"What the devil are you trying to tell me?" he demanded as Koko picked himself up, shook his head, and licked his left shoulder. In the past Koko had thrown irrational cat fits when Qwilleran was making the wrong decision or following the wrong scent. Whatever his present motive, his violence put Brodie's invitation in another light, and Qwilleran continued up the ramp--not to change into a warmup suit but to shower and dress for Scottish Night. He drove to the lodge hall on Main Street, and as he parked the car he saw men in kilts and tartan trews converging from all directions. At the door he was greeted by Whannell MacWhannell, the portly accountant from the Bonnie Scots Tour, who looked even bigger in his pleated kilt, Argyle jacket, leather sporran, tasseled garters, and ghillie brogies.
"Andy told me to watch for you," said Big Mac.
"He's upstairs, tuning up the doodle sack but don't tell him I called it that." Most of the men gathering in the lounge were in full Highland kit, making Qwilleran feel conspicuous in a suit and tie. As a public figure in Pickax he was greeted heartily by all.
"Are you a Scot?" they asked.
"Where did you get the W in your name?" "My mother was a Mackintosh," he explained, "and I believe my father's family came from the Northern Isles. There's a Danish connection somewhere--way back, no doubt." The walls of the lounge were hung with colorful clan banners-reproductions, MacWhannell explained, of the battle standards that were systematically burned after the defeat at Culloden.
"What tartan are you wearing?" Qwilleran asked him.
"Macdonald of Sleat.
The MacWhannells are connected with that clan, somewhere along the line, and Glenda liked this tartan because it's red. Why don't you order a Mackintosh kilt, Qwill?" "I'm not ready for that yet, but I've been boning up on Mackintosh history--twelve centuries of political brawls, feuds, raids, battles, betrayals, poisonings, hangings, assassinations, and violent acts of revenge. It's amazing that we have any Mackintoshes left." At a given signal the party trooped upstairs to the great hall, a lofty room decorated wall-to-wall with weaponry. Six round tables were set for dinner, each seating ten. At each place a souvenir program listed the events of the evening and the bill of fare: haggis, tat ties and nee ps Forfar bridies, Pitlochry salad, tea, shortbread, and a "wee dram" for toasting.
"We'll sit here and save a seat for Andy," said Big Mac, leaning a chair against a table.
"He has to pipe in the haggis before he can sit down." Looking around at the ancient weapons on the walls, Qwilleran remarked, "Does the FBI know about the arsenal you have up here? You could start a war with Lockmaster." "It's our private museum," said his host.
"I'm the registrar. We have 27 broadswords, 45 dirks, 12 claymores, 7 basket hilts, 14 leather bucklers, 12 pistols, 21 muskets, and 30 bayonets, all properly catalogued." Politely Qwilleran inquired about Glenda's health.
"Has she recovered from the stress of the tour?" "Frankly, she should have stayed in Pickax. She doesn't like to travel," her husband explained.
"She'd rather watch video travelogues. I took eight hundred pictures on this trip just for her. She gets a kick out of putting them in albums and labeling them. How about you? Did you stick it out to the end?" "All except Edinburgh, but I'd like to go back there with Polly someday." "We spent a couple of days in Auld Reekie before catching our plane. I left Glenda in the hotel and went out taking pictures. You can get some good bird's-eye views in Edinburgh. I climbed 287 steps to the top of a monument. The castle rock is 400 feet high. Arthur's Seat is 822 feet. Funny name for a hill, but the Scots have some funny words.
How about "mixty-maxty" and whit tie-what tie Don't ask me what they mean." Big Mac was more talkative than he had been with the nervous Glenda in tow, and he had statistics for everything: where 300 witches were burned and who died from 56 dagger wounds. He was interrupted by the plaintive wail of a bagpipe. The rumble of male voices faded away.
The double doors burst open, and a solemn procession entered and circled the room, led by Chief Brodie. Normally a big man with proud carriage, he was a formidable giant in full kit with towering feather "bonnet, " scarlet doublet, fur sporran, and white spats. With the bag beneath his arm and the drones over his shoulder, he swaggered to the slow heroic rhythm of "Scotland the Brave," the pleated kilt swaying and the bagpipe filling the room with skirling that stirred Qwilleran's Mackintosh blood. Behind the piper marched a snare drummer, followed by seven young men in kilts and white shirts, each carrying a tray. On the first was a smooth gray lump; that was the haggis. On each of the other six trays was a bottle of Scotch. They circled the room twice.
Then a bottle was placed on each table, and the master of ceremonies--in the words of Robert Burns--addressed the "great chieftain o' the pu.in' race," after which the assembly drank a toast to the haggis. It was cut and served, and the marchers made one more turn about the room before filing out through the double doors to the lively rhythm of a strathspey. Brodie returned without bagpipe and bonnet to join them at the table.
"Weel done, laddie," Qwilleran said to him.
"When a Brodie plays the pipe, even a Mackintosh gets goosebumps.
That's an impressive instrument you have." "The chanter's an old one, with silver and real ivory. You can't get 'em like that any more," Brodie said.
"I'm a seventh generation piper. It used to be a noble vocation in the Highlands.
Every chief had his personal piper who went everywhere with him, even into battle. The screaming of the pipes drove the clans to attack and unnerved the enemy. At least, that was the idea." When dinner was served, Big Mac leaned over and asked the chief, "Are you related to the master criminal of Edinburgh, Andy? I saw the place where he was hanged in 1788." "Deacon Brodie? Well, I admit I've got his sense of humor and steel nerves, but he wasn't a piper." Qwilleran said, "We've had a lot of excitement on Goodwinter Boulevard this week, with the TV coverage and the mob that turned out for the preview." "It'll be worse tomorrow," Brodie said with a dour look.
"Why is the sale being held at the house?" "Too many ways to cheat when it's trucked away for an auction. I'm not saying Foxy Fred is a crook, you understand, but Dr. Melinda's a sharpie. Never underestimate that lassie!" "Tell me something, Andy--about those break-ins on Purple Point. We never had break-ins when I first came here, but since they've started promoting tourism, the picture is changing." "You can't blame the tourists for Purple Point; that was done by locals--young kids, most likely--whicho knew when to hit.
They knew the cottages are vacant in September except on weekends.
Besides, they took small stuff. An operator from Down Below would back a truck up to the cottage and clean it out." "What kind of thing did they take?" "Electronic stuff, cameras, binoculars. It was kids." The emcee rapped for attention and announced the serious business of drinking toasts. Tribute was paid to William Wallace, guerrilla fighter and the first hero of Scotland's struggle for independence. MacWhannell said to Qwilleran, "He was a huge man. His claymore was five feet four inches long." Then the diners toasted the memory of Robert the Bruce, Mary Queen of Scots, Bonnie Prince Charlie, Flora Macdonald, Robert Burns, Sir Walter Scott, and Robert Louis Stevenson, the response becoming more boisterous with each ovation. Qwilleran was toasting with cold tea, but the others were sipping usquebaugh. The evening ended with the reading of Robert Burns's poetry by the proprietor of Scottie's Men's Store and the singing of "Katie Bairdie Had a Coo" by the entire assembly with loud and lusty voices, thanks to the usquebaugh. That was followed by a surprisingly sober "Auld Lang Sync," after which Brodie said to Qwilleran, "Come to the kitchen. I told the catering guy to save some haggis for that smart cat of yours." Many of the members lingered in the lounge, but Qwilleran thanked his host and drove home with his foil-wrapped trophy. When he reached the barn the electronic timer had illuminated the premises indoors and out.