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he had a genuine interest in things Scottish. It was possible. The Western Maine Highland Games were still a week away, but someone planning to attend might have decided to come to town early.
    The man moved on to the Emporium’s selection of tartan skirts and ready-made kilts. Liss saw his lips compress into a thin line as he pawed through them. She tensed even before he swung his massive, balding head in her direction, revealing an unlovely face dominated by hooded eyes and sagging jowls. When he frowned, his eyebrows all but knit together.
    â€œThis is an abomination,” he announced in ringing tones. “You must not sell kilts to women !”
    Bracing herself to endure a tirade, Liss held her ground. Over the years, she had encountered a few other Scottish Americans like this one. Pasting a the-customer-is-always-right expression on her face, she waited for the next salvo.
    He marched right up to the sales counter, hands curled into fists at his sides. He was no taller than Liss was, but that didn’t stop him from trying to look down his nose at her. “Only men are permitted to wear the kilt.”
    â€œThat was true at one time,” Liss said in the mildest tone she could manage. Her jaw already ached from forcing her muscles to hold a “shopkeeper” smile. “These days, however, when both men and women play in bagpipe bands, things have become a bit more flexible, especially here in Maine.”
    â€œIt’s wrong, ” he insisted. “If you were a true daughter of Scotland, you would insist on maintaining tradition.”
    That this criticism was delivered in the nasal accent of a New Jersey native only made it more grating. After a brief struggle with her better self, Liss gave up and rose to the bait.
    â€œI am a MacCrimmon,” she informed him. “You may recognize the name. The MacCrimmons produced some of the finest pipers in Scottish history.”
    â€œAnd all of them were men,” he shot back. “I am a Grant myself. Angus Grant. No doubt you are familiar with the famous painting of the Grant piper.”
    â€œI am.” Liss had to bite her lip to keep from adding that she’d always thought it was an extremely ugly and poorly executed portrait.
    â€œWell, then?”
    A soft, pleasant voice insinuated itself into this awkward exchange. “Angus dear, come and look at this thistle pin. I’ve never seen one quite like it. The card says the stone is a tourmaline.”
    Liss glanced over the man’s shoulder to send a grateful smile in his wife’s direction. She was quiet and colorless in comparison to her husband, but a dimple flashed in her cheek when she smiled back. Then she winked.
    With one final scowl for Liss, “Angus dear” obeyed his better half. They spoke together in low voices for a few minutes. Then he left Moosetookalook Scottish Emporium to stand staring at the ruin on the far side of the town square. Mrs. Grant—Janine, according to her credit card—purchased the pin.
    In a way, Liss was sorry when they’d gone. Angus Grant’s diatribe had been annoying, but at least it had distracted her from wondering what had happened to Angie, Beth, and Bradley.

Chapter Three
    A s Dan Ruskin worked, he listened to music on a sound system he’d installed when he converted the one-time carriage house into a workshop for his custom woodworking business. He’d been in the mood for folk songs that morning and cued up a selection that dated from his parents’ childhood—Peter, Paul, and Mary, Simon and Garfunkel, Gordon Lightfoot, and others. He was applying a coat of polyurethane to a jigsaw-puzzle table and humming along with “Bridge Over Troubled Water” when the door opened and his next-door neighbor, Sandy Kalishnakof, walked in.
    â€œTalk to you a minute?” Sandy had to raise his voice to be heard.
    â€œSure thing.” Dan kept up the steady strokes necessary to