told me their personal information is none of our business, and they’ve no intention of budging. You can bank on it.”
“What about … Erik Ishmael. Anything out of the ordinary in either his or Alex’s medical histories?”
Wally riffled through the papers. “Erik takes a prescription pain reliever. A pretty powerful narcotic actually. No mention of what the problem is. He also takes a slew of dietary supplements and metabolites. Looks like he’s downing every nutritional supplement the industry pushes at jocks to help them keep their competitive edge.” He turned the page over. “No mention of his athletic background, but he probably excelled at some noncontact sport that didn’t threaten to damage his cheekbones. Ping pong maybe?”
Erik must have been a skilled kickboxer indeed to have escaped the inevitable punishment of having his entire face rearranged in the ring. Either that, or his earnings had allowed him to spring for cosmetic surgery from some of the finest surgeons in the country. “How about Alex?”
Wally scanned the sheet. “He’s on drugs for high cholesterol and hypertension. Pretty ordinary stuff.” He chuckled as he slid the forms back into his leather carryall. “Did you know the guy is an honest-to-goodness rocket scientist?”
“I thought he was a nuclear engineer.”
“Aren’t they the same thing?”
I eyed him skeptically. “Don’t nuclear engineers deal with nuclear energy and rocket scientists deal with … rockets?”
“Whatever. He told me rocket scientist, so I’m thinking the two terms are interchangeable.”
Or had he simply forgotten what he’d written on the guest form? The same way he’d forgotten whether he lived in a condo or an apartment. I frowned, uncomfortable with the direction my thoughts were taking.
Wally leaned back in his chair and blew out a long, exasperated breath. “So what do you suggest we do about the contest? I hope you know it can’t go on like this. Two people dead? Guests at each other’s throats? It was a great idea in theory, but the reality isn’t quite living up to the hype.”
“Do you think we should throw in the towel?”
“In the interest of all involved, that would be the safest thing to do, but then you’re left with the threat of litigation. You’d be breaking a contract with a heck of a lot of people, and they might take exception and sock you with a civil suit.”
I sighed. “And then there’s Lucille Rassmuson who’d be very gracious in defeat, but who’s absolutely aglow that she’s found an activity where she’s more skilled than everyone else. How do I tell her to put away her GPS and enjoy the rest of the trip as a common tourist? Can you imagine her disappointment? She won’t be a member of the number one team anymore, the object of everyone’s attention and envy. She’ll just be plain old Lucille Rassmuson again, invisible senior citizen from Iowa. My gut is already starting to wrench just thinking about it.”
“It’s life, Em. Not everyone gets to win.”
“I know. But it seems so unfair.”
He picked up his carryall and got to his feet. “So what about tomorrow? Are you going to let the teams loose on the Orkneys or not?”
“No decision yet. I need to ponder more … and wait for Etienne’s input.” I walked him to the door and stepped into the hall with him.
“It’s too bad you couldn’t come up with an Oprah moment and find a way for everyone to win. That’d be a great way to ease tensions and improve morale.”
“And send Destinations Travel into Chapter 11 bankruptcy court. Good idea. Needs tweaking.”
Laughter echoed through the corridor as Erik and Alex emerged from the stairwell. “People, people,” Alex called out when he spotted us. “You should have stayed for the entertainment. Erik tried his hand at the bagpipes. I think he knocked every hearing aid in the room out of commission.”
“My piping was a hell of a lot better than his dancing,” said Erik as they walked toward us, stopping at the room next to mine. “He tripped over his own feet on a pathetically easy step and ended up in Bill Gordon’s lap. You should have seen the old windbag’s reaction. He went ballistic.”
Alex smiled enigmatically as he removed the key from his sporran. “Bill put on a good show, but I wasn’t fooled.” He gave his finely clipped eyebrows a flamboyant waggle. “He liked it.”
“Which explains why he dumped you on your keister,” Erik taunted. “Will you just open the door and wish everyone a goodnight?”
“Goodnight, all.” Alex swept his hand toward