Читать книгу Royally Dead - Greta McKennan - Страница 11

Chapter 2

“Get your paws off my stuff,” Aileen hollered, and flung her canvas bag at Ladd’s head. He ducked, laughing, as it hit the ground and sent cords flying in all directions like a sackful of snakes.

She hefted a mic stand and started for him, but her bandmate Pinker grabbed her by the arm. “Hold on a sec, Aileen. He’s good!” He held Aileen back, and watched in open admiration as Ladd continued to play. “He’s playing that bit you wrote for ‘Frankie’s Fury.’ He’s got the chord changes down and everything.”

Aileen growled and wrenched her arm free of his grasp. She picked up the mic stand again, and then slammed it back down as a crowd formed around Ladd. I cringed when I saw Gillian King front and center in the crowd, gazing at Ladd as if he were some kind of movie star. But Aileen wasn’t concerned about the hero worship of a fifteen-year-old girl.

Aileen strode down the steps of the stage and snatched her guitar out of Ladd’s hands. For an instant he held on, but she glared him down until he loosened his grip. She hefted the guitar over her shoulder like a baseball bat, and several people in the crowd, including Gillian, screamed. Ladd ducked again, but Aileen didn’t swing. “You’re not worth the price of a new guitar,” she spat out. “But if you ever touch my gear again…” Leaving her threat unspecified, she swung on her heel and stomped back onto the stage. “Got any sanitizer wipes?” she demanded of Pinker.

He started to laugh, but then thought better of it. He took his shirttail and wiped down Aileen’s guitar, taking extra care to go over each metal string. She stood and watched him, her back to the crowd and Ladd, her arms folded across her chest.

Her stillness scared me more than her raised guitar had. I could tell how furious she was by the intensity of her immobility. If Ladd made the slightest move toward her, she would kill him.

He must have realized that, because when I tore my eyes away from Aileen, I saw Ladd had turned away. Surrounded by the loyal crowd, he headed off in the direction of the food court with Gillian following close behind. She called out to him, and he turned to flash her a huge smile, and then the two of them walked side by side up to the funnel cakes booth. Aileen stood silent and unmoving on the stage.

I let out a sigh, surprised to find I had been holding my breath.

Letty slipped back into the booth. She held a hardcover book in her hands. “Wasn’t that Aileen? She’ll get herself thrown out of the Games, carrying on like that.”

“God help the person who tries to throw Aileen out of anywhere,” I said. “I wouldn’t want to see her going up against your Incredible Hulk, though. Between the two of them, they’d probably wreck the whole place.”

“Yeah, she’d better stay out of the way when he’s throwing cabers around. But forget about them. Did you see who else is here?” Letty held out the book she carried. “Morris Hart! He’s on a book tour and he’s spending a few days in Laurel Springs, if you can believe it. Have you read his latest thriller, Over the Sea to Skye?”

I shook my head and took the book from her hands to skim the blurb on the back cover. “I’ve heard of it, of course. Everyone’s reading it this summer. Something about the descendants of Scottish kings taking over Britain in the present day, right?”

She nodded. “There’s a real-life treasure hunt too, to find Bonnie Prince Charlie’s ring, which was lost in the seventeen hundreds. Hart is smart to set up at the Highland Games, where people have actually heard of Bonnie Prince Charlie and the Battle of Culloden.” Letty pointed to the author’s photo on the back of the book, showing a handsome man with an aristocratic nose and dark, glossy hair. “This picture is a few years old, but he’s still got it. He could be the descendant of royalty in my book.”

I laughed and handed the book back to her. “Letty, you’re incorrigible.”

She dropped a curtsy like a diva basking in well-earned applause, then turned to wait on a young couple with a baby asleep in a stroller.

I sat down and pulled out the basketful of bow-tie supplies I’d prepared to keep my hands busy while waiting for customers. It was a simple process of folding and pinching rectangles of tartan fabric into the shape of a bow, but it looked impressive to watch. I felt like an artist displaying her techniques for the crowd. I didn’t even mind if people learned my secrets to make their own ties at home. Tartan bow ties were only a sideline for me, an excuse to be a part of this Scottish festival. They were also surprisingly popular with the teenagers. For every girl who walked away sporting a bow-tie headband, three more came to pick over my collection. It was a trend in the making.

Gillian arrived with the next wave of girls. She was dressed in her Highland costume of kilt, lace blouse, and green velvet vest, and was taking a break before dancing the Highland fling. Her friends wore denim cutoffs and sleeveless tops, and plenty of mascara and lipstick. They jostled one another and carried on an endless string of friendly abuse while two or three of them tried on bow ties.

Gillian scrabbled through the chest, spilling most of the ties onto the table. “Do you have any green ones, to match my kilt?”

I stood up to look at her kilt, a dark green and blue plaid with alternating pairs of black and white lines running both lengthwise and crosswise. I flipped through my guide booklet to show her. “You’re wearing the Oliphant tartan. I made a bunch of Oliphant ones because of the connection to the university.” I sifted through the bow ties and pulled out a couple for her to look at.

She held one up to her hair, tucking it into the plaits of her French braid. The contrast between the green plaid and her strawberry blond hair was beautiful. She knew it, too.

“I’ll take two, in the same tartan,” she said. “Can you give me a discount for two?”

I shook my head as I bagged up the bow ties. “Sorry. They go for fifteen dollars each. I don’t have any bulk discounts today.”

She grumbled a bit but handed over the money. As she turned away, she nudged the girl closest to her. “I’m going to give one to Ladd. We’ll be matching.”

“Ladd? The dude who’s going to throw the tree trunk? He’s as old as your dad.”

Gillian pushed her. “He’s nothing like my dad. He’s gorgeous.”

They walked away, giggling, while I sat down slowly, aghast. The last thing I wanted to see was my own matching bow ties adorning both Gillian King and Ladd Foster. The ties were hers now, and she could do whatever she wanted with them. Still, I felt like she was using me as an accomplice in her misguided attempt to chase after the man.

Letty clicked her tongue. “That Ladd does get around, doesn’t he? I hope he’s not planning to prove to a fifteen-year-old girl that he’s going ‘true Scot.’”

“Yeah, me too. He might not know she’s fifteen, though. He’s not very observant.” I waved to her ring finger, which was literally laden down by a dazzling diamond ring paired with her thick gold wedding ring.

Letty and I didn’t have to wonder long. It was only a matter of minutes before we saw Ladd hovering over a leatherworking booth, with Gillian snuggled under his powerful arm. We couldn’t hear their words, but we could see him joking with the craftsman while Gillian laughed and smacked him on the chest appreciatively. He wasn’t wearing the bow tie around his neck, but only because his peasant shirt was laced up to his breastbone, exposing his neck and chest hairs. With a sinking feeling in my stomach, I saw the Oliphant tartan tie twined around his right wrist, matching the bow Gillian wore in her hair.

She was no responsibility of mine, but still, I could hardly sit by and let her get into trouble with a fortysomething flirt in a kilt. They say it takes a village to raise a child, and that goes double for a teenager. I liked to think people watched out for each other in our small town, and it looked like it was my turn to do my part. Or maybe I was just minding other people’s business—one of my main strengths, according to McCarthy. I jumped up and said to Letty, “I’ll be back in a sec.” I slipped out of the booth.

I followed the two of them as they wandered through the Marketplace toward the edge of the field, with Ladd’s arm around her waist. When his hand slid down to her hip, I called out, “Gillian! Breanna is looking for you.”

She turned in surprise. My heartbeats accelerated, but I resolved not to make it easy for her. “The fourteen-to-sixteen-year-old age group is about to go on. Breanna asked me to come find you. You don’t want to miss your competition.”

She glared at me. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I don’t have any dances coming up.” She twined her fingers around Ladd’s hand. “Come on, Ladd.”

He took a good look at her. “Fourteen to sixteen?”

“Yeah, Gillian’s fifteen,” I chirped. “She’s the best dancer in the sophomore class at high school.”

Gillian tossed her head, but she didn’t get the chance to respond. A slight man with balding reddish hair and black glasses grabbed her by the arm and flung her away from Ladd. She staggered and almost fell, but I caught her by the shoulders.

The newcomer doubled up both fists and squared off before the muscular athlete who was easily twice his weight. “Get your filthy hands off my daughter!”

Ladd stood staring for a moment, and then he started to laugh. He was still laughing when Ryan King’s fist connected with his cheekbone.

For such a small man, Ryan packed a mean punch. Ladd staggered backward, fetching up against a table filled with picnickers who jumped up and scattered in a panic. He grabbed up a folding chair and held it poised to throw.

Gillian screamed and lunged toward her father. “Daddy, stop it!” I tried to hold her back, but she broke free from my grasp and threw herself between the two men.

Ryan probably realized he wouldn’t get another chance, now that his adversary knew he meant business. He took his daughter by the arm and threw me a withering glance, as if I had personally fixed up a date between Ladd and Gillian. He pointed a finger at Ladd. “You stay away from my daughter or I’ll have the cops on you.” He pulled her along as he turned to stride away.

Ladd lowered the chair, seeming to notice the growing crowd for the first time. Several people had their cell phones out to record the altercation. I heard the click of a camera as well. McCarthy was documenting the incident for the newspaper.

“You’re the one who committed assault,” Ladd hollered after Ryan. “I’d be within my rights to press charges.” He pulled out his flask and unscrewed the top for a long swallow. “Nothing like a drop of single malt whiskey to dull the pain,” he proclaimed to the crowd with a wink.

I chewed my lip as I watched Ryan hustle Gillian off. I hoped he wouldn’t take out his anger on her. I felt compelled to follow them, to make sure she was safe.

Ryan held on to Gillian’s arm until he got her behind the food tents. He pushed her up against an ice cooler and let her go. I lurked at the corner, keeping an eye on things.

Ryan pointed his finger at Gillian. “If I ever see you carrying on with someone twice your age like that again, I’ll have you off to that convent before you know what happened to you.”

Gillian straightened her kilt and pulled at her vest. Trails of mascara streaked down her cheeks, but she held her head high. “We’re Presbyterians, Daddy.”

“It’s never too late to convert.”

It could have been a friendly attempt at humor to defuse the situation, but I could tell Ryan wasn’t interested in defusing anything or being friendly with his daughter. I doubted if he possessed anything close to a sense of humor. My heart went out to Gillian, but I didn’t intervene. At least he wasn’t beating her.

Ryan could have gone on berating her for a long time, but the loudspeaker interrupted him. “In two minutes at the VIP tent, we will have a presentation from the acclaimed author, Morris Hart.”

“I want to hear that,” Ryan said, abruptly abandoning his tirade. “Behave yourself.” He turned on his heel and left.

Gillian leaned back against the cooler and put both hands over her face. I almost went to comfort her, but I was pretty sure my support wouldn’t be appreciated. I backed slowly away from the food tents and began to make my way back to my booth.

As I walked past the VIP tent, I saw a crowd gathering in anticipation of the author’s talk. People clutched hardcover books under their arms or eyed a sizable pile on the table next to the podium. I made out Morris Hart himself, looking a bit grayer than the photo Letty had showed me, talking with none other than Ladd Foster. The guy definitely got around. He had a red mark on his cheek but looked otherwise unscathed by his altercation over Gillian. He spoke rapidly to Hart, full of swagger and laughter. But Hart wasn’t amused. He frowned with his arms crossed on his chest, clearly displeased at what he was hearing.

I wondered what that was about.

But I didn’t have time to linger to find out. It was time for me to give Letty a break. She was practically dancing when I got back to the booth.

“I gotta go! That rocking chair is sold, and the guy’s going to come back and pick it up at three. You’re almost out of red bow ties.” She ducked out of the booth and ran for the ladies’ room.

I tidied my wares, shifting Letty’s linens back to their place to uncover a hidden trove of red bow ties. I tucked them back into the wooden chest as the thumping bass of the Twisted Armpits filled the air. Must be lunchtime.

Letty returned to the booth with her hands over her ears. “We won’t get any business during lunch with that racket just across the way,” she shouted.

I couldn’t argue. Still, the noise wasn’t as concentrated as it was in my basement, so I could actually enjoy the music here. I sent Letty off to get some lunch and watched the band.

I hadn’t seen them perform on stage since Corgi had added the bagpipes. What a cool addition! Corgi had traded his military piper’s coat for his customary black leather bomber jacket looped with chains, which made an imposing ensemble paired with his lightweight kilt and black army boots. He had miked the bagpipes so they could be heard clearly over the screaming guitar. He played the same tunes I’d been hearing all morning, but in the midst of the metal band they took on a whole new dimension. I was glad the assembled bagpipers got the chance to see what else their instruments could do.

McCarthy circled around the bandstand, taking pictures of Aileen and her gang. He drifted over to lean on my front table.

“Who knew these Highland Games would be so exciting? I’ve got photos of Aileen about to whale on Ladd Foster with her guitar, and others of Ladd about to bean Ryan King over the head with a folding chair. The man’s a photog’s dream!”

I laughed and accepted the sandwich he held out to me. “What, no haggis?”

He passed me a napkin. “Corgi tells me the haggis comes out at the ceilidh tomorrow evening. The Pipe and Drum Corps is going to be making it all morning. He’s promised to let me document the process.”

Corgi had outlined this process to me, which included mixing oatmeal with ground meat and various spices and stuffing it into a sheep’s stomach for baking. I privately resolved to steer clear of the haggis at the Scottish party the following evening.

McCarthy spied Letty’s copy of Over the Sea to Skye on the table. “You got yourself an autographed copy?”

I shook my head. “It’s Letty’s. I might have to, though. Everyone’s raving about it.”

“I read it last week. Couldn’t put it down. Then I spent the next few days looking up Scottish history. I’ve never been big on the kings of Great Britain, but Hart made me want to know more. I’d call that a successful writer.”

McCarthy had been shouting throughout this conversation, to compete with the noise from the band. A sudden lull in the music caused his voice to carry across the field. Morris Hart, who appeared to be wrapping up his question-and-answer session, turned and inclined his head toward us.

I blushed, but McCarthy was unfazed. He gave Hart a grin and a thumbs-up, then turned back to me as if nothing had happened. “I’ll get you a copy, in exchange for this natty bow tie.” He caressed the tie. “I’ve gotten loads of compliments on it. Even discounting the ones who are clearly making fun of me, I’d say you’ve got a winner.”

“No! Somebody made fun of you?”

He laughed. “Hard to believe, isn’t it?” He lifted his camera and took a few shots of me tending the booth alone. “Sounds like it’s just about time for the field events.”

Indeed, the Twisted Armpits were bringing their song to a crashing finale, signaling the end of lunchtime. McCarthy turned to head over to the athletic field when he was accosted by Morris Hart.

“I gather you enjoyed my book?”

McCarthy held out his hand. “Sean McCarthy, of the Laurel Springs Daily Chronicle.” The two men shook hands. “And this is Daria Dembrowski, a seamstress with a passion for history.” I smiled and shook Hart’s hand as well. Up close, I could see the lines on his face. I guessed him to be in his fifties, and his trim build spoke of a passion for fitness as well as history. He gave me the barest glance, his attention still focused on McCarthy.

“I was just telling Daria that your book made me want to know more about Scottish history, a field I know very little about,” McCarthy said.

Hart bowed his head. “If I can stimulate even a bit of curiosity about history through my writing, I consider I’ve made a useful contribution to society.”

I bit back a smile. McCarthy, with his almost insatiable curiosity and boundless energy, didn’t need to be the recipient of this lecture. But he merely nodded with a genuine smile. “Part of the fun for me was trying to figure out what was historical fact and what was pure invention on your part. I’m still working out some of the details.”

“I never disclose my sources.”

McCarthy grinned. “You must have been a journalist in another life.” He held up his camera. “I’m off to cover the athletic events, but I’d like to get a book. Will you be around later?”

“I’m here all day,” Hart replied. “I’ll walk along with you. I always love the caber toss.” The two men took off, chatting companionably, just as Letty returned to the booth.

“Oh, you got to meet Morris Hart. He’s so down-to-earth for being such a famous author. I see you put out more red bow ties—good choice. Did someone purchase the bone china tea set with the lavender pattern? I hope you wrapped up each cup individually.”

“Yes. I did.” I figured that answered all her questions at once. “It’s time for the field events. Did you want to go see Ladd Foster throw the caber?”

“Honestly, I think I’m going to pass. He thinks I’m interested in him, but after seeing him with a fifteen-year-old, I’m done.” She tossed her hair over her shoulder. “Flirting is a sport to me, but you have to play by the rules. He went offside when he pursued a teenager.” She chuckled at her analogy. “You go and watch, Daria. Have you ever seen anyone throw a tree trunk around for fun?”

I shook my head. “I can’t even imagine it.”

A crowd was gathering at the athletic field, which was delineated by a series of tall metal torches stuck into the ground every five feet or so. They weren’t lit yet, but I could imagine how impressive they would look in the evening. I didn’t know if I’d stay for the evening festivities, which included the awards presentation followed by another set by the Twisted Armpits. It depended on how tired I was after a day on my feet.

I found a spot on the edge of the crowd where I had a good view of the athletic field. The grass was chalked in various places, with a large circle in the middle and a number of lines along one side. A couple of officials in kilts and matching green polo shirts hovered on the sidelines. They flipped through untidy papers on the clipboards they carried. A parade approached the field, led by four bagpipers and a boy playing a snare drum, followed by a heavyset man dressed in the Kelly green polo shirt of the officials, which clashed with his kilt in the dark green Oliphant tartan. They marched in the athletes: four enormous men who were about to prove their strength. The announcer introduced himself as Herman Tisdale, and then called the name of each athlete in turn: Jamie Deakens, Tom O’Flaherty, Patrick Ames, and Ladd Foster.

The first event was the hammer throw. Each athlete would swing around the twenty-pound stone attached to the end of a stick and heave it as far as possible. I marveled at the officials, who stood without flinching in the stone’s path to record its landing spot. I wouldn’t want that to land on my head!

“Patrick Ames is the guy to beat today.” I turned to see Corgi standing next to me, dressed in his full Highland regalia once again. “I hear he’s got a blood feud going with Ladd Foster. The two of them have been fierce rivals ever since the Whidbey Island Games ten years ago.”

I regarded Patrick, who was about to release the hammer. He looked like he weighed at least three hundred pounds of pure brawn. The muscles in his arms and shoulders bulged as he whirled around and flung the hammer down the field. “What happened in Whidbey Island?”

Corgi rolled his eyes. “I heard there was some serious cheating going on. How you can cheat when you’re throwing sticks and stones around, I don’t know. Still, Patrick accused Ladd of cheating, and Ladd said no, it was Patrick, and in the end they both got disqualified. Evidently, even after ten years, each Games is a rematch, with both guys out for revenge.” He gazed out at the field. “I wouldn’t want either one of those giants looking for revenge on me.”

I watched as Ladd and Patrick squared up for the pole push inside the chalk circle. They each took hold of the handles on either end of a thick log about twelve feet long. At the whistle, they started pushing against the pole, trying to push the other out of the circle. It was like the opposite of a tug-of-war, with the opponents pushing toward each other, attempting to throw the other off-balance. They grunted and strained with the pole barely budging, until all of a sudden, Ladd shot out with his feet and swiped at Patrick’s legs. Patrick roared and lashed out at Ladd with his own feet. The two of them started circling around, still clinging to the handles on the pole, each one trying to kick his opponent’s legs while sidestepping to avoid getting kicked. It would have been laughable, watching them trying to get at each other when all they had to do was drop the pole, except for the fury on their faces. The officials hovered on the edge of the altercation, calling out for the two men to cease and desist. But the officials couldn’t, or wouldn’t, get close enough to stop the pole.

Finally, Ladd tripped, and on his way down, he wrenched the pole sideways and threw Patrick off-balance. The ground shook with the force of their fall. Patrick bounced up, but before he could tackle Ladd, the other two athletes stepped in. Jamie pushed on Patrick’s chest to get him away from Ladd, while at the same instant, Tom wrestled Ladd’s arms to his sides.

“Show some respect for the fans,” Jamie growled, pointing to a terrified toddler seeking shelter in his mother’s arms.

The two foes looked abashed. They didn’t resist any further when Tom and Jamie led them off to the sidelines.

Herman Tisdale wiped his brow and bustled up to the microphone. “Let’s give the athletes a break and have all the kids out here for the tug-of-war!”

The kids ran to line up on either end of the rope, while the officials lectured Ladd and Patrick on their conduct. It looked like they were both disqualified in the pole push event. The flame of their rivalry burned higher.

The lecture ended before the tug-of-war. Patrick sat down on the grass and massaged his calves, while Ladd wandered over toward the VIP tent and pulled out his flask for a big swallow of whiskey.

Gillian ran up to him, her bow tie askew in her hair. “I was so frightened for you! Are you okay?”

Ladd held out his arms and turned slowly in front of her. “Not a scratch on me.” He slugged down another swallow and handed the flask to her. “Be a dear and hold this for me, would you? It gets in my way when I’m tossing the caber.”

Gillian took the flask with a glance over her shoulder, checking to see if her father was watching, no doubt. She had just enough time to say, “I hope you win,” before Ladd turned away to return to the field. He’d left a fifteen-year-old girl in charge of his flask of whiskey.

I kept a sharp eye on her. If she looked like she was going to take a nip, I planned to snatch the thing out of her hands.

She turned the flask over, running her fingers over the etching on its silver surface. She unscrewed the top. I started edging through the crowd, keeping my eye on Gillian. She lifted the flask to her nose and inhaled. Then she made a face I’m sure she didn’t expect anyone else to see and screwed the top back on. She darted into the VIP tent and reappeared a moment later without the flask. She must have set it down inside for safekeeping.

Just in time. I spied Ryan on the edge of the crowd, completely absorbed in a conversation with Morris Hart. He must not have seen his daughter chatting with Ladd. It was all good. I turned my attention to the field. The caber toss was about to start.

The caber was a long, thin log, easily fifteen to twenty feet in length. Jamie Deakens, a young blond giant with a round face softened by peach fuzz, was the first to toss it. Two of the officials carried the caber to him, and then walked it to a vertical position in front of him, with the narrow end on the ground.

Jamie grasped the caber with cupped hands, about a yard above the ground. He worked his way down the caber, resting its weight on his shoulder, until he could grasp the butt of it and lift it off the ground. He staggered forward, the caber swaying slightly in its vertical position, until he gained control over it. He continued to run until he gave a huge grunt and heaved the caber into the air. It turned over, the thick end hit the ground, and the caber fell with the narrow end pointing away from the athlete. The crowd applauded.

Corgi cheered beside me. “Fantastic throw! He turned the caber on his first try. I’d say it fell at about one o’clock—pretty darn good.”

I stared at him. “It’s well past two. What are you talking about? The caber didn’t go very far at all.”

“The point isn’t for it to go far. The point is for it to flip over—we say he ‘turned’ the caber. Not everyone can turn it. Then it’s supposed to land in a straight line from where he stood when he tossed it. Twelve o’clock, if you picture the face of a clock. Jamie’s was angled a bit off to the right, at one o’clock. Pretty close, if you ask me. He gets two more tries, but I’ll bet he can’t beat that.”

Aileen walked up to stand beside me. “A bunch of overgrown guys are throwing logs around. Sheesh.” She crossed her arms and watched Tom O’Flaherty throw. The caber didn’t flip over. It approached the vertical, only to fall back down to the ground. The crowd sighed in disappointment.

Corgi poked her. “I’ll bet you couldn’t do that.”

Aileen snorted. “If I thought it was important, I’d learn how. Flipping a log over endwise is not important to me.” She struck a dramatic pose, her hand over her heart. “‛No human thing is of serious importance.’” She bowed with a flourish. “Plato, in case you were wondering.”

Corgi and I were still laughing when Ladd approached the caber to take his first turn. He saw Aileen in the crowd and flashed her a thumbs-up. She turned her back on him.

Ladd hefted the caber into his hands and staggered backward, trying to balance it before starting his run. His muscular arms shook and sweat ran down his face. The crowd gasped and parted as he staggered sideways, before finally getting it under control. I tapped Aileen’s shoulder. “Not a good plan to turn your back on a caber in motion.” She turned back around to watch.

Ladd ran a few steps and flung the caber into the air with a huge grunt. It had just enough momentum to flip over and land with a thump on the ground. The crowd cheered. Ladd had successfully turned the caber on his first try.

He hobbled over to the sidelines and bent over with his hands on his knees, panting for breath. He looked to be at least ten years older than any of his competitors. I watched the red slowly fade from his face and wondered if he should maybe think about retiring.

He lifted his head and scanned the crowd. Aileen crouched down behind Corgi. “See you later.” She slipped through the crowd and ducked into the VIP tent, brushing past Ryan King on his way out. Ryan checked and stared at her, the way people always did at the sight of her. He dusted off his arm as if she’d sullied it with her contact, and then he returned to watching the heavy athletic events.

I turned to Corgi in confusion. “I’ve never seen Aileen hiding from anything before. What’s the story between her and Ladd?”

He was as mystified as I was. “I’ve never heard her talk about him. Obviously, there’s some history there. If she wants to talk about it, fine, but I’m not going to pry.”

Smart guy.

It was Patrick’s turn at the caber. I watched his technique to see if he was a match for Ladd. He was an immense man sporting a black goatee and an armful of Celtic tattoos. He grasped the caber with confidence and hefted it to balance against his shoulder. He ran a few steps and threw his hands up in the air, launching the caber. It flipped over and hit the ground with a resounding thud.

After the first round, three out of four of the athletes had turned the caber.

McCarthy stopped by for a quick word as Jamie stepped up to start the second round. “Given up on the bow-tie trade, have we?”

I gave a guilty start and checked the time on my phone. “I guess I should get back to the booth.” The crowd roared, signaling their approval of Jamie’s latest toss. “Or at least I should check in with Letty to see how things are going.” I texted her, to receive the reply: “All’s quiet on the Scottish front. Take your time with the hunks.”

I smiled and tucked my phone into my pocket. “Sounds like everyone is gathered around to watch the show. They’ve probably all got their eyes on you and your camera, figuring wherever you go is the place to be.”

His eyes crinkled up when he smiled at me. “And they’d be right, of course. Which begs the question—what’s up with Aileen that she’s skipping out on these events?”

“You’ll have to ask her, if you dare.”

He shrank back in mock horror. “Not I! I just thought I could quietly get the lowdown from you without having to face the beast. I’m sure you’ll ferret it out of her, being the nosy seamstress that you are.”

With those encouraging words, he turned back to the field in time to snap a series of photos of Tom’s second toss, which just barely flipped over for a successful turn.

Ladd was up next. As he swaggered up to the line, I saw Aileen slip out of the VIP tent and stalk away. Was it possible she had remained hidden until Ladd was fully occupied with his sporting events, when she felt like she could leave? What had Ladd ever done to her to cause her to react to him this way?

Ladd’s second toss went smoother than his first. He gained control over the caber straight away and tossed it high in the air. It turned smoothly and fell in a straight line from where he was standing.

“Twelve o’clock,” Corgi exulted. “That was a perfect toss!”

I looked over at his competitors to see how they took his success. Jamie looked excited and Tom had a worried expression on his face, but Patrick wasn’t even watching. As the announcer called his name to throw next, he emerged from the VIP tent with a scowl on his face.

Patrick practically snatched the caber from the two men who propped it up for him. He hefted it and ran a long ways down the field before launching it into the air, accompanied by a deep, powerful grunt. It flipped and fell a titch to the side, at about eleven o’clock, as far as I could tell.

Ladd called out from the sidelines, “Bonnie Patrick, you throw like a girl!” He simpered and stroked his hair, all the while laughing at the glowering brow of his adversary.

I feared we were about to witness another brawl between the two rivals. I hoped they could behave themselves, at least until the end of the caber toss.

Gillian had angled her way in to stand as close to the competitors as she could get. It was a wonder to me that she chose to lavish her attention on the oldest of the four giants. I couldn’t help wondering if she was deliberately trying to antagonize her father.

Patrick slapped his hands together and flexed his muscles as the crowd murmured appreciatively. He struck a few more poses for McCarthy to document and then returned to stand next to Tom.

I kept my eyes on Ladd as the judges conferred for a few minutes before the start of the third round. He had abandoned his catcalling and appeared to be patting down the pockets in his utility kilt, looking for his flask, no doubt. He turned to speak to Gillian, standing close beside him, and then he headed for the VIP tent. He almost bumped into Morris Hart, who was coming out of the tent. Hart sidestepped, keeping his eyes averted in an obvious attempt to avoid any kind of interaction with Ladd. I was surprised to see such a successful author reacting to Ladd’s crude, juvenile behavior. Maybe he simply wanted nothing to do with the man.

Ladd disappeared into the VIP tent during Jamie’s toss. Jamie turned the caber for the third time, proving himself to be an up-and-coming competitor to give Patrick and Ladd a run for their money. The crowd cheered for the blond giant.

Tom ran up to the caber and squatted down for a few deep knee bends accompanied by loud grunts to psych himself up. He grasped the caber, heaved it up onto his shoulder, and charged down the field to the cheers of the crowd. He launched it, stood for a moment to watch it flip over, and then ran off the field pumping his fists in the air.

“That was his best toss yet,” Corgi said. “He’ll still probably take fourth place, but I’d give him the most-improved trophy. Ladd’s up next.”

We looked around expectantly as the announcer called for Ladd to step up and take his third turn. He finally came out of the VIP tent, wiping his mouth and coughing and sputtering, as if he’d taken too big a swig and some of the whiskey had gone down the wrong pipe. Maybe he should have waited until after the event to imbibe.

He bent down to grasp the caber at knee level and stalled there for a few minutes, trying to control his coughing. He hacked and spit on the ground and then worked his cupped hands down the length of the caber to grasp the butt end. He hefted it and lurched sideways, the long pole dipping sharply toward the crowd.

“Whoa, he’s not in control of the caber at all!” Corgi grasped my arm and backed up, pulling me along with him to get out of the way.

Ladd staggered in the other direction, still coughing and gasping for breath. The caber swung in a wide circle before crashing to the ground. It narrowly missed a group of young Highland dancers, who screamed and jumped out of the way. Ladd collapsed on the ground, his hands clutching his chest, his face red from coughing.