Bonnie of Evidence

TWO



“I HAVEN’T HAD THIS much fun since I alphabetized the IRS forms in the new public library.”

Mom was addicted to alphabetical order like a shopaholic is addicted to outlet malls. Nana blames the disorder on a dormant gene that apparently sprang to life when Mom started volunteering at the library after she retired. Her Facebook page lists her favorite pastime as, “Alphabetizing grocery cans in the kitchen pantry.” In fact, she gets so giddy during Fareway’s annual canned food sale that Dad has to accompany her down the soup aisle to protect her from herself. The one time she sneaked out without him, she bought so many pallets of condensed soup that she had to store them in the machine shed and break out the forklift to stack them in order—an event the family refers to as, “The Highlight of Her Life.”

“One down, eleven to go, and if I do say so myself, the first leg went off without a hitch”—she patted her laptop case as if it were a cherished pet—“if you don’t count Team Five’s objections.”

“What were they objecting to?”

“Having too little time. Having no luck finding the cache. Having someone on their team named Bernice Zwerg. But I think my pep talk helped.” She flashed a self-satisfied smile. “I mentioned that Bernice was probably too modest to say, but she was the reigning champ of the two-yard dash at the Senior Center and probably had the fastest feet on the tour, so that gave them a huge advantage over the other teams.”

“And they believed you?”

“Bernice did. I thought one out of five was pretty good.” She switched gears to organizational mode. “I’ve developed a spreadsheet to keep track of all the contest statistics, Emily, so you’ll know at a glance where all the teams stand. Would you like to see it?” She fingered the zipper on her laptop case with an eagerness that bordered on lust.

“How about I wait until you enter more data?” I hedged. “That’s when things should get really intense, right?”

“They’re intense right now! Three teams are neck and neck in the time department, and if you don’t think that’s exciting, I’ll show you the line graph. It’s enough to take your breath away.”

I crooked my mouth, giving her a narrow look. “I’m not sure the scorekeeping thing needs to be so complicated, Mom. Can’t you just jot down who finds the cache and who doesn’t on a piece of notepaper and call it a day?”

She regarded me as if I had zucchini growing out of my ears. “I don’t see how that’s possible, Em. I’m planning a series of line graphs to illustrate comparisons, and I’m thinking about either bar graphs or pie charts for extraneous statistics. Do you have a preference? I could do both. It’d be no trouble at all. Or I could do a flow chart. They’re not as popular as they used to be, but—”

I held up my hand to cut her off. “Whatever works for you, Mom. I—”

“Or I could do a bubble chart. I’d have to buy another software program and spend some time installing it, but I’m sure I can find a computer store somewhere in Edinburgh.”

A tic began tap dancing beneath my eye. “Okay, here’s the thing. I just don’t want you to devote so much time to your contest duties that you miss out on the sights.”

“That’s not going to happen.” She paused, reconsidering. “But if it does, your father is videotaping everything, so I’ll get to see what I missed when I get home.” She threw her arms around me, giving me an exuberant hug. “I’m so happy you appointed me official scorekeeper, Em. Who knew I’d enjoy it so much?”

Nana had begged me to find an activity to occupy Mom’s time for the duration of the trip. As she had so artfully phrased it, “If Margaret don’t have nuthin’ to do except gawk at stuff, she’ll be on me like ice on an igloo, and I’m not forkin’ out the big bucks just so’s your mother can have an old person to babysit.” So I’d told Mom that if I could impose upon her good nature and ask her to accept the burden of monitoring the contest challenges, she’d free me up to spend some needed time with Etienne, for which both he and I would be eternally grateful.

Mom thinks Etienne is the perfect son-in-law. He speaks with a sexy French/German/Italian accent that’s a real hit back home, and unlike my first husband, who had a penchant for borrowing my lingerie, the only time Etienne is motivated to touch my underwear is when I’m actually in it. So, in theory, Mom took the job as a favor to Etienne, but in reality, she wanted the job because there’s nothing she’d rather do than be burdened.

The digital tone on Mom’s wristwatch beeped. “Have you seen your grandmother?” She frowned as she ranged a look around us.

“She went shopping.” Alarm suddenly fluttered in my stomach. “Why? What’s up?”

“I haven’t told her yet, but I’m putting her on a regimen of calcium and vitamin D to strengthen her bones. Chewables. In two fruity flavors. She doesn’t want to admit it, Emily, but she’s shrinking, so I figured since we were going to be traveling together anyway, the least I could do is schedule her supplements to make sure she takes them.” She rotated in a slow circle, her eyes darting left and right. “I wish she wouldn’t disappear like this. You might think I’m way off base, but I sometimes get the impression she’s trying to avoid me.”

“Nana?” I lied. “Nooo.”

“Well, if you see her, tell her I’m looking for her.”

“You got it.”

Her face brightened. “There’s Grace, Helen, and Alice. And look, they’re carrying shopping sacks. Would you excuse me, Emily? Maybe they’ve seen your grandmother. Yoohoo!”

“We board the bus in two hours,” I called after her. “Leave yourself enough time to get back to the hotel.”

She waved her hand in acknowledgment as she made a beeline for the girls.

She wouldn’t be late. Tardiness was a physical impossibility

for native Iowans. No one can explain when the condition first appeared, or how it spread to the general population, but it affects so many people, the State Water Control Board is testing the drinking supply. If their suspicions pan out, the governor is hoping to plug his state budget deficit by bottling the stuff and selling it to a country where nothing ever runs on time, like Italy or France. If their suspicions are wrong, the governor has vowed to increase government coffers by auctioning off every antique clock in the state’s ninety-nine county courthouses. As he’s fond of saying, “Why is the State providing Iowans with universal time coverage when the private sector can provide the same service at lower cost? I mean, what are wristwatches for anyway?”

“Psssst.”

I glanced over my shoulder to find Nana poking her head out the door of the tartan shop.

“Is she gone?”

I shot her a withering look as I dug out my antacid tablets.

It was going to be a long trip.

_____

During its forty-three years sailing the high seas, the Royal Yacht Britannia made 968 official voyages, traveled over a million nautical miles, and called at six hundred ports. Once spotted in such exotic locales as Sydney, Samoa, and Hong Kong, it was decommissioned in 1997 and can now be spotted in Edinburgh harbor—attached to a multi-level shopping center.

Armed with individual audio handsets, the group was oohing and aahing its way through five decks that once boasted a complement of two hundred Royal Yachtsmen and forty-five household staff, whose sole purpose was to serve Queen and country. With the bridge and all its incomprehensible gizmos behind me, I was climbing up and down companionways to tour the more interesting parts of the ship’s interior—from the State Dining room, with its table properly set for an intimate party of ninety-six, to the drawing room, with its grand piano, electric fireplace, and plush floral sofas.

According to the recorded voice on my handset, the drawing room could accommodate nearly two hundred people, but there were only a dozen of us standing behind the roped-off area at the moment. Most of the male guests had hurried off to slather over the Rolls Royce housed in the garage on another deck, and the Dicks had professed an urge to inspect the engine room, so Etienne had headed below decks with them, because leaving Dick Stolee in a room filled with pressure gauges and gears was like leaving a chocoholic in a room filled with Cadbury Easter eggs.

“Would you take a picture of us, Emily?” Helen Teig, dressed in a plus-size sweatshirt with plaid Scottie dogs frolicking across her chest, handed me her Smartphone before scurrying back to pose with Grace Stolee, who was wearing the same sweatshirt, only in medium.

“New sweatshirts?” I asked as I focused and clicked.

“It’s our team uniform,” boasted Grace.

“But they were kinda cheap, so we’re worried about pilling.” Helen examined her sleeve for fresh examples.

“Do you want to hear our team slogan?” asked Grace as I returned her phone.

I blinked my surprise. “That was fast. Word’s already on the street about the slogans, eh?”

“Dick texted us,” said Helen, “and it’s a good thing, because all the good slogans are going fast, so we needed time to think.” She sidled a glance at Grace. “Ready?”

“Do it or lose it!” they chimed in unison.

I smiled stiffly. Slogans? Uniforms? What would be next? World licensing rights? “Catchy,” I said.

“Combining two popular slogans into a fresh new saying isn’t considered plagiarism, is it?” questioned Grace.

“Mmm … if it is plagiarism, you’ll be out of the country before the authorities can track you down, so I think you’re safe,” I assured her.

“Will you be awarding a prize for the best slogan?” tittered Helen.

“Hadn’t planned on it.”

“Best uniform?” asked Grace.

“Nope.”

Helen corkscrewed her mouth into a half twist, her thickly crayoned eyebrows rocketing into disapproving slants. “Oh. That’s disappointing.”

Grace sucked in her breath as she eyed her wristwatch. “C’mon, Helen. If we don’t put a move on, we’ll get stuck having to browse through the gift shop with the men hanging onto us. And you know what that means.”

Helen rolled her eyes. “‘Why do you need that?’” she mimicked in her husband’s voice. “‘Where are you going to put it? Don’t we have enough junk already?’”

Grace’s expression turned devious. “What do you say we just skip the other decks and head directly for the gift shop?”

Helen’s face lit up.

“If the Dicks ask,” Grace called over her shoulder as they charged across the floor, “you haven’t seen us.”

“But—”

They were out the exit before I could add another word.

But it’s the Britannia, I said to myself as I turned back toward the rope partition. Weren’t they impressed by the powerful people who might have sipped cocktails here? Ambassadors might have lounged on the flowery country sofas. Prime ministers might have relaxed in the wingback chairs. Heads of state might have tripped over the Persian rugs. I mean, there was real history in these rooms.

“Excuse me, Emily. Could I get you to take my picture?”

Stella Gordon waved her camera at me, causing the charm bracelets on her arm to jangle like leg shackles. “I’d ask Bill to do it, but he’s not here.”

“Isn’t that the way?” I teased. “I think the rap on husbands is that they’re never there when you need them, and always there when you don’t.” I held out my hand for her camera. “Where would you like to stand?”

Stella Gordon was a short woman with hair dyed too black, cheeks rouged too pink, and lips stained too red. She had unfortunate taste in clothing, demonstrating a fondness for blousy polyester prints in loud colors, but her five-inch strappy heels were nothing short of spectacular, shattering the myth that women over seventy were more interested in preventing bone fractures than making their legs look really good.

“Press the shutter halfway down, focus, then click,” she directed as she struck a dramatic pose against the rope barrier.

“So where did you lose Bill?” I asked as I focused and clicked. “Did he head off to see the Rolls with the rest of the guys?”

“Hell, no. He stayed behind in the shopping center. How’d the picture come out?”

I handed her the camera so she could check it out herself. “Bill stayed in the shopping center … on purpose?” Then again. Seventy shops. A bunch of restaurants. I might have stayed behind myself if I could invent a way to avoid excess baggage fees at the airport.

“Of course, on purpose.” She studied the image. “Nice job. If I photoshop him into the picture, all his Looney Tunes relatives will think he did the unthinkable and set foot on the Queen’s yacht. I can hear the fireworks now.” She let out a Wicked Witch cackle. “Now that should be worth the price of admission.”

I gave her a narrow look. “Why is it unthinkable for Bill to tour the Britannia?”

“Honey, you’re not up on your Scottish history, are you? What do you know about the Battle of Culloden?”

I’d actually brushed up on my Scottish history by reading a dog-eared bodice ripper Nana had lent me. History was always more entertaining when enacted by bare-chested men wielding really long blades. “Uhh—Isn’t that the battle where the guy who got defeated, a Scottish prince or something, dressed up like a woman to avoid being captured by the opposing forces?”

“Some prince,” Stella said sarcastically. “The coward abandoned his men and ran away from the English as fast as he could with his tail between his legs. What a wuss.”

Actually, being able to run away was pretty impressive, considering the length of women’s dresses back then.

“Charles Edward Stuart,” droned Stella. “Bonnie Prince Charlie. The Young Pretender to the throne of England. The only thing he ‘pretended’ to be was a man.”

Ouch. A little harsh, but she obviously had issues. “So Bill’s relatives don’t want him to tour the yacht because …” I gave her a blank look. “I’m sorry. I think I missed the point.”

Stella groaned at my obvious stupidity. “The ship is English. It belonged to an English Queen. Do you get the point now?”

“Uhhh—No.”

“Oh, for the love of—Whose back do you think Clan Gordon and the other highlanders were protecting at Culloden? I’ll give you a hint. It wasn’t King George’s.”

My mouth fell open. “The Gordons were at Culloden? No kidding? Bill had relatives who actually fought in the battle?”

“Bill never kids, and he especially never kids about his ancestry.” She offered me an acid smile. “It’s what makes being married to him such a joy.”

“Okay, so Bill is refusing to set foot on the ship because … he’s ticked off about the disappearing act Prince Charlie pulled over two hundred years ago?”

Stella rolled her eyes. “Have you listened to the words coming out of my mouth? He’s not mad at the wuss. He’s mad at the English for slaughtering what remained of the Gordons after the wuss ran away. It was only one of the most brutal acts in military history, and the Looney Tunes Gordons aren’t about to forget.”

Great. Just what we needed to lighten the mood—a guest with a two-hundred-year-old battle ax to grind. “Was Charlie ever caught?”

Stella shook her head. “Hell, no. He hightailed it to France. Spent the rest of his miserable life dithering about which of his many mistresses was the flavor of the month.”

Wasn’t that always the way? The guy responsible for the disaster gets off scot-free while his underlings get stuck with the cleanup. In the popular vernacular, I believe it’s called “Getting the shaft.” On Wall Street, it’s called “Business as usual.”

I shook my head at the unfairness of it all. “Well, I might be totally off base, but if I were a Gordon, I think I might be more ticked off at Prince Charlie than the English. If he hadn’t abandoned his troo—”

“The Gordons looove Prince Charlie,” Stella cooed. “Doesn’t matter that he was a screwup. He was Scottish. The last Prince in the line of Royal Stuarts. In their eyes, he could do no wrong.” She made a dismissive gesture with her hand. “It’s because of that clan nonsense with the blood and the allegiances and all the other blah, blah, blah. Turns ’em into fanatics. So I’ll give you a word of warning.” She stepped closer and bowed her head close to my ear. “Never, ever, belittle Prince Charlie when you’re around Bill. He has a teensie problem with his temper, and cheap shots about his hero really set him off.”

“How teensie?”

“Pills help, when he remembers to take them.”

Oh, God. Prickly heat crawled up my neck. “Uh—Did you happen to mention Bill’s … problem … on the medical history form we sent with your travel documents?”

“Shoot, we never fill those things out. Pain in the butt. We just leave ’em blank so you’ll think we’re healthy.”

My jaw dropped to my chest. “But all our guests are required to fill out medical forms. It’s absolutely mandatory. No exceptions.”

“Sorry. No can do. Our medical history is none of your business. You ever heard of privacy laws?”

“But what if you’re walking around with serious health issues? What if you’re allergic to bee stings, or shellfish, or peanuts?” I made a calculated leap to worst-case scenario. “What if you go into anaphylactic shock and die before I can figure out what’s happening?”

Stella bobbed her head with indifference. “Same warning. If the Gordon clan shows up for my funeral, pass the word along not to say anything unflattering about Prince Charlie. That temper thing? It’s hereditary.”

_____

I found Nana on the veranda deck, posted in front of the glass partition that provided an interior view of the Queen’s bedroom. “Is Bill Gordon on your team?” I asked as I perused the narrow starboard compartment with its modest twin bed and homespun furnishings.

She held up a finger to “wait a sec” as she concentrated on the voice speaking on her audiophone. “Well, I’ll be,” she marveled when the tape ended, her mouth hanging open in awe. “When the Queen packed up for an official visit, she brung five tons of luggage with her. Can you imagine? I don’t got five tons of stuff in my whole apartment. No wonder she didn’t go by plane. She never woulda cleared security in time. I’m sorry, dear, what was your question?”

“Bill Gordon. He’s on your team, right?”

“Yup. He’s one a them birthers.”

“He’s the birther?” I winced. “Great. Is he causing problems?”

“Not for me, but if George ever gets a notion to run for President, he better watch out, on account of Bill says Farkas don’t sound like a real American name.”

“What kind of name does he think it sounds like?”

“One that don’t got a real birth certificate.”

“Well, Stella Gordon just finished talking to me about Bill, and I’m afraid he might turn out to be a handful.” I raced through the historical information, ending with the pertinent information about how to avoid igniting Bill’s temper. “Will you spread the word to the rest of the gang? Forewarned is forearmed.”

“You bet. Isn’t that somethin’? He never said nuthin’ about bein’ Scottish. Gordon don’t even sound Scottish.”

“Maybe you should ask to see his birth certificate.”

A gleam crept into her eye. “Emily, do you s’pose there was Maccoulls what fought in that battle Stella was talkin’ about?”

Nana was Scottish on her mother’s side of the family, but no one had ever dug into the genealogical history.

“Anything’s possible,” I admitted, “but I’m not sure Bill is the guy to ask. God only knows how he’d react if it turns out your Maccoull ancestors fought with King George and the English against the Gordons. You don’t need to pick up where the Hatfields and McCoys left off.”

“Amen to that.” She locked her lips with an imaginary key and dropped it down her bosom.

“Can you handle more upsetting news?”

She went statue-still, her eyes darting to the corners of her sockets. “Your mother’s standin’ behind me, isn’t she?”

I shook my head. “It’s worse than that.”

“There isn’t nuthin’ worse than that.”

“How about … Grace and Helen have come up with a team slogan already.”

“I knew this was gonna happen. Them girls are a lot smarter than they let on. Must be they think better when they don’t gotta run roughshod over the Dicks. Them two fellas can be a real brain-drain.” She sighed with resignation. “Lay it on me, dear. What’d they come up with?”

“‘Do it or lose it.’”

“Dang. That’s a good one.”

“And did you notice the matching sweatshirts they’re wearing?”

“I didn’t pay ’em no mind on account of they looked like they was made of polyester. Polyester don’t breathe good.”

“It’s their new team uniform.”

“They got uniforms?” Her eyes bulged with panic. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. If my team don’t wake up, we’ll be headin’ straight down the tubes. We don’t even got a slogan yet!”

Breathless with frenzy, she charged to the left then whirled back to the right before stopping dead in her tracks. “Don’t know if I should be headin’ up or down. I gotta find Tilly and George. Have you seen ’em? We gotta call an emergency team meetin’ before we get blown away.”

“I didn’t pass them on my way down from the upper deck, so they must be ahead of—”

“Emily! Thank God I found you.” Tilly pelted toward us from the aft sun lounge, jaw set and cane thumping. “You’d better come quick. Margi’s being detained by security.”

“What for?” I cried.

“Distribution of a suspicious substance. If you hurry, you can catch them before they haul her off to jail.”