08 - The Highland Fling Murders by Jessica Fletcher, Donald Bain Page A

windbag.”
    “Oh. Is it hard to play a bagpipe?”
    “Ay .”
    “I’ve always wanted to try.”
    He stopped working and stood, placing large, gnarled, liver-spotted hands on the countertop. “You’d like to play the pipes?”
    “Yes. I mean, I’ve always enjoyed hearing them played and—well, I wonder if I have the breath to do it.”
    “Most people do. Care to try?”
    I looked at the others, who were debating the way items of clothing went with each other on one of the manikins. Would I look foolish attempting to coax something resembling music from an unwieldy set of bagpipes? It occurred to me as I pondered this that I seldom not try something because of how I might look to others. The truth was that every time I saw the bagpipes being played, I harbored a secret little passion to try them.
    “Yes,” I said. “I’d love to try.”
    He motioned for me to join him behind the counter. Others noticed, and were soon bunched across the counter from where I stood with the owner.
    “What are you about to do, Mrs. F.?” Mort Metzger asked.
    “Seems plain to me she’s about to play the bagpipes,” said Seth Hazlitt.
    “I know that,” Mort said.
    “Do you know how to play them?” Pete Walters asked.
    “No. But I’m about to learn.” I extended my hand to the shop owner and said, “I’m Jessica Fletcher. These are my friends. We’re from America, guests of Inspector George Sutherland at Sutherland Castle.”
    “Are you, now? You had a bit of bad news, didn’t you?”
    “Ms. Daisy Wemyss’s murder? Yes, bad news indeed.”
    “There’s evil forces about.”
    “An evil individual. That’s for certain.”
    “More than that.”
    “Could you explain what you mean?”
    “I thought you wanted to learn to play the pipes.”
    “Oh, I do. Sorry to have gotten sidetracked.”
    “Daisy was only a bit lassie.”
    “Bit? Oh, a young woman. Yes she was.”
    “Well, it’s aa by nou.”
    “Pardon?”
    “It’s over and done with. But it’s not the end of it.”
    “Show me how to play the bagpipes.”
    “Ay.”
    Focusing on the instrument caused him to become more talkative. He turned to the group and asked, “What did Nero play while Rome burned?”
    Seth quickly answered: “The fiddle.”
    “Wrong,” said the shop owner. “He played the bagpipe. Came from India first. Romans took it all over Europe. French liked it, too, played dance music on it This is a Highland pipe. Biggest there is. Has a melodic range of a ninth.”
    “I knew that,” said Mort.
    “The hell you did,” Seth said.
    “Sure I did,” Mort said. “Everybody knows Nero played the bagpipes while the city burned.”
    “Could I hold it?” I asked, indicating the instrument—and wanting to interrupt what was about to become another spat.
    He handed me the bagpipes; I was surprised at how heavy they were.
    “What do I do now?” I asked.
    He positioned it in my arms, placing the windbag beneath my arm. “Quite simple, ma’am. You blow into this blowpipe and fill up the bag. Then you squeeze the bag with your arm against your body, only you have to keep blowing to keep the bag full. You play the melody chanter—that’s the melody pipe—by using your fingers on the eight holes.”
    “Like this?”
    I blew into the windpipe, and pressed the bag against my body. Nothing. I kept blowing and squeezing until suddenly an eerie drone erupted from one of the reeds at the end of a tube. I stopped blowing and looked at my friends, a smile crossing my face. “Pretty good, huh?”
    They applauded.
    The shop owner encouraged me to continue. After a few more tries, I was actually able to create the characteristic droning sound of bagpipes, and to play what sounded to me like a wonderful melody over it. More applause. Even the shop owner patted his hands together.
    “Well,” I said, handing the instrument to him, “that was an experience. Fun.”
    “Would you be interested in buying it?” he asked.
    “The