His eyes crinkled up when he smiled at me. “And they’d be right, of course. Which begs the question—what’s up with Aileen that she’s skipping out on these events?”
“You’ll have to ask her, if you dare.”
He shrank back in mock horror. “Not I! I just thought I could quietly get the lowdown from you without having to face the beast. I’m sure you’ll ferret it out of her, being the nosy seamstress that you are.”
With those encouraging words, he turned back to the field in time to snap a series of photos of Tom’s second toss, which just barely flipped over for a successful turn.
Ladd was up next. As he swaggered up to the line, I saw Aileen slip out of the VIP tent and stalk away. Was it possible she had remained hidden until Ladd was fully occupied with his sporting events, when she felt like she could leave? What had Ladd ever done to her to cause her to react to him this way?
Ladd’s second toss went smoother than his first. He gained control over the caber straight away and tossed it high in the air. It turned smoothly and fell in a straight line from where he was standing.
“Twelve o’clock,” Corgi exulted. “That was a perfect toss!”
I looked over at his competitors to see how they took his success. Jamie looked excited and Tom had a worried expression on his face, but Patrick wasn’t even watching. As the announcer called his name to throw next, he emerged from the VIP tent with a scowl on his face.
Patrick practically snatched the caber from the two men who propped it up for him. He hefted it and ran a long ways down the field before launching it into the air, accompanied by a deep, powerful grunt. It flipped and fell a titch to the side, at about eleven o’clock, as far as I could tell.
Ladd called out from the sidelines, “Bonnie Patrick, you throw like a girl!” He simpered and stroked his hair, all the while laughing at the glowering brow of his adversary.
I feared we were about to witness another brawl between the two rivals. I hoped they could behave themselves, at least until the end of the caber toss.
Gillian had angled her way in to stand as close to the competitors as she could get. It was a wonder to me that she chose to lavish her attention on the oldest of the four giants. I couldn’t help wondering if she was deliberately trying to antagonize her father.
Patrick slapped his hands together and flexed his muscles as the crowd murmured appreciatively. He struck a few more poses for McCarthy to document and then returned to stand next to Tom.
I kept my eyes on Ladd as the judges conferred for a few minutes before the start of the third round. He had abandoned his catcalling and appeared to be patting down the pockets in his utility kilt, looking for his flask, no doubt. He turned to speak to Gillian, standing close beside him, and then he headed for the VIP tent. He almost bumped into Morris Hart, who was coming out of the tent. Hart sidestepped, keeping his eyes averted in an obvious attempt to avoid any kind of interaction with Ladd. I was surprised to see such a successful author reacting to Ladd’s crude, juvenile behavior. Maybe he simply wanted nothing to do with the man.
Ladd disappeared into the VIP tent during Jamie’s toss. Jamie turned the caber for the third time, proving himself to be an up-and-coming competitor to give Patrick and Ladd a run for their money. The crowd cheered for the blond giant.
Tom ran up to the caber and squatted down for a few deep knee bends accompanied by loud grunts to psych himself up. He grasped the caber, heaved it up onto his shoulder, and charged down the field to the cheers of the crowd. He launched it, stood for a moment to watch it flip over, and then ran off the field pumping his fists in the air.
“That was his best toss yet,” Corgi said. “He’ll still probably take fourth place, but I’d give him the most-improved trophy. Ladd’s up next.”
We looked around expectantly as the announcer called for Ladd to step up and take his third turn. He finally came out of the VIP tent, wiping his mouth and coughing and sputtering, as if he’d taken too big a swig and some of the whiskey had gone down the wrong pipe. Maybe he should have waited until after the event to imbibe.
He bent down to grasp the caber at knee level and stalled there for a few minutes, trying to control his coughing. He hacked and spit on the ground and then worked his cupped hands down the length of the caber to grasp the butt end. He hefted it and lurched sideways, the long pole dipping sharply toward the crowd.
“Whoa, he’s not in control of the caber at all!” Corgi grasped my arm and backed up, pulling me along with him to get out of the way.
Ladd staggered in the other direction, still coughing and gasping for breath. The caber swung in a wide circle before crashing to the ground. It narrowly missed a group of young Highland dancers, who screamed and jumped out of the way. Ladd collapsed on the ground, his hands clutching his chest, his face red from coughing.
Chapter 3
Gillian screamed. I stood frozen, with Corgi’s hand gripping my arm so hard it hurt. The officials ran up to Ladd, who lay unresponsive on the ground. One called out for a doctor, while parents shielded the eyes of their children. Breanna Lawton herded her Highland dance students away with an anxious glance over her shoulder. Someone started CPR, while several other people crouched down to give encouragement. McCarthy hovered on the edge of the action, snapping photos. I hoped I wouldn’t see any of them on the front page of tomorrow’s newspaper.
Gillian cried out again, and then clapped both hands over her mouth. Her eyes darted from side to side, as if seeking escape. I followed her gaze, wondering what she was afraid of, other than her concern for Ladd. I didn’t have to look far. Her father stood across the field, glaring at her as if she were single-handedly responsible for the commotion. When I looked back toward Gillian, she was gone.
An ambulance with sirens blaring roared across the grass. People made way for the paramedics who hurried up and knelt down beside Ladd.
My phone dinged with a text from Letty. “What’s going on?”
I texted back: “Ladd Foster collapsed.”
She responded: “Coming.”
I didn’t know if she expected me to take over our booth, but I didn’t budge. Like McCarthy, I wanted to be close to the action until it was over.
Letty appeared a few minutes later, clutching her cashbox in one hand. “I threw a blanket over the booth and just left it all there. I think it’ll be okay.” She handed me the decorative cigar box that held my proceeds. She nodded toward the urgent group on the field. “What happened to him?”
I hugged the cigar box to my chest. “Maybe a heart attack? He went into the VIP tent for a nip of whiskey, and when he came out he was coughing, like he couldn’t get his breath. He went to pick up the caber to toss it, but he dropped it and fell over, clutching his chest. He’s probably getting old to be exerting himself like that.”
Letty craned her head to look. “Is he dead?”
The matter-of-factness of her question chilled me. “I don’t know. I hope not.”
On my other side, Corgi squeezed my arm. “They’re loading him up.”
Indeed, the paramedics had placed Ladd on a stretcher and were loading it into the back of the ambulance. They drove away with a wail of sirens.
The announcer, Herman Tisdale, took the microphone. “We regret the disturbance. Ladd Foster suffered an apparent cardiac arrest while attempting the caber toss. Thanks to the efforts of heroic bystanders, he was resuscitated and transported to the hospital. Let us honor him with a moment of silence to send our prayers and good wishes, followed by a bagpipe air.” He took off his cap and bowed his head, and the people in the crowd did the same. After a few moments, the haunting sound of one bagpipe playing “Amazing Grace” filled the air.
I felt like I was at a funeral.
After the last, lingering note, the official proclaimed, “Let the Games resume!”
As Patrick stepped up for his chance at the caber,
Corgi finally dropped my arm. “I better find Aileen and the rest of the band.” He headed off.
I turned to Letty. “Do you want a turn to watch the athletic events? I can cover the booth.”
“What, now that all the excitement is over?” But she was watching in fascination as Patrick hefted the caber and ran down the field to launch it into the air for another perfect turn. I collected Letty’s cashbox and left her to enjoy the rest of the heavy events.
I found the booth just as Letty had left it. I pulled back the cloth and almost burst out laughing. She had systematically transferred all my craft items to the side table and reorganized the front table with her antique linens, jewelry, and glassware. I guess she’d earned it because I’d left her tending the booth alone for so long.
McCarthy stopped by to say he was going to collect his reporter colleague Martin Sterling and swing by the hospital to check on Ladd. “Something about his story makes me uneasy.”
I frowned at him. “What do you know that I don’t?”
He laughed. “How could I possibly know more than the nosiest seamstress in the state of Pennsylvania?” His grin faded. “I overheard the guy giving Ladd CPR saying he noticed a strange odor on his breath. Just curious.”
Probably whiskey. I watched thoughtfully as McCarthy walked away. To be honest, something about Ladd’s collapse made me uneasy as well. He’d seemed perfectly fine before he walked into the VIP tent for a quick drink. Then he’d come out coughing and sputtering as if he were a fifteen-year-old tasting whiskey for the very first time. What was that about?
Suddenly, I wanted to know. I guess McCarthy didn’t call me nosy for nothing. I threw the blanket over the tables once again, pocketed the money from my cashbox, and headed back toward the athletic field.
The competition had resumed as if nothing had happened. The caber toss was finished, and Patrick was holding two enormous swords, one in each hand, with both arms extended like wings. I supposed the point was to see how long you could hold your arms out like that while supporting the weight. Patrick’s arms were starting to shake; he could only last for a few more seconds.
I didn’t wait to find out. I slipped into the VIP tent, curious to see if Ladd’s whiskey flask was still there. Sure enough, it lay discarded on a table. I went to pick it up, but some instinct stayed my hand. I gazed at the small stainless-steel flask for a few minutes without touching it. Its curved front was embossed with the figure of a unicorn surrounded by some words that looked like Latin—most likely a coat of arms. But I wasn’t interested in Scottish clan history at the moment. I wanted to take a sniff of Ladd’s flask, but I wasn’t sure if I should touch the thing. I gave in to my hesitations and rummaged through my shoulder bag for a tissue pack. I pulled out a couple of tissues, using one to pick up the flask and the other to unscrew the decorative top, which was made in the shape of a Scottish thistle.
I was bringing the flask to my nose to smell the contents when Gillian entered the tent.
“What are you doing with that?” She darted to my side and snatched the flask out of my hand. Amber liquid slopped out onto my blouse.
I grabbed her arm before she could dump out the contents of the flask. “Wait!”
Gillian threw a desperate glance over her shoulder. “Let go!” She kicked me on the shins.
I bit back a cry of pain and grasped her hand with both of my own, struggling with her over the flask in a two-person parody of the tug-of-war. “Gillian, stop. Just talk to me for a minute.”
“I haven’t got a minute.” Her shoulders slumped. “My dad’s gonna come looking for me any second now. If he catches me here, I’m in big trouble, and it will be all your fault.”
“I’ll cover for you. Tell me why you came back for Ladd Foster’s flask.” I bent back her thumb and slipped the flask out of her fingers. “Quick, before somebody comes in here.”
“Ow!” She massaged her hand, glaring at me. “You hurt me.”
“Yeah, well, you kicked me hard enough to cause a bruise, so I guess we’re even.” I waved to my shin, where we could both see the bruise coming up. “What’s in this flask?”
She folded her arms over her chest, the picture of a sullen teen. “Whiskey?”
I took a quick sniff, and nearly gagged. “It smells horrible.” I held it under her nose. “Is this what it smelled like when Ladd handed the flask to you for safekeeping?”
She recoiled from the smell and fought to maintain her defiant pose. “How should I know?”
“Gillian, I saw Ladd hand you his flask before the caber toss so it wouldn’t be in his way. I watched you take a sniff and make a face. Then you came in here, and when you came out again, you didn’t have the flask with you. That’s how I knew it was here.”
“What are you, the flask police?”
I rolled my eyes. “No, I’m the teenage-girl police. I don’t allow middle-aged men to prey on teenage girls. Who cares? All I want to know is, does this smell the same as it did before, or is there something in here that wasn’t before?”
She stared me down for a full minute, and then she dropped her gaze. “It smells different. Nastier.”
“Did you put anything in it?”
Her head snapped up again. “No! I brought it in here and put it down and came right out. I didn’t want my dad to catch me with it.”
I risked another sniff. I could make out the tangy smell of whiskey, but it was nearly drowned out by an overpowering smell that reminded me of gasoline—an oily, fuel kind of smell. I screwed the top back on and laid the flask down on the table.
Gillian twisted her hands together. “You think somebody put something in his flask, some kind of poison, and that’s why he fell over?”
She’d put her finger on the nameless fears I was only beginning to sort out. I nodded. Before I could say anything, she lashed out at me.
“You can’t pin this on me! Just because I touched it doesn’t mean I poisoned it. Loads of people could have done this!”
I gripped her by the shoulders. “Gillian, I’m not the police! I’m a seamstress, okay? I’m just minding other people’s business right now. But you cared about Ladd Foster, at least for a little while, so maybe you could help me figure out what happened to him.”
She shook me off.
Out on the field, the announcer called out, “Our final event is the Atlas Stones. Jamie Deakens, step right up.”
Gillian opened her mouth to speak when Patrick Ames walked into the tent.
I patted Gillian on the shoulder. “There. Your vest should be fine for your next dance.”
She looked at me in confusion, so I went on, “It’s almost three-thirty. Breanna’s probably wondering where you are.” I took her arm and turned her to the exit. “I’ll walk along with you.”
Patrick merely nodded at us as we walked out, then he turned back to the water cooler.
Gillian kept looking sideways at me as I walked her out of the tent.
“I told you I’d cover for you,” I said. I led her away from the crowd.
She pulled her arm free. “Are you going to call the police?”
I nodded.
“You can’t call the police! My fingerprints are on that flask. They’re going to think I did it.”
“Gillian, I have to call the police. If someone poisoned his whiskey, they were trying to kill him. That’s something the police need to know.”
She stopped and faced me. “Just leave me out of it, okay? I don’t want to get in trouble. Whenever I have anything to do with the cops, they always twist things around so it looks like I’m a juvenile delinquent. They’d love to pin a poisoning on me.” She looked pointedly at my blouse. “You might want to watch out yourself. You’re wearing that poisoned whiskey right now. Your fingerprints aren’t on the flask because you held it with a tissue. How are you going to explain that when the cops start asking you q
uestions?”
How indeed? She had a point there. I couldn’t go around wearing the blouse, which I now realized smelled awful and had a visible stain. But if I took it off and hid it, and someone found out, it would look like I had something to hide. If I confessed I had snooped in the VIP tent and spilled some of the poisoned whiskey but didn’t mention Gillian’s presence, I could get caught in inconsistencies later on. In the worst-case scenario, the police would think I was the poisoner. I had found myself in the position of discovering a dead body or two in my time. I inwardly cursed myself for ending up in this position through my curiosity.
McCarthy had once told me that unless there was a good reason to lie, it was always better to tell the truth. Maybe the best thing for me to do would be to go back to the VIP tent, pick up the flask so my fingerprints were on it, and then call the police and tell them the whole story. Sorry, Gillian.
It was only fair to warn her. “I’m going to call the police now. They’ll probably want to talk to you.”
She tossed her head. “I have to dance.” She ducked through the crowd and disappeared.
I didn’t bother going after her. I figured it wouldn’t be too hard for the police to catch up with her, so I headed back toward the VIP tent. I needed to put my prints on Ladd’s flask and then call the police.
The crowd around the athletic field gasped as I walked up, their eyes all fixed on Patrick Ames. He was straining to lift a huge boulder to drop onto an upended barrel. I paused for a moment to watch, thinking he should have been dressed in animal skins for this caveman event. He gave a huge grunt and dropped the boulder onto the barrel, which tipped but didn’t overturn. The crowd roared.
Someone prodded my shoulder from behind. I turned to see Letty standing with her hands on her hips. “Can’t keep your eyes off the hunks, can you? Is anyone minding the booth?”
I let a look of embarrassment show on my face. “You caught me. I’ll get right back to the booth, Letty. I promise.”
Royally Dead Page 4