“It’s not Angus Grant?”
“Definitely not. Grant is shorter and wider. I can tell that much, even from here.” Liss joined Murch in front of the display window.
“Back in a minute,” he said.
Liss watched, intrigued, as he slipped outside, sauntered across the street, and walked across the square. With the casualness of a man out enjoying the beauty of the morning, he made his way closer to the two men, managing to pass within a foot of them without appearing to take any interest in their conversation. When he stopped, close enough to eavesdrop but ostensibly watching Zara and Sandy Kalishnakof’s two red-haired rug rats play on the monkey bars, neither man paid him the slightest bit of attention.
Ten minutes later, after the two strangers had gone their separate ways, Murch returned to the Emporium.
“Well?” Liss asked.
“Sorry, boss. Nobody confessed to setting the fire.”
Liss rolled her eyes. Nobody outside of badly written detective novels ever got lucky enough to overhear something like that.
“But it’s funny,” Murch said. “The guy your man Eldridge was talking to looks familiar to me. Can’t place him, though.” He shrugged. “It’ll come to me.”
“What were they talking about?”
He chuckled. “You’ll get a kick out of this. Real highbrow discussion those two were having. Talking about Shakespeare, no less.”
“Really?” That was the last thing Liss had expected him to report.
“No joke. The guy I can’t place mentioned Much Ado About Nothing. That’s one of Shakespeare’s comedies, right?” At Liss’s nod, he went on. “Then the other guy, Eldridge, he said something about Elizabethan tragedy, and then I missed a bit because a car went by and the engine noise drowned out their words. The next bit I caught was about Caesar, and even I know that Julius Caesar is another of Shakespeare’s plays.”
“What an odd conversation to be having in the middle of the town square.”
“It would be even odder if they were talking about fires and missing persons. Maybe this Eldridge guy just likes to attend festivals and some Shakespeare event is next on his agenda. Looked to me like he’s old enough to be retired and have lots of time on his hands. From the way he dresses, he’s not hurting for money, so he can probably afford to indulge whatever whim strikes his fancy.”
Liss supposed Murch’s reasoning made sense, and it was always good to eliminate a suspect. “I guess I can check him off the list then, not that I had any particular reason to think Martin Eldridge was involved in the fire or Angie’s disappearance in the first place.”
“Right,” Murch agreed. “I’ll get on with my sleuthing, then. You said the library’s upstairs in the municipal building, right?”
Belatedly, Liss remembered something that would put a hitch in his plans. “It is, but even if Dolores is there this early, she won’t let you in until she opens up at one. She’s very strict about that.”
“Then I’ll start asking my questions at the post office instead, and stop for lunch at Patsy’s Coffee House.” He waggled his eyebrows, à la Magnum, P.I. “We’ll see if I can work my wiles on the charming proprietor.” With another tip of his imaginary hat, Murch toddled off to tap into the village grapevine.
* * *
Dan Ruskin spent his day in the workshop behind the house. He was covered with sawdust when he finally quit. He’d been milling, preparing the pieces that would eventually be assembled to form the jigsaw-puzzle tables that were his primary source of income.
It still astounded him that anyone would pay over a thousand dollars for a piece of custom-made wooden furniture that could only be used for one purpose. He liked to do the occasional jigsaw puzzle himself, but he’d always made do with a card table . . . until Lumpkin and Glenora came into his life. There was something about puzzle pieces that was irresistible to cats. They—the pieces, not the cats—ended up scattered all over the house, most of them the worse for having been chewed.
Dan’s tables were designed with a cover to keep both cats and small children from messing with a partially completed puzzle. There were drawers for sorting the pieces, too—drawers that closed to protect those pieces when they weren’t needed. So far, he was still enjoying the process of putting the tables together and shipping them off to customers all over the country. Only once in a blue moon did UPS screw up and damage a shipment.
He could have lived without that hassle, but to counter it there had been plenty of satisfied customers. Some sent him words of praise. Liss put those up on his Web site.
Then there had been the guy who just happened to own his own plane. He’d decided that since he’d never been to Maine, he might as well fly up from his home in Florida and collect the table in person. He’d been startled to discover he couldn’t rent a car at the nearest airport, a tiny one-runway operation that catered to skiers, hunters, and sport fishermen.
Still smiling at the memory, Dan left his workshop to walk the few yards to the back door of the house. He stopped just short of the stoop to dust off most of the sawdust that still clung to his clothing. There was no way to get rid of it all. He was thinking he should probably just strip down in the combination pantry/utility room and stick every stitch he was wearing into the washer before going upstairs to shower, when he noticed the corner of a pink envelope poking out of the side of the screen door.
Gingerly, in case his hands were still dirty enough to leave smudges, he caught hold of it and tugged. There was no return address, but across the front someone had printed “Mr. and Mrs. Daniel Ruskin.”
Dan cursed softly under his breath. An anniversary card. It had to be. It was also a reminder that he hadn’t yet bought a present for his wife. There was still time, he told himself. This was only Wednesday. Their anniversary wasn’t until Saturday. Of course, that didn’t help much when he had no idea what he was going to get for Liss. She wasn’t the easiest person to shop for, and she’d once told him straight out that she thought it was a waste of money to buy flowers or fancy candies. Fine heck of a note, when this was supposed to be the candy anniversary!
He waited until he was inside and had downed a glass of ice water before he opened the envelope. It was, as he’d expected, an anniversary card. What he wasn’t expecting was the signature. It read “Best to you both. Angie, Beth, and Bradley.”
This time Dan’s cussing was more creative. He knew his wife well and could predict the effect this message would have on her. Liss would be convinced that the appearance of this hand-delivered card must mean Angie was still close by. That would make her all the more determined to find her friend. Given that someone had burned down Angie’s Books, Dan thought that was a very bad idea.
He considered tossing the card and pretending he’d never seen it, but he rejected that thought almost as soon as it crossed his mind. He and Liss didn’t hide things from each other. Not anymore. They’d learned that lesson the hard way.
Tapping the envelope against his hand, he considered alternatives. Maybe he could convince Liss that Angie had given the card to someone before she left town. Yeah, that made sense. Someone else had delivered it. Someone who wanted to remain anonymous. Someone who probably didn’t have any more idea where Angie and the kids were now than Liss did.
* * *
Late on Thursday morning, Liss stopped by the café for a much-needed break.
“Who is that odd little man who was in here yesterday?” Patsy asked. “He came in for lunch, and then he was back again later in the afternoon. He sat in that booth over there for hours, nursing a cup of coffee and a toasted bagel, but I could tell he had his ears perked.”
“Can you keep a secret?” Liss lowered her voice, even though Patsy’s only other customer was Alex Permutter. Everyone in Moosetookalook knew how deaf he was, and that he was too stubborn to acknowledge his disability. He refused to have his hearing tested, let alone wear a hearing aid.
“Did you ever know me not to be able to?” Patsy slid her tall, sc
rawny frame onto the bench seat opposite Liss.
Déjà vu, Liss thought as Patsy set down the carafe she’d been carrying. She almost smiled. At least today she wasn’t dissolving into tears in front of the café’s owner. In fact, she was feeling downright chipper.
“His name is Jake Murch. He’s the private detective I hired to look for Angie and Beth and Bradley.”
Startled, Patsy sat up straighter. “No! Really?”
“I didn’t think it could hurt. I’m really worried about them. I’ve racked my brain for places they might have gone, but I keep coming up empty.” It had been sobering to realize how little she knew about a woman she considered a friend. “The thing is, Patsy, I’m sure they can’t have gone far. Yesterday, Dan found an anniversary card from Angie tucked into our back door.”
For just a second, she felt teary-eyed again.
“Huh,” said Patsy. She didn’t look surprised, but neither did she seem impressed by Liss’s logic.
“I know. I know. Dan says Angie must have asked someone else to leave it there, back before she left town. But whoever that was must know where she went. It’s only logical.”
“Did you hire this Murch guy before or after you found the card?” Patsy asked.
“Before. In fact, he may well have been in here drinking coffee at the very moment someone dropped off that card.” She felt her lips twist into a rueful expression. “Dan was right there in the workshop, but he was concentrating on what he was doing and didn’t notice a thing.”
Abruptly, Patsy stood. “I don’t see how it will do any good, but I don’t suppose this Murch fella can do any harm, either. Just don’t get your hopes up, Liss. He may not be any better than the police are at tracking down somebody who doesn’t want to be found.”
With that pessimistic assessment, she topped off Liss’s coffee and sailed off to ask old Mr. Permutter if he had everything he needed.
Liss stared after her, surprised by Patsy’s pessimism.
She nibbled on a blueberry muffin—she’d overdosed on sticky buns lately—and sipped her coffee. Patsy’s brew was so much better than what she made at home. All the while, she pondered the fact that quite a few people in Moosetookalook had been behaving oddly since the fire.
Stu Burroughs had installed three additional smoke alarms in Stu’s Ski Shop and two in the apartment above. He was said to be contemplating getting a guard dog.
The Lounsburys had a new deadbolt on the front door of their jewelry store.
Julie Simpson had turned surly and uncommunicative, a far cry from her usual loud and talkative self. Betsy Twining said it was because the glass company wanted to be paid in advance and was refusing to install the new window until the US Postal Service showed them the money. Liss could understand why that would be galling—more red tape for the local postmaster to wade through.
As for Murch, PI, his first report had been a tad discouraging. As promised, he’d approached all the sources Liss had suggested to him. His attempts to worm information out of them had met with varying degrees of success. Dolores had apparently been taken with him, but she’d had her own agenda. She’d managed to recruit him to help with her “save the library” campaign.
To keep a possible source sweet, Murch had promised to dig up dirt for Dolores to use to discredit Jason Graye. Liss didn’t imagine he’d have much trouble finding something. Graye walked a fine line between ethical and unethical in his real estate dealings. He had always been out for the fast buck and never seemed to care who got hurt in the process.
Chapter Eight
Liss was lost in thought, remembering some of the shady deals Jason Graye had allegedly been involved in over the years, when something on the far side of the town square caught her attention through the window next to her booth at Patsy’s. From that vantage point, her view of Moosetookalook Scottish Emporium was partially obscured by the merry-go-round, but she could see enough to tell that two people were standing in front of her shop, staring at the BACK IN FIFTEEN MINUTES sign she’d left on the door.
That she couldn’t tell who they were hardly mattered. As long as there was a possibility that they were potential customers, she had to get over there before they disappeared. Surging to her feet, she polished off her muffin, downed the last of her coffee, and tossed enough money on the table to cover the cost of her snack plus a generous tip. She crossed the square at a trot, catching the pair, a young couple, just as they were starting to turn away.
Walk-in traffic was rarely steady. Liss made most of her money on Internet and mail-order sales. Now, with the Highland Games about to start, she had already packed up most of the merchandise she’d be taking with her to stock her booth on the grounds of The Spruces. Her usually orderly shelves showed all too plainly where she’d removed items. While the young couple browsed, she surreptitiously rearranged what was left to fill some of the gaps.
Liss looked up with a welcoming smile when the bell over the door sounded to warn her of the arrival of another customer. This might just turn out to be a better day than she’d expected.
The pleasant expression froze on her face when she recognized Angus Grant.
This time he was alone, without the moderating influence of either wife or fellow hotel guest. He made a beeline for the young couple, although it was obvious they didn’t know him from Adam.
“You mustn’t buy a kilt for yourself, young lady,” he reprimanded her.
Startled, she nearly dropped the garment she’d been holding against herself. “Why not?”
“Women do not wear kilts. And unless you are a member of Clan MacDonald, you cannot wear that tartan.”
Intimidated, the woman hastily shoved the kilt back onto the rack.
“What do they wear?” her male companion asked.
“Long skirts with a sash in their clan’s tartan.”
“But I don’t want a long skirt and a sash.” The young woman sounded as if she might burst into tears at any moment. “That would make me feel like I was in a beauty pageant.”
“Nevertheless, rules are rules.”
In the face of Grant’s obvious disapproval, the couple beat a hasty retreat without buying anything. Liss glared at the back of the older man’s head as he bent to examine the items on a low shelf. She had no doubt that he would find some fault with the cute little stuffed animals she sold. They were meant to represent Nessie, the Loch Ness Monster.
Fists clenched at her sides, Liss came out from behind the sales counter. This had to stop. It was one thing to have opinions and quite another to drive away paying customers. She meant to give Grant a piece of her mind, but he straightened and made another of his proclamations before she could say a single word.
“I did some research on you, Ms. MacCrimmon-Ruskin.”
Taken aback, Liss stopped short and frowned at him. What the heck was he going on about now?
“Your ancestors weren’t Scots.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“The MacCrimmons came to Scotland from Italy.” He grimaced as he spoke the name of that country, as if just mentioning it left a bad taste in his mouth.
Liss blinked at him and regrouped. She knew the legends. After all, they concerned her ancestors. “That’s one theory.”
“Cremona.” There wasn’t an ounce of doubt in Grant’s voice. He crossed his arms over his barrel of a chest as if daring her to contradict him.
“Even if it’s true that the first members of the family arrived in Scotland from elsewhere, that all happened a long, long time ago. Centuries. The early middle ages, to be precise.”
“Your lack of knowledge about all things Scottish is appalling, but given your heritage, I suppose you can’t help it.” The smug expression on Angus Grant’s face made Liss want to smack him.
“My heritage is not in question! And that’s beside the point. I’m trying to run a legitimate business here. What you said to that woman may well have cost me a three-hundred-dollar sale.”
Offended, Grant sent her a c
ontemptuous look. “Most people would appreciate a bit of constructive criticism,” he snarled as he headed for the door.
Liss didn’t know whether to laugh or cry as she watched him leave. She had a feeling she hadn’t seen the last of him. After all, he’d come to Moosetookalook to attend the Highland Games. It would be next to impossible to avoid running into him during the weekend ahead.
* * *
Sherri Campbell had a raging headache. She was supposed to enforce the law in their tiny community, and here she sat, almost a week after the fire, totally stumped. No arsonist had been arrested. No trace had been found of the three missing persons. No one had any idea who had vandalized the post office. And now she had a pile of complaints on her desk about strangers asking impertinent questions.
It was only natural, she supposed, that unsolved cases would attract outside interest. They weren’t exactly paparazzi-worthy, but the curiosity of at least a few people from away had been aroused.
Two were easy enough to identify. One was a private investigator named Jake Murch. Sherri already knew who had brought him into the picture. The second was a reporter from Portland on the scent of a story.
It was the third man who was giving her trouble. He appeared to be a guest at the hotel, one Eliot Underhill. At first, she’d thought he was annoying the locals out of simple curiosity, but when she did a standard background check, nothing popped up. Not just no criminal record. Not just no traffic tickets. Nothing at all.
In this day and age, it was unusual for anyone to be off the grid. Now Sherri had encountered two such individuals. She still had no explanation for Angie’s lack of a past. That another person should turn up in Moosetookalook, apparently using an assumed name, bothered her a great deal. If he was pulling some kind of a con, she wanted to know what it was.
She reached for the phone.
Liss answered on the first ring.
“Busy?” Sherri tipped back in her chair, resting her feet on top of the partially open bottom drawer of her desk.
“If you mean do I have customers in the Emporium, the answer is no. The only prospects I did have were driven away by a troll.”
Kilt at the Highland Games Page 10