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Authors: Charles Mathes

BOOK: The Girl with the Phony Name
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L
ucy was in a lecture room at Harvard. Why hadn't she gotten around to studying for this test? How could she have been so lazy, so foolish?
The other students effortlessly filled out their blue books. The men were all ex-presidents of their suburban high-school classes and captains of their football teams. The women were cheerleaders with perfect features and extensive wardrobes. Lucy looked down at her clothes, covered with food stains from her job in the cafeteria. She didn't even know what the question was, for some reason. She tried to shrink in her seat, to be invisible.
“Lucy MacAlpin Trelaine.”
She looked up with a start. The professor was right in front of her, staring at her blank test booklet.
“Why aren't you prepared, Miss Trelaine?” said the professor angrily. “Is this how you intend to live your life?”
“What are you doing at Harvard?” asked a well-dressed young woman with a tight smile.
“You just don't have what it takes!” a perfect-looking young man in a blue suit yelled from the back.
“You're not wanted here,” said another. “You don't belong.”
“Get out, get out!” chanted the class rhythmically.
Lucy opened her eyes and for a moment didn't know where she was. The walls were whitewashed, the ceiling was beamed. It was a large room with sunlight pouring through mullioned windows, catching dust motes in midair. A cherrywood highboy sat in the corner. A hooked rug was thrown over the wide planks of the flooring.
Lucy sat up with a start, shaking the dream from her head. Suddenly she remembered. This was the Manor Lodge. She was in Iolair. On Lis.
Lucy had had this dream before. No matter how much she told herself she didn't care about flunking out of Harvard, she knew she had cared. It was awful not to measure up, not to belong. She struggled into control of herself, then walked to the bathroom to brush her teeth and sort out yesterday's events in her mind.
There had been no taxi or bus service from the airstrip, since most of the traffic onto the island was by ferry. The Pembles had had their car parked at the remote landing field, however, and had given Lucy and Wing a lift to the hotel.
It was a twenty-minute drive. Maura and Tim had talked nonstop, but afterward Lucy couldn't remember a word of the conversation, just the stark glens of deer grass and new heather, the twisted hawthorns and hazel bushes, the pink granite cliffs and waterfalls, the black volcanic peaks against the slate gray sky.
The huge old hotel sat atop a sheer escarpment overlooking Loch Hagstal. It was a stone building. All the buildings she saw were stone, which was not surprising. Except for a few carefully fenced areas, there seemed to be no trees anywhere on Lis.
It had been midafternoon when they arrived at the Manor
Lodge and were shown to adjoining rooms. Wing had wanted to get something to eat, Lucy told him to go on without her.
She had badly needed to sleep, but there was something that Lucy had to do first, something she wanted to do alone. She had waited until Wing's footsteps disappeared down the hall, then picked up the tiny island phone-directory. It had taken her a long time to work up the courage to open the book. This was the moment of truth.
There were no Trelaines.
There were no MacAlpins.
There wasn't even a Fingon.
Lucy had drawn a deep breath, not understanding why she felt so relieved. Then she had taken a long, hot bath in the huge, claw-footed bathtub—there was no shower—and fallen into a deep and instant sleep.
Now it was morning. Washed and feeling human again, Lucy put on a pair of slacks and a sweater and headed downstairs. Halfway down the hall she turned and dashed back to her room. She had forgotten to put in her contact lenses. Luckily, no one had seen her.
“Remind me to be more careful, will you?” Lucy said to a responsible-looking chair. Wing was right. It would be better to remain as Tina. At least for now.
Brown-eyed again, Lucy ventured down the vast staircase. A breakfast buffet was set up in the sprawling dining room.
“Good morning … Tina,” said Wing, rising from behind a plate piled with eggs, smoked fish, and sausages.
“Good morning, Mr. Wing,” Lucy said, suddenly realizing how famished she was.
“Go get food. You look hungry. You sleep okay?”
“Like a baby,” she replied and headed for the buffet.
Though it was still early in the tourist season, the Manor Lodge was already crowded, which was not surprising considering that it was the only hotel on the south side of the island. It had once been a hunting retreat. Heads of stags graced the
battered, dark, wood-paneled walls. Most of the accents Lucy heard at the tables around her were English, tourists on holiday. Several of the tourists were staring at Wing as if they had never seen an Oriental undertaker in an opera cape and top hat at breakfast before.
“So where we start?” said Wing, after Lucy finished her second helping of eggs and third cup of strong, black coffee.
“I guess we should rent a car,” she said.
“We go to unpronounceable town?”
“Dumlagchtat.”
“Okay. I drive.”
“Maybe I better drive.”
“You have Tina Snicowski driver license?”
“No,” said Lucy, “but I'm sure it will be okay.”
“Not okay,” said Wing decisively. “You get ticket, cop ask for passport, we are in deep doo-doo. Wing drive.”
“I suppose you have a license?”
Wing pulled one out of his pocket and grinned.
“Wing driver first-class. Used to be chauffeur for fish long time ago.”
“Are you sure you can still handle a car?”
Wing nodded vigorously and signed the check.
“We have lots of fun. You see. Come, come, come.”
Lucy followed him to the hotel desk with all the enthusiasm of a condemned murderer. The thought of careening around a strange country on the wrong side of the road with Wing at the wheel was about as appealing as menstrual cramps.
“We wish to rent car, please,” said Wing, bowing to the clerk, a middle-aged man with sandy hair.
“I am sorry, but there are no rental caires on Lis,” said the man, trying to conceal his surprise at finding such an unlikely figure before him.
“Hosanna,” said Lucy.
“There aire a few local people with motors, however, who
will hire their services. Shall I try to arrange something for you?”
“Please,” said Wing. Lucy fought down the impulse to ask what it would cost.
“It may take some time,” said the clerk. “If you'd like to return to your rooms, I can ring you up when your man arrives.”
“Cannot come right away?” said Wing, tapping the counter with his finger. “We have important things to do, please.”
“We'll be happy to wait,” said Lucy, leading Wing away by the arm.
“So much to do, yes?” said Wing. “Not very efficient place.”
“They just do things a little differently, that's all. Now here are some tourist brochures we can read and I'm sure the car will be here in no time.”
“Okay,” said Wing. “You read. Wing explore grounds.”
“Don't go too far.” Lucy sighed, watching the little man dart away. Wing had a metabolism like popcorn. He never sat still. If this took longer than a week, she reflected sadly, she might have to kill him, too.
Lucy went back to her room and threw herself onto the bed, still feeling sluggish from the long trip, still nervous about what she would find in this strange place. She opened a brochure entitled “The Glorious Past” and found herself reading about the three ruling families of Lis: the MacDonalds, the MacKinnons, and Lucy's jaw dropped open—the Fingons. If she were indeed a Fingon, Lucy realized, then she was descended from Scottish nobility!
Her excitement waned, however, as she read further.
The history of the Fingons was sickeningly bloody. Down through the centuries, Fingons had slaughtered their dinner guests, tortured their enemies, and massacred one another. And more than once—she read with horror—a Fingon father had murdered his own children, and vice versa! Not that such
deeds were unusual for the nobility of Lis. The MacDonalds and the MacKinnons had equally grisly exploits to their credit.
The phone rang. Lucy jumped practically a foot.
“Your car is here, miss,” said the desk clerk.
“Thanks,” she replied. Sobered, Lucy proceeded down the staircase into the lobby, happy to leave the bloodshed of the past behind. The only history she should be concerned about, she told herself, was the events of thirty years ago.
Through the hotel's open door she could see a large, black sedan in the driveway, but no sign of Wing. Lucy wandered through the two small sitting rooms and then ventured out back. Still no Wing.
“Have you seen my friend?” she asked the desk clerk.
“No, Miss Snicowski,” replied the man. For a moment Lucy didn't know who he was talking to, then remembered she was still supposed to be Tina.
Resolving to drop the disguise at the first suitable moment, Lucy ventured back into the dining room, where a few stragglers were still eating. Traveling with Wing was like traveling with a naughty child.
“Have you seen the Oriental gentleman that I was with this morning?” she asked a waitress.
“I believe he's in the kitchen, ma'am,” the girl replied, gesturing toward a door. Lucy rolled her eyes and walked into the hotel's kitchen.
Wing was sitting on a chair in the corner of the ancient scullery, arms folded, watching a large, heavy woman dressed in white stir a gigantic pot of something.
“Excuse me?” said Lucy tentatively.
Wing looked up. The woman kept stirring.
“Our car's here, Mr. Wing.”
Wing stood and bowed to the fat woman, who didn't look up.
“Thank you very much.” He bowed again, turned on his heel, and headed for the lobby. Lucy followed.
“What was she making?” asked Lucy.
“Pickled herring. Wing get good idea for Neat ‘n' Tidy.”
“I don't want to hear,” said Lucy, leading him out of the kitchen.
“Not for corpses!” protested Wing, reading her mind. “For Aunt Sally.”
“You'd pickle Aunt Sally?”
“No, no, no. For Aunt Sally to cook.”
They were now in the driveway and approaching the car.
“Hello, I'm Tina Snicowski,” said Lucy, getting into the large, black sedan, “and this is Mr. Wing, who is not going to go wandering off by himself anymore.”
“Ranald Wharrie,” said the driver, not looking up from his magazine. He was a large, red-faced man with bushy eyebrows and a battered cap.
“I drive. Okay, Mr. Wharrie?” said Wing, trying to open the door to the front seat.
“I am the driver or you nae ha' the use of my motor,” replied Wharrie languidly, pressing down the door lock.
“I think we should respect the man's wishes,” said Lucy, relieved. Wing shrugged and got into the backseat next to her.
“A hundred pounds per day,” said Wharrie to Lucy, holding out his hand. “In advance. Ye also pay for my gas.”
“That's outrageous!” exclaimed Lucy.
“Pay it or find another driver,” said Wharrie.
“It's okay,” said Wing, reaching for his wallet. Lucy grabbed his hand.
“Look, Mr. Wing. I appreciate everything you've done for me, but I'm not some charity case.”
“Sure, Ruc … Tina,” whispered Wing, eyeing the back of Wharrie's head. “Wing just want to help.”
“I know. But this is my problem and I can pay my own way. You're just along for the ride, remember?”
Wing sat back silently in his seat and looked inscrutable. Lucy fished in her pocket for the money. A hundred pounds
was practically a fortune at current exchange rates, but she wasn't in any position to argue right now. They could find a more agreeable (and cheaper) driver tomorrow. And she could always have Billy Rosenberg wire cash if, God forbid, she needed more than Wing had advanced. The important thing was to let Wing know who was in charge of this little expedition.
“Do you know where Dumlagchtat is?” Lucy said, leaning forward.
“Aye,” said Wharrie.
“That's where we want to go.”
Wharrie started the engine. Chills swept down Lucy's spine. For the first time the significance of their destination had sunk in. The answers to all her questions might be only a few miles away.

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