A Wee Dose of Death by Fran Stewart Page B

“I have . . . I
had
a second shirt.” He raised one foot and then the other. “And four pairs of knitted stockings. What others would I have needed?” The puzzlement in his voice was genuine.
    â€œNothing,” I said. “I was just curious.” Everything abouthis life was . . . had been . . . simple and practical and easy. He couldn’t remember how or why he died, though. I’d be willing to bet it was the Plague. The Fever—that was what they called it back then—hit Scotland in 1359, the year he died. He thought maybe that was what had killed Peigi, his ladylove—the one who’d woven the shawl he was attached to, hard as that was to believe.
    His eyes always got all soft when he spoke of her. Even dead, he had a love life—sort of. And here I was alive with no boyfriend in sight. Harper, unfortunately, didn’t count since he never gave me a thought. If he’d been interested, he wouldn’t have stood me up. Three times.
    At least I could leave Dirk stuck here in the house anytime I wanted to. So there.
    â€œI’m heading to the Logg Cabin for breakfast this morning.” I knew Karaline wouldn’t be busy. This much snow overnight would cut down on the number of patrons. Tuesday morning was never a big tourist time anyway, at least at the ScotShop. There’d be a lot of locals at the Logg Cabin, but I knew she’d be able to take a few minutes. I pulled a twenty out of my purse and stuffed it in the tuck-away fold of my arisaidh. I put the purse back on a shelf behind the door. No sense carrying that heavy thing.
    â€œI will go with ye.” He headed toward the front door.
    Before he could berate me with the fact that I had rolled him up yesterday, I said, “You stay here.”
    â€œI would enjoy seeing Mistress Karaline and speaking wi’ her.”
    â€œShe won’t be able to talk to you. I can guarantee you the restaurant will be almost full.”
    â€œMistress Karaline will want to see me even if she canna talk to me.” He turned his back on me and looked out the window.
    The trouble was, he was right. She’d be delighted to see him.
    Okay, so I might be angry, but I was not a spiteful person. At least I didn’t think I was.
    â€œAll right. If you insist.” I stepped into my boots, slung the shawl around my shoulders, and pulled out a green down-filled Lands’ End parka I hadn’t worn in a while. I tried to pull it on, but the shawl was too thick—or the parka was too snug. I yanked off the shawl, folded it in half, and laid it aside. I donned the parka and some fuzzy green mittens. “Okay. Let’s go.”
    There was no answer. Crapola on toast! I’d closed up the shawl.
Again.
I reached for it, but stopped myself when I remembered that Dirk got dizzy—and so did I, for that matter—when the transitions went too fast. We didn’t understand the physical principles involved—who could?—but I’d learned the hard way that if he was folded up, I had to leave him there for a while so he could
reset
or something. I pulled my hand away slowly. Dirk was never going to forgive me. I tiptoed out of my house, even though I was fairly sure my ghost wouldn’t—couldn’t—hear me.
    I called out my thanks to my elderly neighbor who had once again shoveled my drive for me, and headed for the Logg Cabin. All the way there I struggled with my conscience. I could have brought the shawl along with me. I could have just waited a few minutes and then opened it up again. I could have. But I’d left it . . . him . . . at home. On purpose. Maybe I wouldn’t mention all this to Karaline.
    *   *   *
    I had a quiet breakfast, with no conversation to speak of. Karaline was swamped. It felt like everybody in town had decided to have breakfast at the same time. I thought about driving back home, but I