Kilt in Scotland

by Patience Griffin

  “Was anyone with you?” Rory asked.

  “No,” Marta said.

  Tilly cleared her throat. “Um, Leo was there a few minutes before. Remember, Mar-Mar?”

  Marta frowned. “You don’t think Leo started the fire, do you?”

  “Where’s Leo Shamley?” Rory asked the crowd.

  “He was at Thistle Glen Lodge right before the fire started, just like Tilly said,” Ham coughed out as he came forward. No one had seen him since.

  “Okay,” Rory said. “Have Doc MacGregor look at ye. Make sure yere lungs are all right.”

  Tilly had a hold of Marta’s arm, supporting her while at the same time trying to brush ash from her ruined suit. The rest of the quilters swarmed Marta, encircling her as if to build a wall around her for protection. Which said a lot about the quilters. Rory knew for a fact they were less than thrilled with Marta for killing off their favorite characters, but apparently quilters took care of their own no matter what.

  “What’s going on here?” Leo said, running toward the group. “Marta? Are you all right, sweetie?”

  Rory stalked toward him, but Diana stepped forward, looking as cool and calm as ever in a crisis. He’d seen her fielding questions from the quilters and villagers, plus making sure someone sorted a glass of water for Marta.

  “Marta’s fine,” Diana said, blocking Leo from her.

  Marta didn’t look fine. Her face was a mess of soot and running mascara and her hair was flat and damp from the wet towel Rory had wrapped around her.

  Rory roadblocked Leo with his hand, not letting him pass. “Not so fast. I have a few questions for you. Where were ye just now?”

  “Out and about,” Leo answered caustically, as if Rory had no right to know.

  “Tell me where,” Rory demanded.

  “Exploring,” Leo said, evasively.

  But Rory had seen Leo emerge from the pathway that led up the bluff. Had Leo been hiding out to watch the fire from a distance?

  Rory took Leo by the arm. “Ye’re in a lot of trouble.”

  Leo jerked, trying to get away. “What for?”

  “For being a cagey dobber after an arson’s been committed.”

  “What?” He looked scared now.

  “There was a fire at Thistle Glen Lodge. Didn’t ye hear the alarm?”

  “I didn’t know what that sound meant,” Leo whined.

  “Tell me where ye were just now. The truth.”

  Leo turned away, as if to give his answer some privacy. “I was up at Graham Buchanan’s house.”

  “What were ye doing there? Casing the joint?”

  “Good grief, no! I was just looking around,” Leo said sheepishly, as if he was guilty as hell. Of what, Rory wasn’t exactly sure.

  “And?”

  “I may have peeked in the windows,” Leo went on. “I didn’t do anything wrong.”

  Except skulking where ye shouldn’t have been.

  “What took ye so long to get here after the fire alarm went off?”

  Leo exhaled, turned his head even more, and whispered out of the side of his mouth. “I didn’t want anyone to know where I was. I had to find a different path back to the village. It’s steep, you know. I had to take it slow.”

  “Let’s go back,” Rory said. “Were ye at Thistle Glen Lodge tonight?”

  “Yes,” Leo said. “I came to see Marta.”

  “Was she there?” Rory knew she was. He was right there when Marta said she had a headache and needed to lie down. He was kicking himself for leaving Thistle Glen Lodge when he had. He never should’ve gone next door to Duncan's Den.

  Leo looked down at his hands. “Marta was upstairs in her room.”

  “Did you speak with her?” Rory asked.

  “Yes,” Leo answered. “I offered to rub her back, hoping it would help with her headache.”

  “How long were ye in the room?”

  “About five minutes,” Leo said.

  Just long enough to insert a time-delay incendiary device and get the hell out of there.

  “Why didn’t ye stay longer?” Rory asked.

  “Marta insisted she wanted to be left alone. So I took a walk.”

  “Did ye speak with anyone beside Marta at Thistle Glen Lodge, before ye went for yere walk?”

  “No. I saw Tilly and that Scottish guy in the kitchen, Hamilton—” Leo said it as if he didn’t believe that was his name “—but I didn’t speak to them.” He looked around at the villagers. “I didn’t speak with any of them either.”

  Rory was trying to put the pieces together. Leo was his number one suspect. Since he hadn’t spoken with anyone on entering Thistle Glen Lodge, he could’ve snuck a small device under his coat and gotten it upstairs without it being seen.

  “Ye’re awfully lucky ye weren’t with Marta when the fire started,” Rory said, and then waited for some kind of reaction.

  “Is she okay? Can I go to her now?” Leo pleaded.

  “Nay. Ye’re going to have to go to the police station in Inverness, to test yere person for chemicals, the kind which can ignite a fire.”

  “I’m innocent!” Leo’s wail sounded strange coming from a tall, grown man. “I didn’t do anything.”

  “Unfortunately for you,” Rory said, “ye’re the prime suspect for several crimes.” He looked around for his team and found them. “MacTaggart, restrain Mr. Shamley and take him in.”

  “No!” Leo cried, trying to make a run for it again.

  Rory reached out and pulled him to a stop. “Ye’re only making this worse on yereself. MacTaggart, take him.” Rory turned to the rest of the village. “Everyone to Quilting Central. We’re going to start the interviews all over again.”

  The crimes were piling up. The complications. And he hadn’t had a moment yet to figure out what had—or what hadn’t—happened on the porch of Duncan's Den with Diana.

  Everywhere he looked, things had turned to chaos.

  He heaved a big breath and said, “I’ll speak with ye first, Parker.”

  “Me?” Parker looked around as if another Parker had popped up in Gandiegow.

  “Aye. Walk with me to Quilting Central.”

  Parker glanced around and he knew who she was looking for. Sure enough, her gaze landed on Diana. Then Parker gave Rory a pointed glare. “Are you trying to make Diana jealous? ’Cause if you are, stop it. She’s my friend.”

  “I only need to ask you a few questions.”

  “About the fire?”

  “No. About Diana.”

  Parker groaned. “You can ask, but I’m not sure I’ll answer.”

  Now that he had an opening, he didn’t know where to start. He couldn’t tell her about kissing Diana and her pulling away when it got heated. But he could ask the other question that puzzled him the most. “How does Diana stay calm when everyone else is agitated and upset? Like when the body was found outside the bookshop?”

  “I don’t know,” Parker said.

  “Has she suffered some kind of trauma in her life, maybe?” Rory asked.

  Parker hesitated. “You’d have to ask her.”

  “Do ye think she’d tell me?”

  “I don’t know. Really. She hasn’t talked to me, but I’ve heard things from other people at Three Seals.”

  “Like what?”

  Parker shook her head. “It’s not my place to say. I’m sure Diana has her reasons for whatever has caused you to ask these questions.”

  Rory saw Parker glance back at Diana again; she was following them, along with the rest of the villagers.

  “Don’t you want to ask me about the fire?” Parker said.

  “Sure.” She was right. He needed to think about the crime instead of Diana. “Were you asleep at Duncan's Den when the fire started?”

  “I was on the phone with Ewan.” Parker got a dreamy look in her eyes.

  Rory made a note, but he knew Parker’s interest didn’t lie in making fires, unless it was with the Laird with the protruding ears.

  “Okay.
That’s all for now.” But Rory wasn’t any closer to solving why Diana had acted the way she had on the back porch. He needed to know, so he could fix it. He liked having her in his arms. Liked it more than he should. And he wanted to kiss her again.

  12

  Completely miserable, Diana sat at a table in Quilting Central, watching Rory pull on his jacket. He was leaving – she was devastated. She’d tried to keep from mooning over him, but nothing worked.

  He’d finished interviewing all the villagers. Of course he didn’t need to interview her, since he was her alibi--they had, after all, been in a lip-lock, or thereabouts, when the fire alarm went off--but Diana cringed, thinking about what Rory must’ve told his team.

  And why couldn’t he have come near enough for her to soak up a few more of his pheromones, enough to last her. . . how long? Forever? Oh, man, she was a train wreck.

  At the door, Rory leaned over to speak with Deydie and Bethia, which made Diana’s ears perk up. He said something about leaving for Inverness to interrogate Leo further and that he’d be back. But her mood—crushed from wanting Rory, but unable to have him—didn’t budge from its place at the bottom of the pit. Diana knew enough about police procedure to know Rory’s next trip to Gandiegow would be a short one. He’d wrap things up in the fishing village and be off to the next case.

  Her state of mind took a nosedive. Apparently, she’d only thought she was at rock bottom. She shouldn’t have let him kiss her. She shouldn’t have indulged herself and kissed him back.

  She took a couple of deep breaths.

  Enough already. She wasn’t dating a police officer. It was an open-and-shut case.

  Deydie and Bethia dropped down beside Diana, making her gasp with surprise.

  “Ye need to quit making eyes at the DCI,” Deydie commanded in her scratchy old voice.

  “We’ve come to help.” Bethia set a basket in front of Diana. “This is just the thing to occupy yere mind now that ye’ve finished piecing your Gandiegow Library quilt. Moira is nearly done quilting it on the longarm machine.”

  Deydie pulled pieces of fabric from the basket and positioned them on the flat surface. “’Tis the Kilts & Quilts Pillow Sham for ye to make. We’ve even cut the pieces for ye.”

  Bethia placed a graph paper drawing on the table and smoothed it out with her knotted, arthritic hands.

  Deydie straightened her rounded shoulders. “I designed it just this morning,” she said proudly.

  Diana sighed heavily. Didn’t these women understand she had too much to do already? She picked up Deydie’s drawing to inspect it but ended up gaping at it instead. The design was stunning: a starry sky above three houses and three boats—mostly in plaids—with a ruffle around the edge. “I’m not an expert at piecing.”

  “’Tis not that difficult,” Bethia said. “We’ll help.”

  Deydie clapped Diana on the back several times. “An eighteen-inch sham is a grand way to pick up new skills.”

  Bethia nodded. “And a pillow sham is smaller than a quilt, ye see. Ye won’t waste time or fabric, and ye won’t get stuck if ye don’t like doing a particular technique.”

  Diana stared at both women. “I suppose you won’t let me get out of doing this, even if I tell you I’m too busy?”

  “Damn straight we won’t,” Deydie said. “I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again: There’s enough time, grace, and creativity to get done what needs to get done.”

  Diana hoped it was true. She also hoped their scheme would work—that the pillow sham would keep her from obsessing over Rory.

  True to their word, the two women sat beside Diana and demonstrated, step by step, how to do foundation paper piecing and chain stitching. Meanwhile Marta and Tilly left, escorted by the Duffy brothers, to move into Duncan's Den. Marta didn’t seem happy about doubling up with Tilly. Actually, she threw a fit about it.

  As Diana was finishing up with the pillow sham top, Quilting Central began emptying for the night.

  Deydie stood. “Ye’ve done good, Diana. I’ll get this quilted and finished up for ye in the morn. ’Tis time to close up now.”

  “Aye,” Bethia said, stretching while she rose from her chair. “I need to mix together some more herbs for Mrs. Bruce’s migraines.”

  Diana switched off the machine and got to her feet as well. “Thank you both.” She didn’t have to say for what, because these two knew.

  Deydie and Bethia walked Diana to Duncan's Den. McCartney was watching Marta, so Ham and Greg volunteered to escort the older women to their homes.

  When they left, Diana put another log on the fire and wrapped herself in the quilt from the back porch incident, when Rory had kissed her so thoroughly that she could still feel it. She was all alone—everyone else must be in their rooms—and her mind began to wander where it shouldn’t. She plopped down on the couch, frowning.

  She picked up a magazine but couldn’t read.

  She stared at the fire but couldn’t relax.

  She gazed at her phone but couldn’t work.

  She hated that she was waiting…for him.

  She wasn’t even sure if Rory was coming back to Duncan's Den tonight or not. McCartney was camping out upstairs outside of Marta and Tilly’s bedroom. For a moment, really less than a second, Diana entertained the thought of embarrassing herself and asking, Have you heard from the Detective Chief Inspector? When is he coming back?

  She made herself stay put and not seek out McCartney. She stretched her legs out in front of her and snuggled down into her quilt. Even though she was worried insomnia had settled in for the long haul, she laid her head back on the armrest. She listened for the door, but heard only the crackle of the fire. And the wind outside. And the earnest beating of her heart.

  “Diana?”

  She shot upright and cracked her head against his. She knew that voice, the voice she adored so much, which was now quietly swearing.

  “Good grief, woman.” Rory gripped her arms, as if to keep her from falling off the couch, or to keep her from whacking him again with her head. “Ye gave me a bluidy concussion.”

  “Sorry.” But she was so glad to see him. “You startled me.”

  “Is yere head all right?” He let go of her and rubbed his forehead, but there was concern for her in his eyes.

  “Don’t worry. I have a hard head,” she said.

  He chuckled. “I came back to wrap things up. Not to knock heads with you.” He looked so good to her. His five o’clock shadow had matured into a three a.m. beard, exuding masculinity and tempting her like crazy. Floundering for an excuse, she found one: I’m dreaming. And she gave herself permission to act out. She reached up and ran a hand over that manly stubble, sighing when it prickled her palm.

  His gaze instantly turned hooded. She stayed right where she was, almost daring him. She didn’t pull away when he leaned in to kiss her, wrapping her in his arms.

  Yes, she’d started it. But in her defense, he’d caught her off guard by waking her with his sexy, gravelly voice. Besides, who could blame her for what she did at this hour, for surely her resolve must still be sleeping, too. Also, the glowing embers in the hearth blanketed the room in a magical cast of shadows and possibilities. For the life of her, she couldn’t puzzle together why she’d ever objected to kissing a police officer.

  When the kiss was over, he laid his forehead against hers. “Tell me why you pulled away from me earlier, when we were on the porch.” He leaned down and brushed his lips against hers again, apparently considering them his best weapon to make her comply.

  He might be right, because heck, she’d be willing to do anything for him right now.

  He brushed her hair out of her face. “I asked Parker what your story was, but she said I would have to ask ye myself. The way she said it made me think ye do have a reason?”

  Diana nodded silently.

  Rory slipped his arms under her legs and lifted her up. For a second, she thought he might sweep her away, up the stairs like Rhett in Gone wit
h the Wind. Instead, he sat on the couch, taking her with him, settling her head against his shoulder and her legs across his lap.

  “Tell me,” he said. “I want to know.”

  If it hadn’t been the wee hours of the morning, or if she hadn’t been half-asleep, or if his arms cocooned around her hadn’t felt better than any quilt she’d ever been snuggled into, maybe she would’ve been able to keep her father’s story to herself.

  “Ye’re safe with me,” he whispered. That was it. The words and his calming presence, which surrounded her like a fortress, convinced her to trust him.

  But she needed a little distance to talk about her dad. She scooted back off Rory’s lap and moved to the far end of the couch, her legs still outstretched. He set her right foot on his thigh and began massaging the sole.

  She sighed, because it felt so good. Now, she really did owe him her story. “I started my last year in high school on top of the world. I was sure I had everything figured out. How my senior year would go. What university I was going to attend afterward. What I was going to do after that. Life at home was good. My parents were pretty cool, as parents went, though I thought my dad was overly protective.”

  “How so?”

  She shrugged. “He’d seen a lot of bad things happen in New York.” Now it was time for the big confession. “He was a police officer.”

  “Really?” Rory said thoughtfully. “That explains a lot.”

  “Like what?” she asked.

  “From what I’ve seen, ye’re good with cataloging details. Ye’re extremely logical in yere thinking. Ye’re able to compartmentalize--while others around ye are falling apart, you keep a cool head.”

  “Thanks.” The way he was looking at her, Diana knew he meant it as a compliment.

  “Is yere father still overly protective?”

  She shook her head. “Dad died. That September.”

  “Was it 9/11?” Rory said gently, almost reverently, and she appreciated the respect he was showing her dad.

  “Not quite,” she said, making sure her voice was steady. “He survived the collapse of the Twin Towers, though he was there. Many from his squad didn’t make it out.” There’d been tears of relief and gratitude in their home. But… “Dad was shot responding to an armed robbery on September 25th. Two weeks to the day after 9/11.”