Cameron Dawson’s memories of the palace of Holyroodhouse are unfortunately centered on sheep droppings.
“Sheep droppings?” said Elizabeth, staring at the telephone as if it had misquoted the caller. Several days had passed since their last conversation, and she was phoning to report on the wedding progress, and to augment her newly acquired knowledge of things royal.
“Yes,” said Cameron, after the usual transatlantic pause. “You know, those little brown pellets that tell you where sheep have been…”
“In the palace?”
“No, of course not in the palace, twit. But just outside the gates of the palace and off to the right there is a rugby field belonging to the Royal High School. At least they use it for rugby. Apparently sheep also have the run of the field. Anyhow, when I was at Fettes-”
“You played rugby?” asked Elizabeth, momentarily distracted from contemplation of the palace.
“Yes, in the seventeenth fifteen.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means I was an abysmal rugby player. The first fifteen is what you’d call the varsity, I suppose. They play in the school stadium and represent the school. And then you had a second team of fifteen players, and a third fifteen and so on.”
“And you were on team number seventeen?”
“Yes.”
“I suppose that’s why you played against sheep.”
“The better teams were made up of boys at higher grade levels than mine,” said Cameron reproachfully. “And I was rather thin in those days.”
“Get back to the sheep.”
“We played a Saturday-morning game against the Royal High School team on that field near the palace. I played fullback, where you stayed back and hoped the other team didn’t try to score. Nobody wanted to be tackled during that game because, as I said, the sheep used that field a lot more than the rugby team had. Of course, the other team’s colors were black and white, so there was a chance it mightn’t have shown up…”
“I trust the sheep won’t be grazing on the site of the garden party.”
“I doubt it, but you might want to wear brown shoes just in case.”
Elizabeth decided to ignore him. “Is it all set, then, about my going?”
“I think so. I hunted up Adam McIver, and he said he’d see what he could do.”
“Will we be able to go inside the palace?”
“Well, you can’t do as the sheep do, if that’s what you mean. But you won’t be able to wander about looking at tapestries, either. No tours while the royal family is in residence. It’s just an ordinary castle-paneled walls, paintings right and left, you know-the usual decor. Now, perhaps, at transatlantic phone prices, we ought to talk about the wedding.”
“All is well. The invitations are being printed; the department head has been placated; and the engagement announcement has gone out to the newspapers. I leave for Chandler Grove tomorrow. How are things in Scotland?”
“As far as wedding plans? No problem. Plane reservations are made and we’ve made all the phone calls to the relatives.”
“Solved your kidnapping yet?” asked Elizabeth.
“What, the gnome? No, but it’s the damnedest thing!”
“What?”
“We got a postcard from him today.”
“You did? From the thief?”
“No,” said Cameron dryly. “From the gnome.”
“I didn’t know it knew its address. What does the postcard say?”
There was a pause and then Cameron, obviously reading from the card in question, intoned: “Decided to go on holiday. Having wonderful time. Wish you were here.-(Signed) Your Garden Gnome. It’s addressed to The Dawsons.”
“Where is he?”
“The postcard is from Ibiza, and the stamps are Spanish. Postmarked there three days ago.”
Elizabeth burst out laughing. “Are you going after him?”
“No. I think that all our traveling will be in another direction. To the state of Georgia, to be exact. I told someone at church where I was getting married and he said, ‘In the Soviet Union?’”
“Yes, we tend to forget that they have a Georgia, too.”
“The accents are similar,” said Cameron.
Elizabeth ignored this gibe. “It will be wonderful to see your mother and Ian again.”
“Mother’s looking forward to her first visit to the States. She’s mad to do some sightseeing. Wants to know where she’s staying.”
Elizabeth smiled to herself. “You all are going to use my aunt Louisa’s place. It’s across the road from the Chandlers’.”
“Your auntie’s place. I see. And what’s it like?”
“Oh, it’s just an ordinary castle-paneled walls, paintings right and left. You know-the usual.”
In the frozen-foods aisle of the Chandler Grove Piggly Wiggly, Tommy Simmons was reading the nutritional information on the back of the microwaveable dinners. He supposed he ought to get into the habit of preparing real food, but there didn’t seem to be any point in cooking for one. Besides, people often took pity on his bachelor status and invited him out to dinner. Most of these dinners required him to give free legal advice on some minor matter, such as whether the owners of amorous tomcats could be made to pay child support for the resulting kittens (no), but Tommy didn’t mind. It made a nice change from land transfers and will drafting.
Perhaps he ought to try the diet frozen dinners, he thought, blanching at one five-hundred-calorie pasta entree. Just lately people had been exhibiting a regrettable tendency to overestimate his age. A sophomore from the local high school had tried to interview him on details of the Korean War. As if he’d admit to being on the planet during the Korean War! He blamed it on the Simmons family physique, which tended toward short stature and nonexistent waistlines. His hairline wasn’t much help, either; he was going bald on top, which only increased his resemblance to Friar Tuck. If the low-calorie cuisine didn’t improve matters, Tommy was afraid that he might have to invest in a videocassette and seek help from another Simmons: Richard, to whom he was not related.
He was just heading toward the produce section to purchase massive quantities of lettuce when a gaunt individual with an armload of herbal-tea packages backed into his cart. Not wishing to contemplate hit-and-run, the lawyer eased his shopping cart to the side of the aisle and rushed forward to see to the plaintiff.
“Are you all right?” he asked, for the fellow did look alarmingly pale. “I’m afraid you didn’t see me coming.”
“Oh, I’m fine. The velocity of that thing wasn’t-” Glowing dark eyes looked down into Tommy Simmons’s round face. “Hey, aren’t you the family lawyer? Makes you want to believe in synchronicity, doesn’t it? I was just thinking about you.”
Tommy would have willingly returned the compliment, but he had no idea whom he was addressing. “Well, it’s nice to see you,” he ventured. The dark-haired young man was dressed in jeans and a gray sweatshirt. He could be anybody.
“Thank you. I wasn’t sure you’d remember me. I guess lawyers have to have a good memory, but I’m flattered all the same.”
Inwardly, Tommy Simmons groaned. When someone said that, it was impossible to admit that you had absolutely no idea who they were. The only conceivable course of action was to keep the conversation going as neutrally as possible, and to hope that further clues would be forthcoming. At times like this, Tommy was haunted by the tale of an Atlanta colleague who had experienced just such a memory lapse once while talking to an elderly woman at a reception. After a few pleasantries, the woman had mentioned her son, and grasping at this clue to her identity, the fellow had exclaimed, “Oh, yes, your son. What’s he doing these days?” To which Lillian Carter had replied, “Oh, he’s still president of the United States.”