Royally Dead. Greta McKennan
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