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“I’m no’ wearing this thing on its own.” Hamish stared down at it. “This is very wrong.”
“No’ as wrong as this,” Findlay said as he came out from behind the curtain.
At the sight of him, Megan let out a high-pitched whine and clutched the fence. She kept her face averted, but her shoulders were shaking.
“That’s no’ technically underwear,” Betty said. “It’s part of my swimwear line. That’s a mankini. In Royal Tartan.”
“I don’t care what you call it,” Findlay said. “It looks like a G-string with suspenders attached. No self-respecting man would be seen dead in this.” He tugged at one of the straps that ran from the pouch covering his privates, up his chest, and over his shoulders.
“He’s got a point,” Archie said. “I don’t see your designs selling. They’re nowhere near sexy. In fact, you could market them as birth control. One look at your man in these and you’d never want to do the deed ever again.”
“Stop whining and pose. We’ve no’ got all night. I’m hiring that fog machine by the hour, and the twins here need to get Kitty’s sheep back before she notices they’re missing.” Although, their dye job might clue the woman in that they’d taken a wee trip away from her farm.
Hamish shook his head. “I’m no’ doing this. I look like an idiot. I’ll never live it down.”
The other men nodded, and Betty knew she was losing them.
“Just give me one minute,” she said. “I’ve got a photo of a runway show on my computer phone that will prove this is the height of fashion.”
She dug her phone out of her massive black handbag and pressed its buttons. While the men complained, Jean took photos, and the twins tried to hide their laughter, Betty muttered at her phone. The thing was damn hard to work, and the buttons were fiddly, but she eventually managed to call the number she wanted—because there were no fashion show photos on her phone.
“I’m freezing my balls off here,” Hamish said. “Literally. I don’t have a minute to give you.”
“I cannae find the photos anyway.” Because they didn’t exist. “How about you just do a couple of poses, and then we’ll call it a night?” She stuffed her phone back into her handbag.
“No,” Archie said. “I don’t want my photo out in the world dressed like this. Get the Drymen boys to model your stuff. They deserve it. And make sure to delete all the photos you’ve taken tonight.”
He turned toward the curtain.
That’s when the flashing lights hit the graveyard entrance. And then the siren wailed.
For a second, nobody moved.
And then it was pure chaos.
The men ran every which way. Hamish hid behind a gravestone, and Archie tried to climb a tree. The scared sheep darted about in confusion, baaing continually. The yellow one knocked James off his feet, and he landed on his back in front of a headstone, flowers around his head. Megan jumped the fence and ran for it. Claire dithered, first running for the sheep, then running to help James, then deciding it would be best to scarper. She was too late. Her brother’s police car screeched to a halt in front of her, blocking her escape. In the midst of all this, Findlay had pulled down the curtain and wrapped himself in it. And Betty hadn’t moved.
Because she’d been the one to call the cops.
With clear resignation, Matt Donaldson climbed from his police car. “Please tell me this isn’t some weird geriatric Satanic ritual,” he said.
“I think I slipped a disk,” James said from the grave. “I can’t move.”
A green sheep stopped in front of the cop car and peed. Matt looked at the sheep, then at his younger sister who was looking anywhere but at him. Then his eyes landed on Betty.
She lifted her hands, palms up. “What?” she demanded. “Whatever it is, it wisnae me.”
And then she threw back her head and cackled. The underwear she’d purchased from that dodgy sex clothes catalog she’d found stuffed into her letterbox had been worth every penny.
Quickly, before Matt could confiscate it, she snatched Jean’s camera from her hands. “I’m going home,” she announced. And then, she headed out of the graveyard.
“Get back here, Betty McLeod,” Matt shouted. But he had his hands full, so he wasn’t about to chase her down anytime soon.
Betty pulled her phone from her bag and hit the button to call Harry—the computer genius who was old enough to buy beer, but still liked playing with Lego. For some reason, Harry always assumed the best about Betty. It was weird. But he was in town visiting his mother, which made him the perfect choice to help her.
“Harry, son,” Betty said. “I need to get some photos off a camera and put them on the interweb. Can you help me with that? It has to be done straight away. I’m on a tight schedule here.”
“Of course I can help,” Harry said. “What website do you want to put them on?”
