Finding Fraser

by kc dyer

  I pulled the bike into a stand at the front door and headed inside.

  The bike-renter guy sat atop a high stool, doing some kind of puzzle in the newspaper.

  “Hiya,” he said, looking up. “Brought me bike back, have yeh?”

  “Yes. I’m afraid I returned last night after you’d closed.”

  He strode over toward the cash register. “Nae worries, nae worries. Didja have a good ride?”

  “Yes. We made it to Culloden, and then I carried on to Clava.”

  “Ach, the stones at Balnuaran. Lovely, aren’t they?” He leaned on the glass counter-top. “I’ve heard they’re a wee bi’ haunted. Didja see a ghost, then?”

  “I’m not really sure, to tell you the truth,” I said quietly, but he was hitting buttons on his cash register, and the ringing may have drowned out my response.

  “Righ’ then—it’ll be fifty quid altogether, with the VAT, an all.”

  I was sure I hadn’t heard him correctly. “Fifty quid—that’s fifty pounds, right?”

  “Righ’ you are, little lady!”

  Hmmph. Suddenly I was a little lady? I decided to let it drop, and deal with the more worrisome issue first.

  “I think there’s a mistake, somewhere. My friend should have paid for me yesterday when she dropped her bike off. They were twenty pounds each, to rent for the day?”

  “Aye, they were, plus tax, o’course. But your friend left her bike as promised, and said you’d be coverin’ the costs when you returned.”

  The skin of his neck had gone an interesting shade of red when Susan’s name came up, but I didn’t have time to think about anything but the fact that the last of my cash was going to have to go to this man.

  I looked through my wallet. “I’m sorry—there must be some mistake,” I repeated. “I gave her the cash to pay you yesterday. I’ve only got forty-five pounds on me—will that do until I can find her? I promise I’ll bring the rest back when I do.”

  “Aye,” he said, slowly. “I reckon that’ll be awrigh’, but … well, be as quick as ye can, aye? Me boss is in—ah—a bit of a mood t’day, and I’d rather stay on her good side, ye ken?”

  I handed over the last of my cash and hurried back to the hostel. Mrs. Henderson sat at her place near the front door. She lifted her head as I walked in.

  “Ah, there ye are, dear. Ready to pack up and head on wi’ yer partner, then?”

  I held back an impatient sigh. The last thing I had time for was a leisurely discussion of how she had mixed me up with another patron.

  “No— no, I don’t have a partner, Mrs. Henderson. I’m here on my own, remember? Listen, have you seen Susan—ah—Susan O’Donnell this morning? She’s staying in one of the other rooms here. I need to find her to straighten something out.”

  “The other American girl? Well, o’course I seen her. She checked out this mornin’ bright an’ early. I thought ye were off after her.”

  “No— not an American. This girl is Irish. Susan O’Donnell. Short, dark hair, about this tall? The one I …” Surely Mrs. Henderson had seen us riding off together the previous day?

  “Aye, she’s a bonnie one, isn’t she? But she left long before breakfast. Did she no’ leave ye a message?”

  I stared at Mrs. Henderson’s face, and a terrible feeling of unease began to sweep over me. “Just a sec,” I said, and took the stairs up to my room two at a time.

  “Got all the time in the world, luv,” she called up the stairs after me.

  And there, with the warm light of a Scottish morning shining brightly through my window, I saw what the darkness and my exhaustion had hidden from me the night before.

  Everything I had brought with me was gone.

  Everything I hadn’t carried in my pack, anyway. My laptop. My travel cash cards. Even my contact lenses. My little coil notebook and pen still lay where I’d dropped them on the pillow.

  I felt like I’d been punched in the gut. What kind of depraved thief steals someone’s contact lenses?

  After a few moments of anguish, it was clear there was no use standing and staring at my empty room. I trailed back down the stairs.

  “Mrs. Henderson,” I said slowly. “All my stuff is missing from my room. I think it’s been stolen.”

  “Ach, nonsense, girlie. It was yer partner ‘at gathered it all up for yeh. She said ye’d decided to stop hiding and let the world know the truth.”

  “I don’t have a partner, Mrs. Henderson. I came here alone, remember?”

  “Aye, and a sad-faced thing ye were, too. I was delighted to see ye perk up when yer friend arrived.” She leaned across the desk and whispered, “There’s nae shame in it, luv. She’s a dear one, that Susan. The two of yeh make a sweet couple. She told me all about your plans to return to California and set up a bed and breakfast there.”

  “We are not a couple!” I spluttered, and a light came on in Mrs. Henderson’s eyes. She nodded understandingly.

  “Aye, I see the way of it then, luv.” She touched a finger to the side of her nose. “I were young once meself—had more one night stands than I’d care to have Mister Henderson know!”

  “Oh my god,” I said, slowly. “It was not a one-night stand. I just went out sightseeing with her. We talked about the Battle of Culloden all day!”

  “Weel … as you say, o’ course, as ye say,” she said, still smiling. “Our customers allus have the right to complete privacy, o’course. But ye know we are verra broad-minded here. No prejudices at all, for anyone.”

  “I’m not gay!” I practically yelled. I realized my fists were clenched and the kind lady had actually been quite startled by my outburst.

  For the first time, her face darkened. “Aye, there’s no call for homophobia, either,” she said warningly. “I’ll hold no truck with that sort of thing under my roof.”

  “Mrs. Henderson,” I said, trying to keep my voice calm. “Let’s just take the whole sexuality thing out of it, okay? I believe Susan stole all my things. Did you allow her the key to my room?”

  Comprehension was beginning to dawn on the woman’s face, but I could see where it was still at war with what she had clearly believed was a sweet little love story unfolding under her roof.

  “My laptop and my cash card were in my room. I need them to pay your bill, Mrs. Henderson. And they’re missing.”

  She stood up and brushed her hair back nervously. “I—I, well, she said you wanted discretion, and I saw the two of you head off to the battlefield together. It just made perfect sense— two dear young American girls, and yerself clearly lookin’ for love. You tol’ me so when you arrived! And she was just so …”

  “Convincing,” I said. I slumped in a plaid chair that looked far more comfortable than it turned out to be in reality. “You thought she was American, I thought she was Irish. I wonder which is the truth? You did give her the key, then?”

  I looked up at the horrified expression on the hostel-keeper’s face. “I think I need to go talk to the police, Mrs. Henderson.”

  She nodded. “Aye. I can see that’s the way of it, now. Try not to fret, luv. The station’s not far. Gi’ me a quick moment to lock up and I’ll walk wi’ ye there.”

  She shook her head sadly, pushing one arm through the sleeve of her coat. “Tis allus worse when they love ye and leave ye,” she said.

  I followed her out through the door. “There was no loving, Mrs. Henderson, okay? NO loving.”

  “‘At’s what they allus say,” she said, turning her key in the lock. “Accordin’ to Mister Henderson, anyroad.”

  11:00 am March 16

  Inverness Police Station, Scotland

  List of stolen items

  • Laptop

  • Visa Cash cards, total value $975 US

  • 6 prs underwear

  • 6 prs socks

  • 2 white t-shirts, One with Grateful Dead logo, one plain

  • Sweatpants

  • Shampoo/conditioner, toiletries

  • Contact lenses, case,
solution

  The police officer was kind, but preoccupied. Mrs. Henderson was ushered away, and I was brought into see Sergeant Milton Garda in his diminutive office. He looked my list over, and then slapped a pen on the paper in front of me and had me write the whole story down. I did my best, leaving out the bit about the hunt for Jamie, of course. Afterwards, he read it over silently before setting the page gently down on the table.

  “She said ‘Faith and Begorrah’ and you bought it?” he said, incredulously.

  “Well—yeah. I’ve heard it before from Irish people, I’m sure of it.”

  He shook his head. “Well, mebbe in a cereal commercial …” he muttered.

  “She called the truck driver who nearly ran over me a feckin’ eejit,” I said, stubbornly. “That sounded Irish.”

  He nodded. “Mebbe so. But it ain’t the truck driver who’s the feckin’ eejit here, is it?”

  I had to agree with him.

  He picked up my statement again. “So, ye spent most of the day at the battlefield, aye?”

  I nodded. “We headed over around ten o’clock or so, and stayed until after lunch. Maybe mid-afternoon?”

  The officer leaned back in his chair and flicked the door open with the tip of one finger. “Allie!” he bellowed. “I need Dav!”

  By the time he returned all four chair legs to the floor and clicked his pen once, another young officer was knocking on the door.

  “Emma Sheridan, meet Special Constable Dav Dosanj. Dav, this young woman has been taken in by some besom going by the name of …” he checked my statement, “… Susan O’Donnell. A young, brunette woman. Robbed her blind, ye might say. AND the two of them spent the day at the battlefield.”

  The second officer shot a look at his Sergeant. “Is she clean, sir?”

  He nodded. “Aye. Got rube written all over her. The perp stole all her money, laptop …”

  “Contact lenses,” I muttered, hanging my head.

  I looked up in time to catch the sergeant rolling his eyes at the new guy.

  “Well, what kind of a weirdo steals a person’s contacts?” I asked. “Maybe it’s a part of her M.O., and it’ll help you track her down.”

  “Whatever you say, Miss,” said the sergeant. “Now tell the special constable here anything you can remember about your trip to the battlefield.”

  “Look, I don’t know what this has to do with anything,” I said, my exasperation growing. “I don’t remember anything special. We rode over there on the rented bikes—which I ended up paying for twice, thanks to Susan—and toured around the place.”

  “Were you with her at all times?” Dosanj asked.

  “Yeah … or maybe, okay, not at all times,” I said, slowly, remembering. “Someone had their pocket picked, just as we were leaving. You think she …?”

  “With your permission, sir?” said Dosanj, and his sergeant nodded. The special constable stepped over to a side desk that held a computer with an ancient monitor. He flipped the on-switch, tapped a few keys and stepped away from the screen.

  There, in grainy black and white, was a closed circuit view of the visitor’s center gift shop. A few people milled about including— the back of Susan’s head. She’d pulled up her hoodie, but there was no mistaking the backpack she had slung over one shoulder.

  “That’s her!” I cried, involuntarily.

  “Wait for it …” Dosanj said, then leaned forward and hit the space bar. The picture froze with Susan’s hand slipping into the back pocket of a man bent over examining a collection of snow globes. The officer tapped a computer key several times, and each time the picture moved forward a frame, as Susan smoothly pulled something dark out of the pocket and slipped it into the open zipper of her pack.

  “Her name’s not Susan O’Donnell,” said Sergeant Garda. “And she’s as Irish as I am Indian. No offense, Dosanj.”

  “None taken, sir.”

  “The bike guy told me she was American,” I whispered.

  “Well, we’re not sure. We reckon she may actually be a Canadian national, or p’raps a dual. At any rate, she’s travelling on an American passport, under the name of Gail Lee Duncan.”

  “Gail … Duncan?” I repeated.

  “Aye. That shot from the CCTV camera was taken yesterday morning,” Dosanj said, snapping the computer off. “We have a dozen more like it.”

  “I must have been in watching the movie. You know—the one about the massacre on the battlefield? I thought she’d left to give me some space, because … well, just because,” I said. “So it wasn’t just me she stole from?”

  The special constable shook his head. “She pretty much cleaned out the pockets of everyone in the place,” he said. “She’s good, I’ll give ‘er that. No one felt a thing.” He nodded at his colleague. “She lifted a wee trinket for herself, too—a Celtic cross on a necklace, was it?”

  “An anklet,” said Garda. “I’m surprised she took so little, but there wasnae much time, aye?”

  “She didn’t want to go back inside for lunch,” I said, walking through it again in my mind. “I went in, and bought us both lunch—she’d given me such a good tour and I felt bad when I saw how little she’d brought to eat.”

  I looked over at Sergeant Garda. “You’re right. I even bought her lunch. I am a feckin’ eejit.”

  Dosanj’s eyes widened, and Garda held up both his hands. “Now jes’ a minute, lass—I niver said …”

  I smiled weakly. “You didn’t say I wasn’t.”

  He shrugged. “Did you keep the paperwork from the cash cards, at least?”

  “I wrote the pin numbers and everything all down. I knew I was supposed to keep the information separate from the card in case I lost it. But I had it in my …”

  “Let me guess,” Garda interrupted. “In your sponge bag wi’ the contact lenses?”

  I nodded miserably. “Do you think I could put a stop-payment on it online?”

  The senior officer shrugged. “You can try, of course. We have Internet access at the outer office desk. But if she’s cashed it out already, you’ll be out of luck.”

  He stood up. “I’m right sorry, Miss,” he said, formally. “We’ll do the best we can to catch her. This is a small country, and as a rule the Americans stand out, particularly in this season. With luck we’ll nab her. But the truth is, she’ll likely head south and become a thorn in the side of the Yard.”

  “They’re welcome to ‘er,” muttered Dosanj. He held the door open for me, and I left without another word.

  Filthy Fiasco…

  1:30 pm, March 16

  Inverness, Scotland

  Last day in Inverness. I’m sorry to report my trip is at an untimely end——in an unfortunate incident, I have been robbed of my cash, my contact lenses and all my faith in human nature. I’m typing this at an Internet cafe, as my laptop was taken, too. There’s nothing for it but to see if I can move up the date of my ticket home.

  Thanks to you all for your support. This trip would not have been the same without you.

  - Emma

  Comments: 0

  I typed the last word, and logged off with a sigh. Forty-five seconds to spare on the hour-for-a-pound deal they had for out-of-season webheads like me. Just me, actually, since there was no one else in the place, except the granny who had taken my money. When I walked in, she had barely looked up from her book to accept my coin.

  “Good book?” I had asked, automatically.

  She crinkled her eyes at me and held up the cover. THE SCOTTISH PRISONER.

  “Ay loveth the short ones,” she lisped, a result of there not being a single tooth remaining in her head. “They keep me fired up for when the next good thized ‘un comes along.”

  I slung my pack over my shoulder and headed for the door. Inverness had its own small airport, and I needed to catch the bus out there to talk to an airline person about trading in my ticket. The granny at the door didn’t lift her head as I left. She chuckled and muttered to herself as I opened the door.r />
  “‘… I swallowed a gnat.’ Ach, Jamie my boy—I do love ye so.”

  “You and me both,” I said sadly, and headed out onto the muddy street.

  I had to put the cab fare to the airport on my credit card. So, yeah, yeah, I knew there was a bus I could catch. Right from downtown Inverness straight out to the airport. But after spending my last pound coin on Internet access, I literally did not have any cash on me. I’d have had to go to a bank machine for a cash advance on my credit card, anyway. And if I was going out, I might as well go in style.

  Fortunately, the taxi driver had nothing to say. He grunted when I asked to be taken to the airport, and sped off so fast that my head snapped back and bounced off the headrest in the rear seat.

  Tiny beads of sleet spattered the window as I slumped against the door, watching the river Ness wind away into the distance. Flowing away. Like my money. Like my once-in-a-lifetime trip to Scotland.

  All my losses, though, paled against having to face my sister when I got home. I took that thought and tucked it in with what happened the day I met Herself, and resolved never to think of either of them again.

  The taxi driver disgorged me at the airport with a handwritten credit receipt and a grunt. I scampered inside to get out of the weather and looked around for the correct airline desk. The airport was a fairly small one and there was hardly anyone to be seen. I finally found the desk I was looking for. A young man stood behind it, lifting a bag of trash out of a bin. A tag pinned to his lapel read: My name is Matthew. How can I help you?

  “Hi,” I said, gloomily. “I need to change a ticket—can you do that here?”

  He shook his head. “Sorry, Miss. I’m just closing down. Ye’ll have tae come back tomorrow.” He finished tying a knot in the trash bag with a tidy little snap.