Did You Declare the Corpse?

by Patricia Sprinkle

  “Then conked him on the head when he refused?” Laura has never been dumb, but I could tell she wasn’t real happy with that scenario.

  “Kenny’s quick with his fists. It could have been an accident. Jim could have fallen back on something instead of being hit from behind.”

  “I don’t think Kenny would have done that.” But she spoke so weakly, I knew she was considering it. “He wouldn’t stab anybody,” she said desperately. “Sure he has a temper, but—”

  I had no idea what I myself might be capable of, given the right provocation. I certainly couldn’t speak for a man I’d only known ten days, a man with a most uncertain temper. He’d already had one reason for being hostile toward Jim: Sherry’s obvious admiration of the way Jim played the fiddle. He certainly might have finally knocked Jim down and accidentally killed him. And if Norwood Hardin had been killed with Kenny’s sgian dubh, Kenny was the most likely to have used it. Particularly if Kenny, like Sherry, felt that Norwood and his partner stole Aunt Rose’s retirement fund and saw that as a primary root of their own current distress.

  I had finally found what I’d been looking for all along: something or somebody to tie the two murders together. But there was so much we didn’t know.

  Downstairs, the grandfather clock started to boom. I automatically counted the chimes, but surely I’d missed one. Could it possibly be only nine? Tea had been at six, and that felt like hours and hours ago. Still, my chats with the bobby and with Laura hadn’t taken long, and while Sherry’s bizarre episode had been exhausting, it had also been relatively short.

  I came to a decision. “There’s nothing we can do for or about Kenny tonight, but there are other things we could be doing.” I slid down off my bed. “Get your coat. I want to go down to the hotel bar, and I need you to come with me.”

  She gave me a skeptical look. “Planning to drown our sorrows in drink? It’s not your style, Mac. And frankly, with Jim dead, I don’t feel a bit like partying.”

  “I don’t feel like partying, either, honey. This comes under the heading of asking a few important questions. And if you tell Joe Riddley, I’ll string you up by your thumbs.”

  She put her hands over her head and chuckled. “You’ll have to reach them first.”

  I went downstairs considerably relieved to think I might be getting the old Laura back.

  By the time we got downstairs the doctor had already arrived and Dorothy, Joyce, and Roddy were standing around in the hall at loose ends. We invited them to come to the hotel with us. Dorothy and Roddy accepted.

  We settled near the fireplace in the snug bar at the Gilroy Hotel, which was paneled in oak and had red leather wing chairs scattered in conversation centers around low tables and private booths lining the far wall. All the place needed was a dog dozing on the hearth rug.

  Poor Morag, I knew she’d agree. I cast a look around for her mother. She must be the petite woman in a plaid skirt and green sweater over talking to the bartender. She had auburn hair that might have started out as fiery as Morag’s and a sweet, serious face. Could she possibly be having a romance with Watty with her daughter’s knowledge?

  I mulled that over while Laura fetched our first round of drinks, and we chatted for a few minutes, but the whole time Roddy was searching the room with his eyes. Finally he pushed back his chair and announced with obvious relief, “Some of my mates just came in. Do you mind if we join them?” He pulled Dorothy up by one hand toward a couple who were heading for a booth in the far corner. I wondered if Laura also would have preferred joining people nearer her own age, but she was peering gloomily into her drink. “Do you think we ought to go to Aberdeen and try to bail Kenny out, Mac?”

  “No, I think we ought to let him stew. I don’t like Sherry, but a man who could fly out of the country and leave his wife holding—” I stopped.

  Laura looked at me. I looked at her. In unison we chanted, “The bags and bags and bags—” Then we started laughing.

  Once we started, we couldn’t stop. I felt sick at my stomach and knew we were laughing because things were so dreadful, if we didn’t laugh we might bawl, but each time I looked up I caught Laura’s eye and we went off into gales again.

  “I’m glad to see you’re enjoyin’ yourselves.” Watty pulled out a chair and motioned for a drink. “Mind sharin’ the cause for all this hilarity?”

  It was a minute before I could speak. “Kenny’s in jail—”

  “—Because they think he killed the laird’s brother-in-law—” Laura gasped.

  “—And he was trying to skip the country, leaving Sherry—” We got the giggles again.

  Watty sipped his drink and nodded judiciously. “Aye, I can see that would tickle some fancies. Nivver got amused by murder and wife desertion myself, mind—”

  I contemplated his maroon cashmere sweater, starched white shirt, and knife-creased gray wool slacks, and finally was able to catch my breath and regain my sanity. “No, you old fraud. You get amused by pretending to be a bus driver when you own the whole blooming business.”

  “Och! And who’s been talkin’? Eileen? Always did have a big mouth on her.”

  “Well, you’ve got a lot of nerve,” Laura informed him. “Accepting our tips like you needed them—”

  “An extra pound always comes in handy. But how about if I buy you another drink and even the ledger a bit?” He motioned to the barman and at the same time called to the manager, “Megan, come over and meet these twa ladies. They’re on my tour, and they’ve caught me out.”

  “He’s a dreadful wretch,” she said, rubbing his hair down where it was sticking up, “but we put up wi’ him, bad as he is.”

  I was trying to figure out how to respond when a little voice called from the door of the bar, “Granda? I’m r-r-ready for bed. Come r-r-read my book, now.” Morag stood there in a long pink nighty and scuffed bunny shoes, carrying a bear under one arm.

  Watty rose. “I’m being paged. Be back in a wee whiley.”

  “You be sure to come back,” I called after him. “We want to talk to you.”

  Megan slid into his chair. “Dad has more fun on these inspection trips of his than any other time of the year, but I keep telling him it’s not fair to folks on the tour. He ought to tell you who he is.”

  “He’s your father?” I voiced aloud what my brain was having trouble processing.

  “Aye. I’m the youngest of five, and he’s got us strewn out all over Scotland, learning the business from the ground up. My husband and I manage this hotel—e’s down in London presently, on business. And I think you met my brother Jock, who drives one of the buses, over in Skye at the ceilidh—skinny chap with a ginger beard? Dad says we all have to understand the business before we can decide what to do with it when he’s gone. Not that we expect him to go soon, mind. My da is still in fine fettle. But I quite like the work, myself.”

  I was relieved when trouble started at Roddy’s booth. It kept Megan from seeing my flaming face and maybe guessing what I’d been suspecting.

  24

  The first sign of trouble was a loud voice. “Come on. It’ll be fun.” I peered around and saw that Roddy and his two friends were standing, while Dorothy still sat in their booth. Roddy was tugging at her arm.

  “I’d rather stay here,” Dorothy protested. “I haven’t finished my drink.”

  “We’ll get more drinks,” Roddy promised. “And we’re goin’ to a far more lively place. There’s music, and dancin’—”

  “I’d rather stay here,” Dorothy repeated, looking anxious.

  “I’ll walk her home later.” I hadn’t noticed Alex until he slid out of a nearby booth and went to join them. Dorothy threw him a grateful smile, but the stunning peroxide blonde he’d abandoned was looking daggers at his back.

  Roddy looked daggers, as well. “Don’t butt in, Alex. This is my date.”

  Alex ignored him and bent toward Dorothy. “Would you like to join us?”

  She nodded and picked up her glass.


  Roddy turned and aimed a fist at Alex’s chin.

  Megan jumped to her feet and hurried in his direction. The bartender watched with a wary eye. “Keep your brawling outside, Roddy Lamont,” Megan told him crisply. “We’ll have no fighting here.”

  Roddy breathed hard and glared down at Dorothy. “Come along, then.”

  She looked from Alex to Roddy, and I could tell she was wavering—probably from a fear that she was causing all this trouble and ought to help dissolve it.

  “What do you want to do?” Alex asked gently.

  I waved, to catch her eye.

  “I want to go back and sit with Laura and MacLaren.” She slid from the booth and marched to our table with her color high. When she sat down, I could see her sweater vibrating from the thumping of her heart.

  Roddy’s pal draped one long arm around Roddy’s shoulders. “Ye cannae win them all, mate. Come on. We’ll find ye another skirt.” The three of them trooped out.

  Alex returned to his date, but she didn’t look any happier than Roddy.

  “That’s her fast asleep,” Watty announced in the tone of a man with a job well done as he came back to our table.

  Megan was approaching from the front door, where she’d apparently gone to make sure Roddy and his companions left. “Thanks, Dad. Take my seat. I need to catch up with some paperwork.”

  As he lowered himself into the chair, he peered up at her with a thoughtful expression. “I think we need to rethink our policy on pets. A wee kitten could be kept in your quarters and wouldn’t be much trouble.”

  She laughed. “It’s easy to see who’s been twisting her granda around her wee finger. Don’t forget that a kitten grows into a cat, and you’ve always said—”

  “Och, I know what I’ve always said.” He waved one hand to show how unimportant that was. “But the lassie wants a kitten, and I think she ought to have one. She’ll take care of it, it’ll be nae bother—”

  “We’ll talk about this later,” she said firmly, then turned to us. “It’s been grand chatting with you ladies. I hope you’ll come back to Auchnagar. We don’t customarily have two murders in one day.”

  When she’d left, I turned to Watty. “Tell us about this trip we’re on. Is it a Gilroy’s tour, or an American tour that hired a Gilroy’s bus and driver?” When he hesitated, I added, “It’s not on your list of regular tours. I checked the Internet.”

  “And it’s an odd tour,” Laura said bluntly. “There aren’t enough people to make it financially feasible—”

  “—And some seem to have gotten discounts you don’t generally offer,” I finished.

  He picked a smidgen of paper from the ashtray on the table, rolled it into a pill, and pushed it back and forth on the polished table with one forefinger. “I’ve been thinkin’ myself there’s something rum about the tour, so let me tell you how it came about. Last summer, Joyce called from America, wantin’ a tour of Scotland that would end up in Auchnagar for three days and four nights. I told her that Auchnagar is nobody’s idea of a tour destination, but she was quite firm. Said we must arrive here this weekend, because they were doing a play Saturday evening the group would enjoy. She also said they must go to Dornoch and Poolewe, because one member of the group particularly wanted to see the gardens. I informed her we have no hotel in Dornoch and the hotel here would be closed this week, but she said she would make other arrangements for those two places. She asked what was the smallest group I could take, and I told her twenty-five. She said, ‘But you have a no-refund policy three weeks before a trip, right? So if twenty-five pay but fewer than that show up, do you go ahead with the tour for those that did come, since the others have paid?’ I said, ‘Och, aye, if I must, but I generally like to book thirty-five reservations to be sure we make our minimum. ’ ”

  He winked at me. “And to be sure the hotels and tearooms do a boomin’ business. But then she says to me, ‘If I can guarantee you twenty-five paid fares, even if some of them don’t come, ye wouldnae keep the ithers from goin,’ would ye?’ ”

  “Is that the way she said it?” I asked. “I didn’t know Joyce spoke Glaswegian.”

  “Cheeky, isn’t she?” he asked Laura.

  “Invariably,” Laura agreed. “But you accepted Joyce’s terms?”

  “Eventually. I’ll tell ye, that lass knows how to drive a hard bargain. I’d no more than given her a tour for a guaranteed twenty-five than she’s askin’ if there’s any way I can shave a bit off the total, seein’ she’s guaranteein’ from the start. I told her I could give her a discount price on the whole trip if she’d be willing to let the tour be part of my annual inspection. She said that would be fine, and I told her she could ask folks if there was anything special they wanted to see along the way, and I’d try to accommodate them. If it was too far off my route, however, we’d just say that place had to be cancelled.” He chuckled. “I neglected to inform her, however, that we’d be travelin’ in auld Jeannie. I could see that put her off her stroke a bit when you first arrived. But Jeannie’s solid, even if she’s no longer young and spry.”

  “She’s named for his wife,” I explained to Laura and Dorothy.

  He nodded. “Aye. We were togither a long time.”

  “Did Joyce say how she planned to guarantee the twenty-five?” Laura asked.

  “I asked her that. She said, ‘That’s our problem.’ She sent me the deposit the very day we spoke, and the rest arrived four weeks before you did.”

  “Was there a travel agency name on the check?” Laura thought to ask.

  “No. It was a wire transfer from Bank of America.”

  “The brochure just mentions Gilroy’s Highland Tours,” Dorothy pointed out.

  Watty looked from one of us to the other. “What brochure?”

  I happened to have mine in my pocketbook, so I fished it out and showed him. “It was on the Web site for us to download and print ourselves. And now that I think of it, I don’t remember a travel agency name and address, either. We did everything by e-mail,” I added for Watty’s benefit. He was too busy admiring the brochure I had printed out to hear me.

  “Will ye look at that?” he murmured, turning it over and over. “Looks like the real McCoy—or the real Gilroy, as may be—except ours are printed on glossy paper. We never printed these. It would be too dear for such a small run. You say you downloaded and printed them yourselves?”

  I nodded and repeated, “We never got a thing about the tour that didn’t come via e-mail or as an attachment.”

  “Is that right?” He tapped one finger on the table in admiration. “That could save enormous amounts in printing. I’ll have to speak wi’ Joyce about how she did it. I’ll admit, though, I was fair surprised to see how few of you actually showed up.”

  Laura’s forehead creased in thought. “Do you reckon Joyce could have paid for the whole tour just to get her play produced?”

  “I’d be more inclined to suspect that Jim underwrote the tour,” I answered. “Joyce deferred to him several times. I thought it was because of all his money. But now—”

  “Another part of his plot to sneak into Auchnagar?” Laura suggested. “Why don’t you tell Watty about that. He may know something about the people on this end.”

  I related what I had heard between Norwood and Jim and between Kitty and Norwood, what Brandi had told me while we were walking through the gardens, and what the laird had said in the cemetery. Watty was scandalized. “They’re plannin’ on puttin’ in a hotel?”

  Megan, who had brought some supplies to the bartender again, came and stood behind Watty’s chair to listen. I had forgotten I was describing competition for their own hotel.

  “With a golf course,” I added.

  “But he dinnae say where?” Watty demanded.

  I tried to remember. “No, just ‘down the road’ beyond the cemetery. Is that where the ski lift is? He said skiing was to be the main winter attraction.”

  “Aye, the lift’s doon that way, and the laird owns most of th
e land between it and the village, but the ground is very steep, which is why he’s reforested most of it and given the rest over to sheep.” He turned and spoke to Megan rather than to us. “I cannae mind where they could put a golf course, can you? There’s nae much land that’s flat enough, would ye be thinking?”

  She shook her head. “Just the Geddys farm. They’d run into a frontage problem, too. Barbara and Ian have all the land along the road, there. The laird’s land lies behind.”

  Watty gave his daughter the same look he must have given her when she brought home good grades. “That’s right enough. And I cannae see Barbara and Ian selling out, can you?”