Highland Laddie Gone Read online

  Highland Laddie Gone

  Sharyn Mccrumb

  "Sharyn McCrumb is a born storyteller." – Mary Higgins Clark

  Attending a Scottish festival in West Virginia, Elizabeth MacPherson, an amateur detective, investigates the murder of Dr. Colin Campbell.

  Sharyn McCrumb

  Highland Laddie Gone

  The third book in the Elizabeth MacPherson series, 1986

  To Gavin

  Whose advice and inspiration I needed…

  More than Wisdom or a Drink

  Here’s tae us. Wha’s like us-damn few an’ they’re a’ deid.

  – Traditional Scots toast

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  When I am not writing mysteries I am a regional scholar, and as such I am particularly concerned with cultural patterns, dialect, etc. Therefore, when I decided to have three Scots as main characters in this book, I consulted the real thing. Dr. Gavin Faulkner, who turned out to be Scotland’s answer to Henry Higgins, guided me through hours of research, provided invaluable material on dialects, and even went along to a few Highland games to test my cultural theories. I couldn’t have done it without him.

  I am also grateful to Dr. Alan Haddow (Colonel Pickering to Gavin’s Higgins) for being more help to a writer than one could reasonably expect of an engineer, and to Marcia Romano and Stephen Goldie for their help with Glaswegian. The Scots-Americans at the various Highland festivals have without exception been friendly and helpful to me in researching my book-even the Campbells. Most of the aberrations depicted herein are purely imaginary, but the cultural observations are as accurate as I was able to make them.

  GIENCOE MOUNTAIN GAMES

  WESTERN VIRGINIA’S

  OWN SCOTTISH FESTIVAL

  LABOR DAY WEEKEND

  SCHEDULE OF EVENTS

  Scottish Field Events

  Highland Parade of Clans

  Dancing & Piping Competitions

  Clan Hospitality Tents

  Ceilidh (Scottish Pub & Dancing)

  Border Collie Herding Events

  Scottish Items for Sale

  Glencoe Festival Craft Fair

  Camping Facilities and Some

  Motel Accommodations

  * * * * * * * * * * * * *

  FOR INFORMATION:

  Dr. G. Andrew Carson

  Glencoe Mountain Games Chairman

  7091 Bonnie Bell Drive

  Meadow Creek, Virginia

  Or: Your Local Scottish Heritage Society

  THE SOUTHERN HIGHLANDER

  NEWSLETTER

  A Wee Word From Heather McSkye

  Lots of exciting Do’s to share with you this month! Gregory Spence (the dashing dermatologist who looks divine in a kilt) is whisking off to the auld country for a well-earned vacation. We’ll miss you at the games, Greg!

  Jeff and Bitsy Lockerby (of White Oak Farms) are the proud parents of a wee bairn, Bonnie Jean, born July 25th. Congratulations to Clan Douglas on a new addition!

  A tip of the tarn to Taylor McKinnon for winning first prize in country dancing at North Carolina Highland Games. (Can you believe that Babs and Ed have a college-age daughter?)

  Speaking of Highland games, SCOTS WHAT HAE… the time and energy should be getting ready for next month’s Virginia Gala. This will be my first festival as a member of Clan Mac-Donald and I’m as nervous as a corbie on a high road! My husband Batair (that’s Gaelic for Walter; and he’s Dr. Hutcheson to his patients) is an old hand at this festival business, since he is in his second term as clan chief. He has arranged for Clan MacDonald to have its own tent at the games.

  BRING YOUR OWN GLENLIVET!-A special thanks to that dear Betty Carson (so organized!) for heading up the hospitality committee. I’E be on hand to help her out-any more volunteers out there?

  Batair and I were among the guests at Doug and Paige Stewart’s anniversary party last week. After a lovely dinner of prime rib, set on a table fit for the Bonnie Prince, we all went in to Paige’s stunning Queen Anne living room and watched slides of their trip to Scotland. They didn’t get to my old home place, but I’ve made them promise to visit it on their next trip.-Thanks to all the Highlanders here for making a newcomer to the country-and a newlywed-feel so welcome!

  Note: Those with questions about the border collie herding competition, please don’t ask me! I’m completely bewildered by all creatures great and small. The person you need to talk to is the first Mrs. Walter Hutcheson, who can be reached at… (over)

  CLAN CHATTAN

  Dear Elizabeth,

  How are you? It’s been ages! Due to a security leak in your organization (your mom), I have obtained your address and am writing to ask a favor. (In business school they teach us to come to the point in the first paragraph.) Did you know that I’m getting my MBA at Princeton! The folks are so thrilled about it-Daddy’s plastered bumper stickers on every vehicle we own, even the riding lawn mower. It’s quite sweet, really, to see them so happy. Your mother didn’t say what you were doing.

  Haven’t seen you at the Highland games festivals since high school. You really ought to come to one. Surely you’re not still upset about the dance competition. Goodness, there’s so much more to a festival than that! There’s the hospitality tent, and the nametag chairman. Not everybody is meant to be graceful, you know.

  Anyway, I hope I can persuade you to come to the Labor Day games (see enclosed brochure), because there is something that I need a volunteer for. You remember Cluny, don’t you? He’s fine, as reserved as ever. For the past two years, I’ve been the person in charge of him for the festivals. You know how they like a pretty girl to show him off. Well, this year I simply can’t come! I’ll be in Europe during term break with my flatmate. So, I need someone to take my place. Buffy and Pax and Cammie-Lynn were all booked up, so I’m hoping that you’ll show the old Clan spirit and volunteer for the job. But if you can’t afford it, do say so, and I’ll understand.

  Please let me know soon about this. I’m off to Europe next week. Oh, and what have you been doing lately? Teaching?

  Got to run!

  Mary Stuart Gillespie

  Dear Mary-Stuart,

  Can’t tell you how devastated I am to hear that you won’t be at the Highland games this year. In that case, I guess I’ll go. And I’ll be happy to take care of Cluny. He’s my favorite member of Clan Chattan, anyway.

  No, I’m not teaching. I’m getting a degree in forensic anthropology, along with my fiancé, Milo Gordon. We spend a lot of time cutting up dead bodies. I think of you often.

  Sincerely,

  Elizabeth

  CHAPTER ONE

  “THERE! I told you we weren’t lost!” said Elizabeth MacPherson, slapping the steering wheel. “Look at the bumper sticker on that car.”

  Her cousin Geoffrey assumed an expression of world-weary disdain. “The one that says: Do it with a Piper?”

  “Yes. Meaning bagpipes. They must be on their way to the Scottish festival.”

  “Or perhaps to an exterminators’ convention. One can but hope,” sighed Geoffrey.

  “You promised you were going to behave,” Elizabeth reminded him.

  “If our theatre group weren’t producing Brigadoon next spring, you would never have got me to come.”

  “I know, Geoffrey,” said Elizabeth sweetly. “But you were my second choice for someone to go with.”

  “Oh? And who was your first choice?”

  Elizabeth shrugged. “Just anybody.”

  She continued to follow the blue station wagon along Virginia Highway 42, looking for signs announcing the Western Virginia Highland Games. Why did I want someone to come with me, Elizabeth wondered. Is it a holdover from the old days when a woman alone was a wallflower? She stole a gl
ance at Geoffrey, who had gone back to reading the play script. She had better make some effort to stay on good terms with him for the weekend: Geoffrey was known for his skill at subtle revenge.

  “It will be nice to have you along,” she admitted. “These Scottish gatherings tend to be mostly families and old men. Unattached young men will be at a premium.”

  Geoffrey struck a pose. “Young men like me would be at a premium in heaven, my dear.”

  Elizabeth nodded. “There will be very few of you there, if that’s what you mean.”

  “It sounds like a senior citizens’ costume party. Whatever did you want to come for?”

  “It can be a lot of fun. I used to come every year until I went off to college. Once I got third place in the country dancing.”

  “Just the two of you competing, I suppose?” asked Geoffrey solemnly.

  Elizabeth sighed. “Should we keep score this weekend?”

  “I think not. Your best bet is an unconditional surrender. Now, to get back to this Highland fling you’ve dragged me to: I hope I am not expected to wear a kilt.”

  “No. Lots of people wear ordinary clothes.”

  “I could never be accused of that,” Geoffrey assured her, smoothing his yellow poplin slacks. “That reminds me. I did bring along something to get into the spirit of things.”

  He reached into the pocket of his navy blue blazer and drew out a red and green plaid necktie. “There! Now, how do you say tacky in Gaelic?”

  Elizabeth glanced at the tie, swerved the car, and fixed her eyes firmly on the road again. “You’re not going to wear that,” she informed him.

  “Why not? I thought it was rather fetching. Though not perhaps with yellow slacks.”

  “It’s the Royal Stewart tartan, Geoffrey.”

  He clutched the tie to his chest. “Possession is nine-tenths of the law!”

  “Idiot. I mean, it’s the plaid of the Scottish royal family. No one but them is supposed to wear it.”

  “Then there must be an awful lot of them, because I see it on stadium blankets, dog coats-”

  “I know, but remember that this is a Scottish festival, where they enforce rules like that. At least, Dr. Campbell does.”

  “Who?”

  “If we’re lucky he won’t be here this year, But I doubt if wild horses could keep him away. He’s the president of the local chapter of Clan Campbell, and he is the most exasperating old grouch alive! He’s a stickler for Scottish etiquette, and an absolute bore about family trees.”

  “Not unlike yourself, in fact,” Geoffrey observed.

  “You are not wearing that tie, Geoffrey,” Elizabeth replied calmly. “If you want to join in, you can wear a MacPherson tie; or you can find out if the Chandlers were affiliated with any clan; but wear the Royal Stewart you may not. I won’t be seen with anyone doing that. Or wearing Campbell colors, of course.”

  “What are Campbell colors? Purple and orange?”

  “The tartan, I mean. You can’t be a Campbell. Honestly, I don’t know why they even come to these gatherings.”

  “They sound marvelous,” said Geoffrey, with the first trace of interest he had thus far displayed. “Do they kidnap children? Dip snuff? Play acid rock on their bagpipes?”

  Elizabeth was so distracted by this last possibility that she nearly forgot to answer. “Of course not,” she finally said. “They were on the wrong side, that’s all. It’s like going to a Civil War reenactment and being a Yankee.”

  “Does this have something to do with Bonnie Prince Charlie-he of my forbidden necktie?” asked Geoffrey, fingering the object in question.

  “Of course. In 1745 the Highland clans backed Charles Edward Stuart against the Hanovers for the throne of England. He raised an army in Scotland, and-”

  “The MacPhersons were on his side, I take it?”

  “Naturally.”

  “And the Campbells… weren’t?” Geoffrey beamed with pride at the magnitude of his deduction.

  “Right. The final battle was at Culloden in 1746. The Highland clans with swords and an inoperative cannon stood against the British army and the Campbells, who were armed with muskets and bayonets!”

  Geoffrey blinked. “There seems to be nothing wrong with the Campbells’ intelligence, then. The MacPhersons, on the other hand-”

  “It was a massacre,” said Elizabeth, ignoring him. “And after the battle, the Duke of Cumberland’s army spent months in the Highlands, killing every man, woman, and child they could find. They virtually obliterated the Highland clans.”

  “Hardly that,” Geoffrey protested. “Judging from these Scottish gatherings, I’d say you were all breeding like hamsters.”

  “We’re the refugees,” snapped Elizabeth, glossing over a few centuries. “The ones who could escaped to Ireland, and then to America or Canada.”

  Geoffrey nodded comprehension. “I see! But, Elizabeth, what are the Campbells doing here then? Shouldn’t they all be back in Scotland, living it up, having the place all to themselves?”

  Elizabeth was shaken by this hitherto unconsidered question. “Never mind about that!” she muttered. “They’re probably all descended from younger sons who got booted out to the colonies.”

  “That’s right,” smiled Geoffrey. “I’d forgotten that everyone in Virginia is descended from the English nobility. Not a yeoman in the state.”

  Elizabeth made a face at him.

  “With all that fiction going around, I don’t see why I couldn’t be a Royal Stewart. Wasn’t Bonnie Prince Charlie called The Pretender? It fits right in.”

  “Forget it, Geoffrey.”

  “You are so unreasonable. You won’t even indulge me in my one bit of whimsy, when I have been a perfect saint about putting up with your eccentricity.”

  Geoffrey turned around and stared meaningfully at the passenger in the backseat, who returned the glare with malevolent yellow eyes.

  CHAPTER TWO

  “POOR Cluny!” cried Elizabeth, glancing again into the rearview mirror. “Does he look hungry?”

  “He’s gazing longingly at my throat,” said Geoffrey. “It may not be the same thing.”

  “We’d better feed him. Can you reach that cooler on the floor of the backseat?”

  “With my hand?”

  “I can’t believe that he would condescend to bite you, but I’ll stop the car anyway.”

  Cluny, the clan mascot, was a regal bobcat who embodied the Chattan motto: Touch Not the Cat. He lounged on the backseat, wearing a tartan ribbon over his metal collar, and a look of heavy-lidded insolence. Several times a year, Cluny’s owner lent him out to attend Scottish festivals, where he enjoyed overeating and sneering at the antics of the primates. Since Cluny was de-clawed and had never found anyone worth the energy to bite, he was generally believed to be tame, but his expression of cordial dislike kept most admirers at bay. “My ancestors used to eat your ancestors,” he seemed to be thinking behind his yellow stare.

  Elizabeth stopped the car on a level stretch of grass beside the road. “Poor pussums,” she cooed. “Is-ums hungry?”

  Cluny yawned and flexed a paw against the upholstery.

  “I wish you had been that solicitous when I wanted to stop and eat,” Geoffrey remarked.

  “Get the cooler out of the backseat,” said Elizabeth. “I’ll walk him around.”

  Geoffrey hoisted the plastic ice chest, which was heavier than he expected, and deposited it ungently on the grass. “What’s in this thing? Judge Crater?”

  “The bobcat bill of fare for the entire weekend. All I have to do is keep adding ice to the cooler-and there should be lots of that around, considering how those doctors drink. Come on, Cluny, din-din.” She opened the box. “Let’s see what we have here. How about ground chuck?”

  “As opposed to Geoffrey Tartare,” murmured Geoffrey, edging out of the way.

  “He must be very expensive to feed,” Elizabeth remarked as Cluny inhaled a fist-size chunk of meat.

  “Consider the alter
native.”

  “Dry cat food?”

  “Door-to-door salesmen, Jehovah’s Witnesses…”

  “I keep telling you, he’s not dangerous. Just a little reserved. I hope he’ll get along with dogs. Marge may be there.”

  Geoffrey smiled. “Does she know what you think of her?”

  “What?… Oh, I see. What I meant was that Marge Hutcheson always brings border collies to the games, and I wouldn’t want them to chase Cluny. Or vice versa. Marge was always one of my favorite people at the games. I used to help her set up the gates and ramps for the herding competition.”

  “Do you mean to tell me there will be sheep at this ordeal?” asked Geoffrey, inspecting the sole of his shoe as if anticipating future indignities.

  “No. Of course, in Scotland border collies herd sheep; but for the games here, sheep are too much trouble to haul around, so most exhibitors use ducks. It’s amazing what the dogs can get those ducks to do.”

  “Oh, I don’t know. I’ll bet if we got a giant carnivore to slink around after you, you’d be doing amazing things, too.” He paused to look at Elizabeth, who was hopping on one foot with one hand arched over her head.

  “I’m shedding,” she informed him, placing her left foot in front of her knee, then behind it, then in front again.

  “A balsam conditioner would do you a world of good, but why are you bouncing around like that?”

  Elizabeth pretended to stop in order to answer his question, and Geoffrey pretended not to see her gasping for breath. “Shedding,” she said between heaves. “Name of… dance step… Highland fling… practicing.”

  “You’re not going to practice too much, are you, dear? Father insisted that we learn CPR, but it’s been years.”

  “Dinna worry about me, laddie!” snapped Elizabeth.