Did You Declare the Corpse?

by Patricia Sprinkle

As soon as we stepped inside the airport, they were whisked away by a lacquered blonde in uniform and we didn’t see them again until we boarded the plane. Then we got a real good view of them sipping complimentary drinks up front while the rest of us headed back to steerage. As Mama used to say, “There are some things money can’t buy, but the more money you have, the fewer they are.”

  The rest of us went through security in a clump, with Joyce bringing up the rear, checking her notebook and counting heads at every bend to make sure nobody had strayed. We eventually began to complain, as people tend to do, wondering out loud why civilized, intelligent North Americans aren’t rising up en masse to protest security processes that do little to deter terrorists, but harass and humiliate harmless citizens. Then Kenny pointed out, “When our ancestors came from Scotland, they were crammed seven hundred or more onto rickety ships designed to hold five hundred. They had too little food, sour water, and a real good chance of dying from cholera or dysentery before they landed. I guess we can put up with a little bit of standing in line.”

  “You are such a party pooper,” Sherry said acidly.

  But Laura said, “Kenny’s right. We came on this trip to have a good time, so what difference does it make if we spend the next hour sitting in a waiting area or standing here? We might as well have fun starting now.”

  After that she, Dorothy, Marcia, and I had a real good chat while Sherry instructed Joyce on what we should have been told in order to get through security faster. Kenny read a dog-eared book entitled The Highland Clearances that looked like he’d read it several times before.

  However, we were in that line a very long time.

  By the time it was my turn to dump my carry-on and purse into bins and walk through the metal detector, I was in no mood to obey an officious guard who told me to remove my shoes and walk across that filthy floor in sock feet. I am not a terrorist, I am a judge. I’d worn those shoes through several airports and knew there was no metal in them, and I had no idea what foot diseases the last hundred people might have left behind. “Let’s try the shoes and see if they beep,” I suggested politely. “If they do, I’ll take them off and go through again.”

  In thirty seconds flat I was being wanded up the body, down the body, under the arms, along the inside of my legs, and under the shoes, then I was patted all over. The woman who had been summoned to work me over kept murmuring, in a thick Eastern European accent, that she was sorry to be doing this. I was dying to ask if this didn’t remind her of the worst days of Communism, but hated to get arrested and have to explain to my grandchildren why I hadn’t gone to Scotland. I couldn’t help snapping at the end, though, “This is enough to make radicals of us all.” I got a small smile of what I am certain was agreement.

  By the time we finally got on the plane, I was actually happy that Laura and I weren’t sitting together, for I had an empty seat between me and the aisle and I sleep well on planes. When the lights dimmed I lifted the armrest, put my feet in the other seat, and snuggled down with a blanket and pillow, trusting somebody would wake me in Glasgow.

  Only when I was about to drift off did I remember I was carrying a lot of cash, traveler’s checks and a passport, and Joe Riddley wasn’t there. Who would guard my pocketbook? Who’d nudge me if I snored? I swung my legs around and sat up, resigned to one heck of a long night.

  I read a while, then—bored and stiff—got up and joined a circulating ring of folks hiking to stave off death from blood clots. Up at the thick curtain separating first class from us peons, I peeked through to see how the other one-half of one percent lives. Brandi was dozing and Jim had a spreadsheet on his laptop screen, in easy view. I work with spreadsheets every day, but I’d never seen one belonging to a multimillionaire, so I leaned forward to see if his was more interesting than mine. It wasn’t. His columns were just labeled “patrons served” and “cost per serving” instead of “original order” and “stock on hand.”

  Back in steerage I waved at Laura, who was watching a movie, and pitied Dorothy and Marcia, who were in a long center row with three squirming children whose parents were dozing in the row ahead. After I’d made the U-turn at the back and headed up my own side of the plane, I found Kenny sprawled in an aisle seat glowering at a drink. Fumes surrounded him. Four small empty scotch bottles and a glass with a few melted cubes in the bottom sat on his tray table. Sherry slept against the window, wearing an eye mask. She had taken off her hair clip, and her hair slithered down her shoulders like black snakes. I tiptoed by with a little wave, but Kenny crooked a finger at me, so I stopped. I figured I could turn my head a little if I found it necessary to breathe.

  “You friends with Laura?” His voice was a soft, hoarse croak.

  “Yes. Her folks were some of my best friends.”

  “I liked old Skye. Knew him for years.” He swirled the ice around in the bottom of his glass. “I guess Laura and her brother inherited the whole shebang, huh?”

  I frowned. “You’ll have to ask her about that.”

  “I guess.” He pursed his plump red lips and blew air through them, staring morosely ahead of him. “Some folks have all the luck, don’t they?” He was just sober enough to realize how that sounded, because he lifted one hand and wiggled it. “Oh, I don’t mean Skye and Gwen Ellen dying. And Laura deserves the best. She was always a good kid.”

  “She still is,” I assured him. “A real fine person.”

  “Yeah.” He sank into either thought or a stupor.

  I moseyed on and found Joyce working on a laptop with the screen turned away from the aisle. “We’ve got some busy bees on this tour,” I greeted her. “You and Jim make me feel like a slacker. Are you writing another play?”

  “No, just working on some line changes.” She lowered the screen. “I’d made the laird seem weak in one scene. Are you looking forward to the trip?”

  I allowed as how I was, and then—since she didn’t seem to mind talking—I propped my backside on her armrest and asked, “How’d you come to write a play about Auchnagar?” What I really wanted to ask was, “Did you arrange this whole trip so you’d have an audience?”

  She gave a deprecating little laugh that couldn’t hide her pride. “It was a miracle, really. When I was preparing for this tour, I stayed a week in the village. Leaving the post office one morning, I literally ran into Mrs. MacGorrie—the laird’s wife.”

  She paused, so I nodded, to keep her pump primed. “She’s American,” she went on, “but interested in Scottish history and ancient arts. She’s turned an abandoned church into an arts center where they have demonstrations of ancient weaving and pottery-making and all sorts of lectures. So after I’d apologized for nearly running her down, I asked if there would be anything going on at the arts center you all might be interested in, and she offered to show me around. During the tour, we got to talking about what a good place the old sanctuary would be for plays, and I mentioned that I’m a writer. On a whim, I said I’d love to write a play about the history of the area. Next thing I knew, she was saying, ‘See what you can do, and send it along. If I like it, we’ll put it on.’ ”

  “And she did like it”—from experience with one writer I know, I knew Joyce could go on for ages if I didn’t cut her short—“so they’re putting it on for us.”

  She nodded, her face bright. “And if it works, they’ll perform it all summer.”

  “That’s great! I’ll let you get on with what you’re doing, then.”

  I returned to my seat and fumbled in my carry-on bag for my book, but before I got it open, shouts erupted in the back of the plane.

  Terrorists!

  My first thought was echoed in screams and squeals as others struggled awake.

  A bevy of flight attendants hurried toward the disturbance.

  A few men rose halfway from their seats, ready to go if needed, but hoping their day for being heroes had not yet come. I honored them for being willing.

  One of the flight attendants hurried back toward the front of
the plane and a soothing voice spoke over the intercom. “There is no cause for alarm. Everything is under control. But please remain in your seats. The captain has illuminated the seat-belt sign.”

  She lied. Shouts and yells still came from the back of the plane.

  However, just then one of the voices slurred, “Y’all git away, now. This is jist ’tween her ’n’ me.” That particular terrorist spoke like a drunk South Georgian. I’m used to those, so I slid toward the aisle and craned my neck to look without making my head too much of a target.

  Kenny and Sherry stood in the aisle gripping one another by the forearms. I couldn’t tell who was shaking whom, but in the dimness I saw her hair slinging back and forth like a dark string mop.

  Two flight attendants sought to separate them, but Kenny elbowed them away. “Git y’r hands off me! We kin settle this if I kin just make her see reason.”

  “Shut up and sit down, you lush!” Sherry jerked one hand free and slapped him hard.

  “I’m not puttin’ up with any more!” His shove sent her staggering back several steps.

  She rushed him, but her attack ended in a shriek as he grabbed her hair and yanked.

  Again the flight attendants waded into the fray. Again the combatants shook them off.

  I have settled a few domestic disputes in my time, so I was fixing to head back there when I saw Joyce heading their way. “Stop!” she commanded.

  “It’s okay.” Sherry stopped fighting and stood in the aisle panting. “Kenny just got a little out of hand. He’s going to be fine, now, aren’t you?” She glared at him.

  Kenny glared back at her, breathing heavily. “I’ll be fine if you’ll agree to—”

  “Don’t you start that again,” she warned, reaching for his arm.

  He shoved her hard, and she fell across the armrest into her seat, where she swore at him as she struggled to get up.

  When he raised a fist, I ignored the “Fasten Seat Belt” sign and went for real help.

  Even first class had heard something going on back in steerage. Jim stood in the aisle peering through the curtain. “Please come,” I told him. “Kenny is drunk and creating a scene.” He shut his computer and followed me to the back.

  “Hey, Ken.” He grabbed Kenny by one shoulder. Kenny lunged like an angry bull, but Jim was bigger, and sober. He held Kenny without any trouble. “Calm down, now. Let’s sit down and talk this over.” He looked over the seats and spotted a vacant row in the middle a few rows back. He raised one eyebrow at a flight attendant. “Those seats available?”

  She nodded, obviously relieved to have somebody else take charge.

  “He doesn’t need to leave. He’s going to be fine!” Gasping for breath, Sherry fumbled in a pocket and retrieved her hair clip. In a smooth, practiced motion she secured her hair and arranged her face simultaneously. Once again she looked remote and in control. “He’s terrified of flying,” she explained, “so he tends to drink too much on flights. I can deal with him.”

  She stood and put out one hand to take Kenny’s arm, but he swatted her away. “Don’t you touch me, you—”

  “Let him stay with me a while,” Jim advised. “We’ll be right back there.”

  Sherry obviously would have preferred to keep him at their seat, but after a short hesitation, she shrugged. “Whatever.” She spoke to Kenny in what sounded like a warning. “Just remember, honey, this is going to be a real good trip. Okay?”

  For the life of me, I couldn’t figure out why that should sound like a threat.

  But Kenny, too, caught her warning tone. “Good trip?” he mumbled as he staggered behind Jim to the seats in the back. Before he sat, he turned and shot her a look of pure venom. “A real good trip to hell.”

  6

  Nine days later, when the police sergeant would interview me about the body in the coffin and our group of travelers, he would ask, “Did anything unusual occur on this trip? Anything out of the ordinary?”

  Unusual? Out of the ordinary?

  “From the very first day,” I would have to admit.

  To begin with, nobody else met us at Prestwick Airport in Glasgow Wednesday morning. How could anybody be making money on this trip? I could tell that Laura was wondering, too.

  When we reassembled after collecting our luggage and going through customs, nobody mentioned the fight. The way Kenny and Sherry acted, you’d have thought they’d slept soundly on the trip while the rest of us shared the same nightmare.

  Joyce, however, looked strained and peaked, as colorless as the pale blue of her parka, which did nothing to enhance her brown hair and eyes. Still, she managed to stay pleasant while ushering us out into a cold drizzle where a short green bus waited, blazoned with “Gilroy’s Highland Tours” in white and the name “Jeannie” in yellow script by the door. The driver gave Joyce a cheerful wave through the drizzle, looked the group over, then peered around for more of us.

  “That’s our bus?” I whispered to Laura.

  “Will it last two weeks?” she whispered back. “Maybe I could sell them a new one and pay for my trip.”

  Seldom had I seen a shabbier vehicle. Did I say it was green? Actually, one fender was red, another black. Large dents decorated both the back bumper and the front, as if somebody had gotten angry and jerked the poor thing back and forth, hitting cars fore and aft.

  Joyce gave it one dismayed look and strode over to speak to the driver. We didn’t hear what she said, but we heard him cackle and exclaim, “Och, auld Jeannie here’ll get us there and back nae bother. She’s got a fine engine, has Jeannie.” He smacked her side and turned as if he’d smack Joyce on the bottom, as well. She quickly turned toward Jim and Brandi—probably worrying that they’d quit the tour and go home. Jim directed a porter to stow their bags in the open luggage door with no more visible concern than if the bus had been a limousine.

  The driver, who had the name “Watty” embroidered on his flat black cap in yellow script, was as shabby as his bus. His black wool pants sagged. His red shirt had faded to a dull rose. And under a scruffy black jacket he had on the most disreputable argyle sweater I’d ever seen. Joe Riddley would have looked like a fashion plate beside him. The man wasn’t much taller than me, with lines like sunbeams radiating from button-black eyes and grizzled curls springing from the cap, which dripped water in four directions. “Mind yer step, mind yer step,” he muttered as we deposited our bags and climbed up the high steps.

  I stretched up and whispered to Laura, “Tip well. He looks like he can use it. But do we just tip at the end, or every time he stows our luggage?” Joe Riddley usually does our tipping.

  “At the end, plus if he performs an extraordinary service.”

  “Looks to me like it’s going to be an extraordinary service every time he heaves all those bags into the bus, as tottery as he is.”

  When he finished, he looked questioningly at Joyce. She gave him her plastic, practiced smile. “That’s all,” she said in her bright tour-guide voice. He shrugged and touched his cap.

  When she got closer to Jim, though, her smile turned to another worried frown. “It’s fine,” he said shortly. He climbed aboard and slid into a seat near the front.

  “Hey, it’s warm in here!” Brandi bounded up after him. “And we can each have a seat and see out the window.” She took the seat behind Jim.

  Joyce climbed on last, consulted with the driver, and announced, “Since none of you had ancestors who came from Glasgow, we’ll only stay here one night before heading north. I suggest you rest this morning. The bus will pick us up at two for a short tour of the city.”

  As we rode into town, my energy drained with the drizzle. I propped my head against the window and stared out at bleak trees against a charcoal sky. I nodded as pastures of sodden sheep gave way to slick wet streets of gray houses and Monday morning traffic. My watch showed that Joe Riddley still had hours to sleep. I wished I were lying beside him, reaching out a toe to touch his warm calf. I let out an involuntary yelp as we pass
ed a large thermometer. “Two degrees?” I clutched my trench coat and knew I was going to regret having left the liner at home.

  Dorothy laughed. “That’s two Celsius, thirty-four Fahrenheit. Not too bad for early spring, eh? And aren’t the colors marvelous? All those grays and browns! Whistler should have painted this.” That morning, the pink in her cheeks looked more like delight than painful shyness.

  “Look at that Scotch broom!” Brandi called, pointing to waterfalls of yellow flowers on bright green stalks beside the road. “We are really in Scotland!”

  Nobody answered. My guess was that only Brandi and Dorothy were awake.

  Glasgow in the rain is like any big city—slow and dreary. By the time we arrived at the hotel, I was so sleepy that I followed Laura to our room in a blur. I didn’t bother to look for a nightgown, just stripped down to underwear and socks and fell into bed.