He shrugged. Why not? Most of them weren’t involved, and not one gave a rat’s ass about the deceased. But somebody at this sideshow was playing for keeps, and in an encampment full of play-acting simpletons, that could be godawful dangerous.
“Scuse me, Sheriff. The young lady’s here,” said Merle, who had started to knock on the tent flap.
“Right. Bring her in.”
She looked about twenty-three, and a little like Linda Ronstadt on one of those early album covers, Lightfoot decided. Didn’t look as though she could put a knife into hot butter, much less an old man, but you never could tell. Stabbing didn’t take much effort at all if the blade was sharp, and that one had been.
“Have you got her fingerprints?” he asked Merle.
“Yessir. We’re pretty near through with that. Got most everybody that we know of who had a connection with him.”
Elizabeth rubbed her smudgy fingers with a tissue. “Out, damned spot! Out, I say!” Geoffrey’s form of insanity was highly contagious, she thought sadly.
Lightfoot took her name and address, and spent several minutes trying to make sense of the Maid of the Cat concept. He finally decided that it was something like the Carolina ram that was paraded at UNC football games, and he let it go at that.
“I understand you had a run-in with the deceased yesterday,” he remarked.
“Well, he fussed at me for wearing a kilt, and I told him what I thought of him. But neither of us took it as a capital offense.”
“How well did you know Dr. Campbell?”
Elizabeth considered it. “If somebody in your neighborhood kept a vicious dog in a fenced-in yard… about as well as you’d know the dog.”
Lightfoot laughed. “Mainly by reputation.”
“Exactly. There may not be people around with better motives for doing him in, but I bet there are a lot of people with similar ones.”
“Quite a few,” the sheriff admitted. “We got one woman that he reduced to tears by telling her what he thought of the tartan she was wearing.”
“The Royal Stewart, I’ll bet. Nobody’s entitled to wear it, really, but Dr. Campbell was the only person who’d pitch a fit.”
“Can you think of anyone who had better reasons to want him dead?”
“No. No one ever bothered to stay around him long enough to… wait a minute. He did have one friend. Marge Hutcheson. I’ll bet she could tell you what he was really like.”
The sheriff made a note of the name. “One more thing. Do you know anything about a terrorist organization connected with the games?”
Elizabeth shook her head. “It sounds unlikely. Is it something to do with Scotland? You might ask Cameron-”
“Cameron Dawson?”
“Yes. But I doubt if he’ll know anything at all about the games. He’s just arrived in this country, you see, and for most of that time…” She blushed.
Lightfoot looked at her closely. “Oh,” he grunted. “So you’re the one.”
Elizabeth smiled sadly. “Sheriff, I devoutly hope so.”
Of all the people Lightfoot had seen so far, Marge Hutcheson looked the most upset. She had not been crying, he decided, but she appeared to be under a strain. He offered her his empty Pepsi can for an ashtray, and watched her light a Benson & Hedges with shaking hands.
“How well did you know the deceased?”
“Well enough to mind that he got himself murdered,” said Marge grimly. “Poor Colin. I expect he would have enjoyed all the fuss. He was much more comfortable with dissension than he was with friendliness. He was always trying to drag me into an argument.”
“About what?”
Marge smiled. “The weather… the stock market… anything at all. It was a bit of a game with him, you know. He didn’t take quarreling personally, so I don’t think it would occur to him that people might actually get their feelings hurt in an argument.”
“You think he pushed somebody too far?”
“Perhaps. I used to tell him he would someday. But I never pictured any consequences more serious than a punch in the nose.”
“Did he mention any specific run-ins he’d had with anyone lately?”
“Little things. He had a quarrel with the Maid of the Cat because she was wearing a kilt. Nothing important.”
“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. Sheriff, you are descended from Flora MacDonald!”
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 Ghillie Callum to the Shean Triubhas to the accompaniment of recorded bagpipe music; and on the main field, an assortment of kilted linebackers gathered to begin the serious athletic competition.