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followed by another fellow carrying the haggis on a silver platter.  They are followed by the bride and groom.”
    “Sounds disgusting,” Bradley muttered.
    “Disgusting!” Ian cried, “Ach, no, it is poetry and it softens the hardest of Scottish hearts. The haggis is laid on the center table and then Robbie Burns’ poem about haggis is recited.”
    “Wait!  Robert Burns wrote a poem about haggis?” Mary asked. “ The Robert Burns?”
    “Oh, aye, he did,” Ian replied. “ Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face, great chieftain o the puddin'-race! Aboon them a' ye tak your place, painch, tripe, or thairm: Weel are ye worthy o' a grace as lang's me arm. ”
    Mary, Bradley and Rosie looked at each other, all equally confused.
    “But…but I thought Scottish people spoke English,” Rosie finally said.
    Ian chuckled. “Aye, they do Rosie,” he said. “With a wee bit of their own dialect added in for the charm of it.  Let me see if I can translate for you. ‘Fair and full is your honest, jolly face; great chieftain of the sausage race! Above them all you take your place, stomach, tripe, or intestines: well are you worthy of a grace as long as my arm.’”
    “I liked it better when I didn’t understand it,” Bradley said.
    “Aye, but wait until you take your first bite,” Ian said with a wide grin. “There’s nothing like a thick slice of warm haggis to start a reception.”
    Bradley stood up, scraping his chair on the floor, and walked over to Mary.  He took both of her hands in his and said, “Mary, please tell me what I can do to help you solve the mystery at the hotel.  I really want the caterer now.”
    Mary glanced over his shoulder to Ian, sitting next to Rosie, and smiled. He winked back at her and grinned.
    “So, I suppose we won’t be needing the meatballs after all,” Rosie whispered to him.
    “No,” he whispered back. “I think we’ll be having a catered affair.”
     

Chapter Six
    The little house sat at the far northwest edge of town, a section of town that had been ravaged time and time again by the flood waters of Yellow Creek and time and time again had been rebuilt by the residents.  But, the lack of available flood insurance and the tight economy had caused many residents to become more creative in their home repairs.  Pieces of sheet metal or sections of plywood covered the places windows used to be.  Siding often hung haphazardly from the side of the house where the creek’s waters had rushed through with ferocious power. Upturned trees and piles of thick mud often covered the areas neat lawns and flower gardens used to inhabit. The residents, disheartened by the look of their once lovely community, came home after work, locked their doors and closed their blinds to shut out the reminder of their loss.  It was the perfect community for Gary Copper.
    The rental agreement had taken a matter of moments.  Gary had given Mr. Rupp, the owner, fifteen hundred dollars in cash for a five-month rental of the tiny one-room house and Rupp had nearly been overcome with glee. He shook Gary’s hand incessantly and walked down the cracking concrete steps whistling a merry tune. 
    Unfortunately, the poison Gary had laced his drink with was fast acting enough that his whistling ended mid-tune and the man dropped even before he reached the door of his ancient sedan.  Gary was outside immediately, appearing to help Rupp into his home.  He not only helped the man inside, he also helped him into the bottom of an antiquated chest freezer that was sitting, molding in the old limestone basement.  And, of course, before slamming down the lid and securing it tightly, he helped himself to the money the man had stuffed into his coat pocket.
    The day was gray and the wind was seeping through the warped wooden windows.  Gary rose from his meal of imported French brie, crusty baguettes and Cabernet Sauvignon and turned up the thermostat to 80 degrees.  Since the electricity and gas had been opened