“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 tête-à-tête 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 sincerely,” Geoffrey complained. “Well, I’m off. Cameron should turn up soon. He seemed pretty anxious to see this event, too.”
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: My ears have not yet drunk a hundred words of that tongue’s utterance, yet I know the sound. Art thou not Romeo… As it was, she managed the proper surge of adrenaline, if not the lines, and slipped her hand into his. “Has what started yet?” she murmured.
“Geoffrey’s saber toss. You didn’t tell him, did you?”
“Of course not! I was afraid you might.”
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 shag mean?”
“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? She let go of Cameron’s hand. “I saw Heather today,” she said in a shaky attempt as casualness.
“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.”
The loudspeaker crackled again. “The caber toss, as you all know, lads and lassies…” Cameron winced. “… consists of tossing one of these eighteen-foot poles so that it makes a perfect rotation and lands with the thin side up. The cabers weigh about a hundred and twenty pounds apiece, so you can imagine the strength required to turn them end over end…”
“Did Geoffrey really think they were going to throw swords?”
“Sabers, yes. Until a second ago, he didn’t know a caber from a hole in the ground. Where is he, anyway?”
“Slinking away past one of the dancing platforms. I wonder if they’ll call his name out?”
“I know just how he feels,” sighed Elizabeth.
Walter Hutcheson thought of law-enforcement officers chiefly in terms of traffic control, and since this was a murder investigation he was somewhat at a loss on how to proceed. He finally decided to look solemn and concerned in his best civic-meeting attitude, and to try to appear as objective as possible. Something in the sheriff’s manner made him uneasy.
“You knew Dr. Campbell pretty well, didn’t you?”
“Over twenty years at the hospital.” For my sins, thought Walter.
“Good friends?”
“Good professional relationship as colleagues.”
“Any idea who would want to kill him?”
“Everybody!” snapped Walter Hutcheson. “The man couldn’t walk down a hallway without stirring up an incident. His personal folder read like a synopsis of World War Two. The question is: who finally lost control and killed him?”
“It might depend on the size of the argument, don’t you think?”
“I suppose so, but Colin could be aggravating about practically anything.”
“Real estate, for example?”
Walter flushed. He might have known that somebody would get wind of that, considering how loudly Campbell had been shouting when they discussed it. “Colin Campbell was a bully, Sheriff,” he said at last.
“Maybe so. But even bullies follow up on threats now and then. He doesn’t sound like the sort of person that I’d want to bet big money on. Why don’t you tell me your side of it?”
Walter explained about the lake property and Colin’s threat about rezoning, and about the hospital hearing inquiring into Dr. Campbell’s conduct. The sheriff listened carefully, making an occasional squiggle on his yellow notepad. He seemed to be listening only out of politeness, as if he were waiting for something. Walter found out what it was a few minutes later when the deputy appeared holding something wrapped in a towel. Lightfoot accepted the package, and squinted up at Fentress.
“Anything for sure?”
Merle Fentress glanced at Dr. Hutcheson. “I’d say so. Go on ahead.” He leaned against one of the tent supports, shook the canvas a little, and straightened up again, trying to stay deadpan.
Lightfoot ignored him. Pulling the towel away from the package, he held out a skian dubh sheathed in a plastic evidence bag. “Do you recognize this, Dr. Hutcheson?”
“It looks like mine,” said Walter, before the obvious implication of its appearance struck him. He hastened to add, “There must be hundreds of identical ones.”
“Did you bring yours to the festival?”
“Yes, of course. I wear the silver one for evening dress.”
“Perhaps we might go along to your camper and see if you can locate yours, doctor.”
“I suppose someone might have stolen mine,” said Walter as an afterthought.
“Uh-huh. Well, this particular one has your fingerprints on the hilt. And we found it sticking in Colin Campbell’s chest.”
“This must be some kind of appalling mistake, Sheriff.”
“Why don’t we go back to your camper, sir, and check for your dagger. It won’t be necessary to handcuff you, will it? Of course, if you can’t produce yours, I’m going to have to read you your rights and ask you to come with us.”
Walter Hutcheson staggered out of the hospitality tent, trying to make sense of the last ten minutes, but it was like trying to read a newspaper in a windstorm: his thoughts would not stay still long enough for him to examine them.