"I'd like to make a good impression."
"Marty, give him that bottle of Glenfidich, and he'll eat out of your hand."
He smiled and thought of the rare bottle of aged Scotch whisky, a souvenir of their last case up in the Catskill Mountains. "I'm glad Sheriff Lacon decided to use his discretion when it came to counting out the bottles we found in Gerry's airplane."
She chuckled. "Yeah, I remember; one for you, one for Dad. The sheriff told me afterwards he was all sympathy once you'd given him your reason for asking." Her smile slipped a bit. "I hate to say it, but at least you'll distract Dad from bitching about my brother," she said sourly.
"Tom?"
"Yeah." She came over to him and adjusted the set of his tie.
"I thought he was still in LA. Is he coming to dinner tonight?"
"No." Claudia sucked her lip and looked cross. "Mom always invites him, but he never shows; hasn't done since he moved out there ten years back."
"Do I detect a hint of family feuding?" he asked gently, taking her in his arms.
"Oh, yeah!" She patted his chest. "Tom's bisexual; dad can't handle that kind of thing."
"Ah."
"Yeah. So there you go; another little glimpse into the doings of the Indiana chapter of Clan Mackenzie." She picked up her purse, cast a last glance at her reflection in the mirror, and took his arm. "No putting it off any longer. Let's go, lover."
* * * *
They drove through the deepening twilight, the Taurus purring smoothly along the freeway toward Girls School Road. Names familiar and strange to Martin glowed from signs and billboards by the roadside; White Castle; Krispy Kreme; Arby's; KFC; Wal-Mart; the ubiquitous McDonald's. The strip malls were great oases of light, but the parking lots were deserted. Some stores had Christmas displays up, clashing with those advertising Thanksgiving specials, but everywhere was closed for the holiday.
Claudia gestured with a deprecating smile. "This is the neighborhood I grew up in."
"It looks wonderful!"
"Guess that's an improvement on 'nice!'" she said with a laugh.
At the next intersection she turned right and, after a moment, pointed off to the left at a long building, half glass, half concrete; a flying roof covered the main entrance and lights showed here and in a few of the rooms. Extensive playing fields lay off to one side, half-hidden in the darkness. "See that place? It looks kind of like a factory. That's Ben Davis High, my old school. It's where my mom teaches."
Martin peered at it. "It couldn't have been easy for either of you, being in the same school."
"Luckily the problem didn't arise. Mom transferred over the year after I left." She shuddered. "Had she been there the same time as me, I wouldn't have gotten away with half my missed homework assignments!"
Martin recalled his own schooldays without enthusiasm. "Did you have fun there?"
"Oh, yeah!" She nodded enthusiastically. "It was a tough school—possibly still is—but it was a great place. We never seemed to have much time to eat at lunch, but everything else was okay. They had a pretty good football team when I graduated in '97. They're called the Giants."
"Oh?" He looked surprised. "I thought from the name of this road it was an all-girl school."
"Oh, no; Ben Davis is co-ed. The Girls' School is further along." She grimaced. "You'll see it in a moment. Not a place any girl wants to go to."
"It has a reputation?"
"Yeah. It's a misnomer; it's not a school, it's a jail."
"Ah," he said quietly.
"Yeah." They traveled a little farther and Claudia pointed to the left where a large modern building sat on a steep rise some distance from the road. Backlit by the dregs of twilight and partly hidden by the bare winter trees, it had a stark, almost Gothic air about it. "That's it."
Martin looked at the institution and shivered. "It doesn't feel very good."
She gave him a considering look. Martin averted his eyes from the place until they were well past.
"You liked the Ben Davis football team?" he asked at last.
"Yeah."
"Were you a cheerleader?"
"Hell, no!" She gave him a dry look. "I didn't even bother to try out. Pride aside, not every good-looking girl gets or wants to be a cheerleader. I'd better things to do on Friday evenings than shake pom-poms and turn cartwheels!"
"That's understandable. I wasn't any good at sport," he said ruefully. "Running was fine, but I never saw the point of soccer or athletic field events—I still don't. I skived off physical education for the last six months."
"Skived?"
"Played hooky."
"Ah, gotcha. You surprise me." She slowed the car and signaled a right turn. "You're a fit guy."
"I try to work out, keep fit."
"I'll help you keep fit." She wore a wicked smile.
They turned into a short driveway. The headlights shone over a white, single story ranch-style house. One of several others along the road, it stood amongst tall, dark trees and, to Martin's English eyes, looked distinctly bare without a garden. Claudia pulled up in front of a double garage. "We're here." She leaned across to kiss him. "Okay, Mr. Grey, it's time to meet my folks!"
Martin felt his heart begin beat faster as they got out. This was an experience he'd had only once before when he'd first met his ex-wife's parents, back in the days when he and Jenny had decided to get engaged. He hoped to heaven this wonderful relationship wouldn't end the way that one had. Claudia took his hand, gave it a reassuring squeeze, and led the way to the front door. The porch light came on as they approached, triggered by a motion sensor. Even before they reached the door it opened, and an attractive, middle-aged version of Claudia peered out at them.
Claudia released his hand and stepped forward to embrace her. "Hi, Mom!"
"Darling! Good to see you!" The older woman closed her eyes with pleasure as they hugged, then opened them to regard Martin over her daughter's shoulder. "You must be Martin." She drew back from Claudia and extended her hand to him.
"Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Mackenzie." He smiled as they shook hands.
"I'm pleased to meet you." She leaned close and pecked him lightly on the cheek, and he caught the whiff of a delicate fragrance. "And I'm Marcia."
A tall, rangy, gray-haired man in a green checkered shirt and black jeans loomed behind her in the doorway, his chiseled features breaking into a guarded smile.
"Hi, Dad!" Claudia embraced him.
"Hi, yourself, Claudie." Dark green eyes took in Martin's formal suit and tie with measured approval. "Is this your beau?"
"Yes, sir; meet Martin Grey, all the way from England. Be nice to him!" She turned to Martin. "Marty, this is my dad."
The tall man advanced down the step, his hand outstretched in greeting. Martin was tall at six feet nothing in his socks; Claudia's dad seemed to tower over him.
"Andrew Mackenzie." He had a firm grip. "Claudia tells me you work in the British Revenue Office."
"For my pains, yes," Martin confessed.
"Nobody's perfect," Andrew replied with a straight face.
Behind him, Claudia shared a mock-despairing look with her mother. Martin didn't bat an eyelid. Instead, he proffered the gift-wrapped bottle to her father. "In token of the occasion, I thought I'd bring you this."
Claudia winked at him as her father took the bag with a condescending look. "Thanks, I'll open it later."
"Feel free," Martin said equably.
"Caroline isn't home yet," her mother said, ushering them through to the sitting room. "The hospital called to say she's been delayed; some kind of emergency. Claudia, come and help with dinner. I'm sure you've got a lot to tell me," she added, smiling at Martin as she led the way to the kitchen.
"What's your poison, Martin?" Andrew asked from the drinks cabinet.
"I'll have a Scotch and soda, or whisky, whichever you have."
"I got Scotch. Being a Mackenzie, you can be sure of that."
Martin looked across at Claudia, and they
shared a smile.
* * * *
Claudia and her mom served the dinner, bustling around the long table with its snowy white cloth in a way that made Martin's heart fill with pleasure.
"You sit here by me." Marcia indicated the chair to the right of the table head where Andrew took his place. "Claudia, you sit opposite Martin, dear." She looked at the empty setting with sadness. "Caroline will have to have her meal tomorrow. Bless the girl!" She smiled at Martin, and he could see the pride in her eyes. "She's so dedicated, but I do wish she'd take the whole of Thanksgiving Day off with us. I hope she's okay."
"She'll be fine," Andrew said. "The roads are good. I reckon she's on her way home now."
"Yeah, Mom," Claudia said, sitting down. "Caroline knows Marty's here; she said she'd aim to meet him tonight, and she always keeps her word."
A trace of exasperation crossed Claudia's face, and Martin thought he was the only one to have seen it.
At the head of the table, Andrew stood and cleared his throat. "It's the custom to say grace, Martin. I'm not sure if you do the same over in England?"
He nodded. "Depending on household, yes, it's not unknown."
"But it's not common anymore?" Andrew pressed.
Martin shrugged. "Britain's a secular country these days, so I suppose not."
"Huh! I thought better of the British than to let that custom go. We've all got much to be thankful for, no matter which country we're from."
Martin frowned, but without waiting for a response, Andrew clasped his hands and bowed his head. "For what we're about to receive, may the Lord make us truly thankful."
They all murmured the response, and Andrew began to carve the turkey. Martin met Claudia's eye, and she grimaced slightly.
Marcia glanced at them both and cleared her throat. "So, you don't have Thanksgiving in Britain, Martin. Do you have something else you celebrate?"
"Christmas is the main event of the year," he replied. "Some people make a big deal out of Easter and the feast days of various patron saints—except Saint George."
"Isn't he the patron saint of England?"
"Yes, but his day isn't officially recognized. Saint Patrick for Ireland, of course; Saint David for Wales and Saint Andrew for Scotland; they all get approval, but not poor, old Saint George."
"That's a shame!" Claudia said handing around plates of turkey as her father carved.
"Oh, people still fly the flag, especially in a World Cup soccer year when the England team is playing, but the political-correctness brigade doesn't like it as it smacks to them of colonialism."
"Colonialism is wrong," Andrew said, sitting down. "Help yourself to vegetables, Martin."
He dug a spoon into the mashed potatoes. "The British Empire wasn't all bad. If it wasn't for us," he said with a smile, "America wouldn't exist in its present form—if at all."
"Well, I'll give you that; but it took a rebellion to make you guys see that a free people couldn't be held down."
"Would it surprise you to know I agree with the principles of your founders?" he replied as he poured the gravy.
Andrew looked at him. "A little, I guess—unless you're trying to make us like you more by agreeing with us?"
Only the twinkle in his eye told Martin he wasn't quite serious. "Not at all; I speak as I find. Taxation without representation is the lowest form of government."
"Family, you heard it here first!" Claudia grinned across the table at him, her fork poised. "The taxman came out on the side of the little guy!"
"Then for that, let us truly give thanks!" Marcia proclaimed, raising her glass of wine.
* * * *
After dinner they moved to relax in the sitting room. As Andrew poured a fresh round of drinks, Martin gazed around. The room was well furnished, with a comfortable settee and armchairs in mahogany-colored leather. A deep pile carpet in a rich shade of honey spread across the floor, complimenting the dark brown of the chairs and the polished wood of the cabinets and cupboards against the paneled walls. Bookshelves lined one wall, and he could make out titles on a wide range of themes. Above the field-stone hearth hung a plaque on which was a crest of a stag's head in gold on a blue field, with three gold interlocked rings above. Underneath the crest was a scroll bearing the motto ”luceo—non uro.” He had enough Latin to translate it as ”I shine—but I do not burn.” Beside the hearth a door led to the dining room, then the kitchen beyond. He could just hear Claudia and Marcia talking from there as they made coffee.
"Well, I guess I'll open your gift, Martin." Andrew reached for the gift-bag where it stood on a cabinet.
Martin watched as the older man untied the top of the green foil presentation bag and looked inside.
"Ah, Scotch!" Andrew looked approving as he drew out the bottle. As the faded label emerged into the light, the approving look turned to one of surprise, then mild shock, and finally awe. He turned haunted eyes to Martin. "Dear God, Martin! Where on earth did you find this?"
Martin got up and joined him, looking down at the bottle’s black and gold label and its amber contents with some complacency, satisfied in the effect it had. "It was part of a cache of bootleg Scotch that was flown in from Canada during Prohibition, back in 1929. Claudia and I tracked it down, courtesy of the spirit of the pilot who flew it in."
"How many bottles were there?" Andrew's voice seemed strained, as if something was caught in his throat.
"Officially there were thirty-four, unofficially, thirty-six. The local sheriff was with us when we found it in the cavern where it was hidden, and he agreed to give me two bottles as a thank-you for our help." He gestured to the bottle. "That's one; I've got the other."
"And it was in that cavern for over seventy years?"
"Near enough."
Andrew studied the label. "It was already twelve years matured in the cask when bottled! After all that time spent in a cool dark cavern, this must be so smooth…" He shook his head in wonder. "That's quite some story, Martin," he said, hefting the bottle ever so gently in his hand. "Do all your cases end with finding a treasure trove like this?"
Martin laughed and shook his head. "I wish! No; the only reward I normally get is through helping a departed spirit find its rest. Really, I usually work for expenses, bed and board, not cash."
Andrew pursed his lips. "Well, this is going in my drinks cabinet for the next special occasion." He cocked an eye at him, and a half-grin creased his weathered features. "Maybe it'll be when you marry my daughter?"
"It might just happen yet," he replied, his heart beating faster at the prospect.
"I hope so." Andrew placed the aged bottle with near-reverence in his cabinet and took out another bottle. "This is good single malt, Martin. It's not quite up to the quality of that Glenfidich, but I'd value your opinion on it."
"Certainly."
Andrew poured two shots and handed him a glass. "Here you go." He raised his own in toast. "Slainte!"
"Cheers!"
The Scotch was smooth and a treat to the tongue. Andrew stood by the hearth, gently swirling his Scotch around the glass. "So, Martin, how're things between you and my daughter?"
"We're getting along fine," Martin said with a smile. "In fact, Claudia asked me to live with her over here."
Andrew blinked and frowned. "Isn't that kind of premature? How long have you known each other?"
Martin felt uncomfortable. "Three weeks."
"Three weeks? It's not long enough to make that kind of commitment!"
"Normally, I'd agree, but in that time we've gone through a lot together. It makes us closer than most."
Andrew shook his head and took a deep swallow of whisky. He smacked his lips and sighed. "I hope you both know what you're doing." A dangerous gleam came to his eye and he pointed at Martin. "Claudia may be all grown up, but she's still my girl. I don't want her getting hurt, you understand?"
Martin held up his hands. "I'm the last person who'd want to hurt Claudia. I love her, Mr. Mackenzie."
He did
n't look mollified. "Good. Good. I'm glad something's working out for Claudia. I wish I could say the same for Tom." Martin looked at him, expecting a diatribe, but after the gnomic comment Andrew wasn't forthcoming. "Then you're planning on staying over here in the US permanently, Martin."
"Oh, yes, if I can get the visa sorted out. Technically, I can stay over here on my current work visa because I'm still employed as a consultant by the Knight's Lodge resort—at least until they sort out the little matter of a former partner's corruption. Once they do so, I'll have to return to the UK. Claudia can set things in motion here with the immigration office, and when our application's under way I can work out something with regard to finishing my job." He spread his hands. "Then we'll see."
"You'll be giving up your country, Martin." Andrew sipped his Scotch. "That's a hell of a thing to contemplate. It's such short notice. Are you sure you know what you're doing?"
"I'm sure. Britain's only on the other side of the Atlantic, so if I want or need to go see my family, it's no more than a few hours away." He leaned forward. "You see, Andrew, being with Claudia has focused my mind! Before I met her, there was no one in my life. I was just content to potter along working in the tax office and help out with cases of haunting. Now, the sky's the limit."
He sought for some way of showing his credibility. "Whatever I do, I'll be able to cash in or transfer my civil service pension. It's the gold standard by which all others are measured in the UK—no British government dares to interfere with the civil service workers or there'll be hell to pay. The dollar-pound exchange rate is still very good. With that, the sale of my flat—ah, apartment—and my savings, Claudia and I will be well off."
Andrew nodded. "Guess that's one of the things a father wants to hear most; that his child will be looked after—not that I worry about Claudia!" He gave a half-grin. "You've probably noticed she can take care of herself."
Martin smiled and nodded. "Oh, yes!"
"Your country supports us through thick and thin, but what about the political situation over there? How's that going? Isn't Britain supposed to be a member of that European Union set-up?"
"Yes, although most people are against it—including myself, I have to say. It's corrupt, inefficient, interfering, and riddled with bureaucracy."
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