22

I prithee, take thy fingers from my throat.

ACT 5, SCENE 1

I’d become something of a scarf-tying expert in the seven years I’d owned the ScotShop. With the number of tartan scarves we sold, there were always women wanting to know how to wear them in something more interesting than a square knot or a simple bow.

Every time I did a little demonstration, it resulted in a hefty number of sales. This time was no exception, but all the while I was talking about loops and whorls and twisty roses, I kept an eye on the couples passing by. Surely that woman who had stolen my necklace—I was sure she was the one—wouldn’t have the nerve to show her face anywhere in Hamelin. But I couldn’t stop looking. The more I looked in vain, the more certain I was that they’d taken the necklace and skipped town.

After all, who’d have been dumb enough to stick around?

Dirk could tell what I was doing, of course. He stayed out on the periphery of the crowd around the tent, not wanting to collide with anyone. It wasn’t a pleasant feeling for him, and it tended to make the collidee pass out. I spotted him gazing around the meadow, and I knew he was looking, too.

In the back of my mind, I couldn’t erase the picture of Big Willie on the bathroom floor. The necklace was one problem, but the death of that sweet man was an even bigger one. I’d felt sure Harper could locate the murderer, but now he seemed sidetracked by that stupid necklace. It made no sense to me. Until I remembered that he had to clear Fairing’s reputation. And it was my fault that Mac might single her out for a reprimand. If it weren’t for me and my impulsive gift, Harper would have been able to concentrate on the murder.

Well, that just meant I’d have to find the necklace stealer so he could work on the other problem.

And then I saw her. Her husband wasn’t with her. She was walking alone, heading in the general direction of the piper’s tent, skirting around the raised platform where the dance competitions were held. I excused myself, wished everyone there a happy scarf-tying experience, and headed after her, dodging around people as best I could, trying to keep the woman in sight. Her long hair, coupled with her distinctive tartan skirt, set her apart from the countless women thronging the meadow. By the time she reached the pipers, I was almost on her. I could hear Dirk behind me, calling my name. Within seconds, I skidded to a stop beside her. “I need to talk to you,” I said, unsure what precisely I’d say to her.

She spun around to face me.

“Mistress Peggy,” Dirk was saying. “Stop! She isna the one.”

He was right, doggone him. It was the wrong woman. This one was too young, too wide-eyed, too . . . too wrong.

“Did you need me for something?”

“I, uh, I was just wondering what clan your tartan skirt represents.” How lame was that?

“I don’t have the slightest idea,” she said, “but I bought it at a cute little store up the road. Something like the Scottish Shop or whatever it’s called.”

I cringed.

“The guy who sold it to me looked absolutely dreamy in that kilt of his”—Sam, I thought—“and he had this sweet little dog.”

“You must have bought it on Thursday,” I said, for want of anything better to say. “Or maybe early on Friday.”

“That’s right. I bought it yesterday morning. How did you know?”

“Just a lucky guess.” A little luck, and the fact that starting Friday afternoon, I’d had two dogs that hid under the sweater rack, out of sight the entire time.

I thanked her and suggested that she might want to head to that tent over there and buy a scarf to match her skirt. “There are a couple of cute guys in kilts to help you find the right one.” Was that blatant commercialism? I didn’t care. Her eyes widened and she headed off toward the ScotShop booth. I headed for the arch. It was past time for me to go back to the ScotShop. Or whatever it’s called. I felt thoroughly discouraged. And thoroughly fed up with myself.

Of course, even if Dirk had called out to me sooner, I most likely wouldn’t have stopped, but I didn’t have to admit that out loud. And I still didn’t know the name of that tartan. It might have been a clue.

I was about halfway across the meadow when a group of pipers struck up a rousing blast of sound—I couldn’t recall the name of the tune. Ahead of me, I saw Shay pull out her cell phone and punch in a number. She was—still—in storm cloud mode. As I walked past, she turned her back to the pipers, clapped her free hand over her free ear, and said, “It’s about time you got back to your room. Why don’t you carry a cell so I can reach you when I need to?”

Her stiffening back didn’t look happy with the answer she must have been hearing, although how anyone could hear anything over the sound of the bagpipes, I had no idea. I edged a little closer to her. Dirk got even closer. I saw him tighten the shawl around the hilt of his dagger.

The pipers marched nearer still, and the sound swirled around us. I’d have to depend on Dirk to tell me what was going on.

When Shay snapped her phone back into the holder on her belt, he turned to me and raised his voice to such a bellow I could imagine the sound pouring from the throats of ancient Scots charging down a hill to repel invaders. “I will follow her. Something is awry, and I dinna want to—”

With bagpipes braying right beside me, I missed the last part of his sentence. “I will see ye at the wee shop anon,” he shouted as the pipers moved away from me. He turned to follow Shay, and they both were soon lost to my sight among the crowd.

Anon. That meant soon. Good.

*   *   *

Mistress Burns pounded on the hotel room door. When the long-haired woman opened it, Mistress Burns pushed her way in and Dirk slipped through just before the door slammed. “Where did you get it, Dolores?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Don’t play games with me. You’re in this up to your scrawny neck, and I want some answers. I know you’re involved.”

The woman pushed back her tangled brown hair. “Involved in what?”

“I said, don’t try your games on me. Where’s that worthless brother of mine? He’s part of it, too.”

“It’s hammer throw time. You know he can’t miss any of the events.”

“So why aren’t you there, cheering him on the way you usually do?”

“He said I should . . . uh . . . stay here.”

“Stay out of sight, you mean? So the cops won’t see you?”

“What do the cops have to do with this?”

“Little Miss Innocent, is that the way you’re going to play it? Then please explain to me how that cop got hold of the imitation necklace.”

“Cop? What cop? What do you mean?”

“Like you don’t know?” Mistress Burns strode around the room. Dirk had to jump onto the bed to keep her from running into him. “This is too much coincidence. You come to town and a necklace that’s been missing for ten years just happens to show up? I saw it in the police station.”

“The cops have it? That shopkeeper must have realized it was a fake.”

“What shopkeeper?” Mistress Burns pulled out a chair and sat at the small round table by the curtained window. Dirk stepped off the bed and inspected the rest of the room. The more Mistress Dolores stammered, the less Mistress Burns seemed to believe her.

“I mean, uh, somebody must have thought it was fake and, like, turned it in.”

Mistress Burns narrowed her eyes. Dirk wouldna ha’ wanted to be the object of such scrutiny. “And just how did it get here, to Hamelin, in the first place?”

“Maybe Robert sold it to her,” Mistress Dolores said.

Dirk did not recognize the name, but it looked as if it was well-known to Mistress Burns, considering the way she pursed her lips, as tight as the drawstring bag at her waist.

“Did that ever occur to you? It could have been Robert. After all, he lives here.” Mistress Dolores sank down onto the chair on the other side of the small table.

“I know he lives here, but how could someone as inept as Robert have gotten his hands on the imitation to begin with? It was stolen along with the original.”

The long-haired woman massaged one hand, as if it pained her. Mayhap it did. Her knuckles were swollen, just like the aulde grannies in his village.

Mistress Burns snaked her arm out so fast Dirk hardly saw it happen. “You’re lying, Dodie.” She tightened her hold on Mistress Dolores’s arm, so much so that her knuckles went white. As white as her bloodless lips. “Tell me the truth. Now.”

Dirk moved closer and studied the faces of the two women. One was red and angry. One was white and angry. He couldna tell which one was the worse.

“All right. I’ll tell you. But let me go.”

Mistress Burns opened her hand slowly, as if her fingers didna want to cooperate. She left her hand lying there on the table within striking distance.

“I didn’t know anything about the necklace for a long time. Windsor told me—only a couple of years ago—that he found it in the bushes after the burglary. We all went out looking, remember, as soon as we noticed the silver tea service was gone. Windsor said that when he found it, he knew it was just the fake and nobody would be interested in that. He thought maybe the thieves had dropped it on their way out. He . . . saved it. He was going to give it to me for our twentieth anniversary next February but I found where he’d hidden it, so he gave it to me for our eighteenth instead. That’s when he told me how he’d gotten it.”

“You’ve known about this for two years?”

“Not two.” She looked down at her fingers and seemed to be counting on them. “One and a half.”

“Why didn’t you tell anyone? Why didn’t you tell me? That necklace was supposed to be mine.”

“This one was just the fake. You never would have worn it.”

Dirk could believe that for certes.

Mistress Burns leaned forward. “You said a shopkeeper. What shopkeeper?”

“That Scottish store. The one up the street on the other side.”

“What does the ScotStore have to do with the necklace?”

Mistress Dolores began to rub her hand again.

“Tell me.” Mistress Burns lowered her voice ’til ’twas almost a growl. “You don’t want to know what I’ll do to you if you don’t.”

“She had the real one.” Mistress Dolores squeaked like a wee mousie. “It had to be the real one. There couldn’t be another one like it. Last week we walked into that shop and saw it on sale for practically nothing, and . . . and Windsor thought we ought to make a trade.”

“A trade? A trade?” Mistress Shay’s upper lip curled back like a wildie about to jump a goat. “It’s called stealing, Dodie. But no matter what you call it, you stole my necklace. Did you honestly think nobody would notice?”

“The price she was asking wasn’t even a fraction of what it’s worth. Everybody knows shopkeepers jack the prices up really high, so she probably didn’t pay more than a couple of hundred for it.”

“Did you think I wouldn’t notice?”

Mistress Dolores raised her chin. “I never wore it when the family was around. The only time we ever see you is here at the festival. And at Lorena’s funeral, but I didn’t have the necklace then. Windsor hadn’t given it to me yet.”

“And this time, here, even though you weren’t going to be wearing it, you just happened to have it with you?”

“I wear it a lot. And I always keep it with me.”

Dirk didna think a voice could go any deeper than where Mistress Burns had already gone wi’ her voice, but it could indeed. Like the angry grunting of a boar. Like the snarl of a wolf. Like the rumble of thunder no sae far away. Only this storm was here in this room. A room Dirk couldna get out of. “And now, dear wife of my thieving brother, you are going to tell me where my necklace is. The real one.”

“I don’t know,” Mistress Dolores wailed, and Dirk could tell she wasna being a breugadair this time. Nay. She was telling the truth this time for certes. “He hid it somewhere and wouldn’t tell me where. All he said was it’s not here in the room. He knows I’m really good at finding things, and he said he didn’t want me to be tempted.”

Mistress Burns leaned back in her chair. “That story he told you, about finding the fake. It sounds a little bit too pat for me to swallow.” She tapped one finger on the table. “I think he stole everything.”

“No.” Mistress Burns sounded sullen now. “Windsor said he always thought you or Lorena, or even Robert, had staged the burglary.”

Shay stood up so suddenly, Dirk had to jump back out of her way. “That stiff-necked, self-righteous Lorena wouldn’t; I certainly didn’t; and Robert couldn’t find his way out of a five-by-ten storage unit, much less plan a burglary. And you can tell my brother he’s an idiot if he thinks any of us did it.” She slapped Mistress Dolores wi’ the back of her hand, and her big ring left a trail o’ blood across the red-blotched cheek. “There’s one more thing you can tell that husband of yours. On second thought, I’ll tell him myself. If I don’t get my necklace, I’ll strip him of every trophy he ever won at any of the Games here, and he’ll never compete again.”

“You can’t do that! He lives for these Games. He’d kill to win them.” Her eyes got verra wide, as if she couldna believe she’d said that.

“Did he?” Mistress Burns asked. “Did he kill, just to win?”

She smiled. It reminded Dirk of a picture of a monstrous sea dragon he had seen on a map in Brother Marcus’s cell once, back when he was alive. The dragon had had steam curling from its mouth, and ferocious teeth. Before he could blot the picture from his mind, Mistress Burns stormed to the door and left, slamming it behind her seconds before Dirk reached it. He drew his dagger and pounded on the door, but of course, nothing happened except that Mistress Dolores sat down on the side of the bed, cupped her bloody cheek in her hand, and began to cry.

Dirk was left with plenty of time to contemplate what might be a fyveby ten storge younit, but he couldna decipher the strange words.

*   *   *

I waited the rest of the evening, well past the eight o’clock closing time, but Dirk didn’t reappear. The temps cleared out right away. No Dirk. Shoe delivered the cash box from the tie booth. No Dirk. Gilda and Sam left soon after that, taking Scamp with them, and I could tell they were happy to be headed for some well-deserved rest. They’d worked their tails off all day long. Silla crawled out from under the sweaters and seemed to attach herself to the bottom of my skirt.

Finally, about nine, I called Karaline.

“He’s gone, K,” I said. “Dirk’s gone, and he said he’d meet me here at the shop and he hasn’t come and I’m worried. What if he’s . . .”

“Lying dead in a ditch somewhere?” Karaline wasn’t usually that sarcastic. “Don’t be silly, P. What could possibly happen to a ghost?”

Silla bumped her head against my leg. “But I don’t even know where he went.”

“Are you still at the shop?”

“Yes.” I bent over and scratched Silla’s head.

“Stay put and I’ll be right there.”

“Maybe he went home,” I said, not sure whether I meant home to Hickory Lane or . . . or home to his Peigi, although how he could possibly have gotten there, I had no idea. He did have the shawl, though.

“Did you hear me? Stay where you are. I’m on my way.”

I put Silla’s red leash on her so I’d be ready to go, but Karaline wouldn’t let me leave until I explained what had happened.

“Okay,” she said when I finished. “The first thing we do is go to your house and see if he’s there.”

Shorty greeted me at the front door, took a whack at Silla’s poor nose, and jumped onto the couch.

Dirk wasn’t anywhere in the house.

I thought about it. “Wait! He couldn’t have gotten inside. The door was locked.”

“He couldn’t have gotten inside even if the door was unlocked,” Karaline said.

So we looked outside.

When that turned up nothing—no ghost at least—Karaline sank onto a chair at my kitchen table. “The next thing we do is think about this.”

We thought.

“He’s never stayed away this long,” I said. “This is the last time I ever let him take the shawl. What if he got lost—”

“I’m pretty sure ghosts can’t get lost, P.”

“How on earth would you know?”

Finally Karaline said, “Tell me again exactly what Shay said on the phone.”

I thought about it for a moment. “She complained that whoever it was didn’t have a cell phone.”

“Who doesn’t carry a cell?”

I shrugged.

“Did she say anything else? Anything about where she was going?”

I tried to envision the scene before the bagpipers began their joyous wailing. “She said something like ‘It’s about time you got back to your room.’”

Karaline stood so fast the chair knocked over. “Let’s go.”

“Where?”

“The hotel, of course.”

Oh. Of course. But then I wondered, “What if it’s not a room at the hotel? What if it’s in a B and B or one of the motels, or—”

“Shut up, P. We’ll deal with one step at a time.”

Fine for her to say. She wasn’t the one missing a ghost. I hadn’t told her yet how Dirk—Macbeath—was my great-multiple-times-grandfather. I’d do that later. After we found him.