Bonnie of Evidence - By Maddy Hunter Page 0,7

it.”

“Best uniform?” asked Grace.

“Nope.”

Helen corkscrewed her mouth into a half twist, her thickly crayoned eyebrows rocketing into disapproving slants. “Oh. That’s disappointing.”

Grace sucked in her breath as she eyed her wristwatch. “C’mon, Helen. If we don’t put a move on, we’ll get stuck having to browse through the gift shop with the men hanging onto us. And you know what that means.”

Helen rolled her eyes. “‘Why do you need that?’” she mimicked in her husband’s voice. “‘Where are you going to put it? Don’t we have enough junk already?’”

Grace’s expression turned devious. “What do you say we just skip the other decks and head directly for the gift shop?”

Helen’s face lit up.

“If the Dicks ask,” Grace called over her shoulder as they charged across the floor, “you haven’t seen us.”

“But—”

They were out the exit before I could add another word.

But it’s the Britannia, I said to myself as I turned back toward the rope partition. Weren’t they impressed by the powerful people who might have sipped cocktails here? Ambassadors might have lounged on the flowery country sofas. Prime ministers might have relaxed in the wingback chairs. Heads of state might have tripped over the Persian rugs. I mean, there was real history in these rooms.

“Excuse me, Emily. Could I get you to take my picture?”

Stella Gordon waved her camera at me, causing the charm bracelets on her arm to jangle like leg shackles. “I’d ask Bill to do it, but he’s not here.”

“Isn’t that the way?” I teased. “I think the rap on husbands is that they’re never there when you need them, and always there when you don’t.” I held out my hand for her camera. “Where would you like to stand?”

Stella Gordon was a short woman with hair dyed too black, cheeks rouged too pink, and lips stained too red. She had unfortunate taste in clothing, demonstrating a fondness for blousy polyester prints in loud colors, but her five-inch strappy heels were nothing short of spectacular, shattering the myth that women over seventy were more interested in preventing bone fractures than making their legs look really good.

“Press the shutter halfway down, focus, then click,” she directed as she struck a dramatic pose against the rope barrier.

“So where did you lose Bill?” I asked as I focused and clicked. “Did he head off to see the Rolls with the rest of the guys?”

“Hell, no. He stayed behind in the shopping center. How’d the picture come out?”

I handed her the camera so she could check it out herself. “Bill stayed in the shopping center … on purpose?” Then again. Seventy shops. A bunch of restaurants. I might have stayed behind myself if I could invent a way to avoid excess baggage fees at the airport.

“Of course, on purpose.” She studied the image. “Nice job. If I photoshop him into the picture, all his Looney Tunes relatives will think he did the unthinkable and set foot on the Queen’s yacht. I can hear the fireworks now.” She let out a Wicked Witch cackle. “Now that should be worth the price of admission.”

I gave her a narrow look. “Why is it unthinkable for Bill to tour the Britannia?”

“Honey, you’re not up on your Scottish history, are you? What do you know about the Battle of Culloden?”

I’d actually brushed up on my Scottish history by reading a dog-eared bodice ripper Nana had lent me. History was always more entertaining when enacted by bare-chested men wielding really long blades. “Uhh—Isn’t that the battle where the guy who got defeated, a Scottish prince or something, dressed up like a woman to avoid being captured by the opposing forces?”

“Some prince,” Stella said sarcastically. “The coward abandoned his men and ran away from the English as fast as he could with his tail between his legs. What a wuss.”

Actually, being able to run away was pretty impressive, considering the length of women’s dresses back then.

“Charles Edward Stuart,” droned Stella. “Bonnie Prince Charlie. The Young Pretender to the throne of England. The only thing he ‘pretended’ to be was a man.”

Ouch. A little harsh, but she obviously had issues. “So Bill’s relatives don’t want him to tour the yacht because …” I gave her a blank look. “I’m sorry. I think I missed the point.”

Stella groaned at my obvious stupidity. “The ship is English. It belonged to an English Queen. Do you get the point now?”

“Uhhh—No.”

“Oh, for the love of—Whose back do you think Clan Gordon and the other highlanders were protecting at Culloden? I’ll give you a