Bonnie of Evidence - By Maddy Hunter Page 0,38

implication. “You mean that rhetorically, of course.”

“Oh, for crying out loud. What do you think I’m going to do? Wave my magic wand, say ‘Poof’, and zap a whole busload of people into oblivion? ”

I couldn’t speak to her methodology, but if eliminating guests was her goal, she had a pretty good start.

I bypassed the theater on my way to the veranda and bumped into the Dicks as they were exiting the cafe. I stood back, looking them up and down with a critical eye. “Well would you look at the two of you? You’ve been shopping, I see.”

“This wasn’t our idea,” griped Dick Stolee as he tugged his kilt around his waist. “This is all your fault, Emily. You built too much free time into the Edinburgh schedule and the wives went nuts.”

“So how do you like wearing a skirt?” I needled.

“How do you think I like it?” he snapped. “I look like a girl.” He tugged the fabric in the opposite direction. “Damn fool thing. It’s itchy.”

“Not enough undergarments,” speculated Dick Teig. “What are you wearing? Boxers or briefs?”

Dick Stolee registered a blank look as he patted down his flanks. “Damn. I knew I forgot something.”

Euw.

“I kinda like the whole pantless thing myself,” confessed Dick Teig as he rotated his hips, causing the pleated wool to swish back and forth. “But so help me, Emily, if you ever breathe a word to Helen, I’ll deny I ever said it.”

The girls had bought them identical kilts in a Black Watch plaid, with identical sporrans to carry incidentals. The outfits fell apart below their knees though, with Dick Stolee sporting black dress socks and white canvas sneakers, and Dick Teig running around in white athletic socks and wingtips. Not the best fashion accessories to achieve that rugged, devil-may-care highland look.

“So are these your team uniforms?” I asked.

“The wives tell us they are,” groused Dick Stolee.

Swish, swish, swish. “The ventilation is great,” said Dick Teig as he continued to rotate his hips. “That Erik fella sure called it right. My boys finally have room to breathe! And wait until I see my chiropractor again. He told me if I’d stop parking my backside on my wallet, my sciatica would improve, and doggone, he was right. Look at this.” Stretching his arms out in a T, he executed a series of torso twists that sent his stomach swinging with near seismic bounce. “It doesn’t hurt anymore!”

Dick cringed. “Oh, Jeez.”

“I might never wear pants again.”

“Will you stop?” snapped Dick Stolee. He peered around the room as if all eyes were on him. “You’re embarrassing me.”

Dick Teig hiked his kilt to his knees and stared down at his shoes. “I’m not sure about the wingtips and athletic socks though. What do you think, Emily? Would dress socks look better? Helen bought some really nice ones at the dollar store.”

“I’m gonna take in the video,” huffed Dick Stolee as he nodded toward the theater.

“Great idea,” I encouraged. “I bet the whole area will come alive once you learn the history behind the ruins.”

“I’m not going in there to hear about the ruins,” he deadpanned. “I’m going in there because it’s dark.” He arched a brow at his friend. “You coming with me, or would you rather stay here, discussing your ensemble with Emily?”

Dick Teig looked suddenly desperate. “I’ve gotta use the men’s room. Anyone seen it?”

“By the gift shop,” I said, pointing in the right direction. “That-away.”

As he struck out across the floor, Dick Stolee stood beside me, watching him go, which was a little unusual, since the two men rarely allowed themselves to be out of each other’s sight.

“You’re not going with him?” I asked.

He shook his head.

“Sooo … unlike the female of the species, men don’t have to go to the restroom in twos?”

“I wouldn’t mind going, but …” He threw a careful look around him before leaning toward me and asking in a self-conscious voice, “Can I go in there dressed in a skirt?”

After calming Dick’s nerves about acceptable dress code in a Scottish men’s room, I headed toward the exit doors and stepped out onto the blacktopped terrace that fronted the building. In the distance I could see the battered ruins of the castle, perched on a bluff like a crumbling section of the Great Wall of China, looking oddly formidable in its decrepitude. It was as long as a Florida strip mall, with a solitary watch tower poking up from its gutted remains, and a footbridge welcoming tourists through an