his troops and escaped his enemies dressed in eighteenth-century drag?
“This first causeway is called the First Churchill Barrier,” Dad informed us, “and we’ll be crossing two more just like it before we arrive at our first destination. North Sea to our right; Scapa Flow to our left.”
As we drove across a narrow byway that was flanked on either side by a manmade seawall of massive concrete blocks, and enhanced by the spectacle of a World War II vintage ship lying belly up in the channel, I heaved a frustrated sigh, too puzzled to be able to make sense of anything.
I could understand how they might have isolated Dolly on the streets of Wick to kill her, but how had they isolated Isobel? She’d died alone in her bed with the door locked. If Erik had assaulted her earlier in the evening, wouldn’t she have cried out for help? Or had she felt so ostracized by the rest of the group that she thought people would accuse her of making the whole story up? Had she crawled into her bed that evening in excruciating pain, feeling too disenfranchised to call for help? Were we all, in fact, responsible for her death?
A surge of guilt washed over me, followed by an incredible surge of anger: Guilt, that I hadn’t addressed Isobel’s personality issues with more expertise. Anger, that Erik and Alex had used her character flaws to prey upon and eventually kill her. And she hadn’t even been the right target!
I angled a long look down the center of the bus, my eyes darting from seat to seat. So who was the right target?
Two women with nothing in common other than they belonged to the same team were dead. Did that suggest the real target was a woman?
Although, to be entirely accurate, Isobel and Dolly did have something else in common.
They were both Scottish. Sworn enemies, but Scottish nonetheless. And I couldn’t dismiss a niggling suspicion that that was somehow significant.
The drizzle started as we crossed the third Churchill Barrier onto the tiny island of Lambholm. The rain began as we pulled into the parking lot of what appeared to be a converted Quonset hut. The downpour commenced as John came to a stop and cut the engine.
“This is the Italian Chapel,” Dad chirped enthusiastically, “built by Italian prisoners of war who were captured in the North African campaign. They were housed right on this site, in thirteen huts known as Camp 60, and their main purpose for being here was to help construct the four Churchill Barriers.”
Through the raging deluge, I saw the whitewashed, gabled facade of a country church superimposed over the homely entrance to the Quonset hut. It had gingerbread house appeal, with two Gothic windows flanking the central doorway, an ornamental belfry, architectural doodads that looked to have been squeezed out of a cake decorating bag, and simple pillars that added a touch of grandness to the portico. On the Continent, the main pursuit of POWs had been to practice their escape skills; on Orkney, the main pursuit had apparently been to practice their artistic skills.
John opened the door, sitting calmly in his seat as horizontal sheets of rain dashed against the stairs and handrail, driven by hurricane force winds.
“Close the door, you moron!” yelled Bernice. “You’re flooding the place!”
“You are now free to leave the bus,” Dad announced with flight attendant proficiency. “You have a half-hour to explore the chapel and surrounding grounds.”
“Are you crazy?” shouted Stella Gordon. “It’s pouring out there! You explore the grounds. I’m staying put.”
“I’m with her,” said Bill.
“Can we drive to the next stop?” asked Margi. “Maybe this is just an isolated squall and it’ll stop raining by then.”
“These conditions are supposed to last all day,” said Dad in a strangely modulated tone that reminded me of a Stepford wife, “but they shouldn’t affect your activities. In Orkney, this is what’s referred to as a gentle rain.”
Okay, Dad’s ability to channel John was officially getting a little creepy.
Wally stood up, his gaze drifting upward as a barrage of raindrops pelted the roof of the bus. “Conditions might be a little prohibitive to fully explore the site at the moment.” He turned toward John. “And it might be a good idea to close the door.”
Whoosh.
“Would someone tell me why we came all the way over here to visit a Quonset hut?” griped Stella.
“When’s lunch?” asked Dick Teig. “I’m starting to get hunger pains.”
“That’s because you left your breakfast on the ferry,” said Helen.
Wally