Bonnie of Evidence by Maddy Hunter

“My guess is, someone attacked it with a penknife. My nephews do stuff like that when they’re bored.”
    She removed a pair of glasses from the pocket of her robe and settled them on her face before crossing to the nearest floor lamp to study the dagger in brighter wattage. “A quick and terrible death … ta any foe … who would possess what is mine.”
    I peered at her over my teacup. “Excuse me?”
    “The inscription below the hilt. ’Tis whit it reads. ‘A quick and terrible death ta any foe who would possess what is mine.’”
    “There’s an inscription?” I stared at her, nonplussed. “Seriously?”
    “The letters are a bit blurred, but not so much as ta make the words unreadable.”
    I set my teacup down and hurried over to her. “So what’s wrong with my eyes that I only saw scratches?”
    “It’s not yer eyes that’s the problem. It’s yer upbringing. Ye had no one to teach ye the old tongue.” She glided her index finger over the marks with a respect bordering on religious awe. “The words aren’t in English, Mrs. Miceli. They’re in Gaelic.”
    Well, duh. “So it actually looks authentic to you?” Why did that possibility fill me with such dread? Oh, yeah. Because Bernice and Dolly would probably be at each other’s throats trying to claim a piece of it.
    “It’s more than authentic. Do ye see the owner’s name here?” Morna tapped her finger beneath a series of vertical squiggles. “This dagger belonged ta none other than Hamish Maccoull.”
    I did my utmost to look impressed before asking, “Should I know who that is?”
    “Ye should, but ye probably don’t. Hamish Maccoull was only the most feared chieftain of all the highland clans. He’s lacked the name recognition of yer Hollywood favorites like William Wallace and Robert the Bruce, but—”
    “Did you say Maccoull?” I suddenly broke in. “Maccoull spelled M-A-C-C-O-U-L-L?”
    “How else would ye spell it?”
    “My grandmother is a Maccoull. Well, her married name is Sippel, but her mother’s maiden name was Maccoull. Could she be related to this Hamish Maccoull and his clan?”
    “Every Maccoull, the world over, can trace his ancestry back ta Hamish Maccoull. If yer gramma’s a Maccoull, she can claim Hamish as kin.”
    I clasped my hands with excitement. “This is so awesome! She was just saying today how little she knows about her family tree. You know how that goes. One member of a family emigrates to America to begin a new life, and over time, he loses contact with everything and everyone he left behind.”
    “Then she’s not familiar with Hamish’s story?”
    “I’m pretty sure she’s never heard his name before.”
    “I have a book.” Handing the dagger over to me, she contemplated her floor-to-ceiling bookshelves before crossing the room to the rolling ladder and sliding it halfway across the wall. “She’s welcome ta borrow it while she’s here.” Hitching her robe to her knees, she climbed onto the first rung of the ladder and pulled a hefty tome from its slot before stepping back down. “It’s an oral history of his life, handed down from family member ta family member, until it was finally put down on paper … a hundred years after he died.”
    I regarded the dagger with new eyes and greater appreciation. “Does it mention how his dirk might have ended up in a tree trunk?”
    She set the book on the library table, splaying her hand over its faded leather cover. “If memory serves, the dirk was used ta kill him.”
    My eyeballs froze in their sockets. My breath froze in my throat. Unh-oh . “So the stains on the blade could possibly be—?”
    “Hamish Maccoull’s blood.”
    “Oh.” I deposited the dirk gently onto the table and fluttered my fingers in the air. “You don’t happen to have any hand sanitizer, do you?”
    “It was his enemies who slew him,” she said fiercely. “In his later years, Hamish tired of bloodshed. He married off his daughter ta the son of a rival