Kilt at the Highland Games (16 page)

“I guess so.”

Not the brightest bulb,
Sherri decided. “Do you think Kent saw anything?”

Her brow furrowed, as if it took a great deal of effort to come up with an answer to this question. “I don't
think
so.”

“You sound a little uncertain.”

“Well, he did stop . . . I mean . . . he acted kind of funny for a minute there, but then more fireworks went off and everything was fine again.”

“Any idea where Kent is today?” The Humphreys lived on the road to Fallstown, near the turnoff to the hotel and close to the gas station and convenience store Sherri's father owned.

“He's probably at work,” Amie said.

Sherri waited a beat, then had to prompt the girl. “Where?”

“Willett's Store.”

The answer surprised Sherri. Since when did her father hire help? He was the original “I'd rather do it myself” guy.

Thanking Amie for her cooperation, Sherri drove straight to the familiar small, square clapboard building. The bright yellow paint, she noticed as she parked and went in, was sadly in need of a touch-up.

Ernie Willett greeted his daughter with a scowl on his craggy face. In his world, this passed for affection. Sherri gave him a peck on the cheek, told him he needed a shave, and helped herself to a candy bar from the display on the counter.

“That'll be a dollar, missy. I'm not running a charity here.”

Sherri fished four quarters out of her pocket and handed them over. “Got a question for you.”

He sent her a suspicious look, eyebrows shooting up and dark eyes inquisitive.

“Any idea where I can find Kent Humphrey? I hear he works for you.”

“Boy's not in trouble, is he?”

“Not that I know of.”

Her father's breath came out in an exasperated huff. “It's that girl he hangs out with, isn't it? I told him to steer clear of her. Thinks he's in love! What does a kid that age know about love?”

She could ask the same question of him, Sherri thought, but she was wise enough not to do so. At Kent and Amie's age, he'd been head over heels for Margaret MacCrimmon. They'd broken up after high school. He'd married Sherri's mother, Ida, and Margaret had become Margaret Boyd. Years later, when she was a widow and he was divorced, it had looked as if things between them might be heating up again, but that fire had apparently sputtered and gone out. They'd stopped keeping company a couple of years ago. Margaret now appeared to be more devoted to her dogs than to Ernie Willett.

“Dad, do you know where Kent is now? I really need to talk to him. I think he may have seen something last night . . . after Jason Graye was killed.”

If she'd hoped to shock her father into cooperating, she was doomed to disappointment. A dedicated curmudgeon like Ernie Willett was hard to rattle. He fiddled with the candy display, rearranging the three remaining chocolate bars before he finally offered an answer. “Might be he's at the Highland Games.”

“Might be, or is?”

He shrugged. “Said something about going up there if I didn't need him today. I told him to go ahead, as long as he came back before the end. Might be a few folks needing gas for the drive home.”

“Thanks, Dad. I'll go see if I can find him.”

“You'd do better to wait till he comes back,” he called after her.

With a wave, she kept going, but she had reconsidered by the time she reached the police cruiser. Her father was right. For one thing, there was no guarantee Kent was at the games, even though he'd said that was where he was going. Even if he was there, it would be like looking for a needle in a haystack. She'd do better to wait a couple of hours. She could talk to him at the store, or wait until evening and catch him at home.

It was just as well she'd resigned herself to a delay. She'd barely turned the key in the ignition before she was called out to a rollover on Raglan Road, near the old Chadwick mansion.

* * *

When Liss took her second break of the day, it was to meet Jake Murch beneath the shade trees at one side of the hotel grounds. The area had been set aside as a venue for performances by the quieter musicians—harpists, fiddlers, and singers. Since it wasn't far from the rows of booths, Liss had caught bits and pieces of the music throughout the day. A soprano she had heard earlier was almost through with her second show when Liss plunked herself down in the chair Murch had saved for her.

He held a finger to his lips. “Let the lady finish this song before we talk.”

Liss had no problem with that. She recognized the ballad instantly as “The Bonny Earl of Murray.” She was grinning by the time the singer took her bows and left the stage so that the next set of performers—a group of storytellers—could set up for their performance. Most of the audience left. A few newcomers took their places.

“What's so funny?” Murch asked.

“Mondegreens.”

“What?”

“Mondegreens are misheard lyrics. The term came about because of the song we were just listening to. The real verse is ‘They hae slain the Earl of Murray and laid him on the green,' but the story goes that the woman who coined the word heard that line as ‘They hae slain the Earl of Murray and Lady Mondegreen' and imagined the earl and the lady as lovers, dying together on the green. Such things are considered very romantic in some circles.”

“Okey-dokey. If you say so.”

“Yes. Well, that's the story. And people do it all the time—hear something that just sounds like what was really said or sung. Then they put their own interpretation on it. I've done it myself.” She knew she had a sheepish look on her face when she added, “Blood on the cow.”

Murch raised his eyebrows in a question.

“I misheard the word
plow
in a song. I don't even remember what one or who sang it, but that image—the cow, not the plow—was stuck in my head for days. Then, of course, there's Richard Stans. He's one of the lesser-known founding fathers, according to a local columnist here in Maine.”

Murch looked blank.

“Surely you've heard of him.” Liss bit back a giggle. “He's in the Pledge of Allegiance. You know, ‘the flag of the United States of America, for Richard Stans?'”

With a groan, Murch indicated that he got it. Then, out of the blue, he said, “Don't call me Shirley.”

Now it was Liss's turn to be stumped. She sent him a puzzled look.

“Old joke from a movie.
Surely
heard as
Shirley
? Never mind. That's not what you wanted to talk about.”

Liss stared at him, struck by a thought. “I'm not so sure of that. I know this is going to sound crazy, but is it possible you could have misheard what those two men were saying to each other in the town square?”

“The Shakespeare guys? Why?”

“Because I saw them again today and I had the strongest feeling that there was something . . . off about them. I told you it was crazy!”

“I never discount good instincts, and you've got them in spades. Turns out that one of those men is using a phony name. There's no such person as Eliot Underhill, not in Roanoke, Virginia, anyway.”

“Then who is he?”

“Don't know yet, but it makes me real suspicious of anything he does.”

“Is Martin Eldridge really Martin Eldridge?” Liss asked.

“That's his real name, yes. I didn't do any checking beyond that yet because there didn't seem to be any connection to your missing persons.”

Liss told him about the tenuous Virginia connection.

“I'll dig deeper,” he promised. “Meanwhile, let's go back to what I heard . . . or what I
thought
I heard,” he corrected with a rueful grimace. “The one guy said ‘much ado about nothing' and that's the title of a play.”

“It's also an expression, meaning someone's making a lot of fuss for no good reason.”

“Okey-dokey. What about the reference to Elizabethan tragedy.”

Liss had closed her eyes, the better to call up the sound of the words. Her heart began to beat a little faster.

“Jake, could what you heard have been Elizabeth and Bradley? Those are Angie's children's names.” She never thought of Beth as Elizabeth, since no one ever called her that, but it stood to reason that Elizabeth was her given name.

“It's a stretch, but maybe. What about the other play,
Julius Caesar
?”

“You only heard them say the second word, right? Seize her?”

“Damn. You could be right.”

As soon as he agreed with her, doubts flooded into Liss's mind. “Or maybe I'm off in left field. Even if there's something fishy about Eliot Underhill, Martin Eldridge is a respectable-looking guy, and he's seventy if he's a day. What on earth could he have to do with the disappearance of my friends?”

“We won't know until I find out more. As for the one calling himself Underhill, I still think there's something familiar about him.” He stood up. “I'll—”

A piercing scream cut him off before he could complete his sentence.

Chapter Thirteen

B
y late afternoon, Sherri had returned to the police station and was wrapping up some of the endless record-keeping that went with the job of chief of police. The Highland Games wouldn't wind down until six, so she didn't see any point in looking for Kent at the Humphrey house until after that. Once she'd talked to him, she was looking forward to a quiet evening at home with her husband and kids. She was 99.9 percent certain that Kent hadn't seen anything more than his girlfriend had.

She sat back in her swivel chair, rotating her neck and shoulders to get rid of the kinks. She was about to get up and pour herself another cup of coffee when Dolores Mayfield came barreling through the waiting room and straight into the office, face flushed and eyes shooting sparks. She was so agitated that her entire hand shook when she pointed one finger at Sherri.

“Good. You're here. Stay right where you are. I want to file a complaint.”

Sherri gestured for the librarian to have a seat in the uncomfortable plastic guest chair. She saw no sign of blood. Not a hair on Dolores's head was out of place. Whatever was bothering her, it didn't appear to be a matter of life and death.

“What sort of complaint?”

“Harassment.” Dolores dropped into the chair, landing so hard that it gave a creak of protest.

Sherri bobbled the pen she'd just fished out of a drawer. “Harassment,” she repeated. “Do you mean sexual harassment?”

“Of course I don't mean sexual harassment. Get your mind out of the gutter, young woman! I want you to do something to keep that man away from me. Get me a restraining order.”

Taking a firm grip on the pen, Sherri prepared to take notes. “Are you talking about a stalker?”

“Of course not.” Dolores sat up straighter and glared at Sherri, but she did not elucidate.

This is like pulling teeth,
Sherri thought. She'd interrogated criminals who were more forthcoming. “Have you been threatened with bodily harm?”

“I have been threatened with incarceration!”

Finally, the penny dropped and Sherri's pen along with it, this time deliberately. “Oh, for heaven's sake, Dolores. Are you talking about Gordon Tandy?”

“Well, of course I am. First that man came to my home. Then he showed up at the library to badger me with the same ridiculous questions. And when I said I didn't have time to waste on such nonsense, he said I could talk to him there or at the county jail. I ask you, is that any way to behave toward a respected member of this community?”

“I can't prevent the state police from talking to you, Dolores. You are a person of interest in Jason Graye's murder. You did quarrel with him. You did threaten him. You were not only mounting a campaign to keep the library open, you started a petition to have him impeached.”

“I never threatened to kill him!” Dolores's glare would have turned a weak person to stone.

“That's not the way I heard it.”

Dolores said a word Sherri had never expected to hear coming out of the older woman's mouth before she added, enunciating each word with care, “It . . . was . . . a . . . joke.”

“Okay. Fine.” Even if Dolores's words had been meant in all seriousness, she wouldn't be the first person to say something in the heat of the moment that came back to haunt her. In an effort not to rile the librarian further, Sherri adopted a soothing tone of voice. “The detective has to talk to you, Dolores. That's how he rules you out as a suspect. The more you cooperate, the sooner he'll move on to someone else.”

“That's just it. He's not moving on. Roger just phoned me to tell me he came back with a search warrant and confiscated every weapon in the house.”

Sherri almost asked who Roger was, before she remembered that Roger was Moose Mayfield's given name. “I'm sure you don't have anything to worry about, Dolores. You'll get everything back as soon as the police run some tests.”

Dolores did not look reassured.

Was she worried that her husband might have killed Graye? Sherri tried to imagine big, awkward, boozy Moose Mayfield planning and executing a murder. It didn't compute. Besides, the form Liss had seen running away from the scene couldn't have been Moose. His silhouette was distinctive, and so was his lumbering gait. More to the point, he'd have no reason to flee toward the town square when his house was in another direction entirely.

Dolores heaved a deep sigh. “I suppose you've heard the whole story by now—about what happened the other night?”

“Several times over and in various versions.” One of Sherri's sources had Moose Mayfield foaming at the mouth as he emptied his pistol into the wall. She felt certain the account Liss had given her was much closer to the truth. “Fortunately for you, no one made a formal complaint. If they had, I'd have been obliged to charge your husband with discharging a firearm in a populated area.” After a moment, curiosity made her add a question. “Was that your gun or your husband's?”

“Roger and I both belong to the Moosetookalook Rod and Gun Club. We shoot at targets. There's nothing wrong with that.”

“You mean there's a second handgun in the house?”

“Roger keeps . . .
kept
his in the garage. Your state trooper friend took that one, too.”

“I'm sure you have nothing to worry about. The state crime lab will test them both. If they don't find a match to any bullets they found at the scene, then they'll know neither gun was used in the crime.”

Dolores seemed a little calmer, but that only meant she was thinking more clearly. She added up what she knew and reached a conclusion that did not compute. “Why did they confiscate my collection of bladed weapons? There was no need to do that if Graye was shot.”

“They're just being thorough,” Sherri said.

She wasn't prepared to share the truth with Dolores. According to Gordon, Graye appeared to have surprised an intruder. Armed with a gun, he'd likely confronted that person and fired one shot before he himself was fatally stabbed. It was hard to say for certain. A license wasn't required to own a gun in Maine, so they couldn't tell if Graye had kept one in the house. Since neither weapon had been found at the scene, it had to be assumed that the killer had walked off with both.

Dolores's eyes narrowed. “Thorough my left foot! What aren't you telling me, Sherri Campbell?”

Sherri stood up. “I'm not telling you anything, except that if you and your husband are innocent, you have nothing to worry about.”

Leaning forward, Dolores pounded her fist on Sherri's desk for emphasis. “Roger did not kill Jason Graye, and neither did I.”

“Then go home, Dolores. Let the police do their job.”

“Hah! What if they try to frame one of us?”

“Why on earth would they?” Sherri's astonishment was genuine. She had complete faith in Gordon Tandy's integrity.

“Everyone expects the police to solve crimes quickly. Nobody cares if they arrest the wrong person.”

“Now, Dolores, you know that's not true.”

When Dolores stood up in a rush, Sherri quickly circled the desk. The other woman's increased agitation made her nervous. Once again, Dolores's color was high, and her breathing had become erratic.

“Settle down, Dolores. You're going to work yourself into a heart attack if you keep this up.”

“Well! Aren't you the one for plain speaking!” Dolores pressed her fingertips to the pulse in her neck. After a moment, she closed her eyes and took a series of long, deep breaths.

Sherri watched her, both concerned and suspicious. It wasn't like the town librarian to be so irrational. She went off on tangents, yes, but there was usually a modicum of common sense behind them.

Was it possible she
had
killed Jason Graye? Liss's description of the shadowy figure she'd seen had ruled out Moose Mayfield, but it might fit a tall, sturdily built woman. Dolores was in good physical condition, and she seemed more upset than was reasonable about the police confiscation of her bladed weapons.

Dolores's eyes popped open again.

“Better?” Sherri asked.

“No thanks to you. If you're not going to do anything to stop that detective from hounding me, then I may as well go home.”

“There's nothing I
can
do. If you truly feel threatened by the investigation, then I suggest you hire a lawyer.”

“Have you lost your mind? I can't afford some fancy lawyer's fees.”

Sherri fought the urge to roll her eyes. “Then go home and do whatever it is you usually do to calm frazzled nerves. Tea? Meditation?”

“Vigorous exercise.” Dolores snapped out the words. “I'll have you know I work out on both a treadmill and a stationary bicycle.”

The mental image of Dolores training for an ironman competition left Sherri at a loss for words. She was saved from having to say anything by the ringing of her phone. By the time she pressed the receiver to her ear, Dolores had gone, slamming the door to the waiting room behind her.

“Moosetookalook Police Department,” Sherri answered. “How may I help you?”

Thirty seconds later, she was on her way to The Spruces.

There had been another stabbing.

* * *

Mike Jennings met Sherri at the scene. He'd already secured it and called for the state police. “The victim is unconscious but still alive, although he may not be for much longer. The local EMTs are with him. The ambulance is on its way from Fallstown.”

“ID?” she asked as Mike lifted the police tape so she could enter a wooded area to the side of the field used for athletic competitions.

“Kent Humphrey.”

Sherri stopped short as she felt herself blanch. “Oh, damn,” she whispered.

“You know him?”

“He's the kid I was going to talk to, to ask if he'd seen anything last night after Graye was killed.”

Sherri knew it was foolish to feel responsible for what had happened to Kent. It wasn't a sure thing that he could identify Graye's murderer. Even if he had been able to provide her with useful information, there was nothing to say he wouldn't have stayed on at the games afterward and ended up exactly the same way.

He lay on the ground, tended by two Moosetookalook volunteer firemen who'd qualified as emergency medical technicians. Sherri couldn't tell what they were doing for him and wasn't sure she wanted to. The wail of the ambulance siren was the most welcome sound she'd heard all day.

“Who found him?” she asked Mike.

“A couple of spectators.” With a jerk of his head, he indicated a man and woman waiting a little apart. The man had his back braced against a tree. The woman sat on the ground, her face ashen.

Sherri glanced toward the athletic field, where competitions had resumed. There was a lot of noise—crowd chatter, cheering. “Was there something going on at the time?”

“The tug-of-war,” Mike said.

“Then how—”

“Call of nature. Guy was too lazy to walk over to the port-a-potties. He told his lady friend to stand guard while he ducked in among these trees to take a leak. She thought she heard something while he was watering the grass, so she went to take a look.”

“Fools rush in,” Sherri murmured, “and thank God for it. Did she see anyone else around?”

Mike shook his head.

Since there was nothing she could do for Kent Humphrey, Sherri went to talk to the woman who had, hopefully, saved a young man's life. As she approached the couple, she read herself a lecture. She was a professional. The near-paralyzing mixture of emotions she was feeling had to go on the back burner while she did her job.

Ten minutes after the ambulance showed up, Kent was on his way to Fallstown General Hospital. Sherri sent Mike along with him with orders not to let anyone near him who wasn't family. It stood to reason that Kent must have seen Graye's killer and that the killer had seen Kent. Coming across him at the Highland Games, that same person had then stabbed Kent, just as he'd stabbed Jason Graye, intending to silence him forever. If he realized Kent was still alive, he'd try again.

Five minutes later, Gordon Tandy arrived on the scene. Sherri gave him a clear, concise report, including the fact that Kent Humphrey, age seventeen, was a friend of Liss's cousin Boxer and of the missing girl, Beth Hogencamp.

The thought that those kids were only a few years older than her own son, Adam, left Sherri choking out the rest of what she had to say around a humongous lump in her throat: “Kent is the boy who was on the swings with his girlfriend in the town square last night.”

Gordon's “cop face” was replaced by an expression of alarm. “Where is she?”

“Home with her parents. Safe. I've already phoned the Fitzwarren house. I spoke to Amie's mother. I didn't give her any details, but I convinced her she needs to keep her daughter at home until someone from my department or from the state police can get there.”

“Had you interviewed either Amie or her boyfriend?” Gordon asked.

“I talked to her earlier today. She didn't see anything last night and didn't think Kent had either. I hadn't yet connected with him.”

“Either he saw something or someone thinks he did.”

“Looks that way. And that someone was here. Why? What was he . . . or she . . . doing attending a festival the day after killing a man?”

Gordon had been surveying the area. Now he turned his sharp-eyed gaze on her. “Are you okay? You look shaky.”

“I
feel
shaky. He's just a kid.” Her voice broke, but she shook her head when Gordon touched her shoulder in a gesture of comfort. “Don't worry. I'll hold it together. It's just that I knew Kent was here. I should have come looking for him right after I saw his girlfriend. Instead, I figured it would be easier to wait and catch him at home. I should have—”