Royally Dead. Greta McKennan
took a whiff of the amber liquid, which looked a lot like whiskey, or even apple juice. I nodded. “I think so. It wasn’t exactly like this, though.”
Officer Franklin sniffed at my blouse again and compared it to the cup in her hand. “I can smell whiskey on you as well. Whoever did this added torch fuel to the existing whiskey.” She set the cup down on the table to make a few notes in her notebook. “We’re going to need your blouse for evidence. Do you have something else you can wear?”
“I can probably find something at my booth.”
“I’ll come with you.” Officer Franklin started to usher me out of the tent when one of the little Highland dancers, no more than seven years old, entered the tent. She gave me a shy smile, walked over to the table, and picked up the cup of torch fuel. She raised it to her lips.
“Stop!” I yelled. “Don’t drink that!”
Officer Franklin spun around, calling out as well. But the two of us were across the tent, too far away to reach her in time.
Officer Butler moved with a speed I wouldn’t have guessed he could achieve. He snatched the cup out of the child’s hand and held it out of reach. “That’s not apple juice,” he gasped. “It’s yucky.”
The little girl gaped at him, looking like she might burst into tears. I pushed my way past Officer Franklin and poured a cup of water for the child. “It’s okay, honey. We just had some fuel for the big torches in that cup. We didn’t want you to drink it.” I handed her the water. “Did you just finish your dance?”
She nodded, her wide eyes flitting from one officer to the other. She didn’t resist when I turned her toward the entrance. “Miss Breanna is probably wondering where you went.” I propelled her out of the tent.
Officer Butler still held the cup aloft, his face returning to its customary ruddy complexion. Officer Franklin took it out of his fingers and poured its contents back into the torch fuel bottle. Her fingers shook the tiniest bit as she crumpled up the cup and shoved it down into the trash. “That was on me,” she said. “I never should have left it sitting out on the table like that. Good save, Butler.”
He dusted his hands on his thighs. “I’ve got three grandkids at home who get into everything. I’ve learned to be quick.”
Officer Franklin turned back to me with a return of her brisk manner. “Let’s get you something to wear.”
People stared at me walking back to my booth escorted by a police officer. I noticed one man taking a picture and groaned inwardly. I hoped I wouldn’t end up on social media as the presumed poisoner. That would be almost as bad as actually getting arrested for the crime.
Letty was back at the booth when we arrived. She took the sight of the police officer in stride. While she refrained from attempting to sell Officer Franklin a piece of antique jewelry, she didn’t flinch when I asked her if she had a blouse I could borrow. She looked me over and then pulled out a couple of checkered blouses that looked like they came from the 1940s. Both clashed with my skirt, but I knew Officer Franklin wasn’t concerned with any fashion statement I might make. I chose the green one. “I’ll take this over to the toilet and change real quick,” I said.
Officer Franklin picked up the blanket I’d used to cover the merchandise and stretched it out with both hands for a screen. “Just slip that off right here and I’ll be on my way.”
I complied, realizing I had no other choice. Did she think I was going to run off with the incriminating evidence after all that? I buttoned myself up and handed her the soiled blouse. “I guess I don’t need that back. There’s probably no way to get that stain out.”
She snagged one of our plastic bags to put the blouse in. “I’ll be in touch if we have any further questions.”
Letty watched her stride away and then turned to pepper me with questions.
“What did the cops ask you? Do they think Ladd was the victim of foul play? Did you tell them how he was flirting with that fifteen-year-old dancer?”
I waited until she paused for a breath and then said, “Ladd died at the hospital. His whiskey flask was poisoned.”
She stared at me in silence for a full minute, which must have been a record for her. The silence was interrupted by the sound of my phone ringing. I snatched it up. It was McCarthy.
“Sorry I didn’t answer before,” he said. “The police were questioning me about Ladd Foster’s collapse. He died shortly after he arrived here. It was cardiac arrest caused by pulmonary injury, not by exertion. He never regained consciousness. The ER doc thinks he drank something that got into his lungs.”
“It was torch oil, in his flask.” I could hear McCarthy draw in his breath sharply. I told him about how I’d checked out Ladd’s flask and about its subsequent disappearance.
He let out a low whistle. “Kudos to the nosy seamstress for investigating a crime that hadn’t even been identified as a crime yet. Where did the flask go?”
I groaned. “I don’t know. I checked the lost-and-found, but it wasn’t there. I’m guessing the murderer snuck back in to remove the evidence. Which means he’s still hanging around the Games.” I glanced over my shoulder, but no murderer lurked behind the booth. “Did you learn anything from the police?”
“The cops were asking questions, not offering information. They spent a good half hour interviewing Sterling and me as eyewitnesses, even though Sterling was miles away mowing his grass when Ladd collapsed. What about you? Did the police finger you as the number one suspect?”
“Ha, ha, very funny.”
I heard a car honking in the background, and McCarthy swore under his breath.
“What was that? Are you driving right now?”
“Yeah. I’m on my way back to the Games.”
“I’m hanging up! Come to my booth when you get here.” I disconnected before he could reply. I tried never to talk to people when they were driving. I didn’t want to hear a car crash and know it was all my fault for distracting the driver.
I generally considered myself a strong, independent woman, except for that one area of my life where I was hampered by an illogical fear that I could not overcome: I had a phobia about driving. I had learned how to drive enough to get my license when I was a teenager, but every time I got behind the wheel, my heart would race and my hands would start to shake until I was virtually paralyzed by fear. I would feel completely out of control, which isn’t the way a responsible driver should feel. I didn’t own a car and never drove if I didn’t have to. I resolved that one of these days I would seek treatment for my phobia, but in the meantime, both Aileen and my brother Pete helped me out with rides as a condition of living in my house. I figured we all came out on top in the end.
“Was that your photographer friend?”
I realized Letty had been listening to our entire conversation and now knew as much about Ladd’s death as McCarthy and I combined. Talk about nosy!
We didn’t get a chance to hash over the details, however. The loudspeaker announced the end of the musical competitions and athletic events and highlighted the closing of the Scottish Marketplace in time for the awards ceremony in the next half hour. Hordes of pipers, dancers, and spectators flocked to browse through the booths one last time. Letty and I had our hands full.
McCarthy stopped by while I was waiting on a woman who wanted to order a child’s dress. He stood grinning behind her as she thrust a page torn out of a fashion magazine into my hands. “I want you to make a dress for my daughter Pearl. She’s got her very first piano recital next Saturday. She’s doing a Celtic piece, so I want her to wear a tartan dress. Like this.” It was a picture of a curvy model wearing an off-the-shoulder gown with an enormous bow to one side of the tightly fitting skirt. Nothing about the gown was age-appropriate for a child.
The best part about being my own boss