Scot on the Rocks

by Catriona McPherson

  ‘Uh,’ I said. ‘It’s Lexy Campbell. And I’m not a doctor.’

  ‘We understand you’re not a medical doctor,’ Lola said. Her eyes narrowed although her smile stayed as wide as ever. ‘But tending to the emotional needs of the grieving Cuento community at this time is just as important. So tell me, what does the lost icon of Mama Cuento mean to you personally?’

  ‘Uh,’ I said again. What could I say? She was useful to navigate by in the grid of streets that otherwise sometimes fuddled me; she looked great yarn-bombed every year; I loved how there were hardly any pigeons in California towns so she wasn’t covered in bird shit. ‘I liked her feet,’ I said. ‘You hardly ever see public statues with bare feet.’

  Lola opened her mouth to respond, but understandably came up empty.

  ‘What Dr Campbell-Cameron means,’ said Todd, ‘is that it’s a unique feature of Mama Cuento that she’s as down to earth as the children who play around her. She speaks to a yearning for true connection to the land and for humble heroes who are just a step ahead on the path, showing us all the way.’

  Swear to God, if not for her lip line and her dedication to preserving it, Lola would have drooled. ‘Thank you, Dr Kroger. And you are a medical doctor, I believe?’ She asked it in a tone of, Please run away with me and make babies. It’s not the first time I’ve heard Todd affect someone that way. ‘Anyone who turns to Trinity Solutions for grief counselling and advice on handling anxiety is going to be in very good hands,’ she went on, but there was some kind of commotion taking place over at the shrine and we had lost her interest.

  I looked over too and saw a young guy in a business shirt and tie, with a lanyard of keys round his neck, holding a piece of paper and talking excitedly to a gathering crowd of school-run mums, retired dog-walkers and a few buskers. It was too early for students.

  Showing her nose for news, Lola set off at a sprint, with her cameraman following as if he was tied to her with a stout rope. Todd and I shared a look and scampered after them.

  ‘It’s a note,’ the lanyard guy was saying, waving the piece of paper around like a surrender flag. ‘Look, look, it’s a note! Look.’

  Lola jostled her mike into her left hand and reached to steady the sheet of paper, turning it to face the cameraman. ‘Breaking developments, live from the scene of the Mama Cuento theft, as Aaron Tulpen’ – God, she was good; she had read the guy’s name tag from his lanyard – ‘from the local Bank of America’ – she had read the logo, too – ‘discovers this bombshell.’ It was a gamble. She hadn’t read the note yet. She read it for the first time on air, her voice an octave lower as she reached for gravitas: ‘“Listen to our demands or you will never see her again. There are nine more where this came from.” That’s the cryptic ransom note discovered by bank clerk Aaron Tulpen and shared in an exclusive with this station, as developments in the Mama Cuento kidnap case come thick and fast.’ She was a genius!

  ‘It’s not cryptic,’ Aaron said, opening his hand to reveal a huge bronze toe.

  The next half hour was chaos. Mike tried to arrest the bank guy, but two carpool mums linked arms around him and wouldn’t let go, swearing he picked the note up, swearing he hadn’t put it there himself. In all the commotion, he dropped the toe. A Labradoodle snaffled it, sucking on Aaron’s salty sweat probably, and had to be bribed with a jam doughnut to spit it out again. The note tore as Mike was putting it in an evidence bag and the toe steamed up its evidence bag with dog saliva. Which made Mike angry enough to demand that the officers get rid of us riff-raff and loiterers. But the doughnut had made the dog puke and Soft Cop, rushing to clear the scene, skidded in the sick and grabbed the cameraman to steady himself.

  So the footage that would play on a loop on the local news for the rest of the day, and feature on regional in the next three bulletins too, included shots that looked – even to me, who knew better – like police interference with the free press via an act of actual bodily assault. Lola was having a big day.

  Todd and I were having a big breakfast, tucking into steak and eggs (me) and a chicken apple egg-white scramble (him) at the Red Racoon while we mulled it over.

  ‘Who kidnaps a statue?’

  ‘What demands?’

  ‘Was she a real person? Is it like a land thing?’

  ‘Sovereign nation? Was she a native leader?’

  ‘How do you snap off a bronze toe?’

  ‘What about those soccer moms forming a human shield?’

  ‘Do we have any connections to CCTV in the downtown area?’ That was me.

  ‘What do you mean?’ said Todd. ‘Can we hack into a feed, you mean? I couldn’t. We could ask Devin, I suppose.’

  ‘Speaking of Devin …’ I said, but this was no time for Last Ditch gossip. ‘No, I meant, did you have a handy ex in one of the bars, or maybe your mum’s got a pal in the bike repair shop over the road. Someone who’d let us watch the footage from last night.’ Todd, being born and bred in Cuento, could often come through with an opportune acquaintanceship.

  ‘Why?’ he said. ‘What makes you want to see footage of a statue being stolen?’

  ‘Nothing,’ I said. ‘Nosy, that’s all.’

  ‘You are such a terrible liar, for a therapist. Tell the truth. Why do you want to see footage of a statue being stolen?’

  ‘Because,’ I said, ‘I wouldn’t trust the cops in this town to solve the riddle of where all the seeds went and what’s wrong with the budgie.’

  Todd leaned to one side and pulled out his phone. He hit a button and held it out to me, the way Lola had held out her fluffy mike.

  ‘Say that again,’ he commanded. ‘Say it on tape that you want to get involved in this and see if we can help find Mama Cuento.’

  ‘Why are you being so weird?’ I said instead. I had no idea why he’d gone all WikiLeaks receipts on me.

  ‘Because,’ Todd said, ‘after we solved that murder that time, you did nothing but bitch and whine. And then after we solved that other murder that other time, you did nothing but bitch and whine.’

  ‘This. Isn’t. A. Murder,’ I said. ‘It’s. A. Statue.’ Then I found my integrity. ‘But a hat-trick would be nice. Yes please,’ I added, to the server who was offering coffee refills.

  ‘You heard the news?’ she said, as she plied the jug. ‘You think it’s a climate protest? A political thing? Think it’s those damn Canadians again?’

  ‘It’s hard to say,’ I plumped for. Which, unbelievably, seemed to satisfy her. ‘What damn Canadians?’ I asked Todd, when she was gone.

  He shrugged. ‘At least it wasn’t “damn Mexicans”. Makes a change.’ Todd was half Mexican on his father’s side – Kroger was his married name and Todd was short for Théodor – and, if you were going to diss a national neighbour around him, Canada was definitely the one to go for. ‘How can you drink that over-roasted bile?’ he said, nodding at my thick white mug of warmish, cloudy brew.

  ‘I like my coffee like I like my men,’ I said. ‘Average but free refills.’ Then, just too late, I remembered I shouldn’t be making jokes that hinged on me and the men in my life.

  Todd’s eyes flashed fit to dim his diamond earrings and he whipped his phone back out again. ‘What date is it today?’ he said. ‘Lexy, Lexy, Lexy, did you really think I’d forget?’

  ‘I really knew you’d forgotten,’ I said. ‘Till I just reminded you.’

  ‘And that’s why you tried to distract me with some hare-brained scheme about investigating the kidnap?’

  ‘Theft,’ I said. ‘Not kidnap. It’s a lump of bronze.’

  ‘Say that to anyone who comes for free grief counselling, why don’t you?’ Todd said. ‘“It’s a lump of bronze!” I thought you had learned something by now. “Your miscarriage was a clump of cells.” “Your granny was a can of ash.”’

  ‘I didn’t say either of those two things, for the five thousandth time. I said that an even later miscarriage would have been even more traumatic, and there was comfort to be taken. I said her
grandmother’s earthly remains weren’t her essence, and that memories were perhaps more precious than a spilled … And, anyway, what did you do?’

  ‘I took her shopping for better maternity clothes for next time and I scraped up enough granny to make a ring,’ said Todd. ‘Stop changing the subject. Right. Tonight, at seven thirty p.m. – I’ll text you the name of the restaurant once I’ve confirmed. His name is Earl.’

  ‘Ooh,’ I said. ‘That’s promising.’

  ‘He’s an ER nurse. His sister works on Roger’s ward.’

  ‘This is actually sounding quite good. I don’t suppose you’ve got a photo?’

  Todd shook his head, his eyes wide and innocent.

  ‘What’s wrong with him?’

  ‘What are your deal-breakers?’ he asked me, instead of answering. What a sneaky move that was. Of course I’d sound shallow if I said there were any physical lines in the sand.

  ‘Halitosis,’ I suggested, for an easy start.

  ‘Doesn’t show up in pictures. Nice try.’

  ‘Obscene tattoos? Utility kilt? Mullet?’

  ‘All clear. Mullets are coming back, by the way. Anything else?’

  ‘Suppurating pustules, vestigial twin, acid sweat.’

  ‘Anything in the body-art department you’ve got a problem with?’

  ‘What’s pierced and how the hell do you know?’ I asked.

  ‘Just his ears,’ Todd said. I watched as he finished his egg whites, dabbed his lips with a napkin and meshed his knife and fork neatly on his plate, drawing them slightly to one side, like a debutante’s ankles.

  ‘He hasn’t got those stretchers in, has he?’ I said.

  ‘He’s a nice guy!’ said Todd.

  ‘How big are they?’

  ‘He’s a great guy. Kind, funny, solvent. Loves kids and dogs obviously I’m making it up now but he really is.’

  ‘How big are they?’

  ‘I don’t know. He has to take them out and roll the flaps for work, keep a bandage on them in case one of the ER drunks gets hold and rips his whole ear off.’

  ‘So you can get your hand through,’ I said. ‘Why do you hate me? What did I ever do to you, except put up with you quietly? And keep your mum out of jail that time?’

  ‘Is it so bad? When the rings are in—’

  ‘Yes! It is so bad. Todd, you’re not supposed to be able to throw something at a person and have it go through! Jesus.’

  ‘By the terms of our agreement, though …’ he said.

  ‘I need to go on a date this week and next or I’m in breach of contract and liable for a waxy forfeit. Would he be willing to wear a hat with flaps, do you think?’

  ‘I’ll ask Roger to ask his sister to ask him, and get back to you.’

  I paid the bill from the Trinity account and we left, a tentative peace stretched thinly over us.

  ‘What about Devin, anyway?’ Todd said, as we reached the motel again.

  ‘He’s got a girlfriend,’ I said.

  ‘Swine,’ said Todd. ‘Does Della know?’ He couldn’t have looked more chuffed to have trumped my gossip. To soothe myself, I decided to look in on Noleen as I passed the office. She couldn’t care less about gossip, or my love life either. It was sometimes hard to say what Noleen did care about, actually, beyond Kathi’s happiness and Devin’s nutrition.

  ‘Seen the news?’ she asked, as I entered. She was behind the desk, as ever, but keeping a close eye on the continental-breakfast area: a basket of instant oatmeal, three apples and a microwave. ‘Some sick fucker that hasn’t got the balls to face a real woman has started defacing us in effigy. I’d like to see him take his pliers to my toe!’

  ‘That’s a theory,’ I said. ‘Misogyny. Did you hear they’ve sent a ransom note? Once they list their demands, we’ll have a better idea what’s behind it, I reckon.’

  ‘A creep with mommy issues,’ Noleen said. ‘Dollars to donuts.’

  ‘Does that mean the same as “heavens to Betsy”?’ I asked her.

  She laughed, which probably meant no, but she didn’t enlighten me. Instead, she clicked her fingers as if only just now remembering something. ‘There was someone in here, asking for you. I sent them to the boat.’

  ‘Client?’ I said, thinking of Todd’s freebie offer. ‘That was quick.’

  ‘Nope, this looked personal.’

  ‘Cop?’

  ‘What a life you do lead, Leagsaidh.’ I can always tell when she’s saying my name in Gaelic rather than English. ‘No, not a cop. Not a bailiff, not a bondsman. If I had to guess, I’d say he was a sexy doctor. Or maybe not quite a doctor.’

  ‘A sexy nurse?’

  ‘Coulda been a sexy nurse,’ said Noleen, pushing her lips forward thoughtfully and nodding.

  ‘Did you see his ears?’ I asked. ‘Was he wearing a hat?’

  ‘I don’t want to know about your fetishes,’ said Noleen. ‘I’m not judging. I just don’t want to know.’

  As I made my way round the side of the motel through the undergrowth, I really did try to open my mind. I had holes in my ears. Who was I to—? No, no, no, no, no. I had necessary holes in my ears, to hang pretty things from without squashing my lobes. He had to use plumbing bits to keep the holes in his creepy, floppy ears open.

  He was still there. I knew that as soon as I reached the bottom step leading up to the front porch. I could tell there was a couple of hundred extra pounds somewhere on deck. Big guy, then. Big Earl, the ER nurse, so almost perfect for me.

  He wasn’t in the living room that stretches across the width of the boat and half the length. And he wasn’t – why would he be? – in either of the midget bedrooms, with their box beds and Lilliputian wardrobes that sit on either side, just behind. The shower room was empty – I can only dream of a shower room so lavish anyone could hide behind its door – and there was no bum sticking out of the kitchen into the passageway, the way there would have been if someone was at the sink in there. It’s really not that roomy.

  So he was in the consulting room. I grabbed the door handle, told myself I needed a man – and what were earlobes anyway? I could get used to it, depending on the rest of the package – and opened the door.

  He was facing the other way, looking out the window. Tall, white, short hair, nice shirt, bad jeans, terrible watch, but absolutely normal ears. Ears of the utmost averageness. Ears so unremarkable they even looked familiar. He started turning. His profile looked familiar too. One granite cheekbone, an eye, his high, strong nose, the other eye, the other cheekbone, the soft shadow that settled in the dimple in his chin.

  It was Branston Lancer, my ex-husband: the reason I live in California, instead of cosily at home in Dundee.

  ‘Lexy,’ he said. And a tear rolled down one of those granite cheeks and dripped off the sheer cliff edge of his jawline.

  I had never seen Bran cry before. I’d seen him happy; annoyed by waiters; angry at squirrels; gutted about a golf shot (his) or a touchdown (not his); transported in sexual ecstasy, close up, while we were on our honeymoon and during our brief marriage; and – crucially, if we’re taking stock – transported in sexual ecstasy, from behind, while I watched him deciding he preferred his last wife, Brandeee, to his current wife, me. But that was the first tear I’d ever seen roll decoratively down his cheek.

  ‘There’s tissues,’ I said, pointing at the box. ‘What else can I do for you?’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. He didn’t take a hanky. Maybe he was too upset or maybe he knew bits of it would get caught in his perfect stubble. He shaved the stubble to that length every day.

  ‘What for?’ I said. ‘We’re all square. You’ve apologized already for everything you did and you haven’t done anything new. Have you?’

  ‘I’m sorry for this,’ he said, raising his arms as if to display himself standing here in my house. Maybe to display his helplessness and his silent plea for mercy. Or maybe to display the bottomless oceanic entitlement it took to come here and cry at me as if I still owed him some
thing. Cry just three perfect, Swarovski-style tears at me, by the way; no snot, no blubbing.

  ‘How’s Brandeee?’ I said, not even having to try to get my voice as hard as gum on tarmac.

  Bran closed his eyes and nodded, as if to acknowledge that I had every right to remind him. Or as if he’d forgotten his wife again, like I’d seen him do that time before.

  ‘Brandee’s gone,’ he said. ‘Lexy, I need you.’

  FOUR

  Hear me out.

  Yes, he had married me to get back at his ex-wife for dumping him. And yes, he could have chosen someone who didn’t need a green card to shack up with him while the spat played through. And yes, it only took a matter of weeks for the spat to play through. And the divorce was no fun. Actually, that’s not true. The divorce was the most fun I’d ever had, holed up in a suite in Nevada, waiting six weeks for the paperwork to clear.

  But I’d fancied him a year and a half ago and we’d had fun. And he would get Todd off my back. Or make Todd’s eyeballs bleed with impotent fury at how dumb I was being. Win, win.

  I opened my mouth to say … I dunno … maybe, Kiss me, you fool, like Maxim de Winter. Thankfully, the one brain cell that was still on self-respect duty, while the others headed south for a party, piped up just in time. ‘So … did Brandeee leave because you need me? Or do you need me because Brandeee left?’

  He frowned at me, puzzled. It should have been off-putting. Men looking stupid is usually off-putting to me. Seriously, some of the so-called heart-throbs you get on the cover of People magazine look so dumb it’s creepy – like if you tried to point something out to them, they’d look at your finger.

  But Bran looking at me with that out-of-depth expression only reminded me of our early days, before I’d picked up fluent American and he had not the slightest shred of Dundee. Those were the days when he would ask me about joining his 40l(k) and I’d say that was far too far and what a strange mile-count anyway; the days when I would say I thought I could smell Calor gas in the utility and he’d say he reckoned there was a skunk in the laundry room, and we’d both think our problem should be dealt with first.