As for the miserable brooch with its huge terminals and hideous carvings—well, Henry was ashamed to wear the thing in polite company. It was the sort of item that was handed down from generation to generation merely because it would bring nothing in a sale. Someone had even defaced the reverse side with incomprehensible mottos.
“Dumlagchtat mac Alpin Bethoc, indeed,” the Sixth Lord Fingon muttered in disgust to a candlestick. “And who the devil is Lucy MacAlpin Trelaine?”
TWENTY-THREE
“Until the last Laird Fingon died thirty years ago,” said MacLean, tamping his pipe. “The family lands were auctioned off, the castle fell to ruin as ye saw, the Fingon brooch was never seen again.”
Lucy sat for a moment, speechless, then took a sip of the whiskey in front of her. For the past hour MacLean and Wharrie had been telling her about the Fingons, about two centuries of exploitation and misery: starving people evicted from their homes to make way for sheep; emigrants packed into lumberships; an ecology mismanaged into oblivion. No wonder Wharrie and the other islanders she’d met were bitter and suspicious. No wonder the very mention of name Fingon brought icy stares.
“There was no male heir, ye see,” MacLean was saying, “chust a daughter who was cut oot from the will.”
“A baby?” said Lucy, looking up.
“A young woman,” said MacLean.
“Barbara Fingon,” nodded Wharrie.
“What happened to Barbara Fingon?” Lucy asked, afraid to hear the answer.
“Went to America, I heard,” said MacLean. “She was the last of the Fingons.”
Lucy took another drink. A daughter who went to America thirty years ago. A Pictish brooch. It all fit. But Barbara Fingon hadn’t been the last of the Fingons when she died on a country road in Massachusetts. There had been one more of these monsters. A daughter. A daughter with big blue eyes.
“Tell me more about this Fingon treasure,” Lucy said, hoping her voice didn’t reflect the turmoil inside her. At least one thing finally made sense. Robert MacAlpin’s risking everything for an ugly brooch was incomprehensible, but for a treasure …
“Like I said,” said MacLean, pouring himself another drink from the bottle, “legend has that it was given the Fingon for protection in ancient times by Kenneth mac Alpin himself It’s said …”
“What is it you’re really after, lass?” interrupted Wharrie in a gruff voice.
“I told you,” said Lucy, turning to the big man who sat frowning at her side. “I have a friend in the States who thinks she might be related to the Fingons. I’m just checking it out for her, that’s all.”
“I dinna think so,” said Wharrie, leaning forward.
“Why would I lie?”
“Because you’re after the Fingon treasure, tha’ wha’ I think. You’re after the treasure, chust like the other American.”
“What’s this?” said MacLean, suddenly very interested.
“What other American?” said Lucy blankly. Wharrie broke into a broad smile for the first time, revealing a mouth full of crooked, yellow teeth.
“The one who showed up last week with the Fingon brooch, a course,” he said. “Called himself Fraser.”
“Fraser!” exclaimed Lucy, nearly falling out of her chair.
“This Fraser had the Fingon brooch?” said MacLean, rubbing his stubbed chin and regarding Lucy with a new interest.
“Aye,” said Wharrie. “And this lass ken the man. See how she’s ashakin’.”
“I know him,” Lucy said softly and took a big slug of scotch. She swallowed it without even wincing.
“So ye aire after the treasure,” declared Wharrie triumphantly. Now that he had found his tongue, it seemed he wouldn’t shut up.
“I’m not,” she protested helplessly.
“Then how do ye ken Fraser?”
“He’s trying to find me.”
“And why be he trying to do that?”
“Because I killed his partner,” she said softly.
MacLean and Wharrie looked at one another, then at Lucy, then drained their glasses. Lucy took another sip, too. Somehow the scotch was getting much smoother.
It was pointless to hide the truth any longer, she knew. Fingons had been lying to the people of Lis for too long. The game was over. Fraser was bound to catch up with her now. She knew too much for him to let her get away.
“My name isn’t Tina Snicowski,” she said solemnly. “You can call me Lucy, though that’s probably not my name either. I think I may be Barbara Fingon’s daughter.”
“A Fingon?” exclaimed Wharrie.
“You canna know wha’ you’re sayin’ lass,” said MacLean, shaking his head skeptically.
“I know exactly what I’m saying,” said Lucy. She took another drink and told them the whole story. When she described how Robert MacAlpin had tried to kill her for the brooch, MacLean looked like he had been punched in the stomach. After she finished, Wharrie pulled his chair over and awkwardly put his arm around her shoulder.
“Well, I dinna see how yer accountable, though Fingon blood runs in your veins,” he pronounced gently.
“Get on wi’ ye!” said MacLean, giving Wharrie’s thick arm a punch. “Hasna the lass suffered enough?”
“Well, I canna speak for Lis,” said Wharrie, downing his scotch and pouring another, “but I forgive ye.”
“What’s she done to forgive?” said MacLean, “other than pay you to drive her aboot?”
“Well, I forgive her tha’.”
MacLean scowled at him and patted Lucy’s hand.
“It’s okay, lass. You’re with friends now.”
“Will you tell me about Fraser, Mr. Wharrie?” said Lucy, feeling better somehow, feeling like she had always wanted to feel after confession when she was a child but never had.
“He coom in last Thursday,” said Wharrie. “My cousin, Sorley MacRae, drove him around. He was stayin’ in a vacation home near Dumlagchtat, owned by a college professor from London, it is.”
“And he had the Fingon brooch?” said MacLean.
“He showed it to Sorley that first day,” said Wharrie in tones of amazement mixed with contempt. “‘Ha’ ye ever seen anything like this afore?’ says he. A course Sorley dinna say tha’ he had, but it was clearly the Fingon brooch. The next day Fraser spent two hours walkin’ at Dumlagchtat Castle. Then he left for Glasgow.”
“Glasgow!” said Lucy.
“Aye,” nodded Wharrie. “Said he needed to check some records.”
“That’s where my friend Mr. Wing went—to see if he could find a record of my birth.”
“Who’s this?” said MacLean.
“Little bastard she’s with,” Wharrie said and spat.
“Don’t call him that,” said Lucy angrily. “What do you have against Mr. Wing?”
“The Japs killed mi faether in World War II.”
“Well for your information, Mr. Wharrie,” Lucy said indignantly, downing another swallow of whiskey, “Mr. Wing isn’t Japanese at all. He’s Chinese. And the Japanese killed his whole family.”
Wharrie looked down. “I dinna ken.”
“Well, you ken now,” said Lucy. “And if Fraser’s in Glasgow, Mr. Wing may be in danger.”
“They’ll not run into one another if tha’s wha’ you’re worried aboot,” said Wharrie, shaking his big head. “Gooverment offices aire closed on the weekend and Fraser is flying back tonight. Sorley’s supposed to pick him oop at the airstrip. A charter.”
“If he’s coom all the way from America with the brooch,” said MacLean in a low whisper, “there’s only one thing he could be after.”
“Me,” said Lucy sadly.
MacLean shook his head.
“Not you, lass. Ranald’s right. He moost be after the Fingon treasure. And if you’re really the last Fingon like ye say, then the treasure rightfully belongs to you!”
“Now ye go on oop to yer room and have a wee nap,” said MacLean as they pulled up in front of the Manor Lodge.
/> “I don’t wanna go to my room,” protested Lucy, her tongue thick, her eyes watering. “I wanna be with you guys.”
Lucy was sandwiched between MacLean and Wharrie in the front seat of the big sedan. She couldn’t remember the ride back from Skerrisay except for the place where they had gone into the ditch. That had been great fun. And then there was all the singing. Lucy had never known how much fun singing could be.
“Be a good lass, now,” said Wharrie, cutting the motor. “Go on wi’ ye.”
He looked so cute with his bright red nose. It was hard for Lucy to believe there was ever a time when they hadn’t been buddies.
The three of them had spent the entire afternoon in the Fairy’s Egg, trading theories and sympathy, drinking singlemalt whiskey. Lucy was ashamed of herself for ever thinking ill of Wharrie. The man had legitimate grievances! He had to live in a trailer because vacation homes had raised all the real-estate prices beyond the reach of the locals. His poor wife had to hire out as a maid.
She liked MacLean, too. The man was a real character. He seemed to know the story behind everything, regaling them with history and jokes and irreverent observations about himself, the island, Great Britain, the world.
“I don’t care about any stupid old treasure, but you’re still going to help me get back my brooch, aren’t you?” she said now, dimly aware that MacLean had opened the car door and was helping her out. The world was spinning round and around in a most unfortunate way.
“Sure, we will, lass,” said MacLean. Wharrie had gotten out of the car and was taking Lucy’s other arm. They led her very gently into the hotel, which was lucky since her legs seemed to have turned to Jell-O. They were the best friends a girl ever had!
When they got to the lobby, Lucy momentarily fought free of their support. How would it look to all these tourists if she needed to be helped to her room? Even if she was a lousy Fingon, she still had her pride.
“Maybe you should ha’ a wee bite to eat,” said MacLean looking concerned. “It’s not good to drink on an empty stomach.”
“No, thank you,” Lucy said politely, feeling nauseous at the mere thought of food, “but you go ahead.”
They must not have been hungry either, for they kept walking.
“Why dinna we see you oop to yer room?” said MacLean. “I’ll get the key. What’s your room number, Lucy?”
“I got that little sucker right here,” Lucy said, smugly patting the key in her pocket. “Never trust a hotel. I know, believe me, I know.”
MacLean and Wharrie gently closed ranks around her and started up the stairs. The stairs were not sturdy at all. They seemed to be moving all over the place, in fact.
Lucy wondered for a moment whether she might not have had a little too much to drink after all, then dismissed the thought. She hadn’t had any more than MacLean and Wharrie and they didn’t seem drunk or anything. Hadn’t Wharrie’s nose always been that shade?
The only difference in MacLean she could see was tiny flecks of white foam in the corner of his uncovered eye. No, they weren’t drunk. And she had only had … how many drinks had she had? Lucy couldn’t remember.
At last they reached the room.
“So we’ll all meet here tomorrow,” she said, blowing each word out of her lips like a soap bubble, “and we’ll figure out something and we’ll call the cops on Fraser and everything will work out okay, okay?”
MacLean nodded gravely, helping her get the key into the lock. Lucy grabbed him and hugged him, then hugged Wharrie.
“You guys are great,” she said. “This is what having friends is all about.”
They looked at one another, perhaps comparing blushes.
“Good night, Lucy,” said MacLean.
“Go to bed, lass,” said Wharrie.
Lucy grinned and slowly closed the door.
She felt pretty good. She had friends everywhere now, even on Lis. They didn’t care that she was a dirty rotten Fingon. They’d help her get her brooch back. She might even find the treasure. That would be nice, too. It was only a matter of time before everybody would be living happily ever after.
Lucy lay down on the bed and closed her eyes. The world spun. There was a very peculiar sound, a ringing in her ears. The room continued to spin. The ringing wouldn’t go away. Lucy was considering the possibility that maybe she didn’t feel so well when she realized that the ringing was the telephone.
“Hello?” she said tentatively, barely managing to get the receiver out of its cradle.
“Herro, herro.”
“Mr. Wing!”
“You not forgot me. Good, good, good. So how things going for you?”
“Fine,” said Lucy, trying to figure out when her head had grown to the size (and shape) of a watermelon. “Why are you calling? Did you find something in Glasgow?”
“No. Government office closed for weekend. I just call to say hello. See how you doing.”
“That’s sooooooo sweet!”
“Hello?”
“No, I really mean it,” Lucy said, her eyes welling with tears. “You’ve been so kind, everybody has been so nice I just don’t know what to say. Thank you, Mr. Wing, thank you from the bottom of my heart. Thank you, thank you, thank you.”
“You okay, Rucy? You sound crazy.”
“I’m fine. I’m great.”
“You sure? You need anything, maybe?”
“No,” said Lucy musically. “I’ve hooked up with some new friends and they’re helping me. They’re great. Everybody’s great. Except those MacDonald bastards. Why won’t they talk to me, Mr. Wing? Why don’t they like me?”
Why did her eyeballs feel like they’d been wallpapered?
“You tell me MacDonald don’t know nothing.”
“They know plenty, only they’re too important for the likes of us. You gotta have references from the hoi polloi or else the MacDonalds won’t give you the time of day. You don’t happen to know the Queen, do you?”
It was those damn contact lenses, Lucy decided. They were shrinking. Or were her eyeballs getting fatter? How did you lose weight in your eyeballs? Stop looking at food?
“You been drinking, Rucy?”
“Me? Ha! Yes.”
“You take two aspirin and go to sleep. What you drink?”
“Scotch whiskey.”
“Oy yoy yoy. You feel terrible in morning. I know. Hope you learn your lesson.”
“I’m fine. I feel great,” she protested, though the room was revolving at increased speed and the little holes in her ears were beginning to itch. “Have the Queen give MacDonald a call, will you?”
“Okay. I tell her. You drink water. Go to sleep. Eat eggs for breakfast, vitamin B. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“I come back on Monday plane.”
“You find my birth certificate first. I gotta have a birthday. Everybody’s gotta have a birthday. Can’t have a birthday cake without a birthday.”
“I look Monday morning for birth certificate. Come back Monday afternoon, you hear?”
“Please find my birthday, Mr. Wing,” said Lucy. “I love you.” Then she hung up. Wing was the sweetest, kindest man in the entire whole wide world, she decided. Even sweeter than MacLean and Wharrie, though they were sweet too. Everybody was sweet. Except the MacDonalds. And Fraser.
Fraser!
He had stolen her brooch and chased her through the park and now he was here, trying to steal her treasure, the son of a bitch! Lucy didn’t care if he was handsome and looked like a little boy with those big, brown glasses. He was nothing but a common criminal and just the thought of him made her want to throw up.
And she did.
TWENTY-FOUR
Wharrie and MacLean were standing at the bottom of the hotel staircase, grinning from ear to ear.
A tidal wave of nausea swept through what was left of Lucy’s gastrointestinal tract. She held on to the handrail and tried to maintain her dignity. And her balance. Somehow she reached ground level intact.
; “What time is it?” she croaked. All they had said on the house telephone was “Come downstairs.”
“Nine o’clock,” said MacLean smugly.
“Evening or morning?”
“It’s Sunday morning, lass. I told ye to go easy on the whiskey yesterday, dinna I?”
“Why, Lucy,” said Wharrie, his mouth dropping open. “Yiu’ve droonk so much, yer eyeballs has turned blue!”
Startled, Lucy raised a hand to her face, then remembered. She had somehow managed to remove the contact lenses last night before passing out. She hadn’t given them a thought this morning, not that it would have been possible to get them back in, anyway.
“I think I’m supposed to eat an egg,” she mumbled and made for the dining room. The two men looked at one another, then followed.
“Maybe ye should try some oatmeal,” said Wharrie gently, sitting down at her left, across from MacLean.
“You don’t have to yell,” said Lucy.
“A kipper would be better,” said MacLean. Lucy didn’t even have the strength to shoot him a dirty look. They sat in silence, occasionally sipping strong, black coffee. Finally Lucy’s breakfast arrived.
She stared at the two yellow orbs looking up at her from the plate and would have thrown up if there had been anything left in her stomach. The nausea passed after a few minutes, and she managed to choke down a slice of dry toast, washed down with two glasses of water.
“Better?” said MacLean, finally.
Lucy nodded.
“How d‘ye diu tha’ with yer eyeballs?” asked Wharrie, unable to take his eyes off hers.
“All Americans ha’ red, white, and blue eyeballs,” said MacLean, winkin’ at Lucy. “Dinna ye ken anything?”
“Oh,” said Wharrie, but still looked confused.
“Come on, Lucy,” said MacLean, standing. “We ha’ somethin’ to show ye.”
“Can’t it wait a few weeks?” said Lucy nibbling the other slice of toast.
“Ye’ll be pleased,” said Wharrie.
“He’s right,” nodded MacLean.
Lucy shrugged, signed the bill, stood carefully. The floor seemed fastened on a bit more securely now. She followed the two men out to Wharrie’s car. They were on one of the island’s bumpy roads before Lucy had time to consider how wise a journey in her present condition would be.
The Girl with the Phony Name Page 16