Read Did You Declare the Corpse? Online
Authors: Patricia Sprinkle
Did You Declare the Corpse? (11 page)
With the wind mussing his hair and a drip of moisture forming at the tip of his nose, Jim did look less formidable. Less elegant, too, in tan corduroy pants and a worn brown leather jacket. Brandi, of course, was still gorgeous in a short camel’s-hair coat and peacock blue pants. When she ran gracefully down to the shore and bent to pick up another granite stone for a growing collection that was going to be mighty heavy to carry home, Watty left me and drifted down to chat with Jim. I couldn’t hear Watty’s words, but Jim’s reply was audible.
“Och, no. Just in a geography book, like. But they’re nae bad, are they?” Which, I was coming to realize, was high praise in Scotland. Like Kenny’s, Jim’s accent was growing richer the longer we were there. I wondered if musical people unconsciously picked up accents and, if so, how Jim could maintain his Scottish accent in the north Georgia mountains.
A short time later Watty announced, “We’re comin’ up on Eilean Donan Castle noo. We’re runnin’ a bit late. Are ye still wantin’ to stop?”
“I certainly am,” Sherry answered before Joyce could. “This is my ancestral home.”
“I’d better go in, too, to commune with the spirits of our common ancestors,” I joked softly to Marcia and Dorothy. “My maternal grandmother was a MacKenzie—probably a kitchen maid.”
“You may be disappointed,” Marcia warned. “I’ve read that this castle isn’t very old. It was blown up in 1719 and not restored until the twentieth century. They didn’t finish rebuilding it until 1932, I believe. I’m going to stay on the bus and rest a bit.”
Once again, Jim accompanied Brandi. As we prepared to leave the bus, Joyce requested, “Keep it to one hour, please. We have a lot to see today.”
Old or new, Eilean Donan was the castle depicted on the cover of my guidebook, sitting on a small island out in a loch, and was even prettier than its picture. Feeling a bit proud and proprietary, I snapped a couple of pictures and headed for the bridge. Even knowing that the castle wasn’t really old didn’t diminish the fun of seeing how people may have lived hundreds of years before and what was purported to be a lock of Bonnie Prince Charlie’s hair.
We all hurried as requested, except Kenny and Sherry. It was nearly two hours before Joyce could drag them back to the bus, and they arrived without their customary bags of souvenirs, both faces flushed. The way Sherry glared at Kenny’s back as he climbed aboard, I was surprised he didn’t burst into flame. He came back to sit behind Laura again and said with a little laugh as he dropped into his seat, “Had a bit of a dustup with the cashier in the shop. Took us a while to sort it out.”
Before we stopped for our noon meal—at another Gilroy’s Tearoom—Joyce announced in a strained voice, “To get to Dunvegan Castle and on to Portree by teatime, please eat quickly.”
“But I want to stop in Kyle of Lochalsh,” Sherry objected. “There’s a jeweler there I particularly want to visit. And what does it matter when we get to Portree, so long as we’re there for the ceilidh at eight? Or we could skip Dunvegan.”
By then I’d had enough of Sherry and Kenny dictating our schedule. “Laura is meeting cousins in Portree for tea,” I called, “and I particularly want to see Dunvegan. My guidebook says there are seals there, and I’ve never seen a live seal except in the zoo.”
“Atta girl,” Marcia said softly over her shoulder, and Dorothy leaned up to give me a pat. Laura, however, threw me a look I could not read, then turned to look out her window.
For those who don’t know, Dunvegan is a large granite castle on the northwest corner of Skye, and sits squarely above the sea. It lies nearly fifty miles from Kyle of Lochalsh, where you cross from the mainland to the island, and the only way there is a tortuous, narrow road up along the Cullins, some of the most spectacular mountains in Scotland. Poor Watty was driving right into the sun, but none of the rest of us minded the drive, for the weather was superb, with huge puffy clouds that cast lavender and dark purple shadows on the gray hills.
“We could live here,” I leaned up to suggest to Marcia. “I haven’t seen a soul in miles.”
She nodded, then her eyes brimmed with tears. “I’ve got a bit of a headache,” she said, getting to her feet. “I think I’ll go lie down on the back bench.”
Watty stopped occasionally to point out places of interest, but the wind was so strong that most of us stayed on the bus and looked out the window. Kenny invariably got off, marched up and down, and played the “Skye Boat Song.” After his third rendition, Dorothy leaned up and asked me softly, “Do you suppose anybody has ever been murdered with a bagpipe?”
When we got to Dunvegan, Kenny climbed off the bus and held out a hand to Laura. “Come on, fair wench, let’s go look for seals.”
Sherry’s glare was enough to daunt the stoutest of heart. Laura shook her head. “Thanks, but I’m sticking with Mac, here. She’s the seal lady.” I sure was relieved to see several frolicking near the shore. Seals aren’t the sort of thing you can command at will.
Everybody but Joyce, Jim, and Brandi decided to look at seals before touring the castle. As usual, Kenny and Sherry led the way. Over one shoulder he lectured us on the life cycle and habits of seals while she punctuated his lecture with laments that these seals weren’t as numerous or as active as those they’d seen on other visits.
I finally got so irritated by both Boyds’ pontificating that I said, “I need to get out of the wind,” and headed for protected, sun-warmed rocks. Laura and Dorothy joined me and we sat with our arms around our knees, delighted by what we agreed was an adequate number of reasonably active seals.
“Look at them pushing and shoving, like a bunch of kindergarten children!” Dorothy’s laugh rang out over the water. She seemed a lot less shy since our time together in Glen Coe. “I was reading about Skye last night, and while this was the MacLeod castle, there were a lot of MacDonalds about. Just think, Laura, hundreds of years ago some of your ancestors may have sat on these very rocks looking at those seals’ ancestors.” She opened a sketchbook she’d bought that morning, and brought out a pencil. She looked real pretty that afternoon with the wind ruffling loose tendrils of hair around her face, her cheeks pink as her parka, and her gold eyes dancing at the seals’ antics.
Laura gave a lazy chuckle. “Seals may have
been
my ancestors. The Scots believe in Selkies—seals who can take off their skins and become human. There’s at least one folk-tale about a seal who married a fisherman and had seven children. Who’s to say her husband and children weren’t MacDonalds?”
been
my ancestors. The Scots believe in Selkies—seals who can take off their skins and become human. There’s at least one folk-tale about a seal who married a fisherman and had seven children. Who’s to say her husband and children weren’t MacDonalds?”
“Tell us the story,” I suggested. I knew she’d heard the story from her daddy. Skye MacDonald had loved Scottish fairy tales.
She stretched out her long legs. “Well, once upon a time a fisherman came upon a crowd of Selkies sunning without their pelts. Never had he seen anything so beautiful. Their skin was soft and pale, their eyes bright. And on a nearby rock lay a pile of soft seal pelts. The fisherman thought, ‘If I could have just one of those, I’d be warm forever. If I could get several, I could sell them and buy enough food for the winter.’ So he crept toward the pile of pelts. The Selkies saw him, though, and got there first. He could only grab one before they seized the rest and plunged back into the sea. As he was going back to his house, he heard someone weeping behind him. He turned and saw a beautiful naked woman following him with tears streaming down her cheeks. ‘Oh, please, give me my pelt,’ she begged. Instead, he took her home and married her. They had seven children, and he was very happy.’ ”
“I’ll bet
he
was,” I said sourly, “but I’ll also bet the poor Selkie was sad.”
he
was,” I said sourly, “but I’ll also bet the poor Selkie was sad.”
“She was,” Laura agreed. “Although she loved her children, she yearned to return to the sea. One day, when they were alone in the house, the youngest child asked her mother, ‘Why do you weep so, Mother?’ She replied, ‘I am wishing I had a nice sealskin to make you a new winter coat.’ The little girl said, ‘I know where Daddy is hiding one. Up in the rafters of the room where we sleep. Sometimes he creeps up there when he thinks we are sleeping, pulls it down and strokes it. Then he thrusts it back up above the rafter.’ ”
“Poor man,” Dorothy said softly. “He must have loved her very much.”
“He also held her prisoner,” I pointed out, shading my face from the sun.
“There is that,” Laura agreed again, “but he probably knew what would happen, too, if she ever found it. When the Selkie retrieved her pelt, she kissed her child goodbye and ran toward the sea. The last sight the child had of her was as she turned on the shore, waved, and plunged beneath the waves. On lovely days, though, when the children went down to the beach, they would see a large seal riding the waves not too far out. It would lift a flipper while its eyes streamed tears—for seals cry salt tears, just as humans do, and she truly did miss her children.” Her voice sounded a little choked up and her face was turned away. I suspected she was missing her daddy a whole lot right then.
“Well told!” I applauded. “And you’re real normal for somebody with both intermarriage and seals in her ancestry.”
Laura took a mock bow and barked like a seal.
“If you’re going to tour the castle, it’s time to begin,” Joyce called down to us.
Laura got up and brushed the seat of her pants. “You all coming? They’ve got another lock of Bonnie Prince Charlie’s hair, and a great dungeon.”
“I’ve been here before and one castle a day is enough,” I told her. “I’ll stay here.”
“And I’d like to draw a bit longer.” Dorothy’s pencil moved rapidly on her paper.
I sat enjoying the sun on my face and tried to ignore the stored winter’s chill creeping up through my bottom. That was the afternoon I formulated the MacLaren Theory of Foreign Travel:
There is no law that says you have to learn something every single minute of your vacation.
There is no law that says you have to learn something every single minute of your vacation.
Watching how absorbed Dorothy was in drawing, I asked drowsily, “Were you off drawing in Glasgow when you disappeared?”
“No, I went to the St. Mungo Museum of Religious Life and Art. I’ve had a print of Salvador Dali’s
Christ of St. John of the Cross
over my desk for years, and on our flight, I read in the airline magazine that the original was there. I couldn’t come all this way and not see it, eh? It was simply magnificent!” Dorothy was never so animated as when she talked about art. She continued drawing and I basked in the sun. I don’t know how long we sat there, but I was getting ready to abandon fresh air in favor of getting warm when we were startled by a shout. I sat up. Down the beach, Sherry and Kenny faced off near the water’s edge.
Christ of St. John of the Cross
over my desk for years, and on our flight, I read in the airline magazine that the original was there. I couldn’t come all this way and not see it, eh? It was simply magnificent!” Dorothy was never so animated as when she talked about art. She continued drawing and I basked in the sun. I don’t know how long we sat there, but I was getting ready to abandon fresh air in favor of getting warm when we were startled by a shout. I sat up. Down the beach, Sherry and Kenny faced off near the water’s edge.
Kenny waved his arms in the air while Sherry stood with hands on her hips. Both were yelling. The wind carried some of their words. “. . . crazy!” Kenny shouted.
Whatever Sherry replied ended, “. . . so help me . . . again . . . kill you!” She shook one long forefinger in his face.
He grabbed it and jerked upward.
She yelled with pain and yanked free. Then she whirled and stalked away.
He bent and picked up a stone.
“Hey!”
I don’t think Kenny knew Dorothy and I were there until I yelled. Either the yell deflected his aim or he was a poor pitcher, because the stone hit the water to Sherry’s right. She whirled at the splash. What happened next was too fast for me to be certain about, but I think her foot slipped and she fell in. I do know that Kenny threw back his head and laughed.
She screamed in shock and anger. No wonder. That sea must be full of melted snow. As she struggled to get up, Kenny ran toward her with one hand outstretched, as if to push her back.
“Hey!” I yelled again, scrabbling to my feet as fast as I could.
He looked around, then caught her hand and jerked her up, as if that had been his intent all along. When I got there, Sherry stood on the shore streaming water. Her hair was plastered to her back and she trembled like a paint-mixing machine.
“She slipped,” Kenny told me.
She yanked her hand free of his. Her lips were blue. Her teeth chattered. Her hair hung in wet strings down her back, and the warm tartan cape she always wore clung to her in soaked, icy folds.
“We saw the whole thing,” I warned. Since Kenny made no move to offer her his coat, I whipped off mine. “Here, let’s get you back to the bus, and if we can find Watty, you can get some dry clothes.”
She tugged off her cape and wrung it until water streamed between her fingers. Without a word she handed it to me and squeezed water from her hair. Finally she reached for my coat and wrapped it around her without an ounce of gratitude or grace. Hearing her teeth continue to chatter, I wished again I had brought that dratted liner.
“So help me, one day I’ll kill you!” she hissed at Kenny before she turned and trudged toward the bus, leaving me to carry her sodden, briny cape.
Kenny set off along the water’s edge, making himself scarce.
Dorothy watched him go with a troubled face. “Do you think he really meant to hit her with that rock?”
“Looked that way to me.” I held the cape out so it wouldn’t soak me too badly. “I’d better get back to the bus, too, or you’ll have to carry me in one frozen cube.”
I went so fast that I overtook Sherry halfway. When I came abreast, she flung short, angry sentences at me, willing to confide in anybody to get her grievance off her chest. “That fool maxed out a credit card. Embarrassed me to death when I tried to use it. Who knows what’ll happen now? I warned him to use more than one. Did he listen? Of course not. He’s not even sorry. I think he hopes—” She broke off, pulled my coat tighter, and squished along, polluting the fresh, clean air with huffs of fury and contempt.
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