The mental picture of a fluffy black dog named Muse acting as just that for his master caught my fancy. I’m a cat lover myself, but I could well appreciate the devotion of an artist for his pet. I found myself feeling drawn to Morris Hart.
When he was finished with the questions, Hart sat down behind a mountain of books and began signing copies for his fans. McCarthy continued taking photographs, while I browsed through the bookshelves, wondering if I should just ditch McCarthy and head home on my own. But I found a table filled with books on Scottish history and culture, compiled by the bookstore staff to supplement Hart’s novel, no doubt. I was soon lost in a book about genealogy and the history of the Scottish clans in America. As I paged through it, I almost wished I had Scottish heritage myself.
“That’s the definitive work on the Scottish diaspora.” Morris Hart leaned over my shoulder to turn a few pages. “Here’s the section on Count Roehenstart, Bonnie Prince Charlie’s illegitimate grandson. Charlie had no legitimate offspring, you know, so I’ve traced his descendants through Roehenstart, whose sojourn in Philadelphia provided much of the inspiration for Over the Sea to Skye.” He pointed to the page, and then let his hand come to rest on mine. “I’m glad you waited around. Maybe you’d like to go somewhere and talk about Scottish royal roots over a drink or two.”
I slipped out of his embrace. “Actually, I was waiting for Sean McCarthy. We came together.”
Hart looked over his shoulder, where McCarthy was engaged in an animated conversation with the bookstore owner. “McCarthy, the photographer?” He glanced at my left hand, looking for a ring, no doubt. “Are you two a couple, then?”
Good question. I felt McCarthy’s eyes on me as I fielded Hart’s inquiry. “Sean’s a close friend. We do a lot of things together.”
“Close friends like Stu and Catherine?” Hart persisted.
I had already gotten to the part where Stu and Catherine ended up in bed together within twenty-four hours of their meeting, so it was clear to me that my relationship with McCarthy wasn’t on a par with that. But I didn’t feel like I needed to discuss that with Morris Hart. I settled for what I hoped came across as a secret smile and said, “I’m sorry I’m not available this evening. How long are you in town for?” Maybe I should have left off that last bit, but I had to admit there was a heady romanticism involved in being the living image of an author’s creation. I would have enjoyed spending some time with Hart, if I wasn’t afraid that what he most wanted was an intimate encounter with his Catherine. I totally wasn’t interested in that.
I glanced over at McCarthy to see that he had his camera out and pointed at me. He winked at me, a big grin on his face. If he had caught my secret smile on film, I would never hear the end of it.
He dropped his camera around his neck and came over to join us. “I really enjoyed the reading,” he said to Hart. “How goes your search for the ring?”
“I’m homing in on it, but it’s proving to be more elusive than I had anticipated.” Hart shifted his attention back to me. “I’m planning to be in town for another couple of days, until I wrap up my quest. Maybe we could plan a date together, you and I? We could meet for coffee, or lunch perhaps?” His gaze flicked to McCarthy and away again, as if he were testing how McCarthy would take this suggestion.
I was interested in this question as well, but McCarthy didn’t rise to the bait. He merely watched quietly, waiting to see what I would say.
Well, if he didn’t care…
“Let’s meet for lunch. Tomorrow?” It would be a good opportunity to get to know Hart better, and try to figure out if he had any motive for killing Ladd, or if I could take him off my list of suspects. I eyed him dubiously. What kind of restaurant would a bestselling author frequent? “We could meet here at noon and then find someplace to eat on the Commons.”
A delighted smile lit up Hart’s face. “Tomorrow it is!” He turned away without another word. He snagged his blazer and umbrella from the signing table and sauntered out the door, leaving me alone with McCarthy.
I expected some barbed comment about Hart, but, as usual, McCarthy surprised me. He laid a hand on my arm and pointed to a chair in a corner of the children’s section. Huddled on the chair with her head down on her knees was a forlorn Highland dancer. Her sheathed sword dangled from a cord around her wrist. It was Gillian.
Chapter 11
I glanced around, but Breanna and the other dancers had long gone. I didn’t see Gillian’s father anywhere.
“Do you think she got left behind?” McCarthy said.
“I guess there’s one way to find out.” I went over and stood next to her. “Hey, Gillian. You’re still here.”
Her head snapped up. “Duh.” She scowled at me and then dropped her head on her knees once more.
“Is your dad around?”
Her head shot up again. “What do you care? Leave me alone!”
I exchanged a helpless look with McCarthy. He drew me away from her. “Do you know where she lives? The store is about to close and it’s still raining buckets out there. Can she get home on her own or does she need a ride?”
I was an expert on the bus schedules in Laurel Springs, but I didn’t know where Gillian lived. Reluctantly, I approached her again.
“Do you need a ride home? We can drop you off if you want.”
Gillian glared at me. “What makes you think I need anything from you?”
I gritted my teeth. “Nothing. See you.” I spun on my heel and walked away. I grabbed McCarthy’s arm and pulled him straight out the door. “If she wants a ride, she’ll follow us. If she doesn’t, then she can figure it out on her own.”
Outside, the rain cascaded off the roof and pelted into the puddles forming on the brick walkway. McCarthy opened his umbrella and held it over the two of us. “How long does it take a sulky teen to realize she needs a hand?”
“Probably longer than we’d like.” I scootched closer to him under the umbrella. “I’m guessing there’s a power struggle going on between her and her dad and we’ve stepped into the middle of it. If we go back in, we lose. If we stay here too long and she comes out and we’re waiting for her, we lose. If we just leave, we’ll feel guilty, so we lose.” I brushed at my shoulder, which was rapidly getting soaked.
McCarthy put an arm around me, drawing me even closer. “If we’re going to lose anyway, I’d rather just lose now and get it over with. Come on.” He opened the door and ushered me back inside, shaking the rain from his umbrella on the way in.
Gillian hadn’t moved. McCarthy walked straight up to her and squatted down in front of her. He turned on his two-hundred-watt smile. “I’m Sean McCarthy from the Laurel Springs Daily Chronicle. I was wondering if I could get one last photo of you for the newspaper.” He waved a hand at me. “You know Daria, right? She’s doing a piece on kilt-making for the newspaper, and we’d like to run a picture of a real-live person wearing a kilt. I got some shots of the dancers during the sword dance, so just one posed picture would wrap things up.” He glanced at his watch. “We’ve got four minutes before the store closes.” He flashed that grin again. “What do you say?”
Gillian bought it, like I knew she would. She wiped an arm across her eyes and stood up. She tucked in her blouse, straightened her kilt, and stood where McCarthy told her. She even smiled at his coaxing.
He fired off a series of pictures. Just in time. The lights went out and then flashed on again. A quick glance at the checkout desk showed me that the remaining staff members were all looking at us and tapping their feet.
As if he had all the time in the world, McCarthy replaced the cover on his lens and said, “I’ll need to get a parent’s permission to run these pictures in the paper. Is your mom or dad around?”
“Um, no, my dad took off.” Gillian looked about to shut down again, but McCarthy wasn’t done yet.
“Do you need a ride home? I’m taking D
aria home, so I could easily drop you off as well.” He pulled out his phone. “Let me just give your dad a call so he knows you’re riding with me. What’s his number?”
Gillian stared, but only for a second. Then she gave him her dad’s number. She muttered under her breath, “He’ll never go for it. He told me to walk home.”
We both watched as McCarthy dialed and then launched into a genial conversation with Ryan. He introduced himself and talked easily about photographing the girls for the newspaper and the special shots he’d taken of Gillian. He emphasized the fact that he needed Ryan’s written permission to print any pictures of his daughter and mentioned my name several times. They even talked about the Phillies game Ryan was evidently watching. Finally, McCarthy hung up and turned to us with another big smile.
“All set. We’d better get going before the bookstore staff decides to charge us rent.” He gave them a cheery wave goodbye, turned up his collar, and handed me his umbrella to hold over Gillian and myself. We made a dash down the brick sidewalk awash with water. By the time we made it to the car, Gillian was gasping with laughter at the rain and her reprieve from walking home in it.
It was a short drive to Gillian’s house on the north side of town, but it would have taken her a good twenty-five minutes to walk. She had the grace to thank McCarthy for the ride when she gave him directions.
I was bursting to know what had transpired between Gillian and her dad to cause him to leave her behind to walk twenty-five minutes in the dark and rain, but I restrained myself. Instead of questioning her, McCarthy and I engaged in some cross-talk from the front seat about the size of the crowd despite the weather and the fun of seeing the Highland dancers in the unlikely setting of the bookstore.
“What’s the most surprising place you’ve ever danced?” McCarthy asked over his shoulder, keeping his eyes on the road.
“One time three of us danced on the back platform of a caboose. The train wasn’t moving, but the platform had all these little slots in it so you could see the ground. It was freaky.” Gillian leaned back and closed her eyes. “Did my dad sound mad when you talked to him on the phone?” she asked in a small voice.
“Not really. Did the two of you have a fight or something?” McCarthy kept his eyes on the road.
Gillian groaned. “Or something. He’s always ragging on me about my makeup or how I fix my hair.” She leaned forward, gripping the front seats with both hands. “Do you think this makeup makes me look like a slut?”
McCarthy didn’t miss a beat. “Well, I can’t tell when I’m driving. But I didn’t feel like I was photographing a slut back at the bookstore.” He flashed her an encouraging smile. “Sometimes dads get a bit overprotective when their daughters grow up.”
She snorted and flounced against the backseat again.
We drove in silence for a few minutes, then, just as we turned onto Gillian’s street, I said to McCarthy, “Remember those girls I’m giving sewing lessons to? One of them is making a skirt to wear once school starts back up. She’s really proud of herself to be able to make something she can really wear.”
McCarthy glanced sideways at me, but he went with it like I hoped he would. “Good for her. She’s got the best teacher in town.”
“I’ve got one more open slot,” I told him.
McCarthy threw a warm glance over his shoulder as he pulled into the driveway of Gillian’s house. “What about you, Gillian? What would you want to make if you were taking sewing lessons from Laurel Springs’ premier historical seamstress?”
She unbuckled her seat belt slowly. “I’d make a peasant shirt, with embroidery all over it.”
I’d expected a snide response, so this charming suggestion took my breath away. I turned full around in my seat to look at her. “I could teach you how to make the blouse and how to do the embroidery. Last month, I made a full set of embroidered curtains for a client. It was a ton of fun.”
She opened the car door. “I might like to try that.”
McCarthy opened his door. “Come with me,” he whispered to me.
I got out on the other side and walked with the two of them to the door. “Let’s talk with your dad about the possibility of sewing lessons,” I said. “No time like the present.”
Gillian grasped the door handle, only to find it locked. She punched the doorbell, and we could all hear the bell jangling throughout the house.
The door flew open to reveal the scowling face of Ryan King. However, his face instantly cleared at the sight of McCarthy and me flanking Gillian. McCarthy launched into his spiel. “Mr. King, so nice to see you. Let me show you the photos I took of your daughter.” He fiddled with the buttons on the back of his camera and held it out.
I leaned over his shoulder to see the pictures. They were amazing. In half a dozen shots, McCarthy had captured the best of Gillian’s personality. A viewer could tell from the quirk of her mouth or the movement of her hair that she was a girl of spirit, but her habitual sulky belligerence was completely absent. When I saw her mischievous grin, I realized I rarely saw her smile at all. McCarthy could work wonders with his camera.
Ryan merely nodded and signed the paper McCarthy held out to him. “Thanks for bringing her home.” He held the door open wide, inviting us to leave. It was my last chance.
“Mr. King, I was telling Gillian about the sewing lessons I’m giving to some high school students. It sounds like she might like to join in. Would that be all right with you?”
I caught a surprised look on Gillian’s face, which instantly vanished when her dad turned to her and said, “You want to learn how to sew?”
She nodded without saying a word.
“How much do you charge?” he said to me.
It was a delicate question. If my rates were too high, he would just say no. If I said it was free, he’d get suspicious and say no. “It’s fifty dollars for the whole semester. I think Gillian would get a lot out of it.”
Ryan stared at her for a long minute, and then he agreed to let her take sewing lessons from me. We arranged the details and fixed it up for her to start the following day.
I was well satisfied when McCarthy and I took our leave and settled into his car for the drive to my house.
He turned to me. “What was that about? You’ve never talked about giving sewing lessons before.”
“You’ve never talked about doing a story on kilt-making either. I suppose I’m committed now?”
He laughed as he accelerated down the road. “Okay, I guess we’re a couple of liars. I was just trying to get her home safely. What’s your ulterior motive?”
“I want a chance to talk to her in private about her mother. Evidently, her mom died in Cleveland, and then Gillian and her dad moved here. I want to know the whole story. It’s easier to talk about tough subjects when your hands are busy with other things, like sewing.”
“Nosy seamstress” was his reply.
It wasn’t until we pulled up at the curb in front of my house that McCarthy referred to Morris Hart. “Well, Catherine, you’re home.”
I whacked him on the arm with my shoulder bag. “You said you wouldn’t call me Catherine.” I pushed open the car door and then let it close again. The rain continued to come down in buckets. “Thanks for the evening, Sean.” I leaned over and gave him a quick kiss. “I’d better get back to work on Corgi’s kilt.” I pushed the car door open again and scrambled out with a quick “’Bye!” over my shoulder. I dashed for the front porch. Once under the porch roof, I turned to wave goodbye. He was already driving down the road.
The house was quiet, a sure sign Aileen was out. Pete’s truck was absent from the curb, so I knew he was out as well. I had nothing to distract me from working on Corgi’s kilt.
I puttered around in the kitchen, feeding Mohair and clearing up the pile of dirty dishes that always seemed to occupy the sink. Finally, I had nothing else to do. I head
ed upstairs to my workroom.
Corgi’s kilt lay on the floor exactly where I’d left it. No gremlins had come in and finished the pleats while I was out. I switched on my CD player for another round of the Royal Pains and knelt down to tackle the pleats.
I’d been at it for twenty minutes and had only completed three pleats when the front door banged. Big feet clattered on the stairs, and Pete appeared in my doorway, home from work at ten o’clock at night.
“Is that the kilt for Corgi, then?”
I nodded. “These pleats are the hardest part. How was filming in Amish country today?”
“It was fine, except for the moment when I stepped in a cow patty. It was great entertainment for the crew.” He paused, listening. “That’s Aileen.”
I tried to stop laughing long enough to listen. “I didn’t hear anything downstairs.” Aileen never came in quietly. There was never any doubt when she got home.
“No, on the CD. That’s Aileen singing country music on your CD player.”
I dropped my pins. “What? Aileen?”
I knew he was right. No wonder I thought Penny Morrow’s voice sounded familiar. But what was Aileen doing singing with Ladd?
Pete picked up the CD cover and turned it over. “The Royal Pains, with Ladd Foster and Penny Morrow. Must be a pseudonym. And Ladd Foster’s the guy who died at the Highland Games, right? The guy Aileen didn’t want to talk to the police about?”
I nodded, still trying to take it all in.
Pete sat down on my chair and started scrolling through his phone. He held it out to me so we could both watch the online videos he found. They were live clips of the Royal Pains at several small venues. Ladd Foster was easily recognizable as the younger man I’d seen in the clips from the Whidbey Island Highland Games. His bandmate, Penny Morrow, was unmistakably Aileen, despite her dyed blond braids, which bounced on her shoulders to the rhythm of the music. She was dressed in a spangly blue-checked blouse and a ruffled blue skirt that grazed the top of her tooled leather cowboy boots. She wore a lot of mascara and eye shadow skillfully applied to make her eyes look wide and innocent. She strummed the same guitar as the one she’d used to threaten Ladd at the Highland Games. She looked like she was barely nineteen years old.
Royally Dead Page 15