“Where is Mr. Forsyth?” she called out.
James Stuart McGowan shrugged. “I don’t know. He said he was taking a break, but it’s been over an hour. Can I help you?”
“I just need to talk to him. Can you tell me which way he went?”
He nodded toward the crowd encircling the stall. “My visibility isn’t too great here. He lives in a silver AirStream, though, and it’s parked in the campsite.” He looked at her closely. “You were here before, weren’t you? Talking to him about which hand to eat with, or something?”
“Yes,” said Elizabeth, deciding not to correct his version of the conversation.
“I thought so. Right after you left, he wrote something down on a piece of paper, and he said he’d give it to you if you came back. Let’s see… where’d he put it?” He looked up at her slyly. “Of course, I should be spending my time attending to real customers.”
She sighed. “Give me a scarf in the MacPherson tartan.”
“Hunting or dress?”
“Dress. Now find me that paper.”
“Here it is. He wrote it on this paper bag. Just the right size to put the scarf in. Will that be cash or charge?”
When Elizabeth had completed her purchase, she walked away from the crowd and examined the four words scrawled across the paper bag. She smiled. He really was a sweet old man. And as for the message… she hoped that she would have the occasion to use it.
Lachlan Forsyth’s AirStream trailer was easy to find. Its windows bore stickers of the Scottish lion, the flag of Scotland, and one bore the legend Ecosse-French for Scotland. On its bumper was the usual assortment of Highland games bumper stickers. Elizabeth wondered if he lived in the contraption year-round, or if he had some other home during the winter months. Surely he couldn’t spend his whole life going from one festival to another? Technically, of course, he could: in the Sun Belt states, festivals went on right through the winter months. It seemed like an empty sort of life, though. What could be fun and exciting for a weekend might be a form of insanity if one tried to live it on a regular basis.
Elizabeth shuddered. To spend one’s life in a kilt, rehashing long-forgotten battles… Was Lachlan taking a detour around the twentieth century or was he planning to amass an S.R.A. fortune and leave Brigadoon far behind? Impossible to tell. No one really knew Lachlan Forsyth. His kindness and his comic-book Scottishness would keep you enchanted until he went away; and when the spell wore off, you realized that you didn’t know the first thing about him.
Elizabeth knocked on the trailer door.
No answer.
After a few minutes of impatient waiting, she knocked again, louder this time. But there were no sounds from within, and no sign of life. Sign of life? Elizabeth tried the door handle. It was securely locked. Even in Brigadoon, the threat of twentieth-century vandalism pervaded one’s consciousness, she supposed.
By standing tiptoe on the top step and leaning over to the left as far as she could, she could just manage to get a grip on the tiny metal windowsill and peer inside. No one was there. And no body, she thought to herself with a sigh of relief. Now, where else could he be?
Elizabeth decided to check the clan tents in case Lachlan had gone visiting. Maybe she’d even find him at the MacPherson tent: he had seemed to enjoy talking to Cameron. Strangers in a strange land, and all that. As she walked past the rows of campers, she saw the MacDonald banner flying in front of one of the campers. The Hutchesons. Heather. Might he be visiting Heather? She was another Scot, after all. Surely someone as steeped in 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 skian dubh. That reminds me-when was the last time you saw it?”