Bonnie of Evidence

THREE



“I DON’T KNOW WHAT was wrong with their noses,” Margi Swanson fussed later that night. I’d brought her back to my hotel room for a little TLC after her near brush with disaster at the hands of the Britannia security detail, but the incident had turned her into such an instant celebrity with the other tour guests that I’d had a hard time dragging her away from her admirers. “Honestly, Emily, does this smell like a compound that could be used to make a nuclear device to you?”

Seated opposite me in a comfy armchair, she leaned forward to hand me a plastic bottle that was no bigger than my baby finger. Popping open the flip-cap, I squirted a stream of clear gel into my palm and sniffed. “Hmm, this is different.” I rubbed it into my hands and sniffed again. “Smells like a blend of … baked ham, hickory-smoked bacon, and pork rinds.”

“It’s the pharmacy’s signature scent for the summer,” said Margi. “They call it, ‘Hog Wild.’ Isn’t that cute? They formulate it right there at Pills Etcetera, and I buy it in gallon containers and transfer it to one-ounce bottles for travel. Saves me a ton of money. You wouldn’t believe what hand sanitizer goes for in specialty shops.” Margi still worked part-time for the Windsor City Medical Clinic, so annihilating other people’s germs was a big part of her daily routine.

“The pharmacist is working on a new scent for fall,” she tittered. “An homage to grain farmers. He’s going to call it, ‘Harvest Moon.’”

I wondered what that was going to smell like. Corn silage?

“Okay, Margi, here’s the deal.” I handed back her plastic bottle. “In order to avoid a repeat of today’s incident, I’m going to recommend that you only hand out sanitizer to people who know you.”

Disappointment rippled down her face in one long, gut-wrenching wave. “But, Emily, people who don’t know me have germs, too.”

“True, but they also have suspicions. How do they know the gel in those bottles won’t kill them?”

She lowered her brows over her eyes, fixing me with a grave look. “Because if I intended to hand out poison, I would have bought the bottles with the skull and crossbones on them.”

“Of course you would! I know that, and you know that, but they don’t know that.” I paused. “Where do you find travel-size bottles with skulls and crossbones on them?” My nephews would get a kick out of something like that.

“Pills Etcetera. They’re in the aisle with all the pirate paraphernalia.”

“The pharmacy carries pirate stuff ?”

“They expanded their inventory after the tornado remodel.” She sighed. “I suppose I could have bought the regular one-ounce bottles and attached warning labels, but I think the print would have been too small to read without a magnifying glass, and I’m not sure the pharmacy sells magnifying glasses in bulk. I could have tried a couple of the big box stores—”

“Margi.”

“But if I struck out at Walmart, I would have gotten stuck driving all the way to Ames, and—”

“MARGI!”

She clamped her mouth shut and blinked. “What?”

“If you distribute all your sanitizer to complete strangers, you’ll run out, and then you won’t have enough left for your friends. You wouldn’t want that to happen, would you?”

She inched her lips into a self-confident smile. “I stuffed so many bottles into my suitcase, I’ll never run out.”

Of course she wouldn’t.

“I had to play it safe, Emily. I knew I couldn’t replenish my supply with British pounds sterling. Did you get a load of the exchange rate? It’d wipe me out.”

I heard a key card being slid into the outer lock, and in the next moment Etienne strode into the room, his piercing blue eyes locking on Margi. “Ms. Swanson! Just the person I wanted to see. How fortunate to find you here.”

He crossed the floor with the wiry grace of a panther, every pore in his six-foot, two-inch frame oozing testosterone and some powerful pheromone that rendered women deaf, dumb, and dizzy. His hair was black, his shoulders broad. His dimpled smile had the same effect on the female psyche that sunshine had on flowers. In a perfect world, his picture would appear twice in the dictionary: once under “raw sexuality,” and the other under “1 percent body fat.”

“Your public is clamoring for you in the hotel lounge,” he announced as he crossed the floor toward us. “And bring a pen. They’re demanding your autograph. Who knew that your being suspected of domestic terrorism would cause such a sensation?”

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?”

Erik flashed me an anguished look. “My ancestors were part gorilla. Seriously. But at least they weren’t albino.” He lowered his gaze to Alex’s legs. “He looks like he’s descended from a family of popsicle sticks.”

Erik Ishmael’s modeling days had probably ended a decade ago, but I could see why he’d been able to make his living in front of a camera. His face was sharply angled, as if the underlying bone were chiseled from granite, creating hollows and rises that a camera lens would have adored. His eyes were dark and almond-shaped, his hair long and purposefully tousled, his complexion a warm café au lait color that seemed a blend of every exotic ethnicity from Spain to the South Pacific. I didn’t know how many covers he’d posed for, but if women chose books for their covers alone, the ones featuring Erik Ishmael had probably sold a bazillion.

“Why don’t you do what the Scots do?” I suggested, nodding toward a mannequin that boasted full Scottish regalia, from jacket and brooches, to hose and leather brogues. “Buy yourselves some knee-length socks. They even come with nifty little tassels. How cute is that?”

They stared at me. They stared at the mannequin. They stared at each other. “Socks!” they echoed in perfect unison, as if the ability to predict what the other was going to say was second nature to them. “Group hug, group hug.” They surrounded me like two slices of marble rye around a half-pound of pastrami, giving me a heartfelt squeeze before hurrying to the mannequin for a closer look.

“Love the socks,” said Erik. He bent down to smooth his fingers over the ribbing. “Feels like wool and poly blend. You think I can wear them with my sandals?”

Alex shook his head. “Not if you want to be seen with me, you can’t. How much are the shoes?”

“Doesn’t matter. They’re ugly. I wouldn’t wear them if they were giving them away.” They were black, tongueless oxfords with lacings that crossed the top of the foot and wrapped around the leg to tie at mid-calf, kinda like what a business exec might buy if he were looking for just the right shoes to wear with a tutu.

Alex sighed woefully. “You’re right. Ugly and impractical. I wouldn’t wear them either.”

“How about modified hiking boots?” I piped up. “That’s what our local guide wore yesterday, and I thought he looked rather fetching.”

Delight flitted across their faces. They looked at me. They looked at each other. “Shall we keep her?” asked Alex.

“I’d love to,” Erik said in a conspiratorial tone, “but I think her husband might notice.”

“The cad. So, Emily,” Alex inquired, eyes leaping with excitement, “what else would you recommend to complete our ensembles?”

“Whoa! I’m not an expert in—”

“Scottish fanny pack?” asked Erik. He toyed with the tasseled pouch that hung from the mannequin’s belt and rested at groin-level, like a furry cod piece. “The Scots call this thing a sporran. Or how about a Scottish bread knife?” He tapped the sheath of the long-bladed dagger suspended from the mannequin’s waist. “Or a Scottish shawl?” He fingered the length of tartan cloth that was draped neatly over the mannequin’s left shoulder.

I looked from Erik to Alex. “Are you sure you wouldn’t rather eat lunch?”

Alex regarded me, wide-eyed. “Eat, rather than shop? Are you insane?”

I smiled involuntarily. Wow. That clinched it. I loved these guys.

_____

We made it back to the bus just in time for both men to receive their coordinates from Mom and traipse off into the great unknown for ten short minutes with their individual teams. Much to my astonishment, each team finished its search within the allotted time, without any pouting, sniping, or name calling, so we were able to reload the bus and head for Inverness right on schedule. I figured this had to have been an easy find, because everyone seemed to be in a good mood. They were lending their voices to Wally’s singalong, chatting each other up across the aisle, and talking to family back home on their cell phones. I guess success bred contentment. Even Isobel Kronk, who’d gone ballistic about Bernice’s GPS failure yesterday, seemed happy.

And not just happy.

As she exchanged quips with Cameron Dasher across the aisle, she looked absolutely exuberant.

Almost too exuberant.

And for whatever reason, that worried me.