by Fran Stewart
Murphy headed for his computer. Harper got up stiffly, stretched, and walked to the window. The glass reflected his face. The twilight outside reflected only the dismal state of this investigation. Tomorrow, Sunday, was the final day of the Games. After that, people would leave. Was Cord one of the visitors to Hamelin? Or was Cord a local who would stay? Harper had no idea.
* * *
I glanced at my watch. It was time for me to head down to the meadow, as I tried to do each evening of the Games. Before Dirk and I left, I pulled Gilda aside. “I don’t want either of the temps back in the storeroom at any time. If stocks get low, just make a note of it and wait to replenish them until we have a lull, and then only one of you goes back there at a time. I want all of you, unless you’re at the cash register, circulating around the store as much as possible, keeping an eye on everything.”
She nodded. “I get it, boss. We have to keep the merchandise from flying out the door.”
“That’s right. Unless it’s been paid for, in which case it can fly as far as it wants to and as fast as it can.”
Dirk waited until we were partway down Main Street before he commented, “Ye appear to be worrited indeed.”
“I guess I am. It seems like there’s been more shoplifting this year than ever before. Don’t people realize when they steal, eventually the prices of everything will have to go up so the retailers can pay their overhead costs?” I felt like I was on the verge of tears. It all seemed so unfair, and then with Big Willie’s murder . . .
“Aye. I ken that weel. And so do ye. And so does Mistress Gilda.”
“Now if we could just get the rest of the world informed.”
He stepped in front of me and I ground to a halt. “What?”
“Mistress Peggy, there are a great many things I see that appear to me to be wrong in this world o’ . . . o’ now . . .”
I nodded, but before I could say anything, he went on.
“But I have also seen a great many good people here, now, who care about ither folk, who ken what needs to be done and who do it weel, people who treat their friends wi’ love and their acquaintances wi’ respect.”
“Where are you headed with this, Macbeath?”
“I do believe ye need to take adequate care to make sure your wee shop is safe, but I dinna like to see ye in such a dither. ’Tis nae good for your health whan that ye are all a-flutter so much o’ the time. And more than a’ that, ye canna tend the goats in the next valley.”
“Goats?”
“Ye willna make much headway against the flood if ye try to stop it w’ a wee spoon.”
“Spoon?”
He let out an exasperated breath. “Ye canna change the whole world, Mistress Peggy.”
“Oh. I see what you’re getting at. Who made you a psychiatrist?”
“What would be—”
“Never mind.” I walked a few steps. “Thank you.”
“Ye are most welcome.”
* * *
Fairing had to take her turn in the meadow for an evening rotation of about two hours. Even with officers and security guards from neighboring towns borrowed for the duration of the Games, the Hamelin police were too spread out to handle all the crowd control, traffic, and general police presence needed during the four-day period. Harper and Murphy were still poring over reports and throwing ideas around, reading and rereading the autopsy findings—broken neck, with death caused by strangulation, which, of course, they’d already guessed.
She left the station and turned to her right. Peggy Winn stood on the sidewalk across from the station, talking to herself. Fairing wondered what that was about. She liked Peggy. Cops didn’t usually have too many noncop friends, though. They just wouldn’t understand.
Fairing walked down the street and through the arch. She headed for the piper’s tent, feeling a wave of nostalgia for her assassin patrol, as she’d begun to think of it. Crazy thing to feel nostalgic about.
She began to notice couples, some of them walking hand in hand, some of them chatting busily, some of them barely seeming to acknowledge each other’s presence. She wondered which of these couples might be the necklace woman and her coughing husband. Even discounting the women with short hair, there were still a lot of possibilities. And the woman might have cut her hair as a way of disguising herself. Now there was a happy thought.
She heard some mighty groans and cheers, so she migrated to the hammer throw area. It looked like it had been going for quite some time; there were deep divots of dirt torn up by the sixteen-pound hammer slamming into the soil time and time again. Soon they’d start the next round, where the hammers weighed twenty-two pounds. By then it would be full dark, but the Games must go on until each contestant had had his three tries at each event scheduled for today.
The lights that ringed the athletic field on this end of the meadow were worthy of a college football stadium. Hamelin, Marti’s hometown, had a tremendous investment in these games, and Marti wouldn’t let a couple of crooks—and a murderer, she reminded herself—scare everybody into leaving.
She watched as the most recent throw was measured. From the trig, the board that marked the line behind which the contestant planted his feet, they stretched a ruled line to the hole in the grass where the hammer landed. Pretty straightforward. She looked at the people of all ages cheering and calling encouragement. Fairing couldn’t imagine why anyone would want a son playing around with hammer throwing. She could imagine all the broken windows and a few broken arms that must result when young boys and men began to learn the sport. It took a lot of control to let the handle of the hammer go at just the right moment so it went that way down the field, instead of this way, right into a spectator, or a neighbor’s brand-new car.
Still, her mind kept bringing her back to the question of which couple. At the far end of the meadow was the Tartan Tie booth. Maybe she’d circle that way and see if Peggy Winn had made it to the booth after her weird street-side monologue. She might have recalled some more details about the two people. Fairing was convinced that if she found the woman with the necklace, she’d find Cord.
The crowd watching the hammer throw seemed to surge forward and backward, almost like the sea. Mother never sat still enough for anyone to look closely. Shay’s words were just an echo, just a memory, but Marti heard it clearly. Shay never sat still, either. Was her restlessness caused by guilt?
She calculated. The bonfire would begin at eight tomorrow night. People would start leaving by ten. That left her a little more than a day to find this murderous couple before they left town. If they were even still here. And Marti Fairing couldn’t believe anyone would be stupid enough to stick around after they’d stolen something that valuable. Or after they’d murdered someone.
Still, it would make sense that the cops would look for somebody who’d left unexpectedly. She knew for a fact that Harper had asked one of the junior officers—one of the other junior officers, she corrected herself—to look into that. So far, he hadn’t found anybody who’d left, except for one woman who’d found out her daughter had gone into labor two weeks early.
Hardly a good candidate for their murderer. For Cord.
22
I prithee, take thy fingers from my throat.
ACT 5, SCENE 1
I’d become something of a scarf-tying expert in the seven years I’d owned the ScotShop. With the number of tartan scarves we sold, there were always women wanting to know how to wear them in something more interesting than a square knot or a simple bow.
Every time I did a little demonstration, it resulted in a hefty number of sales. This time was no exception, but all the while I was talking about loops and whorls and twisty roses, I kept an eye on the couples passing by. Surely that woman who had stolen my necklace—I was sure she was the one—wouldn’t have the nerve to show her face anywhere in Hamelin. But I couldn’t stop looking. The more I looked in v
ain, the more certain I was that they’d taken the necklace and skipped town.
After all, who’d have been dumb enough to stick around?
Dirk could tell what I was doing, of course. He stayed out on the periphery of the crowd around the tent, not wanting to collide with anyone. It wasn’t a pleasant feeling for him, and it tended to make the collidee pass out. I spotted him gazing around the meadow, and I knew he was looking, too.
In the back of my mind, I couldn’t erase the picture of Big Willie on the bathroom floor. The necklace was one problem, but the death of that sweet man was an even bigger one. I’d felt sure Harper could locate the murderer, but now he seemed sidetracked by that stupid necklace. It made no sense to me. Until I remembered that he had to clear Fairing’s reputation. And it was my fault that Mac might single her out for a reprimand. If it weren’t for me and my impulsive gift, Harper would have been able to concentrate on the murder.
Well, that just meant I’d have to find the necklace stealer so he could work on the other problem.
And then I saw her. Her husband wasn’t with her. She was walking alone, heading in the general direction of the piper’s tent, skirting around the raised platform where the dance competitions were held. I excused myself, wished everyone there a happy scarf-tying experience, and headed after her, dodging around people as best I could, trying to keep the woman in sight. Her long hair, coupled with her distinctive tartan skirt, set her apart from the countless women thronging the meadow. By the time she reached the pipers, I was almost on her. I could hear Dirk behind me, calling my name. Within seconds, I skidded to a stop beside her. “I need to talk to you,” I said, unsure what precisely I’d say to her.
She spun around to face me.
“Mistress Peggy,” Dirk was saying. “Stop! She isna the one.”
He was right, doggone him. It was the wrong woman. This one was too young, too wide-eyed, too . . . too wrong.
“Did you need me for something?”
“I, uh, I was just wondering what clan your tartan skirt represents.” How lame was that?
“I don’t have the slightest idea,” she said, “but I bought it at a cute little store up the road. Something like the Scottish Shop or whatever it’s called.”
I cringed.
“The guy who sold it to me looked absolutely dreamy in that kilt of his”—Sam, I thought—“and he had this sweet little dog.”
“You must have bought it on Thursday,” I said, for want of anything better to say. “Or maybe early on Friday.”
“That’s right. I bought it yesterday morning. How did you know?”
“Just a lucky guess.” A little luck, and the fact that starting Friday afternoon, I’d had two dogs that hid under the sweater rack, out of sight the entire time.
I thanked her and suggested that she might want to head to that tent over there and buy a scarf to match her skirt. “There are a couple of cute guys in kilts to help you find the right one.” Was that blatant commercialism? I didn’t care. Her eyes widened and she headed off toward the ScotShop booth. I headed for the arch. It was past time for me to go back to the ScotShop. Or whatever it’s called. I felt thoroughly discouraged. And thoroughly fed up with myself.
Of course, even if Dirk had called out to me sooner, I most likely wouldn’t have stopped, but I didn’t have to admit that out loud. And I still didn’t know the name of that tartan. It might have been a clue.
I was about halfway across the meadow when a group of pipers struck up a rousing blast of sound—I couldn’t recall the name of the tune. Ahead of me, I saw Shay pull out her cell phone and punch in a number. She was—still—in storm cloud mode. As I walked past, she turned her back to the pipers, clapped her free hand over her free ear, and said, “It’s about time you got back to your room. Why don’t you carry a cell so I can reach you when I need to?”
Her stiffening back didn’t look happy with the answer she must have been hearing, although how anyone could hear anything over the sound of the bagpipes, I had no idea. I edged a little closer to her. Dirk got even closer. I saw him tighten the shawl around the hilt of his dagger.
The pipers marched nearer still, and the sound swirled around us. I’d have to depend on Dirk to tell me what was going on.
When Shay snapped her phone back into the holder on her belt, he turned to me and raised his voice to such a bellow I could imagine the sound pouring from the throats of ancient Scots charging down a hill to repel invaders. “I will follow her. Something is awry, and I dinna want to—”
With bagpipes braying right beside me, I missed the last part of his sentence. “I will see ye at the wee shop anon,” he shouted as the pipers moved away from me. He turned to follow Shay, and they both were soon lost to my sight among the crowd.
Anon. That meant soon. Good.
* * *
Mistress Burns pounded on the hotel room door. When the long-haired woman opened it, Mistress Burns pushed her way in and Dirk slipped through just before the door slammed. “Where did you get it, Dolores?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Don’t play games with me. You’re in this up to your scrawny neck, and I want some answers. I know you’re involved.”
The woman pushed back her tangled brown hair. “Involved in what?”
“I said, don’t try your games on me. Where’s that worthless brother of mine? He’s part of it, too.”
“It’s hammer throw time. You know he can’t miss any of the events.”
“So why aren’t you there, cheering him on the way you usually do?”
“He said I should . . . uh . . . stay here.”
“Stay out of sight, you mean? So the cops won’t see you?”
“What do the cops have to do with this?”
“Little Miss Innocent, is that the way you’re going to play it? Then please explain to me how that cop got hold of the imitation necklace.”
“Cop? What cop? What do you mean?”
“Like you don’t know?” Mistress Burns strode around the room. Dirk had to jump onto the bed to keep her from running into him. “This is too much coincidence. You come to town and a necklace that’s been missing for ten years just happens to show up? I saw it in the police station.”
“The cops have it? That shopkeeper must have realized it was a fake.”
“What shopkeeper?” Mistress Burns pulled out a chair and sat at the small round table by the curtained window. Dirk stepped off the bed and inspected the rest of the room. The more Mistress Dolores stammered, the less Mistress Burns seemed to believe her.
“I mean, uh, somebody must have thought it was fake and, like, turned it in.”
Mistress Burns narrowed her eyes. Dirk wouldna ha’ wanted to be the object of such scrutiny. “And just how did it get here, to Hamelin, in the first place?”
“Maybe Robert sold it to her,” Mistress Dolores said.
Dirk did not recognize the name, but it looked as if it was well-known to Mistress Burns, considering the way she pursed her lips, as tight as the drawstring bag at her waist.
“Did that ever occur to you? It could have been Robert. After all, he lives here.” Mistress Dolores sank down onto the chair on the other side of the small table.
“I know he lives here, but how could someone as inept as Robert have gotten his hands on the imitation to begin with? It was stolen along with the original.”
The long-haired woman massaged one hand, as if it pained her. Mayhap it did. Her knuckles were swollen, just like the aulde grannies in his village.
Mistress Burns snaked her arm out so fast Dirk hardly saw it happen. “You’re lying, Dodie.” She tightened her hold on Mistress Dolores’s arm, so much so that her knuckles went white. As white as her bloodless lips. “Tell me the truth. Now.”
Dirk moved closer and studied the faces of the two women. One was red and angry. One was
white and angry. He couldna tell which one was the worse.
“All right. I’ll tell you. But let me go.”
Mistress Burns opened her hand slowly, as if her fingers didna want to cooperate. She left her hand lying there on the table within striking distance.
“I didn’t know anything about the necklace for a long time. Windsor told me—only a couple of years ago—that he found it in the bushes after the burglary. We all went out looking, remember, as soon as we noticed the silver tea service was gone. Windsor said that when he found it, he knew it was just the fake and nobody would be interested in that. He thought maybe the thieves had dropped it on their way out. He . . . saved it. He was going to give it to me for our twentieth anniversary next February but I found where he’d hidden it, so he gave it to me for our eighteenth instead. That’s when he told me how he’d gotten it.”
“You’ve known about this for two years?”
“Not two.” She looked down at her fingers and seemed to be counting on them. “One and a half.”
“Why didn’t you tell anyone? Why didn’t you tell me? That necklace was supposed to be mine.”
“This one was just the fake. You never would have worn it.”
Dirk could believe that for certes.
Mistress Burns leaned forward. “You said a shopkeeper. What shopkeeper?”
“That Scottish store. The one up the street on the other side.”
“What does the ScotStore have to do with the necklace?”
Mistress Dolores began to rub her hand again.
“Tell me.” Mistress Burns lowered her voice ’til ’twas almost a growl. “You don’t want to know what I’ll do to you if you don’t.”
“She had the real one.” Mistress Dolores squeaked like a wee mousie. “It had to be the real one. There couldn’t be another one like it. Last week we walked into that shop and saw it on sale for practically nothing, and . . . and Windsor thought we ought to make a trade.”
“A trade? A trade?” Mistress Shay’s upper lip curled back like a wildie about to jump a goat. “It’s called stealing, Dodie. But no matter what you call it, you stole my necklace. Did you honestly think nobody would notice?”