A View to a Kilt

by Kaitlyn Dunnett

  “Drink up,” Joe said, placing a steaming mug in front of her. “I can’t add much to what you’ve already found out, but maybe I know a little.”

  He sat down across from her and took a tentative sip of his coffee before he spoke again.

  “I remember Charlie MacCrimmon because he was a local sports hero. Football was important back when I was in high school. Nobody worried about kids getting hurt.” He shook his head. “I know that’s a concern, but sometimes I think the worry goes too far. These days you have to wear a helmet for everything, even roller-skating and riding a bike.”

  “Times change,” Liss said, and repressed the urge to add the cliché of “better safe than sorry.”

  “Anyway, I guess I knew he let Ernie hang out with him and Moose, but I don’t know why. Strange, now that I think about it. A four-year difference doesn’t mean much when you’re adults, but it’s a big gap when you’re kids.”

  “Do you have any idea who this Greaser character might be?”

  “Not a clue. Sorry.”

  “Oh, well. It was worth asking.” Liss lifted her coffee mug to her lips and was surprised to discover that she’d already polished off the contents. “I guess I’d better get going. I still have a couple of people I want to talk to before the meeting this evening.”

  Joe spoke before she could get to her feet. “About the spring on the hotel grounds—it dried up ages ago. It never was worth much. Not like the springs that made some other Maine hotels famous.”

  “Then maybe Uncle Charlie was right about the risk of depleting the town’s water supply.”

  “As to that, I couldn’t say. I’m no geologist. I do know there used to be places to collect springwater all over the place. When I was a boy, we used to take jugs out to a spot along the roadside where the water just trickled out of the rocks. It was ice cold, but I don’t remember that there was anything special about the taste. Then again, I guess bottled water doesn’t have any taste, either.”

  “Is it still there? Your roadside spring?”

  “I’m pretty sure it dried up years ago, just like the spring here at The Spruces.”

  * * *

  Willett’s Store was as much a landmark in Moosetookalook as The Spruces. In appearance, the small, square clapboard building never changed much, save for being repainted the same bright yellow every few years. Two gas pumps stood out front. Both were designated as “full service,” which meant Ernie Willett would come out to pump the gas and wash the windshield while the tank was filling.

  Liss pulled in next to a fence that almost completely hid the junk vehicles Ernie had been so concerned about at the town meeting. Two cars were parked in the lot, but both of Ernie’s customers were on their way out. She exchanged greetings with Marcy, who ran a B and B in town and had just purchased a gallon jug of milk, and with Reverend Brown, the minister who had married her to Dan. He gleefully informed her that he’d been able to find old-fashioned mousetraps on Ernie’s shelves. Even churches, it seemed, were not exempt from invasion by rodents.

  Inside the convenience store Ernie Willett was stationed behind a sales counter topped by a cash register and a display of candy bars. As usual, there was a sour expression on his face. Ernie had never subscribed to the theory that honey was more attractive than vinegar.

  Willett’s Store was stocked with its usual eclectic assortment of products. Canned goods, paper products, pet food, and soft drinks shared space with a selection of blaze-orange vests and caps—clothing folks were well-advised to wear during hunting season to keep from being mistaken for a deer. Ernie himself sported one of the vests, a quilted version that he didn’t bother to take off when he came inside after pumping gas.

  “Got a minute?” Liss asked.

  “Depends” was his surly response.

  “On what?”

  “On what it is you want.”

  Liss fought the temptation to roll her eyes. Ernie was just being Ernie. Even though she’d never seen it herself, she’d heard he had a softer side. He’d been good friends with her aunt for years, and ever since he and Sherri had reconciled after a long estrangement, he’d been the epitome of a doting grandpa.

  “You knew my uncle,” she said.

  “That I did, missy. What of it?”

  “Did he contact you when he came back to town?”

  “Now, why on earth would he do that?”

  “Because you used to be friends.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “Isn’t it true?”

  Ernie shrugged and abandoned his high, padded stool with its strips of duct tape holding the upholstery together. It amazed Liss that he didn’t buy a new one, but that was Ernie for you. He squeezed a penny until it cried out for mercy. When he shuffled off toward the back of the store, she followed him.

  “I’ve got work to do. I don’t have time to answer a lot of foolish questions.”

  “How about just one?”

  He turned to glare at her. “If I answer it, will you go away?”

  “Sure.” She might as well agree. If she said no, he’d stop talking to her entirely. “What was it that made my uncle think a young kid like you would be useful to him and his buddies?”

  Ernie’s thin lips tightened into a hard line. For a moment Liss thought he’d refuse to say anything more, but he surprised her. “Where did you hear that?”

  “Moose Mayfield.”

  Ernie muttered something uncomplimentary under his breath and, as Moose had, avoided looking directly at her.

  “That you won’t answer,” she said slowly, working it out as she went, “makes me think we’re talking about something illegal.”

  “Well, la-de-da! Aren’t you the clever one.”

  “I’m pretty sure the statute of limitations has run out on whatever it was you did. You may as well tell me.”

  That earned her a ferocious scowl.

  “They say confession is good for the soul.”

  The tension went out of his hunched shoulders and he lifted his head to meet her eyes. His were still hard and slightly malicious, but Liss thought she also saw the hint of a twinkle. She was sure of it when Ernie’s thin lips twisted upward into what she supposed was meant to be a smile.

  “Okay, missy. You want the truth about your sainted uncle? Here’s the truth. He was a sneak and a liar, and he never did anything for anybody that didn’t benefit Charlie MacCrimmon first. You know why he let a little kid hang out with him? I’ll tell you that, too. It was because I was small enough and nimble enough to climb in through windows and unlock doors.”

  Liss felt her eyes widen. “Are you telling me Charlie and his pals were thieves? That you broke into houses and stole things?”

  “Oh, hell no. Where’s the fun in that?” Ernie sent her a disgruntled look. “We broke into closed-up camps, same as teenagers have done for generations, so we could get inside and have a place to party. If we were really lucky, the owners had left behind a good supply of liquor.”

  Even if Ernie had been willing to answer more questions, the opportunity was lost when a car pulled up to the gas pumps outside the store. He stalked past her to wait on his customer, once again muttering under his breath.

  Chapter Eleven

  The library was not open on Mondays, but Liss hoped Dolores would be there anyway. She often was. She rapped on the door just where the hours were etched on the glass. There were only twenty of them a week: Tuesday from noon until six; Wednesday from one to five; Thursday evening from six until ten; and Saturday from ten until four.

  “Dolores?” she called. “It’s Liss MacCrimmon. I just have a couple of quick questions.”

  No one answered her hail, and at first she didn’t think anyone was inside. She could see light, but it might be coming in through the windows. For once, Moosetookalook was enjoying a bright, sunny day.

  She was about to give up when she heard heavy footsteps approaching from the other side of the door. A moment later, Dolores opened it, but not wide enough for L
iss to pass through.

  “I’m in the middle of something. Come back tomorrow at noon when the library’s open.”

  “You know I wouldn’t bother you if it wasn’t important.”

  Sounding more ungracious by the moment, Dolores snapped, “Then say your piece and go.”

  “My uncle came back to expose Merveilleuse International.”

  Although Dolores still didn’t open the door, her gaze sharpened. “Explain.”

  Condensing the story to its bare essentials, Liss did.

  “You say all you have is a memo?” Skepticism underscored the question.

  “There must have been evidence. I think whoever killed Charlie took it away with him.”

  “I don’t know, Liss. That’s not the way big corporations usually do business.”

  “Are you sure about that? What do either of us know about international conglomerates?”

  Dolores conceded her point, and promised to look into it when she had time, but she clearly had other things on her mind. She glanced pointedly at her watch. “Is that all?”

  “Just one other thing. I found out a little more about two of Charlie’s old friends, but I don’t have their full names.” She made a deliberate choice not to mention that she’d gotten her information from Dolores’s husband. “One is Billy. The other is someone nicknamed Greaser. Do you have any idea who they are?”

  “Is that all? Billy is William Twining.”

  “Related to Betsy?” Betsy Twining owned the Clip and Curl, the old-fashioned combination beauty-and-barber shop located in the back half of the building that housed Moosetookalook’s post office.

  “He’s a cousin of her husband’s, but he moved away years ago.”

  “What about Greaser?”

  “That’s what they called Pete Cramer. Now, if that’s all, I really do have work to do.”

  Before Liss could say another word, Dolores closed the library door in her face.

  At least the day hadn’t been a total loss, she thought as she made her way down the stairs and headed home. She had come across the name Peter Cramer before, even if Dolores hadn’t gone so far as to make the connection for her. She’d seen it in a newspaper story from some fifty years ago. Pete was the Fallstown boy who, along with Charlie MacCrimmon and Moose Mayfield, had survived that fatal car crash.

  * * *

  That evening at the hearing, Liss had to clasp her hands together to keep them from trembling. She’d have blamed her jitters on the way Jeremiah Forestall was glaring at her from his place behind the long table at the front of the room if she hadn’t already been so nervous about what was to come. It was essential that she convince the board of selectmen that Charlie had been onto something, but it was hard to have confidence in her ability to do that when both John Farley and Wilmot Ranger were yukking it up with Forestall while waiting for the hearing to start. They appeared to be on excellent terms with the businessman. Liss’s spirits sank lower. Had Charlie’s memo meant nothing to them? Had they even read it?

  They were gathered in the conference room behind the town office in the municipal building, the space customarily used by the board of selectmen and other town committees for their meetings. In a pinch it could hold about thirty people. By Liss’s count, at least twice that number had already shown up, thanks in large part to news of her confrontation with Forestall that morning at Patsy’s. The overflow lined a narrow hallway and dribbled out into the wider one that ran the length of the building. Someone had told her that a few stragglers were perched on the stairs that led up to the library, too far away to hear anything that was said in the conference room.

  The fire chief ambled in just as John Farley stood to call the hearing to order. After a whispered consultation he made an announcement.

  “For safety reasons, we will have to move to a larger space. The fire truck will be moved out onto the street and we will reconvene in the empty bay in ten minutes. Those of you who are seated,” he added, “please take your chairs with you.”

  Liss obligingly folded up the uncomfortable metal contraption she’d been perched on and hefted it. While she waited for a path to the exit to clear, she heard mumbles of discontent all around her from people shrugging into their coats and gathering up their belongings. They weren’t complaining because it was all that far to walk. The fire station was housed right in the municipal building, along with the town office, the police station, and the library. The problem, and the reason the town meeting had finally been moved to the elementary school, was that there was no heat in the garage area.

  Patsy leaned close to whisper, “What do you want to bet Thea’s hoping a lot of folks give up and go home?”

  “Selectmen should have known there’d be a good-sized crowd.” Stu Burroughs slammed a bright blaze-orange hunting cap onto his head. With exaggerated movements, clearly hoping they’d be noticed, he pulled the flaps down over his ears for added warmth.

  The grumbling and muttering continued until they had reassembled in the new location. Propane heaters had been fired up to dispel the worst of the cold.

  There was no conference table in the fire station, so the selectmen and their guest of honor were obliged to remain standing in order to be seen and heard. Farley called for order. He had to repeat himself before it grew quiet and he could introduce Jeremiah Forestall.

  The head of Merveilleuse International looked no less like a thug in his expensively tailored suit. His voice grated on Liss’s nerves as he launched into a prepackaged pitch designed to convince his listeners to support the water project. Although she tried to be attentive, she was soon lost in a tangle of technical terms and an even more confusing profusion of statistics and projections.

  Liss considered herself a savvy businesswoman. She had earned a two-year degree in business before going on the road as a professional Scottish dancer. She was perfectly willing to admit that the global marketplace had changed some in the years since she graduated, but the very fact that his arguments confused her sent up more red flags. She should have been able to follow his reasoning, even if she didn’t agree with it.

  He had enthusiasm. She’d give him that. And despite that raspy voice, he came across as the sort of “local boy who made good,” who, in general, would appeal to the grassroots population of rural Maine. What his spiel lacked was any hint of a downside to tapping into Moosetookalook’s water supply.

  He wanted to extract “springwater” and sell it for exorbitant prices. The town would gain an initial financial windfall and a steady yearly income after that, but the bottling plant he proposed to build on the outskirts of Moosetookalook would pay no property taxes. What other benefits there would be for the town remained murky. Worse, the techniques he was using to obscure the lack of specific details were those traditionally employed by fast-talking flimflammers.

  Thea Campbell spoke next, giving her wholehearted support to the project. She didn’t come right out and say so, but it was obvious to Liss that she believed the board of selectmen already had the authority to accept the deal, no matter what doubts their constituents might have. Liss supposed that was true, but if Thea, Farley, and Ranger expected to be reelected, they had to give some consideration to opinions voiced at this hearing.

  As soon as Thea stepped back, Liss stood up, forcing John Farley to recognize her. No matter how much anyone wanted her to remain silent, she had a right to speak. Had anyone tried to deny her a voice in the proceedings, her neighbors would have been up in arms.

  “Some of you have probably been wondering why Charles MacCrimmon, my uncle, returned to Moosetookalook after so many years away,” she began. “It turns out he came back to issue a warning about Merveilleuse International.”

  Turning her back on Forestall and the board of selectmen, Liss faced the audience. Family and friends had come out to support her. Many already had some idea what she intended to say. For the benefit of the others, she set about presenting a cogent argument for delay.

  From her pocket Liss took a
copy of the memo Charlie had left behind and began to read it, item by item, explaining here and there as necessary. What he had unearthed was a record of flagrant disregard for the environment, a history of fraudulent practices in dealing with communities like theirs in other states, and an account of the disastrous depletion of one town’s aquifer.

  When she stopped speaking, someone said, in a carrying whisper, “That’s a dying declaration if I ever heard one.”

  “Yes. Exactly.” She refolded the page and tucked it back into the pocket of her jeans. “Charlie MacCrimmon wanted to avert an economic and environmental disaster in this town, the town he grew up in, the town he still cared about even though he left it behind a long time ago. His attempt to bring us this information—and I am convinced, since he earned his living as a private investigator, that he had proof of each of these allegations—cost him his life. In light of this memo, in light of his untimely death, I say the least we can do is postpone finalizing a potentially dangerous deal until we can investigate each of the charges—”

  “Your claims are outrageous!”

  Jeremiah Forestall’s outraged shout interrupted the flow of Liss’s argument and sent a cold chill down her back that had nothing to do with the temperature in the fire station. Slowly she turned to face him.

  Forestall’s cheeks were a mottled red. His eyes had narrowed to slits. At his sides his hands were curled into fists. Liss was suddenly very glad that stalwart supporters surrounded her. Dan and his brother were fit and strong and younger than Forestall. Pete Campbell added brawn to the mix, as well as the authority that went with his deputy sheriff’s uniform. Thea might be his mother, but he wouldn’t hesitate to take action if he sensed that Liss was in danger.

  Using the skills she’d learned when she was a performer, she projected her voice so that her words carried to every corner of the room. “If my uncle found proof of these claims, as I believe he did, then that proof can be uncovered a second time. I move that the board of selectmen delay going forward with the water project until these allegations can either be verified or disproved.”