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
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
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
