Bagpipes, Brides and Homicides (Liss Maccrimmon Scottish Mysteries)

by Kaitlyn Dunnett

  “Did you hear a shot?” she asked. “Is that how he was killed? With a gun?”

  “I have no idea. I neither heard nor saw anything untoward until that young woman came running out of the building screaming her head off.”

  “Willa Somener.”

  “Is that her name? Poor girl. I gather she found the body.” Tut-tutting to himself, he resumed his work, shelving the last book on the cart with a decisive thump.

  “I understand she stopped to talk to her boyfriend before she went into the building to look for the professor.” Liss resumed following him as he pushed his cart toward a service elevator.

  “Oh, yes?” He didn’t sound even mildly interested, and in a moment he was going to escape.

  “Gabe Treat? Alistair Gunn’s grandson?”

  Amalfi gave a short laugh at that. “That old coot? He’s even more obsessed with the so-called Sinclair voyage than Palsgrave was.”

  “I suppose Gabe was there helping his grandfather.”

  “Not that I saw.” He turned to her, frowning, after he shoved the cart onto the small elevator—more of a dumbwaiter than anything else, Liss realized, with no room for Amalfi to squeeze in.

  “You didn’t notice Gabe hanging around before Willa found the body?”

  “I can’t say that I did.” He pushed the button to send the elevator back down to the main floor of the library and headed for the nearest stairwell with Liss still at his heels.

  “Odd. I had the impression that Gabe kept a close eye on his grandfather.”

  “Someone should,” Amalfi said, “but if the grandson was there that day, he stayed out of sight. Probably didn’t want the senile old fool to see him and be insulted. Gunn’s got a short fuse. He’d probably take the boy’s head off if he thought he was looking out for him.”

  “Not literally, I hope,” Liss mumbled.

  She didn’t think Amalfi heard her. He’d already gone through the stairwell door and started down the steps. She hurried to catch up and they entered the main lobby of the library together.

  “What makes you so certain Palsgrave’s theory was wrong?”

  Responding to the challenge in Liss’s voice, Amalfi turned on her, eyes flashing and nostrils flared. “The Zeno Narrative was a fraud. Everyone knows that.”

  It took Liss a moment to remember that the Zeno Narrative was the record left behind by Antonio Zeno, admiral of Henry Sinclair’s fleet. It was an account of Sinclair’s voyage to the New World. “Not everyone agrees with you, Mr. Amalfi. Some think the Narrative is a legitimate document.”

  “Oh, please. Aside from the errors on the so-called Zeno map—obvious errors—there’s the fact that both narrative and map were supposedly ‘discovered’ by a descendant a couple of centuries after Zeno’s death . . . in an attic, of all places! How much of a cliché is that? And, of course, the Zeno in question is accounted for, in Venice, during the same years pro-Sinclair people claim he was sailing to Nova Scotia.”

  Liss considered pointing out that recent scholarship, according to Palsgrave’s book, suggested an alternate date for Sinclair’s voyage, one that did allow for Antonio Zeno to go with him, and that the errors Amalfi spoke of could be attributed to a lack of knowledge on the part of the descendant who’d published the Zeno Narrative in the sixteenth century. Travel books were the best sellers of that age. It was not surprising that an enterprising Renaissance man had embellished the original.

  Liss was not foolish enough to engage in a debate over such details, not when all she had to rely on was one quick reading of one book on the subject. “I’m afraid I don’t understand,” she said instead. “I’d think you’d be happy to advance the claims of this Zeno fellow, even at the expense of Christopher Columbus. After all, they both came from Italy, didn’t they?”

  Amalfi looked appalled by her suggestion. “My dear young woman! Bite your tongue. Zeno was Venetian!”

  The second name on Liss’s list was John Jones. He was home, but he refused to let her in. From the other side of his closed apartment door, he told her that he’d already talked to the police.

  “I’m not with the police, Mr. Jones.” She stared at the heavy wooden planks in front of her and raised her voice. “I’m from the hotel where the highland games are being held. We’d just like to confirm that you will not be demonstrating on Saturday or Sunday.”

  His response was loud and rude. “Get lost, girlie. I don’t have to tell you diddly squat.”

  Prompted by a healthy sense of self-preservation—he did not sound like someone she’d want to be alone with in an apartment—Liss left. When she remembered what Gabe had told her about Jones’s suspect credentials, she wasn’t really surprised that he’d reacted badly to having people pry into his private business.

  Next she contemplated hunting up Alistair Gunn. She talked herself out of it for three reasons. First, he was one scary old man. Second, on consideration, she decided that it would have been physically impossible for him to have killed Leon Palsgrave. Therefore, he wasn’t really a suspect. And, third, if his “cause” was the motive for his grandson to commit murder, then it was hardly likely he’d roll over on that young man.

  That left two names on her list. One was Barry Rowse, the one who believed Sinclair had secretly been a Templar knight and had buried the Holy Grail in New England. The other was Kirby Redmond, the “arms master” for the reenactment. She flipped a coin. Redmond won.

  Liss made another phone call to Melly. She’d already discovered, online again, that Redmond, like Gabe Treat, was a theater major. His interest was in props, which fell into the same backstage arena as costumes. Melly was able to give Liss precise directions on how to find her quarry.

  “He’s a fine young man,” Melly added. “And there isn’t anything he doesn’t know about stage weapons.”

  “I don’t consider him a likely suspect,” Liss assured her. “As far as I know, he was nowhere near Lincoln Hall on the day Professor Palsgrave was killed. But he does have a connection to the weapon. I’m hoping he can tell me something about the amount of strength it would take to use a hand-and-a-half broadsword to kill someone.”

  She found Kirby on the main stage in the arts center. All she had to do was follow the sound of steel ringing against steel.

  Liss advanced down the aisle of the auditorium, mesmerized by the flash of blades. In spite of the fact that the two opponents wore protective face masks and clothing, they gave every appearance of trying to kill each other. The fencing foils in their hands looked lethal. Only the fact that one of the fencers kept up a steady stream of instructions reassured her that the fight was as carefully choreographed as any dance routine.

  She applauded when the session came to an end. The “loser” got up off the floor and bowed to her. The “winner,” a young man with a wiry build and fluid movements, looked nowhere near as pleased to discover that they’d had an audience for their bout. He whipped off his mask to reveal a face dominated by oversized ears, a broad forehead, and a wispy brown beard. “We’re rehearsing here.”

  “Sorry to interrupt. Are you Kirby Redmond?”

  “What’s it to you?”

  The other student laughed, revealing herself to be female. The padded jacket she was wearing had made it impossible to tell. “He’s not always this surly,” she called out. “I missed my mark. Twice. And I’m done for today, Kirby,” she added, turning to her instructor. “I’ve got a class.”

  “Fine. Whatever.” He turned his back on her and strode downstage toward Liss. “What do you want?”

  “I have a couple of questions about medieval weapons, if you have the time.”

  “Maybe.” He dropped down onto the edge of the stage, folding his legs beneath him, tailor fashion. His mild gray eyes stared intently into her face.

  Liss moved closer, still wary. “My name is Liss MacCrimmon. I’d like to talk to you about the weapons that were, briefly, in my display window at the Moosetookalook Scottish Emporium.”

  He snorted.
“Stupid idea.”

  “I don’t imagine it was yours, but you are the local expert on arms and armor, isn’t that right?”

  He gave a grudging nod.

  “Professor Halladay must have consulted you about which swords should go in the display.”

  “No need. Doc Halladay, she’s got a pretty good working knowledge of weapons.”

  “Really?” Liss wondered if she’d been too quick to cross the older woman off her list of suspects. Then she remembered—Dr. Halladay had an alibi.

  “Well, sure,” Kirby said. “Blacksmithing is one of the crafts she’s interested in promoting. Blacksmiths made swords,” he added when she looked blank. “And when I told her she ought to include sword fighting as an art, because there were schools in just about every major city during the Renaissance, to teach the young noblemen how to fight, she arranged for me to do a demonstration at the Medieval Scottish Conclave.”

  “Congratulations.”

  “She’s a real hands-on type. Got me to give her basic lessons in a couple of different types of swordplay. You wouldn’t think it to look at her, but that old gal has the makings of a pretty good fencer. Too bad fencing wasn’t popular in the Middle Ages. It didn’t become fashionable until much later.”

  Liss tried to imagine Caroline Halladay wearing a practice outfit like the one Kirby had on and couldn’t quite manage it.

  “Are we done here?” Kirby’s tone was so sharp and impatient that it knocked the half-formed image right out of Liss’s head.

  “Actually, no. What can you tell me about the hand-and-a-half broadsword?”

  “Oh, not you, too?”

  Liss’s interest quickened. “Who else has been asking you about broadswords?”

  “That old fart, Alistair Gunn.”

  “Gunn talked to you about the broadsword? When?”

  “He buttonholes me every time he sees me. He’s obsessed with the subject. Well, that’s what is supposedly punched into that rock ledge in Westford, Massachusetts, isn’t it?” His fingers drummed an impatient rhythm against the stage floor.

  “You sound skeptical.”

  “I don’t much care who did what that many years ago. My weapons, though—those I care about. Dr. Halladay says the cops confiscated my sword. I want it back.”

  “Have the police asked you about it?”

  “No. Why should they?”

  Liss sighed. Here was yet more proof that the state police weren’t looking at other suspects. They thought they’d found their killer. “I need your expert opinion, Kirby. Could someone with severe arthritis in his hands heft that particular sword and kill someone with it?”

  “Stab or slash?”

  “I don’t know.” She hated working in the dark, but Detective Franklin was keeping details of the crime close to his chest. The general public still didn’t know that the murder weapon had been a sword.

  “It wouldn’t take much strength to run someone through with a broadsword,” Kirby said, “if you sharpened it and you had a good grip on it and you got a running start. Or if the other guy was moving toward you and you were trying to defend yourself. Slashing, though, that would mean lifting the blade over your head.” He moved his arms to demonstrate. “That sword is a reproduction, so it’s not as heavy as a real one would be, but you’d still tire out pretty fast if you were delivering blows from above.”

  “So, it would take someone with a good grip.” That was a point in her arthritis-riddled father’s favor. “The killer must have been a strong man in good shape to be able to—”

  “Or somebody who was really pissed off at the professor.” Kirby’s grin showed off large, very white teeth.

  “Do you have anyone in mind?”

  “Not really.” And he seemed to have lost interest in the topic. With an ease Liss envied, he stood, clearly ready to end the interview.

  “Have you ever given lessons with a hand-and-a-half broadsword?” she blurted before he could bolt.

  “Sure. I had all the students Palsgrave lined up for the reenactment practice with both broadswords and claymores. Some of the girls had a hard time with them.”

  “Willa Somener?”

  “You know Willa? Yeah, she’s game enough but she hasn’t got much upper body strength. A couple of whacks and she was done for.”

  Liss nodded. “Yes, I can see that.”

  “Can’t always.”

  “Can’t always what?”

  “Tell how strong someone is by looking at them, at least not when they’ve got clothes on.” He grinned again. “Clothes hide muscles.”

  She smiled back. “Fight a lot of battles naked, do you?”

  “Legend says the ancient Scots used to.”

  “Good point. Still, I don’t think Willa is the one who used that broadsword on Professor Palsgrave.”

  “Naw.” This time Kirby’s smile lacked teeth, making it more smirk than grin. “If Willa wanted him dead, she’d get Gabe to do the wet work. That poor boob is so whipped he’d stab himself if she asked him to.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Given Kirby Redmond’s comments about Gabe Treat, Liss reconsidered her decision not to talk to Alistair Gunn. It seemed foolish to drive all the way back to Moosetookalook without at least trying to interview Gabe’s grandfather. She had his address. And, really—what was there to worry about? He was an elderly man. Unless he managed to whop her upside the head with his cane, she’d likely escape the encounter unharmed.

  The deciding factor was that he might have noticed something. Old people and children often saw more than others gave them credit for.

  Steeling herself for the encounter on the drive from the campus to the quiet, tree-lined street where Gunn lived, she debated the best way to approach him. She could use the “I represent the hotel” ploy. Or she could level with him and ask his help for her father’s sake. After all, he already knew who she was. He’d been in her shop. She didn’t have to let on that she suspected his grandson of murder in order to ask her question.

  Gunn’s house was set back from the street and surrounded by high hedges. Liss debated pulling into the driveway, which appeared to circle back on itself, curving around a large, colorful flower bed. Instead, she pulled in behind a dilapidated red pickup truck. It wasn’t until she’d shut off the engine that she noticed the vanity plate. She let her forehead fall to the steering wheel and bumped it, hard, twice in succession. The plate read MURCHPI.

  She’d managed to push the private investigator Mr. Carrier had hired to the back of her mind, but now she remembered that he’d planned to talk to everyone on the list she’d given him. Had he talked to Jones and Rowse and Amalfi, too? The latter hadn’t mentioned answering questions for anyone else. Then again, perhaps Mr. Murch was more subtle than she gave him credit for. Maybe he’d disguised himself in some way. Maybe—

  Murch emerged from Alistair Gunn’s house and started down the driveway. Through the open window of her car, Liss could hear that he was whistling. She didn’t recognize the tune, but she couldn’t help but notice how cheerful he sounded. She wished she could feel more confident that he was in a good mood because he’d learned something significant from interviewing old Mr. Gunn, but she had her doubts. She opened the door and got out, then stood beside her car until Murch noticed her.

  The whistling stopped abruptly. That and a slight hesitation in his step told Liss she’d taken him by surprise.

  “Get in the truck,” he said when he reached it.

  “Why should I?”

  “We need to talk.” He swung up into the cab and turned the key in the ignition to start the air conditioner.

  Liss debated only a moment. She didn’t like the man, but Mr. Carrier trusted him. And he’d just talked to Alistair Gunn. He might have learned something useful.

  The inside of Murch’s truck was a surprise. It was a total contrast to the clunker exterior. The seats were amazingly comfortable. A cooler, from which Murch pulled two cans of soda, filled most of the small space beh
ind them. Liss didn’t know the purpose of half the electronics she saw, both on and beneath the dashboard, and she wasn’t sure she wanted to. She took the can and popped the top.

  “What are you doing here, Ms. MacCrimmon?” Murch asked.

  “Same thing you are, Mr. Murch.”

  “No. I’m working. You’re butting in.”

  Liss sipped her drink and considered his tone of voice. Resentment, she decided. She supposed she could understand that. This was his livelihood. On the other hand, it was her father’s life. “I have a right to talk to Mr. Gunn.”

  Now it was Murch’s turn to sip, swallow, and ponder. “Maybe so, but I wouldn’t advise it. He’s on a tear.”

  “Did you say something to upset him?”

  “Not so you’d notice. But I didn’t get much sense out of him, either. Tell you what, sweetheart. If you want to help, give me the bullet points on this Sinclair the explorer thing. I couldn’t make heads nor tails out of what the old man was going on about.”

  “Sure, toots,” Liss shot back, “just as soon as you drop the macho PI act and talk like a normal human being.”

  He chuckled. “Busted. The little lady scores a bull’s-eye.”

  “Murch,” she warned.

  He held up both hands in surrender. “I can’t help it. Honest. It’s what you call my signature style. I’ve worked real hard to develop a flexible persona over the years. It’s second nature now. I channel whatever character will most put a suspect at ease.”

  “Columbo?” she asked, remembering what Mr. Carrier had said.

  “Yeah. That’s a good one. I lull them into thinking they’ve got nothing to worry about because I’m too befuddled to figure things out and then—boom! Gotcha!”

  Liss sighed. “Okay. Fine. Just don’t call me ‘sweetheart,’ okay?”

  “You got a deal, swee—” He grinned. “Uh, make that Ms. MacCrimmon. Now, about this Sinclair business. What’s with that?”

  Liss settled herself more comfortably on the soft leather seat and took another swallow of her soft drink. “I don’t get it, either,” she confided, “but people can be passionate about the strangest things. In this case, what’s at the heart of it is a debate over who really made landfall in North America first, a Scot sailing for Norway or an Italian sailing for Spain.”