With her black, skin-tight leather pants and red corset embroidered with skulls in black metallic cord, Aileen might fit in at a punk bar in Scotland, but here at the Highland Games she stuck out like a bagpiper in a symphony orchestra. Which is exactly what she wanted. Lead guitarist in a metal band, the Twisted Armpits, she shared my house with my older brother Pete and me. I got the formal dining room for a fitting room for my sewing business, Aileen got the basement for her band studio, and Pete got the third-floor bedroom, where he could get away from the bustle of customers and the unholy noise of the band. Of late, Aileen’s bandmate Corgi had added a bagpipe to the cacophony after joining the Laurel Springs Pipe and Drum Corps. I had always experienced bagpipes as extremely loud instruments, so it amused me to no end when Aileen described the need to mic the pipes to allow them to rise above the guitar and bass in the mix. Imagine a bagpipe getting drowned out! I could hear several bagpipes skirling, and the noise was overpowering even in the open air.
Aileen didn’t seem to notice. She clomped through the growing crowd in her knee-high red patent-leather boots with the six-inch chunky heels and approached my booth.
“The bagpipe competitions are about to start. Any idea where Corgi got to?” She looked at McCarthy and said, “Whoa. You look like your thyroid has jaundice.”
He straightened his bow tie and bowed as if he were James Bond on his way to a white-tie event. Affecting a thick Scottish accent, he drawled, “Even the Irish are Scottish on this day.”
Aileen rolled her eyes. “Whatever. Have you seen Corgi anywhere?”
I shook my head, trying to control my laughter at McCarthy’s ridiculous accent. “Is he going to compete? I thought you said he’s only been playing for a few months now.”
“Yeah, but he’s fired up by all this competition nonsense. You wouldn’t think it to look at him, but he’s totally motivated by contests. He’s been practicing day and night ever since he decided he wanted to compete.”
She was right, I wouldn’t have pictured Corgi as a competitive guy. He was a small, quiet man whose laid-back demeanor was in direct contrast to Aileen’s flamboyant personality. He played bass for the Twisted Armpits, and his performances at gigs were appropriately energetic, but I’d learned it was all an act. When he wasn’t helping his mom run her bed-and-breakfast, he was happy to lounge on the porch with a novel or drowse in front of the TV. He shared Pete’s love of the Phillies, and the two of them could talk about double plays and relief pitchers for hours on end. But I couldn’t imagine him actually playing baseball, much less participating in a bagpipe competition. This should be something to see.
I spied Letty wending her way back to our booth with two cups of coffee clutched in her hands. Tall and shapely, with masses of dark, curly hair cascading down her back, she was dressed in a clingy T-shirt that proclaimed, “Kiss a Scot,” paired with a pleated plaid skirt that approximated a kilt, although it fell midthigh rather than just above the knee. She slipped back into our booth and handed me a cup. “I got you a mocha latte. I hope that’s all right.” Without waiting for an answer, she turned to Aileen and McCarthy with a big smile. Her eyes widened at the sight of Aileen’s black leather, but her professional demeanor carried her through. “Top of the morning to you! Oh, dear, that’s what we say on St. Patrick’s Day, isn’t it?” She flipped her long hair over her shoulder in a coquettish move and gazed at McCarthy. “I see Daria’s already sold you one of her superb bow ties. Can I interest you in some antiques? Maybe a monogrammed beer stein from the 1950s, or a vintage handkerchief for a special lady?”
I laid a hand on Letty’s arm, halting her before she could break out her entire line of vintage linens. “Letty, do you know Sean McCarthy from the Laurel Springs Daily Chronicle? He’s taking photographs of the Games for the newspaper. And this is Aileen, my housemate.”
Letty smiled at Aileen and turned back to McCarthy. “How about a photo of our booth for the front page?” She tidied her hair and shifted a few of her wares to the front table before throwing her arm around my waist and aiming a brilliant smile at McCarthy.
He obliged with a quick photo.
“Letty, do you mind watching the booth for a few minutes? I want to check out the bagpipe competition.” I showed her my price list and slipped out before she could attempt to sell Aileen some glass candy dishes or an intricately carved cuckoo clock.
McCarthy adjusted his tie once more and waved a jaunty goodbye. “I’m off to document Pennsylvania’s Scottish diaspora!”
Aileen snorted. “Whatever.” She grabbed my arm and hustled me through the Scottish Marketplace toward a gazebo surrounded by various Scottish flags fluttering in the light breeze. A piper in full regalia stood in the middle of the gazebo, playing an impossibly fast tune on the bagpipes. He was dressed out in a military jacket and red and black kilt held down with a horsehide sporran slung around his waist on a silver chain. Corgi had explained to me that this small pouch was useful for carrying money or car keys, but its chief purpose, other than to keep the kilt down in a breeze, was to hold the piper’s flask of whiskey.
Corgi stood in the group of bagpipers waiting their turns in the competition. I was used to seeing him in black leather and chains, so I hardly recognized him in his kilt and jacket. Although, when I looked closer, I could see that his outfit wasn’t quite as natty as that of the piper who was currently playing. Corgi’s blue-and-green-plaid kilt hung lower on the sides than in the back or front, and the tartan fabric looked far more lightweight than the substantial wool of a traditional kilt. His sporran was leather rather than horsehair, and he wore ordinary black dress shoes rather than the distinctive ghillie brogues with their elaborate laces twining around the ankles that the other pipers wore. He looked like what he was: a beginner. I hoped the judges wouldn’t go too hard on him.
Aileen poked me in the shoulder. “He’s up next. They’ll grade him on his musical technique, how he holds the bagpipes, and whether or not his shoelaces are tied correctly. Bizarre way to look at music, if you ask me.”
“Yeah, your idea of good music is the loudest volume possible,” I teased.
She opened her mouth to retort but didn’t get the chance. Someone from the crowd clapped her on the shoulder, and a man’s voice called out, “Well, look who’s here! Long time no see.”
Aileen whirled at the touch and glared at the newcomer, a large man in his early forties wearing a muscle shirt and a solid black canvas utility kilt with spacious pouch pockets on both sides. Instead of a sporran, he wore a trio of heavy chains draped around the front of his kilt, and a thick leather belt with a brass buckle depicting an eagle in flight. His dark, wavy hair curled against his shoulders, enhancing the sensuality of his muscular physique. Wide-set eyes shaded by thick eyebrows appraised Aileen from her red leather boots to her dyed black hair held back by dozens of dragon-shaped hair clips.
“Look at you, all punked out like this. I never thought I’d see you at a Highland games.”
“I never thought I’d see you again this side of hell,” Aileen shot back. “Get out of my sight!” She grabbed my arm and shoved her way through the crowd to the other side of the gazebo, leaving the muscleman chuckling behind her.
I straightened my skirt and repositioned my bag on my shoulder, breathless from being dragged through the crowd. “Old friend of yours?”
Aileen glared at me. “What do you think?” She folded her arms across her chest and stared pointedly at the gazebo. “Corgi’s up.”
I turned my attention to the bagpiping, realizing that the better part of wisdom was to leave Aileen alone when she didn’t want to discuss something. Still, I found myself looking over my shoulder. The muscleman was gone.
Corgi stepped up to the center of the gazebo and blew into his blowpipe, filling his bag with air. He punched it with his arm, starting up the drones with only a couple