Highland Laddie Gone (21 page)

“Blackmail?” asked Lightfoot.

“Maybe,” sighed Elizabeth. “But he didn’t approach her until after Walter was arrested, did he? I don’t know. I’d like to think that he didn’t want the wrong person convicted for the murder, and that he wanted her to give herself up.”

“Blackmail,” said Cameron.

“This isn’t evidence,” Lightfoot warned them.

“Tell Walter the truth about her,” Elizabeth advised. “I’ll bet he knows that she took the
skian dubh,
and that she wasn’t around early this morning. You’ll have all the evidence you need.”

“You’ll give her the third degree, anyway, won’t you, Sheriff?” asked Cameron.

Lightfoot turned to Elizabeth. “Get him out of here.”

She smiled. “I bet you’ll be glad to get this case out of the way.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He was dialing his mobile telephone. “Hello, Merle? Bring Dr. Hutcheson with you out to Glencoe Park. Yeah, we got a new development. Quick as you can. Out.” The sheriff put the phone back on his belt. “Yep, I sure will be glad to finish this case. We need to get this park back to normal, too.”

“For the Civil War reenactment?”

“Right. I still got practices to schedule. And then after that, I’ll have to come back up here next weekend, because the park is being used by the SCA.”

“Is that the group that dresses up in armor and holds jousting tournaments? Those people are crazy,” sniffed the Chattan Maid of the Cat.

“I agree with you there, ma’am,” said Confederate Colonel Lightfoot MacDonald.

Elizabeth found Marge Hutcheson in the practice meadow with Somerled and the rookie ducks. The feathered troops had calmed down considerably since they realized that they were not intended to be puppy chow, and they were now happily marching through concrete pipes and up little ramps, at the border collie’s bidding.

“We may be able to do the trials again tomorrow,” Marge remarked. “These brutes are nearly manageable now.”

Elizabeth nodded. The collie seemed in perfect control again, sliding across the field like the planchette of a Ouija board. “I came to tell you that the case is solved,” she said quietly.

“Someone confessed?” asked Marge.

“No. Cameron and I figured it out.” She hesitated, wondering what effect this was going to have. Marge didn’t need more complications in her life. She hoped this wouldn’t be one. “It was Heather.”

Marge pulled a cigarette out of the pack in her pocket. “Tell me about it,” she said.

Elizabeth explained about the Duke of Rothesay, and the rest of their deductions. “The sheriff brought Walter back, and we told him the truth. He had known, of course, that she was the logical person to have taken his
skian dubh.”

“Didn’t want to believe it, of course,” muttered Marge.

“He did, though,” said Elizabeth. “When they confronted her with the evidence, she confessed, but she’s trying to say that Colin attacked her, and that it was self-defense.”

“Hardly twice in one day,” said Marge dryly. “You say Walter is back?”

“Yes. I think he’s in the camper. The sheriff took Heather away. Walter says that the lawyer can take over her case, since he’s on his way down, anyway.” Elizabeth hesitated again.

“What else?”

“Well … Walter wants to see you.”

“Does he?” Marge smiled. “I expect he does. Poor Walter. He’s had a roller-coaster of a year, hasn’t he?” She brushed a lock of hair from her forehead. “I’d better go and see about him.”

“Are you sure?” asked Elizabeth.

Marge Hutcheson smiled. “Oh, yes, Elizabeth. You have to be forgiving in this world. And I think it’s best for Walter. Tell him I’ll be along when I get things packed up here.”

   W
HAT
a happy ending, thought Elizabeth as she walked back to the festival area. The bagpipes were playing “Scotland the Brave,” and she almost felt like dancing. She was sure that Marge and Walter would get back together again, and she was glad for Marge. And as for herself—the case was over, and there was still another night and half-day of the festival to spend with Cameron. The fleeting thoughts that she spared for Heather were intended to reflect sympathy for her, that she should have resorted to murder over something that should have been so trivial; but Elizabeth was not very good at empathizing with people she disliked. She caught herself gloating, and dismissed Heather from further consideration.

Elizabeth found it easier to be sorry about Lachlan Forsyth. He had been a charming old scoundrel—like Long John Silver—and she regretted his passing. She patted the pocket where she had put the note he left her. Looking toward the souvenir stall, she expected to see it covered in canvas, awaiting removal, but it was surrounded by customers, just as usual. What on earth, she thought.

When she had elbowed her way past a dozen people, Elizabeth found two clerks doing a brisk business: Jimmy and Geoffrey. They were edging around each other, making change and reaching for paper bags with the ease of
long-practiced co-workers. “What are you doing in here?” Elizabeth demanded as Geoffrey went by.

“Fleecing this little plaid flock,” Geoffrey purred.

“And Cluny is right over here in his basket. He makes a great crowd-attractor, does Cluny.”

“Why are you doing this?”

Geoffrey lowered his voice. “The money we make will go toward the funeral expenses,” he said quietly. “Jimmy wants it this way.”

Elizabeth nodded. “Well, I’m glad I found you. I wanted you to know that I solved the case.” She tossed her head in satisfaction.

“Did you?”

“Yes! It was Heather. Come out of there for a minute and I’ll tell you about it.”

Geoffrey listened patiently while Elizabeth gave him a full account of the brilliance of her deductions, with a little credit to Cameron for providing all the keys to the puzzle. “It was very simple, really,” she told him. “I knew that Walter would never want Heather if he knew the truth, because he’d think she’d made a fool of him. Heather must have known that, too, of course. And there was no way to shut up Colin Campbell, short of murder. You know what a tartar he was.”

“Very interesting,” said Geoffrey politely.

Elizabeth looked up at him suspiciously. “You needn’t think I’m wrong,” she snapped. “The sheriff agreed with me, and once he got Walter back here and confronted Heather with it, she confessed.”

“You are to be commended,” said Geoffrey gently.

Elizabeth looked embarrassed. “Oh, it isn’t just that. The best part is that Marge and Walter are getting back
together. At least, I’ll bet they do. She’s down in the practice meadow now, but she’s going to go and see him in a little while. I’ll bet you anything they’ll be at next year’s festival as a married couple again. I’m really happy for Marge. She’s such a wonderful person that she deserves some happiness.”

“And thanks to you, she shall have it,” said Geoffrey, more courteously than ever.

Elizabeth was puzzled. “Is anything wrong, Geoffrey? You haven’t said anything nasty in several minutes.”

“No, no,” he murmured. “I was simply overcome by your brilliance. Now go and find Cameron before some other American girl decides to major in international relations.”

When she had gone, Geoffrey stood for a few moments more, lost in thought. Finally he told Jimmy that he was taking a break, and strolled off in the direction of the practice meadow.

Somerled had finished his herding exercise, and was just shooing the last of the platoon back into the wooden box, when Geoffrey strolled up, hands in his pockets, to watch the proceedings.

“I hope you haven’t come to help,” growled Marge, shutting the lid.

Geoffrey shook his head. “No. My cousin tells me that she has just solved the murder case, and that all is now well again.”

Marge nodded. “Elizabeth is a clever girl.”

“Elizabeth is also a trusting girl,” Geoffrey replied. “And sometimes not as clever as she thinks.”

“She solved the case, didn’t she?”

“You know, I wondered about that,” said Geoffrey. “It all seemed so convenient. Elizabeth kept telling me how she would run around and question this person or that person, and she always learned something useful. It was almost as if someone knew where to send her. And then when I heard that you had urged her to talk to Cameron about their little misunderstanding, and lo! That little interview solved the whole case. That is not detection, madam, it is stage-managing. I believe the congratulations are due to you.”

“I kept out of it.” Marge shrugged.

“Yes, I know you did. You let Elizabeth do all the visible sleuthing to incriminate Heather and then you stood back and let Walter Hutcheson fall into your lap. No one could ever blame you for what happened.”

“I had to,” said Marge, beginning a new cigarette. “No matter how guilty Heather was, if I had been the one to implicate her, Walter could never have come back to me. People would say I had manipulated all of it.”

“No doubt,” Geoffrey agreed. “By the way, did Heather happen to do it?”

“Oh, yes,” said Marge. “I saw her.” She grinned at Geoffrey’s look of astonishment. “Early this morning I was going over to see Colin Campbell, and I saw Heather go into his camper. I wondered what that was about, and of course I wasn’t going in while she was there, so I waited. She left a few minutes later, practically running, and I went in and found him.”

“You didn’t tell anybody?” asked Geoffrey. “No, sorry! Of course not; mustn’t get involved.”

“I wanted what was best for Walter,” said Marge. “She
had spoiled enough. I knew I could find a way to trap her without getting involved personally.”

“Someone else died because you waited.”

Marge blew a bit of smoke in the direction of the festival. “I didn’t foresee that—or Walter’s arrest. But that was their lookout. Men have their own way too much in this world, and women are expected to be meek, even when being trampled. We get back as best we can.”

“I see. So you manipulated Elizabeth into playing detective, and you saw that she solved the case.”

“It wasn’t difficult, since I was working backwards.”

“Yes, of course. Did you know why she’d done it?”

“That she was an impostor? Certainly. It was I who told Colin Campbell about her in the first place. Elizabeth told me the Duke of Rothesay nonsense, and I knew that Colin would ferret that out.”

“I saw you tell him,” said Geoffrey, remembering. “I was replacing the ducks in the wooden box.”

“Quite right.”

“So, in a way, you arranged for the murders to happen.”

“Hardly that.” Marge smiled. “I didn’t tell the little bitch to murder people. But it was over for her anyway. Colin would have reveled in exposing that little fraud at the festival.”

“Quite a blow to Walter, public humiliation,” Geoffrey observed.

Marge shrugged. “What of it? Walter deserved a good deal of public humiliation. I owe him about a year’s worth.”

Geoffrey looked grave. “My cousin idolizes you.”

She smiled bitterly. “Going to tell her?”

“For the sake of her illusions, no,” said Geoffrey. “I happen to like innocence. It’s so rare these days.”

Cameron was talking about Scottish food, but most of the lecture was wasted on Elizabeth, who was busy planning the rest of the evening. She looked down at the sausage roll on her plate and at the little plastic knife and fork she had been given to eat with. Now, what had Lachlan told her to do? Cut with her other hand?

“Have you ever had trifle?” Cameron was saying. “I wonder if you can get it in this country?”

“I don’t know.” All his e’s sound like a’s, she thought.
Get
becomes
gate.
I must practice that; it’s so cute.

“Maybe the people who run this refreshment stand have a catalogue or something …”

Elizabeth looked up. “So you’re going to stay?” she asked.

“I don’t know. Maybe. Dr. Carson and I are going to meet with some of the foundation people on Tuesday to see if I can continue my seal research. I don’t think anyone will really want a study on the Chesapeake Bay monster, now that Dr. Campbell is gone.”

Elizabeth blushed. “I’d be glad to show you around the university.”

“Thank you,” said Cameron, equally shyly.

It seems funny to be strangers still, she thought to herself. In one way, we’re as close as possible, and yet there is so much we don’t know about each other. I wonder if he likes country music? She watched for a moment as he deftly carved his pastry, holding the knife and fork in either hand.

She looked down at her sausage roll. Left hand, huh?
How hard could it be? Picking up the knife gingerly, she angled it at the hard pastry and began to saw. The plastic blade snapped in two.

Elizabeth shook her head. She slid the bit of paper bearing Lachlan’s scrawl out of her dress pocket and studied the words. Leaning across the table, she said carefully,
“Tha gaol agam ort.”

Cameron looked puzzled. “What does that mean?”

She sighed. “It means I can’t use a knife with my left hand.”

• New York Times bestselling author
• Edgar Award winner

Published by Ballantine Books