Bonnie of Evidence - By Maddy Hunter Page 0,11

every nerve ending in my body. “Or this.” He lifted my hand to his mouth and kissed each of my fingertips slowly, provocatively, before drawing my freshly sanitized forefinger into the warmth of his mouth and—

“Emily, darling.”

“Mmm?” I moaned in a hormone-induced haze.

“I have another suggestion.”

“Okay.”

“Are you hungry?”

“Ravenous,” I purred.

He set me away from him and tidied my hair. “Would you hold that thought until after we find a deli? I’m at a loss to explain it, but I have a sudden, uncontrollable urge for a ham sandwich.”

_____

By noontime the next day, Edinburgh was a distant memory.

We’d stopped at St. Andrews long enough for everyone to have their picture taken on the course’s first fairway, gawk at the Chariots of Fire beach, and argue about whether the tide was in or out—an issue that went unresolved due to the fact that Midwesterners know less about tides than Prissy knew about birthin’ babies. From there we headed north, noting a startling change in the terrain as we drove—with the rolling hills of the lowlands ballooning into range after range of humpbacked mountains, and hardwood forests giving way to underbrush, meadow grass, bedrock, and endless sweeps of purple heather.

“We’ll be stopping for lunch in Braemar, which is home to the Royal Highland Games,” our tour director announced over the bus’s microphone. “The event is always held on the first Saturday of September, which is why we’re able to stop today. During the games, you can’t get near the place. And, as we’ve marked on your itinerary, Braemar is the site of your second geocaching event, so fire up your GPS units.”

Our tour director was a consummate professional with years of experience under his ever-expanding belt. His name was Wally Peppers—a chipmunk-cheeked, boy-next-door kind of guy who was so adept at guiding tours that we’d lured him away from his last employer to work for us on a permanent basis. He was intimately acquainted with so many foreign destinations that in many instances, we didn’t even need to hire local guides, which saved us oodles of money. Wally boasted a firm lock on middle-age, an eager attitude, and a long, unlucky streak where the ladies were concerned. He’d served as tour director on two other trips I’d taken, so we had history, even though it was a bit checkered.

“How are we supposed to eat lunch and geocache at the same time?” Dick Teig called out.

“You’re not,” said Wally. “But I’ll let Mrs. Andrew explain the logistics. Would you like to give us the particulars, Margaret?”

Mom popped out of her seat faster than a Whac-a-Mole out of its hidey hole. “Day two,” she announced with breathless excitement as she opened her official geocaching notebook. “I have it all worked out. Two teams will search first, then eat, and three teams will eat first, then search. And today’s search will probably be pretty challenging because we can only allow each team ten minutes to get the job done.”

Groans. Boos. Collective whining.

“That’s not fair!” shouted Isobel Kronk. “We’re challenged enough having Bernice on our team.”

“I resent that,” snapped Bernice.

“Now, now,” Mom placated. “Ten minutes might not sound like a lot of time, but once you enter your coordinates and take off, you’ll probably think it’s too much time.”

Isobel let out a sarcastic snort. “Oh, sure. Do you know the Bernice I’m talking about?”

“Is our team going to get stuck going last again?” asked Dolly Pinker. “We’re at such a psychological disadvantage when all the teams ahead of us are high-fiving each other about their successful searches. It’s totally unfair to put us under that much pressure.”

“I agree,” Alice Tjarks called out. “You need to make the process more equitable so everyone can take a turn being paralyzed by anxiety.”

Mom smiled pertly as we approached the town limits. “I’m way ahead of you. I’ve put you on a rotating schedule, so Team Five will go first today, followed by Teams One through Four. Team Four will go first tomorrow, and so on. Does that suit everyone?”

“Team Five objects to your use of the term, Team Five,” announced Bernice, boosting herself to her feet for effect. “From now on, we want you to call us Team Yes We Can.”

“Okey-dokey,” said Mom as she made a notation in her notebook.

“In that case, Team Four wants to be called Team Do It Or Lose It,” said Helen.

“Gotcha.” Mom made another notation. “Any other name changes?”

Margi shot her hand into the air. “Team Three would like to be referred to as