Nathaniel Cannon and the Panamanian Idol No. 21

After a long and lazy but profitable evening at the card table, Iseabail and Cannon returned to their cabin. Cannon shut the door.

“He knows,” Iseabail said.


“He knows,” Iseabail repeated, stabbing the air with her finger. “Wailani. He knows tha’ you’re Nathaniel Cannon.”

Frowning, Cannon said, “I doubt that.”

Iseabail threw her hands in the air. “Either tha’, or he knows we’re pirates.”

“That’s for sure.”

Iseabail paced angrily. “I’m aye sure I’m sure. He disna treat us like—” She stopped. “I’m sorry, wha’ was tha’?”

“Wailani knows we’re anything but simple archaeologists,” said Cannon. “I’d bet a year’s take he has us figured for pirates. At the very least, he knows we’re some sort of lowlife he can turn into a quick buck down the road.” He shook his head ruefully. “He’s right. He did get the better end of the deal. If he knew who we were, he would have asked for more than just the one favor.”

Iseabail blinked at him. “I’m nae qui’ caught up yet. Ye say ye think I’m right?”

Cannon swatted her on the arm. “Not outside this room. You scoundrels have too much fun at my expense as it is.” He paused. “Am I wrong to look forward to whatever it is he has in mind for us?”

“It’ll be interestin’, nae a doubt abou’ tha’.” Iseabail sat on the divan, took the pen and paper sitting on the side table, and began to write. “Lemme pu’ down the shoppin’ list.” She snorted and showed Cannon the page. “Red ink.”

He grinned. “They do have a theme, don’t they?”

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