Elizabeth rubbed her smudgy fingers with a tissue. “Out, damned spot! Out, I say!” Geoffrey’s form of insanity was highly contagious, she thought sadly.
Lightfoot took her name and address, and spent several minutes trying to make sense of the Maid of the Cat concept. He finally decided that it was something like the Carolina ram that was paraded at UNC football games, and he let it go at that.
“I understand you had a run-in with the deceased yesterday,” he remarked.
“Well, he fussed at me for wearing a kilt, and I told him what I thought of him. But neither of us took it as a capital offense.”
“How well did you know Dr. Campbell?”
Elizabeth considered it. “If somebody in your neighborhood kept a vicious dog in a fenced-in yard… about as well as you’d know the dog.”
Lightfoot laughed. “Mainly by reputation.”
“Exactly. There may not be people around with better motives for doing him in, but I bet there are a lot of people with similar ones.”
“Quite a few,” the sheriff admitted. “We got one woman that he reduced to tears by telling her what he thought of the tartan she was wearing.”
“The Royal Stewart, I’ll bet. Nobody’s entitled to wear it, really, but Dr. Campbell was the only person who’d pitch a fit.”
“Can you think of anyone who had better reasons to want him dead?”
“No. No one ever bothered to stay around him long enough to… wait a minute. He did have one friend. Marge Hutcheson. I’ll bet she could tell you what he was really like.”
The sheriff made a note of the name. “One more thing. Do you know anything about a terrorist organization connected with the games?”
Elizabeth shook her head. “It sounds unlikely. Is it something to do with Scotland? You might ask Cameron-”
“Cameron Dawson?”
“Yes. But I doubt if he’ll know anything at all about the games. He’s just arrived in this country, you see, and for most of that time…” She blushed.
Lightfoot looked at her closely. “Oh,” he grunted. “So you’re the one.”
Elizabeth smiled sadly. “Sheriff, I devoutly hope so.”
Of all the people Lightfoot had seen so far, Marge Hutcheson looked the most upset. She had not been crying, he decided, but she appeared to be under a strain. He offered her his empty Pepsi can for an ashtray, and watched her light a Benson & Hedges with shaking hands.
“How well did you know the deceased?”
“Well enough to mind that he got himself murdered,” said Marge grimly. “Poor Colin. I expect he would have enjoyed all the fuss. He was much more comfortable with dissension than he was with friendliness. He was always trying to drag me into an argument.”
“About what?”
Marge smiled. “The weather… the stock market… anything at all. It was a bit of a game with him, you know. He didn’t take quarreling personally, so I don’t think it would occur to him that people might actually get their feelings hurt in an argument.”
“You think he pushed somebody too far?”
“Perhaps. I used to tell him he would someday. But I never pictured any consequences more serious than a punch in the nose.”
“Did he mention any specific run-ins he’d had with anyone lately?”
“Little things. He had a quarrel with the Maid of the Cat because she was wearing a kilt. Nothing important.”
“Ummm.” Lightfoot glanced at his notes. “There was an argument that seems a little more serious than that. With a Walter Hutcheson. Your husband?”
“Ex-husband,” said Marge, stubbing out her cigarette.
“Colin Campbell was heard to threaten Dr. Hutcheson with… something about zoning rights to lake-front property. Would you know anything about that?”
Marge smiled. “More than Walter does, I expect. I’m the one who decided that we should buy the land. We wanted to build resort homes and condominiums at the lake-to develop the area into a major vacation area.”
“How could Campbell affect those plans?”
“Well, the other major property holder on the lake is the university, and Colin was a trustee. I expect he told Walter that he’d get the lake declared off-limits to construction. Make it a game preserve, perhaps.”
“How much money are we talking about here?”
“The original investment? Three hundred and sixty-seven thousand dollars.”
Lightfoot whistled. “I’d say that argument beats out the quibbling over costumes.”
“Oh, but he was bluffing, Sheriff. He was only one trustee, and by no means a popular one with the rest of the board. Surely you don’t think he could have persuaded them to rezone the lake to accommodate his personal vendetta?”
“For that amount of money, I can see how someone might not be willing to risk it. Is your ex-husband a violent man, Mrs. Hutcheson?”
“No, of course not. Walter wouldn’t even fox-hunt.”
“What kind of doctor is he?”
Marge looked uncomfortable. “Well, he’s a thoracic surgeon, actually.”
“I see,” said Lightfoot, looking pleased. “And did he have a skiing… a skein… one of those daggers?”
“You’ll have to ask his wife,” said Marge coolly. “I know that he used to have two of them, one for day and one for formal wear, but since one of them was a gift from me-”
“What did it look like?”
“Sterling silver hilt… stag’s head on top. It was for our silver anniversary.”
“Knives are unlucky presents,” said Lightfoot without thinking.
“So it seems, Sheriff.”
“I might want you to take a look at a dagger later. Could you identify the one you gave your husband?”
“I suppose so.”
“Well, I guess that’s all the help I need right now. This business sure has taken some figuring out, though.”
“What, the Highland games?”
“Yep. A whole lot of customs that I’m not at all familiar with. Of course, my people were Scotch.”
“MacDonald. Yes.”
“In fact, I’m right proud of the one that came over from Scotland. He was a soldier in the Revolutionary War. Wrong side, damn him. But still a soldier.”
“Oh, really? A Tory, was he?”
“Yep. I’m named after him, too. Alexander MacDonald, and he was captured at the Battle of Moore’s Creek, outside of Wilmington, North Carolina.”
Marge stared at him. “Good God! Moore’s Creek! Do you know who he was?”
“Sure, he was a Tory soldier, about twenty-five-”
He was the son of Alan and Flora MacDonald from the Isle of Skye! They emigrated back to Scotland after the battle. Sheriff, you are descended from Flora MacDonald!”
Lightfoot blinked. “Who’s she?”
After the brief flurry of excitement over the murder and its aftermath of law-enforcement people, the games had settled back into the usual ritual. The country dancing competition proceeded smoothly from the Ghillie Callum to the Shean Triubhas to the accompaniment of recorded bagpipe music; and on the main field, an assortment of kilted linebackers gathered to begin the serious athletic competition.
“In the two-hundred-twenty-one-pound hammer toss…” bawled the loudspeaker.
“Here you are!” said Geoffrey, spotting Elizabeth near a dancing platform. “I’ve been looking all over for you.”
Elizabeth scowled. “I thought you were dying.”
“Well, one thought of remaining discreetly closeted in one’s room for dramatic effect, but then one remembered that one had signed up for the saber toss, and decided to make the most of one’s fleeting existence. You are going to watch, aren’t you?”
“Oh, yes, I certainly am,” said Elizabeth with a curious smile. “It will make my day. Is Cameron with you, by the way?”
“He may have been looking for you, too. Where were you?”
“Talking to the sheriff. He wanted to know about the tête-à-tête I had with Colin
Campbell.”
“Any clues yet?”
“I don’t know. He asked me about terrorist organizations. What do you suppose that means?”
Geoffrey shrugged. “I think it’s a wild-goose chase. I certainly don’t believe that Lachlan… maybe I’d better go over to the group now.”
“Are you sure they’ll let you? Oh, never mind.” Elizabeth smiled at her cousin. “What is it they say in the theatre? Break a leg?”
“You don’t have to say it so sincerely,” Geoffrey complained. “Well, I’m off. Cameron should turn up soon. He seemed pretty anxious to see this event, too.”
He ambled toward the recorder’s table to check in for the event. When he was safely out of earshot, Elizabeth began to giggle.
“Sixty-eight feet, four inches!” cried the announcer as the measuring official signaled the results of the last hammer throw.
“Has it started yet?” asked a voice behind her.
Had Elizabeth been as good at barding as Geoffrey was, the appropriate response would have been: My ears have not yet drunk a hundred words of that tongue’s utterance, yet I know the sound. Art thou not Romeo… As it was, she managed the proper surge of adrenaline, if not the lines, and slipped her hand into his. “Has what started yet?” she murmured.
“Geoffrey’s saber toss. You didn’t tell him, did you?”
“Of course not! I was afraid you might.”
Elizabeth turned back to watch the hammer-throwing competition, but her mind had settled on Heather; and she was busy turning words inside out in her head, trying to find a connection between Heather and Cameron, based on something they’d said. They had used a lot of unfamiliar words, though, and she couldn’t remember any. Jimmy and Senga… pet names for each other… that was a bad sign. But what was that other odd phrase, something to do with carpeting, she had thought at the time. Of course!
“Cameron, what does shag mean?”
“What? Who said it?”
“Oh, I don’t know… I heard it somewhere.”
“You’ve not only heard it, you’ve done it as well.”
Elizabeth gasped. They had been discussing… that? She let go of Cameron’s hand. “I saw Heather today,” she said in a shaky attempt as casualness.
“That was a good throw! Did you see that short bloke? I think he’s won it.” Cameron appeared to take a great interest in the competition.
“I guess she was pretty surprised to see you,” she said carefully. She had decided to assume that he and Heather knew each other before, and see if Cameron corrected her.
“I think we have things straight between us,” Cameron murmured.
Elizabeth wanted to shut her eyes. “Were you surprised that she’s married?”
“A little. I’m certainly not going to interfere, though. Ah! Look what’s coming up now.”
The loudspeaker crackled again. “The caber toss, as you all know, lads and lassies…” Cameron winced. “… consists of tossing one of these eighteen-foot poles so that it makes a perfect rotation and lands with the thin side up. The cabers weigh about a hundred and twenty pounds apiece, so you can imagine the strength required to turn them end over end…”
“Did Geoffrey really think they were going to throw swords?”
“Sabers, yes. Until a second ago, he didn’t know a caber from a hole in the ground. Where is he, anyway?”
“Slinking away past one of the dancing platforms. I wonder if they’ll call his name out?”
“I know just how he feels,” sighed Elizabeth.
Walter Hutcheson thought of law-enforcement officers chiefly in terms of traffic control, and since this was a murder investigation he was somewhat at a loss on how to proceed. He finally decided to look solemn and concerned in his best civic-meeting attitude, and to try to appear as objective as possible. Something in the sheriff’s manner made him uneasy.
“You knew Dr. Campbell pretty well, didn’t you?”
“Over twenty years at the hospital.” For my sins, thought Walter.
“Good friends?”
“Good professional relationship as colleagues.”
“Any idea who would want to kill him?”
“Everybody!” snapped Walter Hutcheson. “The man couldn’t walk down a hallway without stirring up an incident. His personal folder read like a synopsis of World War Two. The question is: who finally lost control and killed him?”
“It might depend on the size of the argument, don’t you think?”
“I suppose so, but Colin could be aggravating about practically anything.”
“Real estate, for example?”
Walter flushed. He might have known that somebody would get wind of that, considering how loudly Campbell had been shouting when they discussed it. “Colin Campbell was a bully, Sheriff,” he said at last.
“Maybe so. But even bullies follow up on threats now and then. He doesn’t sound like the sort of person that I’d want to bet big money on. Why don’t you tell me your side of it?”
Walter explained about the lake property and Colin’s threat about rezoning, and about the hospital hearing inquiring into Dr. Campbell’s conduct. The sheriff listened carefully, making an occasional squiggle on his yellow notepad. He seemed to be listening only out of politeness, as if he were waiting for something. Walter found out what it was a few minutes later when the deputy appeared holding something wrapped in a towel. Lightfoot accepted the package, and squinted up at Fentress.
“Anything for sure?”
Merle Fentress glanced at Dr. Hutcheson. “I’d say so. Go on ahead.” He leaned against one of the tent supports, shook the canvas a little, and straightened up again, trying to stay deadpan.
Lightfoot ignored him. Pulling the towel away from the package, he held out a skian dubh sheathed in a plastic evidence bag. “Do you recognize this, Dr. Hutcheson?”
“It looks like mine,” said Walter, before the obvious implication of its appearance struck him. He hastened to add, “There must be hundreds of identical ones.”
“Did you bring yours to the festival?”
“Yes, of course. I wear the silver one for evening dress.”
“Perhaps we might go along to your camper and see if you can locate yours, doctor.”
“I suppose someone might have stolen mine,” said Walter as an afterthought.
“Uh-huh. Well, this particular one has your fingerprints on the hilt. And we found it sticking in Colin Campbell’s chest.”
“This must be some kind of appalling mistake, Sheriff.”
“Why don’t we go back to your camper, sir, and check for your dagger. It won’t be necessary to handcuff you, will it? Of course, if you can’t produce yours, I’m going to have to read you your rights and ask you to come with us.”
Walter Hutcheson staggered out of the hospitality tent, trying to make sense of the last ten minutes, but it was like trying to read a newspaper in a windstorm: his thoughts would not stay still long enough for him to examine them.
He knew, really, without going back to the camper, that the skian dubh was his. There was a little nick on the stag’s nose from when he’d dropped it accidentally. His indecision was halfway between hope and playing for time while he tried to figure out what was happening. Walter’s head hurt; it was unfair to expect acute thinking when he’d been celebrating for most of the past twenty-four hours. Colin Campbell couldn’t even die without inconveniencing everybody.
As they walked along the path encircling the festival field, Walter spotted a familiar face and stopped in his tracks. “Marge!” he cried. “The most dreadful thing has happened! Colin has got himself murdered with a skian dubh that looks like mine, and I may actually be hauled off by the police. We have to straighten this out.”
Marge looked at him gravely. “I’m sorry, Walter.”
“Well, of course you are. It’s unthinkable, isn’t it? Now, I want you to call Sanderson and tell him to drive down here, because I may need a lawyer. Just as a precaution. And… let’s see… may
be you ought to get hold of Dr. Fahrner in case I’m not back by Monday…”
Instead of springing into brisk efficiency as Marge usually did, and adding to the list of things to be done, she was just standing there, expressionless. What’s the matter with her? Walter wondered. “Now, let’s see… Sanderson, Fahrner… is there anyone-”
“Don’t you think your wife should be doing this?” asked Marge quietly.
“What?”
“I said: don’t you think your wife should be doing all this?”
Walter felt like a dog who had reached the end of his chain at a dead run. Heather. He had forgotten all about her. “Yes, of course,” he murmured. “I can’t tell you how sorry I am-”
“I know,” said Marge.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
LACHLAN FORSYTH, three-deep in babbling tourists, wondered for the fourth time where Jimmy had got to. When the lad’s parents had insisted on taking him to lunch-reeking guilt, he thought smugly-he had assumed they were going to haul him off for a nosh at the refreshment tent; but apparently their relief at having disposed of him was so great that only The Thistle Inn and a couple of London broils could deaden it. He didn’t know whom he felt the most sorry for-those two yuppie simpletons who wanted a Cabbage Patch doll that breathed, or little lizard-hearted Jimmy who was meant to be an Artful Dodger. No use giving either party advice, though. Might as well try to tell chalk how to be cheese.
The McGowans had tried to seem pleased at how hard their Jimmy was working at the festival, but behind the smiles they were wondering what the trick was to managing him-and feeling the reproach that they couldn’t do it themselves. None of his business, Lachlan told himself. Just be glad for a bit of help at the festival, when you had so much unexpected bother to see about.
“Do you have any books about Clan Graham?” asked an elderly woman in a ridiculous-looking tam.
“No, but they’ll be in that big book along with the rest of them.”
“But I’m only interested in Grahams.”
“Leave your name, then, and I’ll see if I can special order for you. Who was next, please?”
The stall work was so routine, and the questions so repetitious, that it hardly took any concentration. Lachlan wrapped packages and juggled credit cards while he considered the murder. It was almost funny that someone had killed Campbell, but for the inconvenience of it in terms of his own plans. He really couldn’t afford to have police officers nosing around the games. As it was, he was dreading the inevitable interrogation scene. He supposed that sooner or later they would get around to questioning him. In a fish-bowl like this, he had to assume that someone had overheard his quarrel with Colin Campbell.
Highland Laddie Gone Page 11