Read Online A Wee Dose of Death by Fran Stewart - Free Book Online

“Mac’s too good a skier for that. He wouldn’t have fallen.”
    â€œThen where would be the ither man who made the second set of wee tracks?”
    â€œI don’t know. There are some sharp drop-offs up there, and in this much snow, it wouldn’t be wise for anyone to take that part of the trail, especially not somebody who’s no good on skis.” I waved my hand vaguely to indicate the hillside behind the outhouse. “He probably took the trail back to town.”
    The sounds emanating from the cabin had died to a low rumble.
    Dirk spread his right arm in the direction of the cabin. “Do ye not agree ’twould be courteous for us to—”
    â€œNo. Absolutely not.” I lowered my voice, just on the offhand chance that Mac might hear me and come out to investigate. “I’m not going anywhere near that man if I can avoid it. I don’t intend him any harm, but I’m certainly not going to let him ruin my trek with his sarcasm.” I raised my feet up onto my tiptoes—or as close as I could get to it—several times to keep the circulation going. It
was
getting distinctly colder.
    â€œLook.” Dirk pointed to a faint trickle of smoke rising from the old fieldstone chimney. “Now he has a wee fire lit, he will be less likely to swear at ye. Let us go inside. I can see ye shivering like a newborn kid.”
    In answer, I raised my right leg and ski as high as I could,straight out before me until the square back edge of the ski rested on the ground in front of me. I twisted my leg and the ski clockwise, leaving the back in contact with the ground, and set my foot down, facing back behind me, leaving my legs in a ballet-like position, the right one pointing vaguely west, back toward the way we’d come, and the other heading sort of east. It was quite a trick, but it was also the only way to turn around quickly on cross-country skis. Then I shifted my weight to my right leg, leaned slightly on my right ski pole to get my balance, and lifted my left foot straight up so I could cross the front of my left ski over the back of the right one and bring it around so they both faced back toward Hamelin. It was a complicated maneuver, and I couldn’t tell you how many times I’d fallen trying to perfect it when I was a kid. Now it was like second nature. “I’m outta here. He’s got a fire going. Mac’s a big boy. He can take care of himself.”
    â€œWe havena been verra neighborly.”
    â€œMac is not a neighbor. Mac is a . . .”
    Dirk cleared his ghostly throat, and I didn’t finish my sentence.
    On the way back down the mountain I collected pink yarn markers as I went. It’s wonderful the way you generate heat when you’re skiing cross-country. And when you’re arguing with a stubborn ghost.
    *   *   *
    Even a good night’s sleep—mine, not his; ghosts don’t sleep—didn’t stop him. Monday morning he kept at it. “Ye shouldna ha’ left Master Campbell when he was swearing like a sail man.”
    â€œFirst of all, it’s a sailor, not a sail man. Secondly, don’t call him a master. He’s not a master of anything except his ego. And thirdly, I had no intention of going in there.”
    â€œHe may ha’ been hurt.”
    â€œHe wasn’t hurt. Not if he had enough energy to cuss out a pile of firewood.”
    â€œYe dinna ken that for certes.”
    â€œDirk! Quit telling me what to do.”
    â€œMy name isna Dirk. Why d’ye insist on calling me that when my name is Macbeath Donlevy Freusach Finlay—”
    I cut him off before the last two names. “I know darn well what your name is. Macbeth? Nobody uses that name nowadays. And I can’t say all those others fast enough. Anyway, I get them mixed up.”
    â€œYe wouldna if ye paid attention.”
    â€œOh, go sit down and wait for me to get