Bonnie of Evidence (10 page)

A troupe of wait staff paraded into the dining room at just that moment, laden with trays that smelled suspiciously like dinner. Greeted by an empty dining room, however, the lead waiter slowed his steps in apparent confusion, which caused the waiter behind him to pull up short, the waitress behind that guy to lose control of her tray, and the last guy in line to run full speed into her back, setting into motion the mother of all chain reactions.

BOOM! Cruuunch
.
Clatter, clatter, tinkle
.

Plates somersaulted upward, then down. Trays fell. Food spilled. China shattered. The door to the kitchen banged open, spewing out a handful of startled cooks in chefs’ hats and aprons.

“
Ooh yah cun’
!” shouted one, hands clapped to his cheeks.

“
Eejits
!” yelled another, hands clapped to his head.

“
Bawheids
,” wailed a third as he danced around the mess.

Nana whipped her cell phone out of her pocket, snapped a picture, and began texting.

“Please tell me you’re not planning to post that online,” I cautioned her.

“Nope.” She pressed Send. “I’m givin’ George a head’s up that supper’s gonna be late.”

“There are no dibs on tables!” Wally announced as he marched the group back into the dining room under what looked like obvious protest. “Sit wherever there’s an empty chair. If it’s not where you were sitting before, enjoy the change of venue.”

“It’s not completely dark yet,” sniped Bill Gordon. “We could have stayed out there a few more minutes.”

“You all saw what happened.” Wally stepped aside to allow the crowd to pass. “It’s too dangerous.”

“Only for people who are too dumb to watch where they’re going,” taunted Bernice.

“Something happened?” I repeated as people streamed by me.

“Where’s the guy who saw Nessie?” asked Erik Ishmael. “Hey, bud,” he called out when he spied Dad. “Did you get her? Did you really get her?”

“You bet he did,” Mom answered proudly. “We’re going to post it on YouTube after dinner.”

“Bob’s going to be famous,” predicted Alice Tjarks.

“Not if the rest of us take better pictures tomorrow,” Isobel Kronk shot back as she passed by our table. “How do we know if his images are any good? Maybe they’re too dark, or too grainy.”

“Or too invisible,” offered Nana.

“Cameron?” shouted Dolly Pinker. “Where’s Cameron? Can you remember where we were sitting?”

“Find a table that’ll accommodate all of our team,” he instructed. “We need to mend fences and regroup. Again.”

Dick Stolee stopped suddenly to regard the mayhem near the kitchen. “Tell me that’s not our dinner.”

A round of spontaneous applause broke out as Etienne entered the room, escorting a waterlogged Dick Teig, whose shoes were squishing like wet whoopee cushions. His left hand clung to the life buoy that circled his neck in dog collar fashion. His right still clutched his cell phone, which he raised above his head in triumph. “I’d like to thank arthritis-strength ibuprofen for helping me to keep my phone dry.” He beamed at his audience, water streaming down his face in rivulets. “I never even came close to losing my grip. Is that stuff effective, or what?”

My mouth came unhinged, falling to my chest. “That’s amazing,” I marveled as I gaped at him.

“Helen signed him up for that new Treadin’ Water for Dummies course at the Senior Center,” confided Nana. “Probably saved his life.”

“I’m talking about the life preserver.” I gawked at the ring buoy circling his neck. “How’d he ever fit it over his head?”

_____

“She absconded with the wrong container?” Etienne couldn’t disguise the amusement in his voice.

“It’s not funny!” I slid my toes down the long, bare sinews of his leg, tickling the downy hairs of his shin. “The other guests are very upset. They’re demanding Isobel’s ejection from the team, the team’s ejection from the contest, and Isobel’s head on a platter. When we wake up in the morning, we could be facing a full-fledged rebellion.” I snuggled against his flank, burrowing my head into his naked shoulder. “Whose idea was this contest anyway?”

The kitchen staff had taken so long preparing backup meals after the tray fiasco that by the time we finished dessert and coffee, people were already nodding off, including Wally. So we arranged to meet him before breakfast to discuss the Isobel controversy, then headed up to our own room, where it took us less than a minute to brush our teeth and collapse into bed.

“I believe we both share responsibility for the contest idea,” he whispered as he roved idle fingers through my hair. “No more brainstorming for us.”

“Seriously, Etienne, how are we going to handle this diplomatically? We’re not in this business to punish guests who use poor judgment, but if we just blow it off, we’ll be accused of not being fair to the other guests.
Why
do people do things like this?”

“Because they can, darling.”

A sliver of light lanced through an opening in our pulled drapes, brightening the ceiling with a ghostlike luminescence. I sighed. “The real fly in the ointment is that what she ended up taking doesn’t affect our contest one bit, so do we declare no harm, no foul? Or do we throw the book at her for malicious intent?”

“You’ve been watching
Law and Order
marathons with your grandmother again, haven’t you?”

“Do you suppose Wally has ever run into a situation like this before?”

“He’s probably—”

“And if the three of us decide to give Isobel a slap on the wrist, what kind of slap can we give legally? Could she sue us?”

“Emily—”

“
Oh, my God
! What if she makes things so difficult for us that this turns out to be the last trip ever for Destinations Travel? Could she do that?” I stared at him in the dark, my mind spinning like a whirl-a-gig.

“I suspect you might be blowing this a bit out of propor—”

“And what about Dad? What in the world did he see? He obviously saw something because he was more upset than I’ve ever—
Oof
.”

I expelled a breath as Etienne pressed me down into the bed, his mouth a hair’s breadth above mine, his heart pounding against my rib cage. “Emily, darling,” he rasped, “you talk too much.” He drew my lip into his mouth, then with seductive slowness, worked his way down from there.

_____

The phone woke us from a dead sleep just before dawn. Etienne caught it on the first ring.

“Miceli.”

I jackknifed to a sitting position as my stomach launched itself into my windpipe. Etienne listened intently, saying nothing for at least half a minute, while I worried the corner of my mouth.

“Thanks for the call. We’ll be right there.”

I winced, bracing myself for the worst. “It’s bad news, isn’t it?”

He nodded. “That was Wally. We no longer have to fear being sued by Isobel Kronk. She’s dead.”

SEVEN

I
T HADN’T BEEN AN
easy death.

Isobel lay face up on her bed, pajamas twisted around her body in a tortuous mess, eyes fixed on the ceiling, hands clutched around her throat, head thrown back as if her last earthly act had been a desperate gasp for air, mouth contorted, hair wrapped like a scarf around her throat, bedcovers ripped from their moorings. I saw no weapon, no wounds, no blood. I couldn’t guess what had killed Isobel Kronk, but whatever the cause, it happened while she was alone in her bed.

Etienne sprang into police inspector mode almost immediately, while I sank down on the luggage bench to stop my knees from wobbling. I’d seen my share of death, but Isobel’s struck me as oddly poignant. She’d acted so coarse and rough-edged. Who knew she’d be the type to wear satin pajamas emblazoned with kitties in tutus? Monster trucks, maybe. But kittens in toe shoes? She’d probably bought them especially for the trip, and now she’d never get to wear them again.

Kitty pajamas
. They were almost enough to make you forget that she’d stolen the cache, thrown the contest into disarray, and tried to ruin everyone’s chances at winning the prize.

Inexplicably, kitty pajamas almost made her seem likeable.

“I’ve never had a guest ta die in my hotel before,” said Morna Dalrymple in a strained voice. “It’s very upsetting.”

The owner of the Crannach Arms Hotel sat arrow straight in
the room’s only armchair, her gaze averted from the bed, her hands clasped in an obvious attempt to prevent them from trembling. Wally sat perched on an ottoman beside her, offering moral support, while Etienne lingered by the dresser, doing his best to establish a timeline. “I apologize for the questions,” he said in an even tone. “I know it’s not the way you’d hoped to begin your day, but I suspect the emergency services people will appreciate any information we can give them when they arrive.”

“Seventy-six years on this earth, and I’ve never begun a day in such a manner.”

For a woman of her age, Morna Dalrymple looked as ethereal as a woodland fairy, with silver hair hanging in a braid to her waist, a sharp, upturned nose, oddly pointed ears, and a complexion so milk-bottle white, she would have made Count Dracula look tan in comparison. Her face was remarkable in that she sported neither crow’s-feet nor laugh lines, which I suspected meant one of two things: either botox was the number one beauty treatment in Scotland, or she’d somehow managed to live for seventy-six years without ever having to squint or smile.

“Would a glass of water help?” Etienne inquired.

“A shot of whiskey would help, Mr. Miceli, but I’ll not trouble ye ta fetch it fer me.” She inhaled a deep, calming breath. “Go on now with whit ye were asking.”

“You indicated Ms. Kronk called down to the front desk.”

“She did. About twenty minutes ago. But the lad on duty couldn’t make out whit she was saying fer all her coughing and wheezing, so he left the desk ta run up the two flights of stairs ta her room, and this is how he found her. Poor lad. This is the stuff of nightmares.”

“Was the door locked or unlocked when he arrived?”

“Locked. He pounded on her door, but when she didn’t answer, he used his special passkey ta let himself in.”

“Do you know if he checked the body for a pulse?”

“
Wheest
. He was too frightened ta touch anything. He ran down ta my apartment ta fetch me, but when I saw her with my own eyes, I dared not touch her either.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “I’m superstitious enough ta be fearful of whit killed her.”

Etienne waited a beat. “What do you suspect killed her?”

“Demons,” she said in a wicked witch vibrato. “It was the work of demons.”

I hung my head.
Oh, God
.

“Thank you for sharing that,” Etienne said with good grace. “Could you tell me what you did after you decided not to check her vital signs?”

“I called nine-nine-nine, then rang up Mr. Peppers ta tell him whit had happened.”

“And where were you when you made the call?”

“Standing there by the bed. The lady had knocked the phone off the nightstand, so I picked it up and set it ta rights again.” She threw Etienne a sharp look. “Ye wouldn’t expect me ta run all the way down ta the front desk ta make the call when I could as easily use the phone in front of me, would ye?”

Morna Dalrymple had obviously never seen
Law and Order.

“I’ll not quibble with anything you’ve done, Mrs. Dalrymple,” Etienne conceded. “You’re to be commended for your quick reactions.” He nodded at Wally. “Anything of note in Isobel’s medical history form?”

Wally pulled a couple of sheets of paper from the file folder on his lap. “She was apparently claiming to be healthy as a horse because except for her name, age, gender, and the name of her primary care physician, the rest of her medical form is blank. No serious health problems. No age-related conditions. No prescription drugs. No nothing.”

“So she would have us believe,” said Etienne, sounding unconvinced. “Excuse me for a moment.” Crossing the floor in front of me, he disappeared into the bathroom.

“Whit’s he doing?” asked Morna, craning her neck to follow him. “I hope he has the decency ta close the door while he does his business.”

I exchanged a tentative look with Wally. “What if Isobel lied on her medical form?” I asked, recalling my recent conversation with Stella Gordon aboard the
Britannia.
“What if she had a serious medical condition, but failed to report it because she decided it was her business and no one else’s?”

Wally let out a cynical bark. “Like that ever happens.”

I narrowed my eyes. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Everyone lies on their medical forms, Emily. Female guests lie about their age. Male guests lie about their virility drugs. No one is sworn to tell the truth, so everyone lies. It’s an ego-boosting thing.”