Read Did You Declare the Corpse? Online
Authors: Patricia Sprinkle
Did You Declare the Corpse? (5 page)
A wave of delicious perfume preceded her as Brandi came toward us. She gave me a smile that said she’d been waiting all day to meet me, and I felt real special—until I saw it was the same look she gave Laura, then Kenny and Sherry as they joined us. I wondered if it came natural or if she practiced it.
Brandi looked around again and bestowed approval on us all. “I’m so glad you all got here early too. Maybe we can get a bite of supper or something before we go to the plane.”
“I asked you to be here by four-thirty.” Joyce sounded like her jaw had frozen.
“Oh, really? I thought you said eight-thirty.”
“That’s when we have to be at the airport.”
“Oh, dear!” Brandi gave everybody a look of contrition. “I am
so
sorry. Jimmy told me it was four-thirty, but I erased the e-mail and remembered eight-thirty. Well, here we are now!”
so
sorry. Jimmy told me it was four-thirty, but I erased the e-mail and remembered eight-thirty. Well, here we are now!”
“Yes, here we are now,” Joyce repeated. “As soon as Jim joins us, I’ll make a few housekeeping announcements, then we can eat.”
Brandi called to her husband, who was following the chauffeur and the bags. “Oh, Jimmy, you were right. Joyce says we
were
supposed to be here by four-thirty.”
were
supposed to be here by four-thirty.”
“That’s what I told you.” He sounded more indulgent than anything. “Sorry, Josie.”
“It’s Joyce,” she said firmly.
He nodded. “Right. Joyce. Sorry.” His voice was brusque, almost dismissive.
I looked at Kenny and Sherry conferring to one side, at Mr. Gordon turning to give his chauffeur some last instructions, at Brandi Gordon with her perfect smile, at Joyce who seemed wound tighter than a woman ought to wind, and I felt a surge of panic. I didn’t want to fly all night across the ocean and spend two weeks with these people. Whatever had possessed me to go off and leave Joe Riddley this way?
I would ask myself that question several times before I saw Atlanta again.
4
After a short welcoming speech, Joyce gave us each a green tote bag with “Gilroy’s Highland Tours” in white letters. With the tote bags she handed out a final itinerary. “This has been revised based on questionnaire answers you sent back about places you particularly want to see.” When Kenny and Sherry asked about a couple of places on the original list that were no longer there, she shrugged. “Nobody requested them.”
“I didn’t know we had to request places already on the itinerary,” Sherry objected.
I hadn’t either. I sure was glad Auchnagar hadn’t been cut.
Joyce looked at her watch. “We can talk about that later. We need to go in to dinner right now. We’re still waiting for two folks, so the motel has agreed to serve us here, in their private dining room.”
Private dining room? Private dining closet was more like it. I felt we ought to take turns breathing. Laura was not shy about going first, so she scrunched along behind the chairs down to the far end. Jim and Brandi got ahead of me, so the three of us sat along the left side while Joyce, Kenny and Sherry edged in on the right. That left an empty seat on each side nearest the door. Until the others arrived, at least I’d be able to get out quick in case of fire.
That was the only sunny thought in an otherwise ghastly meal. I don’t remember anybody appointing Kenny and Sherry to lecture us, but they immediately began a nonstop duet. He described the weather we could expect and places we simply must visit while she provided a counterpoint about why each place was better in winter, fall, or summer, and how much we would miss by going in spring.
Dinner had been advertised as “blackened chicken with green beans Chinoise.” That translated into charred chicken breasts and almost-raw beans doused with soya sauce. To add insult to injury, the place didn’t even serve sweet tea. In Georgia, that is a crime. If this dinner represented the quality we could expect for the next ten days, I wanted Joe Riddley’s money back. Preferably in cash I could spend before he knew I had it.
When Sherry got caught up in a monologue about how much we were going to miss by not visiting Burns country in the south, I was delighted to see our last two group members finally arrive. I’d been picturing myself leaping across the table to strangle Sherry with her own hair.
I could have guessed that the newcomers were Canadian. Their sweaters were heavier than any I owned and the younger woman’s face was red from heat, her bangs stuck to her forehead with sweat. She hovered behind her companion as they stepped through the doorway.
“It’s good to finally be here, eh?” The older woman sank gratefully into the chair next to me, her voice soft and weary. “We—Dorothy and I”—she gestured to the tall girl behind her, who looked poised to take flight any moment—“had snow delays in Calgary, eh?” She gave us a rueful smile and pulled off her cardigan. “Hard to believe, as hot as it is down here.”
She was tall and gaunt to the point of emaciation, her skin stretched taut over high, prominent cheekbones. Beneath thick black brows, her eyes burned like coals in a ravaged face surrounded by a soft, frizzy halo of grizzled hair. The gray hair, her frailty, and that sense of great weariness made her seem old, but when I looked closer I guessed she was closer to forty than fifty. However, her clothes sagged as if she’d taken them from a larger woman’s closet, and as she turned to signal her companion to come on in and take a seat, I suspected I was looking at a woman who was terminally ill—maybe one who, like Laura, was making a pilgrimage.
“I’m Marcia Inch, by the way,” she added, then nodded at her companion, “and this is Dorothy Cowling. We work together at the Calgary library. Dorothy works in reference and I am in charge of acquisitions.”
With a bob of her head and a quick flash of the deepest dimples I’d ever seen, Dorothy sat down next to Sherry. Her sweater was so bulky and her long skirt so shapeless that it was hard to tell much about her figure, but she had pink cheeks, flawless skin, a round, pretty face, and a thick chestnut braid that hung down her back past her waist. We got a quick glimpse of pale gold eyes before she lowered her lashes.
They were barely seated when Sherry started up again on her litany of wonders we were doomed not to see, but Laura tapped her water glass with her knife. “Before you continue your interesting report, Sherry, could we go around the room and say who we are and where we are from? I’d like to know a little bit about why everybody came on this trip. Since I have the floor, I’m Laura MacDonald, from Hopemore, Georgia. For those of you who aren’t properly educated, that’s the county seat of Hope County, located midway between Augusta, Macon and nowhere. I came because I made several trips to Scotland as a child with my folks, but I want to see it again as a grown-up.” She didn’t mention her parents’ deaths. Laura was not one to wear sorrow on her sleeve. She did add, “Plus, it’s the first time off I’ve had in two years.”
“That’s awful,” Brandi cooed. “What do you do?”
She gave a little shrug. “Work in an office.”
Brandi’s eyes widened and her lashes brushed her wispy bangs. “You must have a slave driver of a boss!”
“Sure do,” Laura agreed cheerfully. “How about you folks?”
Brandi turned to Jim and took his arm, a signal for him to speak for them both. He had been shoveling in his dinner like burnt chicken and undercooked beans were his favorite foods, but he paused long enough to answer. “We live up in the North Georgia mountains, near Blue Ridge.” His voice was husky, with an accent I couldn’t place. “We came on this trip because Brandi has a hankering to see the Highlands by bus.” He gave her a frosty smile. When she squeezed his arm, her diamonds caught the overhead light and sent rainbows dancing on the far wall.
How long would that marriage last once her figure sagged and her upkeep bills rose? Or once his health started to fail? From Joyce’s expression, she was wondering the same thing.
“Do you play the fiddle?” Sherry inquired. I couldn’t tell whether she was glad to meet a fellow fiddler or unhappy to have competition.
Jim nodded. “A bit.” He picked up his fork again to return to his meal.
“He’s marvelous,” Brandi informed the rest of us. “Simply wonderful.” She gave Jim’s biceps another squeeze, her nails making it look like she’d drawn blood.
“Are you a Scot?” Marcia called down across me and Brandi. “You sound like my dad.”
“No.” He continued to eat like he found nothing to object to on his plate.
Brandi’s teeth flashed nearly as bright as her diamonds as she smiled around the table.
“Jimmy owns Scotsman Distilleries, so he thinks he needs to talk like that. He’s done it so long now, he’s forgotten what he used to sound like.”
The rest of us sat there like open-mouth flycatchers. Scotsman was an elite distillery up in the Georgia mountains that made limited quantities of very expensive single-malt scotch.
I gave myself a mental kick for not recognizing Jim. His craggy features had been pictured in several Georgia business magazines over the years, along with the kind of rags-to-riches story we in the USA love to claim as typically American. In Jim’s case, a poor but ambitious young man had come down to Georgia from somewhere up north to work in a liquor distributing company in Albany. He had helped to build up the business, married the owner’s daughter, and become CEO when his father-in-law died. Soon afterwards, he had sold that company and launched Scotsman Distilleries. Rumor was, he’d developed the recipe for his famous product as part of a basement hobby. None of the articles I’d read had mentioned whether his former wife had died or been traded in for this younger model.
And I should have recognized Brandi’s tartan at once. A series of kilted Highlanders had worn that plaid on labels in my pantry for years, because Skye MacDonald and Joe Riddley had celebrated every conceivable occasion by giving each other scotch from Scotsman Distilleries.
I glanced down the table at Laura, but she was looking at her plate. Grief is bad about popping up at unexpected moments.
“I thought you looked familiar!” Sherry practically leaned across her plate trying to establish a connection. “We’ve bought our liquor from your old company for years and years, and my aunt was a friend of your former in-laws.”
Jim didn’t reply, clearly considering his dinner more interesting than that.
Joyce quickly turned to me. “What about you, Mrs. Yarbrough?”
I wished I could say something to make Laura smile again, but I wasn’t feeling real humorous, between missing Joe Riddley, looking down at burnt chicken and raw beans, and thinking about dead friends. What I wanted to do was jump up and shout, “I came because my husband made me, dang it! He paid to send me away!”
What else could I say? Yarbrough Feed, Seed and Nursery might be important in Middle Georgia, but it was small potatoes compared to Scotsman Distilleries. I didn’t want to inform folks I was a judge, either, and stuff a rag up everybody’s chimney. Haven’t you noticed how, when folks discover there’s a judge or a preacher among them, they sit up straighter and act different?
When the silence grew long, I finally said, “Well, I’ve been married over forty years to one man, which ought to earn me some kind of medal, and we have two sons and four grandchildren. My husband sent me on this trip so he and our younger son can sneak away for a few days of deep-sea fishing without feeling guilty.”
That got a little chuckle, as I’d hoped, and brought color back to Laura’s cheeks. If folks presumed I was a housewife, that was their own stereotypes showing. “I’m especially looking forward to visiting Auchnagar,” I added. “My mother’s people came from there.”
“So did my parents!” Marcia’s smile was unexpected and sweet. “They emigrated to Canada soon after they married, eh? I came on this trip because my mother’s sister keeps the guest house in Auchnagar where we’ll be staying. Heather Glen, it’s called. Dorothy and I will stay on a few days after the tour is over. Who were your people?”
“The MacLarens, but I don’t know if there are any left. Most of the clan came from Perthshire, but our branch made its way up to Auchnagar a generation or so before they emigrated to the Carolinas.”
I had the feeling that somebody around the table had given a start when I’d mentioned the MacLarens, but I didn’t notice who it was.
“Did they come during the Highland Clearances?” Kenny asked.
“No, they came after Culloden,” I told him.
“What were the Highland Clearances?” Dorothy asked Sherry in a soft voice.
It was Kenny who answered, and his words sizzled around the table. “One of the greatest, greediest betrayals of family that history has ever known. Women and children starved. Old people froze alongside the road. Men drowned because they were forced to make a living fishing when they had never handled a boat.” He clutched his knife so hard I thought he’d bend it. “And for what? So a few rich men and women could get richer raising sheep than they had leasing their land out for family farms.” He glared across at Jim and Brandi, but Brandi was checking her nail polish and Jim was still plying his fork with single-minded concentration.
Dorothy looked down at her plate, her cheeks flaming. “Sorry. I didn’t know. Was that a long time ago?”
That time, Sherry answered. “They started around 1772 and lasted nearly a hundred years. Of course, they were a real boon to America and Canada, because that’s when a lot of Scots came to both countries. That’s why so many of us now go back to celebrate our ancestors.”
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