Bonnie of Evidence (30 page)

“We can wear wigs?” Margi tittered.

I fired her a hard look. “No wigs.”

“You want us to spread the word to everyone?” Tilly confirmed.

“All the usual suspects, except Mom and Dad. If Mom participates, she’ll waste too much time trying to arrange all of you by height.”

George retrieved his phone from its holster. “Too bad our phones aren’t working. It’d be real easy to shoot one text off to everyone. I guess now we’re gonna have to talk to them.”

Tilly drained her cup and with an assist from her cane, boosted herself to her feet. “I must tell you, Emily. I was very unimpressed with Alex’s response to my question at lunch. If NASA’s rocket scientists are all as uninformed as he is, no wonder they cancelled the space program.”

Margi made sad cow eyes at George. “So what color is Marion’s wig?”

A shattering
crash
reverberated through the room, followed by a stinging epithet from Stella Gordon, directed at her husband. “Stupid ass! I told you to keep your elbows off the table!” She flagged down a clerk behind the customer counter. “Cleanup crew needed over here! My husband’s fault. I had nothing to do with it.” She got up from the table, leaving Bill to deal with the thousand shards of dinnerware scattered over the floor.

“Leave, already!” Bill retaliated. “See if I care.”

Alex and Erik gathered their belongings and stood up, abandoning their plum spot by the window.

“Showtime,” I said as I watched them head out the door behind Stella. “Okay, gang, time to roll.”

I caught Wally’s eye as I strolled back out to the ticket counter area. He nodded toward the restroom sign and gave me a thumbs up. Looking casually back toward the café, I saw Tilly, George, and Margi making the rounds at each table, sharing the plan in quiet whispers.

Yes!
This was going to work.

I paused outside the restroom area, noting the half-dozen people queued up to use the pay phone. Now
that
was a rare sight—
a public phone. I dug my camera out of my shoulder bag and snapped
a picture, just in case my future grandchildren ever wanted to see an example of something that had become extinct … besides penny candy and TV rabbit ears.

Stella Gordon wandered past me and headed down a wide hallway toward the museum section. Erik and Alex emerged from the men’s room and strutted down the hall behind her, garnering a few admiring looks from female tourists, and a few giggles from the younger set. Wally sent me a purposeful look and struck out after them.

“Pretend I’m not talking to you,” Alice said out the corner of her mouth as she paused surreptitiously beside me. “I just want you to know that I’ve been hitting the gym at the Senior Center five times a week, so I’m up for the challenge.” Without another word, she caught up to George, who was leading the charge down the hallway after Erik and Alex.

Osmond shuffled toward me, giving me the eye as he went down on one knee to tie his shoe. “Don’t let on I’m talking to you,” he said in an undertone, “but I’ve been taking special classes at the Senior Center to be ready for a day like this. I won’t let you down, Emily. And don’t worry about criminal charges. I’ll be long dead before the case ever comes to trial.”

What
?

He let out a grunt as he struggled to get up. “Dang. Could you give me a hand? I’m stuck.”

He hobbled off, falling in line behind the Dicks, who waved like pageant contestants as they passed by, and Helen, whose left eyebrow had fallen victim to the rain and was now entirely missing.

Bernice crab-walked in my direction, the humidity having made her hair so wiry it looked like a detonated Slinky. “Just so you know, I don’t want back on Team Five. I want a team all to myself.”

I kept an eye on the last of the gang as they paraded down the hallway. “Anything you say,” I said distractedly. “Gotta run.”

I chased behind the group, mingling with other tourists, stopping to read exhibit panels, admiring Neolithic artifacts displayed behind glass.

Helen waved her new digital camera above her head. “I want a picture of all the men who are wearing kilts,” she announced as she pulled Dick Stolee toward Erik and Alex. “Anyone else want to try out their new cameras?”

The gang swarmed around them, even as Erik and Alex tried to escape.

“Oh, no you don’t,” said Helen, blocking their path. “You stay right there. DICK! GET OVER HERE! I wanna take your picture.”

She arranged them in various poses. Made additions to the group. Moved them to different locations. Took advantage of several backdrops.

“That’s it,” snapped Alex after ten grueling minutes. “We’re done here.” After extracting Erik from the group, he made a detour into the area that housed the reconstructed prehistoric dwelling.

The gang swarmed after them.

So did I.

I passed beneath a low doorway and into a world that existed four thousand years ago.

The space was as big as a one-car garage and lined with rocks stacked one atop the other. A square fire pit sat in the center of the room. Slabs of rock, supported by upright stones, formed shelves along the wall, like a Stone Age pantry. Longer slabs angled out from the walls, forming the framework of what looked like primitive trundle beds. Animal pelts lay scattered about the room like throw pillows, adding a touch of warmth to the stark décor.

“What’s this place supposed to be?” asked Dick Stolee. “A house or a condo?”

“Looks like a studio apartment to me,” said Stella.

“Where do you think they put the fridge?” asked Margi. “There’s no room in the kitchen.”

“I bet they stuck one of those dorm models by the bed,” said Osmond, inspecting the wall for an outlet.

“Anyone see the bathroom?” asked Dick Teig.

Tilly thwacked him with her cane. “It was a Neolithic society. Indoor plumbing had yet to be invented.”

“No. Where’s the bathroom, for real. I’ve gotta use it.”

“Did you forget to take your pill again?” scolded Helen.

As Dick squeezed through the crowd, the rest of the gang pressed closer to Erik and Alex, keeping them mired in gridlock. I smiled.
Gee
, this was going well.

“Where do you suppose they would have hung the big-screen TV?” asked Dick Stolee.

“Nowhere,” said Osmond. “There’s no electrical outlets.”

“Will everyone pose for a picture around the fire pit?” asked Helen. “Group photo!”

“I can’t move until Grace moves,” complained Margi.

“Me?” cried Grace. “I’m nowhere near you.”

“Will whoever’s on my foot, GET OFF!” sniped Stella.

Realizing the situation was well in hand, I slithered around the perimeter and exited the room, my stomach making gurgling sounds as I found my way to the back door of the visitor center. A lush expanse of wet grass stretched before me, and beyond that, a horseshoe-shaped bay, flanked by a crescent of sand beach. Paved walkways funneled tourists down two divergent mud-puddled paths—one leading to an excavation site near the beach, and the other toward a grand manor house constructed of perfectly chiseled stone. And with the rain on hold for the moment, visitors were actually stepping out to enjoy the self-guided tour.

My stomach suddenly growled long and loudly, reminding me that I’d stupidly refused the peanut butter sandwiches at lunch. Opening my shoulder bag, I riffled through the contents in search of an energy bar, knowing there were at least a couple left. I dug through the disorganized mess, sticking Alex’s stain removal pen in a separate pocket to be returned to him, and Erik’s bloodstained handkerchief—

I stilled my hand on the balled-up cotton cloth as I noticed a detail that had escaped my earlier attention.

I pulled it out for a closer look.

On the corner of the cloth, in thread as white as the handkerchief itself, was an embroidered letter.

A tiny capital T.

T
? I couldn’t drag my eyes away. T, as in Torres? Torres, as in Fast Freddie?

Oh, my God
. Erik Ishmael might not exist, but it appeared that Fast Freddie Torres was very much alive. And I had his monogrammed handkerchief to prove it.

I checked my phone. Still no signal.

Damn
. I had to tell Etienne. His background check on Erik Ishmael might have been a bust, but I bet there’d be a whole boatload of information on Fast Freddie Torres.

I retraced my footsteps back through the museum, running into the gang as they piled out of the prehistoric hut. “I think the fellas are gonna head outside to try and get rid of us,” whispered George as he brushed by me. He winked playfully. “Ain’t gonna work.”

I hurried toward the restroom area, hoping the line to use the phone had disappeared.

No!
It was twice as long and snaking around the corner.

I approached the ticket counter and smiled at a dour-looking woman behind the register. “Would you have a phone I could use?”

“Der pooblic fone es roon der kaner.” She pointed to the sign.

“But it’s really important.”

She raised her eyebrows as if they were lead weights and pointed to the sign again.

I took my place at the back of the line and nodded to Dick Teig as he hustled out of the men’s room.

“Where are they now?” he asked in a rush.

“At last sighting, they were heading outdoors.”

He gave me a thumbs up and scurried down the hallway. I checked the time, located my energy bar, slouched against the wall, and began to munch.

Fifteen minutes and two energy bars later, the line had decreased by three people, and I was no closer to tightening the noose around Erik Ishmael’s neck than I’d been before.

“Somebody!” Margi Swanson cried as she raced toward the ticket counter. “Call an ambulance! We’ve got casualties!”

NINETEEN

“
I
MOST CERTAINLY DID
not
say ‘attack’,” insisted Helen.

“Did so,” grumbled Osmond.

“I said
distract
. Emily wanted us to
distract
them.”

While we killed time in a small conference room, Osmond sat with his pant leg rolled up and an ice pack pressed to his knee. “You mighta
thought
you said distract, but what I heard you say was ‘
a
-ttack.’”

Which explained why an emergency vehicle was parked outside the building, ready to whisk Alex Hart off to the hospital in Kirkwall.

Osmond heaved his narrow shoulders as he cast an anxious eye out the window at the ambulance. “Looks like I ruined that fella’s whole vacation.”

But not as much as “that fella” had ruined Isobel’s and Dolly’s.

The initial diagnosis was that Alex had broken his leg, an injury sustained when he’d fallen backward into one of the pits on the excavation site.

“Tell me again what happened?” I asked gently. “I’m a little confused about the sequence of events.”

“We were stickin’ with them like peas in a pod,” explained George. “Just like you told us.”

“Then Helen suggested we take an outdoor picture of the ‘kilted ones’,” said Grace. “Mostly because the wind was blowing their kilts up to their navels, so I could tell she was thinking, ‘slide show.’”

“I was not!” defended Helen.

“You were, too,” insisted Grace.

“Which is when Alice attempted to grab my cane out of my hand,” said Tilly.

I looked at Alice. “Why did you want Tilly’s cane?”

Tilly gave the stick a hard thump on the floor and in an imperious tone said, “She apparently wanted to be allowed an opportunity to shoot a picture of me landing flat on my arse.”

Alice stared back at me, crestfallen. “While the boys were posing for a picture seemed a good time to pound on the two younger fellas, like Margi said we should do, but I didn’t have anything to pound with, so I thought maybe I could borrow Tilly’s cane.”

“
Hound
,” Margi wailed. “I said to ‘hound’ them.”

Alice crooked her lips. “How many people think Margi’s overbite is causing her to lisp?”

“No voting!” I snapped. “Do. Not. Vote.”

Osmond lifted the ice pack to inspect his knee. “So while the girls had everyone distracted with their tug-of-war over Tilly’s walking stick, I decided to attack. I mustered my courage and a head of steam, and I charged straight at those boys.”

Awkward silence.

“And?” I prodded.

“He tripped over his shoelace and hydroplaned across the grass on his stomach,” whooped Dick Teig. “You should have seen it, Emily. Water spraying in every direction. People leaping out of the way. George got a pretty good picture of the chaos.”

I winced as I visualized Alex Hart going down like a candlepin in a bowling lane. “And that’s when Alex fell?”