“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.
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
“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 tete-a-tete 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
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:
“Geoffrey’s saber toss. You didn’t tell him, did you?”
“Of course not! I was afraid
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
“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 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.”
