Bonnie of Evidence

SEVENTEEN



WE STAGGERED OFF THE ferry like the bedraggled survivors of the original Poseidon Adventure, only with drier clothes. The group had exhausted the supply of motion sickness bags halfway through the forty-five minute trip, but the staff promised to have a fresh supply on hand for the return journey. Not that it mattered. If the majority ruled, we’d be returning to the mainland by a method of transportation less traumatizing than the ferry.

“I don’t know about the rest of you, but me and Helen are taking the train back,” vowed Dick Teig as he and Helen shuffled onto dry land.

“Me, too,” said Osmond, whose coloring was slowly starting to pinken up.

I walked beside them, arm in arm with Alice, whose complexion was still only slightly less green than creamed peas. “I hate to be the one to break it to you, guys, but there’s no train.”

“Are there any plans to get one?” asked Dick Stolee, who was pausing every couple of steps in apparent hopes that the pavement would stop shifting.

“It’s kind of hard laying track across a six-mile stretch of ocean.”

“That’s all right,” announced Helen. “We don’t mind waiting.”

I was fortunate not to have lost my cookies on the ride over, but my nose had bled all over my raincoat, and I could feel a lump forming on my forehead, so I looked as bad as everyone else, if not worse.

Our bus was waiting at the end of the quay. The wind was still gusting, the sky had clouded over with storm clouds, and the damp sea air was sending a chill through my bones. It was a miserable day to be anywhere other than in front of a cozy fire. And if it started to drizzle, I suspected we’d have a hard time convincing people to even step off the bus, which meant they wouldn’t get to explore the Italian Chapel, or the Ring of Brodgar, or Skara Brae.

I glanced toward the sky and prayed for rain.

“Open seating today,” Wally announced as I delivered Alice to the base of the stepwell. “So, sit anywhere.”

As I waited for Alice to clear the stairs, I felt Bernice close ranks behind me. “Are you planning to climb aboard or are you waiting for a written invitation?”

I ascended the stairs and looked far down the aisle to where Erik and Alex were sitting. I nodded the usual pleasantries as I passed by, then staked out the seat directly behind them. The seat backs were pretty low on this vehicle, more like a city bus than a touring coach, so I was in a great position for spying. The guys wouldn’t be able to blink at each other without my seeing them. They didn’t know it yet, but I was going to be on them today like bark on a tree.

I just wished Nana and Etienne weren’t stuck in Wick.

I was suddenly feeling very alone.

“The quicker you take your seats and get settled, the quicker we can leave,” Wally called out from the front.

Once settled, I pulled out my cell phone and held my breath as I checked the signal. It was on! Not trusting it to remain on, I typed a message to Etienne as fast as my thumbs would fly. “Need verification. Imperative u check background of Erik and Alex. Pleez hurry.” I hit the send button.

The Iowa contingent must have noticed the signal was up, too, because the bus was suddenly filled with the familiar dinging sounds of text messages landing in phone inboxes.

Ding! From the front of the bus. Ding! From the rear of the bus. Ding! Ding! Ding!

Erik shifted in his seat to address me over his shoulder. “I hate to complain, Emily, but I really think you should outlaw cell phone use on the bus. It’s not so bad outside, but on the bus, it’s so annoying. It diminishes the impact of the whole tour experience. It doesn’t even seem as if we’re in Orkney anymore.” A scowl settled on his handsome face. “It feels more like the men’s room at Port Authority.”

Alex tsked disapproval as the dings continued. “I agree.” He pivoted around to look me straight in the eye. “Even if the messages are critically important, what can anyone do about anything from here?” His gaze dropped to the cell phone in the palm of my hand.

I forced a half-smile as I held it up like a booby prize in a spelling contest. “That’s the beauty of owning a cheap model,” I lied. “Their range is so limited, you can’t actually use them.” I slid it back into my pocket.

“Forget your cell phone, muffin,” chided Alex. “What about your raincoat? You’re never going to get that blood out if you don’t treat it immediately.” He fumbled about in the vicinity of his lap, where his sporran was resting. “I remembered to bring my stain removal pen today.” He lobbed it at me over the seat back. “But, if we’re dealing with dry clean only, don’t even bother to open the cap because you’ll have a major disaster on your hands.”

“Actually, it’s wash and wear.”

“Hallelujah. Do you have water?”

I pulled a bottle out of my shoulder bag.

“And a cotton handkerchief ?”

“I have a packet of tissues.”

“That won’t do at all.” He thwacked Erik’s forearm. “Give Emily your handkerchief.”

“What if I need it?”

“Don’t be a putz. When’s the last time you had to blow your nose?”

“I—”

“Never,” Alex scolded. “I don’t even know why you bother to carry one. Hand it over.”

“Why don’t you give her yours?”

“Because, dear heart, I’ve already used it.”

“This is very generous of you,” I said as Erik sailed the perfectly folded square in my direction. These guys were so genuinely nice sometimes that it was hard for me to believe they were hardened killers, but I realized that “nice” wasn’t who they really were; it was only who they were pretending to be.

“Quick like a bunny now,” instructed Alex. “Dab, dab, dab. Scribble, scribble, scribble. Then blot. Trust me. I’ve had a lot of experience removing bloodstains.”

My hand froze on the cap of the pen.

“His father was a butcher,” Erik piped up, giving him the eye.

Sure he was.

Wally’s breath hissed through the mike as he drew our attention to the front of the bus. “Before we take off, I want to introduce you to our coach driver. He’s a local lad who’s been conducting tours through Orkney for a few decades now. Would you care to tell us just how many years, John?”

I boosted myself higher in my seat, my eyes widening as I caught sight of the shriveled skeleton of a man who was standing beside Wally. Uff-da. We’d hired the Crypt-Keeper as our local guide.

The old guy crushed his slouch cap to his chest and smiled broadly into the microphone. “Fin puddy nae goon a weenie.”

My head fell to my chest in despair. Oh, God. Not again.

“What’d he say?” Bill Gordon yelled.

Wally paused. “Uhh—More years than he can remember. Okay, shall we buckle up and get this show on the road?”

I attended to my raincoat as we motored out of the harbor and onto a road so painfully narrow, there was no center line down the middle. Lush meadowland stretched across the flat terrain, providing a backdrop for a profusion of dazzling wildflowers. Hand-hewn posts with chicken-wire fencing marked property boundaries. Telephone poles marched in drunken formation across the perimeter of fields, delivering needed services to the occasional farmhouse. We passed a church, a herd of grazing sheep, and a red phone booth marooned near the intersection of two crossroads, smack dab in the middle of nowhere. To call the Orkney Islands “a little remote” was a bit like calling the Antarctic plateau “a little chilly.”

“Fer nook a gootie nae brae ma doon hookie,” John mumbled over the microphone.

“Tell him to speak up,” yelled Bernice. “I can’t hear him.”

“I still can’t understand what he’s saying,” shouted Bill.

“Neither can I!” griped Stella.

“Nuff nae bawdy?” asked John.

“He says that Orkney is made up of seventy islands,” Dad spoke up, “even though there’s controversy about the final number, because some of the islands are nothin’ more than a single rock poking out of the water. Only sixteen of the islands are inhabited by people. The largest one in the chain is called the Mainland, and it measures thirty miles at its widest point. The entire chain measures fifty-three miles north to south. The island we’re driving across now looks like a galloping horse on the map; the other sixty-nine look like a school of deformed fish.” Dad forced a chuckle. “I guess that’s a little Orkney humor.”

Awed silence.

Bill Gordon burst out in laughter. “Good one, Bob! You got all that out of six words?”

Dad shrugged. “He threw in a few more statistics, but I didn’t wanna bore you.”

“I motion that we hand the microphone over to Bob Andrew,” shouted Dick Teig. “He can tell us what we’re supposed to be hearing. All those in favor say, ‘Aye.’”

“AYE!” came the thunderous response.

“Opposed?”

“Wait a second,” Osmond bristled. “You can’t put a motion up for vote. That’s my job.”

“The ayes have it,” said Dick. “Let’s hear it for Bob.”

Applause. Whistles. Hoots.

Wally leaned over to speak to our driver, then motioned Dad to the front and handed him the mike. “John is okay with the new arrangement … I think.”

More applause.

I settled back in my seat, my gaze shifting between Erik’s and Alex’s heads.

Who were these guys? Who did they work for? The Mafia? The mob? Could you work for both without getting whacked for double-dipping? And if they were professional hitmen, how could they accidentally kill two unintended victims? Could pros afford to make mistakes like that? Or were they actually amateurs trying to work their way up to the big leagues? Had they goofed up on their own, or had someone given them the wrong information?

“Orkney’s been inhabited for five thousand years,” Dad told us as he interpreted John’s spiel, displaying the unexpected skill and aplomb of a UN translator. “And for five thousand years, the only way to get from one island to the next was by boat. But at the start of World War II, a German U-boat changed all that.”

Dad’s voice grew more dramatic, with a hint of breathless anticipation. “The sub sneaked past the channel defenses between the Mainland and Lambholm Island and entered the inner harbor, the Scapa Flow, where the British Royal Fleet was at anchorage. It sent three torpedoes into the HMS Royal Oak, killing eight hundred thirty-three men. So to prevent future attacks, Winston Churchill ordered the eastern approaches from the sea to be sealed off, and he did that by building a series of causeways connecting three of the smaller islands in the chain.”

Dad let out a relieved breath. “Churchill’s decision is credited with saving the Scapa Flow and the rest of the British Fleet from future attack, and in later years, with chopping several hours off a Sunday drive from Burwick to Kirkwall. We’ll be hitting the first one just over the next rise.”

Erik had mentioned someone named Stu. Was it Stu who’d given him the wrong information? Who was this Stu? Stu, as in Stuart? Stuart, as in Bonnie Prince Charles Edward Stuart, the wannabe king who’d deserted his troops and escaped his enemies dressed in eighteenth-century drag?

“This first causeway is called the First Churchill Barrier,” Dad informed us, “and we’ll be crossing two more just like it before we arrive at our first destination. North Sea to our right; Scapa Flow to our left.”

As we drove across a narrow byway that was flanked on either side by a manmade seawall of massive concrete blocks, and enhanced by the spectacle of a World War II vintage ship lying belly up in the channel, I heaved a frustrated sigh, too puzzled to be able to make sense of anything.

I could understand how they might have isolated Dolly on the streets of Wick to kill her, but how had they isolated Isobel? She’d died alone in her bed with the door locked. If Erik had assaulted her earlier in the evening, wouldn’t she have cried out for help? Or had she felt so ostracized by the rest of the group that she thought people would accuse her of making the whole story up? Had she crawled into her bed that evening in excruciating pain, feeling too disenfranchised to call for help? Were we all, in fact, responsible for her death?

A surge of guilt washed over me, followed by an incredible surge of anger: Guilt, that I hadn’t addressed Isobel’s personality issues with more expertise. Anger, that Erik and Alex had used her character flaws to prey upon and eventually kill her. And she hadn’t even been the right target!

I angled a long look down the center of the bus, my eyes darting from seat to seat. So who was the right target?

Two women with nothing in common other than they belonged to the same team were dead. Did that suggest the real target was a woman?

Although, to be entirely accurate, Isobel and Dolly did have something else in common.

They were both Scottish. Sworn enemies, but Scottish nonetheless. And I couldn’t dismiss a niggling suspicion that that was somehow significant.

The drizzle started as we crossed the third Churchill Barrier onto the tiny island of Lambholm. The rain began as we pulled into the parking lot of what appeared to be a converted Quonset hut. The downpour commenced as John came to a stop and cut the engine.

“This is the Italian Chapel,” Dad chirped enthusiastically, “built by Italian prisoners of war who were captured in the North African campaign. They were housed right on this site, in thirteen huts known as Camp 60, and their main purpose for being here was to help construct the four Churchill Barriers.”

Through the raging deluge, I saw the whitewashed, gabled facade of a country church superimposed over the homely entrance to the Quonset hut. It had gingerbread house appeal, with two Gothic windows flanking the central doorway, an ornamental belfry, architectural doodads that looked to have been squeezed out of a cake decorating bag, and simple pillars that added a touch of grandness to the portico. On the Continent, the main pursuit of POWs had been to practice their escape skills; on Orkney, the main pursuit had apparently been to practice their artistic skills.

John opened the door, sitting calmly in his seat as horizontal sheets of rain dashed against the stairs and handrail, driven by hurricane force winds.

“Close the door, you moron!” yelled Bernice. “You’re flooding the place!”

“You are now free to leave the bus,” Dad announced with flight attendant proficiency. “You have a half-hour to explore the chapel and surrounding grounds.”

“Are you crazy?” shouted Stella Gordon. “It’s pouring out there! You explore the grounds. I’m staying put.”

“I’m with her,” said Bill.

“Can we drive to the next stop?” asked Margi. “Maybe this is just an isolated squall and it’ll stop raining by then.”

“These conditions are supposed to last all day,” said Dad in a strangely modulated tone that reminded me of a Stepford wife, “but they shouldn’t affect your activities. In Orkney, this is what’s referred to as a gentle rain.”

Okay, Dad’s ability to channel John was officially getting a little creepy.

Wally stood up, his gaze drifting upward as a barrage of raindrops pelted the roof of the bus. “Conditions might be a little prohibitive to fully explore the site at the moment.” He turned toward John. “And it might be a good idea to close the door.”

Whoosh.

“Would someone tell me why we came all the way over here to visit a Quonset hut?” griped Stella.

“When’s lunch?” asked Dick Teig. “I’m starting to get hunger pains.”

“That’s because you left your breakfast on the ferry,” said Helen.

Wally checked his watch. “We’re not expected at our luncheon venue for another hour, so we’re going to have to—”

“So let’s arrive early and surprise ’em,” encouraged Dick Stolee. “All those in favor say, ‘Aye.’”

“AYE!”

“Stoppit!” Osmond leaped out of his seat, arms flailing and fists clenched. “Dick Stolee is not qualified to conduct a vote.”

Alice grabbed his jacket and yanked him back down beside her. “Save your breath. It’s because of this whole Internet blogging thing. Everyone thinks he’s an expert now.”

Deciding that traveling to our next venue might be less risky than having our tires sink into the mud in the parking lot, Wally gave John the nod to head out. Unfortunately, with road conditions reducing our speed to a crawl, we arrived not an hour early, but ten minutes late, which caused major panic and a mad scramble for the exit doors.

“You don’t have to rush!” Wally assured them as they muscled past him into the rain.

I let out an amused snort. Good luck with that.

The building everyone was escaping into was a one-story struc-

ture perched on a hillock overlooking the storm-battered waters of the Scapa Flow. It was neither commercial restaurant nor fast food joint, but rather a community gathering space for locals whose villages weren’t large enough to warrant restaurants or fast food. Luncheon fare for tour busses was prepared by members of a ladies guild, in their own kitchens, so we’d be treated to some tasty examples of local, homemade cuisine, at a cost of only five pounds per person. But even more exciting than that for our female guests, the ladies washroom was a ten-seater!

I followed behind Erik and Alex as they tramped through the entrance, sticking with them as they entered the dining room. The tables had filled up quickly, but there were three empty seats at a long table against the back wall, so we grabbed them, sharing dining space with Tilly, Lucille, Margi, George, and Cameron.

“It’s a fixed meal, so there’s no menu,” I said as I shrugged out of my wet raincoat and hung it on the back of my chair. I nodded at a platter of finger sandwiches in the center of the table. “Appetizers, I presume. Shall we start passing them around?” I scrubbed my hands in anticipation, wondering what exotic fillings we’d be sinking our teeth into. Wild Atlantic salmon with cucumbers and boursin? Oyster pâté with pecans and cream cheese?

Margi peeled back the plastic wrap, stacked a couple of sandwiches on her plate, and passed the dish to her left. Lifting up the corner of her bread to peek inside, she smiled. “Oh, goody! My favorite. Peanut butter.”

What?

“Egg salad,” said George as he inspected his selection.

Cameron chuckled. “American cheese … with butter.”

No, no. This couldn’t be right. Where was the salmon? The oysters? “Just a few mundane trifles to whet your appetite,” I assured them. “The main course should be along presently.” But it was definitely a little odd that the wait staff hadn’t arrived yet to take our drink orders.

“Would someone hand me the water pitcher?” asked Erik.

Cameron passed it across the table. “So when did you retire from the kickboxing circuit? I was telling Emily I saw you fight years ago in Vegas—the year you took home all the marbles. I knew you looked familiar, but it took me awhile to place you. What year was it that you won the championship?”

Erik froze mid-motion, his hand hovering above his water glass as if it were being held in prolonged suspension by a master puppeteer.

“Kickboxing champion?” Alex guffawed. He arched a questioning eyebrow at his partner. “Have you been holding out on me? Shame on you. Frolicking in Vegas and not bothering to invite me along?”

“Oh, right.” Erik threw Cameron a dismissive look as he remem-bered to pour his water. “Wasn’t me, bro. Musta been someone wearing my face. What’s that really long German word for it?”

“I thought all German words were really long,” puzzled Margi.

“You’re referring to the term doppelganger,” said Tilly. “A word in our modern lexicon that has come to mean ‘a look-alike.’”

“It was no look-alike,” Cameron insisted. “It was you. Fast Freddie Torres? Sound familiar?”

Erik took a long swig of water. “Nope.”

Cameron laughed. “Why are you running away from it, dude? If I’d rung up as many wins as you, I’d put it out there for everyone to ooh and ahh over. Say, what’d you do with that last championship belt you won? You can’t wear something like that to hold up your jeans. I mean, with all the gold and glitter, that thing must weigh fifty pounds.”

“I told you.” Erik’s voice grew sharp, his eyes narrow. “I’m not your guy. So, can we drop it?”

“My Dick loved to watch those awful boxing matches,” Lucille reminisced. “And pro wrestling matches. And mud wrestling matches.” She bit into an egg salad sandwich, chewing thoughtfully before swallowing. “Now that I think about it, Dick was quite fond of watching people in skimpy outfits beat the crap out of each other.”

“Are you skipping the appetizer course, Emily?” Tilly took the sandwich platter from me as I handed it to her untouched.

“Yah. I’ll let you guys finish the rest. I’m going to save my appetite for the main course.”

“If it’s as good as the peanut butter sandwiches, we’ll be in for a treat,” Margi enthused.

“Comfort food,” said Alex. He glanced at the blinding rain streaming down the windows. “We need comfort food in weather like this. Did you know NASA provides comfort food to the astronauts when they’re in space? The only problem is, it comes out of a tube and looks like toothpaste, so what’s the point? How much comfort can you eke out of eating toothpaste?”

Which reminded me. “Are you a nuclear engineer or a rocket scientist?” I asked Alex.

“Believe it or not, Emily, I’m a little of each.”

“So, have you ever been exposed to radiation?”

“Certainly not,” he said blithely.

“Oh. Then Erik was only teasing last night?”

“Teasing about what?” asked Alex.

Erik blew out a long breath. “It was a joke already! You know—ha ha ha? I was being facetious. His brain has not been affected by radiation. If his breath could light up a Geiger counter, do you think I’d be sitting here beside him?”

Margi looked aghast. “Oh, my goodness. You’d abandon the poor thing to fend for himself in his hour of need?” She tucked in her lips. “That’s very disappointing.”

“Has anyone read the new biography of Leonardo da Vinci?” Tilly jumped in. “He drew up plans for a flying machine as early as the mid 1400s. From the perspective of a rocket scientist, Mr. Hart, would you consider da Vinci’s blueprints the first embryonic stage of aeronautical or astronautical engineering? And for those among us who are unfamiliar with the terms, perhaps you’d be so good as to explain the difference between the two.”

Smiling inwardly, I settled back in my chair, waiting. Alex threw his head back and groaned.

“Realllly, Miss Hovick. I so appreciate the question, but I’m not about to bore these good people with a treatise on rocket science. It’d be more exciting for them to watch paint dry.”

“I don’t mind watching paint dry,” confided George, “especially if it’s one of those intense new colors, like marshmallow or clouds. But I wouldn’t mind hearin’ about rockets either.”

I smiled brightly. “Me, too.”

He gave his head an adamant shake. “Absolutely not. I never talk shop when I’m on holiday. Isn’t that right, cookie?” He leaned toward Erik and batted his eyelashes.

“Hey,” Erik droned. “Do you mind? We’re in public.”

“I don’t mean to change the subject,” Margi interrupted, “but shouldn’t we be starting the main course sometime soon?”

I ranged a look around the room, looking for Wally.

No Wally.

“Why don’t I just pop up and see what the holdup is.”

As I hurried through the dining room, I noticed a lot of empty sandwich platters, which meant everyone else was waiting for the second course as well. So where was it?

I passed through the entry vestibule, headed down a connecting corridor, and ended up in a room with a refrigerator, stove, several butcher block tables, and three white-haired ladies wearing neatly starched aprons.

“Hi.” I offered a friendly smile. “I’m part of the tourist group in the dining room. We have a schedule to maintain, because we have to catch a ferry back to the mainland later, so we’re not in that much of a hurry, but we really do have to watch our time. So, will you be serving the main course soon?”

“Whit fock fer dool un fae ma pooky,” explained one of the ladies with a quick bob of her head.

How could I not have guessed she was going to say that?

I held my finger up in a stalling gesture. “Don’t move from this spot, okay? I’ll be right back. We just happen to be traveling with our own translator.”

I sprinted back into the hall, running into Margi in the vestibule. She held my phone out to me.

“It was dinging inside your raincoat pocket. I thought it might be important.”

“Thanks. While I get this, would you run back and tell Dad I need him?”

It was a text. From Etienne.

“Background check disturbing. Subjects don’t exist.”