Did You Declare the Corpse?

by Patricia Sprinkle

  I was just falling asleep when I heard Jim and Brandi return from the laird’s. I roused briefly when a herd of elephants trooped up the stairs just as the grandfather clock in the downstairs hall struck twelve. When I waked at half past two, I knew I had to cross the chilly hall to go to the toilet, and hoped the dog wouldn’t bark an announcement of my journey to the household. In the dim light, I saw that Laura still wasn’t in.

  As I left our room, she and Kenny came tiptoing up the stairs. “Think about it,” I heard him whisper. “I hope you’ll say yes.”

  “Your bed’s by the door,” I called softly and hurried into the bathroom. When I got back to our room, she was in bed with the covers pulled over her face.

  I woke at seven to the calls of many birds. I tiptoed to the window and watched Alex Carmichael fill several feeders, then rest his hands at his waist and survey the mountains while taking deep breaths, as if he couldn’t get enough of the hills or the air. I got up, washed and dressed, but it was still more than an hour until breakfast. What was I supposed to do with myself until then? I headed downstairs figuring a short walk before breakfast wouldn’t kill me. I might even earn virtue points, since our early joggers seemed to be sleeping in after their evening at the bar. But I sure wished I had a hot cup of coffee.

  When I heard voices in the kitchen, I knocked. The dog barked. Roddy opened the door a crack, holding a golden Lab by its collar. He wore jeans and a sweater, but was still in sock feet. “Mornin’,” he greeted me, with such a roguish grin that I found myself grinning back.

  “Would it be possible to get a cup of coffee?”

  “Och, aye,” he said graciously. “Go into the dinin’ room and I’ll tell me mum. She’s fixin’ my breakfast just noo, but she’ll bring one right out, nae bother.”

  My estimate of the night before was confirmed. Whoever married Roddy Lamont would be getting the kind of man who not only took it for granted a woman would cook his breakfast, but who presumed she wouldn’t mind interrupting that process to bring somebody else a cup of coffee he could have easily carried himself.

  However, when Eileen arrived with a steaming cup on a tray with milk and sugar, I merely said, “I appreciated your son and Dorothy coming to my rescue last night. You must be glad to have him around the house.”

  “Aye. He’s a good lad, Roddy. Not settled yet, but a fine lad.”

  “Does he help you run the guesthouse?”

  “Och, no. He works down at the ski lift as long as the snow lasts, and this spring he’s working part-time cleaning our church until he finds something better.” My guess was that jobs for young men in the village were few and far between. I also suspected that Roddy didn’t stir his stumps to be at the front of the line when permanent jobs did come available.

  “Is there any place to get a paper this early?” I asked.

  “Aye. Down at the bottom of the hill, across the bridge, there’s a wee paper shop. You can’t miss it.”

  Given how easily I had missed the path the previous afternoon, I had reservations, but sure enough, I found the small green shop and its tiny proprietress, who stood in semidarkness with carefully waved hair and all sorts of papers and magazines set out before her on the counter. I left with not only a Scottish newspaper, but several bars of chocolate to stave off starvation between meals and postcards to send home to my grandchildren. They wouldn’t care if the cards arrived after I did. Children always enjoy getting mail.

  I paused on the stone bridge that spanned the stream and leaned on the parapet to watch the dark foaming water rush around huge boulders before plunging down the hill. As a child, I had loved standing on small bridges. How long had it been since I’d last stopped on one, or had nothing better to do than watch water run downhill? Feeling many years younger than I am, I snatched up two tall weeds from beyond the bridge and dropped them in. As soon as they landed, I dashed to the other side and peered over to see which would come out first.

  “Fit ye deein’?” an indignant voice piped from the region of my elbow.

  I turned to see china blue eyes staring up at me severely. They belonged to a small girl of perhaps seven, with a cascade of red-orange hair falling in waves from beneath a brown knit cap. She carried a navy blue bookbag slung over her shoulder by one strap.

  “I beg your pardon?” I asked, uncertain what she had said and a lot more interested in looking down to see when my first weed appeared.

  “Fit ye deein’?” Seeing that I still didn’t understand, she propped one small hand on her hip, knit her eyebrows—which were so pale they were mere brushstrokes above her eyes—and gestured to the other side of the bridge with a bare hand reddened by cold. “Runnin’ like a chicken from one side o’ the bridge to t’other without lookin’ to see if a car was a’comin’? You coulda been killt.”

  One car had gone up the village road in the quarter hour since I came down it, and its tires had crunched noisily on loose gravel. Still, I recognized the mother’s voice in the child’s, so I nodded. “I sure could have. I’m sorry. I was in a hurry to see which of my boats would come out first. Look! There’s the first one now. It’s really a weed,” I added for clarification.

  She flopped onto the parapet, which came to her armpits, and peered down. Together we watched the valiant victor bob downstream. When the loser still hadn’t appeared a minute later, the child said with the shrug of experience, “I doot it’s hung up on a rock.”

  I hated to see her leave, so I asked, “Do you live in the village?”

  “Och, aye. Over there.” She flapped her hand in the general direction of the hotel and whatever lay behind it. “D’ye come from America, then?” She seemed as willing to chat as I.

  “Yes, but my ancestors came from Auchnagar. They were MacLarens.”

  She thought that over, then shook her head. “I nivver met them,” she admitted, “but it’s maybe that they lived too far-r-r out of town.” She cocked her head and peered up at the blue sky. “Ye’ve got good weather for your visit.”

  After I’d agreed that yes, the weather was fine, she gave me a long look, then asked, “Are ye a good American or a filthy rich one?”

  Startled, I replied, “A good one, I hope. Do you know many filthy rich ones?”

  She picked up one foot and used it to scratch the calf of the other leg. “Just the laird’s wifey. I simply cannae abide her. He only married her for the money, you know.” Sounded to me like grownups had better watch their words around this child. “And that brother of hers is nae better, struttin’ around like it was him is Laird of Auchnagar.”

  “What was that you said to me first?” I asked hastily, eager to change the subject. “You know, the ‘fitchy deein’ ’ bit.”

  She watched her toe scuffing gravel. “I dinna mean to be r-r-rude. I was just wonderin’ fit ye were deein’ scampering about like a lamb in a public r-r-road.”

  When I got back to my room, I was going to practice rolling my r’s like that. For now, I laughed. “A lamb? Me?”

  She threw back her head and joined in, showing two new front teeth. Then she grew solemn again. “Wi’ all the tourists we get, and the laird’s wifey drivin’ like she owns the r-r-road, nivver lookin’ to see if somebody’s aboot, ye’d do well to look fit ye’re deein’ next time.”

  I thought that over. “So ‘fit ye deein” means ‘what are you doing’?”

  “Aye.” She waited to see if I had any more brilliance to offer. When I didn’t, she shrugged. “I must be awa up the road, then.” She added casually, but with an air of importance, “I feed Barbara Geddys’s dog, cats, and hens before school. She has far too much to do, bein’ postmistress and all, so she likes me to help out a wee bittie. But Mum says I mustna be late for school again, or I’ll nae be allowed to help Barbara a-tall.” She heaved the sigh of one with the cares of the world on her shoulders. “School is such a bloomin’ waste.”

  “Watch out for the laird’s wifey,” I teased.

  She gave a hoot of derisive laughter. “S
he’ll nae be oot o’ her bed at this hour. But come ten o’clock she’ll be barrelin’ doon the r-r-road, headin’ for the post office. Ye can set your watch by that. And if Barbara’s been a bit slow puttin’ out the mail? Och, what a to-do!” Again, I had the feeling she was quoting somebody else.

  She propped herself against the bridge again, school forgotten. “Are ye on holiday?”

  “Yes, a Gilroy’s tour.”

  “Then I doot ye’ll be staying wi’ Eileen Lamont, since the hotel’s being painted.”

  “All except our driver. I don’t know where he’s staying.”

  “Och, he’s stayin’ wi’ Mum, as usual. He’s nae bothered by a bit o’ paint. Cheerio, then.” She gave a little wave and trudged over the bridge, leaving me in startled silence.

  “Perhaps her mother runs a bed and breakfast,” I muttered as I headed up the brae. Many women did. But the way the child had said, “stayin’ wi’ Mum” sounded a lot more personal than renting a room. Did Watty have something going with the little girl’s mother? If so, it didn’t sound like they were particularly discreet.

  When I spotted Eileen dusting the lounge, I mentioned, “I ran into a little girl on the bridge. Red hair, blue eyes, and no fear about telling me I should look when I cross the road.”

  “That’ll have been Morag MacBeth. A right wee terror, that one. Skips school as often as she goes, and wastes her time drawin’ animals when she bothers to show up a-tall. But och, what can ye expect? Her mother’s aye busy with the hotel. It’s no life for a child, growin’ up in a back office. Are ye ready for your breakfast? I was just about to ring the gong.”

  Relieved, I headed upstairs to set down my parcels, accusing myself of having a dirty mind. Gilroy’s must put its drivers up in their hotels, which confirmed the connection between the two I’d suspected all along.

  I found Laura sitting on her bed tying her shoes. “Look who’s up bright and early this morning,” I greeted her. “You’ve slept two hours past your usual time. I’ve already been down to the village.”

  My impressive accomplishment went unnoticed. Laura merely glanced up from her shoelace and said, “It ought to be time for breakfast soon.” Then she bent down like tying a shoe took all her concentration.

  “Did you have fun last night down at the bar?” I didn’t think either of us wanted me asking about what had happened afterwards.

  She shrugged. “Nothing special.” She got up and went to brush her hair.

  “Do you think Dorothy likes Roddy?”

  “Maybe. She sat with him and the guy who carried our bags up—Alex something or other—but Roddy did most of the talking.” In the mirror, I saw her peer at her own reflection, chewing her lower lip. When she reached up to her neck, I knew something was bothering her. All those years when Laura wore her hair long, she had a habit of sucking a strand when upset. Even now that the hair was gone, she still reached for it in distress.

  Kenny’s last words to her the night before came barreling out of the back of my thoughts, and I realized they’d been rattling around in there all morning. Had he offered to divorce Sherry if Laura would marry him? Was she distracted today because she was turning his proposal over in her mind? If so, that was news I could gladly postpone until after breakfast.

  Laura didn’t look like a woman about to accept a proposal, though. She looked like she was about to take an exam for which she wasn’t fully prepared.

  16

  When we entered the dining room, Kenny and Sherry sat at a table for four in the middle of the room. He looked up like he hoped Laura would sit with them, but she didn’t even look his way—just headed for a table for six in the bay window, where Joyce and Dorothy were already sipping tea. That table was definitely the most inviting, with sunshine streaming in, but Kenny frowned as if she’d made a poor choice.

  Marcia helped bring in our oatmeal and said she was eating with Eileen in the kitchen.

  Roddy joined us, however, and again made himself the life of the party talking about a motorbike rally he planned to attend that weekend with a friend, and a bike he hoped to buy. I listened with only half an ear.

  By the time I’d worked my way through oatmeal followed by fried eggs, broiled tomatoes, broad slices of bacon, and toast with butter and jam, all washed down with tea, I was in danger of being unable to leave my seat. I nearly groaned aloud when Eileen came through to ask how many of us would be there for midday dinner. “Marcia, of course, and you, Dorothy?” she asked, holding up two fingers as a counting aid.

  “No, I have other plans.” Dorothy’s voice was little more than a whisper. “But I’ll be back for tea.”

  Sherry claimed Eileen’s attention, asking about the village shops and ways to get to the next village, which was larger. Roddy leaned across the table so far I thought he’d get his Adam’s apple in what was left of his fried egg. “And where might ye be goin’?”

  Dorothy looked down at her plate. “Out and about, eh?”

  “Don’t you go helping Alex, noo,” he warned. “I heard him last night, tellin’ you all about how his helper’s left and he’s falling behind in his work, but who cares when a picture gets framed? Today, tomorrow—what’s the difference? Come for a spin on my bike. Let me show you the greater Auchnagar environs.” He spread his arms to encompass the world.

  “Thanks, but not today.” Dorothy threw Marcia an apologetic look, shoved back her chair, and fled.

  Eileen stopped in the middle of offering to call a neighbor who might be driving to the next village, to ask if Sherry could have a ride. “Did you upset her?” she asked Roddy.

  “Not me,” he assured her, reaching for the jam. “It’s Alex. Makin’ up to her like mad, he is.” He caught my eye and gave me a saucy wink.

  “Did he not tell her about Shana in Aberdeen?” Eileen demanded.

  “Not likely.” He shoved back his chair and stomped out.

  Eileen sighed and confided to all of us, “Och, and she’s an awfu’ lassie, jealous as they come. Always on to Alex about moving to the city where he can make more money, while poor Alex is fixin’ up rooms above his wee shop, thinkin’ Shana’ll come round and move in with him when he’s got it lookin’ nice.” She sighed again, then remembered why she’d come into the dining room. “But I was taking a count for dinner. Will the rest of you be here?”

  “I’m going to walk up the brae and across the moor this morning,” Laura told her, “but I’ll be back by dinnertime. I’ll leave at nine-thirty, if anybody cares to join me. Mac?”

  “No, I walked up that way yesterday afternoon, just before tea.” I watched Jim, who was sitting with Brandi at a table for two in the corner, but he didn’t miss a chew. “I want to explore the village a bit this morning,” I added, “see if I can find some MacLarens.”

  That got Jim’s attention, for some reason. “Try the cemetery,” he suggested, adding to Eileen, “I’ve got an appointment and don’t know how long it will take. I’ll get a bite somewhere.” When Brandi looked from him to Sherry with speculation in her eye, he asked, “Why don’t you go shopping with Sherry?”

  “I’d rather go walking with Laura.”

  “Suit yourself.” He seemed far more interested in his eggs.

  Kenny leaned toward their table. “How was dinner in the exalted circle, Jim?”

  It was Brandi who answered. “We had the best time. The laird’s wife, Kitty, turned out to be an old friend of Jimmy’s from Albany!” She looked around to make sure we were all duly impressed. “It was such fun for him to see her again. And her brother, Norwood, was a scream.”

  Sherry looked up, her eyes wary. I was reminded of a snake waiting to strike. “Not Norwood Hardin, the one whose company ruined all those people?”

  “That was his name,” Brandi agreed, “but I’m sure he never ruined anybody. He was charming. He told us all about your little play, Joyce. He’s the star,” she added for the rest of us.

  Sherry ignored Brandi. “Did you know Norwood back in Albany, Jim
?”

  “Slightly.” He gave no indication he was in cahoots with the man. No wonder Donald Trump could make it as a television star. Acting must be a way of life for tycoons.

  Brandi widened those beautiful eyes. “But I don’t think Norwood would ruin anybody. He was the cutest thing in the world!”

  Sherry gave a disgusted snort. “Cute nothing. He and his partner, William Gray, owned an investment company that stole millions from their clients, including my aunt Rose. Gray was the one who got convicted, and he went to jail and died there—claiming he was innocent, of course. Cute little Norwood testified at Gray’s trial that he was appalled at what his partner had done, and he’d had no idea what Gray was up to. But afterwards, did he care what happened to the people who were ruined, or give up a penny of his own fortune to help them? Ha! Aunt Rose lost every penny she had invested for retirement. She planned to live in a Palm Beach condo. Instead, she’s in a mobile-home park near Brooksville on what we paid her for the restaurant. That’s all she has left.” Sherry buttered a piece of toast like she was slathering Norwood in hot tar. Jim chewed his eggs like Sherry was speaking a foreign language he did not understand.