Royally Dead Read online

  “I didn’t notice anything,” I said truthfully, for what it was worth.

  “Yeah, well, you’re just getting started, so we’ll cut you some slack,” Aileen said. “That bit at the beginning of ‘Rowan Tree’ would make a great riff in ‘Midnight Hollow,’ right after Pinker finishes his drum solo.”

  I left the two of them discussing musical composition for the Twisted Armpits and hurried back to my booth. It was probably time for me to give Letty a chance to stroll around and take in the Games.

  I slipped past the small crowd milling about in front of our booth. Letty was in her element. She chattered with the customers, shook out antique linens for their inspection before folding them up again with a professional flourish, and held up delicate glassware to catch the light. She sent one elderly man off with a pair of purple glass earrings for his wife with the promise that, “They’ll bring out the roses in her cheeks and the romance in her heart.”

  “Oh, Daria, you’re back,” she said. “Someone stopped by to ask about your making a dress. I didn’t want to commit you, so I told her to come back in half an hour.”

  “Did you give her one of my cards?” I indicated the small basket holding my business cards.

  She shook her head, whisking off to greet another passerby.

  I shrugged it off. If the woman really wanted me to make her a dress, she’d come back, and if she didn’t, then I didn’t need to waste my time. I’d found that people were genuinely interested in the idea of custom-made clothing, but most weren’t patient enough to wait for the finished product. Brides were the exception—most women considered that once-in-a-lifetime wedding gown to be worth the wait.

  I tidied my selection of bow ties and placemats, noticing that Letty’s linens had migrated onto the front of my table to overshadow my own items. I chuckled as I repositioned my Nessies. There was room for both of us here. I turned to speak to a small child looking longingly at a red plaid Nessie with a jaunty green tam o’ shanter on its head.

  Ultimately, his mom didn’t buy the Nessie and the child had to settle for a lollipop. I waved goodbye and turned to see Letty chatting with the muscleman from earlier.

  “Daria, this is Ladd Foster. He’s a famous athlete in the Scottish Games circle. He throws…what was it you throw again?”

  Ladd grinned, a flash of white in the stubble covering his strong chin. “I do the caber toss. It’s basically a tree trunk. You heave it into the air and try to get it to flip over before it hits the ground.” He struck a pose, flexing his biceps. “It’s a job for the Incredible Hulk.”

  Letty pulled out her phone and snapped a few pictures of Ladd. “I can’t wait!” She leaned on the table with her chin in both hands. “Isn’t that hard to do in a kilt?”

  He winked at her. “You’re wondering what I’m wearing under this kilt, aren’t you?”

  She shrugged her shoulders. “I’ve heard men don’t wear anything underneath, but I never knew if that was for real.”

  “I always go true Scot,” he proclaimed. “Want to see?”

  “I’d love to—another time.” She straightened up, brushing back her hair. “I wouldn’t want to distract the Incredible Hulk from his cabers.”

  “I’m all about distractions.” He flashed her another toothy grin. “You’ll come watch me, won’t you? One o’clock on the playing fields. I’m undefeated in the caber toss.”

  “I’ll be there.” She picked out a lace-edged handkerchief from her pile of antiques. “You can wear my favor, like a jousting knight.” She tucked the handkerchief into the waistband of his kilt.

  I turned away, trying to hide my amusement.

  I busied myself with a trio of teenage girls who exclaimed over my chest of bow ties. They spent the next twenty-five minutes rooting through all the options, trying various combinations in their hair before each one bought a tie in a different tartan. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Ladd striding away. Letty bustled about the booth, laying out some vintage jewelry to show the girls. When the teens left and the booth was quiet for a few minutes, I sat down and shook a finger at Letty. “You should be ashamed, leading him on like that.”

  She laughed and threw back her hair. “If he didn’t notice the wedding ring on my finger, that’s his problem. Can you believe that ‘true Scot’ line? I’ll bet he uses that on all the girls.”

  I giggled along with her. “I don’t know, what about that line about wearing your favor, like a jousting knight? That was right up there.”

  The next hour passed quietly enough. Letty took a stroll around the grounds while I staffed the booth. I sold a couple of Nessies and a set of antique brandy snifters for Letty and chatted with a woman whose wedding gown I had made a year ago. McCarthy stopped by to show me that he was still wearing his yellow bow tie, and then wandered off again in search of more photographs. The persistent sound of bagpipes filled the air. I closed my eyes, imagining myself on the moors of Scotland hearing the pipers marching through the mist. I could almost smell the heather, when I was snapped out of my reverie by the more familiar sound of Aileen’s guitar.

  Aileen and the band were setting up on the bandstand directly opposite the Marketplace. I had forgotten that the Twisted Armpits were scheduled to play a quick set over the lunch hour, while the pipers and dancers as well as the judges took a break. Amps and mics and miles of cords overflowed from the stage as the band members positioned and plugged in all their gear. Aileen stood on the platform in the midst of the chaos, a mic stand in one hand and a canvas bag bursting with cords in the other. Her guitar case lay open on the ground off the side of the stage. Open and empty.

  Ladd Foster leaned on the edge of the steps leading up to the stage, strumming Aileen’s guitar.

  He was committing sacrilege, of course. Possibly suicide as well. No one played Aileen’s guitar without permission and survived to tell the tale. I held my breath, waiting for the explosion. I didn’t have to wait long.

  Chapter 2

  “Get your paws off my stuff,” Aileen hollered, and flung her canvas bag at Ladd’s head. He ducked, laughing, as it hit the ground and sent cords flying in all directions like a sackful of snakes.

  She hefted a mic stand and started for him, but her bandmate Pinker grabbed her by the arm. “Hold on a sec, Aileen. He’s good!” He held Aileen back, and watched in open admiration as Ladd continued to play. “He’s playing that bit you wrote for ‘Frankie’s Fury.’ He’s got the chord changes down and everything.”

  Aileen growled and wrenched her arm free of his grasp. She picked up the mic stand again, and then slammed it back down as a crowd formed around Ladd. I cringed when I saw Gillian King front and center in the crowd, gazing at Ladd as if he were some kind of movie star. But Aileen wasn’t concerned about the hero worship of a fifteen-year-old girl.

  Aileen strode down the steps of the stage and snatched her guitar out of Ladd’s hands. For an instant he held on, but she glared him down until he loosened his grip. She hefted the guitar over her shoulder like a baseball bat, and several people in the crowd, including Gillian, screamed. Ladd ducked again, but Aileen didn’t swing. “You’re not worth the price of a new guitar,” she spat out. “But if you ever touch my gear again…” Leaving her threat unspecified, she swung on her heel and stomped back onto the stage. “Got any sanitizer wipes?” she demanded of Pinker.

  He started to laugh, but then thought better of it. He took his shirttail and wiped down Aileen’s guitar, taking extra care to go over each metal string. She stood and watched him, her back to the crowd and Ladd, her arms folded across her chest.

  Her stillness scared me more than her raised guitar had. I could tell how furious she was by the intensity of her immobility. If Ladd made the slightest move toward her, she would kill him.

  He must have realized that, because when I tore my eyes away from Aileen, I saw Ladd had turned away. Surrounded by the loyal crowd, he h
eaded off in the direction of the food court with Gillian following close behind. She called out to him, and he turned to flash her a huge smile, and then the two of them walked side by side up to the funnel cakes booth. Aileen stood silent and unmoving on the stage.

  I let out a sigh, surprised to find I had been holding my breath.

  Letty slipped back into the booth. She held a hardcover book in her hands. “Wasn’t that Aileen? She’ll get herself thrown out of the Games, carrying on like that.”

  “God help the person who tries to throw Aileen out of anywhere,” I said. “I wouldn’t want to see her going up against your Incredible Hulk, though. Between the two of them, they’d probably wreck the whole place.”

  “Yeah, she’d better stay out of the way when he’s throwing cabers around. But forget about them. Did you see who else is here?” Letty held out the book she carried. “Morris Hart! He’s on a book tour and he’s spending a few days in Laurel Springs, if you can believe it. Have you read his latest thriller, Over the Sea to Skye?”

  I shook my head and took the book from her hands to skim the blurb on the back cover. “I’ve heard of it, of course. Everyone’s reading it this summer. Something about the descendants of Scottish kings taking over Britain in the present day, right?”

  She nodded. “There’s a real-life treasure hunt too, to find Bonnie Prince Charlie’s ring, which was lost in the seventeen hundreds. Hart is smart to set up at the Highland Games, where people have actually heard of Bonnie Prince Charlie and the Battle of Culloden.” Letty pointed to the author’s photo on the back of the book, showing a handsome man with an aristocratic nose and dark, glossy hair. “This picture is a few years old, but he’s still got it. He could be the descendant of royalty in my book.”

  I laughed and handed the book back to her. “Letty, you’re incorrigible.”

  She dropped a curtsy like a diva basking in well-earned applause, then turned to wait on a young couple with a baby asleep in a stroller.

  I sat down and pulled out the basketful of bow-tie supplies I’d prepared to keep my hands busy while waiting for customers. It was a simple process of folding and pinching rectangles of tartan fabric into the shape of a bow, but it looked impressive to watch. I felt like an artist displaying her techniques for the crowd. I didn’t even mind if people learned my secrets to make their own ties at home. Tartan bow ties were only a sideline for me, an excuse to be a part of this Scottish festival. They were also surprisingly popular with the teenagers. For every girl who walked away sporting a bow-tie headband, three more came to pick over my collection. It was a trend in the making.

  Gillian arrived with the next wave of girls. She was dressed in her Highland costume of kilt, lace blouse, and green velvet vest, and was taking a break before dancing the Highland fling. Her friends wore denim cutoffs and sleeveless tops, and plenty of mascara and lipstick. They jostled one another and carried on an endless string of friendly abuse while two or three of them tried on bow ties.

  Gillian scrabbled through the chest, spilling most of the ties onto the table. “Do you have any green ones, to match my kilt?”

  I stood up to look at her kilt, a dark green and blue plaid with alternating pairs of black and white lines running both lengthwise and crosswise. I flipped through my guide booklet to show her. “You’re wearing the Oliphant tartan. I made a bunch of Oliphant ones because of the connection to the university.” I sifted through the bow ties and pulled out a couple for her to look at.

  She held one up to her hair, tucking it into the plaits of her French braid. The contrast between the green plaid and her strawberry blond hair was beautiful. She knew it, too.

  “I’ll take two, in the same tartan,” she said. “Can you give me a discount for two?”

  I shook my head as I bagged up the bow ties. “Sorry. They go for fifteen dollars each. I don’t have any bulk discounts today.”

  She grumbled a bit but handed over the money. As she turned away, she nudged the girl closest to her. “I’m going to give one to Ladd. We’ll be matching.”

  “Ladd? The dude who’s going to throw the tree trunk? He’s as old as your dad.”

  Gillian pushed her. “He’s nothing like my dad. He’s gorgeous.”

  They walked away, giggling, while I sat down slowly, aghast. The last thing I wanted to see was my own matching bow ties adorning both Gillian King and Ladd Foster. The ties were hers now, and she could do whatever she wanted with them. Still, I felt like she was using me as an accomplice in her misguided attempt to chase after the man.

  Letty clicked her tongue. “That Ladd does get around, doesn’t he? I hope he’s not planning to prove to a fifteen-year-old girl that he’s going ‘true Scot.’”

  “Yeah, me too. He might not know she’s fifteen, though. He’s not very observant.” I waved to her ring finger, which was literally laden down by a dazzling diamond ring paired with her thick gold wedding ring.

  Letty and I didn’t have to wonder long. It was only a matter of minutes before we saw Ladd hovering over a leatherworking booth, with Gillian snuggled under his powerful arm. We couldn’t hear their words, but we could see him joking with the craftsman while Gillian laughed and smacked him on the chest appreciatively. He wasn’t wearing the bow tie around his neck, but only because his peasant shirt was laced up to his breastbone, exposing his neck and chest hairs. With a sinking feeling in my stomach, I saw the Oliphant tartan tie twined around his right wrist, matching the bow Gillian wore in her hair.

  She was no responsibility of mine, but still, I could hardly sit by and let her get into trouble with a fortysomething flirt in a kilt. They say it takes a village to raise a child, and that goes double for a teenager. I liked to think people watched out for each other in our small town, and it looked like it was my turn to do my part. Or maybe I was just minding other people’s business—one of my main strengths, according to McCarthy. I jumped up and said to Letty, “I’ll be back in a sec.” I slipped out of the booth.

  I followed the two of them as they wandered through the Marketplace toward the edge of the field, with Ladd’s arm around her waist. When his hand slid down to her hip, I called out, “Gillian! Breanna is looking for you.”

  She turned in surprise. My heartbeats accelerated, but I resolved not to make it easy for her. “The fourteen-to-sixteen-year-old age group is about to go on. Breanna asked me to come find you. You don’t want to miss your competition.”

  She glared at me. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I don’t have any dances coming up.” She twined her fingers around Ladd’s hand. “Come on, Ladd.”

  He took a good look at her. “Fourteen to sixteen?”

  “Yeah, Gillian’s fifteen,” I chirped. “She’s the best dancer in the sophomore class at high school.”

  Gillian tossed her head, but she didn’t get the chance to respond. A slight man with balding reddish hair and black glasses grabbed her by the arm and flung her away from Ladd. She staggered and almost fell, but I caught her by the shoulders.

  The newcomer doubled up both fists and squared off before the muscular athlete who was easily twice his weight. “Get your filthy hands off my daughter!”

  Ladd stood staring for a moment, and then he started to laugh. He was still laughing when Ryan King’s fist connected with his cheekbone.

  For such a small man, Ryan packed a mean punch. Ladd staggered backward, fetching up against a table filled with picnickers who jumped up and scattered in a panic. He grabbed up a folding chair and held it poised to throw.

  Gillian screamed and lunged toward her father. “Daddy, stop it!” I tried to hold her back, but she broke free from my grasp and threw herself between the two men.

  Ryan probably realized he wouldn’t get another chance, now that his adversary knew he meant business. He took his daughter by the arm and threw me a withering glance, as if I had personally fixed up a date between Ladd and Gilli
an. He pointed a finger at Ladd. “You stay away from my daughter or I’ll have the cops on you.” He pulled her along as he turned to stride away.

  Ladd lowered the chair, seeming to notice the growing crowd for the first time. Several people had their cell phones out to record the altercation. I heard the click of a camera as well. McCarthy was documenting the incident for the newspaper.

  “You’re the one who committed assault,” Ladd hollered after Ryan. “I’d be within my rights to press charges.” He pulled out his flask and unscrewed the top for a long swallow. “Nothing like a drop of single malt whiskey to dull the pain,” he proclaimed to the crowd with a wink.

  I chewed my lip as I watched Ryan hustle Gillian off. I hoped he wouldn’t take out his anger on her. I felt compelled to follow them, to make sure she was safe.

  Ryan held on to Gillian’s arm until he got her behind the food tents. He pushed her up against an ice cooler and let her go. I lurked at the corner, keeping an eye on things.

  Ryan pointed his finger at Gillian. “If I ever see you carrying on with someone twice your age like that again, I’ll have you off to that convent before you know what happened to you.”

  Gillian straightened her kilt and pulled at her vest. Trails of mascara streaked down her cheeks, but she held her head high. “We’re Presbyterians, Daddy.”

  “It’s never too late to convert.”

  It could have been a friendly attempt at humor to defuse the situation, but I could tell Ryan wasn’t interested in defusing anything or being friendly with his daughter. I doubted if he possessed anything close to a sense of humor. My heart went out to Gillian, but I didn’t intervene. At least he wasn’t beating her.

  Ryan could have gone on berating her for a long time, but the loudspeaker interrupted him. “In two minutes at the VIP tent, we will have a presentation from the acclaimed author, Morris Hart.”

  “I want to hear that,” Ryan said, abruptly abandoning his tirade. “Behave yourself.” He turned on his heel and left.