple who had their switch routine down pat—all they’d had to do was wait until they were dealing with someone who was easily distracted—had a necklace worth thousands and the cops had a necklace worth a few dollars, and nobody had proof of anything. This was, truly, all speculation at this point. And how had the couple gotten their hands on the fake necklace to begin with, unless it had been part of the original heist?

  Harper had asked all the right questions, but it hadn’t seemed to get them any closer to an answer.

  Even the description Peggy gave them seemed generic. The man had had on a gray-blue kilt. The woman had long hair and a brown tartan skirt. That would describe, let’s see, maybe 45 percent of the strangers in town and 55 percent of the residents.

  When Harper told Peggy this necklace was a fake one, she’d seemed almost relieved, and then she said she didn’t believe it, and then he’d shown her what Shay had pointed out. Why was he giving a possible suspect so many details? Marti knew why. Peggy wasn’t a suspect. It was all there in the way Harper was so careful about not saying Peggy’s name, or taking a deep breath before he said it, how he avoided touching her, how he tried to school his face when he looked at her. Marti liked Harper like a big brother. She knew he was a great police officer. But she knew he was a man, too. And she could practically see the waves of love pouring off him when Peggy Winn entered a room. Why on earth was Peggy so oblivious?

  Fairing had never been interested in dating or in all those silly games teenage girls seemed to thrive on. Who was going out with whom, who had a date to the prom. But just for a moment, Fairing wondered if Peggy might benefit from a little hint. On the other hand, she and Peggy weren’t really friends. Not the kind that could say something like that to each other.

  Fairing watched Harper open the swinging door for Peggy. Peggy stopped for a second, almost as if she wasn’t ready to leave, but then she walked to the front door, held it open and—this was crazy, but Fairing halfway imagined she saw somebody walk out through the door. It was obviously a trick of the sunlight being at a funny angle or something, but for a split second, it had looked so real. Like a man in a kilt. Then Peggy left and Harper turned back around.

  “We need to talk,” he said to Fairing, and called Murphy into the conference room.

  * * *

  Gilda didn’t believe me when I told her the necklace was a fake, just plastic and silver-colored beads. “That can’t be true,” she said. “I know what it felt like. I handled it almost every day.”

  “No, you didn’t. It’s only been the last few days that anyone’s wanted to try it on.”

  Gilda lowered her eyes. “I used to try it on myself whenever you weren’t in the store. I really loved that necklace. The ivory was so, so soft almost, and the leaves had those delicate veins carved into them. Each leaf was a tiny work of art. Didn’t you ever notice?”

  “It just looked like plastic to me.”

  She rolled her eyes at me. “I hate to be the one to tell you, Peggy, but your artistic sense is sorely lacking.”

  “And you’re wrong about the leaves, Gilda. Harper showed me how all the leaves were the same, and the design was stamped on.”

  Gilda got very still. “Are you sure about that?”

  “Of course I’m sure. He showed me under a very bright light.”

  “Then somebody,” she said with great precision, “stole the real one and replaced it with the cheap imitation.”

  “That’s impossible.”

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about, Peggy Winn. I studied that necklace. Really studied it. Each leaf had its own . . . personality.”

  “Mayhap that is why our constable asked so many questions?”

  “Yeah. Mayhap.”

  “Huh?”

  “Nothing, Gilda. Just thinking.”

  Of course, there was a huge inrush of customers right then—not that I wasn’t grateful for paying customers, but it left me with very little time to think about what Gilda had said or whether I should call Harper about it.

  Nonsense. There was no reason to call him. He needed to concentrate on the murder investigation. Why had he even taken the time to ask about the necklace when he needed to be finding out who’d killed Big Willie? Why were his priorities so skewed?

  That was easy to answer. The police department had to be careful about officers accepting bribes.

  As if I’d try to bribe Marti Fairing?

  A mental image of our illustrious chief of police came to mind. He’d probably like nothing better than to find an excuse to fire Marti. It looked like Harper’s priorities were right where they needed to be. Protecting his fellow officers.

  I wished for one brief, useless moment that he wanted to protect me.

  Not that I needed any protection. I was fine. I was a successful businesswoman. I had everything I needed.

  Then why did I feel sad?

  It was because of Big Willie’s death. And Silla’s malaise. That was why.

  I bent to help a customer try on some ghillie brogues. Two hours till closing time. I couldn’t wait to take my dog home and put my feet up.

  * * *

  Harper listened to all the arguments, frustrated that it was all speculation. Here it was late evening already and they weren’t getting anywhere.

  “Somebody,” Fairing said, “stole the real one and replaced it with this cheap imitation.”

  Murphy ran the beads and leaves around and around through his fingers, pausing each time he reached the simple clasp. Harper knew it still felt like there was a fine layer of fingerprint powder on it, although if Murphy kept handling it like that, the grit would be gone soon enough.

  “And,” Murphy said, “whoever did it—probably that guy and his wife who kept trying on the necklace, waiting for a time when nobody was watching—must have had this planned for a long time.”

  “But how,” said Harper, “did they know the real necklace was in the ScotShop?”

  “Or did they just happen to notice it one day and say, ‘Oh, look’?” Murphy’s voice went into a silly falsetto. “‘There’s the necklace we’ve been waiting to steal all these years.’”

  Fairing grimaced. “It does sound pretty stupid when you put it that way, but how else could anyone have had an exact fake available unless they’d stolen the fake from the Burns family to begin with?”

  “If they stole the fake,” Harper asked, “why did they let the real one, worth so much money, sell for three dollars in a flea market?”

  Fairing shifted in her chair. “If what Ms. Burns says is true, anyone who saw the two necklaces together could tell the difference.” She used both palms to push her hair back off her forehead, and the big bruise showed purplish and greenish. Harper was fairly sure she’d forgotten about it. “I can’t believe this whole thing happened. And it has to be connected to Big Willie’s death. With everybody related—Big Willie to Lorena, and Lorena to Shay—it’s just too much coincidence to think there’s not a connection.”

 
Murphy laid his palms flat on the table. “It keeps coming back to Shay.” He looked at Harper and Fairing. “Do you think she’s our Cord?”

  Fairing cleared her throat—for real this time, Harper thought. Not like that fake throat clearing she’d used to get Shay to calm down. “I agree she’s part of the necklace mess,” she said, “but that doesn’t necessarily mean she killed William Bowman.”

  Harper couldn’t believe she was still defending the woman, not after the way Burns had tried to lord it over Fairing. And not after that let my sister die thing.

  “Let’s say your fake necklace there got stolen along with the real one,” Fairing said. “Maybe by the husband-wife team. And then maybe they get robbed by somebody else and lose the real necklace.”

  Murphy started to make a rude gesture, but Harper quelled him with a look. Murphy settled for “Are you in fairy-tale land, Fairing? What are the chances of that happening?”

  “Snowball in you-know-where?”

  Murphy went into falsetto again. “You got that right, Secret Service Catcher.”

  Fairing grinned, as if she thought the jibe was funny. But Murphy was right, Harper thought. What were the chances?

  “She had the rings,” Murphy insisted. “And all we have is her word that he gave them to her. Not a single witness.”

  “We also don’t have anything that says he didn’t give them to her.”

  He laid the necklace on the table, none too gently. “Why are you defending her?”

  “Why are you so ready to indict her?”

  “That’s enough, you two.” Harper leaned back in his chair. “Are we agreed that the necklace is somehow connected to the murder?”

  “Yes,” said Fairing.

  “No,” said Murphy. “Maybe,” he added reluctantly.

  “But not necessarily connected to Burns,” Fairing said.

  They were back at square one. Cord—one. Cops—zero.

  “Murphy, I want you to look into the death of Bowman’s wife. Find out if it was natural. Or otherwise. How long she was in a coma, too.”