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.
Chapter 3
Gillian screamed. I stood frozen, with Corgi’s hand gripping my arm so hard it hurt. The officials ran up to Ladd, who lay unresponsive on the ground. One called out for a doctor, while parents shielded the eyes of their children. Breanna Lawton herded her Highland dance students away with an anxious glance over her shoulder. Someone started CPR, while several other people crouched down to give encouragement. McCarthy hovered on the edge of the action, snapping photos. I hoped I wouldn’t see any of them on the front page of tomorrow’s newspaper.
Gillian cried out again, and then clapped both hands over her mouth. Her eyes darted from side to side, as if seeking escape. I followed her gaze, wondering what she was afraid of, other than her concern for Ladd. I didn’t have to look far. Her father stood across the field, glaring at her as if she were single-handedly responsible for the commotion. When I looked back toward Gillian, she was gone.
An ambulance with sirens blaring roared across the grass. People made way for the paramedics who hurried up and knelt down beside Ladd.
My phone dinged with a text from Letty. “What’s going on?”
I texted back: “Ladd Foster collapsed.”
She responded: “Coming.”
I didn’t know if she expected me to take over our booth, but I didn’t budge. Like McCarthy, I wanted to be close to the action until it was over.
Letty appeared a few minutes later, clutching her cashbox in one hand. “I threw a blanket over the booth and just left it all there. I think it’ll be okay.” She handed me the decorative cigar box that held my proceeds. She nodded toward the urgent group on the field. “What happened to him?”
I hugged the cigar box to my chest. “Maybe a heart attack? He went into the VIP tent for a nip of whiskey, and when he came out he was coughing, like he couldn’t get his breath. He went to pick up the caber to toss it, but he dropped it and fell over, clutching his chest. He’s probably getting old to be exerting himself like that.”
Letty craned her head to look. “Is he dead?”
The matter-of-factness of her question chilled me. “I don’t know. I hope not.”
On my other side, Corgi squeezed my arm. “They’re loading him up.”
Indeed, the paramedics had placed Ladd on a stretcher and were loading it into the back of the ambulance. They drove away with a wail of sirens.
The announcer, Herman Tisdale, took the microphone. “We regret the disturbance. Ladd Foster suffered an apparent cardiac arrest while attempting the caber toss. Thanks to the efforts of heroic bystanders, he was resuscitated and transported to the hospital. Let us honor him with a moment of silence to send our prayers and good wishes, followed by a bagpipe air.” He took off his cap and bowed his head, and the people in the crowd did the same. After a few moments, the haunting sound of one bagpipe playing “Amazing Grace” filled the air.
I felt like I was at a funeral.
After the last, lingering note, the official proclaimed, “Let the Games resume!”
As Patrick stepped up for his chance at the caber, Corgi finally dropped my arm. “I better find Aileen and the rest of the band.” He headed off.
I turned to Letty. “Do you want a turn to watch the athletic events? I can cover the booth.”
“What, now that all the excitement is over?” But she was watching in fascination as Patrick hefted the caber and ran down the field to launch it into the air for another perfect turn. I collected Letty’s cashbox and left her to enjoy the rest of the heavy events.
I found the booth just as Letty had left it. I pulled back the cloth and almost burst out laughing. She had systematically transferred all my craft items to the side table and reorganized the front table with her antique linens, jewelry, and glassware. I guess she’d earned it because I’d left her tending the booth alone for so long.
McCarthy stopped by to say he was going to collect his reporter colleague Martin Sterling and swing by the hospital to check on Ladd. “Something about his story makes me uneasy.”
I frowned at him. “What do you know that I don’t?”
He laughed. “How could I possibly know more than the nosiest seamstress in the state of Pennsylvania?” His grin faded. “I overheard the guy giving Ladd CPR saying he noticed a strange odor on his breath. Just curious.”
Probably whiskey. I watched thoughtfully as McCarthy walked away. To be honest, something about Ladd’s collapse made me uneasy as well. He’d seemed perfectly fine before he walked into the VIP tent for a quick drink. Then he’d come out coughing and sputtering as if he were a fifteen-year-old tasting whiskey for the very first time. What was that about?
Suddenly, I wanted to know. I guess McCarthy didn’t call me nosy for nothing. I threw the blanket over the tables once again, pocketed the money from my cashbox, and headed back toward the athletic field.
The competition had resumed as if nothing had happened. The caber toss was finished, and Patrick was holding two enormous swords, one in each hand, with both arms extended like wings. I supposed the point was to see how long you could hold your arms