in his will, but he had to interview me first.” She used air quotes around interview. “It felt more like an interrogation, and I wasn’t sure he intended to leave us anything. In fact, after a while I would have paid him money just to get out of there.” She sighed. “I forgot I even invited him to the fundraiser. In fact, I think I promised him he’d be the guest of honor this weekend or something.” She sighed. “I didn’t think he’d really come. He rarely goes anywhere.” She shrugged. “Oh well, come on. Let’s get this over with before he blows a gasket.”
When we got close to the lobby, we followed the raised voices to the area where a security guard who worked for the museum and Jacob Flemings, Linda Kay’s assistant, were trying to quiet Archibald Lowry.
Jacob was in his early twenties and stylishly dressed, as usual, in a slim fitting tuxedo that reminded me of James Bond. His curly hair was slicked down and pulled back into a bun and his bright red rectangular glasses provided a touch of artistic flare. The only flaw in his meticulous look was the compression boot which he was forced to wear ever since he broke his ankle a month ago. To Jacob’s credit, despite Archibald Lowry’s blustering, he maintained his composure and kept a pleasant smile plastered on his face. But when he caught sight of me out of the corner of his eye, I noticed the strain on his face. His eyes pleaded with me for help.
Dixie turned on the southern charm and marched over to the kilted man. “Archibald, I’m so sorry I wasn’t here to greet you.” She leaned in, kissed his cheek and picked up the small silver poodle from the floor. “What an adorable poodle.” She stared at it closely as I’d seen her do when judging dog shows. “This isn’t Constantine.”
Archibald Lowry stopped snarling at Jacob long enough to say, “Of course not.” He swallowed hard. “Constantine died.” He paused for a moment, sniffed and pulled a dirty handkerchief from his breast pocket. He blew his nose, wiped his eyes and then returned the piece of fabric to his breast pocket.
Jacob’s eyes enlarged and he turned and limped away mumbling, “It looks like you have this under control, so I’ll just go back to the party.”
Dixie held the poodle to her chest and gave his owner a consolatory pat. “I’m so sorry.”
Archibald coughed and nodded. “Yes, well. He was a good dog.”
She held up the poodle. “Well, who is this handsome fella?” Archibald Lowry pushed his shoulders back and stood taller. “That is Constantine’s son, Ildulb mac Causantin,” he said proudly. “He was the son of Constantine the second.”
Dixie cooed at the little poodle, “Now, Archibald, you know I can barely pronounce English, so there’s no way I can wrap my southern tongue around all of that.” She stopped cooing at the puppy long enough to flash a big smile at the puppy’s owner. “Now, what’s his call name?”
Unlike Dixie, I was relatively new to the dog world, but in my short indoctrination to the sport, I knew a call name was basically a nickname, what the owner called the dog, unlike the elaborate names the owners used to register their dogs with the kennel club. Those names were a mile long and usually included the name of the kennel where the dog was bred and some fancy name and any earned titles. The names were selected to amuse or impress when announced over the loudspeaker at big dog shows like Westminster or Crufts.
Archibald smiled smugly. “Indulf.”
Dixie chuckled. “I supposed that’s better than whatever you said the first time.”
Just then, Indulf started to climb Dixie’s shoulder, getting tangled in her hair.
I reached up and extracted the little poodle before he could cause any damage to Dixie’s hair, earrings, dress or to himself.
Indulf was a tiny poodle, smaller than my six-pound poodle, Aggie. He was a smoky gray with soft eyes and long eyelashes. He looked up at me and my heart melted. I snuggled the little poodle close to my face and spoke baby gibberish for a few seconds until I realized I was being observed. I looked up and saw Archibald Lowry staring at me with a quizzical expression. The expression was logical considering we had yet to be introduced. “I’m so sorry. He’s just so cute. I couldn’t help myself.”
“Where are my manners?” Dixie exclaimed. “Archibald Lowry, this is my best friend, Lilly Ann Echosby.” She turned to me. “Lilly Ann, this is Archibald Lowry.”
I extended a hand to shake, but Archibald Lowry ignored it. He leaned forward with both hands on his cane and inclined his head in a brief nod of acknowledgment.
I glanced down at Archibald’s kilt and noticed it was held together with a gold pin shaped like a sword with a ruby stone in the hilt and an intricate design which included clear stones which glinted in the light.
“What a lovely…brooch.” I stared at the stunning jeweled pin.
“It’s called a kilt pin,” he huffed.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t—”
He sniffed. “Most Americans don’t know the proper word to use.”
“I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to offend you.”
He took a deep breath. “Few Americans understand the history of the Scottish kilt.”
I clutched the poodle to my chest.
Indulf licked my face and that small gesture softened something in Archibald Lowry’s eyes. He looked at me, sighed and then launched into a lecture on the history of kilts.
“In the Scottish Highlands, dating back to the sixteenth century, kilts were the traditional dress for Gaelic men and boys.”
He held up the elaborate pouch which hung from a chain around his waist. “Now, this is called a sporran.” The top had a gold arch which was heavily engraved and studded with red jewels. He ran his hand along it. “This is the cantle.” He moved his hand along the fur piece which extended downward. “This is Scottish goat hair, but I’ve also got them made from horse hair, rabbit and plain leather for less formal occasions.” He continued to explain the history of the pouch and the kilt pin, which included a story of how Queen Victoria invented the kilt pin when she was inspecting Highland troops on a windy day and noticed a soldier struggling to keep the aprons of his kilt from flying up. He leaned close and chuckled. “True Scotsmen wear nothing under their kilts.”
My mouth fell open and it took a nudge in the ribs from Dixie before I realized and closed it.
There was a moment of awkward silence and then Archibald Lowry laughed heartily. “I’m one of the wealthiest men in the country and people always ask me how I became so rich.” He gazed at me. “Do you know what I tell them?”
I shook my head. “I haven’t the foggiest idea.”
“I tell them I acquired my money the same way everybody else has.” He leaned forward so his mouth was within inches of my face. “I stole it.”
The shock I felt must have been reflected on my face because he guffawed for several moments. He leaned forward again, as though he was about to say something, but stopped. His gaze was fixed over my shoulder and his face registered recognition.
I turned to see what had captured his attention but didn’t see anyone I knew.
He scowled.
Dixie
