by Maddy Hunter
“We could go shopping,” suggested Osmond. “I could use another SaladShooter.”
“We could stretch out on our beds and die from boredom,” droned Bernice.
“Let me worry about tomorrow,” Wally advised, “and you worry about getting back on the bus. If we skip our scheduled stop in Kirkwall to see the twelfth-century cathedral, we should juuust be able to make our ferry in time. Any questions?”
Margi raised her hand. “Is Erik going to stay with Alex in the hospital?”
“Uhh … no. The two of them decided it would be best for Erik to return to Wick with the rest of the group.”
Margi clucked her disapproval. “I won’t say I’m surprised, but I’m very disappointed. They seemed like such a devoted couple.”
“All right then.” Wally popped up and gave his hands a clap. “Let’s get this show on the road.”
“Before we leave, would anyone like to see my pictures?” Helen waved her camera in the air. “I’ve assembled them into a slide show.”
Margi pulled a mirror out of her tote bag and held it up to her face, studying her reflection as she curled her lips back and clamped her teeth together. “Do I really have an overbite?”
Wally pulled me aside. “Nice plan. Did you actually tell your wrecking crew to kneecap the guy?”
“No. I told them to keep Erik and Alex surrounded. That’s it. Alex’s misstep was a total accident.” A blast of prickly heat crawled up my neck. “Naturally, there was some miscommunication as they exchanged the information among themselves, and I accept full responsibility for that. I didn’t account for the feedback on their hearing aids. But on the upside, Osmond self-destructed before he could implement his attack, and I don’t think Alice ever did wrestle Tilly’s cane away from her, which was probably pretty disheartening to Alice, considering how much time she’s spent at the gym recently.”
He opened his mouth as if to say something, squinted oddly, then turned around and left, herding everyone out the door in front of him.
Unlike Margi, I wasn’t surprised Erik would be returning to Wick with us. They still had a job to do, and with Alex out of commission, there was only Erik left to do it.
The good news was, at least we’d managed to separate them.
Dealing with one killer would be a lot easier than dealing with two.
_____
The stormy weather resumed as soon as we loaded the bus, and worsened as we made our way back to Burwick. When we pulled into the harbor, a collective groan went up from the group, because marine conditions had deteriorated even more, ensuring us a passage marked by savage winds and exceptionally high seas.
“I still have an untouched stash of motion sickness pills I can distribute if anyone’s interested,” I announced before we left the bus. “Any takers?”
They practically mobbed me.
As Dick Teig philosophized when he popped one in his mouth: “I don’t care if they are tainted. If the ride back is as bad as the one coming over, I’m gonna wish I was dead anyway, so what’s it matter?”
It was worse.
So bad in fact, that even I had to battle a slight twinge of queasiness, and I don’t get queasy. As much as I’d been flabbergasted by the miraculous recovery of people on the outbound passage, I came to realize that two stomach-emptying trips in one day was one trip too many. Once back at John O’ Groats, guests practically had to crawl to the bus, where they remained in their seats, pale and lifeless, until we reached our hotel. And since Wally was as incapacitated as everyone else, I dug out my annotated itinerary and offered the final announcements myself.
“Dinner is scheduled to be served at seven-thirty this evening, so I hope you’ll take the next forty-five minutes to recuperate, and then join me in the dining room feeling bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.”
They groaned, rolled off their seats in slow motion, and limped down the stairs like weary veterans of an after-Christmas sale at the Mall of America. I followed behind them as they climbed the stairs to their rooms, making sure everyone had the energy to complete the climb, then let myself into my room, squealing with delight when I discovered I wasn’t alone.
“Nana!” I pulled her out of the armchair and wrapped my arms around her, squeezing her like an orange that needed juicing. “When did they let you out?”
“’Bout a half hour ago. They didn’t have no charges to file against me, so they had to let me go.”
“May I be included in the group hug?” asked Etienne as he boosted himself off the bed to join us. “Mrs. Miceli,” he said, his eyes lingering on my lips, his voice a seductive whisper. Tipping my chin up, he kissed me full on the mouth, sending shooting stars across my vision. “I’ve missed you.”
Unh. With my knees about to give way beneath me, I backed against the bed and sat down. Etienne sat down beside me, intertwining his fingers with mine. I exhaled a steadying breath. “Does this mean the autopsy report came back?”
“Nope.” Nana settled back in her chair. “Them young fellas at the jail said some of them lab tests can take a long time to analyze, so we don’t know nuthin’ yet.”
“We still don’t have a cause of death?”
“For neither Dolly nor Isobel,” said Etienne, doing a poor job of hiding his frustration.
I squeezed his hand. “I’m not sure every lab and toxicology test in the world will ever reveal what killed Isobel and Dolly.”
“No kiddin’?” asked Nana.
“You say that as if you know something the rest of us don’t,” said Etienne.
I nodded toward the cardboard patch duct-taped to the wood paneling above the nightstand. “Did you notice the interesting art work on the wall?”
Etienne followed my gaze. “I noticed it this evening, but I don’t recall seeing it when we checked in yesterday.” A smile played at the corners of his mouth. “I blamed it on my usual excuse—man eyes.”
“My Sam had them eyes, too.” Nana gave her head a slow nod. “The only things you could count on them spottin’ was three-quarter-ton pickups with V8 hemis and highway patrolmen with radar guns.”
“Management hung up the cardboard last night to cover a fresh hole in the wall.”
Nana snatched her feet off the floor and shot a terrified look at the rug. “Termites?”
“Spiders.”
“THEY GOT SPIDERS WHAT CAN EAT THROUGH WALLS?”
“No, no! No bugs. It was Erik Ishmael’s foot that made the hole. Can I explain?”
So I got them up to speed about what had happened in their absence: the hole in the wall that had prompted the upgrading of rooms, the Fast Freddie Torres allegation, the conversation I’d overheard aboard the ferry, my discovery of the monogram on Erik’s handkerchief, our concerted efforts to prevent another death from occurring, and Alex’s tumble into the excavation pit. “So does that give you any idea why I’m convinced all the lab results are going to come back negative? I think what killed Isobel and Dolly isn’t something that can be quantified. I think it was Erik’s foot.”
“Dang,” Nana lamented. “And them two fellas seemed so nice.”
“If you’d heard them talking in the men’s room, you wouldn’t think they were so nice. Etienne checked their backgrounds. They’re shadow people. They don’t exist. And what’s worse, by their own admission, they’re not through with their killing spree yet.” I studied Etienne’s face, waiting for a reaction.
“They gave no hints about who their real target is?”
I shook my head. “They mentioned that Stu guy, but no one else. Oh, yah. And they might have guns.”
“But what’s the motive?” He heaved himself off the bed and began pacing. “Things don’t add up. Two women with no apparent connection to each other are dead. Collateral damage, you say. Unintended deaths. Killed by a man with lethal kickboxing skills who was hired by someone named Stu. What kind of a
hitman worth his salt kills two people unintentionally? And not with a gun. With his foot.”
How come my theory sounded so much more far-fetched coming out of his mouth than my brain?
“George could accidentally kill someone with his foot,” Nana chimed in. “It’s on account a them steel-toed boots of his. And I oughta know ’cuz I been dancin’ with him.”
“Well, Isobel and Dolly did have one obvious thing in common,” I spoke up. “They were both Scottish, but I can’t figure out a scenario where that might be a factor in either one of their deaths.”
Etienne grabbed a pen off the desk and began jotting notes down on a piece of hotel stationery. “Fast Freddie Torres. Unknown operative named Stu. Authorization for a DNA sample from Hart while he’s having his leg set.” He looked over his shoulder at me. “Do you still have the handkerchief ? It’s probably too contaminated to be of any use, but maybe some industrious technician can lift a partial print off it.”
I plucked the handkerchief out of my shoulder bag and dropped it into a plastic sandwich bag that I dug out of my suitcase. “So now what?” I asked as I handed it to him.
“Now, I go back to the police station to make a pest of myself. Do you know what room Erik is in?”
“The bridal suite. In another section of the building.”
“Okay. I’ll see if I can arrange to have a plainclothes officer watch his room.”
“Really? You can do that?”
“I can’t, but Detective Constable Bean can. And I don’t think he’ll quibble. On paper, he’s indebted to your grandmother to the tune of thirty-six thousand pounds sterling.”
I shot Nana a long look. “What?”
She shrugged. “I was havin’ one of them off nights, dear. I don’t play gin rummy real good.”
“So, what should we do while you’re gone?” I asked as I walked Etienne to the door.
“Give Erik Ishmael a wide berth.”
Which was probably a good idea since he was prepared to deal with me in a less than savory manner should I stick my nose where it wasn’t wanted.
“Hurry back?”
He kissed my forehead. “Count on it, bella.”
“There’s somethin’ else what them two girls had in common besides bein’ Scottish,” Nana suggested as I closed the door.
I regarded her narrowly, choosing not to complicate matters by quibbling about Hamish Maccoull’s dirk. “There is no such thing as a curse,” I reiterated as I slipped out of my raincoat.
She ranged a curious look around the room. “Where’d you hide it anyway?”
“I’ve put it in a safe place until I can figure out what to do with it.”
“I’ll tell you what to do with it. Throw it away. It’s cursed.”
“It’s an historic artifact that could have significance far beyond anything either you or I could possibly imagine.” I unstrapped my shoes and slipped into a more casual pair. I checked my watch. “Time for dinner. Should we mosey down to the dining room and pick at our food until Etienne comes back?”
She was zeroed in on the cardboard patch with trancelike focus, her face screwed into a wrinkled contortion, her eyes alternating between purposeful squints and rapid blinks.
I angled my head and asked slowly, “What … are you doing?”
“Puttin’ the evil eye on that piece of cardboard. I’m throwin’ in the towel. It don’t do me no good denyin’ I’m related to Hamish Maccoull. If you got it, flaunt it.”
“How about you hit the buffet line and practice putting the evil eye on the haggis?”
“Okay.”
I fluffed my hood-flattened hair, touched up my lipstick, and followed Nana out the door, hearing a sudden scraping sound, followed by a noisy clatter and CRASH! from the room’s interior.
I walked back into the room.
The nightstand lamp was lying on the floor, knocked off its perch by the cardboard patch that was now lying on the floor beside it, minus every strip of duct tape that had held it to the wall. I stared in disbelief and tried unsuccessfully to draw a normal breath.
Okay, but could she do something really impressive, like move a parked car, or make Bernice disappear?
“What was that?” Nana asked when I joined her in the hall.
I shook my head and smiled. “Nothing.”
twenty
No one showed up for dinner.
Not even Wally.
“It was a pretty brutal crossing,” I lamented again as we perused the desserts on the buffet table, “so I’m not surprised. I think the last thing on anyone’s mind right now is food.”
“Are we the only ones here?” Bernice’s voice echoed across the room as she shuffled toward us, looking drained but determined to rain misery on someone else’s dining pleasure. “Your motion sickness pills sure got the job done, Emily. Next time, maybe you should try another kind. The kind that actually work.”
“People would have been a lot sicker without the pills,” I fired back.
“Yah, yah. From your lips to God’s ears. So what are they trying to kill us with tonight?” She drew back the retractable cover on a chafing dish. “Oh, good. More dog food.”
Nana and I grabbed one of every dessert and returned to our table. To my dismay, though not to my surprise, Bernice joined us.
“So, about the geocaching event tomorrow.” She unfolded her napkin and grimaced at her food. “I’ll agree to be a part of any team … except Team Five.”
Nana frowned. “Didn’t you say yesterday you was quittin’ the contest?”
“That’s before Emily changed the rules. If she can change her mind, so can I.”
“What’d you change your mind about, dear?”
“I expanded the giveaways. A prize for every team. Just to sweeten the pot a little.”
“I like that idea,” said Nana. “Kinda like what Oprah done a few times.” She leveled a look at Bernice. “How come you don’t wanna be on Team Five no more?”
“Are you people blind? Have you missed all the mooning and fawning going on between Lucille and Cameron? Really. It’s nauseating. I have to be on a team where the members are committed to being focused on me instead of each other.”
That sounded about right.
“Lucille’s found herself a sweetheart?” gushed Nana. “Aw, isn’t that nice? She’s been alone a lot a years now.”
“Yah, well, we’ll see how that works out. Tax complications. Pain in the butt relatives. Housing headaches. Once their bubble bursts, they’ll be in for a rude awakening.”
Nana tucked in her lips and stared at Bernice. She began blinking … and squinting.
Oh, God.
“But you know who should be alone?” Bernice continued. “Bill and Stella Gordon. Have you heard the way she criticizes him? Up one side, down the other. She’s fed up with his relatives. She’s fed up with his bluster. She’s tired of his temper. She’s tired of all the women who chase after him. She wishes she’d married an Italian.”
It was obvious Bernice spent a greater chunk of her time sniffing around tour members than photographing tour spots.
“If I was Bill Gordon, you know what I’d do?” She stabbed a stray pea with her fork and held it proudly in the air. “I’d get rid of her. I’d pray I wasn’t living in a community property state so I could avoid having to share my life savings, and then I’d file for divorce. No one should have to live with anyone as cranky as Stella Gordon.”
Nana screwed up her face and blinked faster.
“What’s wrong with your eyes?” Bernice asked her.
I kicked Nana under the table even as a thought began to form in my mind.
Suppose Bill wanted to get rid of Stella. And suppose he’d be forced to split his assets with her, including his meager savings and extensive weapons collection. And just suppose he’d prefer to keep e
verything himself, especially his coveted Scottish arms. Would he opt for a long, drawn-out, disadvantageous divorce? Or would he decide to bypass the court system and deal with Stella in a much quicker, cleaner way, like … hire someone to take her out. A fellow Scotsman named Stuart, who subcontracted the work to two inept flunkies.
Uff-da! Was that it? Had Stella been the intended target all along? Was it her head that was riding on the express train to Erik’s chopping block?
I popped out of my seat, leaned across the table to yank Bernice out of her chair, and planted a noisy kiss on her mouth. “Thank you! I won’t forget this.”
“Yuuuck! You … you … I don’t swing that way!” She wiped her sleeve across her mouth, adding, “Not that there’s anything wrong with it.”
I pushed my chair aside and raced across the room.
“Bill and Stella Gordon?” I inquired at the front desk. I knew they were on the third floor, but I couldn’t remember the room number. “Room number, please?”
They’d apparently been relocated to the ground floor after Stella complained about having to climb the stairs. At least, I think that’s what the desk clerk said.
I found the room right off the lobby. I knocked on the door.
No response.
I knocked again, louder this time.
Still no response.
I pressed my ear to the door, hearing no sounds from within. No voices. No footsteps. No nothing.
My heart started racing.
I stumbled headlong into the room when the door flew open.
“Geez!” cried Stella. She wrapped her robe tighter around her body. Her hair was matted against her head and dark smudges circled her eyes. She was actually quite scary looking, but at least she was alive.
“How are you feeling?” I asked as I righted myself.
She gave me a tired look. “How does it look like I feel?”
“Not so good, hunh? Would you like me to ask the kitchen to prepare a sick tray for you and Bill?”
She turned away from me and banged on the bathroom door. “Do you want a sick tray?”
