The Girl with the Phony Name

by Charles Mathes

  “Hundred pounds,” said the driver in a surly voice.

  She counted out the bills.

  “Feeling any friendlier today?”

  He grunted.

  “What we do now, Ru … Tina?” asked Wing soberly.

  “We ask Mr. Wharrie,” said Lucy, not having the energy to conceal her exasperation. “You know I’m trying to find some information about the Fingons, Mr. Wharrie. Do you have any suggestions about where to look?”

  “Dinna ken any Fingons.”

  “Then do you know where administrative matters are taken care of for the island? A city hall or some place like that where they would have the birth and death records?”

  “Goovernment business, ye mean?”

  “Yes.”

  “Tha’s all duin in Glasgow.”

  “Great,” Lucy said. “Where on Lis haven’t we been yet?”

  “Skerrisay,” said Wharrie.

  Skerrisay, Lucy knew from her guidebook, was on the northern tip of the island and the island’s largest city. With a population of less than two thousand, however, it was hardly a metropolis.

  “How far away is it?”

  “An hour and more. Diu you want to go there?”

  Lucy looked at Wing. He shrugged.

  “Why not?” Lucy said unhappily.

  They drove up the north road again, through the bald mountains that rose in the center of the island. Several times Wharrie had to stop the car while flocks of black-faced sheep ambled across the road. Wild rabbits crossed the bracken and birds of every description filled the air.

  “Why aren’t we driving along the coast?” Lucy asked at one point. “Wouldn’t that be quicker?”

  “Tha’ be the MacDonalds’ lands, damn them all,” said Wharrie, practically spitting out the words. “Commercial traffic to Skerrisay is routed through the interior.”

  “Landowners have rights, too,” said Wing, obviously itching for a fight.

  “What aboot our rights?” Wharrie shot back bitterly. “Lismen who enlisted in the army in World War I were promised land on the northern shore—land tha’ once belonged to their ancestors afore they were evicted. When those who survived the trenches returned, they got nothing. The MacDonalds ha’ pressured the authorities to sell them the coastlands so they wouldna lose the view from their precious castle.”

  “Very unfortunate,” said Wing, “but if MacDonalds own land …”

  “Oh, tha’ makes it all right, I suppose,” said Wharrie, anger apparently loosening his tongue. “Then you moost agree with the MacDonalds tha’ a fish tha’ was in the ocean yesterday belongs to them because it swam in their stream today. You moost agree, too, tha’ the birds and the rabbits and whatever deer aire left on the island all belong to the MacDonalds because they happen to cross their lands. It’s a wonder the bloody MacDonalds allow the rest of oos to breathe the air!”

  Wing did not pursue the argument, which was fine with Lucy. She had had enough of the MacDonalds for a lifetime. And of Wharrie.

  At last they arrived in Skerrisay, a quaint little place with stone houses and narrow roads. There were several souvenir stores near the water and Lucy could see one of the auto ferries from the mainland at a little dock.

  “Is this undertaker, please?” said Wing, seeing a sign marked DIBBLE MCFEELY BURIALS as they stopped at a tiny intersection.

  The dour Scot turned around slowly and stared at Wing.

  “Ye ain’t fixin’ to expire in mi motor, aire ye?”

  “Maybe Wing pay courtesy call,” he said to Lucy, clearly uncomfortable. The tension between him and Wharrie had grown almost palpable.

  “Good idea,” said Lucy.

  Wing opened the door and got out.

  “We’ll meet you back here in forty-five minutes, okay?” said Lucy, wondering if it would take even that long to size up the little town.

  “Okay,” said Wing. “Not mean to offend, Mr. Wharrie. Wing not understand about MacDonalds.”

  Wharrie didn’t answer. Wing walked off toward Dibble McFeely, head bowed, opera cape drooping on the ground.

  “He said he was sorry,” said Lucy. Wharrie grunted and drove on in silence. At the next intersection, Lucy rolled down her window and motioned to a man carrying a basket.

  “Excuse me,” she said. “Is there a local historical society you can direct me to?”

  The man walked over to the car.

  “Eh?” he said.

  “Is there some historical society that might be able to give me some information about the island?”

  “There’s the Island Study Group. Do ye ha’ the Gaelic?”

  “Pardon me?”

  “He wants to know if ye speak Gaelic,” snarled Wharrie.

  “No, I don’t know any Gaelic,” said Lucy helplessly.

  “Then that won’t diu. They only converse in Gaelic. Ye might try the tourist bureau, oop the road past the kirk.”

  “Thank you,” said Lucy.

  They drove up the road, past a blackened church. The tourist bureau was marked with a prominent sign and occupied a small gray building with windowboxes full of little blue flowers. Lucy got out of the car and knocked on the door. After a minute a small elderly woman showed her in to a shabby waiting room with framed travel posters on the wall and the same tourist brochures Lucy had read at the hotel.

  “Welcoom to Lis,” said the woman.

  “Thank you. I’m trying to find out some information about the Fingon family.”

  “Ooh, they be gone now.”

  “Yes, I know, but I’d still like to find out about them.”

  “Lived oop in the castle in Dumlagchtat, they did.”

  “Yes, I know that, too.”

  “But they’re gone now. Not been a Fingon on Lis for years.”

  “Yes, but do you know what happened to them?”

  “Nae.”

  “Do you know anyone who might?”

  “Ha’ ye tried the Island Stuidy Group?”

  “Thanks very much,” said Lucy and walked back to the car. How could she find out anything in a place where people either knew nothing, conversed only in Gaelic, or hung up in your ear?

  For the next half hour, Wharrie drove slowly through Skerrisay. Lucy leaned out and asked pedestrians if they had ever known Trelaines or MacAlpins, if they remembered the Fingons. No one could or would help. Lucy began asking people to call her at the hotel if they ran into anybody who might remember the Fingons. Most looked at her as though she were mad.

  By the time they returned to Dibble McFeely Burials, Lucy was discouraged. From the expression on his face as he got into the car, Tak Wing was discouraged, too.

  “What’s the matter?” said Lucy, not sure she wanted to hear the answer.

  “Dibble McFeely very backward,” said Wing sadly. “Have no use for modern equipment. Turnover not so good. Wing cremate more people in year than live on entire island.”

  Wharrie turned around in his seat, staring suspiciously at Wing for a moment but saying nothing.

  “Well, we knew it was a small place.” Lucy sighed.

  Wing nodded. “You find something, maybe?”

  Lucy shook her head. They drove back to the hotel in silence.

  The next day Lucy and Wing continued their exploration of the island, stopping to ask about Fingons where there were signs of a town. None of islanders had anything to say. Lucy wondered if they even knew where the Manor Lodge was, the way they stared after her.

  By Friday morning Lucy was terribly depressed. She didn’t have the nerve to quit so soon—they’d been here less than a week—but it seemed hopeless. No one on Lis seemed to know the Fingons. Or if they knew, they wouldn’t tell Lucy. Nor did anyone remember any Robert MacAlpin or know the name Trelaine.

  Tak Wing had been getting more bored and frustrated each day, barely talking, but unable to keep still—almost like a rambunctious child confined to a classroom. Wharrie had snapped at him several more times. So had Lucy, to her regret. She was therefore s
urprised when she came down to breakfast and found Wing all smiles, bouncing up and waving to her as she entered the dining room.

  “What’s the matter?” Lucy asked warily, sitting down at the table across from him.

  “Wing have idea!” he said, pouring her a cup of coffee.

  “Oh?”

  “Wing go back to Glasgow,” the little man said proudly. “No business for Neat ‘n’ Tidy here. Island too small. Glasgow big city. Friendly place. Maybe find financing there. What you think?”

  “What’s this all about, Mr. Wing? You don’t really think you’re going to find financing in Glasgow, do you?”

  “Sure.”

  “You’d leave me all alone here?” she asked sarcastically. It was too good to be true.

  “What you need Wing for? He only come to protect you, but things look pretty safe, yes?”

  “Safe enough for me to chuck this ridiculous disguise? I hate these contact lenses.”

  “Maybe you keep just in case. Okay?”

  “I promise you I can take care of myself, Mr. Wing,” said Lucy indignantly.

  “Good. So Wing go to Glasgow with clean conscience. But you stay as Tina, okay?”

  Lucy frowned, but didn’t move to take out the contacts.

  “So why do you want to leave?”

  The little man bowed his head.

  “Wing no help to you, just get into hair.”

  “You’re helping me a lot,” said Lucy, trying to sound sincere.

  “Wharrie sick of Wing. Rucy sick of Wing, too.”

  “I’m not …”

  “Wing have eyes, Rucy,” he said, smiling and shaking his head. “Can see the handwriting on face. Maybe people start talking more when suspicious Oriental man is gone, yes?”

  “Look, Mr. Wing …”

  “But Wing murder two birds with one airplane, ha! Talk to bankers, yes, but also check birth records of Fingons. Government records for island kept in Glasgow, yes? Wing see if Fingon have baby daughter thirty year ago. Maybe find out about brooches from museums. Smart, huh?”

  “Well,” she said, feeling guilty to be so relieved, “if you’re really determined …”

  “Glad you agree.”

  “You’ll have to hurry,” said Lucy, remembering the three-flight-per-week Island Air schedule. “If you can’t book a seat out today, there won’t be another plane until Monday.”

  “Not to worry. Have taken care of ticket already. Ronnie MacPherson arrive from Glasgow in two hours. Maybe you take Wing to airport?”

  TWENTY-ONE

  Lucy took a bite of toast and looked at the empty chair across from her. It was the next morning. Tak Wing was in Glasgow. She was finally alone.

  Lucy had been elated to get rid of Wing at first, had reveled in her long lost privacy, had even enjoyed Wharrie’s usual hostile silence after they dropped Wing off at the airfield and headed down the south coast of the island. Nor had she felt disappointed when again her questions about the Fingons went unanswered. She was free.

  “What a relief,” she had whispered confidingly to the salt-and-pepper shakers at dinner. “Nobody scrutinizing me for a change, nobody telling me what to do. I prefer my own company, you know. I’m set in my ways.”

  The salt and pepper did not reply. Lucy knew what they were thinking: she was talking like an old lady.

  She had slept late—it was past eleven. Breakfast was no longer being served and it was too early for lunch, but one of the staff had taken pity on her and fixed her some toast, reheated some coffee.

  Now, taking a final sip, Lucy had to admit that she missed the little man. Wing made for better conversation than inanimate objects did. With him here everything was like some kind of crazy adventure. Now that he was gone, Lis suddenly felt very lonely and forbidding.

  Lucy put a five-pound note on the table and tried not to think about it. Wing had been right about his being no help to her here. He might actually turn up something in Glasgow.

  “Would you like to leave your key, Miss Snicowski?” asked the desk clerk, a beanpole in a tweed suit, as Lucy crossed through the lobby.

  “No, thank you,” she replied politely.

  The man frowned disapprovingly but Lucy didn’t care. She had been bringing her key with her whenever she went out, despite Wing’s protestations that in Europe it was customary to leave one’s key at the desk.

  Such a custom was ridiculous, as far as Lucy was concerned. She had half a mind to give the Manor Lodge her professional opinion about their security. Desk clerks couldn’t know every guest. Someone could just give her room number and get her key. After being burglarized in New York, Lucy was finished with being so trusting. She kept most of her cash in the hotel safe and the room key in her pocket.

  “Did you get me another driver?”

  “I’m sorry, no, miss.”

  Disappointed, Lucy walked down the gravel path toward the waiting car. Ranald Wharrie sat scowling, reading a magazine.

  “How about giving me a discount rate, Mr. Wharrie,” she said, getting in. “You’re making a fortune and I’m going broke.”

  “A hundred pounds in advance,” replied the big Scot.

  “Thanks so much for your consideration,” muttered Lucy.

  “Ye people aire all alike,” Wharrie shot back with vehemence. “My working season is three months and what I make has to last the year. Ah doon’t drive because I laike it, ye know. There airen’t any other chobs to be had.”

  Lucy had been on her best behavior the whole week, but this was getting ridiculous. She opened the car door and was about to tell Wharrie where he could drive himself when she saw the skinny desk clerk trotting down the walk toward her, motioning with his hands.

  “Glad I caught you, Miss Snicowski,” said the man, puffing. “A pairty wishes to speak with you on the telephone.”

  Lucy bent into the car to address Wharrie.

  “Do you think you can possibly wait for your hundred pounds until I take this call?”

  “Aye.”

  “Thank you,” she said with exaggerated politeness and followed the clerk back into the lobby to the house phone. It took her nearly twenty steps to realize what a phone call might mean. Could it be that one of her inquiries was about to pay off?

  “Miss Snicowski?” said a man’s voice on the line, a lilting voice with a soft burr.

  “Yes?”

  “I understand you’re interested in the Fingons?”

  “Yes, that’s right,” Lucy replied, frightened and thrilled at the same time. “Were you one of the people I talked with?”

  The man chuckled. “It’s a verra wee island, Miss Snicowski. Word gets around.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “MacLean is the name. Angus MacLean. I ken a bit about the Fingons. If ye’d care to buy me a drink, I’d be happy to tell ye what I can. How’s that?”

  “That would be great,” said Lucy.

  “I’m callin’ from a pub in Skerrisay called the Fairy’s Egg. I’ll be here all afternoon, if this is a good time for you.”

  “It’s perfect. I’m leaving now.”

  Lucy hung up the phone. Skerrisay was the size of a postage stamp. If Wharrie didn’t know the Fairy’s Egg already, surely he would be able to find it—he had to be good for something.

  She walked briskly back to the car and got in.

  “A hundred pounds,” said Wharrie, dropping his magazine and starting the engine.

  Lucy counted out the bills into his hand.

  “Do you know the Fairy’s Egg in Skerrisay?”

  “I can find it,” Wharrie replied, recounting the money and putting it into his shirt pocket.

  “Well, that’s where we’re going.”

  An hour and fifteen minutes later, they were again cruising the streets of Skerrisay. Wharrie’s knowledge of the village, however, was less than impressive. Luckily Lucy happened to glance down a side street and saw a sign reading THE FAIRY’S EGG swinging in front of a small stone building.


  “Stop the car!” she cried.

  Wharrie pulled on the brakes, nearly sending Lucy into the front seat.

  “Do you want me to wait?” said Wharrie, picking up his magazine.

  Lucy satisfied herself that she had no broken bones and looked at the darkened doorway of the Fairy’s Egg.

  “Why don’t you join me for a drink, Mr. Wharrie?” she said, giving it one last shot. “It’ll take more than your driving to break my neck. Can’t we be friends?”

  “I’m renting my motor, not my company,” he said, not looking around.

  “Sorry. It’s just that … I’ve come a long way and I haven’t been finding what I need. Maybe this is it. I’m a little nervous. Do you understand?”

  Wharrie glanced at her in his rearview mirror and pulled down his cap.

  “Plenty of us dinna find what we need,” he said.

  “Mr. Wharrie?” Lucy said sweetly when she had gotten out of the car.

  “Aye?”

  “If you don’t improve your attitude somebody is going to give you a creepie—and that somebody is going to be me!”

  Lucy slammed the door with all her strength.

  “Hey!” Wharrie cried out after her, but Lucy stalked into the little pub without looking back.

  It was a moment before Lucy’s eyes adjusted to the gloom in the Fairy’s Egg. Everyone was staring at her. “Everyone” consisted of five rough-looking men and the bartender, a heavy man with a frightful scar extending from his temple to his chin.

  Lucy sat down at a little table in the corner of the room and folded her hands in front of her, wondering if this had been such a good idea after all.

  “Aire ye in the right place, lass?” asked the bartender finally.

  “I’m looking for Mr. MacLean,” she said, still feeling like an idiot for trying to befriend Wharrie.

  “Why on airth ye be wantin’ MacLean?” asked one of the men in a low voice.

  Lucy swallowed hard.

  “I’m looking for some information.”

  “What kind of information?” growled the bartender.

  “Mr. MacLean said he knew something about local history.”

  The men on the barstools suddenly exploded into laughter.

  “Now yer in fer it,” said one.

  “At last the MacLean has found his heaven,” said another.