Did You Declare the Corpse?

by Patricia Sprinkle

  Megan shook her head again. “Especially not to support skiing and golf. Barbara’s dead set against the skiing. Says it clutters up the village all winter when we need to catch our breath from the summer season. And you know Ian. He never parts with anything that’s his.”

  “Maybe you could ask the laird,” I suggested to Watty. “Approach him saying you heard there were possible plans for a hotel with Jim Gordon, and wondering if he’d be interested in discussing the same proposition with you. You don’t have to build the dang thing,” I added when I saw the flash in his eye.

  “Och, I was just thinking how much we think alike, you and me.”

  “I never dress up and pretend to be somebody I’m not.”

  “Och, ye dress up like a harmless auld wifey when all the time ye’re a judge and right handy in solving murders. Ye’re not the only one uses the Internet, ye know. I had a most interesting wee read last night.”

  I was about to tell him what I thought about people who invaded my privacy on the Internet when a woman announced to the room as a whole, “Then you can stay here and rot! I’m not movin’ to the back of beyond so you can sit around hoping to sell a picture or two. You used to be an artist. Now you’re—you’re a nothing!” The blonde at Alex Carmichael’s table jumped up and snatched her purse from beside her.

  Standing precariously on heels that looked like they’d been fashioned from toothpicks, she swung the purse to her shoulder and glared down at him. “You will never amount to a thing, Alex Carmichael. You’re a worm, not a man!” She pivoted on one heel and stomped out. Alex threw some notes on the table and followed her. Dorothy watched him with concern written all over her face.

  “Good riddance, if he has the sense to know it,” Watty muttered to the rest of us. “He’s a fine lad, Alex is. Deserves better than that one.” He gave Dorothy a little wink, then turned to Laura. “So let’s get clear on this, noo. Jim Gordon may have asked Joyce to get together a trip of people to come to Scotland and muddle about for a week or so, then come to Auchnagar and stay long enough so he and the laird could transact their business with nobody the wiser. And if she couldnae find twenty-five, she should get as many as she could, and he’d make up the rest?”

  Laura nodded. “Which is why Auchnagar was so important to the itinerary.”

  “But why the secrecy?” he challenged her. “Except for me, who’s likely to care if they build a new hotel near the village? Most folks would be standing on the roadside cheering.”

  “We don’t know,” I admitted. “That’s the big question. Another big question is, what happens to our group now—and to Joyce? Are all the bills already paid?”

  “Aye, you’re covered back to Prestwick Airport, but I wonder about Joyce.”

  “Are you paying her?” Laura asked.

  Watty tired of his little roll of paper and put it back in the ashtray. “We nivver pay guides from other countries. We’ll provide a guide if the group wants one, but Joyce said that wasn’t necessary. I expected her to come more prepared, mind—”

  “—And instead, she’s left it up to you,” Laura finished for him.

  He reverted back to his bus-driver persona. “Och, I chust told ye what I alriddy knew.”

  “Excuse me,” Megan murmured. “I see the ten o’clock bus just pulled up outside. I’m expecting a parcel to come off it.” She hurried to the front door.

  She hadn’t been gone a minute when we heard a familiar voice.

  “Hey, you all! I am so glad to find you here.” With her usual wide, friendly smile, Brandi Gordon strode into the bar and straight for our table.

  I thought of Julia Roberts striding back into the hotel after her successful makeover in Pretty Woman. Brandi could have been a movie star paying us a surprise visit. Her suede boots exactly matched her short camel’s-hair coat. The scarf at her neck brought out her eyes and reflected mahogany highlights in her hair. If possible, her hair looked bouncier and had more sheen than usual. Her skin looked fresh and moist—not like it had spent over a week touring the mountains. Even her makeup was fresh. And both her arms were full of parcels. Some of them looked pretty heavy.

  She dumped them on the next table with a sigh of relief. “I’ve been trying to call Jimmy for hours to ask him to meet the bus, but his phone must not be on. I came in here to call our landlady, to ask if she’d send her son down to help me carry all this up the hill. The bus only comes this far. Could you all help me, instead? But first, I simply must have a drink.” She turned toward the bar and called, “A long, tall gin and tonic, please, with lots of ice.”

  She dropped into our vacant chair and confided, “I have just had the most marvelous day. But I tell you the truth, I am almost dead.”

  None of the rest of us knew where to look. Watty excused himself. Laura and I took a silent vote and decided to let Brandi get a couple of swallows of drink inside her before we told her about Jim. “Where have you been?” I inquired.

  “All the way to Aberdeen. I looked in the mirror this morning and saw that my roots needed a touch-up in the worst old way, so I thought I could pop into town to get them done and be back for lunch. It doesn’t look far on the map, but the first part is all up and down. And nobody told me there wouldn’t be cabs for hire in this place, or that after the six-thirty bus in the morning, there’s none until eleven. By the time I arrived in town and got a hair appointment, I could only make the last bus back, which leaves at seven. But I had me a good old day in a real city. I got my hair done”—she paused to fluff it on her shoulders—“and my nails”—she held them out for our inspection—“and a terrific facial”—she brushed her cheek with her fingertips—“and still had time to shop a little.” She held up several bags. “You all should have come. But I sure am bushed.”

  She wasn’t going to be particularly energized by what we had to say.

  I told her as gently as we knew how that as a trophy wife, she’d been put on the shelf. Actually, I just said that Jim had been killed that morning, and found in an empty coffin in the Catholic church.

  Her response was to fling back her head with a peal of laughter. “Jimmy wouldn’t be caught dead in a Catholic church! And why would they have an extra coffin?”

  “Jim ordered them for the play,” I explained, “but he sent them to the wrong church.”

  “Jimmy didn’t order anything for that play. He thinks it’s going to be a dead bore, and we’re already planning how we’re going to skip out at the intermission and come up here.” She took a long swallow of her drink and looked at us speculatively. “Did Jimmy put you up to this? Did he tell you all to come down here to wait for me and try to scare me to death because I ran off without telling him? If so, you should have come up with a better story. Coffins in a church? I ask you!” She laughed again.

  We all assured her we had not been waiting for her, since nobody had any idea where she was or when she’d be back. (I didn’t add that some of us had wondered if she’d be back.) Then I repeated that Jim had the world’s best reason for not putting anybody up to anything.

  She went from amused to belligerent in one second flat. “Now why would you make up something hateful like that? Neither Jimmy nor I either one ever did a thing to hurt you.”

  I was searching for words to convince her when Sergeant Murray loomed up behind me. I hadn’t noticed him until he said, “Mrs. Gordon? I would like to ask you to come with me, please. I have some questions I want to ask you about your late husband.”

  As a convincer, that was a doozy.

  Brandi’s eyes widened and she pressed against the back of her chair. “You mean he really is dead? I thought they were joking. He was all right when I left this morning.” She grabbed my hand and squeezed so hard, I wondered if we’d have to amputate. “Tell me this is a joke,” she ordered.

  I could see why some people respond well to torture. I’d have told her almost anything to get my circulation back. But the policeman was saying again, “I need you to come with me, please. It’s not f
ar—just a few steps down the road.”

  She flung down my hand and slapped her palms onto the tabletop. “I’m not going without my friends.” Her nails were now such a deep red they looked almost black. Laura threw me a slight smile. Sounded like we’d bounced back into Brandi’s friendship circle. “And I need to finish my drink before I go anywhere.” Brandi held it aloft.

  “I’ll wait for you in the lobby, then.” He bowed stiffly and departed.

  Brandi dawdled, but it’s hard to make one drink, even a tall one, last forever. As she sipped, she peppered us with questions: “How did Jimmy die?” “Was it an accident?” “Did he have a heart attack?” Her eyes were worried, and she kept drumming the table with her nails.

  To every question I replied, as was proper and true, “You’ll have to ask the police.” Finally I said in exasperation, “You’ll have to talk to the police about everything, Brandi. We really don’t have any official information.”

  Her eyes widened. “Why are the police involved? They don’t think he was murdered, do they?” When I didn’t answer, she cried, “He was murdered! And they think I did it.”

  Several people were looking at us curiously. “I told you—” I began.

  She slid back her chair and stood abruptly. “You haven’t told me one blessed thing. I guess I’ll have to go with the policeman, just to get some answers. But if those two cats think they can pin this on me, they have a another think coming.” She strode away toward the lobby, leaving us to pay her bill and carry her parcels up the hill.

  25

  I woke Saturday hoping Friday had been a nightmare. Then I opened one eye and saw Laura looking at me with an expression that mirrored how I felt.

  She muttered, “If we don’t get up, will it all go away?”

  “Darn. I hoped I was the only one who had that dream.” I shoved back the covers, sat up, and fumbled for my slippers. “I guess it all happened, then.”

  She yawned. “More happened than you know. I went downstairs to read after you went to sleep, and Brandi came back and spent an hour telling me how all this is a plot by Joyce and the laird’s wife to keep her from inheriting Jim’s money.”

  “At least she didn’t get arrested. That’s something.”

  “Yeah, but the bobby told her not to leave the village.”

  “He told me not to leave the village.” I found my robe tangled in the spread and pulled it on. “Why should Brandi think Joyce and Kitty are plotting against her? Surely she doesn’t think they killed Jim just to pin it on her.”

  “She didn’t mention a motive, just that those two want to frame her for Jim’s death.”

  “Did she explain when and why Joyce and the laird’s wife got together to conspire? The only connection I know of between them is the play.” I stretched and felt my muscles complain a bit from all that walking up and down hills. Then I trudged over to the mirror and took stock of what I saw. Nothing I wanted inflicted on other people, so I got busy with cold cream and paint.

  “She said they resent her because of Jim’s first wife.”

  I looked at her through the mirror. “How would Joyce have known Jim’s first wife?”

  “Brandi said Joyce and Jim’s daughter went to school together.” Laura sat up and swung her legs off the bed. “I’m not going back to sleep, so I might as well get up, too. Has Joyce ever mentioned to you that she knew Jim and his daughter?”

  “No. But she did say she’d need to call Jim’s daughter—that Brandi wouldn’t be likely to do it. And she said her parents came from central Georgia.”

  “That could have meant Albany.” Laura frowned as she threw off her robe and started putting on warm clothes. “This trip is beginning to feel like something out of The Twilight Zone.” She stood on her toes and stretched so high she nearly touched the ceiling. I watched her enviously and hoped that when I got to heaven, I’d be tall.

  “So when did Brandi let you come to bed?” I asked.

  “Oh, she came up around midnight. I stayed down trying to reach Ben.” She added, in an offhand tone, “I thought he’d be finishing work about then.”

  Aha. If she’d sat up waiting to call after work, things might be looking up between them.

  Or so I thought until she added, in a flat voice, “But he wasn’t there.”

  “Didn’t they say where he was?”

  “No. Said he’d left early on Friday and told them he’d be back on Monday morning. I tried his place a couple of times after that, but he still hadn’t come in by ten.”

  I did the math and figured she hadn’t gotten much sleep. “If you keep up these hours, you are going to need a vacation to recover from your vacation. Try him now. He ought to be asleep.”

  Half dressed, she reached for her cell phone and pressed one number. She must have called Ben pretty often to have his apartment on international speed dial. I tried not to pay attention, but couldn’t help hearing when she threw down the phone and said, “Dang it, he’s still not there. Or sleeping too sound to hear the phone.”

  “Maybe he’s on a fast plane to Scotland.”

  “Yeah, right. Since I don’t think he’s ever been out of the state of Georgia, a passport is not likely to have been high on his agenda these past few years.”

  I was still trying to think what to say when we heard the breakfast gong.

  I was surprised to find Roddy again sitting at the table in the bay window with Dorothy. They were the only people in the dining room. As we came in, Dorothy was saying, “I can’t go. I have a painting I want to finish.”

  “Don’t be a gloomy Gussie. You don’t want to spend your life painting pictures. Come for a wee ride,” he wheedled.

  “I can’t,” she repeated. “Besides painting, I promised Alex I’d frame pictures. His assistant is home with a new baby, and he has fallen quite far behind.”

  Roddy stood with a petulant scowl. “Well, I’m off for a wonderful ride on my motorbike. Your loss.” He stalked out.

  Dorothy turned to us with anxious eyes. “Do you think I should have gone with him?”

  “Honey,” I told her, “what I think you should do is decide what you want to do. Then do exactly that. Don’t let other folks always tell you what you ought to be doing.”

  She gave me a stricken look through those golden eyes. “But maybe he’s right. Maybe I am a—whatever he said.”

  Laura leaned forward to whisper, in case Eileen should come through from the kitchen, “Or maybe you’re more mature than Roddy and know what you like.” She reached for a piece of cold toast from the rack and put it back. “I know what I like. Warm toast.” She got up and went through the door to the kitchen.

  “Take a lesson from Laura,” I told Dorothy. “Asserting yourself takes practice, and she’s been practicing for twenty-six years.”

  Dorothy looked silently from me to the door, which was swinging gently behind Laura. Then we both ate our eggs in silence. I wondered what she was thinking.

  “Start by doing exactly what you want to today,” I finally suggested, just as Laura came through with two pieces of what looked like hot toast.

  “I guess.” Dorothy got up and left with a dubious expression.

  “If you’re giving up Ben and Dorothy’s not keen on Roddy,” I said sadly, “it looks like there’ll be no romantic ending to this trip.”

  Laura shrugged. “You can always fix up Marcia with Watty. So what’s next?”

  “I don’t know. I thought I’d look in on Sherry to be sure she’s all right, then mosey down the village. I still haven’t done much research on the MacLarens. You want to come?”

  “No, I’m going to follow your advice and do what I most want to: go back to bed.”

  I planned a fishing expedition, but I didn’t exactly know what I was fishing for so I didn’t know what to use for bait. I said a little prayer as I tapped at Sherry’s door: “Don’t let me do anything dumb.”

  I was surprised when Joyce opened the door. “Come on in.” She wore that tight, bright
smile she put on for difficult times. “Sherry’s having breakfast in bed and I’m keeping her company.” She herself was pale. Probably from worry and exhaustion.

  Sherry lay in the exact center of the double bed with a tray on her legs, looking like the Queen of the Hill. Still, poor thing, she didn’t look her best in that room. The pale lilac walls and dark purple spread made her skin look yellower, her hair dull and lifeless. Most of her breakfast still covered her plate, but she was sipping a cup of tea with a decent look on her face until she saw me. Then her usual scowl descended.

  I perched on a chair upholstered in purple flowers and said, “I wanted to check on you and see if there’s anything I could do.”

  “Like what?” She sounded like she suspected I was volunteering to arrange her hair for the firing squad.