Royally Dead

by Greta McKennan

  He gave it a cursory glance, apparently not blown away by the beauty of the faded embroidery. “I’d love to see the diary.”

  Julie turned back to the shelf and took down the brittle leather volume I recognized as Margaret’s diary. She ran her fingers absentmindedly over the Oliphant crest embossed on the cover, and then laid it down on the table next to the gown. “Margaret started writing about her life at the age of eleven,” she said to Hart. “Is there something in particular you’re interested in, or do you just want to gaze at this historical document?”

  He reached out to touch it, ignoring the instinctive movement of Julie’s hands. “I’m interested in the Battle of Culloden, of course. Was Margaret still in Scotland during the Forty-Five? Did she write anything about that?”

  Julie smiled, pleased that she didn’t have to instruct him on the Forty-Five, no doubt. She told him about Margaret’s flight to America after the disastrous battle, and how her father fought bravely at Bonnie Prince Charlie’s side. Through the slightly open door, I saw the lights go out in the basement exhibit area. As Julie had said, everyone was on their way home.

  I chimed in when Julie got to the part about Margaret’s ocean journey to America, and laid out my theory about her pregnancy and how she’d relinquished her son to the care of Mrs. Foster.

  Julie’s face perked up. “Where did you come up with the name Foster? I didn’t find that in Margaret’s diary at all.”

  I pulled out my phone and called up the pictures I’d taken last night in the Daily Chronicle’s offices. I held out my phone so they could both see. “And now, for the rest of the story.”

  Julie and Hart bent over the images on my phone. I showed them the book of poetry given to Margaret by her lover. “On the title page was the inscription, ‘Remember me, my love,’ signed C. E. S.” I appealed to Julie. “Remember how she took care of that wounded soldier on the ship even when she didn’t want to, but she did it for C. E.? He was her lover, and the father of her son.” I scrolled to the next picture, a screenshot of Margaret’s letter to Eddy. “She didn’t put it in her diary, but here she writes to her son that his father was Bonnie Prince Charlie.” I put down my phone in triumph, the better to see their reactions.

  Julie stared in amazement from me to my phone and back again. “Where did you get this book?” she whispered.

  “It came from Ladd Foster,” I said, watching for the next reaction. “Right now, it’s on a desk at the Daily Chronicle. You should grab it for the museum before it gets coffee stains on it or something.”

  I almost laughed out loud at her horrified gasp, but my attention was captured by Morris Hart’s reaction.

  He looked stunned. He leaned over my phone to try to read the letter on the screen. “Ladd Foster gave this to the newspaper?” he asked in a strained voice.

  “Well, not exactly. Ladd gave it to a friend of his to get his opinion, and after he died, that friend gave it to the Chronicle.” I pointed to Eddy’s full name. “Ladd’s name was Ladd Stuart Oliphant Foster, named for his ancestors, Charles Edward Stuart and Margaret Oliphant.” I turned to Hart with a playful smile. “Bonnie Prince Charlie had a son with Margaret Oliphant, and Ladd Foster was his descendant. You got it all wrong in your novel.”

  In the split second those words crossed my lips, I knew. But by then, it was too late.

  Chapter 21

  Hart’s face darkened with anger. “This story is a lie,” he said, his voice ice-cold. “A malicious lie, intended to discredit my work.” He stood stock-still for a moment, and then he moved with the lightning strike of a rattlesnake. He snatched up my phone and threw it across the room.

  “Hey!” I ran across the room to grab up my phone, which was shattered. “You can’t just break my things like that.” I turned around to face him, shocked to see the veneer of civilization stripped away, revealing the murderer beneath.

  Suddenly, several things happened all at once.

  Hart reached out to grab up Margaret’s diary, probably intending to heave it across the room as well. Julie threw herself across the table, covering the diary and the wedding gown with her body to protect them. “Don’t touch them,” she yelled.

  Hart grabbed her instead. He jerked her off the table and spun her around until he had her pinned with one arm twisted behind her back. He shoved her up against the wall, released her arm, and hit her hard against the back of her head. She fell to the floor.

  I screamed, for what good that would do. Everyone had left the museum for the night. There was only Morris Hart and me, with a long metal table holding irreplaceable historical documents in between us.

  I snatched up Margaret’s diary and clutched it to my chest with both arms. “You can’t kill history,” I yelled, edging around the table to avoid the jab he made at me.

  “Give me that book,” he said, feinting in another direction.

  We circled around the table in a grotesque game of keep away. I could feel the fragile leather of Margaret’s diary shredding under my sweaty grasp. I hoped the historians would appreciate the fact that I was trying to save it, not destroy it. I fought to control my panic, which was only intensified by the sight of Julie lying crumpled on the floor, unmoving.

  Maybe I could distract him. “You killed Ladd Foster after he told you that he was the descendant of Bonnie Prince Charlie.” I continued to edge around the table, with my eye on the partially open door leading back into the exhibit areas of the basement. “What did he do, try to blackmail you?”

  Hart picked up a long pair of scissors and hefted them like a spear aimed at my heart. “Yeah, he told me. He said he had proof that he was taking to the newspaper. He was looking for fame and recognition, trying to shift the spotlight away from me and leave me looking silly in the process. There are millions of dollars riding on the success of my novel. Ladd Foster’s story put all of that at risk.”

  I could hardly believe my ears. “So you sneaked into the VIP tent and poured torch fuel into his whiskey flask, hoping his story would die with him. But you failed. Even if you destroy Margaret’s diary and smash my phone, you can’t suppress this story. Margaret’s letter is at the Chronicle, and other people have pictures of it as well.”

  “Who, your photographer boyfriend? I can deal with him when I’m done with you.” He threw the scissors straight at my head. I ducked and heard them clatter against the far wall.

  I took the opportunity to make a dash for the door, but Hart was too quick for me. He bolted around the table and grabbed me from behind, tackling me to the floor. With my arms clutching the diary, I was unable to brace myself, so I fell heavily with him on top of me. My scream was cut off by the wind being knocked out of me.

  Hart wrenched my shoulder to roll me over so he could rip the diary from my hands and throw it across the room. He straddled my body as I lay gasping, trying to get some air back into my lungs. I put up both hands to protect my face and neck. He raised his arm to hit me across the face, and then he stopped. A look of deep sadness distorted his features. “Catherine…” He pulled both my arms down to either side of my head and bent down, as if to kiss me.

  I thrashed under his grasp and threw my elbow up to connect with his throat. He fell back, gasping and coughing. I shoved him off me and scrambled to my feet, shaking. I ran to the door, feeling Hart clutching at the swingy folds of my skirt from behind me. I grabbed the door and pulled it toward me with all my strength, slamming it into his shoulder as his hands seized me again. He staggered and lost his grip on me.

  I darted out the door into the darkness of the Tremington basement. I could hear him blundering out the door behind me. I raced through the maze of aisles, not sure whether to hide or to make a break for the exit. I turned down a familiar aisle, only to find myself at the end of a cul-de-sac, stranded next to the Oliphant treasures. The only way out was the way I’d come, but Hart was too close behind me. There was no place for me to
run.

  I scanned the row frantically, looking for a place, anyplace, where I could hide. There was nothing.

  Hart turned down the aisle, barreling toward me. His face was distorted with rage, and he hugged his left arm to his side. “You’ll answer to a higher power for that!” he hollered, inadvertently quoting a line from his novel, when the would-be assassins were menacing Catherine and Stu.

  But I didn’t intend to answer to him or anyone else, nor did I plan to end up being tortured like Catherine. I breathed a quick prayer and wrenched Jock Oliphant’s sword off the wall.

  The blade clanged to the floor. It was far heavier than I’d expected. What good was a sword if you couldn’t even heft it? I grunted out loud as I struggled to wield it.

  My abrupt action in grabbing the sword had stopped Hart’s headlong rush toward me. When he saw that I could hardly lift it, he advanced on me again, but slowly this time. “It’s over, my dear Catherine. You’re no match for me.”

  I pulled the sword up and balanced it with my left hand on the blade, ignoring the pain as it cut into my palm. Holding it with both hands, I managed to point it straight at Hart’s heart. “Not one step closer,” I shouted, jabbing the sword in front of me as if I meant business. “This is the Battle of Culloden and you’re going to go down in defeat!”

  Hart roared and ran toward me. I held out the sword, simultaneously hoping he didn’t spear himself on it and wishing I had the strength to plunge it into his heart. At the last minute, I crouched down and swiped the sword at his legs as he rushed me. He cried out and fell to the floor, clutching at his shins. I sidestepped him and flew down the aisle to get away from him, dragging the sword behind me. I didn’t let go of it until I got to the admissions desk and called the police on the museum’s phone. “Hurry,” I begged. “I don’t know if he’ll come after me again.” I crouched down behind the docent’s desk and prayed for the police to get there before Hart could find me, if he was looking.

  It took the police less than three minutes to arrive. Four or five police officers swarmed into the museum, guns drawn. I stood up and called out to them, “I’m here!” I pointed them to the aisle where I’d left Hart on the floor and blurted out the fact that I’d hit him with a sword. “I don’t know if I cut off his legs or if he’s bleeding to death.” I clutched my arms to my chest, trying to control the shakes that had seized my whole body.

  A couple of teams of paramedics raced into the building. They split off in two directions, one team following the police down the aisle to the place where I’d left Hart and the other heading to the back room, presumably to take care of Julie. A tall police officer with the deepest voice I’d ever heard placed a blanket around my shoulders and asked to see my hand. I held it out to him, surprised to find it covered in blood from a cut running straight across my palm. The officer wrapped it in a bandage and said, “You’ll need to get this looked at. Is there anyone you’d like to call to be with you?”

  I clutched the blanket close, hoping it would stop my shivering. Who did I want to call to help me through the next few hours? Pete? Aileen? I looked up at the kindly officer. “Please call Sean McCarthy and ask him to come right away,” I whispered. I started to give him the number, but I could see he had McCarthy’s number in his phone already. I started to laugh with tears running down my face.

  McCarthy arrived in less time than it had taken the police to get there. He strode into the room and folded me into a hug so tight, I almost lost my breath for the second time that evening. “Are you all right?” he whispered into my hair as I clung to him like I’d never let him go.

  “I’m okay,” I said, my voice as shaky as my knees. “I just hurt my hand, is all.”

  McCarthy held me off and looked me over, searching for other injuries, no doubt. He took my hand and cradled it gently, while snuggling my head so that it rested on his shoulder. He held me that way and watched as the police marched a handcuffed Morris Hart out of the depths of the Tremington basement.

  I saw blood on Hart’s pant legs, but his feet weren’t cut off, nor had he bled to death. He did walk slowly, and he shot me a glare of pure hatred. The police hustled him out the door before he could say anything to me. I burrowed my head into McCarthy’s shoulder.

  “Did you take him down?” McCarthy asked me in a voice filled with admiration.

  I nodded. “He’s the one who killed Ladd Foster. He was trying to cover up that story about Margaret and Bonnie Prince Charlie because it would discredit his stupid novel.”

  McCarthy let out a long, low whistle and held me close.

  “He smashed my phone,” I went on, as if the two crimes were equal in their intensity. “He had me pinned to the floor. I didn’t know if he was going to choke me or rape me or both. I slashed him with a sword.” I started to cry. “He called me Catherine.”

  McCarthy’s arms tightened around me. “You’re Daria Dembrowski,” he said, low into my ear. “You’re the nosy seamstress who always seems to find the killer in the end. You’re nobody’s character, no matter how famous or successful they are. You’re the one and only Daria. He should have known better than to tangle with you.”

  I took a shaky breath and lifted my face to look him in the eye. What I saw there left me breathless, as surely as if I’d had the wind knocked out of me again. “You…” I abandoned whatever half-formed thought I had and pulled his head down into a passionate kiss.

  I’ve heard it said that you shouldn’t get emotionally involved with someone right after a traumatic experience. That may be good advice at the beginning of a relationship, but McCarthy and I weren’t at the beginning of ours. We were right where we needed to be.

  Chapter 22

  McCarthy stayed with me throughout the police questioning. I couldn’t believe how many times I had to explain that Morris Hart killed Ladd Foster because he was descended in a direct line from Bonnie Prince Charlie, and his existence threatened the success of Hart’s bestselling novel. The cops simply couldn’t believe that the truth of something that happened over two hundred and fifty years ago could be enough to commit murder. “But the book is fiction,” one cop kept repeating over and over, while scratching his head in disbelief.

  Julie recovered consciousness with no ill effects beyond a splitting headache. The paramedics advised her to take it easy for the next forty-eight hours and watch for signs of a concussion. I sat down next to her on a museum bench while she waited for her roommate to pick her up. “I’m sorry about Margaret’s diary,” I said. “I tried to keep it from him, but I couldn’t. Hart threw it across the room. It’s probably ruined.”

  She gave me a brave smile. “When you restore historical documents, they come in all kinds of disrepair. We can probably fix it. Margaret’s story won’t be lost.”

  * * * *

  McCarthy went with me to the emergency room and entertained me with some of his outrageous stories while the doctor cleaned my hand with half a dozen different solutions, set in three stitches, and gave me a tetanus shot for good measure. McCarthy squeezed my right hand when it was all over. “It must be intimidating as a doctor to be stitching up a seamstress. She’s bound to be critical of the techniques used.”

  I returned the pressure gratefully. “That’s probably why they put this dressing on, so I can’t see what stitches they used.”

  He took my left hand gently and ran his thumb across my fingertips. “You’ll probably end up with a scar. A badge of honor from the last battle of Culloden. I hope it doesn’t interfere too much with your work.”

  My fingers tingled at his touch. “Poor Corgi. I won’t be able to do any more work on his kilt, at least for a couple days. He’ll have to use his old one at Valley Forge tomorrow.” I sat up in the hospital bed and swung my legs over the side to stand up. My legs were a little wobbly, and I staggered into McCarthy’s arms. He caught me and enfolded me into a warm hug.

  “Need a ride ho
me?” He kissed me gently and then offered me his arm to steady me on the way out.

  My hand started hurting more and more on the way home, and so did my shoulder, where it had hit the floor under Morris Hart’s weight. I gritted my teeth and tried not to cry in front of McCarthy. He glanced over at me a couple of times and moderated his speed to accommodate my injuries. That consideration almost made me cry in itself.

  When we got home, I could hear the Twisted Armpits belting out their music before I even opened the car door. McCarthy walked with me to the door and accompanied me inside when I begged him to come in.

  We found Pete in the kitchen finishing up his dinner while the Twisted Armpits shook the floorboards under his feet. He jumped up at the sight of my bandaged hand and bloodied skirt. “Are you all right? What happened?”

  He fixed McCarthy and me each a plate of chicken and rice and listened in silence while I told him the whole story about Morris Hart being the murderer. At one point, he stopped me and popped downstairs to bring Aileen up so she could hear the tale as well. When I finished, they both sat back and stared at me as if in shock.

  Aileen broke the silence. “Okay, so Ladd was a bastard, but he didn’t deserve to die just so some author could keep up his frigging reputation. I hope Morris Hart sees his sales plummet while he wastes away in jail.”

  “Yeah.” I poked her gently. “You could go visit him, just to rub it in.”

  “Not on your life!” She leaned back in her chair and cracked her knuckles, one at a time. “I’m not planning any trips back there any time soon.”

  Pete threw her a smile so full of love, I had to look away. I fumbled with my napkin and got up to deposit my plate in the sink. When I turned back around, I saw that the band had finished practicing. One by one, the members of the Twisted Armpits straggled up from the basement and made their way out the door. Corgi paused in the doorway of the kitchen to speak to me.