Royally Dead

by Greta McKennan

  The piper began a slow rendition of “Amazing Grace,” as the guests stood silently, baring their heads and trying to quell the antics of their children as best they could.

  Ryan contained himself until the piper brought the tune to a decisive end. Then he growled on a gust of alcoholic breath, “I won’t mourn that son of a bitch, pardon my French.” He leaned in close again. “It was God’s judgment for putting the moves on my teenage daughter. God smote him! Nothing to mourn about that.”

  Nothing for me to say about that either. I merely nodded and sipped my whiskey, wondering if Ryan had helped God out with that judgment and celestial punishment. He certainly had the opportunity to add the torch fuel to the flask of whiskey in the VIP tent, and he was violently angry with Ladd for consorting with Gillian. Did that make him a murderer? The thought made me shiver and draw a bit farther away from him.

  Ryan drained his glass and then weaved off, looking for a refill, no doubt. He didn’t say goodbye and I certainly didn’t pursue him. I needed to find out more about him, but in his drunken state he wasn’t much use to me.

  The chattering of the crowd intensified in the absence of any music. A number of musicians were setting up in the corner, with fiddle, guitar, and one bagpipe to keep up the Scottish theme. The fiddle player, a tall woman with a long white braid trailing down her back and well-worn riding breeches tucked into knee-high leather boots, called out over the crowd. “We’re going to have some Scottish country dancing now. Form two long lines!”

  I gulped down the rest of my drink and dropped the glass on a sideboard before joining the line of women. I felt a rush of disappointment when McCarthy waved to me from the sidelines. He focused his lens on me and snapped what was probably a stunning photo. I wished he would just shelve that camera and dance with me instead.

  I found myself facing Patrick Ames for the first dance. After a few words of instruction, the musicians struck up the tune, and the fiddle player began to call the steps. We all skipped gracefully through the sprightly, energetic dance. Patrick wasn’t my partner so much as the one I kept returning to as we wove in and out through the line of dancers and then swung together in the center. I was out of breath, laughing, by the time the music stopped.

  I smiled up at Patrick. “You dance as well as you throw the caber, Mr. Ames.”

  “Call me Patrick,” he said. He steered me over to the refreshment table. “Did you see the athletic events at the Games yesterday, Miss…”

  “Daria. I did. I’ve never seen anyone throw a caber before.”

  He ladled out two glasses of punch. “Well, no one’s ever seen a caber toss like that one before. Let’s hope we never see another one like it!” He handed me some punch and then extracted a silver flask from his horsehair sporran and added a large dollop of whiskey to my glass before I had the chance to object.

  I looked at the glass. The last thing I wanted to do was drink anything coming out of the flask of one of the people I suspected of murdering Ladd Foster. Patrick Ames was among those who had cycled through the VIP tent during the time Ladd’s flask was contaminated. He was also alone with the flask just before it disappeared. He was high on my list of suspects. The fact that he poured a dram of whiskey into his own punch as well did not change my mind in the slightest.

  I twirled the glass in my fingers, hoping he didn’t notice that I wasn’t drinking. “I understand you and Ladd Foster were long-standing rivals in the athletic events. When did that start?”

  He scowled at the mention of Ladd’s name. “We first met at the Whidbey Island Games ten years ago. We were evenly matched and could have enjoyed a friendly rivalry, except for the fact that he cheated. He substituted heavier stones on my turn in the hammer throw, so of course I couldn’t throw them as far as he threw the lighter ones. You would think it would be easy to see that kind of cheating, but no one actually saw him make the switch. When I called him out on it, no one believed me.”

  “Well, couldn’t they weigh the stones or something?”

  “Exactly!” Patrick exclaimed with as much passion as if the switch had taken place the day before. “For some reason they couldn’t, or more likely wouldn’t, make the effort to verify the weight of the stones. They suggested a new match, and I said he shouldn’t get a chance to throw against me after that kind of cheating, and in the end, they just disqualified both of us. That was the moment when I vowed to best Ladd Foster at every opportunity I got. And I have, even up to yesterday. If he hadn’t collapsed, if he had succeeded in throwing the caber all three tries, I still would have beaten him. Anyone could see that!”

  I shrank back from his righteous fervor, disturbed by the fact that he was still concerned about winning when a man lay dead from murder. Did his compulsion to win extend to committing the murder himself?

  I was so distracted by this thought that I lifted my glass to my lips and took a big swallow of punch. The whiskey hit me with a jolt. I had not wanted to drink that! I started coughing and sputtering. I slipped away from Patrick and practically ran for the bathroom, pausing only long enough to dump the punch out into the trash. Once there, I rinsed out my mouth and spat into the sink under the astonished gaze of a pair of young Highland dancers. “Sorry,” I mumbled.

  The smaller girl wrinkled her nose at me. “I didn’t like the haggis either.”

  The girls skipped out of the bathroom and I examined my face in the mirror. My cheeks were flaming, whether from embarrassment or alcohol, I wasn’t sure. My stomach was churning, but I didn’t imagine I’d been poisoned by Patrick Ames’s whiskey. I wasn’t much of a drinker, and I’d had two or three shots so far this evening, topped off by a slice of haggis that had been baked in some old deer stomachs. Blecch!

  After a few more minutes in the bathroom, tidying my hair and “freshening up,” as they say, I came out to see that the country dancing had finished. The Laurel Springs Pipe and Drum Corps were marching in, bagpipes skirling. Unlike some of the other groups that had competed at the Highland Games, our homegrown band didn’t have matching kilts or jackets. A colorful variety of tartans paired with black jackets of several different cuts gave them a pleasing informal look that might never win any competitions, but we loved them. The crowd cheered enthusiastically as the band circled up and launched into their traditional repertoire. Corgi played with them, although I noticed he didn’t participate in all the tunes.

  Of course the best part was watching the dancers. Gillian led the line of girls out to the dance floor, a professional smile lighting up her face. They had all changed into their kilts for the Highland dances.

  McCarthy appeared at my elbow as the girls set up their swords for the sword dance. “Are you all right? Last time I saw that kind of reaction to a drink, a man collapsed.”

  “I’m fine. Patrick Ames spiked my punch with whiskey from his flask. I didn’t want to drink it, but I forgot.”

  I rarely saw McCarthy at a loss for words, but this was one of those times. He gaped at me until I started to laugh. “He wasn’t trying to poison me! He put some in his own cup too. It’s just that I didn’t want any more whiskey, especially not from someone’s personal flask. The fruit punch is delicious just the way it is.”

  McCarthy chuckled and linked arms with me to walk me over to the refreshment table. He ladled me a cup of punch and then handed me a small plate piled with cheese and crackers. “Try this fine Irish cheese—just don’t tell the Scots. All this whiskey on top of nothing but haggis isn’t the best idea.”

  The cheese was strong and tasty, and the unspiked fruit punch was cool and refreshing. I didn’t really think I was drunk, but I was sure it was a good idea to eat some real food. “What did you think of the haggis?” I asked McCarthy.

  “I’ve had worse. It looked like something Aileen would enjoy.” He scanned the crowd. “Aileen didn’t make it, then?”

  I shook my head, my mouth full of cheese and crackers. “
She’s stuck in jail, refusing to cooperate,” I mumbled. “Pete and I stopped by, but we couldn’t get anything out of her. It’s like she’s covering something up.” I shifted my plate and slopped some punch onto my hand.

  McCarthy passed me a napkin and took my plate while I mopped myself up. “Well, it looks like the Twisted Armpits are going to go on without her. Are you up for that dance tonight?” he asked.

  I popped the last cracker into my mouth as the Pipe and Drum Corps marched out of the room, followed by the line of dancers. Their recessional tune gradually faded off into the distance, to make way for the Twisted Armpits. The metal band had set up their gear along the far wall, so all they had to do was pull out a few amps and position their mics while Corgi slipped back into the room. He blew up his bag, and the band launched into a very different style of music than anything we’d heard so far that evening.

  McCarthy fired off a couple of photos of the band while I ditched my plate and cup and wiped off my hands. Then I let him lead me onto the dance floor. An unusually small crowd of dancers gyrated to the driving metal beat of the band. It looked like the Twisted Armpits were out of their element. Older people drifted off to the edges of the room, and parents began gathering up their young children to go home. Some of the kids held their hands pressed over their ears.

  Over the past year, I had developed more of a taste for the Twisted Armpits. Call it necessity or a survival mechanism, but I often found myself actually enjoying their music, especially when that meant dancing with McCarthy. As in other aspects of his life, he threw himself into dancing with gusto. He bounded off the floor as if gravity didn’t apply to him personally, and he took me with him. Tonight in particular, I was soaring above all the other dancers, high on a mix of whiskey and the pulsing beat of the Twisted Armpits, even without Aileen. I hoped the song would never end.

  But it did, of course, and the pipe major from the Laurel Springs Pipe and Drum Corps pushed past Pinker and commandeered the mic. “Give it up for the Twisted Armpits!” When the polite applause died down, he went on. “Thank you for coming tonight, ladies and gentlemen. I’d like everyone to join us in a chorus of ‘Auld Lang Syne’ to conclude our ceilidh.”

  The crowd linked arms and started swaying to the sentimental tune, as if we were all one big, happy family. One big family that included a murderer!

  The song came to an end and people started hugging each other like long-lost relatives. McCarthy faded from my side, snapping a series of photos of the lovefest. I stood alone, watching Gillian gathering up her backpack and departing with her father. That’s when Morris Hart approached me. His hair was churned up and his eyes were rimmed with red from too much Scottish cheer.

  “My dear Catherine, I would be honored to escort you home, or out for a few drinks if that’s what you desire.” He reached for my arm, misjudged the distance, and caught me in the waist instead. He was clearly more in need of a designated driver than a few more drinks. I wondered if he remembered I wasn’t really Catherine. Probably not.

  I gently removed his hand from my waist. “I’m sorry, I’ve got other plans.” I didn’t really, but I didn’t want to encourage him. I’d learned that being a nondriver could put me in a position of vulnerability, having to depend on someone else to take me home and then trusting them to leave again when we got there. I wasn’t in the habit of asking men to come up, and I feared that might be what Hart had in mind. He felt like he’d met the incarnation of the female lead in his novel—what could be more satisfying for him than to pursue a romantic encounter with that person? But that person was me, and I had no intention of being the object of his literary/romantic fantasy! I folded my arms as a protective gesture and said, “It was really lovely to meet you, Morris. I’m looking forward to finishing your book and trying to find that ring myself.”

  “My dear…” He reached out and patted me on the cheek, a move my grandfather used to employ every time he gave me a dollar to spend at the dollar store. As a romantic gesture it failed miserably, but it did call up positive memories that left me feeling kindly toward Hart, who was, in fact, old enough to be my father. I smiled at him and turned away, leaving him alone and looking slightly forlorn. He probably thought that being a bestselling author entitled him to get everything he’d ever desired.

  I found McCarthy standing behind me, a smile tugging at his lips. Before I could react, he said, “Can I get a picture of you holding a sprig of heather from the table decorations before they get put away?” He led me over to the edge of the room, away from Hart.

  He positioned me against the wood paneling of the wall, holding a sprig of bedraggled purple heather that looked like some small children had used it to play keep away. His eyes twinkled as he snapped several photos. “Should I caption these, ‘Catherine of the Isle of Skye’?”

  I rolled my eyes. “I think not. I haven’t even gotten to that part, so I don’t know if I should be flattered or horrified that he thinks I’m his character. I guess I need to read faster.” I replaced the heather on the table. “Let me see.”

  McCarthy obliged, holding out his camera so I could scroll through the pictures he’d just taken. I felt as tired as the heather looked, but somehow his photos managed to exude charm rather than exhaustion. “Pretty nice. But these still don’t need to be on the front page of the newspaper.”

  He grinned. “No, these are for my ongoing collection, the Daria Photos. I have no intention of changing the name to the Catherine Collection, by the way. So, do you really have other plans, or would you like a ride home?”

  “I thought you’d never ask.” I grabbed my tartan fabric wrap and shoulder bag and walked with him out the door.

  It was only a five-minute drive from the Highlands, where Hollystone was located, to my downtown neighborhood. There was no need for haste, but McCarthy sped through the quiet streets as if he were trying to beat his personal best in a car race. I just hung on for dear life.

  We arrived home without incident, to my relief. McCarthy pulled up to the curb and cut the engine. “So, my nosy seamstress friend, did you unmask a killer tonight?”

  “Not yet. I’ve narrowed it down to Patrick Ames, Ryan King, Morris Hart, and Aileen.” He looked surprised at this matter-of-fact statement, so I told him about the parade of people going in and out of the VIP tent during the time Ladd’s flask was in there unattended. “I didn’t really learn anything tonight except that Patrick Ames cares very deeply about being better than Ladd, Ryan King is a big Morris Hart fan and thinks God smote Ladd for messing with his daughter, and Morris Hart is a really good storyteller but has a few issues concerning reality versus fiction. And Aileen wasn’t there, through every fault of her own, so there’s nothing to say about her.”

  “Sounds like a good start.”

  “Yeah. I’ll get back to it tomorrow.” I leaned over and tweaked his yellow tartan bow tie. “Did I tell you that you look like a leprechaun tonight?”

  “Top o’ the evening to you!” McCarthy’s fake Irish brogue made me laugh. “But ye’ll no be getting me pot o’ gold, lassie.”

  “Save it for St. Patrick’s Day.” I opened the car door. “Thanks for the ride.” I blew him a kiss and shut the door behind me. He pulled out with a jaunty toot of the horn and drove off.

  The house was quiet. Pete’s room was dark—he’d probably already gone to bed. With Aileen in jail, there was no blaring music or bustle of the band. Feeling a strong sense of letdown, I trailed up to my bedroom and tucked myself in with Over the Sea to Skye. I made it through two and a half paragraphs before falling fast asleep.

  Chapter 9

  I had big plans for Monday morning. I wanted to finish the fringe on Breanna’s wedding sash before her two-thirty fitting, and I planned to do some serious research on kilt-making before Corgi’s fabric arrived. If time allowed, I might even make a muslin—a mock-up of the garment out of inexpensive muslin fabric to make sure of my techni
que before starting work on the costly tartan wool.

  But I could spare a half hour or so for reading.

  I curled up in my favorite chair with a cup of tea and Over the Sea to Skye. I was soon sucked into the drama of Stu Rohan learning from his mysterious informant in the parking garage that his DNA test identified him as the last living heir of the Stuart bloodline, descendant of Bonnie Prince Charlie and his line of Scottish kings. Stu barely had time to absorb this information before he was whisked off to Paris to join a group of conspirators bent on retaking the throne of Britain. That was where he met Catherine, whose physical description did sound a lot like me, I had to admit. I hoped I would like her character, if I was going to be mistaken for her by Morris Hart fans.

  My half hour stretched into an hour and a half, as the group searched old texts for clues to the whereabouts of Bonnie Prince Charlie’s ring, one of the crown jewels that would prove Stu’s claim to the throne. I paid close attention to this part, because it probably had to do with the treasure hunt for the ring that Morris Hart had spoken of. I hadn’t gotten a chance to check his website yet, but I couldn’t tear myself away from the novel.

  I probably would have forged on until the end without stopping if it weren’t for the telephone ringing. It was Breanna. “Daria, I have a conflict today at two-thirty. Is there any possible way we could push my fitting forward to, say, now?”

  I groaned inwardly. Clients always thought that because I worked out of my home, I was available to them at the drop of a hat. I supposed I fostered that attitude by accommodating them, as I was about to accommodate Breanna. I did like to keep my clients happy. “Um, sure. How soon can you get here?”

  “I’ll be there in three minutes.” I could hear the relief in Breanna’s voice as she hung up.

  I popped a bookmark in my book and dashed downstairs. Three minutes didn’t give me time enough to finish Breanna’s sash, but I could lay out her dress and get the cider bubbling on the sideboard to create the cozy, relaxing atmosphere I liked to provide for my clients. It sounded like she could use a little bit of cozy right now.