Kilt Dead (6 page)

“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 Shakerstyle 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 furnituremaking, 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 sixthirty 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.

an 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 father 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.