murdered my relatives?”
“Judaaas 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