The Girl with the Phony Name

by Charles Mathes

  “I say, that’s amazing!” exclaimed MacDonald. “I am involved in a big deal, in fact. Selling one of my Inverness factories. How did you know?”

  “You try to get better price, they say take it or leave it.”

  “By George, that’s uncanny!”

  “They bluffing,” said Wing triumphantly. “You can get much more.”

  “You mean they’ll increase the offer on the table? Are you sure?”

  “Father, please,” said Catriona. “Do you have to discuss business at a time like this?”

  “No,” said MacDonald cheerfully. “Quite right. But you must join me for lunch, Mr. Wing. I’d be very interested to hear more about this.”

  “Father has some news that might cheer you, Lucy, darling,” said Catriona pointedly. “You did get it, didn’t you, father?”

  “Yes, indeed,” chortled Lord MacDonald, turning to Lucy, clearly pleased with himself. “The foreign office has located your birth certificate, my dear. In New York.”

  “You’re kidding,” said Lucy with an involuntary laugh.

  “Quite serious. It gave the embassy staff a devil of a time. They checked every possible date after Barbara landed, found nothing, were totally stymied. The Yanks are so damned clever with their computers that they’re lost entirely unless you can give them the exact information they’re looking for.”

  “I know,” said Lucy. “But they found it?”

  “Very nearly gave up, but then some bright lad thought to check the dates before the Queen Elizabeth docked.” Macdonald sniffed. “Seems you were born at sea.”

  “Then I’m not a U.S. citizen after all?” said Lucy, totally confused.

  “On the contrary. Your mother was Scottish, but the ship was in U.S. territorial waters at the time of your birth, so you are technically a dual national. The foreign office is working on a U.K. passport for you right now. Should have it ready in a few days.”

  “Did you get a copy of the birth certificate?” Lucy asked quietly.

  “No, but I have all information right here.”

  “Can you tell me my birthday?”

  Lord MacDonald pulled out a fax and placed reading glasses on his nose.

  “Now let’s see. Date of birth: September twenty-ninth. Mother: Barbara Fingon. Father: Robert MacAlpin. Weight: six pounds, four ounces.”

  September 29. Lucy was even older than she had thought. For some reason she didn’t care.

  “Don’t you want to know your name?” asked MacDonald.

  Lucy looked up, afraid to ask.

  “It’s Lucy,” he bellowed happily. “Lucy Fingon.”

  “Dear Barbara,” said Catriona taking a handkerchief out of her patent-leather bag and dabbing her eyes. “She must have named you Lucy because it was on the Fingon brooch. The brooch said MacAlpin, and she loved a MacAlpin. It said Lucy, and she named you Lucy. The poor darling. So sentimental. So sweet.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Rucy Fingon!” exclaimed Wing, pumping her hand enthusiastically.

  Lucy felt numb. Lucy Fingon. It wasn’t as pretty a name as Lucy MacAlpin Trelaine, but it was hers. It belonged to her by right of birth. And she was still Lucy. Thank God Barbara Fingon hadn’t gone with Bethoc!

  “I have another surprise for you, my dear,” said MacDonald, looking incredibly smug.

  “I think I’ve had all the surprises I can manage for a while, thank you,” said Lucy.

  “I spoke to Julius Fingon in Canada this morning,” said MacDonald as if she hadn’t spoken. “You can’t imagine his surprise when I told him about his long lost cousin Lucy Fingon. He had no idea Barbara was pregnant when she disappeared, of course. People were very discreet about that sort of thing in those days. He wants very much to speak with you. What do you think of that?”

  Lucy didn’t say anything. When she was a little girl she had dreamed of this moment. She would finally find her real family. They would be rich and beautiful. They would take her away from the poverty, the cruelty of the world. It hadn’t worked out the way she thought.

  MacDonald and Catriona looked at her expectantly. Wing was smiling ear to ear. The rain was falling harder now. It beat insistently on the roof of the car.

  “I have Julius’s number right here,” said Lord MacDonald, digging into his jacket pocket. “You can call him any time after …”

  “I’m not going to call him,” said Lucy.

  “You can’t possibly blame him for what happened to your father, old girl,” said MacDonald, rubbing his hands together. “He knew nothing about what MacLean had done. Was terribly angry when I told him. He’s a wealthy man, Lucy. Seems eager to make it up to you.”

  “I think he’s done enough,” said Lucy.

  “But you’re a Fingon,” said Catriona, looking to her father. “Blood is thicker than water and all that.”

  Lucy didn’t say anything. Julius Fingon had set in motion the events that had made her an orphan. His pursuit of the Fingon treasure had cost Robbie MacAlpin and Barbara Fingon their lives, to say nothing of what had happened to Hugh Grimmon and Angus MacLean. She had nearly been killed herself.

  No, Lucy wanted nothing from the Fingons. She would build her own life, meet the world on her terms. She wasn’t going to be swept along anymore. She was going to choose what was important and what was not. Lucy smiled. For the first time in years she didn’t feel like a failure.

  “But what will you do?” sputtered Lord MacDonald.

  Suddenly she felt a gentle hand on her shoulder.

  “We go home now, Rucy?” Tak Wing said.

  Home. Lucy had never been homesick before; she had never had a home to miss. Now she thought of her rooms in the silly house in Weehawken and smiled.

  “Yes, Mr. Wing,” said Lucy and smiled. “We go home.”

  Chief Constable Livingstone suddenly appeared out of the rain at the window. MacDonald reached over and opened the door.

  “I’m sorry, Miss Fingon,” said Chief Constable Livingstone, leaning in. “I think we’ve found your father.”

  No one said anything for a moment. Lucy wondered why she didn’t feel like crying. She had been crying at the drop of a hat lately. Perhaps she was all cried out.

  “You poor lamb,” said Catriona, putting her arm around Lucy’s shoulder and squeezing her gently. “All this has been too much for you.”

  “No,” said Lucy. “I’m fine. But it’s funny, don’t you think?”

  “What’s that, dear?” said Catriona.

  “I came here to find out who I was, and now I have. But I still don’t know the first thing about Lucy MacAlpin Trelaine.”

  THIRTY

  “You will not,” said Lucy quietly.

  “But Rucy,” protested Wing, his little hands bunching into fists.

  “You are not going to open any new branches until your cash flow improves, and that’s final.”

  “But Teaneck such good location.”

  “It will still be a good location a year from now. I don’t know how you tricked Lord MacDonald into bailing out Neat ‘n’ Tidy, but I’m not going to let you blow it now.”

  “Wing not trick MacDonald,” protested Wing. “Wing teach MacDonald how to play poker. What you think, Neal? We start new Neat ‘n’ Tidy in Teaneck, okay?”

  “I just drive the car,” said Neal from the front seat. “My executive decisions are road decisions.”

  The car smelled like coffee. There was a Maxwell House plant in Hoboken, a Hills Bros operation in Edgewater, and Savarin had a location in Ridgefield. The aroma of coffee smelled like home to Lucy. Even the closed windows and air conditioning couldn’t block it out.

  “I don’t know how you can even take the man’s money,” said Lucy. “The MacDonalds extorted it from the people of Lis over generations, you know.”

  “Money have no conscience,” said Wing. “Money just trapped energy. Wing set it free. Make new jobs for poor people of Teaneck.”

  “What about the poor people of Lis?”

  “Poor
people are poor people everywhere.” Wing shrugged. “Wing no believe in discrimination. So we expand to Teaneck, yes?”

  “Not until the cash flow improves. And if I hear one more word about Teaneck, I’m going to give you a creepie.”

  “Boy, Rucy,” sighed Wing, “you get tough in Scotland.”

  Lucy smiled and touched the Fingon brooch at her throat. She had been wearing it a lot lately, settling into her new identity. She was a different person now, one she liked a whole lot better. She even had a new name. Lucy Fingon.

  The name Fingon didn’t have to represent greed and cruelty and despair, Lucy had decided. She could make it anything she wanted it to be and would start by repaying some of Wing’s kindness—whether he liked it or not.

  “To what do you owe your tremendous self-confidence, Miss Fingon?” asked imaginary reporters in Lucy’s daydreams.

  “Justifiable homicide, leaving the scene of a crime, illegal entry into Great Britain, grave robbing and kidnapping, thank you very much.”

  And that wasn’t all, Lucy thought with a self-satisfied grin. But she wasn’t telling all her secrets. Not even to Wing. At least not yet.

  The car pulled into the driveway of the Weehawken Neat ‘n’ Tidy.

  “What about we at least buy building in Teaneck, maybe?” said Wing as they got out of the car and headed toward the side door. “In case property values rise.”

  “You’re asking for it.”

  “Leave her be, Taki,” said Neal. “She’s trying to do you a favor.”

  “You think Wing going to make it easy for her?” said Wing with a twinkle.

  Lucy punched him in the biceps and reached for the back screen door. Before she could open it, Tina stepped out.

  “There’s a guy here who wants to see Lucy,” Tina said quietly, her eyes large behind the thick lenses. “I think he’s that man from Canada who keeps calling and sending the letters.”

  Lucy nodded. Lord MacDonald had given Julius Fingon her address. Even though Lucy had returned the Canadian’s letters unopened and not taken his calls, the man apparently wasn’t going to give up.

  “What you tell him?” Wing asked Tina, suddenly very serious.

  “I said Lucy wasn’t here, but he insisted on waiting. I put him in the front room.”

  Tina looked worried, but Lucy patted her shoulder.

  “You did fine, Tina.”

  “Neal, you take Rucy away in car,” said Wing, tilting his top hat to a combative angle. “I get rid of man.”

  “No,” said Lucy. “It’s okay. I guess I’ll have to talk with him sooner or later. I might as well get it over with.”

  “You no have to …” began Wing, but Lucy just smiled and walked into the house.

  Julius Fingon was examining a framed picture on the wall of a black man in an army sergeant’s uniform. A small woman wearing a brown coat stood next to him. As Lucy entered the room, Lucy’s relative turned and stared at her with milky blue eyes larger than her own.

  Lucy understood how MacLean had been helpless against Julius Fingon. The man was a giant, at least six foot seven inches in height. He was broad-shouldered, dressed in a black suit, and supported his not inconsiderable weight on a burled cane. His most stunning feature, however, was his snow-white hair. It ringed his head like the corona of the sun and burst from his face in a flowing beard. Julius Fingon looked like nothing short of the Michelangelo edition of God.

  “You can wait outside, Louise,” he said in an unexpectedly high, squeaky voice. The little woman in the brown coat nodded and walked past Lucy, closing the french doors behind her.

  “My nurse.” Julius Fingon grinned. “Treats me like a baby. I’m old enough to be her grandfather.”

  Lucy didn’t say anything, just folded her arms in front of her and stared.

  “MacDonald sent me a copy of your birth certificate,” the giant continued easily. “You’re Barbara Fingon’s daughter, Lucy.”

  “That’s right,” she replied quietly. “And you’re Julius Fingon.”

  “Why didn’t you take my calls?” he said, his face a granite mask. “Why did you return my letters? I’ve had to journey here at considerable inconvenience to see you. It’s a long way for an old man to go.”

  “What do you want, Mr. Fingon?”

  The old man smiled. A crafty, humorless smile, it seemed to Lucy. He made a menacing black silhouette against the luminous backdrop of Manhattan.

  “I want to get to know you, Lucy,” he said.

  “Well, I don’t want to know you, Mr. Fingon.”

  “I’m your flesh and blood, child. What do you have against me?”

  “For a start I don’t like men who gouge other people’s eyes out.”

  “You mean MacLean. I wasn’t proud of myself for that, but the man was trying to blackmail me. He was dangerous.”

  “Were you really so frightened?” said Lucy, determined not to be intimidated by this bully.

  “There’s a certain rough justice in the world that you obviously don’t understand, young lady.”

  “What right do you have to talk about justice?”

  “What right?” thundered Fingon, pounding the floor with his cane. “I’ll tell you what right. My wife died one month after I did that to MacLean. Within a year my son and his family were killed in an airplane crash. Within five years both of my daughters died, childless. For twenty-five years the only love I’ve gotten is from my cats. That’s what gives me the right to talk about justice.”

  “What are you doing here, Mr. Fingon?” said Lucy softly.

  “For twenty-five years I thought I was the last Fingon. But I’m not. You are.”

  “So?”

  “So under the terms of my will, you’ll inherit all my worldly goods, the loot of a thousand years of Fingons.”

  The old man’s eyes sparkled, perhaps with greed.

  “I don’t want it,” said Lucy uncomfortably. How much was he worth? she wondered.

  “Maybe I should leave it to my cat.” Fingon’s voice dripped sarcasm, his lips worked themselves into a sneer.

  “Do whatever you want,” Lucy shot back, aware of what he was after, wanting to hurt him, “but you’re never going to get the Fingon brooch.”

  “The Fingon brooch,” the old man repeated slowly, chewing each word. “I once wanted the Fingon brooch very badly. Very badly indeed. Legally it belongs to me, you know.”

  “How do you figure that?” Lucy asked. If Julius Fingon recognized the brooch clasped at her throat he made no sign.

  “I bought Lord Geoffrey’s entire estate,” he said, walking slowly across the room, supporting his weight on the cane. “I paid a fortune for it.”

  “My mother was on her way to sell you the brooch when she was killed.”

  “Your mother stole it,” hissed Fingon, now right next to her, his eyes blazing. “It was my property. Your mother was a thief.”

  “And you’re a murderer,” Lucy said, glaring up at him. “If you hadn’t made your slimy little deal with MacLean, my mother would be alive today. So would my father.”

  “MacDonald told me they dug up a body,” he sniffed, lowering himself into a chair. “MacLean did it, I gather.”

  “He and another man, Hugh Grimmon,” said Lucy, clenching her teeth. “Grimmon tried to kill me for the Fingon brooch. He’s dead, too.”

  “Lord God, how I wanted that brooch,” cackled Fingon, slapping his knee, oblivious to Lucy’s fury. “When I think of the money I pissed away …”

  “Why, Mr. Fingon?” said Lucy, desperately wanting to puncture his smug indifference. “Why did you want the brooch so badly?”

  “The treasure, of course,” said the old man. “When I was a boy, growing up, my daddy told me all about the Fingon treasure. Riches beyond your wildest dreams, he said. Riches beyond your wildest dreams. I thought it was a lot of crap, until I found this little item in dad’s papers after he died.”

  Julius Fingon reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and pulle
d out a yellowed piece of parchment, folded in quarters.

  “What is it?” asked Lucy, curious in spite of herself.

  “It’s a letter from Henry, Eighth Baronet and Sixth Lord Fingon to my great-grandfather, dated May fourteen, eighteen thirty-two,” he said. “Would you like me to read it to you?”

  Lucy bit her lip. Fingon took a pair of glasses from another pocket and unfolded the letter.

  “‘Dear Cousin Duncan,’” he read in a rapid, perfunctory voice. “‘I am writing to inquire whether you are aware of the legends concerning a priceless treasure which the Fingons were supposed to have been given for safekeeping in ancient times. With father’s death an artifact known as the Fingon brooch has passed into my possession. This brooch allegedly contains half the secret to the treasure, while your branch of the family is supposed to possess the other half. I would consider putting my brooch together with whatever it is that you possess in exchange for an equal share of any treasure we may be led to. Yours very truly.’”

  “So what did they find?” asked Lucy cautiously, remembering the empty grave in Dumlagchtat. Julius ignored the interruption, continuing in a low voice.

  “My great-grandfather scrawled this in the margin: ‘Grandfather did speak of a family treasure. Our half may have been lost in fire of ’07. I pretended ignorance to Henry. Will try to get brooch on next trip to Lis.’”

  Julius refolded the paper and put it back into his pocket. Then he looked over the rims of his glasses at Lucy.

  “But my great-grandfather never made it back to Lis,” he said. “According to dates in the family Bible, he died in a logging accident within three months after receiving this letter. No one else was curious enough to do anything about the brooch, apparently.”

  Fingon paused, momentarily out of breath. Lucy waited. The old man finally went on.

  “But when I found the letter, I dreamed of treasure. I wrote Lord Geoffrey asking to buy the Fingon brooch. He turned me down flat. This convinced me that the brooch was indeed the key to a treasure, an immensely valuable one, or else why wouldn’t Geoffrey sell? The old boy was stone broke. Now I realize that it was my own greed that convinced him that the damned thing had any value. You’re not the first Fingon who didn’t trust a relative.”