Free Shadows in Scarlet by Lillian Stewart Carl Page B

it up before her eyes, in the classic Hamlet-and-skull pose, and sighed. “Such a handsome young man. Cut down in his prime. Of course he was the enemy, we have to remember that, but Sally must have seen something in him, some sympathy for the Cause, perhaps. The Scots had been rebels themselves not long before. Here you go, Bill. Between the bones and the scabbard, I think."
    Deadpan, Hewitt accepted the portrait and placed it in the last Lucite box. He hung it on the flat, turned on the lamps, and adjusted their shades so that they illuminated the displays without glaring into the eyes of the viewer. His minions gathered up their cardboard cartons and retreated into the faraway—and no doubt cooler—back regions of the house, passing Roy and a couple of other interpreters in the shadows of the hallway.
    Helen turned on her video camera. Cynthia fluffed up her hair with her fingertips and posed herself beside the exhibit, hands folded, one foot turned out. She smiled like she was about to start turning letters on Wheel of Fortune . “It was only last week that we discovered a human skeleton in the gardens behind Melrose Hall. Thanks to the efforts of our staff, the bones have already been identified as those of Captain James Grant, the dashing hero of one of the best-loved legends of Melrose..."
    "Luck,” muttered Hewitt. “The archaeologist's best friend. Dumb luck."
    Smart luck, Amanda amended silently.
    Wayne sidled closer. “Mother's amazing, isn't she? To have such energy at her age."
    Cynthia was maybe a whopping fifty-five. As for her energy, she'd probably wither and die if isolated from the adulation of mere mortals. Lucy, peering from behind her husband's bulk, caught Amanda's eye and winked. Amanda stared. Lucy nodded and smiled, eyebrows working, as though the two of them shared some secret. What is going on with her? Amanda asked herself.
    "...thank you for your support of Melrose Hall and Colonial Williamsburg,” Cynthia concluded.
    Of course “the staff” wasn't meant to actually appear on camera any more than the furnace stokers mingled with the first-class passengers. Funny how Amanda was thinking of furnaces. With the lights and crush of bodies, the already warm hall was sweltering. She tried fanning herself, but the fan was only coquettish ornament, and barely stirred the air. The silk of her gown stuck to her skin with each shallow breath. She sent a silent thank-you to the pharmaceutical industry for antiperspirants and deodorant soap.
    "Are you all right?” whispered Carrie.
    "Hyperventilating, as usual,” Amanda wheezed.
    "Hang in there."
    Sweat trickled from beneath Wayne's wig. Vernon's head was as shiny as the polished banister. Helen's hair straggled out of its bun and down her neck. “Over to the side,” she directed. “Point to the scabbard. Now to the portrait. Look thoughtful. Thoughtful, not spaced-out."
    Cynthia took Helen's direction with a resigned air, and waited while Helen changed back to her still camera.
    "Okay, Bill, this is your baby, into the picture—Cynthia, squeeze to the side—don't worry, you'll still be in the frame.” Carrie turned a laugh into a cough.
    By the time Helen finally switched off the lights even the impeccable Cynthia was drooping. But her production number wasn't over yet. “Where did you put those glasses, Amanda?” she called. “Oh, I see, on the sideboard. Eight—just right."
    Not counting the dark faces in the recesses of the hallway, Amanda thought, and looked around. But Roy and the others were gone.
    Cynthia reached into her shopping bag and pulled out a bottle of Glenlivet. “We should make a small toast to Captain Grant. Since clan Grant country is in Strathspey, where Scotch whiskey comes from, how else to toast him but with Glenlivet?"
    "Outside of the fact Dundreggan isn't in Strathspey but further west,” murmured Carrie.
    "And there's perfectly good whiskey made elsewhere in Scotland,” Vernon added under his breath.
    "You