A Wee Dose of Death (8 page)

“I don't know him at all. Karaline knows him. I only know his wife.”

She raised her eyebrows. “The ditzy one?”

“Why do you call her that?”

“Oh, nothing much. It's just that she has something of a reputation around here.”

I could imagine. I waited for her to go on, but she stayed silent.

My curiosity got the better of me. “What sort of a reputation?”

“Well, I hate to say anything against her, and maybe it's not her fault.”

“What's not her fault?” Pulling answers from her was like trying to ride a bicycle through heavy mud. On the other hand, maybe it was just as well. I liked that Stripe didn't seem to want to say anything bad about Emily.

“The grad assists always help serve at the faculty dinners twice a year.”

Not knowing where this was headed, I nodded.

“Last month she went flying out of the dinner for no reason at all and ran right into me. I had a tray full of plates. It was a real mess. She didn't even stop to apologize.”

“Do you have any idea why she did it?”

In answer, she simply looked over at the closed door. “I'm not sure why he put up with her. It really looked like she was crazy.”

“What would mean this
crayzee
?”

I'd forgotten about Dirk momentarily, and I jumped a bit,
but Stripe didn't seem to notice. What would they have called a crazy person in the era of Chaucer?

But then I thought of Emily's constant need to talk. Maybe she just had to connect and didn't know how. It sounded like Stripe was basing her opinion on just that one unfortunate event.

“She's not crazy. She has . . .” How could I say this without sounding stuffy? “She has some problems.” Maybe Stripe would think she had a food allergy.

“Ye still havena explained
crayzee
, but 'tis good ye have spoken of Mistress Emily, since ye claim to know her so weel.”

“Medical problems?”

How would I know? “Allergies,” I said.

“I dinna ken what
allargees
are, but ye dinna sound quite as if ye are speaking on behalf of Mistress Emily.”

He was right, doggone him. I
wasn't
on Emily's side in this, and I ought to be. “Mrs. Wantstring is very nice once you get to know her.” And very talkative, but I didn't say that.

Stripe didn't look convinced. She kept studying the nameplate on Dr. W's door. “Where did all these spiderwebs come from?” She sounded indignant.

“No idea.”

She reached out and whisked them away. I sure hoped the little spiders weren't caught in the middle.

Dirk moved farther down the hall and stood in the exact middle, halfway between any doors. I had a feeling the spiders would find him anyway. Maybe they materialized out of thin air.

I looked back at Stripe. “Can I ask what your real name is?”

“Just call me Stripe. It was a nickname from when I was a kid, and I'm used to it. Do you want me to show you where PD and your friend are?”

*   *   *

A few minutes
later, as we turned yet another corner, and headed for an inconspicuous door, I said, “I appreciate the guidance.”

“They have to give us maps when we first enroll, and people still get lost sometimes.”

“Did you get lost when you first came here?”

She slowed her step as we walked into the room. “Oh, yeah.”

There must have been quite a story behind those two words.

“. . . sounds worse than it is,” PD was saying. “It's easy to neutralize.”

He and Karaline were hunched over a spread of what looked like photographs of swirly amoeba-like creatures. The vivid colors on some of the photos reminded me of juicy oranges and tart lemons and bright green broccoli. My stomach growled. “I'm hungry. We didn't stop for lunch.”

Karaline didn't move other than to comment, “You'd better watch out, PD. She gets cranky when she hasn't been fed.”

PD pushed aside the photo he'd been studying. “Good idea. There's a soup place a block from here. I'll join you if you don't mind.” He didn't wait for an answer. “I'll be back in half an hour. You handle things here, Stripe.”

“Like heck I will. I'm hungry, too.”

Stripe slung her lab coat over a hook and threw on a gorgeous parka. It looked thick enough to handle forty below zero without a hitch. PD wound a soft light brown scarf around his neck and added a Day-Glo orange parka. “I like for everybody to see me coming,” he said when he noticed Karaline's raised eyebrows. Next to him, Stripe looked like a quiet mouse.

So there were five of us for lunch. Well, four of us. Dirk didn't count because he couldn't eat anything.

Once I had a steaming bowl of potato leek soup in front
of me, I felt a little more sociable. PD, across the table from me, looked up from his clam chowder. “So, do you have any idea what Dr. Wantstring's been working on?”

I shook my head, but Karaline paused, her spoon halfway to her mouth. “Uh, no. No, not really.”

He studied her for a moment. “That sounds like a yes to me. I'd be willing to bet you really do know something.” He slurped a spoonful. “Ah, that hits the spot. So, what's he up to? What's he doing?”

Dirk strode around from between Karaline and me to loom over PD. “Whatever 'tis, ye shouldna tell him aught, Mistress Karaline.” Dirk's hand hovered at his belt, close enough to draw his dagger on a moment's notice. The poor grad student didn't know what he might be in for if he didn't watch his step.

Karaline had just taken a mouthful of the thickest vegetable beef soup I'd ever seen, so I went to her rescue. “Why do you want to know?”

“No particular reason. It's just that he's been hiding things lately.”

Karaline swallowed. “You mean squirreling stuff? Does he still do that?”

“Yeah, all the time, but that's not what I meant.”

“What did you mean?”

“Well”—he stirred his chowder around—“you know how he's always so open about using his own projects to teach us?
You
wouldn't know, but”—he transferred his gaze to Karaline—“
you
would.”

Karaline nodded.

“The last few months, ever since Dr. H died, he's been almost—what would you say, Stripe? Secretive? Is that the right word?” Stripe, intent on her bowl of tomato basil, paid no attention.

Karaline held up a hand. “Dr. H is dead?”

“Yeah, he died a few months ago.” Undeterred, PD went on. “It's like he doesn't have time for us anymore, and then he cancels classes and takes off for a week.”

Karaline found her voice. “This is your last year, right?”

“Yep.”

“Then maybe he's just expecting you to show a little more initiative. Is your thesis anywhere near done?”

“Well, that's part of the problem. After we got back from the trip last year, I tried to change the focus of my paper, but Wantstring wouldn't let me.”

Karaline pursed her lips.

“I know, I know. He's the prof; I'm the stupid student.”

“I didn't say that. I tried the same thing on my thesis, and he told me I had to carry through, but he let R alter his topic.”

“R?”

“R for Rice. I was K.”

For Karaline
, I thought.

“And I thought PD and Stripe were stupid names.”

Dirk growled and Karaline punched PD's arm, but he refused to be stopped. “You still haven't answered my question. What's he so tied up in knots about?”

“Ye shouldna tell him anything.”

Karaline glared at Dirk. “I know.”

PD looked confused. “I know you know. That's why I'm asking.”

“I don't know anything for sure. It's just that . . .”

I kicked her under the table, but she waved me away. “It's just that the last time I talked to him, he seemed worried about something.”

“Dinna say another word! I mistrust this wee gomerel.”

“Do you know what it was?” PD was certainly persistent.

“No,” she said. “If I knew anything for sure, I'd offer to help him.”

PD leaned forward over his chowder. “He sure won't let us help.”

“Maybe he wants you to focus on your own work. What you showed me was pretty impressive.”

Dirk raised his hands, palms upward, fingers spread.

“Don't ask me,” I said.

“He told me about it before you two got there.”

Stripe looked up at that. I could tell K meant before Dirk and I got there, but Stripe obviously thought K was talking about us two live people coming in from the hallway.

“Yeah, I guess it
is
impressive. I did good work, but it wasn't what I wanted to focus on.”

For someone who was doing well, PD sounded incredibly surly.

“Well,” Karaline said, “if you make any more breakthroughs before I get back here next Tuesday, let me know.”

“Sure. Why?”

“Peggy and I have to come back to Kittredge Equipment to pick up a replacement planetary mixer—it's called an SRM20—for my restaurant.”

“You have a restaurant? What's it called?”

Stripe paid no attention to their conversation. She'd put down her spoon and was texting something.
I swear, we're all going to wear out our thumb muscles before we turn fifty.

*   *   *

It seemed like
all the way back to Hamelin, Dirk ignored me and spoke only to Karaline. I finally stopped listening and concentrated on driving. By the time we got home, it was too late to do much other than cook up some spaghetti. Then I propped open a couple of books for Dirk—he can't turn the pages—and went to bed early.

Second Time Around

D
irk was lucky, even though he was dead. He never had to worry about what to wear. I've known women who always set out an outfit before they go to bed at night, and then they just get up, put it on, and are all ready to face the day. The trouble was, by the time I got around to going to bed Monday night, I was too tired to face my closet. Who was I kidding? I
never
set out my clothes ahead of time.

When I finally made it downstairs Tuesday morning, I was wearing a bright white chemise over my dark blue silk long johns, a green overskirt, a navy bodice, and a Graham arisaidh—I never worried too much about dressing for my own clan because so many of my customers couldn't tell the difference. If anyone questioned me, I'd just say I was honoring the Graham clan today.

I found Dirk standing at my back door, looking out across the snow-blanketed lawn to the snow-laden trees beyond the fence. The storm that had sprung up overnight—sort of a side
effect of the blizzard raging all the way down the northern Atlantic coast—had dumped another twelve or eighteen inches, and many of the more slender trees bent under the weight. I checked the outdoor thermometer that hung outside the kitchen window. Good. It was still cold enough the keep the snow from icing up and sticking to the branches. All we'd need would be a good breeze and the snow would blow off. I always hated it when branches broke under the weight of wet snow.

I adjusted the belt around my arisaidh, that wonderful invention of Scottish women in the Middle Ages, which served as an overdress in mild weather and as a coat when the weather was inclement. Inclement? Where had I come up with a word like that? Some of Dirk's old-fashioned speech must be rubbing off on me. I fiddled with the brooch that kept the top of the arisaidh from slipping off my shoulders.

In modern-day America, an arisaidh was a fairly pricey item. One of the advantages of owning the ScotShop was that I'd gotten all five of mine at cost. Sometimes it was awfully hard to decide which one to wear, though. I liked them all.

“Dirk?”

“Aye?”

“How many outfits did you have when you were alive?”

“Outfits? What would—”

I didn't let him finish the all-too-predictable question. “You know. Changes of clothing. Different things to wear.”

He looked down at his kilt and ran his hand along the length of woven tartan fabric that made up the top part of his belted plaid. He raised one white-clad arm and then the other. “I have . . . I
had
a second shirt.” He raised one foot and then the other. “And four pairs of knitted stockings. What others would I have needed?” The puzzlement in his voice was genuine.

“Nothing,” I said. “I was just curious.” Everything about
his life was . . . had been . . . simple and practical and easy. He couldn't remember how or why he died, though. I'd be willing to bet it was the Plague. The Fever—that was what they called it back then—hit Scotland in 1359, the year he died. He thought maybe that was what had killed Peigi, his ladylove—the one who'd woven the shawl he was attached to, hard as that was to believe.

His eyes always got all soft when he spoke of her. Even dead, he had a love life—sort of. And here I was alive with no boyfriend in sight. Harper, unfortunately, didn't count since he never gave me a thought. If he'd been interested, he wouldn't have stood me up. Three times.

At least I could leave Dirk stuck here in the house anytime I wanted to. So there.

“I'm heading to the Logg Cabin for breakfast this morning.” I knew Karaline wouldn't be busy. This much snow overnight would cut down on the number of patrons. Tuesday morning was never a big tourist time anyway, at least at the ScotShop. There'd be a lot of locals at the Logg Cabin, but I knew she'd be able to take a few minutes. I pulled a twenty out of my purse and stuffed it in the tuck-away fold of my arisaidh. I put the purse back on a shelf behind the door. No sense carrying that heavy thing.

“I will go with ye.” He headed toward the front door.

Before he could berate me with the fact that I had rolled him up yesterday, I said, “You stay here.”

“I would enjoy seeing Mistress Karaline and speaking wi' her.”

“She won't be able to talk to you. I can guarantee you the restaurant will be almost full.”

“Mistress Karaline will want to see me even if she canna talk to me.” He turned his back on me and looked out the window.

The trouble was, he was right. She'd be delighted to see him.

Okay, so I might be angry, but I was not a spiteful person. At least I didn't think I was.

“All right. If you insist.” I stepped into my boots, slung the shawl around my shoulders, and pulled out a green down-filled Lands' End parka I hadn't worn in a while. I tried to pull it on, but the shawl was too thick—or the parka was too snug. I yanked off the shawl, folded it in half, and laid it aside. I donned the parka and some fuzzy green mittens. “Okay. Let's go.”

There was no answer. Crapola on toast! I'd closed up the shawl.
Again.
I reached for it, but stopped myself when I remembered that Dirk got dizzy—and so did I, for that matter—when the transitions went too fast. We didn't understand the physical principles involved—who could?—but I'd learned the hard way that if he was folded up, I had to leave him there for a while so he could
reset
or something. I pulled my hand away slowly. Dirk was never going to forgive me. I tiptoed out of my house, even though I was fairly sure my ghost wouldn't—couldn't—hear me.

I called out my thanks to my elderly neighbor who had once again shoveled my drive for me, and headed for the Logg Cabin. All the way there I struggled with my conscience. I could have brought the shawl along with me. I could have just waited a few minutes and then opened it up again. I could have. But I'd left it . . . him . . . at home. On purpose. Maybe I wouldn't mention all this to Karaline.

*   *   *

I had a
quiet breakfast, with no conversation to speak of. Karaline was swamped. It felt like everybody in town had decided to have breakfast at the same time. I thought about driving back home, but I didn't want to face the shawl. If I opened it, he'd be mad. If I didn't, I'd feel guilty.

I ate the last bites, paid, and headed for the ScotShop.

Gilda was there before me. “Shoe's in the back room,” she said before I'd even shut the door behind me. That unique smell of old floors and new fabric usually brightened me as I walked into my store, but today it didn't do much to dispel the sense of . . . of loneliness.

I missed Harper. That was what was wrong. I did not miss Dirk. I didn't. I stuffed my gloves in my pockets and pulled out of my green parka. I straightened a tartan skirt that hung askew on the rack closest to the door and strode across the room to the cash register. I was absolutely not going to think about Dirk all day long.

“How's it going, Peggy?” Gilda reached for my parka. “The storeroom's so full, we can't reach the coat pegs anymore. I'll throw this over one of the boxes.” She looked particularly bright this morning, with her blond corkscrew curls bobbing in all directions.

I looked her over carefully. Her eyes were clear, and her hands weren't shaking.

She drew herself up. “I haven't been drinking, if that's what you're worried about, and I went to my AA meeting last night.”

“Why is everybody so defensive today?”

“You don't have to snap my head off.” Ever since she'd gotten back from the rehab facility, she'd become what she called “assertive” and I called “obnoxious.” Unfortunately, that brought Dirk to mind and my little mistake before breakfast. Crapola on another piece of toast. Was the whole day going to be like this?

*   *   *

It was.

First of all, Emily Wantstring showed up within minutes of opening, bringing in a gust of cold air when she opened
the door. Thank goodness for the long johns I routinely wore under my long skirts in the winter.

“I changed my mind and drove home last night.” She covered her mouth, but I could see an enormous yawn hiding back behind her hand.

“You shouldn't drive so late, Emily. It's not safe.”

“I wanted to be here when Mark got back.”

That made sense.

Just then, a flood of tourists poured in and Emily left. I appreciated the bus companies for dropping their passengers off right in front of the ScotShop—they tended to buy a lot either before or after they ate at Karaline's Logg Cabin Restaurant. But it did make for a hectic forty-five minutes or so with each busload. Two more busloads were scheduled, but one of them, based in Boston, called to cancel because of the weather. I tried to be gracious—after all, tour buses brought in the majority of my business. We rescheduled for the following week, but Susan, the woman who'd called, said she wasn't sure they'd be running again that soon.

“We'll just play it by ear and hope for the best.” I turned my face up to the sky—well, to the ceiling—hoping some weather god was listening to my plea.