Royally Dead. Greta McKennan
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