Highland Laddie Gone

CHAPTER TEN

MARGE HUTCHESON sat in the refreshment tent, brooding over a cup of coffee and an ashtray full of cigarettes. Across the table, Elizabeth tapped her can of Irn Bru and looked again toward the hospitality tent.

“He’s been in there a long time,” she murmured.

Marge smiled briefly. “Stop being such a mother hen. He’s fine. I’m sure the sheriff has sense enough to realize that no one who just arrived in this country could have anything to do with all this.”

“I guess not.”

“Poor Colin.”

Elizabeth frowned. She had been shocked that anyone should be murdered at a Highland festival, but his being Colin Campbell was not particularly surprising. She wondered what to say to Marge without having to lie about her own reaction to the death. “Did you know him well?” she finally asked.

“Oh, the way people do. We’ve all belonged to the Scottish society for donkey’s years, and I never found Colin particularly hard to get along with. I think he was lonely, but he couldn’t be bothered with meek or unintelligent people.” Marge grinned. “Fortunately, I am neither.”

“I wonder why he was killed?”

“I wonder if we’ll ever know. So many crimes seem to go unsolved these days. And this certainly can’t be the sort of case or the class of people that the sheriff is used to dealing with.”

Elizabeth looked thoughtful. “Maybe he needs some help,” she murmured.

“I suppose it would be useful to know whom Colin annoyed in the past two days,” Marge remarked. “There’s your cousin Geoffrey with that Carson man. Now if he ever gets murdered, you can put me down as chief suspect.”

Elizabeth shook her head. “There’s a waiting list of people wanting to kill Geoffrey,” she sighed. “But I am sorry about the dog trials.”

“It is kind of you to take an interest in this, Sheriff,” said Geoffrey Chandler grandly, before anyone could speak. “However, I do not wish to press charges against my assailant. What’s done is done and cannot be undone.”

The sheriff looked at Cameron for clarification. “The bagpipe,” said Cameron. “You remember. This is His Lordship, the Earl.”

Geoffrey frowned. More improvisational theatre, he thought. “Is this not about my little contretemps this morning?” he purred.

“No, sir, this is a murder investigation, which we believe to be connected with terrorist activities. I understand that your code name is Earl of Strathclyde?”

Geoffrey sank into the nearest folding chair. “I think perhaps that my injuries may have been more severe than I thought,” he murmured. “But do carry on. I shall be fine.”

“Tell us what you know about the Scotch Republican Army,” said Lightfoot grimly.

It was too much for Cameron. “Scottish!” he said. “Scottish! Scottish! Not Scotch. Scotch is a drink.”

“The Scottish Republican Army, then,” said Lightfoot MacDonald. “I thought you said there wasn’t one, Dawson.”

“No, but if there were, it would be Scottish, not Scotch.”

“There isn’t one?” asked Geoffrey brightly. “Are you certain?”

Cameron hesitated. “There may be some group of loonies somewhere who play at it, but as a serious political organization in Scotland-no, definitely not.”

Geoffrey grinned. “Brilliant! It’s foolproof.”

“What is?”

“The plot of Macbeth… the cathedral at Rheims… guacamole dip. What was that, Sheriff?”

“You’re talking rubbish,” Cameron told him.

“Sorry… Must be that head injury kicking in again. I think I should go and lie down, don’t you?” He stood up. “Let’s do this again soon, Sheriff, shall we?”

“Count on it,” growled Lightfoot.

“Do you need any help getting back to the cabin?” asked Cameron. He knew a performance when he saw one, but he wanted to talk to Geoffrey alone.

“Siddown, Scotty,” the sheriff snapped. “We’re not through yet.”

A man in a brown uniform appeared at the entrance to the tent. “Got the reports for you, Lightfoot!” he announced.

The sheriff looked from the suspects to his deputy. Geoffrey, seeing his hesitation, pitched against a table. “Dark Victory…” he intoned.

“I’ll come straight back,” Cameron promised, helping Geoffrey up.

“Ten minutes,” growled the sheriff. He watched the two of them stumble away in a grade-B performance of the walking wounded. He didn’t think Geoffrey’s information would be relevant to the case, but he might follow up on it anyway, just to see what was going on. “Assholes!” he grumbled.

The clan tents and the festival meadow had vanished around the last bend in the trail. “Are you going to cut it out now?” Cameron demanded. “I’m letting go.”

Geoffrey straightened up. “I nominate you for best supporting actor,” he said generously. “Not bad for a novice.”

“Right. Now what the fuck are you up to?”

“Oh, do they have that word in Scotland? How interesting!”

“We have a lot of words you might be familiar with. Mayhem… kidney punch… disfiguration…”

Geoffrey shuddered. “I’ll bet you paint yourself blue when you’re angry.”

“One of us will be blue,” Cameron assured him. “Now, look, Geoffrey, come off it. That Campbell guy is really dead, and the sheriff has got some daft idea that I’m a spy, and I get the feeling that you’re up to your neck in all of it. Now, I know you’re Elizabeth’s cousin, and I don’t want to get you in trouble, but I’m going to find out what’s going on.”

“I was going to tell you,” Geoffrey said with a pout. “Seeing as how we’re duck-brothers. I just didn’t want to reveal anything in front of the sheriff, because Lachlan is such a decent old man and really, those clowns deserve it.”

“Lachlan Forsyth-the souvenir man?”

“Yeah. And the head of the S.R.A.”

They were passing a wooden picnic table tucked away in a small clearing, and Geoffrey motioned for Cameron to sit down. “It’s very simple, really. The old guy noticed how Irish Americans were so hot to support the I.R.A., and he figured that the Scots, who have even more money, ought to be just as eager to kick in a few bucks for a cause. We’re very big on causes over here.”

Cameron nodded. “It’s quite shocking. We drove past a bank yesterday, and a big sign in the window said, OPEN AN I.R.A. ACCOUNT WITH US TODAY. I couldn’t believe it.”

Geoffrey sighed. “No, idiot. That’s an Individual Retirement Account. I’d explain it to you, but it’s boring. Anyway, the plan was absolutely foolproof. He gets these clowns to give him money to support a secret terrorist organization in Scotland, right?”

“Okay. What does he do with the money?”

“He keeps it! That’s the beauty of things. They feel all noble and committed, and nobody gets hurt.”

“But what happens when they notice that things aren’t getting blown up in Glasgow?”

“Hasn’t anything happened in Scotland over the past year? Shipwreck? Train wreck? Bridge collapse?”

“Nope.”

“Well, if it had, he’d have claimed credit for it, I bet. And if nothing did happen, he’d just say that they weren’t ready to make their move yet, and he’d advise them to be patient for a while longer. Better yet, he’d hit them up for another donation.”

“Surely somebody would get suspicious sooner or later.”

“Yeah, I guess so. But what could they do about it? Can’t you picture somebody going to the FBI and saying: ‘Excuse me; I contributed money to a terrorist organization, but they haven’t killed anybody yet.’ You may not be aware of it, but it’s illegal to support that kind of thing. They’d be in a lot of trouble. No, it’s foolproof. Once they gave him money, he had them like crabs in a barrel.”

“I suppose so,” Cameron agreed. “But it’s dishonest. He’s a con man, you know. Why didn’t you want to turn him in?”

“Oh, out of sheer admiration, I guess.” Geoffrey shrugged. “What an actor to pull off a scam like that. And he’s a nice old boy, really. Didn’t you ever know that somebody was putting on a colossal bit of phoniness, but you didn’t have the heart to turn them in?”

Cameron nodded. “Yes,” he said slowly. “I guess I have felt exactly like that.”

Lightfoot MacDonald glowered at his deputy. “I have had a bellyful of foolishness,” he warned. “I hope you’re not going to try to sell me on suicide, or some such tomfool notion.”

Merle Fentress shook his head. “Not me, Sheriff. It was homicide. Regular old stabbing, excepting for the fancy knife they done it with. It nicked the lung and punctured the heart. Pretty near instantaneous, we reckon.”

“Time of death?”

“Early this morning. Seven or eight, the coroner thinks.”

“Got the site done?”

“Yep. Photographs and all.”

Lightfoot grunted. “No fingerprints, of course?”

“Oh, yes, sir. Prettiest little set of prints you ever seen on that knife hilt.”

Lightfoot grinned. “Got your print kit in the trunk?”

“You bet. I’ll get it now.” As Merle headed out to the patrol car, he could hear Sheriff MacDonald whistling “Just Before the Battle, Mother.” It was a good sign.

Cluny was sleeping in a wicker dog basket beside the Chattan information table while Elizabeth stapled together more clan brochures. She didn’t want to find Cameron just then, because she wanted to think about Cameron-not an easy thing to do when he was around.

She ought to be checking on Colin Campbell’s activities over the past two days, but it was difficult to take much of an interest in it. Interest, Inn-terrrest, she thought, trying to remember how he would pronounce it. It didn’t come out right, somehow. She hadn’t heard him talk long enough to be able to play it back in her head. Such a pretty accent. She wondered if the magic ever wore off. If, after years of hearing it, someone said to you: “Where’s the bloody sports page?” or “Slow down before you kill us,” would it still sound gentler and more significant than hearing it in American dialect?

“Snap out of it!” she said aloud. “Your brain is turning to haggis!”

She looked up to find Heather McSkye Hutcheson standing on the other side of the table, leafing through a brochure.

“Hello,” stammered Elizabeth, hoping she hadn’t been overheard.

Heather, who was now more conventionally dressed in a pink shorts outfit, smiled at her. “Where’s the Sloane Ranger?”

“Cameron? He’s around somewhere.” Elizabeth wondered how helpful she ought to be, and what a Sloane Ranger was, but Heather wasn’t the sort of person she wanted to get chummy with. Really, Marge was much easier to talk to. Men had no taste, she decided.

“Yes, well, it was nice meeting you at the party and all. Did… Cameron… say aught about it?”

Elizabeth wondered what she meant by that. “Not really,” she said in a puzzled voice. “Why? Did you two know each other back in Scotland?”

Heather laughed at the note of anxiety in Elizabeth’s voice. “I wouldn’t mention it to him if I were you.”

Change the subject, thought Elizabeth. I don’t even want to think about this. What else can we talk about? Oh, yes! “Isn’t it shocking about Colin Campbell’s being murdered?” she said brightly, relieved at having found a safer topic.

Heather shrugged. “I thought murder was pretty routine over here.”

“Not as casual as all that. Did you meet Dr. Campbell?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Yes, of course you did! I saw him going up to you at the party just as we were leaving. Did he say anything significant to you?”

“I don’t remember him. I met so many people last night.”

Betty Carson, who had been getting ice out of the cooler, turned around. “Colin Campbell, Mrs. Hutcheson? He was that short little man with white hair who asked you about your new cousin-the Duke’s child. I was standing right behind you.”

“Oh, yes. Him.”

“And he asked you something about its layette, didn’t he? I thought I heard him say baby sham, or pillow, or something.”

“Did he seem upset about anything?” asked Elizabeth.

“I didn’t notice.”

“Yes, he must have been,” Betty put in. “Because later Walter told my husband Andy that there would be a committee meeting this morning. Colin Campbell had some bee in his bonnet about embezzlement, or some such thing. Didn’t Walter mention it to you?”

“He may have done. I wasn’t paying any attention. Goodbye.” Heather walked away, obviously annoyed at the continual interruptions from Betty Carson.

Elizabeth made a mental note to file baby sham and embezzlement away for further consideration, but her chief concern was the relationship between Cameron and Heather. Just how well did they know each other, and did it matter? Of course it’s none of my business, Elizabeth told herself, so I’ll have to be very subtle indeed when I check up on it. She stapled the rest of the pamphlets to the tune of “You Ain’t Woman Enough to Take My Man,” but a small, cold part of her mind refused to believe the lyrics.

She was still stapling ten minutes later when the deputy told her that the sheriff wanted to see her.

Alexander Lightfoot MacDonald wrinkled his nose at the smell of booze in the tent. He didn’t mind a cool brew with the militia boys, but sometimes the smell of it took him back. Six years old… with the Stars and Bars tacked over his bed… and Daddy stumbling in to bid his little corporal good night, reeking of bourbon and Sen-Sen. Little Ellick, as they called him then, would edge away from the fumes and stare at the sepia picture of Stonewall Jackson on the dresser, while Daddy told him war stories.

He must have been twelve before he knew that Guadalcanal wasn’t in the War Between the States, but by then it was too late to take an interest in Daddy’s war-or in Daddy, who finally finished the Japs’ job for them by wrapping himself around a tree in his black Bel-Air. Lightfoot wasn’t there at the time, but since then he’d pulled enough drunks out of wrecks piece by piece to have remarkably realistic nightmares about it.

Now Lightfoot was the county sheriff-maybe a little rougher on drunk drivers than he needed to be-and people laughed at the way he played war with the young bucks of the county; but to Lightfoot’s mind, it was a better way out of this world than most of the other exits he’d seen people try.

He took a swig of hot, un-spiked Pepsi, and picked up his notes on the Campbell case. Glencoe Park was private property, so the alcohol was not his concern-not until one of them tried to turn one of his county roads into the abattoir. Then he’d see. Meanwhile, he had to try to make sense of this three-ring circus: Scotchmen, spies, an old man hell-bent on cussedness… Seemed like none of it was really serious. All these people were on French leave from their real lives, he reckoned. In costumes up on a mountain, they just didn’t seem to count things up here as part of real life-just part of the show, as if they expected the dead man to come back to life on Sunday afternoon, the way the casualties did in his Civil War battles.

He shrugged. Why not? Most of them weren’t involved, and not one gave a rat’s ass about the deceased. But somebody at this sideshow was playing for keeps, and in an encampment full of play-acting simpletons, that could be godawful dangerous.

“Scuse me, Sheriff. The young lady’s here,” said Merle, who had started to knock on the tent flap.

“Right. Bring her in.”

She looked about twenty-three, and a little like Linda Ronstadt on one of those early album covers, Lightfoot decided. Didn’t look as though she could put a knife into hot butter, much less an old man, but you never could tell. Stabbing didn’t take much effort at all if the blade was sharp, and that one had been.

“Have you got her fingerprints?” he asked Merle.

“Yessir. We’re pretty near through with that. Got most everybody that we know of who had a connection with him.”

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… maybe 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.