Bonnie of Evidence - By Maddy Hunter Page 0,86

convinced all the lab results are going to come back negative? I think what killed Isobel and Dolly isn’t something that can be quantified. I think it was Erik’s foot.”

“Dang,” Nana lamented. “And them two fellas seemed so nice.”

“If you’d heard them talking in the men’s room, you wouldn’t think they were so nice. Etienne checked their backgrounds. They’re shadow people. They don’t exist. And what’s worse, by their own admission, they’re not through with their killing spree yet.” I studied Etienne’s face, waiting for a reaction.

“They gave no hints about who their real target is?”

I shook my head. “They mentioned that Stu guy, but no one else. Oh, yah. And they might have guns.”

“But what’s the motive?” He heaved himself off the bed and began pacing. “Things don’t add up. Two women with no apparent connection to each other are dead. Collateral damage, you say. Unintended deaths. Killed by a man with lethal kickboxing skills who was hired by someone named Stu. What kind of a hitman worth his salt kills two people unintentionally? And not with a gun. With his foot.”

How come my theory sounded so much more far-fetched coming out of his mouth than my brain?

“George could accidentally kill someone with his foot,” Nana chimed in. “It’s on account a them steel-toed boots of his. And I oughta know ’cuz I been dancin’ with him.”

“Well, Isobel and Dolly did have one obvious thing in common,” I spoke up. “They were both Scottish, but I can’t figure out a scenario where that might be a factor in either one of their deaths.”

Etienne grabbed a pen off the desk and began jotting notes down on a piece of hotel stationery. “Fast Freddie Torres. Unknown operative named Stu. Authorization for a DNA sample from Hart while he’s having his leg set.” He looked over his shoulder at me. “Do you still have the handkerchief ? It’s probably too contaminated to be of any use, but maybe some industrious technician can lift a partial print off it.”

I plucked the handkerchief out of my shoulder bag and dropped it into a plastic sandwich bag that I dug out of my suitcase. “So now what?” I asked as I handed it to him.

“Now, I go back to the police station to make a pest of myself. Do you know what room Erik is in?”

“The bridal suite. In another section of the building.”

“Okay. I’ll see if I can arrange to have a plainclothes officer watch his room.”

“Really? You can do that?”

“I can’t, but Detective Constable Bean can. And I don’t think he’ll quibble. On paper, he’s indebted to your grandmother to the tune of thirty-six thousand pounds sterling.”

I shot Nana a long look. “What?”

She shrugged. “I was havin’ one of them off nights, dear. I don’t play gin rummy real good.”

“So, what should we do while you’re gone?” I asked as I walked Etienne to the door.

“Give Erik Ishmael a wide berth.”

Which was probably a good idea since he was prepared to deal with me in a less than savory manner should I stick my nose where it wasn’t wanted.

“Hurry back?”

He kissed my forehead. “Count on it, bella.”

“There’s somethin’ else what them two girls had in common besides bein’ Scottish,” Nana suggested as I closed the door.

I regarded her narrowly, choosing not to complicate matters by quibbling about Hamish Maccoull’s dirk. “There is no such thing as a curse,” I reiterated as I slipped out of my raincoat.

She ranged a curious look around the room. “Where’d you hide it anyway?”

“I’ve put it in a safe place until I can figure out what to do with it.”

“I’ll tell you what to do with it. Throw it away. It’s cursed.”

“It’s an historic artifact that could have significance far beyond anything either you or I could possibly imagine.” I unstrapped my shoes and slipped into a more casual pair. I checked my watch. “Time for dinner. Should we mosey down to the dining room and pick at our food until Etienne comes back?”

She was zeroed in on the cardboard patch with trancelike focus, her face screwed into a wrinkled contortion, her eyes alternating between purposeful squints and rapid blinks.

I angled my head and asked slowly, “What … are you doing?”

“Puttin’ the evil eye on that piece of cardboard. I’m throwin’ in the towel. It don’t do me no good denyin’ I’m related to Hamish Maccoull. If you got it, flaunt it.”

“How about you hit the buffet line and practice putting the evil eye on the haggis?”

“Okay.”

I fluffed