Read Did You Declare the Corpse? Online

Authors: Patricia Sprinkle

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BOOK: Did You Declare the Corpse?
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If he had forgotten the night Laura MacDonald and I confronted two drug dealers with no weapons but my pocketbook and her knee,
1
I wasn’t about to remind him.
“Don’t forget,” he added virtuously as he plopped filthy sneakers on top of clean clothes, “taking a vacation was your idea.”
“
A
vacation.” I headed to the dresser and started double-checking to be sure everything was in my cosmetics bag. “Not two.”
For months I’d been wanting to see more of the world than Hopemore, Georgia. I was tired of juggling work at Yarbrough Feed, Seed and Nursery with my responsibilities as a county magistrate, not to mention all the things Joe Riddley and I did at church and in the community. But I had envisioned a warm tropical island with us in new bathing suits, sipping exotic drinks beneath a thatched hut while wiggling our toes in a floor of sand. I’d planned to snorkel all morning and laze under a beach umbrella all afternoon with a stack of good books.
Instead, I was heading to Scotland, where the agency who’d arranged the tour claimed I’d need several layers to stay warm at the end of April. Instead of paddling in tepid water, I’d be following a tour guide up and down Scottish “hills”—which anybody with eyes in their head could see were mountains. And I’d be doing all that not with Joe Riddley, but with Laura MacDonald. Joe Riddley might be ornery as all get-out at times, but we’d been vacationing together for well over forty years and I saw no reason to change that.
Besides, while Laura’s parents had been two of our dearest friends and I’ve known and loved Laura all her life, she was barely twenty-seven. I suspected we might have different definitions of the word “fun” on a vacation.
I shoved another pair of socks into my bag. “I never dreamed you wouldn’t go with me. I’ve never been abroad without you, and that boat thing—”
“Don’t you think we’ve covered that ground pretty thoroughly in the past few months?” His voice was gruff, and he turned his back to me. In the dresser mirror, I watched him slide something that looked like a jeweler’s box from one pocket and slip it into my bag. He turned back to his case with a frown. “Have I forgotten something?”
“Underwear. If God hadn’t created Eve, do you reckon Adam would have invented underwear?”
“If God hadn’t created Eve, Adam wouldn’t have needed underwear. He’d have obeyed God and run around happily naked.” He left before I could come up with a good reply.
I picked up my well-thumbed travel brochure from the dresser and thought how smart the travel folks were to send everything via e-mail for us to download and print ourselves. Must save them enormous amounts of money. But as I crammed it into my pocketbook with all the other necessities for a transAtlantic flight, I glared at the perky “Explore Your Roots!” on the cover. All the roots I wanted right that minute were in Hopemore.
Don’t get me wrong. I appreciated the fact that Joe Riddley had wanted to surprise me by giving me a two-week bus tour of Scotland that included four days in the village where Mama’s family, the MacLarens, came from. I also knew he had an ulterior motive in sending me. Laura had told him about the trip, and she’d lost both her parents the previous year. She’d been working real hard since then, for she had inherited, along with her younger brother, three motor companies he had no inclination to help her run. Laura loved the companies and ran them smoothly and profitably, but she could use a break. When he’d told me about the trip, Joe Riddley had reminded me, “Remember how Skye and Gwen Ellen used to take the kids to Scotland every year or two? This will be Laura’s first trip back alone. I think she’ll like to have a friendly face along.”
Before you get all soft and mushy about what a selfless fellow Joe Riddley is, though, you need to know that while I was on the far side of the Atlantic, he and our younger son, Walker, would be taking my two precious grandsons deep-sea fishing in the Gulf of Mexico.
“Cricket’s sure to fall in,” I warned for the fiftieth time as Joe Riddley came back with his rattiest boxer shorts. Every time I thought about that four-year-old loose on a boat in the middle of the Gulf, I felt desperate. I knew I ought to cancel my trip and go with them, even if I am prone to get seasick on a rowboat in a calm lake.
Joe Riddley didn’t say a word, just started tucking underwear around his jeans, shirts, and socks with the same concentration Noah devoted to building the ark.
“You all are going to have to watch Crick every minute,” I insisted. “You know how easily he burns. And how he climbs and wanders.” Clear as day, I saw that small, brownhaired boy climbing a mast and pitching headfirst into the sea. My knees buckled. I’d have fallen headfirst myself if I hadn’t collapsed onto the bed beside my case. “Ridd should be going, too.” Ridd, Cricket’s daddy, would keep a close eye on him. Too close for Cricket’s liking.
“You know Ridd can’t leave in the middle of a semester.” Joe Riddley didn’t miss a beat in the underwear-distribution business. “And unlike some people, he and Martha think a mere grandfather and uncle can take adequate care of their little fellow. Besides, Crick’s almost five, swims like a fish, will wear a life jacket all the time, and has Tad to watch him.” He zipped his case like a man who’s had the last word.
I clutched the bedspread with both hands to keep from strangling him. “How can somebody who forgets long-sleeved shirts, his own toothbrush, and a razor remember to watch a child? Furthermore, let me point out that Tad’s only eleven, with the attention span of a gnat. Less, if he takes along one of those video games he’s always playing. Crick will drown before Tad notices he’s gone. Besides, Tad’s not a strong swimmer. He couldn’t save anybody. And you men will be on the other side of the boat reeling in fish, paying no attention to those boys whatsoever. I’m not going to Scotland. I’m coming with you.”
“It’s a men-only trip.”
When I didn’t reply, he came over and took my chin in his hand. “It’s gonna be fine, Little Bit. You still trust God to run the universe, don’t you?” He worked my head up and down by the chin. “Well, why don’t you trust God to take care of your grandsons, for a change?” He dropped my chin and turned away. “Dang it, much as I hate to admit it, you’re right about one thing, though. I might need a long-sleeved shirt.” He stalked out, calling as he went, “We’re gonna take good care of those boys. You just ride through the hills of Scotland picturing Walker, their granddaddy, and their heavenly parent all keeping eagle eyes on them.”
“And one of those might not get distracted by a fish.” Still, I did feel a little better. Faith is a bit like a marriage license. Most of the time you take it for granted, but on wobbly days, it’s good to call it to mind and lean back on the promises it stands for.
Joe Riddley came back with a red plaid T-shirt and added it to his case.
“You’re gonna look like a rainbow,” I warned.
“Fish will be jumping into the boat to take a gander at me. Probably a couple of mermaids, too.” He stood erect and gave me a frown. “You got that international cell phone Walker lent you, so you can call every day and make sure things are okay here while I’m at sea?”
I pulled it out of my pocketbook and showed him. “I just have to figure out where to get a SIM card once we get to Glasgow.” It still amazed me that something so small could bounce a message from Scotland to a satellite orbiting the earth, then send it accurately to Hopemore, Georgia. Walker assured me it would. He had even explained about buying a SIM card in Scotland so calls would be cheaper.
“Good. You finished packing? Laura’s gonna to be here in less than an hour.”
“I’m finished.” I zipped my case while still sitting on the bed, for my knees were still too shaky to bear much weight. Pulling that zipper felt like closing the lid on two little boys’ lives. Even God might get distracted by a really big fish.
I knew better than to mention the boys again, though, and I still had one more legitimate complaint. “You could at least drive me to Atlanta. You all don’t leave ’til tomorrow.”
“Laura’s got a perfectly good Thunderbird and friends who’ll let her park in their drive while you’re gone. Besides, I’ve got a meeting at church tonight, and saying goodbye wouldn’t be any easier in Atlanta than here.” He reached out his long arms, pulled me up against him, and leaned down to rub his chin against the top of my head. “You know what your trouble is? You’re already missing me, and you aren’t even gone yet.”
I leaned against him, smelling his dear, familiar warmth and feeling the strong, slow beat of his heart beneath my cheek. “I don’t like going without you.” I felt ready to bawl.
He spoke into my hair. “I’m beginning to regret it myself. Come on. We’ve got time for me to give you a little something to remember me by. And keep in mind, this is as close to danger as I want you to get in the next two weeks.”
 
Laura arrived before I got my shoes on, my lipstick fixed, or my hair combed again. “Ready to go?” she asked from the stoop, too eager to leave to bother coming in.
Laura had inherited her daddy’s big frame, deep voice, strong features, wide smile, prominent blue eyes, and sunny disposition. Her mother had wanted a cheerleader and beauty queen. She had gotten a plain, sweet child who captained champion soccer teams and grew up to get her MBA and take over the family businesses. Only recently had Laura forsaken mannish navy or gray slacks and blazers for bright colors, cut her thick, blond mane into a short, becoming style, and started wearing a little makeup. Today she looked almost pretty in tan jeans, a peach turtleneck, and a fringed jacket of chocolate-brown suede.
The way she eyed my disheveled hair and sock feet sent me dashing back to our room.
“I’m so embarrassed,” I whispered to Joe Riddley, who was still tucking his shirt back in his pants. “Heaven knows what she’s thinking.”
“She thinks you’re running late and pink with excitement. At that age, did you imagine that folks over sixty . . . ?”
“Hush!” I hissed. “She’ll hear you!” I tugged my sweater down and put on my walking shoes. “I hope I don’t die of heat prostration before we get there.” The thermometer had been climbing all afternoon and was hovering around eighty. Even though we’d been warned that April in Scotland could be cold, there was no way it could be cold enough for a trench-coat liner. I zipped mine out and flung it on the bed as I hurried after Joe Riddley.
Laura covered the ground behind him with the bounce she used to have in her step heading into an important soccer game. I found my own spirits dancing a little jig. I hadn’t been to Scotland in twenty years, and since then I’d researched where my own family had come from. When I finally stood in the village of Auchnagar, would I feel any sense of coming home?
As Laura popped the trunk, Joe Riddley told her, “Remember, now, I’m counting on you to keep Mac relatively sober and prevent her from haring off after kilted Highlanders. If you happen to find a fellow
you
like, though, bring him on back.”
“Ben might object,” I pointed out. Ben Bradshaw owned and managed the service department of MacDonald Motors, and had been squiring Laura for over a year. I sneaked a quick peek at her ring finger, but it was still bare. Drat Ben, what was he waiting for?
Joe Riddley slapped away Laura’s offer to lift my suitcase with the familiarity of a man who had once changed her diapers. “Think I’m gettin’ old and feeble? I can still arm wrestle you to the table, and don’t you forget it.”
“Stop squabbling, you two,” I told them, tugging the neck of my sweater away from my neck, “and let’s hit the road. I’m so hot, I’m fixin’ to die.” Getting into that car and slamming the door behind me was hard, though. My whole body felt like a magnet pulling toward Joe Riddley. But I resolutely clicked my seat belt to keep myself in and leaned out the window for one last peck. “You be good, now,” I warned him.
“I’ll be good or I’ll be careful. You be both.” He stepped back so Laura could pull out. It took a while for my eyes to clear of tears, but Laura tactfully fiddled with the radio to find some good music and pretended she needed to concentrate on her driving to get through the traffic jam of downtown Hopemore, population thirteen thousand in the greater metropolitan area.
When we were finally on the two-lane leading to the interstate, I pulled out the list of people joining us in Atlanta. “There are only eight names, counting us. Do you reckon that’s all that’s coming? Looks like they’d have to have more than that to make a profit.”
“Especially with hiring a bus.” If there’s one thing Laura and I both know, it’s profit and loss. “Maybe another tour group will join us at the airport or over in Glasgow.”
“Maybe so.” I turned to another puzzling thing. “Did you notice that two of the women are named Brandi and Sherry? Could those possibly be their real names?”
“Sherry’s is. She’s a fiddler, married to Kenny Boyd, who is a piper. They come to all the Stone Mountain Highland games.” As she passed a car, she gave her deep trademark chuckle. “I used to have the worst crush on Kenny when I was fourteen. I’d follow him around and save every gum wrapper he dropped. But if you tell him, I’ll drop
you
off a mountaintop.”
“So they are around your age?” I wondered if I’d be the only person over sixty on the trip.
Her reply didn’t answer that question. “Oh, no, he’s twelve years older, and Sherry’s older than that. I just didn’t figure the difference would matter, once he looked at me and fell in love.” We laughed together at the dreams girls can dream, then she filled me in on what she knew. “Sherry’s aunt owns a restaurant down in Savannah, but I heard she retired to Florida several years ago and lets Sherry and Kenny run it now. They still come to all the Stone Mountain games, but they hang out mostly with other musicians. I don’t think I’ve spoken more than two words to them in ten years. Kenny and Daddy were buddies, though, and he wrote a real sweet note when Daddy died. He’s the one who sent me the brochure for this trip, too.”
BOOK: Did You Declare the Corpse?
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