Bonnie of Evidence (7 page)

“My maiden name was Campbell,” Isobel said proudly, her gaze fixed on Bill. “What of it?”

“If you’re a Campbell, you’re no friend of mine.”

Isobel looked him up and down, as if he were an engine that needed crushing. “Gee, pops, I’m devastated. But the feeling’s mutual, I’m sure.”

Bill stood statue-still for a moment before whirling around to address the room in a voice that swelled with righteous anger. “Shall I tell you the tale of the crooked Campbells?”

Unh-oh
. I was getting a bad vibe that the tale of the crooked Campbells was going to be a lot more grisly than the tale of say, Benjamin Bunny.

“They’re land-grubbing charlatans,” he spat, “from the first to the last. There was never a good one born, and not nearly enough that’s dead. They instigated. They persecuted. They outright lied. And the highlands ran red with blood because of them.”

Isobel braced her fists on the table, eyes slatted, lips pinched. “I wasn’t alive back then, and neither were you, so here’s a little advice. GET OVER IT.”

“The Gordons will never get over it! Hating Campbells is in our blood. We’ll never forget Glen Coe, or Argyll’s betrayal, or the massacre at Culloden. We know you for what you are, you traitorous, murdering sons of bi—”

“Mom should be here at any minute,” I broke in, glancing desperately toward the door. “So if you’d all please find a seat, we’ll be ready to hear the results when she—”

“Where are you digging this crap up?” Isobel shot back at Bill. “Glen Coe? Culloden? Who’s ever heard of this stuff ?”

Stella tossed her head back, groaning. “You should attend one of their family reunions. It’s all they talk about.”

“You have the nerve to stand there and tell me you’ve never heard of Glen Coe?” Bill accused. “You’ve never heard how Campbell foot-soldiers repaid the hospitality of the MacDonalds by slaughtering every man jack of them? Not on the battlefield, mind you. They didn’t fight like real men. They slew them as they rose from their beds, unaware and unarmed. And when they were done with the men, they punished the womenfolk and their babes by burning every house in the glen, leaving them with no food or shelter, in the middle of winter. Leaving them to die in the ice and snow. But the Campbells didn’t care about innocent children, the bloody savages. They couldn’t stop boasting about what they’d done.” His tone grew ominous, his eyes threatening. “There’s a special place in Hell for you and your kin.”

“My mother was a MacDonald,” Dolly Pinker announced with a stunned expression that deteriorated into utter contempt as she regarded Isobel. “Are you telling me that
her
relatives murdered
my
relatives?”

“Jud
aaa
s
priest
,” snapped Isobel. “Does anyone else want to crawl out of the woodwork to pile on?”

“Did this happen this past year?” asked Helen, shock in her voice. “Because I don’t recall seeing it on cable news, unless Dick was flipping through the channels so fast I missed it.”

“February twelfth,” droned Stella as she stared mindlessly at the ceiling. “Sixteen ninety-two.”

“Three hundred years ago?” cried Isobel.

“Don’t try to spin your way out of it,” raged Dolly. “You’re guilty. All you Campbells are guilty. Ruthless lowlifes. I knew there was a reason I didn’t like you.”

A muscle bunched in Isobel’s jaw—kind of like the thing that happens to the Incredible Hulk just before he explodes out of his shirt and turns green. “Don’t take this the wrong way,” she seethed, looking Dolly straight in the eye, “but if my relatives knocked off your relatives, they probably had good reason.”

Dolly’s mouth fell open. Her eyes bulged. She began to wheeze. I didn’t know if she was expressing indignation or having an asthma attack, but I didn’t dare wait to find out.

“Okey-dokey,” I jumped in. “How are we doing finding those seats?” I hurried toward the library table, directing people toward nearby chairs and sofas as I ran interference between Isobel and Bill.

“Would this be a good time to remind folks of an old French proverb?” asked Cameron Dasher as he joined Isobel at the table. He gave her hand an encouraging squeeze. “‘He who boasts of his descent is like the potato; the best part of him is under ground.’”

Stella Gordon’s laugh ricocheted through the room like a misfired bullet. “Did you hear that, Bill? He just compared you to an Irish root crop. Sounds like he infiltrated one of your family reunions.”

“No, no,” Cameron corrected, brushing off the accusation. “I’m merely suggesting how pointless it is to use one’s relatives as bludgeons to beat up on perfectly wonderful people like Isobel. It’s pretty counterproductive, don’t you think? What does it accomplish?”

Bill speared Dasher with a hostile look, his gaze settling on the name tag pinned to Dasher’s shirt. “Your name’s Cameron? Well, aren’t you a sorry excuse for a Cameron—siding with the likes of a crooked Campbell against a gallant Gordon and a brave MacDonald. We have a name for traitors like you.”

Cameron remained so cool and unflappable, he reminded me of a talking version of my dad. “Hate to disappoint you, but I don’t have an ounce of Scottish blood in me. My parents were both photographers. Camera? Cameron? Get the connection?”

“Of course, he does,” I quipped as I locked my hand around Bill’s arm and steered him across the floor to safer territory. “Sit,” I insisted, plunking him down on the sofa between Nana and Tilly.

“So are the Campbells the soup people or not?” asked Margi. “Doesn’t anyone besides me want to know?”

“Well, would you look at that,” Nana marveled as she glanced toward the doorway.

Erik and Alex marched into the library like the color guard at a sports event, jaws set, eyes forward, shoulders squared, looking as comfortable wearing their kilts as my ex-husband had been wearing my undies. They’d selected matching white oxford shirts to complement their tartans, and finished off the look with furry sporrans to hold their personal effects, spotless hiking boots, and short-bladed knives stuffed down their calf-high socks. When they reached the center of the room, they posed straight-faced for several seconds before Erik broke out of character and winked. “Gentlemen, you would not
believe
how liberating it is not having to adjust the ‘boys’ all the time to get them back in alignment. This is what I call real comfort. Shame on you ladies for keeping it a secret for so long. A guy would have to be crazy to squeeze into flat-front pants again after enjoying this kind of freedom.”

“Right,” scoffed Bernice. “Let us know how your ‘boys’ fare after you give ’em a taste of support hose with tummy control.”

“Campbell tartan?” Bill roared as he leaped off the sofa, spittle flying from his mouth like water from a garden sprinkler. “I’d rather pluck out my eyes than look at Campbell plaid!”

Stunned silence ensued, followed by quiet reflection. “I’d rather eat dirt than watch another one of Helen’s stupid chick flicks,” mused Dick Teig.

“I’d rather die than let Grace wax my chest again,” confessed Dick Stolee.

Note to self:
expand present portfolio by investing heavily in men’s health service.

“Get out of my sight. The two you!” Bill raved, his ears turning as red as cooked beets. “If you don’t, I swear I’ll come over there and rip those tartans off your bodies so fast, you won’t know what hit you.”

“Hey!” Nana grabbed his belt and yanked him back onto the sofa. “You’re blockin’ my view.”

Erik wagged a cautioning finger at Bill. “You better watch out what you pray for, buttercup. I bet you wouldn’t be so anxious to rip off our togs if you knew our undercarriages were”—he paused for maximum effect—“X-rated.”

Gasping from the ladies. Eye rolling from the men.

A half-dozen snack-size bottles of hand sanitizer flew through the air at them. “You’ll probably need those,” said Margi.

“They’re not wearin’ no undershorts?” spluttered Nana.

“They’re being historically accurate,” Tilly asserted as she craned her neck for a better look. “It wasn’t uncommon for highlanders to go about their daily business with their undercarriages fully vented. In fact, trousers might have been considered too confining, especially if one believes certain rumors that have been passed down through the centuries.”

“What kind of rumors?” I asked.

“Typical testosterone-driven hype. The early Scots were reputed
to have equipment under their hoods that was so excessively …
manly, some of the more impressive fixtures might have ended up as exhibits in scientific museums if someone had thought to preserve them.”

“No kiddin’?” Offering Bill Gordon a contrite look, Nana seized a fistful of his shirt and propelled him back to his feet. “Sorry about the misunderstandin’. You go right ahead and rip them kilts off those young fellas. Just give me a sec to turn on my camera.”

“I’m here at last!” Mom dashed into the room all aflutter, armed with her laptop, her notebook, and a file folder full of papers. “The suspense must be killing you, so I’ll get right to it.” Dumping everything on the nearest reading table, she cleared a space for her laptop, powered it up, consulted her notebook, then took a deep breath in preparation for—

Her eyes strayed to the sudden clutter. Unable to stop herself, she trailed a finger across one of the glossy magazines she’d shoved out of the way. “
Ew
,” she cooed, “current periodicals.” She did a quick scan, smiling beatifically. “And they’re not in order.”

I could hear her heart go pittypat all the way across the room.

“Dinner’s in twelve minutes,” carped Isobel Kronk. “Could we get this show on the road before they start serving?”

“You bet,” said Mom, forcing her attention back to the computer. “Here we are. The results are as follows, and I’ll ask you to please withhold your applause until the very end. Team Yes We Can, formerly known as Team Five, went first. I’m thrilled to report they redeemed themselves admirably after their disappointing first try and found the cache in an astounding six minutes and thirty-five seconds.”

Isobel pumped her fist as relief and satisfaction played across her face, making her harsh features almost attractive. “What’d I tell you?” Cameron encouraged his teammates. “Aren’t you happy we didn’t give up?”

Dolly and Bernice didn’t look too happy, but I figured their sullenness had little to do with cache results and everything to do with where Cameron had chosen to sit—shoulder to shoulder with Isobel at the library table.

Mom continued her tally. “Team One, still known as Team One until further notice, went second, and they found the cache in seven minutes flat.” She offered a heartfelt smile to the group. “For those of you who are unaware, my mother is on Team One. Wave to everyone so they can see who you are, Mom.”

Oh, God
.

“Nepotism!” yelled Bernice. “Blatant nepotism!”

Mom inched her gaze back to the magazines, her internal struggle between duty and desire playing out on her face until she looked as if she were about to implode. “I’m sorry. Would anyone mind if I alphabetize these periodicals before we continue? It should only take a few minutes. They’re just so … out of order.”

“Everyone minds,” shouted Dolly Pinker. “Just get on with it, would you?”

“Nepotism!” Bernice accused more emphatically. “Blatant nepotism!”

Dick Teig shot her “the look.” “We heard you the first time, Bernice. We’re ignoring you.”

Ignore Bernice? Damn. Why hadn’t
I
thought of that?

Returning reluctantly to the business at hand, Mom picked up where she’d left off, at warp speed, in one long breath. “Teams-TwoThreeandFourfoundthethingtoo. Goodjob. We’redonehere.” She slammed down the cover of her laptop and scooped up the magazines, cradling them in her arms while she shuffled through them.

Mumbling. Confused looks. Blank expressions.

“What’d she say?” asked Stella Gordon.

“She said everyone found the cache,” Dad explained from behind the viewfinder of his camcorder.

“She’s lying!” Isobel Kronk hammered her fists on the table as she sprang from her chair, frothing with outrage. “None of you found it. You couldn’t have!”

“My team sure found it,” argued Dick Stolee.

“Did not,” countered Isobel.

“Did so,” challenged Dick Teig.

Boos. Shouting. Cat calls.

I let out my signature whistle, sending hands flying upward to muffle distressed ears. When the room was quiet again, I nodded. “Thank you.” I leveled a look at Isobel. “Would you mind telling us why you think no team other than yours found the cache?”

“Sure,” Isobel said without apology. “Because I took it.”

FIVE

“
YOU
WHAT
?”
D
OLLY
P
INKER
shot to her feet, hands on hips, condemnation in her voice. “Oh, my God. You
cheated
?”