by Maddy Hunter
“Why do Scottish dumplings have cooties?” asked Lucille. “Shouldn’t we notify the Board of Health?”
“Maybe they don’t got no Board of Health,” said Nana.
“Which would explain why all their food is contaminated,” concluded Grace.
Wally opened his mouth to respond, then closed it again, looking suddenly unnerved and twitchy, as if he were suffering from shell shock. Poor thing. He was probably more accustomed to dealing with guests whose conversations actually made sense.
“Could I say something?” I asked, standing up so everyone could see me. “Just to clarify about dinner this evening in Drumnadrochit—”
“I’m sorry I’m late!” Dolly Pinker breezed into the room in leopard print jeans and a spandex top that dipped halfway to her navel and clung to her body like plastic wrap. “I’m so disoriented. My alarm didn’t go off, so when I finally woke up, I had to hurry, hurry, hurry.” She let out an exhausted breath as she scanned the room at large. “So, have I missed anything?”
Wally nodded. “There’s good news and bad news.”
“Isobel Kronk died last night,” Bill Gordon called out without preamble.
Dolly fluffed her hair, looking oddly disaffected by the news. “Oh, really? Imagine that.” She turned her attention on Wally. “So … what’s the bad news?”
nine
Urquhart Castle, inexplicably pronounced Urkut, occupies a prime slice of real estate on a rock-ribbed promontory overlooking the waters of Loch Ness. Built in the early 1200s, it boasts all the features of a contemporary five-star resort—killer location, breathtaking views, impeccably groomed landscaping, proximity to local attractions. The only things it lacks are a roof, walls, floor, windows, and indoor plumbing.
“What do you mean, it’s a ruin?” groused Bernice as we pulled into the coach section of the parking lot. “Who the devil wants to look at a pile of crumbling rocks?”
“Apparently, thousands of curiosity seekers,” Wally replied over his mike, “because this is one of the most popular tourist sites in Scotland. It has a pretty bloody history, which is covered in the video presentation at the visitor center, so if you’re a history buff and have a strong stomach, I’d recommend you watch it.”
“The MacDonalds of the Isles were staunch defenders of Urquhart Castle seven hundred years ago,” Bill Gordon said in a booming voice. “And I’m proud to say, the MacDonalds and my kin were like this.” He raised his hand above his head and twisted his index and middle fingers around each other like creeping vines.
“Would you give it a rest?” his wife complained. “No one cares about your damn relatives.”
As our driver maneuvered into a vacant space and killed the engine, Wally slid out from his front seat and stepped into the aisle. “The visitor center is state-of-the-art, with great views of the loch from the veranda. There’s also a coin-operated observation telescope so you can catch a close-up of Nessie should she decide to rear her head. Team Four is first up today, which is our Do It or Lose It team. While they’re on the hunt, I suggest the rest of you browse in the gift shop or grab a cup of coffee in the café. I’ll let you know when it’s your turn to head out.”
“Team Yes We Can only has four members now,” Bernice shouted from the seat behind me, “so I think you should award us more search time in order to compensate for our devastating loss of manpower.”
I bent my head toward Etienne and rolled my eyes. Classic Bernice. Yesterday, she was screaming for a member to be cut loose from her team; today, she was demanding favored status because of it.
“I don’t really think Team Five requires extra time,” Cameron Dasher called out from across the aisle. “We might be down a teammate, but I think our four remaining team members are pretty formidable. We’re ready to go toe-to-toe with anyone, without special favors. Right, team?”
“Yes. We. Can!” chanted Dolly Pinker from the front of the bus.
“Yes. We. Can!” Lucille chimed in from behind me.
Cameron turned around in his seat. “Bernice? What do you say? Are you with us?”
She grumbled something under her breath. “Yes we can,” she muttered in a stubborn, tight-lipped monotone.
“Okay, then.” Wally nodded his thanks toward Cameron. “That’s settled. We’ll be here for two and a half hours, which should give you plenty of time to complete your challenge and explore the castle grounds. I know geocaching isn’t supposed to take place on sites that charge admission, but everyone is making a special exception for Urquhart. The National Trust is happy for increased attendance to help defray the cost of the new visitor center, and geocachers seem thrilled with the physical layout of the search area, so it’s a win-win situation. Mrs. Andrew will give each team its GPS coordinates on the veranda overlooking the grounds, so as soon as Team Four works their way through the building, we can begin. Good luck, everyone.”
Amid excited chatter and foot shuffling, people flooded the aisles en masse, kind of like a herd of camels trying to crowd into a pup tent at the same time. Helen and Grace, gung ho in their matching Scottie dog sweatshirts, were first down the rear stairs, followed by Lucille Rassmuson, who’d gotten into the whole team identity thing by crossing out the slogan, “Iowa: It’s Easy to Spell” on her sweatshirt, and writing below it in permanent black marker: “Teem Yes We Can.”
“Do you suppose Mrs. Rassmuson realizes she spelled ‘Team’ incorrectly on her shirt?” Etienne asked me as we waited for the aisle to clear.
“Yeah, she knows. And she’s learned a valuable lesson.”
He grinned. “What? There’s still a niche market for liquid white-out?”
I grinned back. “Water-based markers are much more forgiving.”
We exited the bus at the back of the pack and followed the group across the lot and down a flight of stairs, to a low circular building that could have doubled as a World War II artillery bunker. “This is the visitor center?”
I gaped at the structure, which covered an area only slightly larger than a child’s wading pool. Were they kidding? How could a building this small possibly have enough restroom stalls to accommodate a busload full of seniors with internal plumbing issues?
“It’s the entrance, bella, like the conning tower on a submarine. There’s a lift inside that’ll take us down to the main floor.”
I eyed him curiously. “You never mentioned you’d been here before.”
“I haven’t.” He flashed a sexy grin that showed off his dimples. “I Googled it.”
The main floor was a sleek blend of pale wood and glass, with circular columns supporting the ceiling, and recessed pot lights that slanted illumination downward like laser beams. I watched the group scatter in four different directions while Etienne detached his phone from its holster, looking as if he wished it would ring.
“Important call on the docket?”
“Medical examiner. He said he’d keep me apprised of his findings, but I’m probably being too optimistic to think he’d have enough results to call me back this quickly. I’ll just have to stay busy to keep my mind off it.”
Which, I’d come to discover, was the workaholic’s solution for everything. “I know something that’ll keep you busy.” Leaning in to him, I lowered my voice to a seductive whisper. “At least … it’ll keep your hands busy.”
He bobbled his phone as if his fingers had suddenly gone numb. Finding his grip again, he secured the device back in its holster and asked out of the side of his mouth, “What did you have in mind?”
I nodded toward the opposite end of the room. “Margi looks as if she needs someone to take her picture. Would you do the honors? You’ll probably make her day.”
“Very clever, Mrs. Miceli.” He smiled sardonically. “I’ll get you for that.”
I gave him a little finger wave as he headed across the floor. “I’m counting on it!”
With Wally managing the geocaching activities and Etienne playing photographer, I was freed up to do a little exploring on my own, but where to start? Video presentation? Outdoor veranda? Castle proper?
Rather than waste time doing the eenie, meenie, miney, moe thing, I reverted to my default setting: the gift shop.
“What do you mean, do I really need a new necktie?” Alex Hart balked as I crossed the threshold. He and Erik Ishmael were browsing through the woolens on a display table just inside the door, looking like natives in their new kilts, hiking boots, and nifty sporrans. “Do I ever complain about the number of wristwatches you buy?”
“That’s different,” scoffed Erik. “I’m building a collection.”
“Well, so am I, only I wear mine around my neck instead of my wrist.” He snatched a red tartan tie from the table and held it near his cheek. “Royal Stuart. What do you think? Does it fight with my complexion?”
“You don’t need another freaking necktie. I’ve given up enough closet space to your clothes fetish.”
“And I’ve given up enough dresser space to your jewelry fetish. So there.”
“You don’t even wear neckties!”
“So?” Alex rubbed the Royal Stuart wool between his thumb and forefinger, as if testing for softness. “They’re pretty. I like to look at them.”
Erik arched a brow at me. “He’s impossible to reason with when he gets in these moods.”
“My husband would sympathize,” I commiserated. “I tend to hog all the closet space, too.”
Erik fisted his hand on his hip, exasperation flooding his face. “So how do you handle the issue and remain happily married?”
“You build a new house with lots of walk-ins.” I smiled pertly. “Problem solved.”
Alex laid the necktie back on the display table and made a great show of dusting off his hands. “See? I put it back. Happy now?”
“So do you guys live in a house or an apartment?” I inquired.
“House,” claimed Alex, as Erik said, “Apartment.”
They crossed glances. Erik laughed. “We actually live in a detached condo,” he explained. “Technically, it’s a house, but it’s so small, it feels more like an apartment.”
“So it’s a house with a pintsize footprint. How very green of you. New condo? Old condo?”
“New,” claimed Erik, as Alex said, “Old.”
They lifted their brows and pinched their lips together, refusing to look at each other. “It all depends on your definition of old,” Alex explained. “It was built ten years ago, which in my estimation, is pretty old. Erik obviously disagrees.”
“A building that’s only ten years old is practically brand new,” argued Erik. “Just saying.”
I glanced from one to the other. “Are you sure the two of you actually live together?” I teased.
For a heartbeat, their eyes snapped with an emotion as raw as the one effected by silver screen legends before they morphed into werewolves, but it was gone as quickly as it appeared, replaced by guffaws and dismissive gestures.
“You see?” Erik stabbed an accusing finger at Alex’s face. “I told you we needed to spend more time together. People don’t even realize we’re a couple anymore.” He turned to me, pleading his case. “It’s all his fault, Emily. He spends so much time with his nose stuck in his computer that he doesn’t talk to me anymore. I told him to retire, but noooo. He thinks the whole nuclear industry will collapse without his input.”
“It will,” Alex averred. “I’m indispensable.”
“Were you involved in that accident at Three Mile Island decades ago?” I asked, summoning the entire depth and breadth of my knowledge about the country’s nuclear power industry. Well, that, and two old movie flicks with Jack Lemmon and Cher. “Didn’t the core almost melt down, or something? Is that the kind of thing you handle?”
“Have you ever seen The China Syndrome?” Alex asked me.
“Yes! Back in college. It was part of a thrillerfest extravaganza on a weekend when the football Badgers had a bye. It was so realistic.”
“What I do is nothing like that.” He ranged a quick glance around the rest of the gift shop. “I’m not seeing anything else in here that even vaguely tempts me, so why don’t we queue up for the video?” he asked Erik.
“Love to. Would you excuse us, Emily?”
They hustled out the door as if they were migratory birds fleeing a hurricane—a hurricane, I suspected, named Emily. I wasn’t stupid. I could recognize a last-minute escape when I saw one. What I didn’t understand was—What was up with the discrepancy in their answers about their life together? And why did that bother them to the point of prompting such a quick exit?
“Your eyes are younger than mine,” Bill Gordon announced as he approached me. He thrust a piece of cardboard wrapped in cellophane into my hand. “How much does this thing cost?”
The “thing” was a replica of a two-handed sword miniaturized to the size of a fingernail file. I turned it over, spying the price in microscopic font in the corner. “Ten pounds sixty, it says here.”
“Are you kidding me? What are they trying to do? Make up the country’s financial deficit on the backs of us tourists?” He snorted with self-righteous indignation. “What does the writing on the front say?”
“Uhh—‘The Claymore was a common weapon among the highland clans, designed to facilitate sweeping slashes and powerful thrusts. Unlike other swords of the period, it was unique for its sloping cross-guards that terminated in … quatrefoils and a high collared … quillon block, with the … langets following the … blade fuller.’ “I frowned. “I hope that means something to you because it means nothing to me.”
“Anything else?” he asked.
“‘Made in China.’”
“Are you kidding me?” He snatched it from my hand, stormed across the room, and tossed it back into a display basket. “The next time you decide to charge a crapload of money for a souvenir,” he railed at the cashier, “make sure the damn thing is made in Scotland! Shysters,” he grumbled as he blew by me on his way out the door.
“It looked like a really nice replica,” I called after him. “Even if it was made in China.”
He turned back to me. “Authentic Scottish blades are not made in China. They’re made in Scotland, by authorized Scottish armorers.”
“Yeah, but if the replica fills a gap in your collection—I assume you have a collection?”
His eyes grew fierce, his voice menacing. “I have a replica of every sword and dagger wielded by clan Gordon to slay Campbells, and Mackelvies, and Loudouns, and Maccarters, and Conochies, and Maccoulls, and—”
“Maccoulls?”
He lowered his brows, squinting malevolently. “Yes, Maccoulls. Why? Do you know any?”
I shook my head. “Nope. It just sounds like Maccoull should be … Irish.”
“It’s not. The Campbells were ruthless, backstabbing scaffs, but the Maccoulls? The Maccoulls taught them everything they knew.”
I assumed “scaff,” in this context, wasn’t intended as a compliment.
“Stella!” he yelled across the room. “I’m heading to the can.”
“Why are you telling me?” she yelled back. “Do I look like your mother?”
I made a mental note to warn Nana against mentioning Hamish Maccoull or the rest of her Scottish ancestors to Bill. If the Gordons had a history of slaying Maccoulls, Nana could be in the crosshairs, and with Bill being so rabid about keeping the whole revenge thing alive, I was a little nervous about how far he might go to promote his clan’s honor.
I inhaled a calming breath. It was a good thing Isobel’s death wasn’t suspicious, because if it was, I knew the first person I’d be asking for an alibi.
I power-shopped my way through the rest of the store, picking up souvenirs for my nephews, and selecting postcards th
at I convinced myself I’d actually fill out. Stella Gordon got in line behind me at the cashier’s counter, carrying the claymore that Bill had thrown back into the bin.
“I’m not sure you were paying attention,” I said as I eyed the merchandise in her hand, “but Bill was adamant about not wanting to buy that.”
“He’s adamant about a lot of things. That doesn’t mean he’s right.”
“He seriously objected to its being made in China.”
She rolled her eyes. “What isn’t? If I don’t buy this for his weapons collection, once we’re home, he’ll be kicking himself from here ’til Sunday for letting it slip through his fingers. And guess who becomes the captive audience for his griping? Me. So I’m buying it. I like to think of it as a preemptive measure to shut him up.”
I handed the clerk my credit card. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone quite as … passionate about his heritage as Bill.”
“Fanatical, you mean. He’s like a bloodhound, sniffing out people with Scottish blood so he can pick a fight if they were born on the wrong side of the tartan. You know what I wish?”
I signed the receipt and gathered up my purchases. “What?”
“I wish every person on this tour with Scottish roots would disappear so I could enjoy the rest of my vacation.”
I stiffened, uneasy with her implication. “You mean that rhetorically, of course.”
“Oh, for crying out loud. What do you think I’m going to do? Wave my magic wand, say ‘Poof’, and zap a whole busload of people into oblivion? ”
I couldn’t speak to her methodology, but if eliminating guests was her goal, she had a pretty good start.
I bypassed the theater on my way to the veranda and bumped into the Dicks as they were exiting the cafe. I stood back, looking them up and down with a critical eye. “Well would you look at the two of you? You’ve been shopping, I see.”
“This wasn’t our idea,” griped Dick Stolee as he tugged his kilt around his waist. “This is all your fault, Emily. You built too much free time into the Edinburgh schedule and the wives went nuts.”
