Kilt Dead Read Online Free PDF Page A

for adults.
    When she had time, Liss promised herself, she’d take a
stroll through the old neighborhood, but right now she
had to get a move on. The Highland Games were scheduled to open in less than two hours.
    “Look quick!” Sherri shoved a pair of binoculars into
Liss’s hands and pointed toward the athletic field.
    Liss managed to adjust the focus in time to see Pete
Campbell throw the clachneart the Scottish version of
the Olympic shot put.
    Most people would have kept their eyes on the twentyeight-pound granite stone Pete held at shoulder height,
wondering if it would break the local record of thirty-five
feet. Forewarned by the laughter in Sherri’s voice, Liss
watched Pete’s kilt. He spun three times in a circle. Each
rotation sent the fabric billowing higher. The final revolution, just before he let go of the stone, lifted the hem
above his thighs.
    A traditional Scot wasn’t supposed to wear anything at
all beneath the kilt, but this was an American version of
the Highland Games and Pete Campbell, though he’d passed on the more usual cut-offs and bicycle shorts, wasn’t about
to risk arrest for indecent exposure. Swim trunks patterned
in fluorescent purple and chartreuse flowers winked at
spectators for a split second before the concealing folds
of the Campbell tartan settled back to knee level.

    “Oh, God!” Sherri had watched through a second pair
of binoculars. “Did you see that?” Her cheeks were bright
pink. “He said he’d wear them but I didn’t think he would.”
    Grinning as much over Sherri’s delight as at Pete’s unconventional choice of attire for the Stone of Strength
competition, Liss waited on the next customer. “That will
be ten dollars and sixty cents,” she told a middle-aged
brunette wearing a MacDougall tartan sash over jeans and
a camp shirt.
    While the woman searched her pockets for exact change,
Liss shoved a damp lock of hair out of her face, tucking it
behind her ear. For the most part she’d been able to ignore
the heat and humidity. The hot, sticky weather wasn’t exactly a surprise, not in late July, but Liss did wish she
wasn’t dressed in an ankle-length wool skirt and a longsleeved blouse.
    Suck it up and keep smiling, she told herself. It was
part of the job to be a walking advertisement for the
store’s line of Scottish women’s wear. At least the smiles
came easily. They’d had a steady stream of paying customers ever since the gates opened.
    Liss wrapped her customer’s purchase, a ceramic mug
decorated with a thistle, the symbol of Scotland, in tissue
paper, sliding both it and the receipt into one of the small
red bags Aunt Margaret special-ordered with “Moosetookalook Scottish Emporium” emblazoned on both sides. She
watched the woman trot off, package in hand, toward the
clan tents, and felt a sense of satisfaction. Business was
brisk. Aunt Margaret would be pleased.
    Both Liss and Sherri were busy for the next half hour.
Sherri was still ringing up sales when Liss finally man aged a short break. She used it to take in the sounds and
smells and sights peculiar to Scottish festivals.

    A very welcome breeze carried a snatch of song in a clear
soprano voice above the general hubbub of the crowd.
According to the program, a series of performers were
scheduled throughout the day.
    The same stirring of fresh air also brought a variety of
smells wafting Liss’s way, including one that made her
stomach growl. Nothing in the world smelled better than
freshly baked scones. They’d always been a weakness of
hers.
    The area around the Moosetookalook Scottish Emporium booth was a virtual forest of tents and awnings.
Along one side were vendors of goods and food. Clans
and societies, together with registration centers for various events, dominated the other. Liss had a good, if distant, view of the athletic field used for sports competitions
and the parade field where everything from the performance by the