Bonnie of Evidence - By Maddy Hunter Page 0,36
a little finger wave as he headed across the floor. “I’m counting on it!”
With Wally managing the geocaching activities and Etienne playing photographer, I was freed up to do a little exploring on my own, but where to start? Video presentation? Outdoor veranda? Castle proper?
Rather than waste time doing the eenie, meenie, miney, moe thing, I reverted to my default setting: the gift shop.
“What do you mean, do I really need a new necktie?” Alex Hart balked as I crossed the threshold. He and Erik Ishmael were browsing through the woolens on a display table just inside the door, looking like natives in their new kilts, hiking boots, and nifty sporrans. “Do I ever complain about the number of wristwatches you buy?”
“That’s different,” scoffed Erik. “I’m building a collection.”
“Well, so am I, only I wear mine around my neck instead of my wrist.” He snatched a red tartan tie from the table and held it near his cheek. “Royal Stuart. What do you think? Does it fight with my complexion?”
“You don’t need another freaking necktie. I’ve given up enough closet space to your clothes fetish.”
“And I’ve given up enough dresser space to your jewelry fetish. So there.”
“You don’t even wear neckties!”
“So?” Alex rubbed the Royal Stuart wool between his thumb and forefinger, as if testing for softness. “They’re pretty. I like to look at them.”
Erik arched a brow at me. “He’s impossible to reason with when he gets in these moods.”
“My husband would sympathize,” I commiserated. “I tend to hog all the closet space, too.”
Erik fisted his hand on his hip, exasperation flooding his face. “So how do you handle the issue and remain happily married?”
“You build a new house with lots of walk-ins.” I smiled pertly. “Problem solved.”
Alex laid the necktie back on the display table and made a great show of dusting off his hands. “See? I put it back. Happy now?”
“So do you guys live in a house or an apartment?” I inquired.
“House,” claimed Alex, as Erik said, “Apartment.”
They crossed glances. Erik laughed. “We actually live in a detached condo,” he explained. “Technically, it’s a house, but it’s so small, it feels more like an apartment.”
“So it’s a house with a pintsize footprint. How very green of you. New condo? Old condo?”
“New,” claimed Erik, as Alex said, “Old.”
They lifted their brows and pinched their lips together, refusing to look at each other. “It all depends on your definition of old,” Alex explained. “It was built ten years ago, which in my estimation, is pretty old. Erik obviously disagrees.”
“A building that’s only ten years old is practically brand new,” argued Erik. “Just saying.”
I glanced from one to the other. “Are you sure the two of you actually live together?” I teased.
For a heartbeat, their eyes snapped with an emotion as raw as the one effected by silver screen legends before they morphed into werewolves, but it was gone as quickly as it appeared, replaced by guffaws and dismissive gestures.
“You see?” Erik stabbed an accusing finger at Alex’s face. “I told you we needed to spend more time together. People don’t even realize we’re a couple anymore.” He turned to me, pleading his case. “It’s all his fault, Emily. He spends so much time with his nose stuck in his computer that he doesn’t talk to me anymore. I told him to retire, but noooo. He thinks the whole nuclear industry will collapse without his input.”
“It will,” Alex averred. “I’m indispensable.”
“Were you involved in that accident at Three Mile Island decades ago?” I asked, summoning the entire depth and breadth of my knowledge about the country’s nuclear power industry. Well, that, and two old movie flicks with Jack Lemmon and Cher. “Didn’t the core almost melt down, or something? Is that the kind of thing you handle?”
“Have you ever seen The China Syndrome?” Alex asked me.
“Yes! Back in college. It was part of a thrillerfest extravaganza on a weekend when the football Badgers had a bye. It was so realistic.”
“What I do is nothing like that.” He ranged a quick glance around the rest of the gift shop. “I’m not seeing anything else in here that even vaguely tempts me, so why don’t we queue up for the video?” he asked Erik.
“Love to. Would you excuse us, Emily?”
They hustled out the door as if they were migratory birds fleeing a hurricane—a hurricane, I suspected, named Emily. I wasn’t stupid. I could recognize a last-minute escape when I saw one. What I didn’t understand was—What was up with the discrepancy