Authors: Patricia Sprinkle

Did You Declare the Corpse? (6 page)

BOOK: Did You Declare the Corpse?

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“Don’t whitewash it,” Kenny said sharply. “Thousands of families were kicked out of their homes, sometimes into the snow.” He glared over at Jim again, as if he had personally given the order. “Then the laird’s men either knocked down the houses or burnt them, so the people couldn’t come back.”

“Sounds like General Sherman,” I said, trying to lighten things up a bit.

“Just about,” Laura agreed, “except these were their kin-folks they were burning out.”

Kenny opened his mouth like he had more to say, but Joyce said quickly, “So tell us why you’ve come, Dorothy. Was it just to travel with Marcia, or are you Scottish, too?”

“Only partly, that I know of. My mother’s people came from Tain, up near the Dornoch Firth.” Her voice was little more than a whisper. “But I’ve always wanted to see Scotland, eh? So when Marcia said she was coming, I said I’d like to come along.”

Marcia leaned forward and spoke in a confiding tone. “I have an ulterior motive for this trip, too. I’m hoping Dorothy falls in love with a Highland gentleman such as my nephew, who is a few years older than she. If they get married, they can keep me in style when I get old, eh?”

Dorothy turned bright pink and looked ready to dive under her plate. Fortunately for her, Kenny had a one-track mind. “When did your mother’s people come over, Dorothy?”

“I haven’t a clue. It was her great-great-grandmother, I think.” Her face was almost as red as Brandi’s nails and she was clearly distressed at being singled out for attention.

“You ought to find out about them,” Kenny said earnestly. “You never know what you’ll find. I discovered I’m descended from King Robert the Bruce, and we recently found out that one of Sherry’s ancestors—John MacKenzie, who lived in Eilean Donan Castle back in the fourteenth century—actually gave refuge to Robert when he was being hunted by the English. Isn’t that an amazing coincidence?”

I personally thought that was an amazing feat of boasting, but Brandi asked in a breathless voice, “You’re descended from the
king
?”

Before Kenny could reply, Jim murmured to his wife, “A king who lived seven hundred years ago. By now, anybody could be his descendant.” He shoved back his chair. “Would you excuse me? I need to make a few calls before we take off.”

The rest of us on that side of the table sucked in our stomachs and pressed against the table edge to let him out. Joyce looked like she wondered if she ought to follow him, but I saw no need to cater to self-centered surliness. “How about you?” I asked her. “Where are you from and why did you come? Have you always been a tour guide?”

She seemed surprised at being treated like a regular person. “Actually, I’m a frustrated playwright.” She gave an embarrassed little laugh. “I work to support my writing habit. In Auchnagar you will see a short play I was asked to write on the history of the village.”

That cut off our water. We hadn’t paid good money to attend amateur theatricals.

Everybody else seemed as blank as I was about what to say next until Laura finally said, “Have you seen a lot of the world?”

“Yes. I was a flight attendant for twelve years.” She checked her watch. “Eat up, please. We won’t have time for dessert, I’m afraid.” She lowered her voice. “Not that you’re missing much. I am really sorry we couldn’t have had a better meal for your first day out, but they’ll all be better from now on, I promise.”

Before we left for the airport, I dragged my bag to one side and took out Joe Riddley’s gift. It wasn’t jewelry—it was several bills of a denomination that widened my eyes.

I hurried outside and gave him a call. “Buy yourself something pretty to remember the trip by,” he told me. “I love you, Little Bit. Come back safely.”

I went to the ladies’ room and permitted myself one short weep. Then I fixed my face and headed back to the group. I was determined to have a good time on this trip, if it killed me.

Not that I ever expected that it almost would . . .

In the airport shuttle bus, Brandi confided, “Jimmy is on the board of an airline, so we’ve been upgraded to first class.”

As soon as we stepped inside the airport, they were whisked away by a lacquered blonde in uniform and we didn’t see them again until we boarded the plane. Then we got a real good view of them sipping complimentary drinks up front while the rest of us headed back to steerage. As Mama used to say, “There are some things money can’t buy, but the more money you have, the fewer they are.”

The rest of us went through security in a clump, with Joyce bringing up the rear, checking her notebook and counting heads at every bend to make sure nobody had strayed. We eventually began to complain, as people tend to do, wondering out loud why civilized, intelligent North Americans aren’t rising up en masse to protest security processes that do little to deter terrorists, but harass and humiliate harmless citizens. Then Kenny pointed out, “When our ancestors came from Scotland, they were crammed seven hundred or more onto rickety ships designed to hold five hundred. They had too little food, sour water, and a real good chance of dying from cholera or dysentery before they landed. I guess we can put up with a little bit of standing in line.”

“You are such a party pooper,” Sherry said acidly.

But Laura said, “Kenny’s right. We came on this trip to have a good time, so what difference does it make if we spend the next hour sitting in a waiting area or standing here? We might as well have fun starting now.”

After that she, Dorothy, Marcia, and I had a real good chat while Sherry instructed Joyce on what we should have been told in order to get through security faster. Kenny read a dog-eared book entitled
The Highland Clearances
that looked like he’d read it several times before.

However, we were in that line a very long time.

By the time it was my turn to dump my carry-on and purse into bins and walk through the metal detector, I was in no mood to obey an officious guard who told me to remove my shoes and walk across that filthy floor in sock feet. I am not a terrorist, I am a judge. I’d worn those shoes through several airports and knew there was no metal in them, and I had no idea what foot diseases the last hundred people might have left behind. “Let’s try the shoes and see if they beep,” I suggested politely. “If they do, I’ll take them off and go through again.”

In thirty seconds flat I was being wanded up the body, down the body, under the arms, along the inside of my legs, and under the shoes, then I was patted all over. The woman who had been summoned to work me over kept murmuring, in a thick Eastern European accent, that she was sorry to be doing this. I was dying to ask if this didn’t remind her of the worst days of Communism, but hated to get arrested and have to explain to my grandchildren why I hadn’t gone to Scotland. I couldn’t help snapping at the end, though, “This is enough to make radicals of us all.” I got a small smile of what I am certain was agreement.

By the time we finally got on the plane, I was actually happy that Laura and I weren’t sitting together, for I had an empty seat between me and the aisle and I sleep well on planes. When the lights dimmed I lifted the armrest, put my feet in the other seat, and snuggled down with a blanket and pillow, trusting somebody would wake me in Glasgow.

Only when I was about to drift off did I remember I was carrying a lot of cash, traveler’s checks and a passport, and Joe Riddley wasn’t there. Who would guard my pocketbook? Who’d nudge me if I snored? I swung my legs around and sat up, resigned to one heck of a long night.

I read a while, then—bored and stiff—got up and joined a circulating ring of folks hiking to stave off death from blood clots. Up at the thick curtain separating first class from us peons, I peeked through to see how the other one-half of one percent lives. Brandi was dozing and Jim had a spreadsheet on his laptop screen, in easy view. I work with spreadsheets every day, but I’d never seen one belonging to a multimillionaire, so I leaned forward to see if his was more interesting than mine. It wasn’t. His columns were just labeled “patrons served” and “cost per serving” instead of “original order” and “stock on hand.”

Back in steerage I waved at Laura, who was watching a movie, and pitied Dorothy and Marcia, who were in a long center row with three squirming children whose parents were dozing in the row ahead. After I’d made the U-turn at the back and headed up my own side of the plane, I found Kenny sprawled in an aisle seat glowering at a drink. Fumes surrounded him. Four small empty scotch bottles and a glass with a few melted cubes in the bottom sat on his tray table. Sherry slept against the window, wearing an eye mask. She had taken off her hair clip, and her hair slithered down her shoulders like black snakes. I tiptoed by with a little wave, but Kenny crooked a finger at me, so I stopped. I figured I could turn my head a little if I found it necessary to breathe.

“You friends with Laura?” His voice was a soft, hoarse croak.

“Yes. Her folks were some of my best friends.”

“I liked old Skye. Knew him for years.” He swirled the ice around in the bottom of his glass. “I guess Laura and her brother inherited the whole shebang, huh?”

I frowned. “You’ll have to ask her about that.”

“I guess.” He pursed his plump red lips and blew air through them, staring morosely ahead of him. “Some folks have all the luck, don’t they?” He was just sober enough to realize how that sounded, because he lifted one hand and wiggled it. “Oh, I don’t mean Skye and Gwen Ellen dying. And Laura deserves the best. She was always a good kid.”

“She still is,” I assured him. “A real fine person.”

“Yeah.” He sank into either thought or a stupor.

I moseyed on and found Joyce working on a laptop with the screen turned away from the aisle. “We’ve got some busy bees on this tour,” I greeted her. “You and Jim make me feel like a slacker. Are you writing another play?”

“No, just working on some line changes.” She lowered the screen. “I’d made the laird seem weak in one scene. Are you looking forward to the trip?”

I allowed as how I was, and then—since she didn’t seem to mind talking—I propped my backside on her armrest and asked, “How’d you come to write a play about Auchnagar?” What I really wanted to ask was, “Did you arrange this whole trip so you’d have an audience?”

She gave a deprecating little laugh that couldn’t hide her pride. “It was a miracle, really. When I was preparing for this tour, I stayed a week in the village. Leaving the post office one morning, I literally ran into Mrs. MacGorrie—the laird’s wife.”

She paused, so I nodded, to keep her pump primed. “She’s American,” she went on, “but interested in Scottish history and ancient arts. She’s turned an abandoned church into an arts center where they have demonstrations of ancient weaving and pottery-making and all sorts of lectures. So after I’d apologized for nearly running her down, I asked if there would be anything going on at the arts center you all might be interested in, and she offered to show me around. During the tour, we got to talking about what a good place the old sanctuary would be for plays, and I mentioned that I’m a writer. On a whim, I said I’d love to write a play about the history of the area. Next thing I knew, she was saying, ‘See what you can do, and send it along. If I like it, we’ll put it on.’ ”

“And she did like it”—from experience with one writer I know, I knew Joyce could go on for ages if I didn’t cut her short—“so they’re putting it on for us.”

She nodded, her face bright. “And if it works, they’ll perform it all summer.”

“That’s great! I’ll let you get on with what you’re doing, then.”

I returned to my seat and fumbled in my carry-on bag for my book, but before I got it open, shouts erupted in the back of the plane.

Terrorists!

My first thought was echoed in screams and squeals as others struggled awake.

A bevy of flight attendants hurried toward the disturbance.

A few men rose halfway from their seats, ready to go if needed, but hoping their day for being heroes had not yet come. I honored them for being willing.

One of the flight attendants hurried back toward the front of the plane and a soothing voice spoke over the intercom. “There is no cause for alarm. Everything is under control. But please remain in your seats. The captain has illuminated the seat-belt sign.”

She lied. Shouts and yells still came from the back of the plane.

However, just then one of the voices slurred, “Y’all git away, now. This is jist ’tween her ’n’ me.” That particular terrorist spoke like a drunk South Georgian. I’m used to those, so I slid toward the aisle and craned my neck to look without making my head too much of a target.

Kenny and Sherry stood in the aisle gripping one another by the forearms. I couldn’t tell who was shaking whom, but in the dimness I saw her hair slinging back and forth like a dark string mop.

Two flight attendants sought to separate them, but Kenny elbowed them away. “Git y’r hands off me! We kin settle this if I kin just make her see reason.”

“Shut up and sit down, you lush!” Sherry jerked one hand free and slapped him hard.

“I’m not puttin’ up with any more!” His shove sent her staggering back several steps.

BOOK: Did You Declare the Corpse?

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