Did You Declare the Corpse? (17 page)
Read Did You Declare the Corpse? Online
Authors: Patricia Sprinkle
I was glad to hear Watty call, “We’re going over the pass noo.” At that moment the sun came from behind clouds to beam us over, and we began to descend into a small cup of a glen surrounded by hills and split by a lively burn. In spite of Marcia’s sadness, my spirits rose so high, I felt like a balloon was slowly wafting the bus downwards. When the village lay full before us, I gave a little bounce in my seat.
“Recognize your ancestral home, Mac?” Laura called from the back.
“No, but I’m glad to know my folks had the good sense to live here. Isn’t it beautiful? It has such a
friendly
look.”
friendly
look.”
“That’s where the Laird of Auchnagar lives.” Joyce pointed to a granite house nestled among trees. It was no castle, but it would have held four or five big Victorian houses like Joe Riddley and I had lived in for most of our married life.
As we neared the village, I couldn’t look fast enough. Even Marcia wiped away her tears and got excited. She and I must have looked like herons exercising our necks.
It wasn’t a big place. Maybe thirty gray houses with brightly colored window facings and doors straggled up-and downhill on short, narrow streets. Six or seven shops faced one another across the main street, including a modern chalet so raw it must be new. Ski paraphernalia filled its window.
“Eileen wrote that a ski lift was put in last year,” Marcia told me, sounding as proud as if she were a native. “They hope to attract tourists all year round, like Braemar and Aviemore.”
“That’s the arts center where our play will be.” Joyce pointed to a small building on our right. Like every major structure we’d seen, it was built of granite, with a square tower and arched oak doors.
“Looks like a church.” Maybe Kenny didn’t mean to sound skeptical, but he did.
“It used to be the Anglican church,” Joyce agreed, “but it’s not used for worship now.” I got the feeling she didn’t mind knowing something Kenny didn’t. “There aren’t many Anglicans in Scotland, so Mrs. MacGorrie told me they only used to meet in the summer, anyway, when tourists came. She’s the laird’s wife,” she added, just a shade too casually.
The main street crossed the small burn on an arched stone bridge, then wended its way uphill past a war memorial, a second clump of shops, and an ever-present Gilroy’s Hotel.
“Why aren’t we staying at Gilroy’s?” Kenny asked.
“They’re painting right now,” Joyce explained. “They recommended Heather Glen.”
“Marcia’s aunt runs it,” Dorothy reminded Kenny.
“Oh, that’s right. I’m sure it will be great.” He subsided with unusual courtesy.
“Look!” Dorothy exclaimed as we passed a small gray shop marked with the familiar post-office sign. “That woman looks like you, Jim!”
It didn’t take an artist to see a similarity in the shock of white hair and large hooked nose.
Jim looked, then laughed. “I had the same experience in Israel last year. It’s this schnozz.” He caught his nose between his thumb and forefinger and wiggled it. “You’ll find hooked noses among Scots, Jews, Arabs, Germans—a lot of people have them. Just goes to show we must have a common ancestor somewhere.”
“But maybe your folks did come from Scotland,” Marcia suggested.
“Nope. My ancestors were all Prussian.”
“Gordon’s not a German name,” Kenny objected.
Jim laughed again. Twice in one day set a record for the trip. His next words surprised us even more. “I legally changed my name. Do you think a Grünwald would have much credibility as a seller of Scotch whisky?”
“That’s dishonest!” Kenny sounded as upset as if Jim had admitted to stealing a presidential election—not that anybody ever did. “It’s hard enough to track genealogy without people changing their names.”
Jim didn’t bother to reply.
At the end of the shops the main street forked. Joyce was standing by the door now, as eager as the rest of us to get off the bus. “The left-hand fork, halfway up,” she told Watty. “There’s a meadow across the road where you can park.”
“Och, aye.” Watty downshifted, climbed the hill in low, and swung into a grassy vacant lot. Across the road stood a tall house with a third floor up under the roof, judging from the skylights. Before we could climb down from the bus, a tall thin woman ran out the back door of the house across the road, followed by a muscular young man in cords and a heavy sweater. She wore a gray tweed skirt and a thick blue sweater, and had Marcia’s gray frizzy hair, long, lean grace, and eyes that looked like dabs of coal. But this woman’s face was bright and cheerful, and she was already chattering when Watty opened the door. “You made it fine, then. Welcome to Heather Glen. And isn’t the weather grand for your arrival?”
We all let Marcia go first. As soon as she climbed down, Eileen wrapped her in a hug so fierce I feared it might crush her ribs. “Janet’s wee Marcia! I’m so glad you’ve arrived.”
As the rest of us disembarked, she jerked a thumb toward the young man and said, “He’ll get your bags.” The young man had already headed without a word to where Watty was dragging out luggage. He was muscular and rather attractive, with auburn curls standing like a tonsure around a receding hairline. He greeted Watty with a wide grin that showed white strong teeth, and Watty said something that made him throw back his head and laugh. Then he picked up three of the largest bags. When Dorothy reached for hers, he said, “I’ll get the rest in a minute. Dinnae strain yourself, lass,” and winked at her.
Dorothy, of course, turned bright pink.
“Is that Roddy?” Marcia asked Eileen, watching him cross the road toward the back door.
“Och, no, that’s Alex Carmichael, who’s staying with me until his digs are ready. He offered to come up to help with your bags because Roddy’s working down at the chapel this afternoon. Come along, then, and we’ll get you settled. We’ll have plenty of time to talk later.” As the rest of us headed to pick up our smaller bags, she peered at each of the men. “Which of you is Jim Gordon?” When Jim raised his hand, she fished in her skirt pocket and brought out a slip of paper. “You’ve a message from the laird. He wants you to call. They’re inviting you and your wife to dinner tonight.”
14
Jim slid the paper into his pocket and went to fetch his fiddle. Sherry wore envy smeared like chocolate all over her face. Kenny scowled. I looked around to see how Joyce was taking the news that Jim was on dinner-party terms with the folks who were footing the bill for her play, but she was over by the bus watching Watty take out the bags.
I had thought the house rather severe, to tell the truth, built smack up against the road with only a narrow sidewalk between them. However, that turned out to be the back. Eileen led us through a high green double gate at the side, down a gravel drive, and around the corner to the front door. Now we could see that the house was lovely, its door and window facings painted dark green, with two bay windows upstairs and two down overlooking the hills.
“You can use the back door after this, if you like,” Eileen told us, “but I always bring guests in the front at first. The view is so bonnie.” We all turned obediently to admire it.
A long, narrow lawn of emerald grass ran downhill to a garden patch covered with straw. Beyond the garden was a small stream, then the broad shoulder of the first hill sloping gently to the summit. The lawn was dotted with shrubs, fruit trees, and bare patches that would surely be bright flower beds in a few weeks. Several feeders on low branches were attracting a bevy of birds that darted in and out, keeping a wary eye on us. I took deep breaths of fresh cold air, looked at hills that hadn’t changed much since the first humans saw them, and wondered how my ancestors could have stood to leave that place.
“It’s a grand day, isn’t it?” Eileen sounded as proud as if she’d produced the weather.
“It sure is,” we agreed.
“Why do you have such high fences?” Dorothy asked. “Surely you don’t expect burglars.”
Eileen tilted her head and gave a peal of laughter. “Och, no. They keep out the deer.” She nodded toward the hills. “In the autumn, you can see dozens. Even now you can glimpse one now and then, and at night they roam the village. Be careful if you go walking in the dark.”
A bell attached to the door jangled as we pushed it open, and somewhere inside we heard three muffled barks. “Dinna mind the dog,” she reassured us. “He’s all bark and no bite.”
The wide entrance hall was warm enough but had a smell of cold, as if central heating was a recent investment. A rose-patterned carpet covered the floor and led up white enamel stairs. To the left of the hall was the dining room filled with small tables covered in brightly colored cloths. The kitchen must be behind that, given the serving hatch in the rear wall.
“The lounge is just there.” Eileen nodded to the right. The room looked comfortable and cozy with flowered fabric on sofa and chairs and the rose carpet throughout. A fire burned in the grate, and I felt like I could spend hours in there with a book.
We trailed Eileen upstairs, past a small landing lit by a stained-glass window that flung jewels onto the floor, and emerged in an upstairs hall surrounded by seven doors. Eileen consulted a list, directed us to our rooms and handed out keys, one per person per room. Laura and I got one front corner room, Marcia and Dorothy the other. Ours was large and sunny with twin beds and one of the bay windows facing the hills, the same view I had just admired at the front door. The wallpaper was dotted with small blue cornflowers and the chenille bedspreads were a soft sky blue. “I may stay forever,” I warned Eileen.
She laughed. “You’re welcome to stay as long as you like.”
Jim and Brandi were given one back corner room, Kenny and Sherry the other. Joyce got the small central room over the front hall. Two bathrooms flanked the stairwell.
“Our room is too small.” Sherry stood in the door like a balky mule refusing to enter the barn. “And it’s just got one bed.”
Jim—who had complained about Gilroy’s a few nights back—said nothing about the size or location of their room.
Eileen seemed unruffled by Sherry’s complaint. “I’ve only the two rooms with twin beds down here,” she informed Sherry, “but just you go on up the stairs and take whichever front room you like. The back ones are occupied by Alex and my son, Roddy, but they’re out all day and most evenings, as well, so they won’t be any bother for you.”
Sherry lugged her tote up the stairs followed by Kenny, but was back down in half a second. “There are no windows in those rooms—just skylights.”
“The roof slopes, you see.” Not by the slightest inflection did Eileen indicate that Sherry ought to have expected that on the attic floor.
“We’ll stay here,” Sherry announced, returning to her former room, “but we’ll need more towels. I have to wash my hair.”
“I’ll bring them up in just a wee whiley.” Eileen turned to the rest of us, who were still milling around our doors. “Do any of you need anything? No? Then I’ll go down and make you some tea.”
As she left, Dorothy said to Marcia, “She doesn’t speak Scottish.”
Eileen turned on the steps with a twinkle in her eye. “Och, it’s chust the Queen’s English I was speakin’ for you,” she said broadly, “seein’ as how ye’re from abr-r-road. But if ye’d prefer, I can speak proper from now on.” We shared a laugh, then she reverted to “the Queen’s English” to inform us, “A wee cup of tea will be served in the lounge in fifteen minutes.”
After the tea—which was served with a three-tiered plate of cookies, scones, and cold pancakes—I needed a walk. I’m not much on earnestly walking around and around a track for the sake of my health, but I love a ramble, and ever since Joe Riddley had told me about the trip, I had pictured myself walking through the heather.
Glen Coe did not count.
“The easiest walk is down through the village, along the burnside, up through the manse woods, and back around to the village center,” Eileen told me.
“Will I be walking through heather?”
“Och, no, it’s all fine road, that.” I must have looked disappointed, because she added, “If it’s heather you’re wanting, go up to the top of the brae, here, and around by the reservoir. On the far side you’ll find a track that circles back down to meet the road. You can’t miss it.”
Having ascertained that one got “to the top of the brae” by going uphill on the road that passed the guesthouse, I thanked her and set out.
Within ten minutes I had decided it was a good thing I’d taken my walk that afternoon. In another twenty-four hours I’d be too old to haul my body up and down Scottish hills. The climb was steeper than I had expected, and I was panting by the time I got to the reservoir.
Lying in a plateau of the hill, it was no bigger than a cattle pond back home, casually fenced with wire and apparently relying on gravity to supply the village faucets and on large rocks in feeder streams to purify the water that was shared by humans, deer, rabbits, and other creatures. I hoped the old rule I’d learned from my daddy sixty years before still applied:
“Go downstream five big rocks past where animals drink, and the water’s clean.” I couldn’t help wondering, though, how much acid rain and airborne chemicals might be in that water now.
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