Highland Laddie Gone (17 page)

The meadow was getting hot again as the mid-afternoon sun bled the color out of the landscape. Elizabeth was glad that she had given up wearing her tartan; it was really too hot. Besides, she wasn’t sure anymore what it meant. In all the previous festivals, it had meant: I am Scottish; this is the badge of my culture.

But the one thing Cameron did—besides make her heart turn over when she looked at him—was to make her un
easy about the significance of that culture. Every time she knew some bit of Scottish history or tradition and Cameron did
not
know it, it made her wonder just what they were preserving so carefully with their little groups. Perhaps it was culture of a sort, but it wasn’t Scotland. Elizabeth, who had been a sociology major, considered the disparity. What did it remind her of? A culture artificially preserved like … Latin. The language so carefully nurtured in the Vatican was a piece of culture preserved like a fly in amber; but modern Italian was a living culture, Latin that had been allowed to evolve. One was dead and the other was alive. Less colorful, maybe (how would Cameron look in a kilt?), but still alive, the real thing.

She decided that she wasn’t surprised about Lachlan Forsyth’s con game. She remembered how the festival folk had spoken approvingly of his being a
real
Scot. He wore the kilt, spoke some Gaelic, and knew all about the plaids and the history. He was, in fact, a professional Scot. Now that she had Cameron to compare him with, it was obvious to her that Lachlan was up to something. He was too good to be true.

He wasn’t there.

The canopied souvenir stall was as busy as ever, with tourists two-deep at the record bins and pawing through the woolens, but the only person behind the counter was a little blond boy. Elizabeth’s purpose wavered as she looked at the wonderful bits of bric-a-brac at the stall: thistle-patterned china, toy Nessies, a case of jewelry. Maybe she should get Cameron a MacPherson scarf: he ought to know his own tartan.… She waited patiently in the same spot for several minutes until the boy behind the counter had time to notice her.

“Where is Mr. Forsyth?” she called out.

James Stuart McGowan shrugged. “I don’t know. He said he was taking a break, but it’s been over an hour. Can I help you?”

“I just need to talk to him. Can you tell me which way he went?”

He nodded toward the crowd encircling the stall. “My visibility isn’t too great here. He lives in a silver AirStream, though, and it’s parked in the campsite.” He looked at her closely. “You were here before, weren’t you? Talking to him about which hand to eat with, or something?”

“Yes,” said Elizabeth, deciding not to correct his version of the conversation.

“I thought so. Right after you left, he wrote something down on a piece of paper, and he said he’d give it to you if you came back. Let’s see … where’d he put it?” He looked up at her slyly. “Of course, I should be spending my time attending to real customers.”

She sighed. “Give me a scarf in the MacPherson tartan.”

“Hunting or dress?”

“Dress. Now find me that paper.”

“Here it is. He wrote it on this paper bag. Just the right size to put the scarf in. Will that be cash or charge?”

When Elizabeth had completed her purchase, she walked away from the crowd and examined the four words scrawled across the paper bag. She smiled. He really was a sweet old man. And as for the message … she hoped that she would have the occasion to use it.

*  *  *

Lachlan Forsyth’s AirStream trailer was easy to find. Its windows bore stickers of the Scottish lion, the flag of Scotland, and one bore the legend
Ecosse—
French for Scotland. On its bumper was the usual assortment of Highland games bumper stickers. Elizabeth wondered if he lived in the contraption year-round, or if he had some other home during the winter months. Surely he couldn’t spend his whole life going from one festival to another? Technically, of course, he could: in the Sun Belt states, festivals went on right through the winter months. It seemed like an empty sort of life, though. What could be fun and exciting for a weekend might be a form of insanity if one tried to live it on a regular basis.

Elizabeth shuddered. To spend one’s life in a kilt, rehashing long-forgotten battles … Was Lachlan taking a detour around the twentieth century or was he planning to amass an S.R.A. fortune and leave Brigadoon far behind? Impossible to tell. No one really
knew
Lachlan Forsyth. His kindness and his comic-book Scottishness would keep you enchanted until he went away; and when the spell wore off, you realized that you didn’t know the first thing about him.

Elizabeth knocked on the trailer door.

No answer.

After a few minutes of impatient waiting, she knocked again, louder this time. But there were no sounds from within, and no sign of life. Sign of life? Elizabeth tried the door handle. It was securely locked. Even in
Brigadoon,
the threat of twentieth-century vandalism pervaded one’s consciousness, she supposed.

By standing tiptoe on the top step and leaning over to the left as far as she could, she could just manage to get
a grip on the tiny metal windowsill and peer inside. No one was there. And no body, she thought to herself with a sigh of relief. Now, where else could he be?

Elizabeth decided to check the clan tents in case Lachlan had gone visiting. Maybe she’d even find him at the MacPherson tent: he had seemed to enjoy talking to Cameron. Strangers in a strange land, and all that. As she walked past the rows of campers, she saw the MacDonald banner flying in front of one of the campers. The Hutchesons. Heather. Might he be visiting Heather? She was another Scot, after all. Surely someone as steeped in history as Lachlan Forsyth would relish the chance to talk with the niece of a duke.

Perhaps she ought to stop in and see Heather, anyway. Elizabeth could not believe that the new wife actually cared about Walter Hutcheson—she couldn’t imagine herself falling for an elderly man—but after all, Heather was in a strange country, and this couldn’t be a very pleasant experience for her, regardless of her feelings toward her husband. Before Elizabeth’s less impulsive side could marshal any counter-arguments, she hurried up the metal steps and tapped on the door.

“Was there something you wanted?” asked a voice behind her.

Elizabeth turned, so startled that she nearly fell off the step. Heather, her pink outfit considerably the worse for wear, looked none too pleased at the prospect of a visitor. “I just came to see if there was anything I could do,” Elizabeth ventured shyly.

“About what?”

“Your husband. I’m very sorry to hear about it. Can I be of any help?”

Heather’s eyes narrowed. “Do you know how to drive a bloody aircraft carrier? I’d like to get myself away from here.”

“I don’t think you’d be allowed to. Since Dr. Hutcheson is charged with the murder—or at least being questioned—I expect that the sheriff will want to examine this camper for evidence. You might ask if you could be allowed to leave on your own.” Elizabeth hesitated. “Don’t you want to stay, though, in case your husband needs you?”

“I dunno. I s’pose I ought.” Heather sat down on the bench at the picnic table and rumpled her blond hair as she meditated. “Hard to know what to do, really.”

She isn’t very old, Elizabeth thought kindly. And if she’s anything like Princess Diana, she hasn’t got a lot of education, either. She’s probably not used to having to cope with things on her own. “Have you got any family?”

“What?”

“Someone that you could call to be with you. I don’t suppose you want to be alone right now. Is all your family back in Scotland?”

“Yes. I don’t want them.”

“Are you sure? Someone could take a plane and be here by tomorrow, I think.”

“No. I don’t want them. I can take care of myself.”

“Do you think you’d go back if …” The possibility of Walter’s conviction for murder hung in the air, but Elizabeth couldn’t bring herself to speak the words.

“What, back to Scotland? No chance. I’m better as I am, what with Dad on the brew.”

Elizabeth nodded sympathetically. “My aunt was an alcoholic. It was very sad for the family.”

Heather turned to look at her. “Right. Well, as I say, I’ll be all right.”

“I don’t think Walter did it,” Elizabeth volunteered.

“No? Why not?”

“He’s just never seemed like that sort of person, I guess. Of course, the sheriff isn’t going to pay any attention to character witnesses. Not when he has motive and fingerprints on his side. But maybe we could come up with some facts that will prove Walter didn’t do it.”

“I don’t know anything.”

“Okay, let me ask you a couple of questions, and let’s see if we get anywhere. Did the sheriff ask you about an alibi?”

“I wasn’t much of a help to him. Walter left the camper this morning before seven. He doesn’t sleep too well at the best of times. And last night I can’t say I was with him all the time. He went for a walk after the party. Late-night walks are a habit of his as well.”

Elizabeth sighed. “That ought to prove he didn’t do it. Anybody in his right mind would have provided a better alibi if he was going to commit murder.”

“Not in real life, though. If you mean to do someone in, you don’t think aught about it, do you?”

“You do if you don’t want to get caught. The fingerprints don’t make sense, either. Anybody knows not to leave fingerprints on a murder weapon. You might as well leave an autographed picture. Yet, they find his fingerprints on the hilt of the
skian dubh.
That reminds me—when was the last time you saw it?”

Heather shrugged. “I remember making sure that he brought it along. He’s always so particular about his kilt and all the rest of the lot.”

“Did he wear it to the party last night?”

“The one here? No. He wore it to the sherry party at Mrs. Hamilton’s, but I’m nearly certain that he wore the other one after that.” She smiled. “I think he felt a bit guilty about wearing it. It was a present from
her,
you know.”

Elizabeth didn’t want to talk about Marge, and she couldn’t think of anything else to ask. Heather was right: she wasn’t much help, but at least she wasn’t being hysterical. “Well, if you need anything, just let me know,” said Elizabeth. “I was looking for Lachlan Forsyth, actually. Do you know him?”

“The old man from the souvenir stall? I haven’t seen him.” Heather seemed to have lost interest in the conversation. She pulled a set of keys out of her pocket and started up the camper steps. “Thanks for stopping by.”

I must ask this, thought Elizabeth, not wanting to: “Do you want me to send Cameron over to see you?”

“I don’t know,” said Heather. “Perhaps I’ll see him later. Not now.”

Instead of the question she wanted to ask, Elizabeth said, “Heather, do you think Walter did it?”

Heather, who had been turning the key in the lock, turned and frowned at Elizabeth. “What a question to ask a wife,” she said, closing the door.

Elizabeth did not find Lachlan Forsyth at any of the clan tents, nor could she find anyone who remembered seeing him. The pipe bands were giving a performance in the center field, so most of the crowd had congregated around
the tents to watch the show. The mix of tartans reminded Elizabeth of the time she had melted all her crayons in her mother’s best saucepan.

The Chattan tent was packed: every folding chair was occupied, and the row of coolers stretched from one tent pole to the other. Cluny was still asleep in his place of honor by the information table, but his baby-sitter, Cameron Dawson, was nowhere in sight.

“Has anybody seen Dr. Dawson?” asked Elizabeth over the whine of “MacPherson’s Lament.”

A man in a chair on the back row tilted his head back and wiggled his nose to keep his glasses from falling off. “Who?”

“The guy who was watching the bobcat.”

“Oh. Had a speech impediment?”

Elizabeth bristled. “That,” she said ominously, “was an Edinburgh prep-school accent as spoken by a Ph.D.!”

“Uh-huh. I thought he sounded funny.” The man took another sip of his drink, nearly toppling his chair in the process.

“Where is he?” said Elizabeth even more loudly.

“Whisky run,” said the woman at the information table. “Jack Gilroy didn’t think we had enough Scotch, so he was headed for the liquor store in Meadow Creek.”

“Didn’t look like he’d even make it to the parking lot,” said the chair-toppler.

“Your friend offered to drive Jack to the store. He thought it would be safer.”

“He hadn’t had nearly as much as Jack,” the man volunteered.

“I’ll bet he’d had enough,” Elizabeth muttered. “He’s
never driven on the right side of the road before. How long have they been gone?”

“Half an hour, tops.”

“Okay. I’ll take Cluny with me, and I’ll check back in half an hour. If he comes back, keep him here!”

“Who? Jack?” the man called after her.

“No!” Elizabeth yelled back. Damned bagpipes! “The one with the speech impediment.”

Elizabeth had a bit of a struggle making any progress along the path by the clan tents. For one thing, Cluny was not pleased at having his nap interrupted, and he saw no reason to cooperate during the course of the walk. His foul mood was further offset by the Saturday afternoon tourists who, now that Elizabeth did not want to be bothered with them, insisted on stopping her with questions about the Chattan mascot. Everybody wanted to pet the bobcat.

“Can we just have little Allison’s picture taken with the kitty?” asked a besotted father festooned in cameras.

Little Allison, who looked like a dismemberer of stuffed animals, was gazing at Cluny with a gleam of purpose in her piggy eyes.

“Another time,” said Elizabeth sweetly. “He hasn’t had all his shots.” She steered the bobcat firmly away into the crowd while she tried to decide where to look for Marge. The tent or the practice meadow? She would never have spotted her at all if Somerled hadn’t started to bark.

The border collie, who had been curled up by his mistress’s chair in the MacDonald tent, caught the scent of
Strange cat and decided that the immediate world should be notified. He sprang to attention, searching the crowd of manshapes for the interloper, and spotting the bobcat a few yards away, he hunched into a menacing crouch and began to announce his discovery.