Bonnie of Evidence - By Maddy Hunter Page 0,37

in their answers about their life together? And why did that bother them to the point of prompting such a quick exit?

“Your eyes are younger than mine,” Bill Gordon announced as he approached me. He thrust a piece of cardboard wrapped in cellophane into my hand. “How much does this thing cost?”

The “thing” was a replica of a two-handed sword miniaturized to the size of a fingernail file. I turned it over, spying the price in microscopic font in the corner. “Ten pounds sixty, it says here.”

“Are you kidding me? What are they trying to do? Make up the country’s financial deficit on the backs of us tourists?” He snorted with self-righteous indignation. “What does the writing on the front say?”

“Uhh—‘The Claymore was a common weapon among the highland clans, designed to facilitate sweeping slashes and powerful thrusts. Unlike other swords of the period, it was unique for its sloping cross-guards that terminated in … quatrefoils and a high collared … quillon block, with the … langets following the … blade fuller.’ “I frowned. “I hope that means something to you because it means nothing to me.”

“Anything else?” he asked.

“‘Made in China.’”

“Are you kidding me?” He snatched it from my hand, stormed across the room, and tossed it back into a display basket. “The next time you decide to charge a crapload of money for a souvenir,” he railed at the cashier, “make sure the damn thing is made in Scotland! Shysters,” he grumbled as he blew by me on his way out the door.

“It looked like a really nice replica,” I called after him. “Even if it was made in China.”

He turned back to me. “Authentic Scottish blades are not made in China. They’re made in Scotland, by authorized Scottish armorers.”

“Yeah, but if the replica fills a gap in your collection—I assume you have a collection?”

His eyes grew fierce, his voice menacing. “I have a replica of every sword and dagger wielded by clan Gordon to slay Campbells, and Mackelvies, and Loudouns, and Maccarters, and Conochies, and Maccoulls, and—”

“Maccoulls?”

He lowered his brows, squinting malevolently. “Yes, Maccoulls. Why? Do you know any?”

I shook my head. “Nope. It just sounds like Maccoull should be … Irish.”

“It’s not. The Campbells were ruthless, backstabbing scaffs, but the Maccoulls? The Maccoulls taught them everything they knew.”

I assumed “scaff,” in this context, wasn’t intended as a compliment.

“Stella!” he yelled across the room. “I’m heading to the can.”

“Why are you telling me?” she yelled back. “Do I look like your mother?”

I made a mental note to warn Nana against mentioning Hamish Maccoull or the rest of her Scottish ancestors to Bill. If the Gordons had a history of slaying Maccoulls, Nana could be in the crosshairs, and with Bill being so rabid about keeping the whole revenge thing alive, I was a little nervous about how far he might go to promote his clan’s honor.

I inhaled a calming breath. It was a good thing Isobel’s death wasn’t suspicious, because if it was, I knew the first person I’d be asking for an alibi.

I power-shopped my way through the rest of the store, picking up souvenirs for my nephews, and selecting postcards that I convinced myself I’d actually fill out. Stella Gordon got in line behind me at the cashier’s counter, carrying the claymore that Bill had thrown back into the bin.

“I’m not sure you were paying attention,” I said as I eyed the merchandise in her hand, “but Bill was adamant about not wanting to buy that.”

“He’s adamant about a lot of things. That doesn’t mean he’s right.”

“He seriously objected to its being made in China.”

She rolled her eyes. “What isn’t? If I don’t buy this for his weapons collection, once we’re home, he’ll be kicking himself from here ’til Sunday for letting it slip through his fingers. And guess who becomes the captive audience for his griping? Me. So I’m buying it. I like to think of it as a preemptive measure to shut him up.”

I handed the clerk my credit card. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone quite as … passionate about his heritage as Bill.”

“Fanatical, you mean. He’s like a bloodhound, sniffing out people with Scottish blood so he can pick a fight if they were born on the wrong side of the tartan. You know what I wish?”

I signed the receipt and gathered up my purchases. “What?”

“I wish every person on this tour with Scottish roots would disappear so I could enjoy the rest of my vacation.”

I stiffened, uneasy with her