“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.
“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.”
“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
“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
