The Corpse Wore Tartan (2 page)

Grant glowered at Erskine. “I thought he was my friend.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Liss caught sight of Eunice and Phil MacMillan watching them from a spot near the elevators. They were, she supposed, on their way back to their suite after a toothpaste run. She hoped neither would try to “help.”

Meanwhile, a stubborn look had come over Erskine's face. “I'm not giving the money back,” he muttered. “He bought it as is, fair and square.”

“I don't want it anymore.” Grant sounded like a sulky child.

“Okay,” Liss said. “Here's what we're going to do. I'm tossing this in the trash.” She hefted the bagpipe. “You got a problem with that?”

The would-be piper gave a deep sigh. “No, ma'am.”

Erskine smirked, but the expression vanished when Liss glared at him. She addressed Grant again. “There's a shop in Waycross Springs. Tandy's Music and Gifts.”

“Yeah. Russ Tandy's place.”

“If you want to buy a bagpipe, go there. He even gives lessons. As for you”—she gave Erskine a firm poke in his wool-clad chest—“if you have any conscience at all, you'll offer to chip in on the cost.”

Shifting his weight from foot to foot like a bully caught acting up in the schoolyard, Erskine had the grace to look ashamed of himself. After a moment, he nodded. “I guess I could do that.”

“Excellent.” Carrying the bagpipe under her arm, Liss left them to work out the details. She returned to the check-in desk and gave Mary another reassuring smile.

The other woman sagged in relief. “I can't believe you did that, Liss. I froze. Absolutely froze. I didn't even have the presence of mind to pick up the phone and holler for help.”

“Just as well you didn't. Those two are here with the Scottish Heritage Appreciation Society. As a group, they're annoying, but mostly harmless. Besides, they're my responsibility.”

“That doesn't mean you have to risk your neck breaking up a fight.” Mary's molasses-brown eyes still had a slightly glassy look.

“Sit down before you fall down,” Liss ordered. “Are you okay?”

Mary was pregnant again, though she hardly showed. Like everyone else in the Ruskin family, Mary Ruskin Winchester worked long hours.

Joe Ruskin, Mary's father, had bought The Spruces after it had been closed for most of a decade. He'd poured money and time into restoring it to its former glory with the hope that reopening the hotel would bring prosperity to everyone in Moosetookalook. Six months in, he was struggling to make ends meet. Mary and her brothers, Sam and Dan, temporarily held positions everyone devoutly hoped would soon be filled by experienced—and well-paid—professionals.

Running one hand through her short, sandy-brown hair, Mary took a few deep breaths and forced herself to smile. “I'm fine. It was just a little disconcerting.” She cast a wary look at the bagpipe Liss still held cradled against her chest. “What are you going to do with that thing?”

Liss passed it over. It was awkward to handle—a leather bag covered with tartan cloth with three wooden drones and a chanter hanging off it at odd angles—but it wasn't heavy. It would have taken a lucky blow from Grant—or one aimed with savage viciousness—to have done any real damage to Erskine. “You're going to toss it,” she told Mary. “It's trash.”

Gingerly, Mary set the instrument down behind the check-in desk. “I'll put it in the Dumpster in the basement on my way off duty.”

The ding of the arriving elevator drew Liss's attention. Belatedly, she realized that Phil and Eunice were only now entering the cage to return to their third-floor suite. She knew the elevators weren't that slow. They must have chosen to remain in the lobby until the show was over.

Grant and Erskine, Liss was glad to see, seemed to have resolved their differences. Arm in arm, they were just leaving the lobby, heading in the direction of the hotel lounge.

Mary sent Liss a worried look. “I should probably tell Dad what happened. Or Dan.”

“There's no need to bother them. I've handled it. The crisis is over. We're good.”

“Well, if you're sure.”

“I'm sure. When do you get to go home?”

“At five, and it's almost that now. Thank goodness! I can't wait to put my feet up.”

The two women chatted for a few minutes. Or rather Mary chattered about her husband and her son Jason, a toddler. Then Liss, definitely hungry now, resumed her trek to the kitchen.

She could well understand Mary's inclination to turn her troubles over to one of the Ruskin men. Liss smiled to herself as she walked briskly along a narrow service corridor. She'd rely on one of them more often herself if she weren't so afraid that such dependence might be habit-forming.

Dan Ruskin, all six foot two of him, had become a fixture in Liss's life soon after she moved back to Moosetookalook. She wasn't quite sure where their relationship was headed, but she knew there was a special bond between them. Dan was easy to get along with and even easier to count on when there was trouble. He wasn't hard on the eyes, either. Years of working for Ruskin Construction had developed muscles in all the right places.

The sound of raised voices reached Liss's ears when she was still a hundred yards away from the entrance to the kitchen.

“Here we go again,” she muttered, and broke into a run.

L
iss burst through the swinging doors and skidded to a stop just inside the kitchen. Richardson Bruce, treasurer of SHAS, blocked the aisle between two work stations. He was squared off with the head chef at The Spruces, Angeline Cloutier.

Bruce, a dapper little man with a naturally ruddy complexion, was already dressed for the Burns Night Supper, wearing a Montrose doublet with his kilt in the red, green, yellow, and white Bruce tartan. The waist-length jacket had a stand-up collar and silver buttons and epaulettes. Beneath it Bruce wore a blindingly white shirt with a lacy jabot. The contrast made high color in his face look all the more glaring.

“The haggis is the centerpiece of the evening!” he shouted at the chef, ignoring the fact that she not only towered over him but was standing right next to a rack of sharp butcher knives. “It must be made according to the ancient recipe—chopped sheep's heart, liver, and lungs, mixed with oatmeal, onions, suet, and spices in a sheep's stomach casing.”

“Listen, mister!” Angeline poked Bruce in the shoulder with one bony finger, leaving a smear of flour on the expensive black velvet. “You know and I know that ain't about to happen. The FDA had the good sense to keep sheep offal out of the food supply.”

“Who'd know? Slaughter your own sheep and—”

“Give it a rest! You've got what—three hours till your banquet starts? Thing has to boil that long. You'll take what I've cooked for you and like it. Damned nuisance as it is, like making sausages from scratch.”

Bruce's face abruptly drained of most of its color. “Tell me you didn't use pork!”

“Lamb, beef liver, oats, and suet. The casing isn't sheep's stomach, but you don't eat that anyway.” Angeline's expression of disgust was eloquent. Then it was her turn to go pale. “Do you?”

Bruce ignored the question. “We asked for
real
haggis. That means it's made from a sheep. You can't get the right nutty texture otherwise. Or the savory flavor.”

“You won't be able to tell the difference,” Angeline promised. “Now get out of my kitchen so I can get going on the turnips and the potatoes.”

“Neeps and tatties,” Bruce corrected her. “And don't forget the cock-a-leekie soup to start and the tipsy laird for dessert.”

“Yeah, yeah. Sherry trifle. I'm on it.”

“But about the haggis—I don't think my people will be happy with—”

Deciding it was time to step in, Liss cleared her throat, interrupting Richardson Bruce's complaint. As soon as she had his attention, she took his arm, exerting enough pressure to start him moving toward the door. “I'm certain everything is under control, Mr. Bruce, but if you like I can go get some of the canned haggis we sell at Moosetookalook Scottish Emporium. It's made in the U.S. from Highland beef. Of course, there are only four servings in a can, but I could sell you a case of twenty-four for, say, two hundred fifty dollars?”

During her previous dealings with Richardson Bruce, all of them protracted negotiations concerning the cost of various items needed for the Burns Night Supper, Liss had learned he was the sort of man who'd squeeze every nickel till it screamed. Since he was almost a caricature of the penny-pinching Scot, she was not surprised when the mere mention of additional expenses made him back off.

“No. No, I'm certain…that is”—he swallowed convulsively—“I'll just run along and check on the whiskey.” He inclined his head in farewell. “Ms. MacCrimmon. Ms. Cloutier.” He pronounced the chef's surname in the Parisian way, no doubt trying to show off how worldly and well-traveled he was.

Shaking her head, Liss watched him go, then sent a wry smile in Angeline's direction.

“Clue-chee,” she muttered, scowling fiercely. “It's pronounced ‘Clue-chee.'” Angeline might have been trained in the best Cordon Bleu tradition, but her roots were solidly French-Canadian. Her birthplace was only fifty miles from Moosetookalook, in the small city of Lewiston, Maine. Angeline's usual pronunciation of that place name was “Loys-tun.”

 

Dan Ruskin hesitated with his hand on the kitchen door. Liss hadn't seen him yet. She was too busy slicing cold ham for a sandwich.

When he'd heard Mary's account of Liss's run-in with the two guests in the lobby, his first reaction had been sheer panic. He'd come looking for Liss to make sure she was okay. Plainly, she was. A flare of temper had him clenching his fists. Liss MacCrimmon was too damn impatient for her own good. She had a tendency to rush in, to do everything herself, without waiting for backup. One of these days, she was going to get herself hurt. Since Dan was in love with her, that would just about kill him.

Deliberately, he forced himself to relax. He'd learned the hard way not to try to run Liss's life for her. Not if he wanted to be a part of it. And he did. A permanent part. He'd been working up to asking her to marry him for some time now.

Liss glanced up and saw him. Her blue-green eyes—they changed hue depending on what colors she was wearing—lit with pleasure. “Hey, Dan. Want a sandwich?”

“Love one.” He crossed the busy kitchen to fetch up beside a small table tucked into a corner of the huge room.

Today, Liss's eyes were more blue than green, reflecting the bouquets of hand-painted forget-me-nots that decorated her scarf. She was wearing a simple wool pantsuit—very businesslike—but on her, even plain clothing looked great.

“I ran into Harvey MacHenry earlier,” he said as he foraged in the cabinets for two tall glasses and a couple of plates.

Liss looked up sharply, visibly bracing herself for bad news. “What nit did he want to pick?”

Dan chuckled. “Relax. He was full of compliments for both you and The Spruces. Seems like a nice old guy.” MacHenry was eighty if he was a day, but spry for all that.

“Well, that makes a change. I've never met such a contentious group of people in my life, and it isn't just that they're difficult for me to work with. They don't agree with each other about anything, either. Except that they want to hold this supper every January.”

Dan set two places, then went to stand directly behind Liss. Lifting her long, dark hair out of the way, he began to massage her neck and shoulders. They were rock hard with tension.

“Rough day?”

“Getting better.” She almost purred.

Dan kept kneading until Liss shook him off. He repressed a sigh. He enjoyed the feel of her under his hands and the light fragrance of her shampoo. She'd never been one for heavy perfumes.

“You can finish later.” There was a promise in her eyes. “I still need to check a few things before the cocktail party starts.”

While Liss put together the sandwiches, she gave Dan a brief recap of her encounters with the MacMillans, the two pipers, and Richardson Bruce. Then she slid in beside him on the long bench, her back to the hustle and bustle of the kitchen, and bit into her ham and cheese on rye.

For the next few minutes, they concentrated on food, ignoring the clatter of pots and pans behind them. Dan stole glances at his companion as they ate, wishing he could think of some way to get Liss to settle. She was all tensed up again, in spite of the massage. Then inspiration struck and he smiled to himself.

“What's so amusing?” Liss sounded suspicious.

“I just realized something.” He gestured with his half-eaten sandwich, indicating the paneled wall they both faced. “I never told you about the hidden door we found.”

Her eyes lit up. “Secret passage?”

He laughed. “Just a shortcut to the back stairs.” He pointed out the three slight anomalies in the otherwise smooth paneling. “If you look closely you can see the hinges, there and there, and the indentation for the finger pull, there. The door opens toward us. On the other side, the seam where the door meets the rest of the wall is just about invisible.”

“Is that the only hidden door? It's a big hotel.”

“It's the only one I know of that leads right through a wall like that. Of course, it wouldn't surprise me if there were more. And there are a couple of closets under staircases that are pretty hard to spot.” He grinned at her. “Heck, for all I know, there
could
be a secret passage or two.” She'd get such a kick out of it if he found one that Dan resolved to check the original hotel blueprints when he had a chance. Maybe there was something. Or maybe he could build one just for Liss. That would be easy enough for him to do.

Liss smiled back at him, but her lighthearted mood didn't last. When she reached for the glass of milk Dan had poured for her, her elbow struck the clipboard she'd left lying on the edge of the table. It fell to the tile floor with a clatter, spilling papers everywhere.

For a moment, Liss just stared at the mess. Then she heaved a deep sigh. “This just isn't my day.”

“At least you didn't spill the milk.” At her look, he shrugged. “Gotta look on the bright side. Sit tight,” he added when she started to rise. “I'll get this.”

As he gathered up pages, he glanced at each one to be sure he was putting them back together in the right order. All of them had to do with the Burns Night Supper except the last. On a piece of yellow-lined paper, Liss had written one of her famous to-do lists.

“Full plate much?” He handed her the single sheet separate from the rest. Those, he reattached to the clipboard.

“There are not enough hours in the day,” she agreed. “Sometimes I feel like I'm trying to juggle flaming batons. I need to be twins. Or better yet, triplets. Or maybe I could arrange to have myself cloned.”

“At least you've already checked off the first item on your list.” It read “deliver stock to gift shop at hotel.”

“That was the easy one. The gift shop was already open and selling an assortment of merchandise from Moosetookalook Scottish Emporium, in addition to all the usual hotel gift shop items. I just had to bring over a few more goodies.”

The idea was to tempt hotel guests to visit the original store and all the rest of the shops in Moosetookalook. Their picturesque town square featured white clapboard Victorian houses, several of them with businesses on their lower floors—the Emporium, Stu's Ski Shop, Angie's Books, and Patsy's Coffee House. There were also two empty storefronts, the unfortunate situation that Dan knew accounted for item number two on Liss's list: “MSBA.”

The Moosetookalook Small Business Association, of which Dan was currently president, desperately wanted to attract new retailers to the community. Liss had been appointed head of a committee to figure out how they were going to do that.

“Too bad you aren't ready to open your storefront yet,” Liss said, her thoughts apparently running in the same direction as his.

Dan shrugged. “Sometimes I wonder if I ever will be.”

One day, he hoped to turn the downstairs of his house into a showroom for the furniture and other household items he made. His dream was to do custom woodworking full-time. But even before the hotel reopened, he'd had to fight for every hour in his workshop. He'd managed to produce a few decorative boxes, now for sale in the hotel gift shop alongside Liss's Scottish-themed merchandise, but nothing much more complex than that.

Liss placed her hand over his in a gesture that both warmed and comforted. “It will happen. I have faith in you.”

“And you'll manage to juggle all those flaming batons. At least the third item on your list is no biggie. How hard can it be to decide on a name for a kitten?” Liss had been adopted by a little black fur ball just before Christmas.

“You'd be surprised,” she said with a laugh. “So far, nothing has seemed quite right. I have a list of possibilities a mile long and none of them really fit.” Liss polished off her milk, then dabbed with her napkin at the white mustache it had left behind.

“Write all the names on slips of paper, put them in a hat, and pick one,” Dan suggested.

“I don't think so. The only thing I'm certain of is that I can't keep calling her Nameless.”

Dan was about to ask how Lumpkin—a large yellow cat who'd owned Liss for the last nineteen months—was adapting to the presence of another feline in the house, when his cell phone rang. It was Mary, calling from the front desk. Dan glanced at his watch and frowned. It was well after five. His sister had stayed late again.

Then he listened to what she was saying and his frown deepened.

“I'll take care of it,” he promised. “Aren't you supposed to be on your way home?”

Only when Mary assured him that their father had just come out to take over the check-in desk did Dan disconnect.

“Problem?” Liss asked.

“I'm afraid so. Phil MacMillan just called down with a complaint. He says he's been robbed.”

 

“That will teach me to think I had everything under control and get cocky,” Liss muttered as they approached the MacMillans' third-floor suite. “To paraphrase Bobbie Burns, in whose honor this evening's celebrations are being held, things were bound to
gae aglee
.”

“You aren't cocky. You're confident.” Dan rapped lightly on the door. With his free hand, he gave Liss's forearm a reassuring squeeze.

The man had an amazing ability to calm her down, Liss thought. If he could bottle that, he'd make a fortune.

A scowling Eunice MacMillan opened the door. “I suppose you'd better come in.” With ill grace, she moved aside so they could enter the sumptuously furnished “parlor” of the two-room suite.

The Spruces had once been a “grand hotel” in the Victorian sense, splendidly ornate and sinfully luxurious. Dan's father had embellished that old-fashioned charm by adding modern conveniences. A cherrywood armoire hid a television, and although the bath still contained a claw-foot tub, there was a shower stall, as well. The bed, which Liss could just glimpse through the open door to the inner room, was a huge four-poster.