Did You Declare the Corpse?

by Patricia Sprinkle

  “Ben might object,” I pointed out. Ben Bradshaw owned and managed the service department of MacDonald Motors, and had been squiring Laura for over a year. I sneaked a quick peek at her ring finger, but it was still bare. Drat Ben, what was he waiting for?

  Joe Riddley slapped away Laura’s offer to lift my suitcase with the familiarity of a man who had once changed her diapers. “Think I’m gettin’ old and feeble? I can still arm wrestle you to the table, and don’t you forget it.”

  “Stop squabbling, you two,” I told them, tugging the neck of my sweater away from my neck, “and let’s hit the road. I’m so hot, I’m fixin’ to die.” Getting into that car and slamming the door behind me was hard, though. My whole body felt like a magnet pulling toward Joe Riddley. But I resolutely clicked my seat belt to keep myself in and leaned out the window for one last peck. “You be good, now,” I warned him.

  “I’ll be good or I’ll be careful. You be both.” He stepped back so Laura could pull out. It took a while for my eyes to clear of tears, but Laura tactfully fiddled with the radio to find some good music and pretended she needed to concentrate on her driving to get through the traffic jam of downtown Hopemore, population thirteen thousand in the greater metropolitan area.

  When we were finally on the two-lane leading to the interstate, I pulled out the list of people joining us in Atlanta. “There are only eight names, counting us. Do you reckon that’s all that’s coming? Looks like they’d have to have more than that to make a profit.”

  “Especially with hiring a bus.” If there’s one thing Laura and I both know, it’s profit and loss. “Maybe another tour group will join us at the airport or over in Glasgow.”

  “Maybe so.” I turned to another puzzling thing. “Did you notice that two of the women are named Brandi and Sherry? Could those possibly be their real names?”

  “Sherry’s is. She’s a fiddler, married to Kenny Boyd, who is a piper. They come to all the Stone Mountain Highland games.” As she passed a car, she gave her deep trademark chuckle. “I used to have the worst crush on Kenny when I was fourteen. I’d follow him around and save every gum wrapper he dropped. But if you tell him, I’ll drop you off a mountaintop.”

  “So they are around your age?” I wondered if I’d be the only person over sixty on the trip.

  Her reply didn’t answer that question. “Oh, no, he’s twelve years older, and Sherry’s older than that. I just didn’t figure the difference would matter, once he looked at me and fell in love.” We laughed together at the dreams girls can dream, then she filled me in on what she knew. “Sherry’s aunt owns a restaurant down in Savannah, but I heard she retired to Florida several years ago and lets Sherry and Kenny run it now. They still come to all the Stone Mountain games, but they hang out mostly with other musicians. I don’t think I’ve spoken more than two words to them in ten years. Kenny and Daddy were buddies, though, and he wrote a real sweet note when Daddy died. He’s the one who sent me the brochure for this trip, too.”

  She swung around a tractor and back into her lane just about the time I expected an approaching lumber truck to meet us head-on and send us further than Scotland.

  Just as abruptly, she changed the subject. “Are you looking forward to the trip, Mac?”

  “Yes, I am. I haven’t been to Scotland since Joe Riddley and I went with a church group twenty years ago. I’ll enjoy seeing the tourist sites again, but mostly I’m looking forward to seeing Auchnagar, where Mama’s people came from. We didn’t go there before, and I hadn’t even traced our genealogy. Now I know that Andrew MacLaren was born there in 1725 and married there in 1744. He and his wife arrived in the Carolinas in 1746 and got to Georgia in 1750, so I presume he left because of the Battle of Culloden. You go back to Flora MacDonald who came over after Culloden, too—right?”

  “Right. But another branch of the family came over during the Highland Clearances and those MacDonalds married the other MacDonalds, so I have ancestors in both groups. Makes for an interesting family tree.”

  “Explains a lot about you, too. But remind me again. What were the clearances?” I knew she’d know. Skye MacDonald raised his children on Scottish history, music, and fairy tales.

  “A period when landowners decided to raise sheep, so they kicked tenant farmers off the land. It was pretty brutal. That’s why a lot of Scots emigrated to Canada and America. Kenny can tell you more about them. He’s big into Scottish history. That’s mostly what he and Daddy had in common, except Kenny gets real fiery about it—or used to. I don’t know what he’s like now that he’s an old married man.” She chuckled again and we rode a few miles in silence. She broke it to suggest, “You might still have relatives in Auchnagar. We found cousins on Skye several years ago. I’m having tea with them Friday afternoon, while we’re there.”

  “Can you believe that by Friday we’ll be having tea on the Isle of Skye?” I gave a happy little bounce in my seat. Every mile we drove seemed to make Scotland more real and Hopemore less so. “And in one week and two days, I’ll actually see Auchnagar.”

  Laura set her cruise control and settled more comfortably in her seat. “I just hope there’s something to do there besides look up your relations. Otherwise, four days in one small village may seem pretty deadly.”

  Neither of us suspected at the time just how deadly it would be.

  3

  As soon as I saw Joyce Underwood, our tour guide, I thought of a brown mouse. Not because of her size—which was all-around medium—but because she had a long, pointy nose, mousy brown hair, and nervous brown eyes. She held herself warily, like she was watching to make sure you didn’t reach out a paw to claw her, and looked like she would store all her nuts in a very private place.

  With Laura’s usual competence, we were first to arrive. We had been told to assemble at four-thirty at a motel near the airport where Joyce had spent the previous night, and that we’d leave our luggage there while we went to dinner in town.

  Joyce met us in the lobby and greeted us by name. When she called me “Mrs. Yarbrough,” I didn’t bother to tell her it was Judge Yarbrough. “Just call me MacLaren,” I said. After all, the woman looked thirty-five and I’m not in my dotage.

  After we had stowed our bags, she said, “We’ve had a change in plans. Marcia Inch and Dorothy Cowling are coming from Calgary and their plane is a couple of hours late, so we’re going to eat here and hope they arrive before we’re done. The Gordons are driving down from the North Georgia mountains and should be here any minute. The Boyds are flying up from Savannah, but neglected to send me their arrival time. Why don’t you wait over there?” We wandered over to the far end of the lobby and claimed uncomfortable vinyl chairs, where we sat experiencing the deflated feeling of folks who have hurried for nothing.

  Joyce paced near the lobby doors for nearly an hour, looking as anxious as a first-time babysitter. Finally a cab pulled in and two people climbed out. “This looks like Mr. and Mrs. Boyd now,” she announced.

  I didn’t give her real high marks as a detective. The man climbing out wore plaid slacks with a dark green turtleneck and carried a bag labeled “Fragile—Bagpipes.” The woman carried a violin case in one hand and a plaid cape over her arm. And before the cabbie had even gotten out and started unloading a trunk full of bags, Laura had risen and moseyed over near the door, where she hovered in uncharacteristic uncertainty. I figured she was wondering whether to go out to greet Kenny or wait until he came inside.

  I hoped they didn’t plan to play their instruments on the bus, but didn’t want to think anything bad about them yet. That plaid Mrs. Boyd was carrying was the MacKenzie tartan, and my daddy’s mama was a MacKenzie. We might be kin.

  I revised that opinion as soon as she strode toward the door and left her husband to deal with the luggage. Women in my family carry our share of the load.

  We didn’t look anything alike, either. I am short with honey-brown hair, brown eyes, and the kind of figure Joe Riddley is sweet enough to call voluptuous. Sherry
Boyd was taller than her husband and bypassed slender and thin to go straight for downright scrawny. She was also sallow-skinned, and had black hair and enormous eyes the color of semisweet chocolate. All the way across the lobby I could smell her musky perfume.

  Totally ignoring Laura, she honed in on Joyce. “We’re Kenny and Sherry Boyd,” she said in a flat, nasal voice. She stuck out a hand decorated with gold rings on several fingers.

  She could have been anything from thirty-five to forty-five, and was striking rather than pretty. She wore no makeup, was dressed in a black turtleneck and a long black skirt that touched her boots, and simply dragged her long straight hair back at her neck. Still, her plaid cape looked hand-loomed, her rings were certainly handmade, and her hair was pinned by an elaborate Celtic clip. I put her down as one of those arty people who don’t care how they look so long as what they wear is unique and expensive.

  “Was your plane late?” Having seen Joyce’s anxiety for the past hour, I marveled she could sound so calm and friendly.

  “No, we flew in last night,” Sherry told her. “We had some shopping to do today.”

  I watched in admiration as Joyce pressed her lips together and took deep breaths. I’ve heard that’s a good way to control your temper, but when I get mad, I always forget.

  Laura made up her mind—or got up her courage—to go outside. “Hey, Kenny,” she called.

  The man turned with a look I sometimes see in the eyes of people hauled into my court for the first time—folks trying to hide embarrassment behind bravado. Or maybe I imagined it. The next instant, he had her in a bear hug. Flushed, she pulled away and bent to help with his mountain of luggage. He started gathering up the rest.

  I eyed those bags and knew one thing: the Boyds had bought a whole set of new luggage for this trip. None of those cases had ever been slung in and out of baggage compartments. Kenny, however, looked like he might have been slung around a few times in life. His shoulders were slightly rounded, his face plump with heavy jowls. He was also short. Laura was nearly six feet, so he came approximately to her chin.

  “She wasn’t but fourteen when she had that crush on him,” I reminded myself. “She didn’t get tall for a couple more years. And maybe he was thin before he started eating his wife’s cooking.” Now his potbelly bulged over the belt of his tartan slacks. The only thing I could find remotely attractive about him was the red hair that waved away from his forehead and curled around his ears.

  He was so engrossed in collecting luggage while talking to Laura that he staggered in without tipping the cabbie. The man glared after them, then left with a screech of burning rubber.

  Kenny set down his bags and stuck out a hand to Joyce. “Sorry we’re a bit late. We ran up to Phipps Plaza for a little while.” “Phipps Plaza” is synonymous with “expensive stores” in Atlanta. Kenny seemed to presume his explanation would atone for keeping the rest of us waiting. “Honey, you remember Laura MacDonald.” He pulled Laura toward his wife.

  “Sure. Hello.” Sherry gave Laura a hug that came straight from a Deepfreeze.

  “That’s MacLaren Yarbrough, who’s come with me on the trip.” Laura nodded in my direction. I waved from my chair. They’d be coming my way eventually, so there was no reason to make that trek across the wide lobby.

  Kenny bounded over to shake my hand. “I like your checked britches,” I told him. Mama always said if you can’t find something nice to say about somebody, make up something.

  “Tartan breeks,” he corrected me. He lifted one leg and twirled it a little to show them off. He must have bought new loafers, too. Their shine was dazzling. “They’re the Stewart hunting plaid,” he added in an offhand way. “I’m a direct descendant of Robert the Bruce.”

  Thank goodness he’d chosen the Stewart hunting plaid, which is mostly green with navy, instead of their more flamboyant red tartan. But if you want my opinion (and even if you don’t), neither checked britches nor tartan breeks look good on a chubby figure.

  Laura joined Kenny and me, but Sherry had grabbed Joyce’s elbow and pulled her into a corner next to a drooping ficus tree that the nursery owner in me wanted to give a long drink of water. Sherry spoke in a low, urgent voice, nodding toward Laura and me. Whatever she was saying, Joyce shook her head. Sherry pointed a finger at Joyce, used it to emphasize her words. Joyce stepped back like she was afraid of getting stabbed. Sherry followed. Joyce backed another step. Joyce reached the ficus and could go no farther. Finally she lifted one hand and shrugged. “I can check with our office,” she said in a voice that carried all the way to us.

  “You do that,” Sherry told her. “That’s what we were promised. Now what are we to do with this luggage until the flight?”

  They were still carrying bags to the storage room when a gray limousine pulled up to the motel and a uniformed chauffeur got out.

  “The Gordons,” Joyce breathed, more to herself than to us. She moved toward the door, as if to go outside to greet them, then must have changed her mind, for she went to the front window and stood concealed by the drape. We watched a tall, lanky man with a shock of thick white hair climb out on the far side and follow the chauffeur around back. Around sixty, he had a beak of a nose on a profile that could have been chiseled out of Stone Mountain granite.

  Most folks would know at a glance that here was a man accustomed to giving orders and being obeyed. Joe Riddley has that same kind of presence. He just doesn’t wear tailor-made suits and a gold pinky ring.

  While the chauffeur lifted out four leather bags, butter-soft from much travel, the tall man made no effort to help except with instructions. When a violin case appeared, however, he reached for it and his ring glinted in the sun.

  “What’s with all the musical instruments?” I asked Joyce.

  Joyce’s attention was riveted on the limo’s back door, so Laura answered. “It was in the last e-mail we got. We’re attending a musical program on Skye with some local performers, and folks were invited to bring any instruments they play.”

  “I missed that part. I could have brought my comb and tissue paper.”

  Joyce still wasn’t paying a speck of attention. Her eyes never left the limousine as the tall man opened the rear door nearest us. A black spike heel emerged, followed by long slender legs in black hose and a gorgeous plaid skirt in green and blue.

  I couldn’t have told you the difference between that plaid and the one Kenny was wearing, or the blue-and-green MacDonald tartan that decorated Laura’s apartment, but Laura recognized it at once. “That’s the Gordon plaid,” she informed me.

  I scarcely heard her. I was staring at a sleek combination of stunning figure and bright red hair that fell loosely to the shoulders of a hunter green velvet jacket, then curled at the ends. As the man moved aside, I saw that the woman had a face to match the rest—the kind of face that causes old men to launch ships, start wars, or desert their wives and children.

  Joyce said a word I’d never have expected from those prim lips. Then she caught me looking at her, put on a tight, professional smile, and started toward the door.

  I leaned over to Laura and asked softly, “What are those folks doing on a bus tour? Her outfit cost more than my entire wardrobe. And look at those diamonds!”

  “I can’t. I forgot my sunglasses.”

  The woman fluffed her hair, then headed for the lobby with a long, confident stride that made the curls bounce on her shoulders. She flung open the door and stood looking around, her lips curved in that smile models and movie stars cultivate, the kind that shows a lot more teeth than the rest of us have. It was unfair that somebody so beautiful should also have gorgeous eyes, but there they were, a light, clear gray under impossibly long lashes.

  “Mrs. Gordon?” I’d known Joyce just long enough to know she was angry about something, but holding her temper on a short rein. “I’m Joyce Underwood, your tour guide.”

  “Call me Brandi. Everybody does. I’m so glad to meet you.” Sounding as friendly as she was glamorou
s, she stuck out a hand. “Jimmy will be here in a minute. I’m really lookin’ forward to this trip. We’re gonna have so much fun!” Her voice was pure Georgia honey.

  “We certainly are.” Joyce looked like she was having trouble keeping her smile pinned to her face. “Let me introduce you to the rest of the group.”

  A wave of delicious perfume preceded her as Brandi came toward us. She gave me a smile that said she’d been waiting all day to meet me, and I felt real special—until I saw it was the same look she gave Laura, then Kenny and Sherry as they joined us. I wondered if it came natural or if she practiced it.

  Brandi looked around again and bestowed approval on us all. “I’m so glad you all got here early too. Maybe we can get a bite of supper or something before we go to the plane.”

  “I asked you to be here by four-thirty.” Joyce sounded like her jaw had frozen.

  “Oh, really? I thought you said eight-thirty.”