Page 16 of Love Bomb

“Wait a minute.” Bain held up a hand. “It was Tom in the shower, not Tonya.”

“Who’s Tonya?” Dougal asked, getting irritated.

“The cat.” Bain threw up his hands.

Never mind how many beers he’d drank, he was beginning to think that Dougal had been sampling the house wares while he’d been on bar duty.

“You’re telling me there’s more than one cat up there?” Dougal boomed, attracting worried glances from the tourists. “I can’t believe she snuck another cat in, after I was so gracious to let Tom stay with her. I’m going up there right now.”

Dougal spun on his heels. But Bain grabbed Dougal’s arm to stop him as the penny suddenly dropped. “Hold on a second. I think there’s been a mix up. Are you telling me Tom is a cat?”

“What else would he be?” Dougal demanded.

Bain let go of Dougal’s arm. “A big orange cat,” he said, just to be sure. “Rona called him a Maine Coon.”

“That’s the one.” He narrowed his eyes. “Was Tonya a Maine Coon too?”

“Aye.” Bain threw his head back and laughed until his sides hurt.

Dougal waited him out.

“What’s so funny?” he demanded once Bain had calmed down.

“Rona,” he wheezed. “She’s freaking hysterical. She told me Tom was her boyfriend and he was in the shower, when all along he was on the bed, and she was calling him Tonya.”

“I need to keep a breathalyzer kit behind the bar,” Dougal muttered. “Nobody ever tells the truth about what they’ve had to drink.”

“I promise,” Bain said, wiping his eyes. “I’ve only had the two beers. Rona lied to me. She faked a boyfriend called Tom, then had to rename her cat.” He grinned at Dougal. “There’s only one big orange cat up there.”

“Okay…” Dougal still didn’t look convinced.

“I swear. One cat.” Bain made a crossing motion over his heart. “There was nobody in the shower.”

Dougal softened and leaned across the bar toward Bain. “I worry about you, son. You’ve been under a lot of pressure recently, what with getting that new business up and running and dealing with all those women. Maybe it’s time to take a wee break.”

“It isn’t me you should worry about,” Bain told him, cheerfully throwing Rona under the bus for having messed with him. “Rona’s planning on blowing up the folly. You might want to do something to stop that.”

Then he watched as Dougal exploded all over again.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Rona had been awake most of the night, trying to figure out how to blow up the folly without expert help. By the time morning came, she was no closer to a plan. So, she decided to visit the monstrosity, in the hopes it would spark some inspiration.

Knowing it would be faster to walk up the high street than try to drive through the snow, Rona headed for the old Presbyterian church that dominated the top end of town. The folly sat in a clearing behind the church, on land that used to be owned by the Dalgliesh clan but was now public domain. The clearing was bordered by the old cemetery on the left, and the MacDonald farm on the right, and was so out of the way that nobody ever went there unless they had a reason.

This morning, several people had found a reason to be at the folly, because it seemed that Bain had ratted her out to the historical society.

Jaw hanging, Rona stared at the protestors encircling the folly. Strangely, not all of them were against her demolishing it.

On one side were the folk from the historical preservation society—led by the traitor Dougal, in place of its absent president. She glared at him. It had no impact. The historical society placards declared the folly to be irreplaceable and one-of-a-kind. Which was true, because who in their right mind would build two ugly phallic towers?

On the other side was the town’s Morality Society, which comprised of three women in shapeless polyester coats and headscarves. The scarves were tied under their chins, mimicking the queen when she used to stay at Balmoral, and the color theme for their clothing appeared to be gray.

The trio were led by Morag McKay, who owned the best bakery in town but was still universally disliked. She had the personality of a bag of stale, unsalted crisps. Rumor had it that Morag had started her Morality Society in the sixties when free love was at its peak and she wasn’t getting any. The group hadn’t grown past its three original members since inception.

Now the women, all gray hair and scowling faces, protested anything they deemed to be of moral concern. Apparently, after standing in the same spot for almost two hundred years, the penis-shaped building had finally made their list. Their placards read: Down with inappropriate phallic symbols! Protect our youth! Mack Dalgliesh was a pervert!

Rona took a second to ponder what an appropriate phallic symbol might be before turning her attention to the placard that offended her the most.