Bagpipes, Brides and Homicides (Liss Maccrimmon Scottish Mysteries) Read online

  Changing positions, Liss began a series of pliés.

  “What Mom has in mind is a complete revamping of the wedding ceremony to include the medieval Scottish tradition of handfasting. Along with anvil, sword, and broom, it involves—literally!—tying the hands of the bride and groom together with silken cords or ribbons.”

  “I get the anvil,” Zara said, “because in the old days a blacksmith could perform the wedding ceremony. And I know the bride and groom jumping over a broom is supposed to bring good luck to the marriage. But what’s with the sword?”

  “According to some sample ceremony Mom found online, the groom is supposed to drop to his knees and offer the wedding ring to the bride on the tip of his sword.”

  Zara giggled.

  “Get your mind out of the gutter! The sword is supposed to symbolize his promise to protect her.”

  “A real sword?”

  “A real sword. I’d be lucky not to cut off a fingertip trying to get the ring off the blade.”

  A bemused look on her face, Zara paused in her routine. “Then what? Do you put the ring on your finger yourself?”

  “Oh, no. There’s far more to it than that.” Liss’s pliés began to more closely resemble deep knee bends than a graceful ballet exercise. Just thinking about the details Vi had dropped on her ratcheted up her tension level. “The bride just holds on to the ring while she takes the sword. Then she makes like the queen of England conferring a knighthood. You know—touch the blade to the left shoulder, then the right shoulder, then the top of the head.”

  “I don’t think the queen does the top of the head.”

  “Whatever!” Liss scowled as she realized she’d lost count of how many pliés she’d done. “Anyway, then the bride returns the sword to the groom and gives the ring back to him, too, so he can put it on her finger.”

  “Still on his knees?”

  “Probably. Mom didn’t say.”

  “How about his ring?”

  “The bride presents it to him inside a chalice. The groom takes the ring out and hangs on to it while he pours wine into the chalice, which the bride is holding for him. Then he drinks a toast to her before he hands the chalice back to her. Then he returns the ring so she can put it on his finger.”

  “While balancing the chalice?”

  “Apparently.”

  “Just a tad chauvinistic, don’t you think?”

  “That’s the least of the reasons why I’m not doing it. Tradition is all well and good, and I’m sure some couples would find all the trappings of a medieval wedding romantic, but my Cinderella fantasy stopped at the dress. Besides—kneeling in front of me with a sword? There’s no way Dan would ever agree to that! I had trouble enough convincing him to wear a kilt.”

  Zara stifled another giggle. “Chill,” she advised. “You’ll work it out. Compromise with your mother. And don’t worry about Dan. He’s crazy in love with you. He’ll go along with whatever you decide you want to do.”

  “On some things, sure. Like agreeing not to wear earplugs when the bagpiper plays.” Dan was not a fan of Scottish music. “And he did manage to convince his brother to get with the program. Sam didn’t think the best man should have to wear a kilt just because the groom was going to.”

  “What was Sam’s problem?” Zara asked between stretches. “Bowlegged?”

  Liss had to smile at that as she left the barre. “Trust me, all the Ruskin men have excellent legs.”

  She settled herself on the floor and began another series of bends from a sitting position. Zara was right, she admitted to herself after the first set. Dan had been more agreeable than she’d expected. She knew he’d have felt far more comfortable wearing a tux. She might have been persuaded to let him if he’d made an issue of it, but it was too late to change their minds now.

  The kilts would arrive at the shop sometime this week. She hoped Dan would wear his a bit around the house, so he’d get used to the feel of it. It would help that the Black Watch tartan was very dignified. It had a nicely macho military connection, too, since the Black Watch was an infantry battalion in the British Army, a part of the Royal Regiment of Scotland.

  Zara scooted closer and curled her legs beneath her, tailor-fashion. Liss envied her ease of motion. Once upon a time, she’d been able to move just as smoothly. Now her knee made an annoying crackling sound when she bent it at too much of an angle, and it started to ache if she stayed in one position for very long.

  “You fuss too much, Liss. Everything is going to be just fine. And after the wedding, you and Dan will be married. Trust me when I say that makes it all worthwhile.”

  “Yeah, but I have to survive till then. I just hope Mom doesn’t come up with any more inspired ideas.”

  For the rest of the exercise session, Liss made a concerted effort to shake off her gloomy mood and stop grumbling. By the time she returned home, in spite of the steady drizzle of rain that greeted her the minute she stepped outside Dance Central, she felt much more cheerful. A quick shower, another cup of coffee, and a few minutes of playing with her two cats, Lumpkin and Glenora, completed the cure. She was about to slip out the back way, cross the narrow strip of lawn and the driveway that separated her house from Moosetookalook Scottish Emporium, and enter the shop through the stockroom door when her mother burst into the kitchen.

  “Everything is ruined!” Vi MacCrimmon wailed.

  Liss stared at her in bewilderment. It wasn’t like Vi to lose her composure. “What happened?” she asked, catching her mother by the arm and steering her toward the kitchen table.

  Once there, Vi sat, propped her elbows on the placemat, and buried her head in her hands. “Disaster,” she moaned.

  “Mom!” Concern had Liss speaking more sharply than she’d intended. “Snap out of it. Tell me what’s wrong.”

  Vi reared up, eyes flashing. “Those idiots at the fairgrounds have cancelled their contract with the highland games!”

  Liss blinked at her in surprise. “Can they do that?”

  “They say there’s a conflict—some other group with a prior claim to that weekend. Oh, what does it matter how or why? If there are no Western Maine Highland Games, then there is no Medieval Scottish Conclave, and if there is no Medieval Scottish Conclave, then your beautiful wedding will be ruined.” Once again her voice rose to a wail.

  “Oh.”

  “ ‘Oh’? Is that all you have to say?”

  “It’s not a disaster, Mom. Dan and I can always be married in the church.” For her mother’s sake, Liss tried to sound disappointed, but inside her head she started doing a happy dance.

  “Absolutely not! I won’t see all my plans ruined!” Vi got to her feet and starting pacing.

  “Now, Mom, be reasonable. If the games are cancelled, what choice do we have?”

  It was the wrong question to ask. Liss knew it the moment the words left her mouth.

  A determined expression came into her mother’s eyes. Her jaw hardened. She stiffened her backbone and squared her shoulders. Then she glanced at her watch. “You’d better be off to work, Liss. You don’t want to be late opening the shop.”

  “There’s no rush.” That was the advantage of being her own boss. “What are you up to, Mom?”

  “Nothing, dear. I just have some phone calls to make.” Vi continued to pace, wearing a path in the floor from the table to the stove and back again. “I need to talk to Joe Ruskin. We’ll have to make some changes in your wedding plans. What a pity you already mailed the invitations. We’ll have to let everyone who’s coming know there’s a new location.”

  “I suppose so.”

  Liss wasn’t particularly concerned about that aspect of things. The wedding was still weeks away and almost everyone who was coming could be reached by e-mail. What did trouble her was the determined look in her mother’s eyes. She felt uneasy about leaving Vi to her own devices, but what choice did she have? She knew from past experience that nothing she said or did right now would slow down the force of nature that w
as her mother. She’d have to wait until Hurricane Vi blew herself out and then try to repair whatever damage she might have done.

  Chapter Two

  At a little past two o’clock that afternoon, through the plate glass front window of Moosetookalook Scottish Emporium, Liss watched Sherri Campbell cross the town square and head in her direction. The square was the center of their small village of just over a thousand souls. It was a pretty little park, even in the rain, and contained decorative trees and flower beds, a gazebo, a small playground, and paved walkways that wound through the whole of it. And, of course, as in most small Maine towns, there was also a memorial to the Civil War dead.

  The houses that surrounded the square were uniformly faced with white clapboard and dated from the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. Most of them had businesses on the first floor and living quarters on the second. There was one structure, however, that had been built of red brick. The municipal building housed the town’s office, firehouse, library, and police station. Sherri, Liss assumed, had just finished her six-to-two shift for the day. She’d changed from her pale blue Moosetookalook police uniform into khaki slacks and a loose sweatshirt. She hadn’t bothered with an umbrella.

  Abandoning a halfhearted effort to keep ahead of the dust bunnies that had accumulated since her mother’s cleaning spree, Liss went behind the sales counter to put away the rag and the spray bottle. The bell over the door tinkled cheerfully as Sherri opened it and breezed in on a wave of humid air. She was a petite blonde who looked more like an ex-cheerleader than a serious officer of the law, but that appearance was deceiving.

  “I can’t stay long,” she announced as she made her way past a rack of tartan skirts and the shelves that displayed imported Scottish foodstuffs—everything from canned haggis to shortbread. “I need to go home and rescue Adam from my mother.”

  Liss made a sympathetic noise. Compared to Ida Willett, Vi MacCrimmon was a joy to deal with. Ida had opinions about everything, especially child rearing, and she wasn’t shy about letting her daughter in on them. Above all, she didn’t think Sherri should continue to work now that she’d managed to snare a husband.

  “What’s up?” Liss asked.

  “Have you talked to your mother lately?”

  “Not since this morning. Why?” Liss felt behind her for the high, three-legged stool Dan had made for her. She had a feeling she should be sitting down for whatever Sherri had to tell her.

  “Vi has been busy. From what Pete just told me, it’s thanks to her that the Western Maine Highland Games have been saved.”

  “Seriously? She convinced the folks who run the fairgrounds to change their minds?”

  That would be good news for all the competitors, including Sherri’s husband, Pete. He regularly won prizes in the stone of strength and the hammer throw. A lot of people would have been disappointed if the games had been canceled—not just athletes, dancers, bagpipers, vendors and the like, but all the folks who came, year after year, to enjoy the annual celebration of their Scottish heritage.

  “Not exactly,” Sherri said. “She came up with an alternate venue. The organizers of the games have been invited to use the grounds at The Spruces.”

  Liss didn’t know why she was surprised. It made perfect sense that Vi would try to persuade Joe Ruskin, Dan’s father, to open the hotel grounds to the highland games and medieval conclave. Why not, she’d have argued, when The Spruces was already hosting Liss and Dan’s wedding reception and providing lodging for both out-of-town wedding guests and tourists who planned to attend the games?

  “Joe can use the windfall,” Liss mused. Her future father-in-law had completely renovated the hotel, which was more than a century old. The Spruces had reopened the previous Fourth of July. Business was steadily improving, but Joe couldn’t afford to turn his back on any chance to make a profit.

  “The games do attract hordes of tourists,” Sherri agreed, leaning her elbows on the counter, “but I’m not sure that’s a good thing.”

  “Why not?”

  “This year they added the Medieval Scottish Conclave to the mix.”

  “And?” Liss made a “hurry up and get to the point” motion with her hands. It had been the addition of the conclave, a loose organization that included such diverse elements as a reenactment group, a Celtic harpist, and a falconer, that had inspired Vi MacCrimmon to suggest the historical theme for Liss’s wedding.

  “Because of the reenactment planned for the conclave,” Sherri said. “At least three groups intended to picket the event. That’s why the Carrabassett County Agricultural Society suddenly discovered that they’d double-booked the fairgrounds. They didn’t want the hassle.”

  Liss nearly toppled off her perch. “Picket lines? What on earth is there to protest? And how could there have been demonstrations in the works without my hearing a word about it until now?”

  Sherri sent her an incredulous look. “Maybe because you’ve been a tad preoccupied with wedding plans? Not to mention spending time with Dan and entertaining your parents.” Vi and Mac MacCrimmon had turned up nearly two months earlier than expected to move into Liss’s guest room for the duration.

  “Okay. Point taken. But I still don’t understand why anyone would object to a few women in long dresses and a knight or two.”

  “Apparently there’s more to it than that. The SO was already getting worried and now that the whole shebang is moving to The Spruces, Moosetookalook PD gets to panic, especially since both Pete and I are in the wedding party and off duty that day.” While Sherri worked for the local police department, Pete was a deputy with the Carrabassett County Sheriff’s Office.

  “What more? Details, Sherri. I’m not coming up with any logical reason for an organized protest.”

  “Okay, here’s the thing. There’s this guy named Palsgrave—he’s a college professor—who is a leading light in the Medieval Scottish Conclave. He put a group together to reenact a battle that he claims took place between a bunch of early Scottish explorers and a band of Indians. The Indians apparently killed one of the Scots. Then the Scots massacred the entire tribe in retribution.”

  Liss was more confused than ever. She couldn’t remember any battle between Scots and Indians. All the famous battles that sprang to mind had been between the Scots and the English, and the Scots had lost most of them. “So?”

  Sherri held up one finger in preparation for enumerating which groups were ticked off. “A Native American organization is upset because they’re being portrayed as bloodthirsty savages.” A second finger joined the first. “Some folks who are descendants of this Scot—did I mention that Palsgrave claims he discovered America about a hundred years before Columbus?—they don’t like the idea that Palsgrave holds their ancestor responsible for murdering innocent women and children. There’s also an outfit called Columbus First. They’re planning to picket because they don’t want anyone else to get credit for finding this continent. And just now, when I was talking to Pete on the phone, he said he’d heard a rumor that some church group was also considering getting involved. I don’t have a clue what has them riled up.”

  “Sheesh! Next you’ll be telling me the Irish plan to demonstrate because Saint Brendan got here even earlier than Henry Sinclair.”

  Now it was Sherri’s turn to look confused. “Sinclair? Like the hotel over in Waycross Springs?”

  “Yes, and like the Scottish explorer you were just talking about. And that’s pretty much everything I know of the story.” Vi was the history buff in the family. Liss had never shared her mother’s fascination with the past.

  “Well,” Sherri continued, “the upshot is that a lot of folks were threatening to raise a ruckus at the fairgrounds if Palsgrave’s group did their reenactment thing at the highland games. When the powers that be in the agricultural society got wind of it, they wimped out. The official story is that they discovered a scheduling conflict—that another group had contracted for the use of the fairgrounds first. But it was really the t
hreat of demonstrations that had them looking for a loophole in the contract.”

  “I suppose suing the fairgrounds wouldn’t settle anything fast enough to be of use,” Liss said.

  “You’d be lucky to get a court date this century.”

  “So now the games move to The Spruces and so do the picket lines.” She sighed. “I’ll bet Mom didn’t bother to warn Joe about that little detail.”

  “Would it have made a difference?” Sherri asked.

  “I honestly don’t know, but I think I’d better find out.”

  Sherri glanced at her watch. “I’ve got to run. Do me a favor and keep me in the loop.”

  “Sure,” Liss promised.

  Distracted by her own thoughts, she barely heard the bell jangle when Sherri left the shop. She slid off the stool and headed for the cozy corner. It took her only a moment to find the book she was looking for. The trade paperback bore the title Pre-Columbian Scottish Exploration and Settlement in the New World. It had been written by one A. Leon Palsgrave.

  Margaret MacCrimmon Boyd, Liss’s aunt, had insisted they order the book, Liss recalled, not only because of the Scottish connection, but also because Palsgrave was a Maine author. That had been shortly before Margaret sold her share of the Emporium to her niece.

  Liss glanced back at the shelf. They had ordered six copies and hadn’t sold a single one. A peek at the price told her why. The book was absurdly expensive for a paperback. She checked the copyright page next, expecting to find that it had been self-published. To her surprise, it had been issued by a reputable university press.

  The blurb on the cover confirmed Sherri’s story. Palsgrave claimed that a Scot, Henry Sinclair, had reached North America in the 1390s, making landfall at various points along the northeast coast. Liss had heard mention of Sinclair before, but she had never been interested enough to delve into details of the story . . . until now.