Bonnie of Evidence (14 page)

“You don’t need another freaking necktie. I’ve given up enough closet space to your clothes fetish.”

“And I’ve given up enough dresser space to your jewelry fetish. So there.”

“You don’t even wear neckties!”

“So?” Alex rubbed the Royal Stuart wool between his thumb and forefinger, as if testing for softness. “They’re pretty. I like to look at them.”

Erik arched a brow at me. “He’s impossible to reason with when he gets in these moods.”

“My husband would sympathize,” I commiserated. “I tend to hog all the closet space, too.”

Erik fisted his hand on his hip, exasperation flooding his face. “So how do you handle the issue and remain happily married?”

“You build a new house with lots of walk-ins.” I smiled pertly. “Problem solved.”

Alex laid the necktie back on the display table and made a great show of dusting off his hands. “See? I put it back. Happy now?”

“So do you guys live in a house or an apartment?” I inquired.

“House,” claimed Alex, as Erik said, “Apartment.”

They crossed glances. Erik laughed. “We actually live in a detached condo,” he explained. “Technically, it’s a house, but it’s so small, it feels more like an apartment.”

“So it’s a house with a pintsize footprint. How very green of you. New condo? Old condo?”

“New,” claimed Erik, as Alex said, “Old.”

They lifted their brows and pinched their lips together, refusing to look at each other. “It all depends on your definition of old,” Alex explained. “It was built ten years ago, which in my estimation, is pretty old. Erik obviously disagrees.”

“A building that’s only ten years old is practically brand new,” argued Erik. “Just saying.”

I glanced from one to the other. “Are you sure the two of you actually live together?” I teased.

For a heartbeat, their eyes snapped with an emotion as raw as the one effected by silver screen legends before they morphed into werewolves, but it was gone as quickly as it appeared, replaced by guffaws and dismissive gestures.

“You see?” Erik stabbed an accusing finger at Alex’s face. “I told you we needed to spend more time together. People don’t even realize we’re a couple anymore.” He turned to me, pleading his case. “It’s all his fault, Emily. He spends so much time with his nose stuck in his computer that he doesn’t talk to me anymore. I told him to retire, but
noooo
. He thinks the whole nuclear industry will collapse without his input.”

“It will,” Alex averred. “I’m indispensable.”

“Were you involved in that accident at Three Mile Island decades ago?” I asked, summoning the entire depth and breadth of my knowledge about the country’s nuclear power industry. Well, that, and two old movie flicks with Jack Lemmon and Cher. “Didn’t the core almost melt down, or something? Is that the kind of thing you handle?”

“Have you ever seen
The China Syndrome?
” Alex asked me.

“Yes! Back in college. It was part of a thrillerfest extravaganza on a weekend when the football Badgers had a bye. It was
so
realistic.”

“What I do is nothing like that.” He ranged a quick glance around the rest of the gift shop. “I’m not seeing anything else in here that even vaguely tempts me, so why don’t we queue up for the video?” he asked Erik.

“Love to. Would you excuse us, Emily?”

They hustled out the door as if they were migratory birds fleeing a hurricane—a hurricane, I suspected, named Emily. I wasn’t stupid. I could recognize a last-minute escape when I saw one. What I didn’t understand was—What was up with the discrepancy in their answers about their life together? And why did that bother them to the point of prompting such a quick exit?

“Your eyes are younger than mine,” Bill Gordon announced as he approached me. He thrust a piece of cardboard wrapped in cellophane into my hand. “How much does this thing cost?”

The “thing” was a replica of a two-handed sword miniaturized to the size of a fingernail file. I turned it over, spying the price in microscopic font in the corner. “Ten pounds sixty, it says here.”

“Are you kidding me? What are they trying to do? Make up the country’s financial deficit on the backs of us tourists?” He snorted with self-righteous indignation. “What does the writing on the front say?”

“
Uhh
—‘The Claymore was a common weapon among the highland clans, designed to facilitate sweeping slashes and powerful thrusts. Unlike other swords of the period, it was unique for its sloping cross-guards that terminated in … quatrefoils and a high collared … quillon block, with the … langets following the … blade fuller.’ “I frowned. “I hope that means something to you because it means nothing to me.”

“Anything else?” he asked.

“‘Made in China.’”

“Are you
kidding
me?” He snatched it from my hand, stormed across the room, and tossed it back into a display basket. “The next time you decide to charge a crapload of money for a souvenir,” he railed at the cashier, “make sure the damn thing is made in Scotland! Shysters,” he grumbled as he blew by me on his way out the door.

“It looked like a really nice replica,” I called after him. “Even if it
was
made in China.”

He turned back to me. “Authentic Scottish blades
are not
made in China. They’re made in Scotland, by authorized Scottish armorers.”

“Yeah, but if the replica fills a gap in your collection—I assume you have a collection?”

His eyes grew fierce, his voice menacing. “I have a replica of every sword and dagger wielded by clan Gordon to slay Campbells, and Mackelvies, and Loudouns, and Maccarters, and Conochies, and Maccoulls, and—”

“Maccoulls?”

He lowered his brows, squinting malevolently. “Yes, Maccoulls. Why? Do you know any?”

I shook my head. “Nope. It just sounds like Maccoull should be … Irish.”

“It’s not. The Campbells were ruthless, backstabbing scaffs, but the Maccoulls? The Maccoulls taught them everything they knew.”

I assumed “scaff,” in this context, wasn’t intended as a compliment.

“Stella!” he yelled across the room. “I’m heading to the can.”

“Why are you telling me?” she yelled back. “Do I look like your mother?”

I made a mental note to warn Nana against mentioning Hamish Maccoull or the rest of her Scottish ancestors to Bill. If the Gordons had a history of slaying Maccoulls, Nana could be in the crosshairs, and with Bill being so rabid about keeping the whole revenge thing alive, I was a little nervous about how far he might go to promote his clan’s honor.

I inhaled a calming breath. It was a good thing Isobel’s death wasn’t suspicious, because if it was, I knew the first person I’d be asking for an alibi.

I power-shopped my way through the rest of the store, picking up souvenirs for my nephews, and selecting postcards that I convinced myself I’d actually fill out. Stella Gordon got in line behind me at the cashier’s counter, carrying the claymore that Bill had thrown back into the bin.

“I’m not sure you were paying attention,” I said as I eyed the merchandise in her hand, “but Bill was adamant about not wanting to buy that.”

“He’s adamant about a lot of things. That doesn’t mean he’s right.”

“He seriously objected to its being made in China.”

She rolled her eyes. “What isn’t? If I don’t buy this for his weapons collection, once we’re home, he’ll be kicking himself from here ’til Sunday for letting it slip through his fingers. And guess who becomes the captive audience for his griping? Me. So I’m buying it. I like to think of it as a preemptive measure to shut him up.”

I handed the clerk my credit card. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone quite as … passionate about his heritage as Bill.”

“Fanatical, you mean. He’s like a bloodhound, sniffing out people with Scottish blood so he can pick a fight if they were born on the wrong side of the tartan. You know what I wish?”

I signed the receipt and gathered up my purchases. “What?”

“I wish every person on this tour with Scottish roots would disappear so I could enjoy the rest of my vacation.”

I stiffened, uneasy with her implication. “You mean that rhetorically, of course.”

“Oh, for crying out loud. What do you think I’m going to do? Wave my magic wand, say ‘Poof’, and zap a whole busload of people into oblivion? ”

I couldn’t speak to her methodology, but if eliminating guests was her goal, she had a pretty good start.

I bypassed the theater on my way to the veranda and bumped into the Dicks as they were exiting the cafe. I stood back, looking them up and down with a critical eye. “Well would you look at the two of you? You’ve been shopping, I see.”

“This wasn’t our idea,” griped Dick Stolee as he tugged his kilt around his waist. “This is all your fault, Emily. You built too much free time into the Edinburgh schedule and the wives went nuts.”

“So how do you like wearing a skirt?” I needled.

“How do you think I like it?” he snapped. “I look like a girl.” He tugged the fabric in the opposite direction. “Damn fool thing. It’s itchy.”

“Not enough undergarments,” speculated Dick Teig. “What are you wearing? Boxers or briefs?”

Dick Stolee registered a blank look as he patted down his flanks. “Damn. I knew I forgot something.”

Euw.

“I kinda like the whole pantless thing myself,” confessed Dick Teig as he rotated his hips, causing the pleated wool to swish back and forth. “But so help me, Emily, if you ever breathe a word to Helen, I’ll deny I ever said it.”

The girls had bought them identical kilts in a Black Watch plaid, with identical sporrans to carry incidentals. The outfits fell apart below their knees though, with Dick Stolee sporting black dress socks and white canvas sneakers, and Dick Teig running around in white athletic socks and wingtips. Not the best fashion accessories to achieve that rugged, devil-may-care highland look.

“So are these your team uniforms?” I asked.

“The wives tell us they are,” groused Dick Stolee.

Swish, swish, swish
. “The ventilation is great,” said Dick Teig as he continued to rotate his hips. “That Erik fella sure called it right. My boys finally have room to breathe! And wait until I see my chiropractor again. He told me if I’d stop parking my backside on my wallet, my sciatica would improve, and doggone, he was right. Look at this.” Stretching his arms out in a T, he executed a series of torso twists that sent his stomach swinging with near seismic bounce. “It doesn’t hurt anymore!”

Dick cringed. “Oh, Jeez.”

“I might never wear pants again.”

“Will you stop?” snapped Dick Stolee. He peered around the room as if all eyes were on him. “You’re embarrassing me.”

Dick Teig hiked his kilt to his knees and stared down at his shoes. “I’m not sure about the wingtips and athletic socks though. What do you think, Emily? Would dress socks look better? Helen bought some really nice ones at the dollar store.”

“I’m gonna take in the video,” huffed Dick Stolee as he nodded toward the theater.

“Great idea,” I encouraged. “I bet the whole area will come alive once you learn the history behind the ruins.”

“I’m not going in there to hear about the ruins,” he deadpanned. “I’m going in there because it’s dark.” He arched a brow at his friend. “You coming with me, or would you rather stay here, discussing your ensemble with Emily?”

Dick Teig looked suddenly desperate. “I’ve gotta use the men’s room. Anyone seen it?”

“By the gift shop,” I said, pointing in the right direction. “That-away.”

As he struck out across the floor, Dick Stolee stood beside me, watching him go, which was a little unusual, since the two men rarely allowed themselves to be out of each other’s sight.

“You’re not going with him?” I asked.

He shook his head.

“Sooo … unlike the female of the species, men don’t have to go to the restroom in twos?”

“I wouldn’t mind going, but …” He threw a careful look around him before leaning toward me and asking in a self-conscious voice, “Can I go in there dressed in a skirt?”

After calming Dick’s nerves about acceptable dress code in a Scottish men’s room, I headed toward the exit doors and stepped out onto the blacktopped terrace that fronted the building. In the distance I could see the battered ruins of the castle, perched on a bluff like a crumbling section of the Great Wall of China, looking oddly formidable in its decrepitude. It was as long as a Florida strip mall, with a solitary watch tower poking up from its gutted remains, and a footbridge welcoming tourists through an arched gate that might once have run slick with boiling oil. Nana and Tilly stood at the veranda, checking out the grounds with their binoculars, while George manned the observation telescope, looking much like a submarine captain draped over his periscope. Mom sat at a patio table to my right, entering information onto her laptop while seemingly oblivious to Dad, who was locked in conversation with Wally at the far end of the terrace.