Did You Declare the Corpse?

by Patricia Sprinkle

  I tried to stand, but my legs wouldn’t support me. Sergeant Murray called through to the back, “Neil, come run Mrs. Yarbrough up to Heather Glen.”

  Roddy came to the door. “Shall I run ye up on my bike, then?” He grinned.

  When I saw the Land Rover and how high I’d have to climb to get in, I almost requested the bike. What I really wanted was to be pulled up the hill in a little red wagon.

  As the sergeant helped me into the Land Rover, he said in parting, “I’ll ask Barbara to have a look around for that will and the deed to the land. Ian will not have destroyed them. He’s too canny for that. But ask Mrs. Gordon to look through her husband’s papers, too. It’s possible he took copies to show Ian.”

  When Neil pulled up close to Eileen’s back door, he asked solicitously, “Do ye want me to help you in?”

  I assured him I could make it on my own, but as I staggered into the house and hauled myself up the stairs, I muttered, “If I make it to my room, I may never leave it again.”

  When I reached the upstairs hall, however, I remembered the sergeant’s request. Feeling the way I did, I might not live long enough to talk to Brandi if I didn’t do it right away, so I dragged myself over to her door and knocked.

  She answered in a long turquoise fleece caftan that could have come from the Vogue lying on her bed, but her eyes were pink and her nose red and swollen. “Yes?” she asked in a voice clogged with tears. When she saw who it was, she got a strange expression in her eyes.

  “I have a message for you from the police.”

  “Oh! Do they know who killed Jimmy?” Her voice lit with hope, but she was still staring at me with that odd look on her face.

  “They haven’t arrested anybody yet.” I may be sworn to speak the truth in matters of law, but I don’t have to tell all I know. “But the bobby asks you to look among Jim’s papers for the will of Alasdair Geddys and the deed to his farm here in Auchnagar.”

  She drew her fine brows together. “The lawyers will deal with Jim’s papers.”

  This woman was not as dumb as she pretended, so I answered with some testiness. “They think now that Jim may have been murdered because he either had or claimed to have those papers. It’s possible he had them on him and the killer took them. But it’s also possible he took copies with him and left the originals among his things.” I slowed to what my sons refer to as “Mama’s Summing-Up Voice.” “If the originals are here, you could be in danger, too.”

  Her eyes widened and flickered. “Where would they be? And what are they, again?”

  “A will,” I repeated deliberately. “Written by Alasdair Geddys, leaving the property to his son, Hamish Geddys. And the deed to the Geddys farm in Auchnagar.”

  “I don’t know Alasdair or Hamish Geddys.”

  “That doesn’t matter. Look for the papers. And if you find them, take them to the police station at once.”

  “All right. But they’d probably be in here.” She picked up Jim’s briefcase. “It’s locked.”

  “Force the locks,” I said fiercely. “Jim is not going to care.”

  My urgency penetrated the clouds in which she so carefully concealed her brain. “I’ll ask Eileen for a screwdriver.” She gave me one more strange look, then clattered downstairs in frivolous turquoise mules.

  I headed to my room reflecting that it ought to be as easy to buy beautiful clothes as sensible ones. Maybe I could remember that next time I went shopping.

  Thank heavens, Laura was out. I didn’t want to talk to another soul.

  I did, however, want to lock myself in. Ian had shattered the myth that I was safe in Auchnagar. I could feel his fury sending long tentacles all the way up the brae. I wondered if Morag felt them, too.

  My bed was calling my name loud and clear, so I staggered in that direction. But as I passed the dresser, I happened to glance toward the mirror. I saw a woman who looked like she’d been vacationing in a wind tunnel. My hair stood out all over my head, and I didn’t have on a speck of makeup. No wonder Brandi kept staring like she’d never seen me before.

  “This gives new meaning to ‘the windswept look,’ ” I muttered, grabbing a brush to try and restore the style to anything I didn’t mind wearing in public. If there was a salon in Auchnagar, I hadn’t seen it. And Saturday was sure to be their busiest day.

  I did not achieve notable success.

  “Oh, well,” I quoted Mama as I tottered toward my bed, “not everybody can be beautiful, but anybody can be special.”

  Before my head hit the pillow, Eileen rang the gong for dinner.

  29

  I considered skipping the meal, but my stomach sent up such a protest that I revived and managed to get downstairs. The strong greasy smell of fish and chips wafted from the kitchen, and bowls of Scotch broth were already on the table when I entered the dining room. The first person I saw was Kenny, sitting with Sherry at the small table for two by the wall, already shoveling down his soup. He ignored my greeting.

  I joined Laura, who sat with Joyce and Dorothy at the table by the bay window. Dorothy was shyly talking about the pictures she’d framed that morning and her plans for painting that afternoon. Neither of the other two seemed to be paying much attention.

  From what I could hear from the Boyd table, Kenny was both truculent and boastful about having been inside a Scottish jail. Sherry treated him with a wary compassion that made me think she hadn’t had a chance yet to ask privately what he had told the police. Laura she treated with icy contempt.

  Kenny wasn’t keen on Laura, either, turning around to glower at her from time to time to let her know the entire mess had been her fault.

  Laura herself was distracted. It took her five minutes to even notice what I was wearing. Finally she asked, “What’s with the head scarf, Mac? You find some gypsy cousins?”

  “No, but I had to do something. I got kind of windblown this morning.”

  “I saw you riding Roddy’s motorcycle.” Dorothy’s eyes were wide. “You were going really fast, eh? Weren’t you terrified?”

  That put me in the bull’s-eye of the conversation.

  “It had its moments,” I admitted, then shrugged, like it hadn’t been important. “Morag, Watty’s granddaughter, wanted a ride, so I went along.”

  “On a motorcycle?” Now Laura was looking at me like I’d just escaped from an asylum.

  Her expression didn’t improve when Dorothy asked, “Why was that man chasing you to the police station?”

  Before I could think up an answer to that one, Joyce added, “Yes, what were you doing with the police?” Her voice was sharp, and in her eyes I read a repeat of that morning’s warning. “I saw you coming out as I was returning from the theater.”

  Laura narrowed her eyes. “Have you been detecting again, Mac? You know what Joe Riddley told you last time.”

  Kenny whirled around, and Sherry bored into me with eyes like black nails.

  They were all going to find out eventually, so I might as well tell them. “No, I just went for a walk. But I sort of stumbled into the fact that Ian Geddys, the joiner, killed Jim.”

  Eileen—carrying in heaped plates of fish and chips—dropped mine with a clatter on the table before me. “Ian? He never!”

  “He’s confessed,” I told her. “He didn’t mean to kill Jim, but it turns out that Jim was actually Hamish Geddys—”

  “Hamish Geddys!” Eileen and Joyce exclaimed in unison.

  I nodded. “He was coming home to claim the family farm, which his father left him years ago. Ian got angry and knocked him down and Jim’s head hit the curb of their hearth. Morag, from the hotel, saw it happen.”

  “Wee Morag?” That was all Eileen could take. She sank into a chair at an empty table, patting her heart like she was having palpitations. Marcia—who had brought in the rest of the plates—sat beside her with a worried frown.

  I told the story as best I could. The whole time I kept one eye on Joyce, wondering if she’d finally admit that Jim had instigat
ed our tour. She paid me the same intense attention the others did, but no more. I doubt that her play, though, if it had been performed, would have gotten a better reception than my tale. When I was done, the silence was so profound, I felt like standing to take a bow.

  “I thought there was something fishy about Jim the first time I saw him.” Kenny poured ketchup lavishly on his plate and speared up a forkful of chips that looked like they were dripping blood. I shuddered and looked away. “And about that German name he claimed to have? Ha. Anybody could tell he was a Scot. ‘Hamish’ is the same as ‘Jim,’ you know, and Geddys is a sept of the Gordon clan.” How quickly he had forgotten his earlier complaint that Jim was messing up genealogists.

  “But how dreadful!” Dorothy said indignantly. “To take the farm from his own sister and brother after they’d taken care of it all these years—how could he?”

  “He played the violin beautifully,” Sherry reminded her, as if that excused the rest.

  “He must have gotten his music from his dad,” Eileen murmured. “Oh, poor Barbara, to lose him twice. She’s aye grieved over Hamish, you know. When she was young, she fair worshiped the ground he walked on.” She turned to Marcia. “We’ll go down to her right away. Roddy can put the dishes in to soak. I’ll just bring in the pudding now, shall I?”

  “Jim probably got his famous whisky recipe from his dad, too,” Laura murmured to me when Eileen had bustled out. I knew what she was thinking. After today, a Scotsman whisky bottle would conjure up additional memories for both of us.

  Joyce put down her napkin and her voice was brisk. “As sorry as I am about Jim, I am glad to have his death explained. I think we should leave first thing tomorrow, as originally planned, don’t you? Does anybody mind?” Hearing no objections, she added, “But no more poking around, Mac. Leave that to the police.”

  I fixed her with what my boys used to call “Mama’s Killer Stare.” “I have done all the ‘poking around’ I plan to,” I assured her, “but if you’ve got something to hide—”

  She rose and headed for the door. “I’ll check with the police to see how soon we can go.”

  Sherry called after her, “What entertainment are you providing tonight, now that the play is cancelled? Will Watty take us somewhere else on the bus—maybe into Aberdeen, to catch a concert or something?”

  Joyce gave her a look that would have sizzled Sherry’s gizzard, if she’d had one. “At this point, you are on your own.” She closed the door behind her with such a bang, I could picture her hopping the next bus and washing her hands of us forever.

  Dorothy left soon afterwards, eager to start painting. Kenny and Sherry announced they were going for a walk—which I suspected would take them to a more private place to yell at each other. Roddy brought more hot water for our teapot, informing us, “Mum and Marcia are off to see Barbara Geddys. Do you need anything else?”

  Laura gave him a considering look. “What’s this I hear about you taking Mac for a ride on your motorbike without offering one to the rest of us?”

  Roddy lit up. “Would you like a wee ride, then, to the next village and back?”

  “I’d love one.” Seeing my surprise, she informed me, “I’ve always wanted to ride a motorcycle, but you didn’t mention motorcycles in Daddy’s house.”

  “Do your hair a favor and wear a helmet,” I advised. “Not to mention saving your head.”

  “Och, I require all riders to have helmets,” Roddy informed me, then added with a snicker, “except when they hijack me in the middle of the road, like.” He headed back to the kitchen, calling over one shoulder, “Knock on the door when you’re ready for your ride.”

  “I’ll just wait until you get the dishes in hot soapy water,” she informed him.

  We lingered over our last cup of tea, then Laura pushed back her chair. “Well, I’m off into the wild blue yonder. What about you?”

  “I’m heading straight for the Land of Nod.”

  Before I napped, I called Joe Riddley on the cell phone. He ought to be up by now, I figured. Sure enough, he was sitting in our john-boat down at our fish camp on the lake. “Didn’t you get enough fishing on the Gulf?” I demanded.

  “Can’t ever get too many fish,” he replied. “I’ve got enough to fill up the freezer.”

  “We can’t fill up the freezer. Martha and Ridd’s garden will be in in a few weeks, and we’ll be freezing vegetables. Not to mention that pig he’s feeding for us to butcher next fall.”

  “Little Bit, did you call me to discuss our winter menus? Because if you did, I see a fish jumpin’ out there, and he’s got my name written all over his back.”

  “Did you take any of the boys down with you?” I couldn’t bear to hang up quite yet. Hearing his voice gave the illusion that he could be just down in the village.

  “No, I brought Ben Bradshaw. Went by to get my oil changed yesterday, and he looked so doggone sad about Laura being gone, I figured he could use a little entertainment.”

  “Well, that’s one mystery solved, at least,” I said happily. “I’ll tell Laura when she gets back from her motorcycle ride.”

  As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I regretted them. Why did I ever mention—

  No, it wasn’t the motorcycle word I feared. Sure enough, Joe Riddley zeroed in on the other m word. “What mystery is not solved?” he growled.

  “Oh, nothing much. I’ll tell you about it when I get home. I need to go now. You all have fun, and we’ll see you Monday afternoon.” When you’ve had as many years together as we’ve had, you learn when it’s good to spend time conversing and when it’s better not to.

  I figured I’d fall right asleep, the house was so hushed and empty. But once I’d climbed into bed and pulled the covers up to my chin, I was wide awake. I lay there a while, replaying the morning over and over: Joyce’s attempt to straighten me out, my unexpected visit with Barbara, the wild ride through the village, Morag’s story, Ian’s flaming admission that he’d killed Jim, and the unpalatable truth that I could be kin to both brothers. I hadn’t mentioned that to the group when I told Jim’s story. Now I kept hearing Barbara’s final cry against the men in her family, “May God forgive the lot o’ ye for all ye’ve done to me.” What a prize bunch of cousins I’d uncovered!

  Barbara might be a relative worth getting to know on another visit, but she’d have little use for me right now. Poor, poor Barbara.

  I squeezed my eyes tighter shut, determined to sleep, but have you ever noticed that once you decide to go to sleep, you can’t? Sleep is one of life’s greatest unsolved mysteries. We do it almost every day, yet never learn how it is we either fall asleep or wake up.

  Since I obviously wasn’t going to sleep anytime soon, I climbed out of bed, opened the curtains, and swung Eileen’s big chair around to face the bay window. Those hills had been there a lot longer than human beings, and would be there when I and all of my contemporaries were gone. I wanted to picture them lying peacefully beneath the sky in a world with no people to mess it up. Maybe that would calm me down so I could rest.

  Instead, I noticed a man in the distance, beyond Eileen’s fence, wearing overalls and a short-sleeved shirt, and remembered that it had been warming up when I left the police station. Why not sit in Eileen’s garden for a while? It would be something to tell my grandson Cricket: “Me-Mama sat without a coat way up at the top of the world.” So I grabbed my heaviest cardigan and a thick afghan Eileen had thoughtfully draped on our chair, and headed out the front door.

  The sun was gentle, the breeze taking a rest. Daffodils nodded at my feet in the soft carpet of grass, and tulips were already several inches high. Shrubs were beginning to come to life after their winter hibernation, and birds were checking out various bushes and trees for future homes.

  I chose a bench well down the lawn toward the stream, wrapped my legs tightly in the afghan, and sat enjoying that spectacular view. I murmured the one hundred and twenty-first Psalm: “I will lift up my eyes to the hills. Where doe
s my help come from? My help comes from the Lord, who made heaven and earth.” And I vowed that Joe Riddley and I would come back one day, and have ourselves a real vacation here. We’d follow deer tracks, shop in the village, eat Eileen’s cooking until we were ready to burst, then come out and sit in her garden to doze.

  Today, though, the hills didn’t make me drowsy. They reminded me of the evening I had gone up the brae and heard Norwood Hardin knock Jim down. But who killed Norwood?

  It didn’t take much thought to discard Ian as a suspect. Like Norwood, Ian was quick-tempered, a hitter. Whoever killed Norwood had taken the time to lure him into the chapel while Roddy ran out for cigarettes, then stabbed him with a dagger procured in advance.