The Corpse Wore Tartan (4 page)

“That would be nice,” Pete said.

“I don't hold out much hope, and we can hardly search the entire hotel for that brooch, even if the Ruskins are willing. The place is just too big. Worse, if one of the housekeeping staff did walk off with it, it will already have left the premises.”

“Housekeeping staff would have a legitimate reason to leave fingerprints in the suite, too,” Pete remarked.

“Did you get any clear ones?”

“A few, but Eunice MacMillan did a great job of smearing most of them when she picked up after the intruder.”

“That's what I figured. Nothing like a contaminated crime scene.”

Sherri's next stop was Joe Ruskin's office, where she plugged her flashdrive into his computer. It took only a moment to compose an e-mail and send the .jpg file out as an attachment, alerting both police and the appropriate civilian Web site that the brooch was stolen property. That done, she printed a copy of the picture for her own reference. She hadn't decided yet if she'd show it around. Sometimes keeping the details quiet produced better results and she could inform the people she questioned that something was missing without saying exactly what it was.

By the time they returned to the conference room, the lists Sherri had asked for were waiting for her on the long table. Less than a minute later, Dan appeared in the doorway.

“I hate to ask favors, but if you could talk to the staff members who are working the cocktail party last, it would be a big help.”

“Not a problem.”

“That includes the housekeeping staff—Sadie LeBlanc, Rhonda Snipes, and Dilys Marcotte. They clocked out around four and should be coming back anytime now to earn some overtime as cocktail waitresses.”

Sherri put a small check mark beside each name. “Anyone else leave after four?”

“Fran Pertwee works in the gift shop. She took off just after you got here. So did my sister and brother. And Margaret Boyd went home at five.”

“None of them are likely suspects,” Sherri said. Besides, she knew where to find them if she needed to. Moosetookalook was a
very
small town. The Ruskins, like the MacCrimmons, the Willetts, and the Campbells, had lived in the village for generations. Margaret, Liss's widowed aunt, was currently dating Sherri's divorced father. As for Fran Pertwee, she lived right next door to Pete's mother.

“You may as well start your interrogations with me,” Dan offered, and took a seat.

Pete closed the door, turned on the recorder, and accepted the notebook Sherri passed to him. It helped to have someone else taking notes. Relieved of the task of writing everything down herself, Sherri could concentrate on watching the reaction to her questions.

She didn't suspect Dan Ruskin of anything, of course. This interview would be purely routine. And before it began, she had a personal question to ask. She clicked the recorder off again.

“Where's Liss?”

Dan grinned at the wariness in Sherri's voice. “Don't worry. She promised to stay out of trouble. She's in the gift shop. She's going to keep it open until after the cocktail party gets going.”

 

The space that had been turned into the hotel gift shop had been a card room in the old days, the province of men with cigars and a yen to gamble. The only trace of that left was in a small fireplace, these days used for display rather than heat, and the wainscoting Dan had lovingly restored on three of the four walls. The fourth was mostly taken up with windows, but Liss could see nothing beyond the glass except falling snow. A pity, she thought. The usual view was a delightful vista composed of the hotel's back lawn and the evergreen woods beyond.

“Any customers since Fran left?” Liss asked as she turned away from the glass.

Tricia Lynd, a twenty-two-year-old college student enrolled in a program to train budding hotel managers, worked at The Spruces as an intern. She was their “Jill of all trades,” moving from one job to another as needed, sometimes filling several posts in the same shift. She'd been working as a waitress in the hotel lounge earlier that afternoon and in a few minutes would be heading for the mezzanine to set up a cash bar for the cocktail party. Her white blouse and black slacks served as a uniform for all three jobs. The combination looked good on her, Liss thought, feeling a tiny stab of envy. Tricia had been blessed with an athletic body and a luxuriant mane of blue-black hair. Heads turned whenever she walked by.

“Sorry,” Tricia answered. “Not a soul. And nobody in the hour before that, Fran said, except for one couple who bought a tube of toothpaste and complained that it was overpriced.”

Ordinarily, the shop's hours were eight to five. Joe Ruskin couldn't afford more than one full-time employee. On this occasion, however, since it was merchandise on consignment from Moosetookalook Scottish Emporium that Liss hoped would sell to stray members of SHAS, she had made arrangements to keep the gift shop open two hours later than usual and agreed to work behind the counter herself from six to seven.

“Was the bar busy?” she asked Tricia.

“You mean the lounge?” The younger woman chuckled and Liss smiled back at her.

Joe Ruskin was insistent that they not call that area of the hotel a bar. It lowered the tone of the place, he said. By whatever name, it had a liquor license. Liss imagined at least some of the SHAS members had gravitated there to kill time before the cocktail party started. In fact, Grant and Erskine had been headed that way when she'd last seen them. Curious as to whether their truce had lasted, she described them to Tricia.

“Oh, sure. I remember them. They joined a couple of other men who were already there. All four of them were still in the lounge, having another round of beer, when I left to come here.” She made a face.

“What?”

“Nothing. Just…well, the first two guys had a real juvenile sense of humor. And one of them hit on me.” Her moué of distaste spoke volumes.

“You don't have to put up with harassment, Tricia.”

“He didn't go
that
far over the line.”

Liss waited.

“He gave me a little pinch on the bottom and wanted to know if I knew what Scotsmen wore under their kilts. I told him I couldn't care less. It was no big deal. Really.”

Liss wasn't so sure about that, but she let it go. Tricia was the only one who could decide where the “line” was.

After Tricia left the shop, Liss wandered the aisles, stopping here and there to straighten an item on a shelf or table but really just killing time. One display contained all the small personal items guests were prone to forget—everything from those tiny, possibly overpriced tubes of toothpaste to single-dose packets of aspirin. Next to it were two racks of postcards of local views, some specially printed to say
GREETINGS FROM MOOSETOOKALOOK
,
MAINE
. The shop had newspapers available, too, but the rest of the stock consisted of consignment items from Moosetookalook shops.

Angie's Books had supplied a revolving paperback rack featuring bestselling titles. Wall shelves held some of the small, decorative boxes Dan Ruskin made. And Liss's permanent contribution to the shop's stock consisted of a display of tartan scarves, thistle pins, beret tams in colors that ranged from maroon to fawn, and several six-inch-high figurines of men in Highland dress. A strategically placed card holder held some of her business cards, which gave the phone number, Web site, and e-mail address of Moosetookalook Scottish Emporium on the front and directions from the hotel to the store on the back.

In honor of the Burns Night Supper, Liss had added a rack of kilts and a display of clan crest items—ties, pins, mugs, and the like. She'd also brought in a selection of imported Scottish delicacies—shortbread, oatcakes, and several varieties of teas. She had a feeling she'd be carting all of it back to town in the morning. Customers seemed to be in short supply.

When her wandering brought her to a locked glass-front case, Liss paused to study its contents. The centerpiece of a selection of jewelry made by a local artisan was a gorgeous tourmaline ring. Liss had been drawn to it every time she came into the gift shop. She held out her right hand, imagining how that ring would look on her finger. Too bad it was priced so far beyond what she could justify paying to buy it for herself.

“I told you they'd still be open,” a loud feminine voice announced.

Startled, Liss swung around to face the door. Her smile was automatic but genuine, especially when she realized that a total of four potential customers had just walked into the shop. That they were members of SHAS, or their wives, was immediately apparent. They all wore tartan sashes. One woman had on a floor-length gown, two wore cocktail dresses, and the fourth was dressed in a hostess skirt in the Royal Stewart tartan and a dressy blouse.

Before coming to the gift shop, Liss had changed from her pantsuit into a similar outfit, except that the MacCrimmon “tartan” was a solid light blue. This color, supposedly, had been worn by ancient bards. Members of the MacCrimmon family had been celebrated as pipers as far back as the fifteenth century.

“Oh, look at this, Elspeth,” one of the women exclaimed. “Isn't this little figurine adorable? I ought to get that for Hank.” She was a plump little person with bright eyes that for some reason reminded Liss of the as-yet-unnamed black kitten waiting for her at home.

“He won't appreciate it, Glenora,” said her friend, plucking the tiny piper from her fingers and sneering at it before she returned it to the display. “And he won't appreciate you spending his money on knickknacks.”

Glenora sulked, but she did not argue. It was one of the other two women, a tall redhead, who spoke. “At least you still
have
money to spend. Not like poor Eunice.”

“What have you heard, Maeve?” It was Elspeth who asked, an avid look on her long, narrow face.

“Stock market,” Maeve said succinctly. Then she nodded toward the fourth woman. “Lara knows.”

“Just gossip!” Lara, a thin, nervous type, was quick to deny any firsthand knowledge.

She looked, Liss decided, as if she was afraid someone might sue her for spreading false rumors. Come to think of it, Phil probably was the type who would take her to court.

“Can I help you ladies with anything?” Liss asked.

“Is this the best you can do on the price for this MacRae tartan tie?” Maeve asked, surprising her. Liss had pegged all four women as browsers who would handle the merchandise, leave it in disarray, and end up buying nothing.

Feeling considerably more cheerful, Liss let Maeve haggle her down to ten percent less than the price on the tag.

S
herri took Dan Ruskin through the story he'd already told her, how he'd been summoned to the suite by a report of a missing brooch. Then she asked him the same questions she'd asked the MacMillans, the same questions she'd be asking everyone, especially those who had access to a passkey.

“Where were you between three forty-five and four forty-five?”

Dan had a solid alibi. He'd been with his father in Joe's office.

“Okay. You're off the hook. Or you will be as soon as I talk to Joe.”

“I checked on the last time the suite the MacMillans are in was occupied,” Dan said as he stood. “It was a week ago. The only thing anyone had to do in there today was dust and vacuum. Rhonda Snipes took care of that this morning.”

So Rhonda's fingerprints
should
be there. Sherri nodded. “Thanks, Dan. Send your father in next, will you?”

After Joe, Sherri moved on to the hotel employees. The interviews went quickly. No one admitted to being on the third floor while Eunice and Phil MacMillan were out of their suite. Most of them had been with other people at the relevent time.

Angeline Cloutier was the last of the kitchen staff to come in. She was no help in the matter of the missing brooch, but she gave Sherri an earful on the subject of haggis and a guy named Richardson Bruce. Sherri wondered if he was related to Eddie Bruce, who drove the Moosetookalook town snowplow.

As soon as Angeline left, Sherri poured herself a fresh cup of coffee. Until the servers were free at the end of the cocktail party, they could do nothing more. Just as well, she decided. She could use a break.

“If MacMillan wasn't going to wear the brooch,” she mused aloud, “why was it on the dresser? And why did he lie about planning to wear it when he talked to Dan and Liss?”

“
Was
it there?” Pete tipped his chair back against the wall and closed his eyes. “If I owned something that valuable, I wouldn't just leave it lying around.” Pete was a veteran of the Highland Games, having competed in several athletic events, and no stranger to kilts, plaids, and clan crest brooches.

“It's possible he's trying to pull some kind of insurance scam. Hide the jewelry. Claim it was stolen. Collect the cash. Except that the brooch isn't worth all
that
much. I mean, not hundreds of thousands of dollars or anything.”

“Just enough to justify calling the police. Then again, the MacMillans seem to be the sort of people who enjoy disrupting other people's lives.”

“And yet they didn't complain right away. They were prepared to…what? Cover up the fact that someone was in their suite?” It was all very strange. There was something
off
about the whole thing. It just didn't
feel
right. She wondered what MacMillan's financial situation was. Sometimes even a couple of hundred dollars could make a difference. No, Sherri decided, she could not discount the possibility of fraud.

As she sipped coffee, she played with the end of her ponytail. Her hair was long enough that she could scrape it back from her face, fasten it with a scrunchie, and forget about it. These days, she preferred to keep things simple. Those things she could control, at least.

Pete cleared his throat. His eyes were open again, but just barely. “What about the practical joke angle?” he asked.

“I'll be talking to the two men MacMillan mentioned, but opening drawers and throwing bed pillows around sounds more like someone was searching the place. Which doesn't make sense, either. I mean, the brooch was already right out in the open.” Sherri sipped coffee and thought some more.

“Maybe taking the brooch was an afterthought,” Pete suggested.

“But if the intruder stole something else, wouldn't MacMillan have reported that item missing along with the brooch?”

“Not if the thief didn't find what he was looking for.”

“And that would be what?”

“Your guess is as good as mine.” Pete waited a beat. “Maybe the MacMillans are spies. Or maybe international drug smugglers.”

“Oh, please!”

Pete didn't contribute any further ludicrous suggestions. He closed both eyes again and looked for all the world as if he were about to drift off into sleep. A smile tugged at Sherri's mouth. She was pretty sure his super-casual attitude was all an act. Her fiancé was trying very hard to let her run the show, putting himself just as far into the background as someone his size could go. When this was over, he was going to get a big kiss for that. And then some.

Sherri glanced at her watch. “The cocktail party should be over pretty soon. Once the supper starts, we can interview the housekeeping staff.”

“You don't really think one of them is responsible, do you?”

“No, but I'm hoping one of them might have noticed something suspicious.”

The housekeeping staff consisted of Sadie LeBlanc, Rhonda Snipes, and Dilys Marcotte. Sherri knew Sadie fairly well. The older woman was friends with Sherri's mother. As for Rhonda, she had worked part-time in the school cafeteria when Sherri was a teenager. But the third housekeeper's name was not familiar.

“Is Dilys Marcotte local?” she asked Pete.

“Dilys is Rhonda's cousin,” he said. “She rents a room from her. She's not from around here, but I'm pretty sure she's not from out of state, either.”

“I don't think I've met her.”

“You've probably seen her around. Late forties or early fifties. Plump going on stout. Bottle blonde.”

That description would fit a lot of local women, Sherri thought. But Pete was right. Moosetookalook was a place where folks got to know each other, even if it was only to nod to in the grocery store or at the post office. Sherri would undoubtedly recognize Dilys once she got a good look at her.

On cue, she heard the sound of footsteps in the hallway. Pete pushed off from the wall, letting his chair settle back on all four legs. Sherri set aside her coffee cup and strode toward the door.

It was time to interview the next suspect.

 

Liss picked up a copy of the program for the evening as she slipped into the private dining room. Noisy conversations flowed as Tricia filled glasses with whiskey in preparation for the toast. Everyone was already seated except for Russ Tandy, the piper, who was still waiting in the wings.

Liss looked forward to hearing him play. She didn't know Russ well, but she had dated his brother, Gordon, on and off during the past year. Russ owned a music and gift shop in Waycross Springs, an hour or so away from Moosetookalook by car along winding country roads. That gave her a fair amount in common with Russ as business-people. In addition, he had done Liss a favor during the holiday season just past. She hoped she'd have a chance to thank him again, and to chat with him and his wife later in the evening.

Trying to remain inconspicuous, Liss edged toward the back of the private dining room. Everything looked to be in order, but she had a feeling she should keep her fingers crossed.

At the head table sat the three MacMillans, Richardson Bruce, and Harvey MacHenry. The seating arrangement looked a little odd, since Eunice was the only woman. Liss wondered if Bruce and MacHenry were unattached or if their significant others simply didn't share their enthusiasm for things Scottish in general and Robert Burns in particular. Curious, she scanned the lower tables. Gentlemen far outnumbered the ladies there, too. She counted only six females in the room besides Eunice and herself. Four of them were the women who'd just visited the hotel gift shop.

Liss's attention shifted back to the head table as Phineas MacMillan rose to deliver the opening address. He fussed with the Braemar sleeves of his Prince Charlie jacket and tweaked his braided epaulettes before he reached for the microphone. His outfit was once again identical to that worn by his twin, except for a slight difference in their black bow ties. The one Phil wore was made of some flat black fabric while Phineas's shone and was probably satin.

Liss moved deeper into the shadows. In the momentary silence, she could hear the wind rattling the windows behind her. Frowning, she parted the heavy drapes, pulled closed to conserve heat, and peered out into the darkness.

The storm had steadily increased in intensity during the last couple of hours. Swirling snow still obscured the view, but it was obvious this was more than a moderate snowfall. So much for that morning's weather forecast!

Since the snow showed no sign of stopping any time soon, Liss was glad that all the members of SHAS planned to stay the night at The Spruces. She hated to think of anyone driving farther than downtown Moosetookalook in that mess.

She didn't much relish the prospect of even that short trip. Although it took barely five minutes to get home in good weather, the way was narrow and winding and could quickly turn treacherous on a stormy night.

What sounded like a snarl distracted Liss from the white world beyond the window. The sound had come from a man at the table nearest her. He sat with fists clenched, glowering at Phineas MacMillan. Liss was almost certain she heard him grinding his teeth.

What on earth had Phineas MacMillan said to get such a reaction? Liss hadn't been listening to his address and hadn't a clue, but a closer inspection of the people seated at the head table told her that Harvey MacHenry was also visibly upset. His chair was two places down from the speaker. He had risen half out of it and was leaning forward, twisted around so that he could glare directly into MacMillan's face.

“Oh, relax, Harvey,” Phineas said with a laugh. “I'm done with you.”

“Bastard,” MacHenry muttered as he slumped back into his seat.

Liss grew alarmed as one of the old man's hands went to his heart. His face had an unhealthy pallor. She heard the tooth grinder curse under his breath as MacHenry fished a small case out of his pocket and extracted a pill. When he dry-swallowed it, the man in the audience relaxed a little.

He must be MacHenry's son, Liss decided, studying the younger man's face. There was a distinct family resemblance. They both had noses that were large and slightly bulbous.

“Of course we know how some people get ahead,” Phineas continued, leering at the crowd. “Pretty young girls are always a commodity, especially if they can smile and play the bagpipe at the same time.”

Although he named no names, he looked straight at Russ Tandy's wife. She was a tall, willowy brunette, her face given distinction by almond-shaped eyes. She wore the MacDougall tartan in a sash, which meant that was probably her family's clan, and she looked as if she wanted to jump out of her chair and throttle Phineas MacMillan.

Russ, Liss recalled, had a daughter, Amanda, from his first marriage. Like her father, she played the bagpipe. Mandy was away at graduate school now, but when she'd been younger she'd entered the Miss Special Smile pageant. Russ's brother, Gordon, had told Liss that, though without any details.

The innuendo in MacMillan's comment struck Liss as particularly nasty, but before anyone could do more than glare at him, Phineas had moved on to his next snide remark. This one was aimed at Richardson Bruce. “It only makes sense that Rich Bruce would try to supervise the preparation of the haggis,” Phineas said. “After all, he's had a lot of experience cooking the books.”

Bruce's normally ruddy complexion went even darker. No one in the audience laughed, but one or two looked thoughtful. Liss didn't give much for Bruce's chances of serving another term as SHAS treasurer.

Since when, she wondered, had the Burns Night Supper turned into a Friars' Club Roast? Phineas's welcoming remarks had already gone well beyond what was acceptable. Liss had never cared much for sarcastic opening monologues, and stand-up comics who relied on insult humor rarely amused her. From the expressions on the faces in the audience, which ranged from mild disapproval and confusion to shock and anger, Phineas MacMillan was making himself very unpopular.

The speech concluded with two more digs at fellow members of SHAS. One was a clear reference to a nose job that had not been entirely successful. The other twitted Lara Brown—one of the gift shop ladies—for spreading unfounded rumors. Phineas was a fine one to talk, Liss thought.

“That's it, kiddies,” Phineas concluded. “Harvey will now say grace.” He gestured for Harvey MacHenry to take the microphone. “And who among us needs forgiveness more?”

Harvey MacHenry's face was still pale and his hand trembled slightly as he jerked the microphone away from Phineas.

The grumbling from the crowd began to make Liss nervous. She hoped MacMillan was through hurling insults.

Athough it required a visible effort, Harvey MacHenry got control of himself. His delivery of the Selkirk Grace was flawless and his voice was strong and steady when he followed the prayer with a shouted command: “Stand to receive the haggis!”

Liss couldn't help but smile at the wording. Ritual was all at a Burns Night Supper. As the company began to clap slowly and in rhythm, Russ Tandy marched in playing his bagpipe. Indoors, in the relatively confined space, the sound was deafening. Liss resisted the urge to put her hands over her ears, but only just. Ordinarily, she enjoyed the skirling of the pipes, but this was a little loud, even for a fan of the instrument.

Following close on Russ's heels came Angeline Cloutier. She carried the haggis on a silver platter. Somehow she managed to look dignified, despite the apron and hair net. Liss wondered how the members of SHAS had persuaded the prickly chef to participate in the ceremony. A nice tip, no doubt. To judge by the pained expression on Angeline's face, she couldn't wait to escape back to her kitchen.

Once the haggis had been placed before Phineas MacMillan for carving, Liss made her way to the exit. No one had come to blows over Phineas's remarks, but if rude comments and snide innuendo were a normal part of SHAS ritual, she didn't want to stick around for the toasts.