“You didn’t paint these, did you?” I asked as he rang them up.
He laughed. “Och, no. I used to paint, right enough—even went to art school. I’d drive through Auchnagar on my way to and from home, and plan how I’d come up here after graduation to live and paint. Instead, I got a summer job in this gallery and discovered I preferred helping artists sell their work. It’s very satisfying to match the right picture with the right customer. So I bought out the former owner, and here I am.” He gave a judicious look at the two watercolors we had selected for my souvenirs. “I think ye’ll be pleased with these.”
“I’m sure I shall.”
It was his chin that convinced me. It was strong and square—the kind of chin I’ve always associated with men and women of character. I found myself wondering whether strong chins and strong character were genetic traits that went hand in hand, or whether a child with a strong chin had to develop a strong character to survive the chin until he or she grew into it. Either way, this was a young man I instinctively trusted to give me a good deal, although the watercolors cost more than I had expected once we had converted pounds to dollars.
I rationalized that Joe Riddley wasn’t the only one who could give me presents for my trip. I could afford to treat myself as well. But as I boldly handed over my charge card, I did feel a little twinge of guilt. There I was, not two hours after criticizing Sherry for charging her way across Scotland, doing the same thing. Talk about looking at the splinter in somebody else’s eye around the log in your own. . . .
But as long as I admitted I had a log in my eye, I might as well make it a big log, so while Alex wrote up the sale and wrapped the pictures, I browsed the shop again and selected unframed prints for each of my granddaughters, as well. I was carrying them back to the cash register when, through an open door to a back room, I recognized the dark head with a swinging braid bent over a table.
“Dorothy?” I called before I thought.
She whirled, and the blood rushed to her face like I’d caught her shoplifting.
“Dorothy’s helping me out,” Alex informed me. “My usual framer had a baby a couple of weeks ago, and I’ve gotten far behind.”
“I did this in high school and college,” Dorothy added, still standing there like she expected me to haul her off to jail any minute. “She’s a judge,” she added to the young man with a scared look in her eye.
I had no idea how she’d found out, but it didn’t matter. “I don’t have any jurisdiction in Scotland,” I assured her, “and I won’t be talking to immigration authorities anytime soon.”
She gave me a relieved smile, but still looked so worried that I said to Alex, to boost Dorothy’s morale, “Dorothy’s an artist, as well. Did you know? She does terrific sketches.”
The color had subsided in Dorothy’s cheeks, but now it rose again.
“And paints as well,” Alex agreed. “She mentioned that last evening, and we made a deal. I can’t rightly pay her, since she doesn’t have a work visa, but I’ve offered her a canvas and the use of some oils and brushes this afternoon. I’ve got a lovely deck on the back with a spectacular view. Dorothy can work out there, if she likes and it’s not too cold.” From Dorothy’s expression, I doubted she’d have cared if it had been lashing snow.
I climbed the hill to dinner wondering if there was something in the air of Auchnagar that made people a little crazy. Here Jim was, planning to build a hotel with a golf course in partnership with his ex-wife’s friend and her husband, although after what “wee Morag” had said about Kitty having the money in the family, I wasn’t sure what the laird had to do with the deal. Laura was sitting up half the night with a married man. Sherry was buying heavy woolens to take back to South Georgia. And Dorothy was more than half smitten with and working illegally for a tall, good-looking giant who had a girl in Aberdeen. I’d thought the quarrels of the past had been bad, but three days in Auchnagar could be worse.
Looking back, I’m glad I had no inkling just then of how bad they were about to get.
17
Laura arrived at the dinner table looking more at peace and greeted me cordially enough, so I presumed we wouldn’t mention our earlier encounter. As Eileen brought our soup, she asked, “Did you enjoy your walk up the brae, then, Laura?”
“Sure did,” Laura replied. “I met a troop of Girl Guides and arranged to climb the big hill out the window, there, with them this afternoon. You want to come, Mac?”
“I guess so.” Maybe I could come up with a good excuse before it was time to leave.
“Did you wear Brandi out this morning?” I asked. We were the only two diners in the room.
“She begged off at the last minute this morning, but I’ll see if she’s interested this afternoon. We should get a glorious view of the whole glen.”
Brandi never came to dinner. Neither did Kenny or Joyce. Marcia carried in wide bowls of dark red oxtail soup just as Eileen ushered in a Catholic priest. “This is Father Ewan. On Fridays, his housekeeper goes away to her sister’s and he takes his dinner with us.”
The priest was a man of many interests, including the history of Auchnagar. When Laura mentioned that I’m a Presbyterian elder, he insisted that I let him show me his church. Why not? It was as good an excuse as any for not climbing a mountain.
I tell you this—as I later told Joe Riddley—to explain exactly why I ended up, less than an hour later, standing over a wooden coffin in the Catholic church, peering down at a body.
It took me a minute to realize that Father Ewan was speaking to me. “I said, I don’t suppose you know who he is, do you?” He took my elbow to draw me away from the sight.
“I’m afraid I do. His name is Jim Gordon, and he’s a friend of the laird’s wife. His wife is with him on the trip. He played the fiddle.” I didn’t know why I added that. For Jim, maybe.
I felt a deep sadness that his plans for Auchnagar had come to this. He was just like that man in the Bible, who increased his barns only to be told, “This night your soul will be required of you.” Poor Jim should have left work at home and enjoyed his last vacation.
Father Ewan pulled me toward the door. “You stand watch,” he told Roddy. “I must call the police.” Ignoring Roddy’s lively protests, he asked me, “Are you all right? It is a shock—”
I settled for a nod. If I listed for him all the dead bodies I’d seen in the past two years, it might sound like bragging, and being well acquainted with death is nothing to brag about.
Outside, I clasped my hands tightly together to stop them from trembling and inhaled deep, crisp breaths to keep my dinner down. He pulled out his cell phone and asked, “Since you are acquainted with the deceased, would you wait with me until the police come?”
“Of course.” If this had not been a natural death—and I suspected it was not—I’d have to tell what I knew eventually. Might as well get it over with. But what did I know? I needed to think carefully before I said anything rash. I sure didn’t want to have to call Joe Riddley to say, “Sorry, hon, but I’ll be late coming home. I’m a witness in a murder case.”
It was too cold to be standing around outside. Especially since, as we’d left in haste and I’d thought we’d be inside most of the time, I had come away without my coat. The breeze that teased my hair had an edge to it, and the sunlight was as pale as skim milk and about as satisfying. I leaned up against one of the doors, which was sun-warmed at my back and out of the wind, and concentrated on keeping my teeth still. I noticed that the police station was just up the hill and across the street. Father Ewan could have run over in less time than it took to turn on his phone and dial the number. I suspected he had stayed out of kindness and concern for me.
“Constable Roy will be right down,” he said, and meant it literally. A young police officer was already running from the station, putting on his cap as he ran. He slung one leg over his bike and coasted downhill to the chapel.
He looked more like a truant from middle school than a proper polic
eman. Straw-blond hair poked untidily from under his cap and his rosy face looked like his mother had given it a good scrub before he left home. His expression as he dismounted was so wary that I knew immediately he wasn’t accustomed to dealing with sudden death. “Fit’s gan’ on?” he greeted Father Ewan. Thanks to Morag, I could translate easily. He’d asked, “What’s going on?”
Father Ewan didn’t waste time on introductions, but launched right into our noonday events, including a regretful footnote about the gooseberries covered with custard.
“And fit’s she deein’ here?” the bobby demanded.
I wasn’t offended. I’d been asking myself the same thing ever since I saw Jim.
Father Ewan gave a careless flick of one hand. “Och, she was up at Lamont’s and came down wi’ me to tour the chapel.”
The bobby’s skeptical look said what he thought about people so dedicated to tourism, they accompanied a priest on his way to look at coffins.
“The trouble is inside, Neil,” the priest reminded him gently.
The bobby steadied his bike on its kickstand and mounted the steps two at a time. “I’ll chust have a wee look, then, shall I?”
We heard Roddy start up a complaint as soon as the church door opened. “Ye took yer sweet time gettin’ here. I cannae stand aboot all the bloody afternoon. I’ve got a bus to catch. There’s a bike rally I want to attend, to see about buying myself that new bike, and if I’m no there, the bloke’ll be selling it to somebody else. I have to catch the three o’clock bus.”
The door closed before we heard the bobby’s reply.
“They were boys at school together,” the priest murmured, “and twa of a kind. Always in some scrape or another, usually trying to get out of work. I’d never have believed Neil Roy would become a constable.”
The unlikely constable came back out looking rather more worried than he had gone in. “I dinnae ken that bloke. Do you?”
“No, but she does.” Father Ewan flapped one hand toward me, then stepped back and left the floor—or, in this case, the gravel path—to me. “He’s in her group.”
“Och, a tourist.” From the relief in the bobby’s voice, you’d have thought tourists could be expected to come to Auchnagar for the express purpose of dying.
I thought he’d ask me a few questions and take the answers down, but all he asked was, “Are ye with Gilroy’s?” When I nodded, he said, “We’ll need to talk to Watty, then. But first, I’d better gie the sergeant a ring. He’ll take it from here.” He made the call and spoke urgently, then hung up looking relieved and told the priest, “Sergeant Murray was chust finishin’ his dinner. He’ll be right doon. He’ll call the doctor, as weel, although he cannae do much for yon body.” He turned to me. “The sergeant told me to ask ye a few questions, then ye can go.”
I felt suddenly dizzy. Maybe it was hearing somebody I’d eaten breakfast with a few hours ago referred to so casually as “yon body.” I sat down on the top step and laid my head on my knees. “Give me a minute for my head to stop swimming.”
“Nae bother.” He settled himself comfortably beside me on the steps and lit a cigarette. “We’ll just save the questions until the sergeant arrives.” I got the feeling that fairly well summed up his whole approach to life. He looked like he could sit and smoke forever.
That gave me time to think what I wanted to say. I should tell the sergeant what I had overheard the afternoon before, but I hated to do that without finding out first how Norwood Hardin had spent his morning. Words have power. Accusations stick. If Norwood were innocent, he’d still be remembered in Auchnagar as having once been a suspect in a murder case. And Jim had certainly riled several others on this trip.
I found myself thinking desperately, “Please let this be death from natural causes.” That’s the kind of prayer our souls groan out when we aren’t thinking straight. Whatever was done was done. No amount of prayer would ever change that.
The young bobby must have been worrying about the trouble murder could cause him, too, for he asked, “Do ye think death could have been caused by a weak heart or something?”
“I doubt it.” I shifted on my step, trying to ignore the achy cold seeping into my bones. “Can you think of a single reason why somebody with a weak heart would come to this church and lie down in an empty coffin to die?”
The look he and the priest exchanged said clearly that they could imagine American tourists doing practically anything, but they were too courteous to say so aloud. I think we were all relieved to see a police vehicle draw up in front of the church, followed by a black Ford. The bobby stood up. “Here’s the sergeant and the doctor noo.”
The police sergeant had straight dark hair, red cheeks, and a strong, square chin, and looked far better in his navy uniform than the stout man who climbed out of the Ford in a baggy three-piece suit and reached into the back seat for his medical bag. As they turned our way, though, I saw that the doctor sported a magnificent red-gold mustache that bristled above well-shaped lips.
They nodded at Father Ewan, looked curiously at me, and headed up the steps, followed by Constable Roy. In a few minutes the sergeant came out to ask me, “You knew the victim?”
“Yes. He and his wife are—were on my tour. We’re staying up at Heather Glen.”
He opened the door and called back into the narthex, “Ye’ll need to fetch his wife, Neil. Just say there’s been an accident. Dinnae let on that her husband has died.”
“And where will I find her, then?”
“Check at Heather Glen. If she’s no there, check the shops.”
Constable Roy came out, picked up his bike, and tooled away.
“What about me?” Roddy called through the open door. “I’ll have to scarf me dinner whole to make me bus. I’ve got a bike rally to attend.”
“Nivver mind your bike rally, lad,” the sergeant called back. “I’ll need you to stay wi’ the body until somebody comes to fetch it.”
Is there any point in noting that Roddy did not take that news with grace?
The doctor came out and jingled his keys, ready to leave. “Ian’s hanging paper in our spare bedroom. Shall I send him down to make a statement?”
“Och, dinnae bother. We know where to find him when we need him. I’ll chust be taking her statement first.” The bobby nodded toward me.
Given that they were both looking my way, I might as well ask: “Do you know the cause of death?”
“Aye.” The doctor nodded, strode up the walk, climbed in his Ford, and drove away.
“Let’s awa’ up to the station, shall we?” the sergeant invited.
Father Ewan suggested that there was no point in taking the Land Rover that short trip up the hill, so the two of us walked. I was more than ready for a hot cup of coffee when we got there, but the pot behind the sergeant’s desk had been made so long before, it was black and tarry. The only thing it had to recommend it was steam.
While Father Ewan and I clutched our mugs and inhaled the fumes, Sergeant Murray called for reinforcements. Police in every country do pretty much the same thing when there is a suspicious death, but it takes longer in small towns. In a city, experts would have begun to congregate at once. Sergeant Murray’s reinforcements had to come from the nearest large town and were presently out on another incident. “It’ll take them the best part of two hours to get here,” he told Father Ewan in disgust. “Meanwhile, tell me what you know about this man.”
Father Ewan deferred to me. “His name is Jim Gordon,” I began. “He owns a distillery in America that makes Scotch whisky, but he says he’s of German extraction. He is traveling with his wife, who was planning to climb the brae above Heather Glen this morning, but changed her mind at the last minute and didn’t go.”
“She did, did she?” He made a note.
“Jim has apparently known the laird’s wife, Mrs. MacGorrie, for some years, and the Gordons ate with the Mac-Gorries last evening. I think she’ll be able to tell you more than I can.”
A
ll that time I was still mentally debating whether to tell him what I had overheard between Jim and Norwood. I am a sworn officer of the law, but not of the Scottish law. If I told what I’d heard, I’d have to admit I had been eavesdropping and might cause trouble for an innocent man. On the other hand, if Norwood had killed Jim—
I still hadn’t reached a decision when we heard the squeal of tires outside the station.
A vehicle door slammed and the station shook as the door was flung against the wall. “Fa’s dat I hear aboot a body in one of my coffins?” a man demanded truculently. “I dinnae ken what someone’s trying to pull, but they were empty when I delivered them.”
This had to be Ian Geddys, the joiner. Tall and muscular, with wispy hair of faded red and a pink, indignant face, he was somewhere in the neighborhood of forty-five and carried not a chip on his shoulder but a whole tree, grown over decades from who knew what roots of bitterness.
Did You Declare the Corpse? Page 17
