Bonnie of Evidence (5 page)

She stared up at him like a puppy dog, her mouth hanging slightly open, her eyes adoring. “Okay.”

He offered her his hand, which she stared at, adoringly.

“Ms. Swanson?”

Her gaze drifted to his face. “Uh-huh?”

“Would you like to join the other tour guests in the lounge before it closes? The drinks are on them.”

“Okay.”

He helped her to her feet and slid her shoulder bag up her arm. “And if I could impose upon your good nature, would you mind distributing your sanitizer to our Destinations Travel guests only? We want your sightseeing experience to include visits to sites other than police interrogation rooms.”

She smiled dreamily. “Okay.”

I rolled my eyes. It was official. There was no justice in the world.

He escorted her to the door and let her out. “The hotel lounge,” he called after her. “Ground floor. Through the glass doors to the right of reception.” He rejoined me, looking a bit wary. “Did she seem a bit ‘off’ to you?”

“She’ll be fine once she’s outside your force field.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Let’s just say that she likes your suggestions better than mine, even when they’re the same suggestion. You kinda have that effect on women.”

“I do?” Smiling seductively, he pulled me off my chair and pressed me against him, locking his arms around the small of my back. “Well, then, Mrs. Miceli, I have another suggestion.”

Oh, boy
. I knew what that tone meant.

“But it involves some minor effort on your part, like … not objecting when I do this.” He unclipped the barrette at the back of my head and tossed it onto the armchair. Tangling his fingers in my unbound hair, he tilted my head, baring my earlobe. “Or this.” He traced the curve of my ear with his tongue, electrifying every nerve ending in my body. “Or this.” He lifted my hand to his mouth and kissed each of my fingertips slowly, provocatively, before drawing my freshly sanitized forefinger into the warmth of his mouth and—

“Emily, darling.”

“
Mmm
?” I moaned in a hormone-induced haze.

“I have another suggestion.”

“Okay.”

“Are you hungry?”

“Ravenous,” I purred.

He set me away from him and tidied my hair. “Would you hold that thought until after we find a deli? I’m at a loss to explain it, but I have a sudden, uncontrollable urge for a ham sandwich.”

_____

By noontime the next day, Edinburgh was a distant memory.

We’d stopped at St. Andrews long enough for everyone to have their picture taken on the course’s first fairway, gawk at the
Chariots of Fire
beach, and argue about whether the tide was in or out—an issue that went unresolved due to the fact that Midwesterners know less about tides than Prissy knew about birthin’ babies. From there we headed north, noting a startling change in the terrain as we drove—with the rolling hills of the lowlands ballooning into range after range of humpbacked mountains, and hardwood forests giving way to underbrush, meadow grass, bedrock, and endless sweeps of purple heather.

“We’ll be stopping for lunch in Braemar, which is home to the Royal Highland Games,” our tour director announced over the bus’s microphone. “The event is always held on the first Saturday of September, which is why we’re able to stop today. During the games, you can’t get near the place. And, as we’ve marked on your itinerary, Braemar is the site of your second geocaching event, so fire up your GPS units.”

Our tour director was a consummate professional with years of experience under his ever-expanding belt. His name was Wally Peppers—a chipmunk-cheeked, boy-next-door kind of guy who was so adept at guiding tours that we’d lured him away from his last employer to work for us on a permanent basis. He was intimately acquainted with so many foreign destinations that in many instances, we didn’t even need to hire local guides, which saved us oodles of money. Wally boasted a firm lock on middle-age, an eager attitude, and a long, unlucky streak where the ladies were concerned. He’d served as tour director on two other trips I’d taken, so we had history, even though it was a bit checkered.

“How are we supposed to eat lunch and geocache at the same time?” Dick Teig called out.

“You’re not,” said Wally. “But I’ll let Mrs. Andrew explain the logistics. Would you like to give us the particulars, Margaret?”

Mom popped out of her seat faster than a Whac-a-Mole out of its hidey hole. “Day two,” she announced with breathless excitement as she opened her official geocaching notebook. “I have it all worked out. Two teams will search first, then eat, and three teams will eat first, then search. And today’s search will probably be pretty challenging because we can only allow each team ten minutes to get the job done.”

Groans. Boos. Collective whining.

“That’s not fair!” shouted Isobel Kronk. “We’re challenged enough having Bernice on our team.”

“I resent that,” snapped Bernice.

“Now, now,” Mom placated. “Ten minutes might not sound like a lot of time, but once you enter your coordinates and take off, you’ll probably think it’s too
much
time.”

Isobel let out a sarcastic snort. “Oh, sure. Do you know the Bernice I’m talking about?”

“Is our team going to get stuck going last again?” asked Dolly Pinker. “We’re at such a psychological disadvantage when all the teams ahead of us are high-fiving each other about their successful searches. It’s totally unfair to put us under that much pressure.”

“I agree,” Alice Tjarks called out. “You need to make the process more equitable so everyone can take a turn being paralyzed by anxiety.”

Mom smiled pertly as we approached the town limits. “I’m way ahead of you. I’ve put you on a rotating schedule, so Team Five will go first today, followed by Teams One through Four. Team Four will go first tomorrow, and so on. Does that suit everyone?”

“Team Five objects to your use of the term, Team Five,” announced Bernice, boosting herself to her feet for effect. “From now on, we want you to call us Team Yes We Can.”

“Okey-dokey,” said Mom as she made a notation in her notebook.

“In that case, Team Four wants to be called Team Do It Or Lose It,” said Helen.

“Gotcha.” Mom made another notation. “Any other name changes?”

Margi shot her hand into the air. “Team Three would like to be referred to as Team There Is No Dog.”

I frowned.
What?

“There Is No Dog,” Mom recited as she entered the correction in her book.

“Team Two wants to be called Team Two,” said Dick Teig. “We’re not gonna waste time fartin’ around with all this foolishness. If it’s not broke, why fix it?”

“Team One wants to be called somethin’ with more punch,” Nana chimed in, “but we need extra time on account of we got consensus issues.”

We downshifted past a Braemar eatery with outdoor picnic tables, then slowed to a crawl past a cluster of quaint shops with steep roofs and chimney pots. “One last thing,” Mom continued as we rounded a sharp curve leading toward the town center. “We don’t want anyone to develop ulcers on this trip, so I’m going to suggest that all five teams keep mum about their luck finding the cache, and at a specified time each evening, I’ll make a formal announcement about the day’s results. Does that sound like a good idea, Emily?”

Bless her heart. Mom was all right, despite what Nana said about her. “Great idea,” I agreed. “So please remember, people, poker faces. No saying anything to anyone until Mom announces the results every night.” Gee, this was working out much better than I ever thought it would.

As we cruised to a stop in the parking lot of what looked like an upscale highland strip mall, Wally took over again. “Mark the time, everyone. Teams Two, Three, and Four should meet back here in an hour and a half to perform their searches. We board the bus again in two hours. And to remind you again, there’s a cooler up front here with bottled water that’s free for the taking, compliments of Destinations Travel, any time you’re thirsty. You’ll find lots of places to eat in Braemar, plus craft and gift shops and a really fine tartan store if you’re in the market for a cashmere sweater or kilt.”

Cashmere? I was always in the market for cashmere, especially if I could find it at bargain basement prices.

The bus emptied in record time. While Bernice and her team members gathered around Mom to receive their coordinates, the other teams scattered, some heading for the elegant stone building with gingerbread trim across the street, some readying their cameras to photograph the rock-strewn river we’d just crossed, and others wandering aimlessly on the sidewalk, looking as if they weren’t quite sure where to go. Dad stood on the street corner, in his mismatched John Deere windbreaker and Pioneer Seed Corn baseball cap, videotaping the helter-skelter departures.

“Are we eating lunch, or doing something dutiful?” Etienne inquired as he came up behind me.

I eyed the guests who were still dithering on the sidewalk. “Do those people look like they could use some guidance?”

“Doing something dutiful,” he conceded. “Allow me to volunteer. I have a printout of every eatery in Braemar.” He kissed the tip of my nose. “And I suspect you might prefer to indulge in an activity that includes the word cashmere.”

“You wanna come with me?”

A good-natured smile spread across his handsome face. “It’s shopping, bella. I’m afraid I’d rather chew razor blades.”

“Suit yourself,” I said, adding with a wink, “but to that point, I’ve heard that the new singled-edged slimlines are really quite tasty.”

I tracked down Wally in the parking lot. “Which way to the cashmere?”

“Is your radar broken?” He nodded toward the strip mall. “Right in front of you. And my sources tell me that prices have been slashed to an historic low, so knock yourself out.”

Yes!

I scarfed down an energy bar to boost my endurance then crossed the threshold of the tartan shop, pausing for just a moment to inhale the tantalizing smell of highland wool on sale for—I gaped at the sign—forty percent off the original price?
Uff-da
! And I only had two hours to shop?
Whose
stupid idea had it been to spend a measly hundred and twenty minutes in Braemar anyway?

And then I remembered.

Oh, yeah. Mine. Damn.

“Emily? Would you mind coming over here and giving me your honest opinion?”

I darted a look around the store, spying Alex Hart in front of a curtained fitting room in the far corner, waving me toward him.

“Well, would you look at you,” I said as I joined him. I looked him up and down then twirled my finger for him to turn around.

“What do you think?” he asked, holding his breath expectantly.

“I think if every man looked as good as you do in a kilt, we’d see the rapid demise of three-piece suits in corporate America.” The tartan he’d selected was a brilliant rose and navy blue that neatly hugged his flanks from waist to knees, accenting his flat stomach and narrow hips, and exposing his dough-white legs.

“Oh, thank God.” He fanned his hand in front of his face in obvious relief before pausing to give me a tentative look. “You’re sure you’re not saying that just to be nice?”

“No. Really. It’s you.”

“I bet she’s just being nice,” taunted a voice that floated out from the adjacent room.

“Oh, hush,” Alex scolded the voice’s owner. “And can you believe the prices, Emily? Forty percent off ! I’m in heaven.”

Alexander Hart was a nuclear engineer who’d looked pretty dull on paper, but who, in person, was anything but. He was a fastidious dresser, neatly tucked in and buttoned up, who sported polo players on his shirts and knife-edge creases on his slacks. His salt-and-pepper hair was razor cut, his face clean shaven, and his fingernails buffed to a gleaming shine. His career might revolve around mathematical equations and proofs, but his “life” apparently included frequent visits to high-end clothiers and Asian manicurists.

He studied his reflection in the wall mirror, turning to observe his backside. “Are you sure this thing doesn’t make my butt look big?”

“Give the girl a break,” protested the disembodied voice. “She has better things to do than check out how much junk’s in your trunk.” The fitting room curtains suddenly parted and out stepped Erik Ishmael in all his highland glory. “Ta da!” He nailed a manly pose despite the fact that he was wearing a wool skirt. “I think it has my name written all over it. What do you think?”

“I think you should stop showing off,” quipped Alex. “Emily doesn’t care that your bare torso once graced the cover of hundreds of romance novels. Your legs aren’t ready for prime time. You need a wax job.”

Erik lifted his kilt above his knees to peer down at the tangle of dark hair that matted his legs. “Forget it. Not happening. But you know what might work?” His expression brightened. “A can of shaving cream and a bag of disposable razors. Plus several boxes of bandages. Razor nicks bleed all over the place.”

Alex rolled his eyes. “I hope you’re fond of prickly stubble because you know it’s all going to start growing back in less than an hour. And it’ll probably itch. Did you remember to pack anti-itch cream?”