Читать книгу Royally Dead - Greta McKennan - Страница 14

Chapter 5

I sold more in the next fifteen minutes than I had all afternoon. At the end, I had seven stuffed Nessies left over, a pile of table linens, and one lone bow tie in the Oliphant tartan. I clipped it into my hair and piled the rest of the stuff into boxes. At the stroke of five, Pete arrived to pick me up.

People would often tell me that Pete and I could be twins, but I didn’t think so. For one thing, he was two years older than me, and for another, he was six feet tall. I liked to say I was tall for my size at five-foot-three. Sure, we had the same thick brown hair, which he wore long over his ears and I wore down to the middle of my back. We also had the same nose, until he broke his when he got into trouble in Hollywood.

“Hey, Daria. What’s going on? There were a bunch of cops at the entrance when I got here. They took down my name before they would even let me in. I had to resist the overwhelming urge to blurt out, ‘I didn’t do anything!’”

I chuckled and handed him a box. Poor Pete! He’d paid his debt to society for doing drugs, but he sometimes felt like the police were keeping an eye on him.

“One of the athletes collapsed and later died at the hospital. It turns out he was poisoned.” I filled him in on the details as we loaded my boxes into his truck. “They probably just want your name so they know you weren’t here when it happened.”

“So, this guy was murdered, then? What is it with this town lately? Seems like there’s nothing but murders anymore.”

I shook my head. I loved Laurel Springs with all my heart, but I had to agree. Even one or two murders were shocking in our serene little town. This latest one seemed especially personal because the victim had collapsed in front of half the town.

Pete tossed the last box into his truck. “What’s up with Aileen?”

I followed his gaze to see Aileen surrounded by police officers. “She had an altercation with Ladd before the athletic events. Oh, dear, I hope the cops don’t think she poisoned him.” I hurried across the lot to Aileen, with Pete close behind me.

Aileen glared at the police officers surrounding her. With her nearly six-foot height augmented by six-inch boot heels, she towered over more than half of them. No police officer was about to intimidate Aileen!

“I’m going to ask you one more time,” a large officer with black stubble covering his head said. “What is your relationship to Ladd Foster?”

Another officer cut in before Aileen could speak, if she was even going to. “You were seen threatening Mr. Foster with your instrument. Numerous eyewitnesses claim you appeared to know him. What was the nature of your relationship?”

“I knew him a long time ago,” Aileen growled. “I’ve got no use for him.” She folded her arms on her chest. “Are we done here?”

The large officer glared right back at her. “Are you aware that the victim has died? We’re investigating a suspected murder here. I would advise you to cooperate with our questions.”

Aileen couldn’t hide the flicker of surprise in her eyes at his words. I glanced at Pete, to see that he had his phone out and was filming this entire exchange.

“What are you doing?” I whispered to him.

“I’m acting as a witness,” he said in a loud voice, drawing the attention of a couple of the officers. “I’m making a video record, in case things get out of hand.”

“What, police brutality?” I whispered back, aghast. “This is Laurel Springs, not Chicago or New York!”

“Relax,” the large officer said to Pete and me in a calmer tone than he’d yet used. He surveyed the growing crowd of onlookers. “Nothing is going to happen here.” He turned back to Aileen. “You can give a statement now or you can come down to the station with us for formal questioning.” He forced a shrug, as if he really didn’t care. “Your choice, now.”

“Fine,” Aileen shot back at him. “I’ll talk to you at the station. But I have a gig here first, so you’ll have to wait.” She hefted her guitar case and turned aside to find her way blocked by yet another police officer.

“We’d like you to come with us now,” the officer said, his hands hovering perilously close to his firearm.

Aileen bared her teeth like a wild animal about to spring. She started to swing her guitar case forward.

Pete shoved his phone into my hands and barged into the circle of cops holding Aileen at bay. He laid a hand on her arm, halting the upward motion of her guitar case. “I’ll come with you, Aileen.”

“Stay out of this, Moron,” she snapped at him. “This has nothing to do with you.”

He wrapped his hand around hers, gripping the guitar case handle. “You know how much I love a good chat down at the police station.” His light tone couldn’t mask the anxiety in his voice.

She locked eyes with him for a full minute while the crowd of police officers and onlookers all held their breath. Finally, she rolled her eyes with an exasperated grunt. “Fine!” She glared at the police. “I’ll ‘come quietly.’ Satisfied?” She pushed Pete on the chest. “You don’t have to come, Moron.”

“No. But I want to.” He held out his hand, and I pressed his phone into it with shaking fingers. He kept his other hand twined around Aileen’s.

“Tell Corgi and Pinker they might have to go on without me,” Aileen called out to me. “Frigging overbearing cops,” she muttered under her breath. She suffered herself to be led off by the police officers, her right hand still covered by Pete’s.

I heaved a sigh of relief and turned to find McCarthy and his camera standing next to me. Apparently, he was acting as a witness as well.

“You gotta hand it to Pete, being willing to confront the beast like that,” he said.

“Or maybe he’s just living up to Aileen’s nickname for him.”

He chuckled. “What, ‘Moron?’ Better him than me, that’s all I can say. I thought she was going to take a swing at that cop and we’d all have to pile in to hold her back.”

I shot him a sharp glance. He looked like he meant it. Good old McCarthy!

“Well, that danger is averted for the moment,” I said. “This isn’t going to end up on the front page of the Chronicle, is it?”

McCarthy held out his camera to me while rapidly scrolling through the photos. “I’ve taken hundreds of pictures of this entire event. I’m guessing one or two of them is more likely than Aileen to end up on the front page.” He paused on one of Letty and me posing in our booth. “This one, perhaps?”

I laughed and pushed the camera away. “Looks like it’s time for the awards ceremony.”

I found a spot on the edge of the crowd where I had a good view of the podium. McCarthy prowled throughout the crowd, taking more photos.

The announcer, Herman Tisdale, held a clipboard stacked up with a thick sheaf of papers in one hand and a microphone in the other. He looked like the strain of the day was starting to get to him. His dark green kilt had shifted to sag below his belly, and his Glengarry cap was slightly askew, giving him an overall look of disarray more than distinction. But the crowd was silent, with the pipers, dancers, and athletes anxiously awaiting their results.

“We’ll begin with the primary dancers for their rendition of the pas de basques and highcuts.” Tisdale began droning off the names of young dancers, who squealed in delight or hid their faces in their mothers’ skirts. He began to talk about turnout and elevation as he announced the results of the older girls’ dances. I could see we were in for the long haul here. I wandered through the crowd until I saw Corgi lounging on the outskirts, taking a quick nip from his flask. He’d returned to his proper Highland attire, and his bloodshot eyes indicated that he’d had more than one or two goes at the flask.

“Still here until the bitter end, are we?” he said.

I nodded, wondering if he had witnessed Aileen being taken off by the cops. “I hope it’s not a bitter end for you, Corgi.”

He shrugged. “I’m not getting any awards today. I made a few mistakes in my music, so I got graded down on that. But the judges came down really hard on my appearance. They almost didn’t let me compete at all because I didn’t have the right kind of shoes.” He stuck out his foot, clad with a perfectly ordinary black dress shoe. “You’re supposed to wear those ghillie brogues that lace up your ankles. I’d look like a fool wearing shoes like that around town.” He plucked at his kilt. “Then they said my kilt was a cheap knockoff and if I wanted to take myself seriously in the piping world I needed to get a real kilt. They handed out brochures for custom-made kilts from Scotland.” He pulled a crumpled-up brochure out of his sporran and handed it to me. “Great idea, but they take six-to-ten weeks to arrive. My next competition is in two weeks. Where am I going to get a quality kilt in that amount of time?”

I scanned the brochure, which touted hundreds of tartans for their custom-made kilts. The design looked pretty straightforward, and I liked to think I was always up for a challenge. How hard could it be to sew a kilt?

I handed back the brochure and followed it up with one of my business cards. “I’ll bet you could get a custom-made kilt in Laurel Springs if you knew where to look.”

He read the card and raised his eyes to mine. “Seriously? You make kilts?”

I nodded. “It’s a new sideline for me. You could be my very first kilt customer.”

He laughed and offered me his flask, which I politely declined. “Could you get it done in two weeks?”

“I’ll have to order the fabric. There’s no one in Philly who sells authentic tartan wool for kilts. But if I can get next day shipping, I’m sure I can get the kilt finished in time for your next competition.” I pulled out my phone and called up a Scottish goods website. “Want to go for it?”

He took another swig from his flask and bent over my phone. “Right now?”

“Clock’s ticking.” I started scrolling through different tartans. “What clan do you want to represent?”

“You can’t just choose a clan. You have to be related somehow, or else you’re stuck with the tartans that don’t belong to a particular clan. But my grandmother’s maiden name was Guthrie. My claim to fame is that she was distantly related to Woody Guthrie.” He grinned at me. “That’s why I started out my musical career on the harmonica when I was five years old. I sometimes wonder what Woody would think of the Twisted Armpits. Anyway, I get the Guthrie tartan.”

He indicated his lightweight kilt, which was a blue and green plaid on a field of black, shot through with reddish orange stripes. “This really is the Ancient Guthrie tartan, even if it’s made of polyester instead of bona fide Scottish wool.”

I scrutinized his kilt. “That’s not straight polyester. It’s probably a lightweight wool/polyester blend that’s kind of loosely woven, so it has a tendency to sag. I’ll look for a good quality wool that will hold its shape.”

I pulled up the Ancient Guthrie tartan and was about to place the order when I realized I needed to do a little more research on kilt construction before I could go forward. I looked up at Corgi. “Are you committed to this? I’ll need to figure out how much fabric I need, and then I can get back to you with an estimate.”

“Yeah, I’m all in. Whatever it takes to get me suited up for the Ligonier Highland Games in two weeks.”

As he took another swig from his flask, it occurred to me that I should review his order when he was completely sober. Custom-made clothing could be a considerable investment for me if a customer backed out of a project without paying the full amount. I pocketed my phone. “I’ll work up an estimate and get back to you tomorrow morning, and you can say, ‘go or no go’ at that time. Okay?”

“Sounds good. I’ll be at the Catholic church tomorrow afternoon working on the haggis for the ceilidh in the evening. You can catch me there.”

He turned his attention back to Herman Tisdale, who was detailing the awards for the athletic events. As predicted, Patrick Ames came in first place overall, with Jamie Deakens running a close second and Tom O’Flaherty coming in a respectable third. Tisdale made no mention of Ladd Foster’s participation in the event.

Pinker jostled my arm and rapped Corgi on the shoulder. “We gotta set up, dude. We go on in half an hour. Where’s Aileen?”

Corgi looked around, as if he’d just that moment misplaced her.

I hated to be the one to have to tell them. “Aileen went down to the police station to talk to the cops about Ladd Foster. She said to tell you that you might have to go on without her.”

Pinker swore loudly. It was a good thing Aileen didn’t hear what he said about her or she might not have gone on even if she were available.

Corgi blinked at me. “Did they arrest her? I can’t picture her going to the police station any other way.”

“Not exactly, but it was a close thing. Pete went along to make sure everyone behaves.”

Pinker snorted, a habit he’d evidently picked up from Aileen. “More power to him. She’s not going to hear the end of this in a hurry. I just hope nobody notices she’s gone—that’ll learn her!” He stalked off.

“Is there anything I can do to help?” I was pretty sure the answer was no, but it seemed like the right thing to say.

“You don’t play lead guitar, by any chance?”

I had to laugh at the wistful note in Corgi’s voice, even as I dashed his hopes. “Maybe one of the other guys can pick it up.”

The other two band members, Raldo and Tim, looked dismayed when Corgi explained they’d have to go on without Aileen. I left them fussing among their gear, trying to figure out what songs to play without their lead guitar and vocalist.

I wandered back to the awards ceremony in time to catch the final announcement about the Twisted Armpits wrapping up the event. Herman Tisdale looked exhausted, as if the last thing he wanted was to hang around listening to a metal band, even if it did have a bagpipe in it.

The Twisted Armpits kicked in just as the crowd started to break up. The band appeared to be compensating for the lack of Aileen by cranking up the volume to astronomical levels. Half of the people in the crowd whooped and stampeded to the bandstand, and the other half threw their hands over their ears and ran for the exit. I slipped off to the edge of the crowd, undecided as to which group to join. That’s when I realized that Pete hadn’t yet returned from the police station. He was my ride home, with all my wares tucked into his truck. I was pretty tired from a day on my feet, compounded by the strain of a murder. I didn’t know if I had the energy for a dance party with the Twisted Armpits, but the alternative was a long wait for the bus, which might require more patience than I could summon up at the moment. I closed my eyes and took a deep, cleansing breath, trying to decide which would win out, energy or patience.

I was still contemplating when I heard the click of a camera. “Looks like you’ve mastered the art of sleeping standing up.”

My eyes flew open to catch McCarthy in the act of taking a picture of me. “That one won’t be on the front page of the newspaper either, right?” I said.

He squinted at the image on his camera screen. “I can see the caption now, ‘Peace in the eye of the storm,’ or maybe ‘Scottish Sleeping Beauty.’”

I laughed. “More like, ‘Too tired to dance with the metalheads.’”

“Is that a hint? I was just coming to see if you were waiting for someone to ask you to dance.” He waved an arm at the small crowd gyrating in front of the bandstand.

I loved dancing with McCarthy, who threw himself into the activity with such gusto that he always made me feel like I could fly. But right now I felt more like flopping than flying. “Maybe we should save this dance for the ceilidh tomorrow night.”

McCarthy nodded, his attention focused on the band. “Aileen hasn’t come back from the police station yet?”

“Nope.” I found myself twisting my hands in my skirt and smoothed the flowing fabric quickly. “I hope they don’t pick her as their prime suspect.”

“God help them if they do.” He tore his eyes away from the band. “Does that mean you’re stranded?”

“Yeah. I was going to go home with Pete, but he hasn’t come back yet either. I’m taking that as a good sign—if anyone can keep the lid on Aileen, it’s Pete.” I leaned over and knocked on a wooden fence post beside me. “Knock on wood.”

McCarthy snapped a few pictures of the Twisted Armpits, who were clearly struggling without the guiding influence of Aileen. Another good reason to pass on the dancing.

“Want me to spin you home, then?” he said. “I’ve got all the photos I need.”

“Yes, please.” I flung my bag over one shoulder and followed him to the exit. We ran into a slight delay as several police officers checked out each person who was leaving the park. They took our names and consulted a list they were compiling of everyone who had been at the event. Luckily, both McCarthy and I had been questioned already, so we were free to leave.

We hopped into McCarthy’s bright yellow Mustang and he peeled out of the parking lot. I double-checked my seat belt and leaned my head back on the headrest. “It’s been a long day.”

“Murder to the tune of bagpipes, with a chest of tartan bow ties on the side.” He straightened the yellow bow tie he still wore. “I made it through the entire day with this one.” He flung an arm over the seat to rummage in the backseat. He pulled out a white paper bag and handed it to me. “I got you that signed copy of Over the Sea to Skye, like I said I would. If you’re really tired, don’t start it tonight. It’ll keep you up to the wee hours.”

“Thanks.” I pulled the book out of the bag and flipped it open to admire the autograph on the title page. Morris Hart had signed his name with a flourish worthy of the bestselling author he was. “I know I won’t be able to sleep until Pete and Aileen get home. This will be just the thing to pass the time.”

McCarthy dropped me off at the curb with a kiss and a cheery wave goodbye. He waited until I walked up the porch steps and unlocked the door before zooming off down the street. I watched his Mustang disappear around the corner and then went inside and locked the door behind me.

My house seemed so quiet after the persistent noise of the skirling bagpipes and blaring guitars I’d been hearing all day. I dropped onto the window bench beside the front door and soaked in the peaceful silence. The high-ceilinged rooms of my nineteenth-century house exuded a bit of the grace and charm of a bygone era. I tried to encourage that illusion with the comfortable furnishings in the more public areas of the first floor, with an antique dresser here or a working spinning wheel there. A classy silhouette of my muse, Betsy Ross, hung on the wall in my fitting room, which would have been the formal dining room if Pete, Aileen, and I had felt the need for such an extravagance. For the three of us, the stenciled white table in the homey kitchen was all we needed.

My orange cat, Mohair, pulled me out of my reverie with her plaintive meows. She stropped against my ankles to convince me that I had abandoned her for all time, instead of just the one day. I scooped her up and carried her into the kitchen, where I filled her bowls and then settled down with some peanut butter crackers and orange slices for a light supper. Too tired to think about either sewing or murder, I put all thoughts of Aileen out of my head, pulled out my new autographed thriller, and started in on page one.

I was soon immersed in the palace intrigue that filled the opening pages of Over the Sea to Skye. The novel opened with a dramatization of the true events surrounding the overthrow of James II of England, aka James VII of Scotland, who was deposed in the Glorious Revolution of 1688 and fled to France. His grandson, Charles Edward Stuart, better known as Bonnie Prince Charlie, gathered the Scottish clans in the Jacobite Rising of 1745 and challenged King George II of Great Britain for the throne. I had just gotten to their crushing defeat at the Battle of Culloden, which dashed Bonnie Prince Charlie’s chances of restoring the Stuart line to the throne, when I heard the front door closing.

It was Pete. He was alone. He dragged into the kitchen and dropped into a chair at the table. He ran both hands through his long brown hair and then looked at me. “They’re holding Aileen at the jail. I tried to post bail, but they wouldn’t let me.”

I filled a glass at the sink and plunked it down on the table in front of him. “What are they holding her for? You stopped her from swinging her guitar at the cops. She went quietly in the end.”

He sighed and reached for the glass of water. “Yeah, she went quietly, all right. She completely clammed up at the station when they started asking about her relationship with Ladd. Wouldn’t say a single word. When the officer told her she’d be arrested if she didn’t start talking, she started quoting Ecclesiastes: ‘For everything there is a season.’ Who would have guessed that she knew the whole passage? I would have busted out laughing if it weren’t for the seriousness of the issue. After fifteen minutes or so of ‘…a time to keep silence, and a time to speak,’ the officer got fed up and told her she was being detained on suspicion of murder.”

I sat down next to him at the table. “What’s gotten into her?”

“I dunno, she feels like her privacy is being violated or something? She’s choosing to go to jail rather than talk about this Ladd Foster dude. What’s up with that?”

What indeed? I filled Pete in on Aileen’s reaction to seeing Ladd at the Highland Games. “She obviously has some history with him. I thought she was going to kill him with her bare hands when he was playing her guitar.”

“Well, anyone fool enough to touch Aileen’s gear without permission deserves what he’s got coming to him.” The short-lived grin faded from his face. “You don’t think she really did kill him, do you?”

I didn’t even want to go there. “What do the police think? That’s what matters.”

Pete got up to place his glass in the sink. He turned back to face me. “Since when does the opinion of the Laurel Springs Police Department make the slightest bit of difference to you? If you think she’s innocent, you’ll move heaven and earth in your quest for proof. Right?”

I could have laughed at the plaintive note in his final word, but this wasn’t a laughing matter. Pete obviously wanted Aileen to be proven innocent, and he was counting on me to do it. I hoped I could live up to his faith in me.