Did You Declare the Corpse?

by Patricia Sprinkle

  All of us—including Sherry—could tell Brandi was waiting for her to make a scene. Instead, she shrugged. “Sure.” She took the seat behind him and started talking about fiddling.

  That did not please Miss Brandi, so she started talking about plants for their new garden. They were like two little girls playing tug-of-war over one doll. Jim didn’t listen. He was leaning forward, hands clasped on the rail, staring down the road. I figured that his old bones, like mine, must be tired.

  Brandi transferred her chatter to Watty, who practically put us in a ditch a couple of times answering her over his shoulder. Dorothy leaned up from behind me to whisper, “Think anybody would object if I stuck my scarf in Brandi’s mouth and tied it tight?”

  “Not me,” I assured her. “I’m ready to rest, but I don’t want to do it in a hospital.”

  Laura and Kenny had gone to the back bench that morning, where they carried on a soft conversation. However, what I could hear of it disturbed me. He was asking real personal questions about the motor companies’ business, and I didn’t like to hear Laura discussing her private affairs with a man she hadn’t seen for ten years.

  Marcia was morose and stared at the scenery through a film of tears. I saw her wipe several away. Even Joyce was jumpy and short with us all. I suspected she was worried about her play, and I wished I had the nerve to say, “Hey, honey, we aren’t expecting Broadway. Relax and have fun.”

  It appeared to me like Dorothy and I were the only ones enjoying ourselves, which was a real shame, because we were traveling through some mighty pretty country.

  Auchnagar lies in the heart of Scotland, in the Grampian region, among mountains called the Cairngorms. Maybe I’m prejudiced because of my ancestors, but now that I’ve seen the eastern Highlands, it is easy for me to see why the royal family still goes there for an annual vacation. Unlike the stark hills of the West, these big rounded mountains tumble over one another like fat brown puppies. Bright splashing streams, which Watty called “burns,” somersault over boulders and plunge into silver rivers that slide through broad fields to the North Sea.

  When Sherry lamented loudly, “It’s such a pity we came in April. When the heather’s in bloom, these hills are a glory of purple,” I had finally had enough of her complaints. After all, the air still held a tinge of mauve, while unexpected patches of daffodils and yellow Scotch broom brightened the roadside and grew along what Watty called “drystane dikes”—walls of stones made without mortar—that outlined pastures filled with black-faced sheep and lambs.

  “Next time,” I called up to Sherry a mite tartly, “why don’t you come at a time of year when you won’t have to spend your trip ruining everybody else’s?”

  “Yon trees,” Watty called loudly, waving toward thick stands of evergreens, “have all been planted in the last for-r-rty years to r-r-replace for-r-rests cut down in the last war-r-r.”

  I was ashamed to have fussed at Sherry so publicly that Watty felt a need to smooth over my gaffe. “Sorry,” I called, but Sherry ignored me.

  At Watty’s direction, we all craned our necks for a quick view of Balmoral Castle, and fifteen minutes later were glad to disembark for lunch in Braemar. Marcia roused herself to walk with the rest of us, led by Watty, up through the village to view the outside of the house where Robert Louis Stevenson wrote Kidnapped. En route, Kenny pontificated about some ruins by the banks of Cluny burn. I didn’t pay him much attention until he said, “It was Malcolm Canmore’s hunting lodge—you know, the one who defeated Macbeth.”

  I climbed back on the bus reflecting that if we let them, almost anybody can teach us something. I hadn’t realized until then that Macbeth was a historical person.

  From Braemar, we wended our way through more mountains until Watty announced, “In chust a wee while we’ll be in Auchnagar.”

  I leaned up in my seat and asked Marcia, “Excited about seeing your family?”

  She gave me a wan smile. “A little nervous, really. There’s only Eileen—my mother’s sister—and her son, Roddy, and I’ve only seen her once and never met him.” She raised her voice a notch and her dark eyes lit with a gentle twinkle. “Roddy’s thirty, so I’ve earmarked him for Dorothy, eh?”

  I looked over my shoulder and saw Dorothy looking out the window like she wasn’t listening, but her cheeks were bright pink again.

  “And you’ve only met your aunt once?” Encouraged by that rare shaft of light in the clouds that hovered over her, I wanted to broaden it if I could.

  She nodded. “When I was nine, Mum brought me over to visit her parents, eh? But as far as I was concerned, it was a dreadful trip. I hated the food and the rain, and my grandparents were austere, dour folks who wouldn’t spend money on what they called ‘frivolities’ like heated rooms or television. I was disgusted to have such backwards relatives, and didn’t mind sharing that opinion.” Her lips curved in a smile of rueful remembrance. “Eileen called me a ‘wee holy terror,’ eh? And I was, right enough. To make matters worse, I couldn’t understand half of what they said, and it made me furious that Mum could. Before we left to go back to Canada, I announced to all my relations that I hated Scotland and would never return. Poor Mum was mortified, eh? After that, she came back on her own every few years, but she never brought me or my brothers.” She gave a low chuckle. “Eileen and Dugald hadn’t had children yet, and Mum always said they had Roddy the following year to show they could make a better job of him than she had of me.” At last she laughed aloud.

  I laughed with her, astonished at how that changed her whole appearance. She must have been lovely before her husband’s death consumed her. I hurried to keep the conversation going. “So you haven’t seen your aunt at all since then.”

  “No, but after Mum died last spring, I knew Eileen would want to know, so I wrote to tell her. She wrote back, giving an e-mail address and saying she and Dugald had bought this guest house several years ago and she’s been running it alone since his death. We started e-mailing back and forth, and we’ve both revised our initial opinions of each other, eh?” She chuckled again. “She seems quite pleasant.” Marcia hesitated, then added sadly, “Paul and I even talked about coming over to meet her last summer. He wanted to attend a history seminar on Skye. But Mum had been sick a long while, and I was so weary . . .” Her voice trailed off.

  “Caring for a sick person can be exhausting,” I agreed, sorry to see her losing the animation she’d just had.

  She sighed, then words burst from her. “I wish we had come! But before we’d made firm plans, Eileen wrote that she had this group from the States coming to stay this April, and they’d offered her two places for the price of one.” Her eyes filled with sudden tears. “I suggested that we postpone our trip until now, to celebrate our fifteenth anniversary. I never imagined it would be too late.” Her lips trembled and she pressed her hand across her mouth to still them.

  “I’m proud of you for deciding to come anyway and bring Dorothy,” I told her briskly.

  She shook her head. “Don’t be proud of me. It was Eileen and Dorothy. Eileen insisted that I still make the trip, even without Paul, and Dorothy offered to pay Paul’s share. But I wasn’t ready. I should have realized that. It’s been so hard, visiting all the places we looked forward to seeing together.” Now it was her voice that trembled, and she turned away from me to look out the window.

  I was glad to hear Watty call, “We’re going over the pass noo.” At that moment the sun came from behind clouds to beam us over, and we began to descend into a small cup of a glen surrounded by hills and split by a lively burn. In spite of Marcia’s sadness, my spirits rose so high, I felt like a balloon was slowly wafting the bus downwards. When the village lay full before us, I gave a little bounce in my seat.

  “Recognize your ancestral home, Mac?” Laura called from the back.

  “No, but I’m glad to know my folks had the good sense to live here. Isn’t it beautiful? It has such a friendly look.”

  “That’s where the Lai
rd of Auchnagar lives.” Joyce pointed to a granite house nestled among trees. It was no castle, but it would have held four or five big Victorian houses like Joe Riddley and I had lived in for most of our married life.

  As we neared the village, I couldn’t look fast enough. Even Marcia wiped away her tears and got excited. She and I must have looked like herons exercising our necks.

  It wasn’t a big place. Maybe thirty gray houses with brightly colored window facings and doors straggled up-and downhill on short, narrow streets. Six or seven shops faced one another across the main street, including a modern chalet so raw it must be new. Ski paraphernalia filled its window.

  “Eileen wrote that a ski lift was put in last year,” Marcia told me, sounding as proud as if she were a native. “They hope to attract tourists all year round, like Braemar and Aviemore.”

  “That’s the arts center where our play will be.” Joyce pointed to a small building on our right. Like every major structure we’d seen, it was built of granite, with a square tower and arched oak doors.

  “Looks like a church.” Maybe Kenny didn’t mean to sound skeptical, but he did.

  “It used to be the Anglican church,” Joyce agreed, “but it’s not used for worship now.” I got the feeling she didn’t mind knowing something Kenny didn’t. “There aren’t many Anglicans in Scotland, so Mrs. MacGorrie told me they only used to meet in the summer, anyway, when tourists came. She’s the laird’s wife,” she added, just a shade too casually.

  The main street crossed the small burn on an arched stone bridge, then wended its way uphill past a war memorial, a second clump of shops, and an ever-present Gilroy’s Hotel.

  “Why aren’t we staying at Gilroy’s?” Kenny asked.

  “They’re painting right now,” Joyce explained. “They recommended Heather Glen.”

  “Marcia’s aunt runs it,” Dorothy reminded Kenny.

  “Oh, that’s right. I’m sure it will be great.” He subsided with unusual courtesy.

  “Look!” Dorothy exclaimed as we passed a small gray shop marked with the familiar post-office sign. “That woman looks like you, Jim!”

  It didn’t take an artist to see a similarity in the shock of white hair and large hooked nose.

  Jim looked, then laughed. “I had the same experience in Israel last year. It’s this schnozz.” He caught his nose between his thumb and forefinger and wiggled it. “You’ll find hooked noses among Scots, Jews, Arabs, Germans—a lot of people have them. Just goes to show we must have a common ancestor somewhere.”

  “But maybe your folks did come from Scotland,” Marcia suggested.

  “Nope. My ancestors were all Prussian.”

  “Gordon’s not a German name,” Kenny objected.

  Jim laughed again. Twice in one day set a record for the trip. His next words surprised us even more. “I legally changed my name. Do you think a Grünwald would have much credibility as a seller of Scotch whisky?”

  “That’s dishonest!” Kenny sounded as upset as if Jim had admitted to stealing a presidential election—not that anybody ever did. “It’s hard enough to track genealogy without people changing their names.”

  Jim didn’t bother to reply.

  At the end of the shops the main street forked. Joyce was standing by the door now, as eager as the rest of us to get off the bus. “The left-hand fork, halfway up,” she told Watty. “There’s a meadow across the road where you can park.”

  “Och, aye.” Watty downshifted, climbed the hill in low, and swung into a grassy vacant lot. Across the road stood a tall house with a third floor up under the roof, judging from the skylights. Before we could climb down from the bus, a tall thin woman ran out the back door of the house across the road, followed by a muscular young man in cords and a heavy sweater. She wore a gray tweed skirt and a thick blue sweater, and had Marcia’s gray frizzy hair, long, lean grace, and eyes that looked like dabs of coal. But this woman’s face was bright and cheerful, and she was already chattering when Watty opened the door. “You made it fine, then. Welcome to Heather Glen. And isn’t the weather grand for your arrival?”

  We all let Marcia go first. As soon as she climbed down, Eileen wrapped her in a hug so fierce I feared it might crush her ribs. “Janet’s wee Marcia! I’m so glad you’ve arrived.”

  As the rest of us disembarked, she jerked a thumb toward the young man and said, “He’ll get your bags.” The young man had already headed without a word to where Watty was dragging out luggage. He was muscular and rather attractive, with auburn curls standing like a tonsure around a receding hairline. He greeted Watty with a wide grin that showed white strong teeth, and Watty said something that made him throw back his head and laugh. Then he picked up three of the largest bags. When Dorothy reached for hers, he said, “I’ll get the rest in a minute. Dinnae strain yourself, lass,” and winked at her.

  Dorothy, of course, turned bright pink.

  “Is that Roddy?” Marcia asked Eileen, watching him cross the road toward the back door.

  “Och, no, that’s Alex Carmichael, who’s staying with me until his digs are ready. He offered to come up to help with your bags because Roddy’s working down at the chapel this afternoon. Come along, then, and we’ll get you settled. We’ll have plenty of time to talk later.” As the rest of us headed to pick up our smaller bags, she peered at each of the men. “Which of you is Jim Gordon?” When Jim raised his hand, she fished in her skirt pocket and brought out a slip of paper. “You’ve a message from the laird. He wants you to call. They’re inviting you and your wife to dinner tonight.”

  14

  Jim slid the paper into his pocket and went to fetch his fiddle. Sherry wore envy smeared like chocolate all over her face. Kenny scowled. I looked around to see how Joyce was taking the news that Jim was on dinner-party terms with the folks who were footing the bill for her play, but she was over by the bus watching Watty take out the bags.

  I had thought the house rather severe, to tell the truth, built smack up against the road with only a narrow sidewalk between them. However, that turned out to be the back. Eileen led us through a high green double gate at the side, down a gravel drive, and around the corner to the front door. Now we could see that the house was lovely, its door and window facings painted dark green, with two bay windows upstairs and two down overlooking the hills.

  “You can use the back door after this, if you like,” Eileen told us, “but I always bring guests in the front at first. The view is so bonnie.” We all turned obediently to admire it.

  A long, narrow lawn of emerald grass ran downhill to a garden patch covered with straw. Beyond the garden was a small stream, then the broad shoulder of the first hill sloping gently to the summit. The lawn was dotted with shrubs, fruit trees, and bare patches that would surely be bright flower beds in a few weeks. Several feeders on low branches were attracting a bevy of birds that darted in and out, keeping a wary eye on us. I took deep breaths of fresh cold air, looked at hills that hadn’t changed much since the first humans saw them, and wondered how my ancestors could have stood to leave that place.

  “It’s a grand day, isn’t it?” Eileen sounded as proud as if she’d produced the weather.

  “It sure is,” we agreed.

  “Why do you have such high fences?” Dorothy asked. “Surely you don’t expect burglars.”

  Eileen tilted her head and gave a peal of laughter. “Och, no. They keep out the deer.” She nodded toward the hills. “In the autumn, you can see dozens. Even now you can glimpse one now and then, and at night they roam the village. Be careful if you go walking in the dark.”

  A bell attached to the door jangled as we pushed it open, and somewhere inside we heard three muffled barks. “Dinna mind the dog,” she reassured us. “He’s all bark and no bite.”

  The wide entrance hall was warm enough but had a smell of cold, as if central heating was a recent investment. A rose-patterned carpet covered the floor and led up white enamel stairs. To the left of the hall was the dining room filled
with small tables covered in brightly colored cloths. The kitchen must be behind that, given the serving hatch in the rear wall.

  “The lounge is just there.” Eileen nodded to the right. The room looked comfortable and cozy with flowered fabric on sofa and chairs and the rose carpet throughout. A fire burned in the grate, and I felt like I could spend hours in there with a book.

  We trailed Eileen upstairs, past a small landing lit by a stained-glass window that flung jewels onto the floor, and emerged in an upstairs hall surrounded by seven doors. Eileen consulted a list, directed us to our rooms and handed out keys, one per person per room. Laura and I got one front corner room, Marcia and Dorothy the other. Ours was large and sunny with twin beds and one of the bay windows facing the hills, the same view I had just admired at the front door. The wallpaper was dotted with small blue cornflowers and the chenille bedspreads were a soft sky blue. “I may stay forever,” I warned Eileen.

  She laughed. “You’re welcome to stay as long as you like.”