“The lady wants a kilt,” Jason Graye said. He had a brusque manner and although he wasn’t quite tall enough to loom over Liss, he thrust himself into her space in a way that made her hackles rise. She wondered if he tried to intimidate everyone, or only those he considered his inferiors.
Hiding her irritation behind the facade of a helpful salesclerk, she invited him to come around the counter and take a look. A narrow aisle allowed access to several racks of clothing, including ready-made kilts. The rest of the sales space consisted of a series of display tables arranged in a square under an awning.
From the rack holding an even dozen, Liss selected a kilt in the red, green, yellow, blue, and white Royal Stewart tartan and held it up for their inspection. “This one is beautifully made.”
Graye reached in front of his companion and flipped the price tag over. His eyes widened. “Three hundred dollars! For a skirt?”
“For a kilt,” Liss corrected him. “Kilts are tightly pleated at the back and take eight yards of material to make. The apron front has to hang just right. Length is important, too. A properly made kilt just clears the ground when the wearer kneels.”
“That looks too big for me,” the woman said, leaning in and nearly knocking Liss over with the strong perfume she wore. “What size is it?”
“They don’t come sized the way women’s clothes are. To be honest, the best way to make sure your kilt will look right is to have one custom made.”
“And that costs more, right?” Graye made it sound as if he thought Liss was trying to bilk him.
“Yes, it does. And it can’t be done overnight, but the results are well worth both the price and the wait. We have three sources for custom-made kilts. Kilts ordered from Canada arrive in ten to twelve weeks. Special orders to the kilt-maker we use in Glasgow take longer.”
“And the third choice?” the woman asked.
“My aunt, the owner of Moosetookalook Scottish Emporium, makes kilts as a sideline. However, she is currently in Scotland. I’m afraid you’d have to wait three weeks just for an appointment to have measurements taken.”
“Forget it. Come on, Barbara.”
But Barbara was having none of it. Liss applauded her for refusing to let Jason Graye boss her around even as she winced at the whine in the other woman’s voice. “You promised, Jase. You promised me a kilt.”
“That was when I thought we could get one off the rack.” Unspoken was the qualifier “cheap.”
“You promised.”
“All right. All right. Anything to shut you up. Order the damned kilt.”
All smiles, Barbara turned back to Liss. “I don’t like this plaid. It’s too bright.”
“In connection with kilts, the pattern is called a tartan, and these days each clan has one or more of its own. Do you have any Scottish ancestors?”
“I don’t think so.” Her face fell, momentarily giving her the look of a small child denied a treat. “Does that mean I can’t wear a kilt?”
“Not at all. The tartan I just showed you is called Royal Stewart and this”—she pulled out a kilt featuring darker hues—“is Black Watch. Anyone can wear either of these, which is why you often see them in the uniforms of bagpipe bands.”
Liss lovingly fingered the soft wool, debating whether she should elaborate on the terminology. What Barbara had called plaid—pronouncing it “pladd”—was rightly tartan and a plaid—pronounced “played”—was the rectangular woolen cape in a tartan pattern that was worn over one shoulder. TMI, she decided. By the same token, she didn’t think she’d let Jason Graye in on the fact that some purists still insisted only men be allowed to wear kilts. That would cost Aunt Margaret a sale for sure.
“I don’t like that pattern either,” Barbara said. “Too dark.”
Liss indicated the tartan in her own skirt, yet another available to anyone. “This is Hunting Stewart.”
But Barbara’s gaze had strayed to an assortment of tartan ties on a nearby rack. “What about that one?” The pattern she’d picked was dark green and blue with black and pink worked in.
“You’re in luck.” And so was Aunt Margaret. “This is called the Flower of Scotland and was specifically created for those who don’t have Scots roots. I noticed just this morning that there is a bolt of this fabric in my aunt’s stock room, so if you’d like to go ahead and place the order for your kilt, I can set up an appointment for three weeks from today. The deposit is a hundred dollars.”
“What a racket,” Graye complained.
“I want a kilt in this pattern.” Arms crossed in front of her chest, Barbara gave him a look that said she wasn’t budging until he agreed to Liss’s terms.
“And I want to see this bolt of fabric first,” Graye said, “to make sure it’s quality stuff. And I want to see a sample of your aunt’s work. Margaret Boyd, right? I know her.”
Liss kept smiling, but it took an effort. “I’m not sure one of Aunt Margaret’s creations is available. Every kilt she makes is pre-sold. They don’t stay in the shop long once they’re finished. As for the fabric, however, I’d be happy to bring the bolt of cloth here to the fairgrounds with me tomorrow, if that would suit.”
“We won’t be here tomorrow. Why not today? It’s only sixteen miles to Moosetookalook. You could get there in twenty minutes.”
“But to drive there, pick up the fabric, and come back would take closer to an hour,” Liss pointed out. “I’m afraid neither Sherri nor I can spare that much time away from the booth.”
Luckily, the number of customers browsing at the display tables supported her claim. Just now they could have used a third pair of hands.
“You could give me a key to the shop,” Graye had the audacity to suggest. “Barbara and I can stop in on our way home.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Graye, but I can’t do that. You’ll have to wait until tomorrow.”
Graye seemed prepared to argue further, but Barbara put a restraining hand on his arm. “We’ll be back,” she assured Liss.
Graye’s expression was thunderous but he took his cue from Barbara and left. As they walked away, Liss could hear him muttering under his breath about the extra mileage he’d have to put on his car to make a second visit to the fairgrounds.
“But apparently it’s okay for me to drive to Moosetookalook and back.” Liss shook her head. There was just no accounting for some people’s logic.
Sherri rang up a purchase for a falconer with a hooded hawk on his shoulder and then helped herself to another soda from the cooler. “I wonder why Graye’s girlfriend wants a kilt in the first place. All those pleats just make women look fat. Now a man in a kilt, that’s another matter. Men in kilts are to die for. Just look at Mel Gibson in Braveheart.”
Liss opened her mouth to comment, then closed it again. If Sherri was like most people, she didn’t care a bit that Mel’s movie had taken appalling liberties with history.
Working with a steady rhythm, Dan Ruskin applied the final coat of varnish to an oak drawer. He knew Ned Boyd was standing in the open doorway of the carriage house he’d converted into a woodworking shop. He’d seen him cross the town square. Dan was ignoring him, hoping he’d get bored and go away.
“What is that?” Ned finally asked.
“Puzzle table.”
“Could you be a little more specific?”
“It’s a table purpose-built for putting together jigsaw puzzles. Folding legs for storage. Cover to keep cats, children, and other predators from knocking the pieces onto the floor. Drawers for sorting.”
“Huh. You sell many of those?”
“A few.” Two, so far. One to his brother.
Uninvited, Ned wandered around Dan’s workspace, idly examining both the tools and the results of Dan’s latest experiments in hand-crafted furniture. There were two decorative clocks with battery-operated works, one Shaker-style and the other Art Deco. Also a cradle, a rocking chair, a pair of high stools for use at a bar, and an earlier, less successful model of the puzzle table.
/> “Something you wanted, Ned?”
“Wondering about the hotel.”
“What about it?”
“You really think you can make a go of it?”
“My dad does. So does your mother.”
“A less charitable soul than I am might wonder if Joe Ruskin conned my mother out of her hard-earned life savings.”
Dan stroked too hard with the brush, caught himself before he ruined the finish, and continued more slowly and with a gentler touch. “You want to be careful tossing accusations around.”
“I’m just saying that a hotel and convention center in the middle of nowhere seems like a pretty shaky proposal. Might work in Portland or Bangor, where there’s an airport nearby, but here?”
“Why not? Look at the Sinclair House over to Waycross Springs. That place is still going strong after more than a hundred years. So is the Mount Washington in New Hampshire and the Mohonk Mountain House in New York State.”
“Still going. That’s the difference, isn’t it? That old wreck on the hill bled money for years before it finally went out of business.”
Truth to tell, Dan had his own doubts about his father’s pet project. The castle needed a lot of work and it would take more money than the investors now had to finance all the renovations. But just as Dan’s dream was to one day leave the family business for full-time custom furniture–making, his father’s was to retire from Ruskin Construction and run The Spruces. Forty years ago, as a young man, Joe Ruskin had worked at the hotel and fallen in love with the place.
Finished with one drawer, Dan put it aside to dry and reached for the second. He inhaled the familiar, calming smells of his workshop. Underlying the sawdust, the linseed oil, and the turpentine was the cedar with which he’d paneled the walls.
“I’m worried about my mother, Dan,” Ned said. “What say you get your old man to let her out of the partnership?”
“That’s between the two of them,” Dan told him. “Last I heard, Margaret was enthusiastic about being part of the rebirth of Moosetookalook.”
“She’s getting on in years. She doesn’t always know what’s best for her.”
Dan snorted. “Margaret hasn’t even hit sixty yet. She’s a long way from being too senile to manage her own affairs.”
“I’m not so sure about that. Why do you think she jumped at the chance to have all her expenses paid on a trip to Scotland? She couldn’t afford the annual buying trip on her own this year. The hotel is a big draw on her cash reserves.”
Leaving less for you to wheedle out of her, Dan thought in disgust. “Give it up, Ned. I’m not sticking my nose in.”
This time he succeeded in ignoring his unwelcome visitor until the other man went away. Dan put Ned out of his mind, but he wasn’t as successful at forgetting Ned’s cousin. He’d been thinking about Liss MacCrimmon, on and off, ever since he’d seen her get out of her car the previous day.
She was putting in long hours at the fairgrounds. She’d be tired when she got home. A good neighbor would do something about that. Pizza, he decided. That was nice and casual and easy to come by. Louie Graziano’s tiny restaurant was just a block away and he delivered.
That settled, Dan went back to work. From about six-thirty on, he’d keep an eye out for Liss’s car. As soon as she returned, he’d go over and offer to treat her to takeout.
By the time Liss closed the booth at six, she was glad to see the day end. It had been exhilarating, but she was ready for a break.
With Sherri’s help, she unrolled the sides of the awning to form a tent, tying them together and anchoring them to the ground. It was only after she’d sent Sherri home that she realized that wasn’t enough protection. Although the canvas would keep rain out, it wouldn’t be much of a deterrent to theft. Security guards patrolled the grounds at night, but they couldn’t keep an eye on everything. Reluctant to take chances with Aunt Margaret’s merchandise, Liss packed up the more valuable items and loaded them into her car to take back to Moosetookalook.
The thunderstorm that had been threatening all day hit when she was halfway home, forcing her to pull over to the side of the road and wait it out. With all the delays, it was nearly nightfall when she pulled up in front of the shop.
Liss slung the strap of her shoulder bag across her chest for ease of carrying, collected the cash box and the small cooler that had held her lunch, and got out of the car. She debated whether her aunt’s stock would be safe locked in the trunk overnight and decided that thieves were unlikely to know it was there.
The streetlamps had come on, although it wasn’t yet full dark. By their light, even before she made her way across the wide front porch to the store entrance, Liss could distinguish the huge, colorful sign directing customers to the Carrabassett County Fairgrounds for the Western Maine Highland Games. A smaller placard informed potential buyers that the store would be closed until Tuesday at ten. In this part of Maine, even in tourist season, most businesses that stayed open on Saturdays took Mondays off.
Liss’s stomach growled as she let herself into the shop. She’d finally given in and bought herself a scone, but that had been hours ago. Her goals in life were simple just now—nuke a microwave dinner from the freezer and take a long, hot bubble bath.
Both, however, would have to wait just a little longer. Leaving the cash box and cooler on the counter, Liss threaded her way through the dimly lit shop to the stockroom. If she collected the bolt of tartan wool before she went upstairs, there’d be no chance she’d forget to take it with her in the morning. Jason Graye might be a royal pain, but his money was nothing to scoff at. His kilt order would yield a nice profit.
The sense of wrongness hit Liss the moment she opened the door.
Her fingers, already reaching for the switch, completed the movement, flooding the room with light. Harsh overhead fluorescent bulbs illuminated the scene with merciless clarity.
The Flower of Scotland fabric was no longer on the shelf.
It was on the floor, partially covering a very dead body.
Chapter Four
Dan had just locked his workshop and started down the street toward Moosetookalook Scottish Emporium when he saw Liss stagger out onto the porch. Even in the uncertain illumination of the streetlight, he could tell that something was wrong. Shudders racked her slim frame as she braced one trembling hand against the nearest pillar.
Breaking into a run, he covered the distance in a matter of seconds. She gasped when he skidded to a halt at the foot of the porch steps, her eyes wide and frightened in a face devoid of color.
“Liss, what’s wrong?”
With visible effort, she managed to whisper an answer. “She’s dead. Dan, she’s dead.”
“Who’s dead?”
Tears leaked out of the corners of her eyes. “Amanda Norris. She’s in the stockroom. I just found her.”
When Liss swayed, as if about to keel over, Dan grabbed her by the shoulders and gently shoved until she was sitting on the top step. “Stay right here,” he told her, and went inside.
He knew where the stockroom was. He’d been in Margaret Boyd’s store often enough to be familiar with the place. Besides, Liss had left the door open and the light on. He didn’t have to venture past the doorsill to see that what she had told him was true. A bolt of fabric had tumbled from a shelf to land on the body, unrolling enough to cover part of it, but he recognized Mrs. Norris’s fluffy white hair and her blue and white jogging shoes.
Dan swallowed hard. Blood stained the wood flooring beneath her head.
The sound of soft footfalls behind him had Dan whirling around, jumpy as a cat, but it was only Liss.
“Maybe I was wrong. Maybe she’s not dead.”
“You weren’t wrong.” Dan had no doubt on that score. The human body tended to void itself at the moment of death. He’d learned that when his grandfather passed away in the upstairs bedroom at his parents’ house. He’d been seven years old when he’d walked into that room, sent by his mother to call her f
ather down to breakfast. The smell had imprinted itself on his memory.
But he went to Mrs. Norris anyway, kneeling down so he could feel for a pulse. “Nothing. She’s gone. Looks like she fell against the shelving.” He glanced up, instantly spotting the blood staining one of the metal brackets that stuck out at the front edge of an upper shelf. “She must have hit the back of her head against the end of that at just the wrong point. A freak accident.” He didn’t really want to dwell on what might have happened. He had a strong stomach, but not for something like this. “Christ. I just talked to her this morning.”
“Me, too,” Liss whispered. She swiped at the tears staining her cheeks. “But what was she doing here?”
Good question, Dan thought. “You didn’t let her in?”
“No. I just got home. I came back here for a bolt of cloth.” A sob escaped her. “That cloth. I don’t understand. How can she be dead?”
Her face was no longer ashen, but Dan suspected Liss was still in shock. He wasn’t feeling too steady himself. It was almost impossible to imagine Moosetookalook without Mrs. Norris. He went to Liss’s side and gently steered her from the room, closing the door behind them.
Liss didn’t seem to know what to do next. Dan wasn’t sure either, but he knew who would. He reached for the phone on the sales counter. It took him two tries to manage 911. Liss wasn’t the only one with the shakes.
A short conversation with a dispatcher yielded almost immediate results. After all, the police station was just across the town square. Jeff Thibodeau, a big, balding man who’d been on the Moosetookalook Police Force for as long as Dan could remember, came on foot. They could see him through the window as he loped toward them, ignoring the “keep off the grass” signs on the green.
“Stay put,” he ordered, and went into the stockroom.
“She invited me over for apple pie,” Liss whispered in a broken voice.
Dan reached over and squeezed her hand. “She made good pies.”
“She made great pies.”
Kilt Dead Page 4