Royally Dead. Greta McKennan
get to him. His dark green kilt had shifted to sag below his belly, and his Glengarry cap was slightly askew, giving him an overall look of disarray more than distinction. But the crowd was silent, with the pipers, dancers, and athletes anxiously awaiting their results.
“We’ll begin with the primary dancers for their rendition of the pas de basques and highcuts.” Tisdale began droning off the names of young dancers, who squealed in delight or hid their faces in their mothers’ skirts. He began to talk about turnout and elevation as he announced the results of the older girls’ dances. I could see we were in for the long haul here. I wandered through the crowd until I saw Corgi lounging on the outskirts, taking a quick nip from his flask. He’d returned to his proper Highland attire, and his bloodshot eyes indicated that he’d had more than one or two goes at the flask.
“Still here until the bitter end, are we?” he said.
I nodded, wondering if he had witnessed Aileen being taken off by the cops. “I hope it’s not a bitter end for you, Corgi.”
He shrugged. “I’m not getting any awards today. I made a few mistakes in my music, so I got graded down on that. But the judges came down really hard on my appearance. They almost didn’t let me compete at all because I didn’t have the right kind of shoes.” He stuck out his foot, clad with a perfectly ordinary black dress shoe. “You’re supposed to wear those ghillie brogues that lace up your ankles. I’d look like a fool wearing shoes like that around town.” He plucked at his kilt. “Then they said my kilt was a cheap knockoff and if I wanted to take myself seriously in the piping world I needed to get a real kilt. They handed out brochures for custom-made kilts from Scotland.” He pulled a crumpled-up brochure out of his sporran and handed it to me. “Great idea, but they take six-to-ten weeks to arrive. My next competition is in two weeks. Where am I going to get a quality kilt in that amount of time?”
I scanned the brochure, which touted hundreds of tartans for their custom-made kilts. The design looked pretty straightforward, and I liked to think I was always up for a challenge. How hard could it be to sew a kilt?
I handed back the brochure and followed it up with one of my business cards. “I’ll bet you could get a custom-made kilt in Laurel Springs if you knew where to look.”
He read the card and raised his eyes to mine. “Seriously? You make kilts?”
I nodded. “It’s a new sideline for me. You could be my very first kilt customer.”
He laughed and offered me his flask, which I politely declined. “Could you get it done in two weeks?”
“I’ll have to order the fabric. There’s no one in Philly who sells authentic tartan wool for kilts. But if I can get next day shipping, I’m sure I can get the kilt finished in time for your next competition.” I pulled out my phone and called up a Scottish goods website. “Want to go for it?”
He took another swig from his flask and bent over my phone. “Right now?”
“Clock’s ticking.” I started scrolling through different tartans. “What clan do you want to represent?”
“You can’t just choose a clan. You have to be related somehow, or else you’re stuck with the tartans that don’t belong to a particular clan. But my grandmother’s maiden name was Guthrie. My claim to fame is that she was distantly related to Woody Guthrie.” He grinned at me. “That’s why I started out my musical career on the harmonica when I was five years old. I sometimes wonder what Woody would think of the Twisted Armpits. Anyway, I get the Guthrie tartan.”
He indicated his lightweight kilt, which was a blue and green plaid on a field of black, shot through with reddish orange stripes. “This really is the Ancient Guthrie tartan, even if it’s made of polyester instead of bona fide Scottish wool.”
I scrutinized his kilt. “That’s not straight polyester. It’s probably a lightweight wool/polyester blend that’s kind of loosely woven, so it has a tendency to sag. I’ll look for a good quality wool that will hold its shape.”
I pulled up the Ancient Guthrie tartan and was about to place the order when I realized I needed to do a little more research on kilt construction before I could go forward. I looked up at Corgi. “Are you committed to this? I’ll need to figure out how much fabric I need, and then I can get back to you with an estimate.”
“Yeah, I’m all in. Whatever it takes to get me suited up for the Ligonier Highland Games in two weeks.”
As he took another swig from his flask, it occurred to me that I should review his order when he was completely sober. Custom-made clothing could be a considerable investment for me if a customer backed out of a project without paying the full amount. I pocketed my phone. “I’ll work up an estimate and get back to you tomorrow morning, and you can say, ‘go or no go’ at that time. Okay?”
“Sounds good. I’ll be at the Catholic church tomorrow afternoon working on the haggis for the ceilidh in the evening. You can catch me there.”
He turned his attention back to Herman Tisdale, who was detailing the awards for the athletic events. As predicted, Patrick Ames came in first place overall, with Jamie Deakens running a close second and Tom O’Flaherty coming in a respectable third. Tisdale made no mention of Ladd Foster’s participation in the event.
Pinker jostled my arm and rapped Corgi on the shoulder. “We gotta set up, dude. We go on in half an hour. Where’s Aileen?”
Corgi looked around, as if he’d just that moment misplaced her.
I hated to be the one to have to tell them. “Aileen went down to the police station to talk to the cops about Ladd Foster. She said to tell you that you might have to go on without her.”
Pinker swore loudly. It was a good thing Aileen didn’t hear what he said about her or she might not have gone on even if she were available.
Corgi blinked at me. “Did they arrest her? I can’t picture her going to the police station any other way.”
“Not exactly, but it was a close thing. Pete went along to make sure everyone behaves.”
Pinker snorted, a habit he’d evidently picked up from Aileen. “More power to him. She’s not going to hear the end of this in a hurry. I just hope nobody notices she’s gone—that’ll learn her!” He stalked off.
“Is there anything I can do to help?” I was pretty sure the answer was no, but it seemed like the right thing to say.
“You don’t play lead guitar, by any chance?”
I had to laugh at the wistful note in Corgi’s voice, even as I dashed his hopes. “Maybe one of the other guys can pick it up.”
The other two band members, Raldo and Tim, looked dismayed when Corgi explained they’d have to go on without Aileen. I left them fussing among their gear, trying to figure out what songs to play without their lead guitar and vocalist.
I wandered back to the awards ceremony in time to catch the final announcement about the Twisted Armpits wrapping up the event. Herman Tisdale looked exhausted, as if the last thing he wanted was to hang around listening to a metal band, even if it did have a bagpipe in it.
The Twisted Armpits kicked in just as the crowd started to break up. The band appeared to be compensating for the lack of Aileen by cranking up the volume to astronomical levels. Half of the people in the crowd whooped and stampeded to the bandstand, and the other half threw their hands over their ears and ran for the exit. I slipped off to the edge of the crowd, undecided as to which group to join. That’s when I realized that Pete hadn’t yet returned from the police station. He was my ride home, with all my wares tucked into his truck. I was pretty tired from a day on my feet, compounded by the strain of a murder. I didn’t know if I had the energy for a dance party with the Twisted Armpits, but the alternative was a long wait for the bus, which might require more patience than I could summon up at the moment. I closed my eyes and took a deep, cleansing breath, trying to decide which would win out, energy or patience.
I was still