Finally, maybe ten minutes of dedicated reading later, I found Margaret’s description of her newborn baby. “He is tiny and red with wisps of dark hair clinging to his scalp. I can see my love in his eyes.” She described wrapping him in a soft cloth she had prepared and asking for the priest to perform his christening. “His name is Edward Stuart Oliphant,” she wrote. “Mr. T. shall have none of him.”
I bit back a smile, remembering the character from the old TV series The A-Team. In this context, I was sure Mr. T. referred to Judge Tremington. Margaret was resigned to be his wife, although she clearly did not love him. She didn’t want her child to bear his name. But whatever happened to Edward Stuart Oliphant?
I continued skimming through the handwritten pages as the clock ticked on. Margaret got to spend three and a half weeks with her tiny baby before the time came to give him up. “Mrs. F. is a fine woman. She will take good care of Eddy. She has agreed to keep my letter, to be opened upon his eighteenth birthday and cherished throughout his generations. He shall know who he is.”
I couldn’t find any more about Mrs. F., and soon after this entry, Margaret wrote about the return journey to Laurel Springs and the preparations for Christmas in the New World. I skimmed to the end of the pages Julie had sent, but there were no more mentions of Mrs. F. or of Eddy. That chapter in Margaret’s life appeared to be over.
I closed my computer and snuggled into bed to finish the rest of the night. I would have to stop staying up late reading like this or I wouldn’t be able to function at all in the morning. I wondered who C. E. was and what Eddy grew up to become.
* * * *
I slept late the next morning. When I came down to breakfast, I found Aileen at the table, dressed in a pair of fuzzy footie pajamas that were so far off her usual rock-star style that I did a double take. She hunched over a quart-size cup of coffee and a plate full of what looked like mango slices slathered with chunky peanut butter and sprinkled with onion flakes and bacon bits. I made myself a bowl of instant oatmeal and sat down across from her.
“Did you have a gig last night? I never even heard you come in.”
She slouched down in her chair and took a huge slurp of coffee. “Yeah, we’ve got a standing gig at Wexman’s on Wednesday nights. They’re trying to build a hump-day crowd.” She snorted. “There are a few diehard regulars, but other than that, there’s not much demand for a dance party in the middle of the week. But Corgi wants to keep it up. He’s got his eye on one of the waitresses, and it gives him a regular chance to see her.” She took a big bite of her mango mess. “He said he’s going to stop by this morning to see how the kilt is shaping up.”
I choked on my orange juice. “Did he say what time?”
She glanced at me with her all-seeing eyes. “What, the kilt isn’t shaping up? You’re not setting Corgi up for a fall, are you?”
“Of course not. The kilt is fine. I just have a bunch more pleats to finish before it looks much like a kilt.” I gobbled up my oatmeal and jumped up from the table. “Off to work!”
She called after me, “Want me to stall him when he gets here? We can work on a few tunes if you need a little extra time.”
I paused in the doorway, touched. Aileen rarely offered to help me with my sewing business in any way. This suggestion felt like an olive branch. “That would be great. You could give me an extra twenty minutes or so. Just so long as Corgi’s in a good mood when he gets to me.”
She got up to dump her plate in the sink and refill her massive coffee cup. “Corgi’s always in a good mood. You got nothing to worry about there.”
I hustled upstairs and spread the project out on the floor. I had another few yards to pleat, but the garment was starting to look less like an extremely long length of tartan fabric and more like a kilt. If I worked fast and Corgi took his time getting here, maybe I could have the pleats all pinned up by the time he arrived. I closed my door, turned off my phone, and got to work.
After an hour of dedicated pinning, my hands were cramped up and I was starting to feel the tension in my neck and shoulders. But I was within three pleats of the end. I shook out my hands, did a few shoulder rolls, and checked my phone before getting back to it. I’d missed a text from McCarthy. It read, “Let me tell you about Melissa. Lunch?”
Good old McCarthy! I texted back: “Cool. Where?”
His answer was instantaneous. “I’ll pick you up. Noon okay?”
It was already 11:20 and Corgi hadn’t shown up yet, unless Aileen was stalling him downstairs. Of course, we didn’t have a formal appointment. I was under no obligation to rearrange my personal schedule for him. “Sure,” I replied, and bent over my work once more.
Ten minutes later, I pushed in the final pin. I stood up and threw out my hands, “Ta-da!” The moment needed some kind of celebration.
I hurried downstairs with an armload of kilt, to find Corgi and Aileen bent over some papers filled with handwritten music notation. Aileen had gotten dressed for the day in a magenta bustier and some skin-tight gold lamé leggings. Her hair was gelled into a ponytail on the top of her head, with spikes sticking out in all directions like fireworks. Corgi’s Phillies T-shirt and khaki shorts looked positively bland in comparison.
“Remember, the pipes are in a different key,” Corgi was saying. “I can’t transpose this section. It’ll sound terrible.”
“Okay, let me see what I can do here.” Aileen looked up at me. “Are you ready for the wearer of the kilt, then?”
“Yup. Hi, Corgi.” I led him to my fitting room and displayed the kilt on the sideboard. “It’s full of pins right now, so I’m not going to ask you to put it on, but I would like to get a few measurements.”
He looked over the kilt and fingered the heavy wool. “It’s amazing. I’ll be the best-dressed piper in the band.” He stood still while I measured the back of his waist from side to side and compared it to the pleated section of the kilt. Perfect!
“How soon will it be done, Daria? I’d be great if I could wear it on Saturday.”
I dropped my measuring tape. “Corgi! Today is Thursday. What do you think I am, a miracle worker? You said you didn’t need it before the games in Ligonier in two weeks.”
“Yeah, right, I know. It’s just that I was talking with Patrick Ames. You know, the Highland athlete. He was telling me about this event in Valley Forge on Saturday. Some kind of parade or something.”
I picked up my measuring tape and coiled it up. “When were you talking with Patrick? At the ceilidh?”
“No, he’s staying at my mom’s bed-and-breakfast.” He gave me a sheepish look. “You know I live with my mom.”
“That’s okay; I live with my brother. Whatever works, right?”
Corgi grinned. “Well, Patrick is hanging around here all week because of the thing in Valley Forge. Then he’s off to Ligonier and the West Coast after that. He’s even going to Scotland at the end of August for the Cowal Highland Gathering, which is the biggest Highland Games in the world. What a guy!”
What a guy indeed. I wondered if Corgi could be my link to Patrick, who remained one of my main suspects in Ladd’s murder. I didn’t even know what I needed to find out about him. All I knew was that he had been a rival of Ladd’s for ten years, he hated Ladd because of his habitual cheating, and he had been in the VIP tent with Ladd’s flask shortly before it disappeared.
“So you don’t want me to try this on, huh?” Corgi fingered the tartan again, clearly disappointed he wasn’t going to get to model his half-constructed kilt.
I shook my head. “All those pins will impale you. So, what’s Patrick like? I danced with him at the ceilidh and he seemed like a nice enough guy. How is he at home?”
Corgi shrugged. “He’s kind of cold, if you know what I mean. He doesn’t mix much with the other guests. He keeps his bedroom door locked whenever he’s out. He doesn’t even want any housekeeping services
unless he’s in the room. My sister does all the rooms. She doesn’t like to clean in front of the guests—she says it makes her nervous.”
I folded up Corgi’s kilt thoughtfully. “Do you suppose he’s hiding something in his room? Maybe something that might incriminate him?”
Corgi stared at me, clearly not jumping to the same conclusions I was.
It seemed so obvious to me. “He’s probably got Ladd Foster’s flask hidden in his room. He’s concealing evidence that he’s the murderer!” I barely resisted grabbing his arm. “Can you get me into his room, just to check to see if Ladd’s flask is in there?”
Corgi threw up both hands, trying to slow me down, no doubt. “I can’t just let you in the room of one of my mom’s guests. That would be trespassing, or burglary, or something. He’s given instructions that no one should go in his room if he’s not there. That’s that.”
“That means he’s got something he’s hiding. We’ve had a murder in this town, and Patrick hated the victim. You might be hosting a murderer in your house, Corgi. Wouldn’t you want to know?”
Corgi scratched his head with a forlorn look on his face. “I guess I could ask my mom. She’d probably want to get the police involved. They could get a search warrant to go in his room, but a hotel owner can’t do that. She could lose her license.”
I chewed my lip. If we called the police, they might not even take my suspicions seriously. Or maybe they’d already searched Patrick’s room. Maybe they’d solved the murder by now, and I was wasting my time and energy. No, that couldn’t be true. I was sure they would inform the public when they fingered the killer.
“Here’s an idea: You let me know when Patrick is in his room and I’ll drop by to see him. If he entertains me in his room, I can at least glance around and see if he’s hiding anything. It isn’t trespassing if someone invites you in.”
“What if he wants to hang out with you in the living room? You’d be wasting your time, instead of sewing my kilt by the weekend.”
I laughed. “Is this extortion? Okay, if you help me with this, I’ll try my hardest to get your kilt done by Saturday.” I gave him my best winning smile.
“Cool.” He held out his hand to shake on the deal. “Maybe I could be vacuuming in the living room, or playing the bagpipes or something, so you would need to go to the privacy of his room to talk.”
I gave his hand a hearty shake. “Now you’re talking. When is Patrick usually at home?”
“He was there when I left. We could go right now and get it over with. Then you could concentrate on my kilt.”
“Okay, let’s do it.” I grabbed my shoulder bag and hustled down the stairs, only to find McCarthy hanging out at the kitchen table chatting with Aileen.
He called out a cheery greeting to Corgi and stood up. “Ready for lunch?” he said to me.
I’d forgotten about McCarthy. “I can’t go to lunch right now, Sean.” I hastened to explain. “Patrick Ames is staying in Corgi’s mom’s bed-and-breakfast, and he keeps his room locked at all times. Well, that’s suspicious, right? So we’re going to go over there now, and if Patrick’s home, I’m going to chat with him in his room and take a look around.”
A smile tugged at McCarthy’s lips. “And if he’s not home, you’re going to sneak in for a closer look, right?”
“No, Corgi won’t let me. He says his mom will get in trouble.”
McCarthy laughed out loud. “Can I come along on this reconnaissance mission? I’ll be backup—I won’t even set foot in the house. Then we can have lunch afterward.” His face sobered. “I found out some things about Melissa King.”
“Sounds like a plan.” I grabbed my house keys from the hook. “Ready?”
Aileen waved her long black fingernails at us on our way out. “Have fun casing the joint.”
* * * *
Corgi’s mother, Sally Redmond, ran the Mountain Laurel Bed-and-Breakfast, located a few blocks away in my downtown residential neighborhood. Her stately three-story house was very similar to my own, built with numerous bedrooms and only one bathroom. She had renovated extensively when she converted it from a single-family home to a bed-and-breakfast. I’d followed her progress at the time, wondering if I wanted to do the same and run a bed-and-breakfast to make some extra money on the side. I’d chosen to rent out rooms instead, which meant I didn’t need to put a lot of money into renovations. I’d never regretted that choice.
We gave Corgi a five-minute head start. I drove down the street with McCarthy, who assured me that he would stay in his car during my interview with Patrick. When we pulled up to the curb in front of the B and B, he slouched down in his seat and held a magazine up to his eyes, like he was on a stakeout. I pulled out my phone and waited for Corgi to text me.
“Can’t tell if he’s home or not,” the text ran. “Just come knock.”
I held out my phone to McCarthy. “What do you think?” I said in a deep, scary voice. “Is it a trap?”
He pretended to consider it. “Probably. Call me if you need backup.” He powered his seat back to a reclining position and closed his eyes.
I whacked him on the shoulder with his magazine. “Some backup.”
I hopped out of the car and knocked on the front door. Corgi answered. “Is Patrick Ames home?” I asked in a loud voice, feeling somewhat foolish.
“Let’s go see,” Corgi said, leading me up the stairs and down a narrow hallway. He stopped in front of the door marked “Lilac Room,” and knocked.
There was no answer.
“He’s probably out to lunch,” Corgi said. “Everyone is gone right now.”
So much for my great plan. But another plan was forming in my mind, one that Corgi would not approve of.
“Would you mind if I use the bathroom before McCarthy and I take off?”
“Help yourself.” He pointed down the hall. “The guest rooms have their own bathrooms, but Mom left the original bathroom as well. It’s just a powder room now.”
“Thanks, Corgi.” I nipped into the bathroom, reflecting that he wasn’t the most perceptive person or he might have guessed my intentions.
I used the facilities and paused at Patrick’s door on my way out. Wishing I had thought to bring gloves, I grasped a fold of my skirt and tried the doorknob. As Corgi had said, it was locked.
I glanced over my shoulder for any prying eyes, pulled out my wallet, and fished out my library card. I’d learned this trick from McCarthy, which is to say I didn’t make it a habit to pick people’s locked doors. Only when I suspected them of murder.
I slipped the card in between the door and the doorjamb and forced the lock open on the fourth try. I was lucky Sally hadn’t changed the locks to deadbolts as part of her renovation. With another glance over my shoulder, I ducked into Patrick’s room.
The Lilac Room was furnished in attractive shades of purple on white, with ruffled bed skirts and frilly curtains. It was very bed-and-breakfasty, but nothing like the abode of a burly Scottish athlete. I couldn’t picture Patrick in this room at all. I bit back a smile and bent to my task, which was no laughing matter. I had broken into someone’s room to look for evidence of murder.
I checked under the bed and in the closet, searched through the dresser drawers, and rifled through the trash. A black soft-sided suitcase lay open on the floor in the corner. I took a deep breath and sifted through Patrick’s shirts, pants, and other clothing, all the while knowing I shouldn’t be doing it. I patted everything down where it came from and turned to the bathroom. A quick search through the bathroom cabinets and the wastebasket yielded nothing of interest. I was about to give up in despair when I heard the door handle rattle.
Chapter 16
I ducked back into the bathroom and pushed the door closed without making a sound. My hands were shaking so much, I could barely work the lock. How could Patrick come back at this exact moment? I had to figure o
ut how to get away before he unlocked the bathroom door. I couldn’t let him find me in the middle of ransacking his room.
Although the window over the toilet was small, I thought I might be able to get through it. But what good would that do me? Patrick’s room was on the second floor. But it might be my only hope. I pushed aside the mini-blinds and looked out the window.
My heart sank. The bathroom window was miles above the ground, with no tree, fence, or helpful ledge within reach. If I went out the window, I would break my leg or my neck, depending on how unlucky I was. I was racking my brain for an excuse to give Patrick when I remembered I had backup.
I ducked behind the shower curtain just in case and texted McCarthy: “Help. I’m in Patrick Ames’s bathroom. He came home. Lure him out of his room.”
His response was instantaneous. He texted back: “Yikes. I’m on it.”
I held my breath and started counting to keep myself from freaking out. I was on fifty-three when I heard the rattle of the bathroom door handle, and a voice swearing on the other side. “What is it with this door?” He jiggled the knob and pulled on the door, and then he was gone. He was either going for a key, in which case I was in big trouble, or he was going to complain to the management that he couldn’t get into his bathroom. I was probably in big trouble in that case as well. I was wondering if that orange prison jumpsuit would be comfortable when I heard a loud knock on the outer door. I longed to slip out of the shower and put my ear to the door, but I didn’t dare. Luckily, I didn’t have to. I could hear Corgi’s voice telling Patrick that he had a visitor from the media downstairs. Good old McCarthy! He must have known Patrick would respond to any chance of media attention.
I listened as two people left the room and closed the door behind them. I counted to ten and then opened the bathroom door a crack, just to make sure the room was empty. I made sure to lock the bathroom door behind me and then flew across the room and cracked open the door to the hallway. It was deserted. With a pounding heart, I slipped out of Patrick’s room and closed the door behind me. I practically ran to the bathroom at the end of the hall and locked myself in.
Royally Dead Page 19