The Girl with the Phony Name (14 page)

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Authors: Charles Mathes

BOOK: The Girl with the Phony Name
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“Not to worry. Have taken care of ticket already. Ronnie MacPherson arrive from Glasgow in two hours. Maybe you take Wing to airport?”
L
ucy took a bite of toast and looked at the empty chair across from her. It was the next morning. Tak Wing was in Glasgow. She was finally alone.
Lucy had been elated to get rid of Wing at first, had reveled in her long lost privacy, had even enjoyed Wharrie's usual hostile silence after they dropped Wing off at the airfield and headed down the south coast of the island. Nor had she felt disappointed when again her questions about the Fingons went unanswered. She was free.
“What a relief,” she had whispered confidingly to the salt-and-pepper shakers at dinner. “Nobody scrutinizing me for a change, nobody telling me what to do. I prefer my own company, you know. I'm set in my ways.”
The salt and pepper did not reply. Lucy knew what they were thinking: she was talking like an old lady.
She had slept late—it was past eleven. Breakfast was no
longer being served and it was too early for lunch, but one of the staff had taken pity on her and fixed her some toast, reheated some coffee.
Now, taking a final sip, Lucy had to admit that she missed the little man. Wing made for better conversation than inanimate objects did. With him here everything was like some kind of crazy adventure. Now that he was gone, Lis suddenly felt very lonely and forbidding.
Lucy put a five-pound note on the table and tried not to think about it. Wing had been right about his being no help to her here. He might actually turn up something in Glasgow.
“Would you like to leave your key, Miss Snicowski?” asked the desk clerk, a beanpole in a tweed suit, as Lucy crossed through the lobby.
“No, thank you,” she replied politely.
The man frowned disapprovingly but Lucy didn't care. She had been bringing her key with her whenever she went out, despite Wing's protestations that in Europe it was customary to leave one's key at the desk.
Such a custom was ridiculous, as far as Lucy was concerned. She had half a mind to give the Manor Lodge her professional opinion about their security. Desk clerks couldn't know every guest. Someone could just give her room number and get her key. After being burglarized in New York, Lucy was finished with being so trusting. She kept most of her cash in the hotel safe and the room key in her pocket.
“Did you get me another driver?”
“I'm sorry, no, miss.”
Disappointed, Lucy walked down the gravel path toward the waiting car. Ranald Wharrie sat scowling, reading a magazine.
“How about giving me a discount rate, Mr. Wharrie,” she said, getting in. “You're making a fortune and I'm going broke.”
“A hundred pounds in advance,” replied the big Scot.
“Thanks so much for your consideration,” muttered Lucy.
“Ye people aire all alike,” Wharrie shot back with vehemence. “My working season is three months and what I make has to last the year. Ah doon't drive because I laike it, ye know. There airen't any other chobs to be had.”
Lucy had been on her best behavior the whole week, but this was getting ridiculous. She opened the car door and was about to tell Wharrie where he could drive himself when she saw the skinny desk clerk trotting down the walk toward her, motioning with his hands.
“Glad I caught you, Miss Snicowski,” said the man, puffing. “A pairty wishes to speak with you on the telephone.”
Lucy bent into the car to address Wharrie.
“Do you think you can possibly wait for your hundred pounds until I take this call?”
“Aye.”
“Thank you,” she said with exaggerated politeness and followed the clerk back into the lobby to the house phone. It took her nearly twenty steps to realize what a phone call might mean. Could it be that one of her inquiries was about to pay off?
“Miss Snicowski?” said a man's voice on the line, a lilting voice with a soft burr.
“Yes?”
“I understand you're interested in the Fingons?”
“Yes, that's right,” Lucy replied, frightened and thrilled at the same time. “Were you one of the people I talked with?”
The man chuckled. “It's a verra wee island, Miss Snicowski. Word gets around.”
“Yes, of course.”
“MacLean is the name. Angus MacLean. I ken a bit about the Fingons. If ye'd care to buy me a drink, I'd be happy to tell ye what I can. How's that?”
“That would be great,” said Lucy.
“I'm callin' from a pub in Skerrisay called the Fairy's Egg. I'll be here all afternoon, if this is a good time for you.”
“It's perfect. I'm leaving now.”
Lucy hung up the phone. Skerrisay was the size of a postage stamp. If Wharrie didn't know the Fairy's Egg already, surely he would be able to find it—he had to be good for something.
She walked briskly back to the car and got in.
“A hundred pounds,” said Wharrie, dropping his magazine and starting the engine.
Lucy counted out the bills into his hand.
“Do you know the Fairy's Egg in Skerrisay?”
“I can find it,” Wharrie replied, recounting the money and putting it into his shirt pocket.
“Well, that's where we're going.”
An hour and fifteen minutes later, they were again cruising the streets of Skerrisay. Wharrie's knowledge of the village, however, was less than impressive. Luckily Lucy happened to glance down a side street and saw a sign reading THE FAIRY'S EGG swinging in front of a small stone building.
“Stop the car!” she cried.
Wharrie pulled on the brakes, nearly sending Lucy into the front seat.
“Do you want me to wait?” said Wharrie, picking up his magazine.
Lucy satisfied herself that she had no broken bones and looked at the darkened doorway of the Fairy's Egg.
“Why don't you join me for a drink, Mr. Wharrie?” she said, giving it one last shot. “It'll take more than your driving to break my neck. Can't we be friends?”
“I'm renting my motor, not my company,” he said, not looking around.
“Sorry. It's just that … I've come a long way and I haven't been finding what I need. Maybe this is it. I'm a little nervous. Do you understand?”
Wharrie glanced at her in his rearview mirror and pulled down his cap.
“Plenty of us dinna find what we need,” he said.
“Mr. Wharrie?” Lucy said sweetly when she had gotten out of the car.
“Aye?”
“If you don't improve your attitude somebody is going to give you a creepie—and that somebody is going to be me!”
Lucy slammed the door with all her strength.
“Hey!” Wharrie cried out after her, but Lucy stalked into the little pub without looking back.
 
It was a moment before Lucy's eyes adjusted to the gloom in the Fairy's Egg. Everyone was staring at her. “Everyone” consisted of five rough-looking men and the bartender, a heavy man with a frightful scar extending from his temple to his chin.
Lucy sat down at a little table in the corner of the room and folded her hands in front of her, wondering if this had been such a good idea after all.
“Aire ye in the right place, lass?” asked the bartender finally.
“I'm looking for Mr. MacLean,” she said, still feeling like an idiot for trying to befriend Wharrie.
“Why on airth ye be wantin' MacLean?” asked one of the men in a low voice.
Lucy swallowed hard.
“I'm looking for some information.”
“What kind of information?” growled the bartender.
“Mr. MacLean said he knew something about local history.”
The men on the barstools suddenly exploded into laughter.
“Now yer in fer it,” said one.
“At last the MacLean has found his heaven,” said another.
“Ye'll be one sorry lass ye askt,” a third cried, pounding the bar in helpless mirth.
“Here, what's this commotion?” said a white-haired man with a black patch over one eye as he came out of the men's room, zipping up his fly.
“Is it your intention to torture this poor lass with yer
miserable histories, Angus?” scowled the bartender as the others laughed uncontrollably.
“And wha's it to ye if ye can sell a drink?” said the man with the patch, toddling over to Lucy and flashing a crooked smile.
“You're Mr. MacLean?” said Lucy, wondering how she had managed to stumble into
Treasure Island
.
“Aye,” he said, bowing at the waist. “Talisker, Jamie, for the lass and me.”
The men at the bar howled and hooted. Lucy tried to maintain her composure. The bartender put shot glasses in front of them, filled them, and left the bottle.
“I'm Tina Snicowski,” said Lucy to MacLean when the others had quieted down and returned to their own drinking. For the first time she was glad that she had listened to Wing and kept up her disguise. He really had picked a fine time to leave her on her own!
“Drink oop, Miss Snicowski,” said MacLean, raising his glass and emptying it.
Lucy wasn't much of a drinker, but there didn't seem to be any choice. She tried to force down a swallow of the powerful golden liquid without choking. Smacking his lips, MacLean refilled his glass and topped off hers. Occasionally a patron would glance contemptuously over his shoulder at them.
“You're from Lis, Mr. MacLean?” Lucy said, taking another sip of the scotch whiskey and managing to smile in spite of it.
“Aye. My father was a crofter and his father afore him.”
“What's a crofter?”
“Tha's a man who works a croft, a course.”
Lucy must have looked blank, for MacLean squinted at her with his good eye and spoke in kindly tones.
“A croft is a wee wedge of land. Not enough to feed a family on.”
“There's goin' t'be a quiz, lass,” shouted one of the men at the bar, “so ye best take notes.”
“Are you a historian, Mr. MacLean?” asked Lucy uncomfortably. He seemed friendly enough so far, but the Fairy's Egg wasn't exactly a place where a girl could relax.
“I chust ken a bit about local matters is all,” said MacLean, oblivious to the laughter from the ugly throng at the bar. “Sairt of a hobby, ye might say.”
“Why di' ye want to gie me a creepie?” said a voice suddenly. Lucy looked up. Wharrie was standing menacingly next to her chair.
“Because you're an asshole, that's why,” said Lucy, swallowing hard. She glanced at the door, calculating the best escape route in case things got out of hand.
“D'ye know what a creepie is, then?” said Wharrie slowly.
“No,” she said, looking him right in the eye. “I heard the expression from a white settler.”
“Tha' would explain it. Givin' a creepie to a person is not mooch of a threat. A creepie is a wee three-legged stool.”
They stared at one another for a moment, until Wharrie's face broke into a grin. Lucy grinned back. MacLean watched the spectacle, frowning.
“I'll hae that drink wi' ye if yer still willin',” said Wharrie finally.
Lucy resumed breathing and gestured to a chair. The big man took off his cap and sat. Only a few strands of red hair still graced his broad skull. His presence was somehow strangely comforting. If Wharrie had decided to join the human race, maybe things really were looking up.
“This is Mr. Wharrie, who's been driving me around,” said Lucy to MacLean. “Angus MacLean.”
Wharrie's smile vanished as quickly as it had appeared. He nodded warily to MacLean across the table.
“I'm bringin' ye business, Jamie,” MacLean called to the bartender.
“Mr. MacLean is going to tell me about the Fingons,” said Lucy.
“Tha' so?” said Wharrie, obviously not impressed. Then
he said something else that Lucy didn't catch. It wasn't until MacLean answered in strange guttural syllables that she realized they were speaking Gaelic. The bartender brought another glass. MacLean poured Wharrie's drink.
“To new friends,” said MacLean, smiling his crooked smile. Wharrie didn't smile back. They drank. Lucy's eyes teared, but she managed not to cough.
“So, what d'ye need to know, lass?” asked MacLean.
“Well, it's not me, actually,” said Lucy. “I have this friend who may be related to the Fingons and I promised I would find out about them for her.”

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