about Bill, and I’m afraid he might turn out to be a handful.” I raced through the historical information, ending with the pertinent information about how to avoid igniting Bill’s temper. “Will you spread the word to the rest of the gang? Forewarned is forearmed.”
“You bet. Isn’t that somethin’? He never said nuthin’ about bein’ Scottish. Gordon don’t even sound Scottish.”
“Maybe you should ask to see his birth certificate.”
A gleam crept into her eye. “Emily, do you s’pose there was Maccoulls what fought in that battle Stella was talkin’ about?”
Nana was Scottish on her mother’s side of the family, but no one had ever dug into the genealogical history.
“Anything’s possible,” I admitted, “but I’m not sure Bill is the guy to ask. God only knows how he’d react if it turns out your Maccoull ancestors fought with King George and the English against the Gordons. You don’t need to pick up where the Hatfields and McCoys left off.”
“Amen to that.” She locked her lips with an imaginary key and dropped it down her bosom.
“Can you handle more upsetting news?”
She went statue-still, her eyes darting to the corners of her sockets. “Your mother’s standin’ behind me, isn’t she?”
I shook my head. “It’s worse than that.”
“There isn’t nuthin’ worse than that.”
“How about … Grace and Helen have come up with a team slogan already.”
“I knew this was gonna happen. Them girls are a lot smarter than they let on. Must be they think better when they don’t gotta run roughshod over the Dicks. Them two fellas can be a real brain-drain.” She sighed with resignation. “Lay it on me, dear. What’d they come up with?”
“‘Do it or lose it.’”
“Dang. That’s a good one.”
“And did you notice the matching sweatshirts they’re wearing?”
“I didn’t pay ’em no mind on account of they looked like they was made of polyester. Polyester don’t breathe good.”
“It’s their new team uniform.”
“They got uniforms?” Her eyes bulged with panic. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. If my team don’t wake up, we’ll be headin’ straight down the tubes. We don’t even got a slogan yet!”
Breathless with frenzy, she charged to the left then whirled back to the right before stopping dead in her tracks. “Don’t know if I should be headin’ up or down. I gotta find Tilly and George. Have you seen ’em? We gotta call an emergency team meetin’ before we get blown away.”
“I didn’t pass them on my way down from the upper deck, so they must be ahead of—”
“Emily! Thank God I found you.” Tilly pelted toward us from the aft sun lounge, jaw set and cane thumping. “You’d better come quick. Margi’s being detained by security.”
“What for?” I cried.
“Distribution of a suspicious substance. If you hurry, you can catch them before they haul her off to jail.”
THREE
“I DON’T KNOW WHAT was wrong with their noses,” Margi Swanson fussed later that night. I’d brought her back to my hotel room for a little TLC after her near brush with disaster at the hands of the Britannia security detail, but the incident had turned her into such an instant celebrity with the other tour guests that I’d had a hard time dragging her away from her admirers. “Honestly, Emily, does this smell like a compound that could be used to make a nuclear device to you?”
Seated opposite me in a comfy armchair, she leaned forward to hand me a plastic bottle that was no bigger than my baby finger. Popping open the flip-cap, I squirted a stream of clear gel into my palm and sniffed. “Hmm, this is different.” I rubbed it into my hands and sniffed again. “Smells like a blend of … baked ham, hickory-smoked bacon, and pork rinds.”
“It’s the pharmacy’s signature scent for the summer,” said Margi. “They call it, ‘Hog Wild.’ Isn’t that cute? They formulate it right there at Pills Etcetera, and I buy it in gallon containers and transfer it to one-ounce bottles for travel. Saves me a ton of money. You wouldn’t believe what hand sanitizer goes for in specialty shops.” Margi still worked part-time for the Windsor City Medical Clinic, so annihilating other people’s germs was a big part of her daily routine.
“The pharmacist is working on a new scent for fall,” she tittered. “An homage to grain farmers. He’s going to call it, ‘Harvest Moon.’”
I wondered what that was going to smell like. Corn silage?
“Okay, Margi, here’s the deal.” I handed back her plastic bottle. “In order to avoid a repeat of today’s incident, I’m going to recommend that