Issuu

awards and accolades for the critically acclaimed and bestselling passport to peril mystery series “Maddy Hunter’s Passport to Peril series is a first-class ticket to entertainment. Dutch Me Deadly, the latest adventure of her endearing heroine and zany Iowan seniors, offers nonstop humor and an engaging plot woven so well into its setting that it could take place only in Holland. Despite the danger, I want to travel with Emily!”—Carrie Bebris, award-winning author of the Mr. & Mrs. Darcy Mystery series

Alpine for You An Agatha Award finalist for Best First Novel and a Daphne du Maurier Award nominee “I found myself laughing out loud [while reading Alpine for You] . . .” —Deadly Pleasures Mystery Magazine

Top O’ the Mournin’ An Independent Mystery Booksellers Association bestseller “No sophomore jinx here. [Top O’ the Mournin’] is very funny and full of suspense.”—Romantic Times BOOKclub Magazine

Pasta Imperfect An Independent Mystery Booksellers Association bestseller A BookSense recommended title “Murder, mayhem, and marinara make for a delightfully funny combination [in Pasta Imperfect] . . . Emily stumbles upon clues, jumps to hilarious conclusions at each turn, and eventually solves the mystery in a showdown with the killer that is as clever as it is funny.”—Futures Mystery Anthology Magazine

G'Day to Die “The easygoing pace [of G’Day to Die] leads to a satisfying heroine-in-peril twist ending that should please those in search of a good cozy.”—Publishers Weekly

Norway to Hide “Norway to Hide is a fast paced, page-turning, highly entertaining mystery. Long live the Passport to Peril series!” —OnceUponARomance.net

Bonnie of Evidence

other books in the passport to peril series by maddy hunter Dutch Me Deadly

forthcoming in the passport to peril series Fleur de Lies earlier titles in the passport to peril mystery series are available on kindle and nook: Alpine for You Top O’ the Mournin’ Pasta Imperfect Hula Done It? G’Day to Die Norway to Hide

Bonnie of Evidence A PASSPORT TO PERIL MYSTERY

maddy HUNTER

Midnight Ink

woodbury, minnesota

Bonnie of Evidence: A Passport to Peril Mystery © 2013 by Maddy Hunter. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever, including Internet usage, without written permission from Midnight Ink, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. First Edition First Printing, 2013 Book design by Donna Burch Cover design by Adrienne Zimiga Cover illustration © Anne Wertheim Editing by Connie Hill Midnight Ink, an imprint of Llewellyn Worldwide Ltd. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Hunter, Maddy. Bonnie of evidence : a passport to peril mystery / by Maddy Hunter. — 1st ed. p. cm. ISBN 978-0-7387-2705-9 1. Andrew, Emily (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 2. Tour guides (Persons)—Fiction. 3. Americans—Scotland—Fiction. 4. Older people—Fiction. 5. Mystery fiction. I. Title. PS3608.U5944B66 2013 813'.6--dc23 Midnight Ink Llewellyn Worldwide Ltd. 2143 Wooddale Drive Woodbury, MN 55125-2989 www.midnightinkbooks.com Printed in the United States of America

To my Brian, just . . . because. —mmh

acknowledgments Heartfelt thanks to wordsmith extraordinaire and loyal fan, Christina Ward, for providing the title for the Iowa gang’s misadventure in Scotland. You rock, Christina! Thanks to my childhood friend and intrepid high school debating partner, Susan Ainaire Lahti, for introducing the term “geocaching” into my lexicon. And continued thanks to my diehard fans, whose expressions of delight at the crazy misadventures of my Iowa seniors make it all worthwhile. Maddy Hunter October 6, 2012

one

Throughout history, when people realized that the sulfurspewing crater down the street was an active volcano, they invented both sober and creative ways to deal with the predicament. The once mighty Incas flung virgins into theirs. Ancient Pompeians built a resort around theirs. Battle-hardened Scotsmen plunked a fortress on top of theirs. Thankfully for the Scots, the volcano had stopped spewing sulfur when they undertook the project. Tilly Hovick waggled her walking stick at the impenetrable hillfort turned castle, looking like a native in her beret and tartan plaid skirt. “The ancients called it Din Eidyn, meaning, ‘the stronghold of Eidyn.’” “Who was Eidyn?” I asked. She shrugged. “No one knows. But when the Angles invaded the country thirteen hundred years ago, they dubbed the rock Edinburgh, and it’s gone by that name ever since.”

To say that Edinburgh Castle dominated the cityscape was an understatement. It was so imposing, it looked like the medieval version of an alien mothership perched atop a mountain of stone, and oddly equipped with round towers, cannon embrasures, and an impossibly steep curtain wall. Its turbulent history had been explained to us by the local guide who’d provided our group with a personalized tour of the buildings and battlements, but his accent had been so thick, I’d only caught half of what he’d said. My grandmother peered up at Tilly in awe. “Was that somethin’ you knew on account of you was a professor, or somethin’ you seen on the History Channel?” “I believe it was the first historical fact out of our guide’s mouth this morning,” acknowledged Tilly. “No kiddin’?” Nana gave a little suck on her uppers. “George said the fella was speakin’ English, but I didn’t believe him.” “His burr was quite pronounced,” Tilly admitted. “I’m not surprised you couldn’t understand him, Marion. If I hadn’t cut my anthropological teeth mastering non-labial consonants on Faraulep Island, I wouldn’t have been able to understand him either.” We were killing time on the Royal Mile, an inordinately wide, brick-paved street that stretched like a landing strip from Edinburgh Castle all the way to Holyrood Palace, where the Scottish Queen Mary had resided for a handful of years in the sixteenth century. Since our visit coincided with the city’s famous festival and military tattoo, we were sharing the street with musicians, jugglers, acrobats, actors, bagpipers, and craftsmen hawking everything from Celtic crosses to tam o’ shanters. Normally, I’d be concerned about losing guests in the chaos, especially since my tour group consists entirely of seniors who might be easily disori2

ented. But thanks to modern technology, my worries have all but been eliminated. “Time’s up,” shouted Dick Stolee as the stopwatch on his cell phone beeped. He was carrying the most advanced mobile phone known to man, boasting science-fiction technology in a unit the size of an index card. Not only could he make face-to-face calls using the video feature, he could download the entire Library of Congress onto the e-reader, uplink to the international space station, and with his new and improved user-friendly global positioning system, knew he could visit anywhere in the world and never get lost again, even if he wanted to. The entire Windsor City contingent had purchased their phones at Pills Etcetera at a huge volume discount—knockoff Smartphones with high def, mega-pixel cameras. The only glitch was, when cell service went down, so did the cameras. “You s’pose Team Number Five found the container?” asked Nana. “Show of hands,” said Osmond Chelsvig, who’d popularized opinion polls long before Gallup or Zogby had ever hit the scene. “How many folks think that having Bernice on Team Five is gonna doom it to failure?” “Point of order.” Tilly raised her walking stick in objection. “In the spirit of fairness, wouldn’t it be better to phrase the question in a way that doesn’t emphasize such obvious negative bias? We’re Iowans. We pride ourselves on being fiercely democratic. We demand impartial results.” Osmond nodded. “Absolutely.” He paused thoughtfully and began again. “How many folks know that having Bernice on their team is gonna screw up their chances of winning Emily’s grand prize?” 3

Tilly’s hand flew into the air. Four others followed. “Opposed?” “We don’t got no one left to oppose,” observed Nana. “Everyone else hightailed it into the Fudge Kitchen.” “The ‘ayes’ have it,” announced Osmond. “Team Five is toast.” Yup. That was unbiased. Dick Teig pumped his fist with glee. “More opportunity for the rest of us to make it into the final drawing, right Emily?” Dick had to be cautious about broad gestures with his fist because his head was so big, one wrong move, and he could knock himself out. I’m Emily—Emily Andrew Miceli—glorified chaperone for a core group of a dozen Iowa seniors who regularly sign up for international tours. On this trip, twenty-nine guests from across the Corn and Rust Belts had booked the Scottish tour offered by Destination Travel—the travel agency my husband opened after moving across the Atlantic to settle in my hometown of Windsor City. The prize Osmond alluded to is a promotional offer I thought up to attract more business in a bad economy—a drawing at the end of the tour to award a free trip to the lucky winner. And the only thing a guest would have to do to qualify for the drawing would be to locate a series of objects stashed in obscure places throughout Scotland by avid geocachers. Decades ago, when children ran all over their neighborhoods armed with lists of nonsensical items to find, they called it scavenger hunting. Today, adults still look for the same nonsensical items, but they’ve expanded the playing field to the entire world, and they’re using Internet websites and sophisticated GPS units to assist their search. Today, the pursuit is called geocaching, and it’s become the favorite pastime of every member of the Windsor City 4

Senior Center, next to texting and synchronized back floating in the new warm-water wading pool. “Don’t get too cocky,” I advised the group. “This is only the first site, so I wouldn’t count Team Five out just yet.” “Did you miss the discussion?” asked Dick Stolee. “They can’t win. Bernice is on their team.” I’d divided the group into five teams of five guests apiece and stipulated that each team would have a limited amount of time to find the cache. After all, we were on a tour and had a schedule to maintain. Whichever team registered the most number of finds at the end of the trip would be eligible to enter the lottery for the grand prize, with yours truly drawing the name of the winning team member out of a hat. On paper, it looked like a pretty good system, but as the saying goes, the devil is in the details. “You wanna see what we found in the first cache?” Nana asked me as she fiddled with her phone. She held up the picture of a narrow alleyway that dipped below street level as it snaked between two buildings. “This here’s the alley where it was hidin’, but the locals don’t call ’em alleys. They call ’em ‘closes,’ and they’re so historic, each one’s got its own name on a fancy sign on the entrance. I can’t remember what this one’s called on account of I forgot to take a picture of the sign.” New York City had alleys, too, but when I’d lived there, the only signs I’d ever seen had read KEEP OUT. She showed me the next photo—swirls of green and yellow set against a rough gray background. “This is the graffiti what someone spray-painted all over the wall. It musta been the real expensive brand ’cuz I didn’t see no signs of chippin’.”

George Farkas thumped toward me on his wooden leg. “This one’s my favorite.” He angled his phone so I could see the image on the screen. I tilted my head left and right. “What is it? A sewer grate?” “Steel bars. They’re on all the windows in the alley. I thought they added a nice touch to the general ambiance.” Right. Kind of like razor wire added a nice touch to state prisons. This opened the floodgates for Osmond, Tilly, and the two Dicks to crowd around me, offering up their own photographic masterpieces. “This is the doorstoop where the container was stashed,” enthused Tilly. “Here’s the container,” said Osmond, displaying a photo of a plastic box the size of a brick. “This is the little notebook what was inside,” said Nana. “We signed and dated it to prove we was actually here and found it.” “And then we put it back under the stoop for the next team to find,” Dick Stolee chimed in. “And we did it way under the fifteenminute time limit.” “That’s all that was inside?” I asked. “A notebook?” “And a pen,” said Tilly. “A very thoughtful gesture on the part of the person who hid the cache. Without a writing implement, you can’t sign the register.” “And if you don’t sign the register, you don’t got no right to score it as a find,” added Nana. “The rules say you gotta have proof.” “Does anyone ever leave anything inside for you?” I asked. “A little reward for your efforts?” “We are rewarded,” said George. “We get to see our names posted on the official geocaching website in really big black letters.” 6

Nana pulled a face. “That’s on account of folks what’s in our age bracket don’t got good eyesight no more.” “I found a bottle of Jack Daniels in a cache near Lars Bakke’s grain elevator a couple of months ago,” Osmond reflected. “And you didn’t offer the rest of us a little nip?” barked Dick Teig. Osmond lifted his ninety-something-year-old shoulders in a helpless gesture. “It was empty.” “Don’t look now,” Nana said as she shot a glance across the street, “but we got incomin’. And would you look at them long faces?” The members of Team Five were clumped together at the crosswalk on the opposite side of the street, looking pouty and irritated as they waited for the traffic light to change. “Do those look like the faces of a team that registered a find?” Dick Teig asked me. He was right. They looked miserable. Uh-oh. “Look,” I urged the gang, “if it turns out they didn’t find it, would you try to be sympathetic when they join us?” “You bet,” said Nana. “He who laughs last, laughs best,” said Tilly. George lifted his Pioneer Seed Corn hat to scratch the back of his bald head. “What does that mean anyway?” Dick Stolee snickered as he elbowed my arm. “Did I call that or what? I’m telling you, Emily. The other teams are going to mop up the floor with them.” “So how did it go?” I asked in a cheery voice as the five team members trooped onto the sidewalk.

“Why don’t you ask Bernice?” Lucille Rassmuson locked her arms across her chest and pursed her dime-thin lips in what was recognized as the Iowa version of a hissy fit. “She said she knew where she was going.” Lucille was sporting a new, easy-care hairstyle for the trip. Gone were the tight, kinky curls of her home perm, replaced by longer, layered strands that hugged her skull like a bathing cap. She’d even tweaked the color, replacing her peach Margarita tint with a soft shade of powdery pink. If her late husband—cigar-smoking, practical joking Dick Rassmuson—had still been alive, he might have passed her on the street and not even recognized her. “My coordinates were right,” Bernice huffed. “We were practically standing on top of the thing! It was Tweedledee and Tweedledum who dropped the ball.” She fired accusing looks at the two other women on her team. “I beg your pardon?” Tweedledee’s mouth fell open, drawing attention to her beautifully capped teeth and neatly applied lipstick in the season’s most vibrant color. She’d listed her occupation as “retired retail buyer” on her guest information form, and judging from the way she’d added a stylish belt to glam up a simple sweater and designer jeans, I’d guess she’d been a whiz at it. Her name tag identified her as Dolly Pinker from Chicago. “There was no hidden cache in that alleyway. You entered the wrong numbers in your GPS.” “Did not.” “Did so. And you were too pigheaded to admit you were wrong, so thank you very much for helping us to end up with nothing. This is all your fault.”

“Is not.” “Is so. I want to change teams.” “Me, too,” said Tweedledum, whose real name was Isobel Kronk from Gary, Indiana. “I could use a free vacation, but it ain’t gonna happen with Wrong Way Corrigan calling the shots.” Isobel was hard-edged and rough-angled, with long gray hair, sun-damaged skin, and eyes that snapped with impatience. Her lone fashion accessory was a backpack handbag in an exotic animal print that made it look as if she had a zebra strapped to her back. She owned a scrap metal business in Gary, where she probably spent most of her time crushing car engines between her teeth. “Are we the only team who didn’t find the cache?” she asked me. “Our timekeeper refused to tell us.” Unwilling to hammer the first nail into their coffin, I resorted to evasive tactics. “I’m sure the timekeeper simply wanted to tabulate all the results before she released—” “Everyone scored a find except you,” ratted Dick Teig. Dolly held up her iPhone. “Is this the alley where you found it?” The image on the screen showed a seemingly endless flight of stairs shoehorned between two buildings. “We didn’t have to climb no stairs,” said Nana. Dick Stolee scrunched his eyes in thought. “Are you sure? I remember stairs someplace.” “Show of hands,” said Osmond. “How many people remember climbing stairs?” “Geez-Louise,” griped Bernice in her former-smoker’s rasp, “would all you whiners just put a sock in it? We didn’t find the stupid thing, all right? Get over it. We’ll find it next time.” The humidity had

caused her hair to frizz around her head like exploded electrical wire, giving her the look of a person who’d just had a run-in with chain lightning. “Will someone please switch teams with me?” Dolly begged, making her appeal to the entire Iowa gang. “I’m willing to offer bribes.” “Me, too,” pleaded Isobel. “Hey, team.” The lone male member of Team Five waved his hand in the air. “Remember me?” He was of average height, with thinning brown hair, a weak chin, bulbous nose, neck wattle, and a little paunch belly, but his ever-present smile made up for all his shortcomings, making him appear taller, handsomer, more physically fit. His name was Cameron Dasher, and he was proving to be quite the people magnet with his self-deprecating sense of humor and upbeat mood. The unattached ladies on the tour found him particularly attractive—not so much because he was of the same generation and made them laugh, but because he possessed the one quality they were all looking for in a man. He was still alive. “What are we? A team of quitters?” Dasher scolded. “Tell me this—how flavorful would our food be if Marco Polo had given up trying to discover a trade route to the East? How exciting would our world surfing competitions be if Balboa had given up searching for the Pacific Ocean? Where would all of us be living today if Columbus had quit trying to find his way to the New World?” Osmond shot his hand into the air. “Croatia?” “Come on, ladies,” Dasher goaded. “This was only our first try. There’s eleven more sites to explore. Where’s your fighting spirit? So we messed up the first one. If we stick together, I guarantee 10

we’ll find all the rest. We can do this! If you want to quit after just one round, I can’t stop you. But if we hang tight, one of us can look forward to a free vacation in our future! Are you with me?” Eye rolling. Sighs. Not surprisingly, Cameron had listed his occupation as “motivational speaker.” “What’s our team slogan?” he prodded, cupping his hand around his ear. “Yes, we can,” came the grumbled reply from his teammates. “I can’t heeeear you.” “Yes, we can,” they recited with slightly more gusto. “Once more with feeling!” “Yes, we can,” they chanted as they tapped into his enthusiasm. “Yes, we can!” Lucille, Dolly, and Isobel high-fived each other. “YES, WE CAN!” “Yes, we can,” chimed Osmond, pumping his spindly arms as he boogied to the beat. Dick Teig whacked him on the shoulder. “Cool it. You’re not on their team.” Cameron Dasher banded his arm around Bernice and gave her a squeeze. “And from now on, Bernice promises to respect all our opinions and not hijack the whole show. Right, Bernice?” “Good luck with that,” wisecracked Dick Stolee. Bernice glanced from Cameron’s hand to his face, melting against him with a breathless sigh. “Whatever you say,” she gushed, fluttering her lashes like a silver-screen movie goddess. Whoa! This guy was good. I wonder if he’d ever consider freelancing as an assistant escort on tours saddled with especially nasty guests?

Bernice’s teammates fell suddenly silent, their mantra dying on their lips as they narrowed their eyes and hardened their jaws. Unhoh. It had been awkward enough that every woman on the tour had wanted to be on Cameron’s team, but if they started throwing daggers at each other every time he paid attention to one of them, there was going to be trouble. “It’s decided then?” Cameron asked good-naturedly. “We’re still a team?” “Of course we’re still a team,” Dolly assured as she looped her arm through his, smiling possessively. “And just to set the record straight, it wasn’t my idea to change teams in the first place.” Honey oozed from her voice. “It was Isobel’s.” “Me?” Age might have ruined Isobel’s complexion and turned her hair gray, but her hearing still rocked. “What the hell have you been smoking? You’re the one who—” Cameron raised his hands in Biblical fashion as if to calm the waters. “Laaadies, laaadies, it doesn’t matter who said what first. All that’ll matter in the end is how many checkmarks we have in the ‘Find’ column, so let’s put this episode behind us and start with a clean slate tomorrow. Fair enough?” Bernice and Dolly took wary measure of each other as they lingered at Cameron’s sides, looking like two spurs of an about-tobe-snapped wishbone. “Fine,” they crooned in unison. Lucille heaved a sigh and nodded grudgingly. “Okay.” Isobel’s mouth strained at the corners as if she were trying to force her lips into a smile, but all she managed was a sneer. “Whatever,” she spat, her eyes narrowing to hostile slits. Yup. There was going to be trouble.

As a troupe of Shakespearean players paraded past us, reciting extraneous lines of prose to any tourist willing to listen, Nana grabbed my arm and dragged me aside, concern etched across her face. “I know what you’re going to say,” I offered preemptively. “You’re afraid that glaring jealousy issues on Team Five might lead to trouble, and I have to admit, that makes me a little nervous, too, but here’s the thing.” I raised a determined finger. “It’s going to be different this time because Etienne is with us. Guests will not be creeping around, trying to knock each other off, with a former Swiss police inspector watching their every move. So, even if the ladies of Team Five get into it with each other, I don’t expect it’ll escalate beyond snotty name calling or an occasional cat fight.” I flashed a confident smile. “I think we’re good!” “Whatever you say, dear.” My smile morphed into a wince. I hung my head. “I’m in denial, aren’t I? Those women hate each other already and the tour has just begun.” “I don’t wanna be no alarmist, Emily, but we got bigger problems than them four women.” “We do?” “You bet. Team Five come up with a snappy slogan for themselves. The rest of us don’t got one.” I stared at her, non-plussed. “That’s a problem?” “You bet it is. They’re makin’ the rest of us look bad, so we’re gonna have to think of one, too.” “Is that going to be difficult?”

“Emily, dear, we got one Catholic, two Lutherans, one birther, and a vegetarian on our team. How are we s’posed to compromise? That don’t give us no common ground to work with.” Ew. She had a point. I just hoped their diversity didn’t set them up to get sucked into knockdown-dragouts over issues of a more ideological nature—like, if Catholic priests should be allowed to marry, or, which Gilligan’s Island character was hotter, Ginger or Mary Ann? That could get really ugly. I gave her a hug. “Chin up. You’ll think of something.” “I just did. I’m gonna let Tilly figure it out.” Nana had three chins, blue hair, and stood four-foot-ten in her bare feet. She’d won millions in the Minnesota lottery a few years back, but the experience had changed neither her outlook nor her practical spending habits. She was the treasurer of the Legion of Mary at church, a card-carrying computer geek, and an enthusiastic subscriber to every TV channel offered by her cable provider. She had only an eighth-grade education, but given her addiction to the Discovery and Smithsonian networks, she was the smartest person I knew. “Uh-oh,” Nana fretted in a sudden panic. “I don’t mean to ditch you, dear, but I’m outta here.” Like a video playing at warp speed, she raced behind me in her size five sneakers and ducked into a shop displaying a selection of tartans and kilts on headless mannequins. I stared after her. What in the world? And then it hit me. I turned slowly. She was barreling toward me with her laptop slung over her shoulder in its trusty carrying case and her fannypack riding her opposite hip like an oversized jellyroll. Her little moon face was 14

flushed from exertion, and her salt and pepper hair was disastrously windblown, but her girlish excitement made it quite apparent that she wouldn’t have missed this for the world. The tour guests knew her as “the timekeeper.” Nana knew her as Margaret. I knew her as Mom.

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.” 16

“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 20

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 braindrain.” 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.”

Bonnie of Evidence, by Maddy Hunter