Did You Declare the Corpse?

by Sprinkle, Patricia

  Jim and Brandi were given one back corner room, Kenny and Sherry the other. Joyce got the small central room over the front hall. Two bathrooms flanked the stairwell.

  “Our room is too small.” Sherry stood in the door like a balky mule refusing to enter the barn. “And it’s just got one bed.”

  Jim—who had complained about Gilroy’s a few nights back—said nothing about the size or location of their room.

  Eileen seemed unruffled by Sherry’s complaint. “I’ve only the two rooms with twin beds down here,” she informed Sherry, “but just you go on up the stairs and take whichever front room you like. The back ones are occupied by Alex and my son, Roddy, but they’re out all day and most evenings, as well, so they won’t be any bother for you.”

  Sherry lugged her tote up the stairs followed by Kenny, but was back down in half a second. “There are no windows in those rooms—just skylights.”

  “The roof slopes, you see.” Not by the slightest inflection did Eileen indicate that Sherry ought to have expected that on the attic floor.

  “We’ll stay here,” Sherry announced, returning to her former room, “but we’ll need more towels. I have to wash my hair.”

  “I’ll bring them up in just a wee whiley.” Eileen turned to the rest of us, who were still milling around our doors. “Do any of you need anything? No? Then I’ll go down and make you some tea.”

  As she left, Dorothy said to Marcia, “She doesn’t speak Scottish.”

  Eileen turned on the steps with a twinkle in her eye. “Och, it’s chust the Queen’s English I was speakin’ for you,” she said broadly, “seein’ as how ye’re from abr-r-road. But if ye’d prefer, I can speak proper from now on.” We shared a laugh, then she reverted to “the Queen’s English” to inform us, “A wee cup of tea will be served in the lounge in fifteen minutes.”

  After the tea—which was served with a three-tiered plate of cookies, scones, and cold pancakes—I needed a walk. I’m not much on earnestly walking around and around a track for the sake of my health, but I love a ramble, and ever since Joe Riddley had told me about the trip, I had pictured myself walking through the heather.

  Glen Coe did not count.

  “The easiest walk is down through the village, along the burnside, up through the manse woods, and back around to the village center,” Eileen told me.

  “Will I be walking through heather?”

  “Och, no, it’s all fine road, that.” I must have looked disappointed, because she added, “If it’s heather you’re wanting, go up to the top of the brae, here, and around by the reservoir. On the far side you’ll find a track that circles back down to meet the road. You can’t miss it.”

  Having ascertained that one got “to the top of the brae” by going uphill on the road that passed the guesthouse, I thanked her and set out.

  Within ten minutes I had decided it was a good thing I’d taken my walk that afternoon. In another twenty-four hours I’d be too old to haul my body up and down Scottish hills. The climb was steeper than I had expected, and I was panting by the time I got to the reservoir.

  Lying in a plateau of the hill, it was no bigger than a cattle pond back home, casually fenced with wire and apparently relying on gravity to supply the village faucets and on large rocks in feeder streams to purify the water that was shared by humans, deer, rabbits, and other creatures. I hoped the old rule I’d learned from my daddy sixty years before still applied:

  “Go downstream five big rocks past where animals drink, and the water’s clean.” I couldn’t help wondering, though, how much acid rain and airborne chemicals might be in that water now.

  Several tracks led from the reservoir, and I wasn’t sure which one Eileen had meant. All meandered through the heather in crooked patterns that I suspected had been laid out by grazing animals rather than human feet. I followed one at random, hoping it led to a road that I kept glimpsing now and then downhill to my right. Feeling adventurous, I tried leaving it at one point when the way looked shorter, but discovered that walking on heather is like walking on foam rubber. It bounces and gives underfoot, then throws you back up. After a few attempts for the sake of saying I’d done it, I stuck to the track worn by generations of animal feet.

  I walked for more than an hour, scarcely noticing when the track began to climb uphill again away from the road. I was too busy absorbing the scenery and the fact that I, MacLaren Yarbrough, was fortunate enough to be walking alone in the Scottish Highlands. Could anything compare with the beautiful freshness of those ancient hills, or the silence? The heather must have muffled noise, for when I stopped walking and stood absolutely still, I could well imagine I was the only creature alive on earth. The only sounds I could hear were sibilants—the splash of a stream rushing down the hillside and wind swishing in a belt of trees. Not one bird, beast, human or mechanical engine added its staccato counterpoint. I thudded my feet to make sure I hadn’t lost my hearing and was startled to flush a bird. It flew away with an indignant squawk.

  I stood still for so long that a tiny deer moved near me. It would scarcely have come up to my armpit and was a light golden brown, very dainty. Eileen would later tell me it was a roe deer. Only when it ambled away over the hill did I resume my walk. But as the path continued without coming anywhere near the road, I checked my watch a bit anxiously. The sun was poised on the top of a western mountain, and the sky was already beginning to fade in the east. As much as I was enjoying the hills, I preferred to spend the night in a warm bed.

  Spying a smaller track heading off to the right, I plunged downhill. As I reached a large, flat boulder surrounded by bright yellow Scotch broom, I heard men’s voices below me. There was a wide belt of trees down there, so at first I presumed they were foresters finishing their day’s work. Gradually I realized that one of them was very angry. Reluctant to pass them while they were arguing, I crouched behind the broom and hoped they’d soon leave so I could get home before dark.

  Then one raised his voice in a thick accent that sounded a whole lot like folks back home. “You cain’t cut me out! Not after all I’ve done!”

  The other’s voice was clear and sharp. “Och, I’m offering you more than you deserve.”

  “I don’t want your damned check. I want a share of the business.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. You’re putting up nothing.” That was no Scot. It was Jim Gordon, with the accent he’d cultivated for business purposes.

  “I arranged the whole shebang,” the Southerner objected.

  “You arranged nothing. I contacted you, remember. You’re being fairly paid for the little you’ve had to do.”

  He got a stream of profanity that described just how fair the other thought his pay was. “You cain’t get away with this,” he finally threatened. “We’re partners, Jimmy, like it or not.”

  “I wouldn’t be partners with you if you were the last man on earth. I ken what you did to your last partner, and you needn’t think I don’t. Bill Gray never stole that money. I had a man trace it for me, and I know how you did it. I don’t frankly care, but if you try and threaten me, I’ll see you in jail for the rest of your pitiful life. Take the check.”

  “You—” Another stream of profanity was followed by a thud.

  “Norwood! What the dickens have you done?”

  The woman’s voice was both unexpected and a relief. I peered cautiously around my bush and down across the broad rock. Jim Gordon was climbing up from the ground, holding his stomach. A short stocky man with a head full of unruly gray curls was standing nearby panting like a small angry bull. The woman—taller than he and solid rather than stout—was coming out of the trees brandishing a walking stick in his direction.

  “This has nothin’ to do with you, Kitty,” the Southerner called in a petulant tone.

  “You fool,” she stormed at him. “Jim, are you all right?”

  “I’m fine.” Jim dusted off his pants. “Just like always, Norwood got a little hot under the collar. He didn’t hit me, he butte
d me with his head.”

  “He’s trying to cut me out of the deal, shug,” Norwood raged. “After all I’ve done.”

  “I’m not cutting you out,” Jim repeated. “I’m offering you a check. A handsome one, I might add, considering how little you had to do.”

  “I want a share!” Norwood protested. “I deserve—”

  “You better watch out for Norwood. He can be dangerous.” Was she warning Jim, or threatening him?

  “You don’t go hunting rattlesnakes without a big stick, Kitty, and I’ve known you and Norwood long enough to know you’ve got rattlers on both sides of your family. I’ve got a stick.”

  “What kind of stick?”

  “Never you mind. Norwood and I understand each other.”

  “How’d you know Norwood was over here? He’s kept real quiet about that, back home.”

  “With good reason,” Jim said bluntly, brushing off his pants, “but a friend saw him on a plane to Zurich, a while back.”

  “What friend?” She and Norwood asked it in unison.

  When Jim didn’t answer, she changed the subject. “You’re comin’ for dinner—you and your wife—aren’t you?”

  The way she stressed “wife” made the word downright immoral, but Jim’s answer was mild. “Aye. I called and left a message with whoever answers your phone.”

  “And what’s her name again—your wife’s?”

  “Brandi.”

  “What’s she like?” The edge was still in her voice.

  I took a better look at her. She was perhaps fifty, with wide bands of gray framing her face while the rest of her hair was still dark and cut short to cup her chin—the kind of haircut that looks simple but requires really good hair and a lot of money to achieve. She was practically but expensively dressed in dark slacks, walking shoes, and a tweed jacket. Her face was full of strength, as was the arm that had wielded the stick. Her expression was wary as she waited for Jim’s answer.

  He bent to pick up his cap. “Smart. In more ways than one. She ran a landscape-design business before we married. She’s decorative, as well. And always cheerful.”

  “Which nobody could say about poor Irene.” Her voice was flat.

  “Nobody ever accused Irene of being cheerful,” he agreed as he set his cap on his head.

  “Don’t you forget that Irene is my lifelong friend.”

  “I won’t forget. But you remember that Brandi is my wife. We’ll see you around eight.” He loped off down through the trees.

  The woman shook the other man’s arm. “You utter fool. Hit, hit, hit—that’s all you know. Jim could have killed you if he’d wanted to. He’s terribly strong.”

  “He is not leaving me out of this deal,” Norwood insisted, pulling away from her. “I set it up, persuaded Gavin—”

  “I persuaded Gavin. You persuaded me.”

  “I deserve a share.”

  She gave a short snort of impatience. “I warned you fifteen years ago, greed is going to be the death of you. How many years have you known Jim Gordon—thirty? You ought to know by now that nobody crosses him and wins. Now come on.”

  “What are you doing up here, anyway?”

  “I came looking for you. I figured you’d try something dumb as soon as I heard that Jim had called you, so I drove around until I saw your car beside the road. You weren’t hard to find, with all that racket you were making.” She looked up, and I ducked back behind my bush.

  “You have defiled this place,” she said, “and it’s sacred to me. Up there on that rock is where I first met Gavin. We sat and talked for hours.”

  “After you’d climbed up there for the express purpose of running into him, accidentally on purpose. And having vetted him, your heart went pitty-pat and you decided, ‘Having outlived a magnate, why not buy myself a little laird?’ ” Norwood’s tone was rude.

  “It was a sounder investment than most of yours. Come on, I have things to do before dinner.” She turned and strode down the hill toward the trees, leaving him to follow.

  I crept from my hiding place, but I wanted to give them time to drive away, and the big flat rock made a real good place to wait. Broom circled it on two sides, creating a natural break against the wind that roiled down from the hilltop and hiding it from the road. As I settled onto its broad surface, I had to agree that fighting did not belong in this place. Tier after tier of mountains rose in the west, brown in the foreground and fading to blue and then purple against the now-salmon sky. A bird drifted in lazy spirals high overhead in a deepening darkness. Below me I heard rustles as small creatures settled in for the night.

  While I waited, I wondered: What had that fight been about?

  It didn’t take rocket science to figure out that Jim had not come on this trip simply to please his wife. Brandi might have oohed and ahhed her way around the Highlands, but she had little knowledge about or interest in Scottish hills or heritage. From what I’d overheard after the ceilidh and what she’d told me at Dunrobin Castle gardens, Jim must have promised she could landscape their garden if she’d provide a cover so he could come inconspicuously into Auchnagar to make a business deal. The deal involved the laird, through his wife, who was Jim’s ex-wife’s friend. A bit complicated, but still comprehensible.

  She was a type of woman I knew well. Mama used to say, “Honey, some women may be steel magnolias, but that one is more like cast-iron honeysuckle: a sweet-smelling layer over a well-seasoned hardness, and common as all get-out.” Kitty MacGorrie’s accent was a thin Scottish veneer over pure Southern, so it must have been back home that Jim and his first wife knew her.

  I also recognized Kitty’s and Norwood’s blunt rudeness for what it was. They talked to one another the same way my brother and I sometimes do, and there was a family likeness in their faces. He must be several years older than she, but women like Kitty don’t yield to anybody.

  What business could draw Jim to this place? An overseas distillery? I wasn’t real clear on how scotch is made, but surely a distillery would require more water than Auchnagar’s little burn could provide. And why come by stealth? If Scottish villages were anything like Georgia small towns, they would jump with joy at the promise of another employer. Why not drive up to the laird’s in a limousine and stay in comfort at the laird’s house while you completed the deal?

  I shivered in a rising wind, and realized the pink in the west was fast turning gray. The path down through the woods between me and the road was already inky black. Above me, the meandering track I’d arrived by was still visible, but daylight would not linger long enough for me to get home that way. I set off downhill at a stumbling trot that nearly pitched me head over heels. The fact that I reached the road without twisting an ankle was due more to my guardian angel than to skill.

  I went marching along the narrow road at a brisk pace, hoping no deer were out roaming that night. I was real glad to see a flashlight approaching.

  “Hello!” I called, trying to sound cheerful.

  “MacLaren?” It was Dorothy, accompanied by a tall skinny companion who held the light. “This is Roddy, Eileen’s son,” she said when I got close enough to see them more clearly.

  He shone the light up into his face and grinned. “Her charming, handsome son.”

  Starting from the bottom of the light and traveling upwards, he had a big Adam’s apple, a weak chin, a wide mouth, a big nose, his mother’s dark eyes, and a shock of greasy red curls. “Dorothy feared you’d got lost on the hill, but I told her we’d find you, right enough. Come along, noo. Tea’s ready.”

  As I fell into step beside them, I was glad of their company, but Roddy didn’t speak to me much. He was too busy showing Dorothy what a fascinating, charming fellow he was. In years of raising boys and sitting as a judge, I’d seen a number of grins like his and heard a lot of similar patter. They invariably went with a charming, shiftless, and spoiled-rotten rascal.

  15

  Roddy joined us in the dining room for tea and continued to exercise his charm
on Dorothy. Instead of turning bright pink and going into her shell, she seemed to enjoy him. She laughed at his jokes and finally agreed to accompany him down to the hotel bar that evening “to sample the fascinatin’ night life we have to offer in Auchnagar on a Thursday evening.”

  After tea, Eileen invited Marcia back to the kitchen for what she called “a wee natter.” The others decided to go with Dorothy and Roddy down to the hotel bar, and when Marcia informed Roddy that Dorothy played the flute, he urged, “Bring it along. The place is dead quiet this time of the week.” Sherry decided to take her fiddle, as well, but when Kenny asked them to wait while he got his bagpipes, Roddy informed him, “Pipes are no permitted in the bar except for dances and special occasions.”

  I elected to settle by the fire with a book to enjoy some peace and quiet. When I found myself nodding soon after nine, I went upstairs, chose the bed nearest the window, drew back the curtains, and climbed under the covers. The hills were black against a slightly lighter sky while thousands of stars dotted the sky like bright shards of hope. I didn’t exactly feel the spirit of Andrew MacLaren hovering over me, but did have a deep sense of homecoming.