Free The Corpse Wore Tartan by Kaitlyn Dunnett Page B

the test. It was one thing to be asked to do without a few creature comforts, especially when an act of nature was responsible for the situation and everyone else was in the same boat. It was quite another to have a uniformed police officer imply that you might be a thief, even when everyone else was a suspect, too.
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    Sherri set up an interview space in the lobby near the sweeping staircase that led to the mezzanine. She’d decided to limit her questions to asking when each guest had checked in, where they’d been between 3:45 and 4:45, and—for those with rooms nearby—if they’d seen anyone suspicious near the MacMillans’ suite. She was pretty sure this line of questioning would not turn up the missing brooch, but she had no better idea how to proceed. At least Phil MacMillan wouldn’t be able to complain that she wasn’t doing anything.
    It was slow going, even with only those few questions. The replies were so similar that before long the members of SHAS, and their tartans, became little more than a blur.
    At least everyone seemed to be in a cooperative mood. It helped that the Ruskins had set up a free buffet table and opened a couple of portable cash bars. The first round of drinks had been on the house. There had been cheering when Joe announced that breakfast the next morning would also be free.
    â€œNext up is one of the practical jokers Phil MacMillan fingered,” Pete whispered as yet another man in a kilt approached. “Eric Buchanan. I’ve met him before, at one of the Highland Games.”
    Sherri took Buchanan through the same questions as everyone else. He claimed he’d been in the lounge during the relevant hour. Sherri had no reason to doubt him, but she took the precaution of talking to Tricia Lynd next.
    â€œOh, yeah,” the hotel’s only intern agreed. “He was there the whole time. Him and his friend.” She pointed out a man with buck teeth and cauliflower ears. “His buddy there pinched my butt, so I definitely remember him!”
    Sherri had a sneaking suspicion that the pincher would turn out to be the second practical joker MacMillan had named, but several loud blats, the sound of a bagpipe tuning up, made asking her next question a challenge. “Who else was in the lounge?” she shouted.
    Russ Tandy was one of the SHAS members Sherri had already interviewed. The noise he was making prevented her from hearing Tricia’s answer. He chose that moment to launch into an impromptu bagpipe concert. It was suddenly impossible to think, let alone continue the interview.
    Holding up one finger as a signal for Tricia to wait, Sherri semaphored her arms until Liss MacCrimmon looked her way. Then Sherri pointed to Russ and mimed zipping her lips. If there was a signal for “make the piper shut up,” she didn’t know it, but Liss got the message. By then, Russ was well into a spirited rendition of “Scotland the Brave.” Liss waited patiently until he finished the piece, then caught his arm and whispered in his ear. A moment later, she led him away, bagpipe in hand.
    As silence descended, Sherri breathed a sigh of relief.
    â€œAbout those two men, Tricia—how long had they been in the lounge?”
    â€œAwhile. They came in right after we opened at three.”
    â€œDid either one go out and come back in again?”
    Tricia shook her head. “I’d have noticed. Until two more guys in kilts came in, they were our only customers.”
    â€œHuh,” Sherri said. That seemed to rule them out as suspects. When she’d confirmed the name of the bottom-pinching practical joker was Norbert Johnson—the second name MacMillan had mentioned—Sherri decided to talk to him next. He had an alibi, all right, but she indulged herself by leaving him with the impression that if he didn’t behave himself in the future he was going to find himself charged with sexual