“It’s the anniversary of my mother’s death, you see,” he explained as he returned with a bedraggled bouquet. “I always bring flowers. But I’ve ruined this lot, haven’t I?” He looked down at them in dismay. “My wife arranged them so all I had to do was stick them in the vase, but look at them now. Kitty will kill me, Godfrey, and it’s all your fault.” He bent again to fondle the dog’s head. Godfrey made little happy noises in his throat. Apparently he feared his mistress far less than his master did.
Remembering the woman I’d seen the night before, I calculated that the laird’s wife was as tall and somewhat heavier than he, and must be at least ten years older. I had no doubt that she wore the pants in the family, in more ways than one.
“Let me see what I can do with the flowers,” I offered. I arranged them as we walked together toward the monolith.
He went to his car for a plastic jug of water and filled a stone urn by the base of the stone, then took the flowers from me and stuck them in with little ceremony. “There you are, Mum.” He stepped back and rubbed his hands together with a dry papery sound. “They look fine. I cannot thank you enough. Kitty takes this annual ritual very seriously.” He leaned over and cupped one hand around his mouth to confide (although we weren’t in earshot of a soul except Godfrey), “Far more seriously than Mum would, if she knew a thing about it.” He seemed very pleasant, as lairds go. I hoped I wasn’t supposed to curtsy or something.
He whistled and Godfrey came bounding from where he had obediently remained. “Will you accept a ride back to the village by way of an apology for Godfrey’s lack of manners? And mine!” he exclaimed. “I never asked your name.”
“I’m MacLaren Yarbrough. I was looking for ancestors’ graves, but I only found modern stones here. Where are the older graves?”
He looked around the churchyard, puzzled. “You know, I have no idea. We have a family plot on the estate, but—” He looked distressed again, as well he might. Not to know where the peasants are buried would seem a serious breach of lordly responsibility.
“I’ll ask in the village,” I said, letting him off the hook. He looked relieved.
“Where are you from, Mrs. Yarbrough?” He was at least socially proficient. He had remembered my name and looked for my wedding ring before he spoke.
“Georgia.”
“My wife is from Georgia!” He rubbed his hands together again in pleasure. “Have you ever been to Albany?”
“Several times. We live not too far from there.”
He beamed. “Now, I insist. You must let me give a fellow Georgian a ride.”
I looked at his ancient Land Rover and thought of all the hair and drool Godfrey had deposited over the years. “No, thank you, I’m enjoying my walk.”
I was declining what might be my only lifetime offer to ride with nobility, but at least I could brag that a laird once made me a proposal and I turned him down.
“Well, I will certainly tell Kitty I met you. We have quite a contingent of Georgians in the village just now, did you know? They’re on one of Gilroy’s tours.”
“I’m with them. I believe you already know one member of our group—Jim Gordon?” I wanted to see his reaction. Would he look furtive?
Not at all. “Oh, yes. Jim, Kitty, and her brother, Norwood, were friends back in Albany. He brought his wife to dinner last evening. Pleasant woman.” He didn’t sound the least bit attracted by Brandi’s charms.
I grew bolder. “Jim said he has some business in Auchnagar.” I have found that making a statement is often better than asking a question.
He beamed as if I’d brought up his favorite subject. “Oh, yes. He and I plan to build a first-class hotel just down the road.” He gestured away from the village. “We hope to get it up and running in a year or so. Skiing is big business in this part of Scotland, but Jim also wants to build a golf course adjacent to the hotel, to attract summer visitors.” He looked about him at the brown fields and bare hills. “It will spruce the place up a bit. At this time, we only have the one hotel, Gilroy’s. And while it’s clean and comfortable, it doesn’t attract—”
He let that trail off. I suspected he’d been about to say “the best people” and then had remembered I was on a Gilroy’s tour.
He whistled for Godfrey, who came bounding our way with delight. “I will probably see you again, for I believe Kitty has arranged a little get-together for your group tomorrow evening, following a dramatic performance written by one of your number.” He cupped his hand again and confided, “My brother-in-law is highly pleased with the piece. He used to act in amateur theatricals, you know, and he’s appearing in the play. He quite fancies himself as the laird.” The droll look he gave me before he headed to his Land Rover left me smiling as he drove away.
I still had time before dinner to cruise the shops looking for a special souvenir for Joe Riddley and one for myself. I found a bookstore and hoped for a book on the MacLarens, but settled for a small book bound in Stewart tartan silk and titled
The Clans and Tartans of Scotland.
When I carried it over to the counter, the clerk asked, “Are you with Gilroy’s tours, then?”
When I admitted I was, she asked, “Did your friend make the bus all right?”
Sherry must have been there, too. “I don’t know. I thought she was getting a ride. She and Eileen were talking about somebody who might drive her.”
“Och, that’s all right, then. She was in here asking about taxicabs, but we dinna have any in Auchnagar. I hope she remembers to catch the late bus, or she’ll need to stay the night.”
“I’m sure she’ll be back long before that,” I assured her. “Thanks for asking.”
The shop that eventually caught my eye had a window filled with oils and watercolors of Scottish scenes. Several small framed watercolors depicted scenes from Auchnagar, and would be perfect souvenirs. I could not only get them in my extra suitcase and enjoy them daily, but also leave one to each of my sons to remind them of their own heritage. Not that they’d care much about that while they were still middle-aged, but they eventually might. The less future you have, the more you value the past. “Welcome!” called someone from the back room as the bell tinkled over the door. Alex Carmichael came through to the shop. When he saw who I was, his smile widened until his eyes almost disappeared. “One of Eileen’s guests,” he exclaimed. I heard a rustle from the other room, like a small mouse had scurried to its hole.
I explained about the watercolors, and he spent time helping me choose from several that were similar, pointing out details in each. We finally settled on a scene of the bridge I had just crossed and the mountain I could see from my window.
“You didn’t paint these, did you?” I asked as he rang them up.
He laughed. “Och, no. I used to paint, right enough—even went to art school. I’d drive through Auchnagar on my way to and from home, and plan how I’d come up here after graduation to live and paint. Instead, I got a summer job in this gallery and discovered I preferred helping artists sell their work. It’s very satisfying to match the right picture with the right customer. So I bought out the former owner, and here I am.” He gave a judicious look at the two watercolors we had selected for my souvenirs. “I think ye’ll be pleased with these.”
“I’m sure I shall.”
It was his chin that convinced me. It was strong and square—the kind of chin I’ve always associated with men and women of character. I found myself wondering whether strong chins and strong character were genetic traits that went hand in hand, or whether a child with a strong chin had to develop a strong character to survive the chin until he or she grew into it. Either way, this was a young man I instinctively trusted to give me a good deal, although the watercolors cost more than I had expected once we had converted pounds to dollars.
I rationalized that Joe Riddley wasn’t the only one who could give me presents for my trip. I could afford to treat myself as well. But as I boldly handed over my charge card, I did feel a little twinge of guilt. There I was, not two hours after criticizing Sherry for charging her way across Scotland, doing the same thing. Talk about looking at the splinter in somebody else’s eye around the log in your own. . . .
But as long as I admitted I had a log in my eye, I might as well make it a big log, so while Alex wrote up the sale and wrapped the pictures, I browsed the shop again and selected unframed prints for each of my granddaughters, as well. I was carrying them back to the cash register when, through an open door to a back room, I recognized the dark head with a swinging braid bent over a table.
“Dorothy?” I called before I thought.
She whirled, and the blood rushed to her face like I’d caught her shoplifting.
“Dorothy’s helping me out,” Alex informed me. “My usual framer had a baby a couple of weeks ago, and I’ve gotten far behind.”
“I did this in high school and college,” Dorothy added, still standing there like she expected me to haul her off to jail any minute. “She’s a judge,” she added to the young man with a scared look in her eye.
I had no idea how she’d found out, but it didn’t matter. “I don’t have any jurisdiction in Scotland,” I assured her, “and I won’t be talking to immigration authorities anytime soon.”
She gave me a relieved smile, but still looked so worried that I said to Alex, to boost Dorothy’s morale, “Dorothy’s an artist, as well. Did you know? She does terrific sketches.”
The color had subsided in Dorothy’s cheeks, but now it rose again.
“And paints as well,” Alex agreed. “She mentioned that last evening, and we made a deal. I can’t rightly pay her, since she doesn’t have a work visa, but I’ve offered her a canvas and the use of some oils and brushes this afternoon. I’ve got a lovely deck on the back with a spectacular view. Dorothy can work out there, if she likes and it’s not too cold.” From Dorothy’s expression, I doubted she’d have cared if it had been lashing snow.
I climbed the hill to dinner wondering if there was something in the air of Auchnagar that made people a little crazy. Here Jim was, planning to build a hotel with a golf course in partnership with his ex-wife’s friend and her husband, although after what “wee Morag” had said about Kitty having the money in the family, I wasn’t sure what the laird had to do with the deal. Laura was sitting up half the night with a married man. Sherry was buying heavy woolens to take back to South Georgia. And Dorothy was more than half smitten with and working illegally for a tall, good-looking giant who had a girl in Aberdeen. I’d thought the quarrels of the past had been bad, but three days in Auchnagar could be worse.
Looking back, I’m glad I had no inkling just then of how bad they were about to get.
17
Laura arrived at the dinner table looking more at peace and greeted me cordially enough, so I presumed we wouldn’t mention our earlier encounter. As Eileen brought our soup, she asked, “Did you enjoy your walk up the brae, then, Laura?”
“Sure did,” Laura replied. “I met a troop of Girl Guides and arranged to climb the big hill out the window, there, with them this afternoon. You want to come, Mac?”
“I guess so.” Maybe I could come up with a good excuse before it was time to leave.
“Did you wear Brandi out this morning?” I asked. We were the only two diners in the room.
“She begged off at the last minute this morning, but I’ll see if she’s interested this afternoon. We should get a glorious view of the whole glen.”
Brandi never came to dinner. Neither did Kenny or Joyce. Marcia carried in wide bowls of dark red oxtail soup just as Eileen ushered in a Catholic priest. “This is Father Ewan. On Fridays, his housekeeper goes away to her sister’s and he takes his dinner with us.”
The priest was a man of many interests, including the history of Auchnagar. When Laura mentioned that I’m a Presbyterian elder, he insisted that I let him show me his church. Why not? It was as good an excuse as any for not climbing a mountain.
I tell you this—as I later told Joe Riddley—to explain exactly why I ended up, less than an hour later, standing over a wooden coffin in the Catholic church, peering down at a body.
It took me a minute to realize that Father Ewan was speaking to me. “I said, I don’t suppose you know who he is, do you?” He took my elbow to draw me away from the sight.
“I’m afraid I do. His name is Jim Gordon, and he’s a friend of the laird’s wife. His wife is with him on the trip. He played the fiddle.” I didn’t know why I added that. For Jim, maybe.
I felt a deep sadness that his plans for Auchnagar had come to this. He was just like that man in the Bible, who increased his barns only to be told, “This night your soul will be required of you.” Poor Jim should have left work at home and enjoyed his last vacation.
Father Ewan pulled me toward the door. “You stand watch,” he told Roddy. “I must call the police.” Ignoring Roddy’s lively protests, he asked me, “Are you all right? It is a shock—”
I settled for a nod. If I listed for him all the dead bodies I’d seen in the past two years, it might sound like bragging, and being well acquainted with death is nothing to brag about.
Outside, I clasped my hands tightly together to stop them from trembling and inhaled deep, crisp breaths to keep my dinner down. He pulled out his cell phone and asked, “Since you are acquainted with the deceased, would you wait with me until the police come?”