Bonnie of Evidence (28 page)

“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?”