Did You Declare the Corpse? (36 page)

Read Did You Declare the Corpse? Online

Authors: Patricia Sprinkle

“He played the violin beautifully,” Sherry reminded her, as if that excused the rest.
“He must have gotten his music from his dad,” Eileen murmured. “Oh, poor Barbara, to lose him twice. She’s aye grieved over Hamish, you know. When she was young, she fair worshiped the ground he walked on.” She turned to Marcia. “We’ll go down to her right away. Roddy can put the dishes in to soak. I’ll just bring in the pudding now, shall I?”
“Jim probably got his famous whisky recipe from his dad, too,” Laura murmured to me when Eileen had bustled out. I knew what she was thinking. After today, a Scotsman whisky bottle would conjure up additional memories for both of us.
Joyce put down her napkin and her voice was brisk. “As sorry as I am about Jim, I am glad to have his death explained. I think we should leave first thing tomorrow, as originally planned, don’t you? Does anybody mind?” Hearing no objections, she added, “But no more poking around, Mac. Leave that to the police.”
I fixed her with what my boys used to call “Mama’s Killer Stare.” “I have done all the ‘poking around’ I plan to,” I assured her, “but if you’ve got something to hide—”
She rose and headed for the door. “I’ll check with the police to see how soon we can go.”
Sherry called after her, “What entertainment are you providing tonight, now that the play is cancelled? Will Watty take us somewhere else on the bus—maybe into Aberdeen, to catch a concert or something?”
Joyce gave her a look that would have sizzled Sherry’s gizzard, if she’d had one. “At this point, you are on your own.” She closed the door behind her with such a bang, I could picture her hopping the next bus and washing her hands of us forever.
Dorothy left soon afterwards, eager to start painting. Kenny and Sherry announced they were going for a walk—which I suspected would take them to a more private place to yell at each other. Roddy brought more hot water for our teapot, informing us, “Mum and Marcia are off to see Barbara Geddys. Do you need anything else?”
Laura gave him a considering look. “What’s this I hear about you taking Mac for a ride on your motorbike without offering one to the rest of us?”
Roddy lit up. “Would you like a wee ride, then, to the next village and back?”
“I’d love one.” Seeing my surprise, she informed me, “I’ve always wanted to ride a motorcycle, but you didn’t mention motorcycles in Daddy’s house.”
“Do your hair a favor and wear a helmet,” I advised. “Not to mention saving your head.”
“Och, I require all riders to have helmets,” Roddy informed me, then added with a snicker, “except when they hijack me in the middle of the road, like.” He headed back to the kitchen, calling over one shoulder, “Knock on the door when you’re ready for your ride.”
“I’ll just wait until you get the dishes in hot soapy water,” she informed him.
We lingered over our last cup of tea, then Laura pushed back her chair. “Well, I’m off into the wild blue yonder. What about you?”
“I’m heading straight for the Land of Nod.”
Before I napped, I called Joe Riddley on the cell phone. He ought to be up by now, I figured. Sure enough, he was sitting in our john-boat down at our fish camp on the lake. “Didn’t you get enough fishing on the Gulf?” I demanded.
“Can’t ever get too many fish,” he replied. “I’ve got enough to fill up the freezer.”
“We can’t fill up the freezer. Martha and Ridd’s garden will be in in a few weeks, and we’ll be freezing vegetables. Not to mention that pig he’s feeding for us to butcher next fall.”
“Little Bit, did you call me to discuss our winter menus? Because if you did, I see a fish jumpin’ out there, and he’s got my name written all over his back.”
“Did you take any of the boys down with you?” I couldn’t bear to hang up quite yet. Hearing his voice gave the illusion that he could be just down in the village.
“No, I brought Ben Bradshaw. Went by to get my oil changed yesterday, and he looked so doggone sad about Laura being gone, I figured he could use a little entertainment.”
“Well, that’s one mystery solved, at least,” I said happily. “I’ll tell Laura when she gets back from her motorcycle ride.”
As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I regretted them. Why did I ever mention—
No, it wasn’t the motorcycle word I feared. Sure enough, Joe Riddley zeroed in on the other
m
word. “What mystery is
not
solved?” he growled.
“Oh, nothing much. I’ll tell you about it when I get home. I need to go now. You all have fun, and we’ll see you Monday afternoon.” When you’ve had as many years together as we’ve had, you learn when it’s good to spend time conversing and when it’s better not to.
 
I figured I’d fall right asleep, the house was so hushed and empty. But once I’d climbed into bed and pulled the covers up to my chin, I was wide awake. I lay there a while, replaying the morning over and over: Joyce’s attempt to straighten me out, my unexpected visit with Barbara, the wild ride through the village, Morag’s story, Ian’s flaming admission that he’d killed Jim, and the unpalatable truth that I could be kin to both brothers. I hadn’t mentioned that to the group when I told Jim’s story. Now I kept hearing Barbara’s final cry against the men in her family, “May God forgive the lot o’ ye for all ye’ve done to me.” What a prize bunch of cousins I’d uncovered!
Barbara might be a relative worth getting to know on another visit, but she’d have little use for me right now. Poor, poor Barbara.
I squeezed my eyes tighter shut, determined to sleep, but have you ever noticed that once you decide to go to sleep, you can’t? Sleep is one of life’s greatest unsolved mysteries. We do it almost every day, yet never learn how it is we either fall asleep or wake up.
Since I obviously wasn’t going to sleep anytime soon, I climbed out of bed, opened the curtains, and swung Eileen’s big chair around to face the bay window. Those hills had been there a lot longer than human beings, and would be there when I and all of my contemporaries were gone. I wanted to picture them lying peacefully beneath the sky in a world with no people to mess it up. Maybe that would calm me down so I could rest.
Instead, I noticed a man in the distance, beyond Eileen’s fence, wearing overalls and a short-sleeved shirt, and remembered that it had been warming up when I left the police station. Why not sit in Eileen’s garden for a while? It would be something to tell my grandson Cricket: “Me-Mama sat without a coat way up at the top of the world.” So I grabbed my heaviest cardigan and a thick afghan Eileen had thoughtfully draped on our chair, and headed out the front door.
The sun was gentle, the breeze taking a rest. Daffodils nodded at my feet in the soft carpet of grass, and tulips were already several inches high. Shrubs were beginning to come to life after their winter hibernation, and birds were checking out various bushes and trees for future homes.
I chose a bench well down the lawn toward the stream, wrapped my legs tightly in the afghan, and sat enjoying that spectacular view. I murmured the one hundred and twenty-first Psalm: “I will lift up my eyes to the hills. Where does my help come from? My help comes from the Lord, who made heaven and earth.” And I vowed that Joe Riddley and I would come back one day, and have ourselves a real vacation here. We’d follow deer tracks, shop in the village, eat Eileen’s cooking until we were ready to burst, then come out and sit in her garden to doze.
Today, though, the hills didn’t make me drowsy. They reminded me of the evening I had gone up the brae and heard Norwood Hardin knock Jim down. But who killed Norwood?
It didn’t take much thought to discard Ian as a suspect. Like Norwood, Ian was quick-tempered, a hitter. Whoever killed Norwood had taken the time to lure him into the chapel while Roddy ran out for cigarettes, then stabbed him with a dagger procured in advance.
And managed to get into the chapel and out again without being seen.
Who could most easily walk about a chapel invisibly?
A priest.
Father Ewan had still been with the sergeant when I left the police station, but he could have left soon afterwards and run into Norwood. What was Norwood doing at the chapel? And why should Father Ewan kill him?
I know it’s fashionable in the media to cast religious leaders as villains, but I’ve known a number of them and have known only one who committed a crime. So who else in Auchnagar might have had a motive to kill Norwood? Would I ever know? If I asked her, would Eileen send me the answer when the sergeant discovered it? I hate dangling ends in my life.
Kitty MacGorrie might have a real good motive, after living with Norwood for fifteen years. That probably went double for the laird. I’ve known a few nice murderers in my time.
At that point I hit a blank. I didn’t know Norwood well enough to know who else might have reason to kill him—unless it was one of his former shareholders, like Sherry’s aunt Rose.
I winged a little prayer. “If there’s anything I know that could help uncover his killer, please let me remember it before we go home.”
Armed for action, I considered Kenny and Sherry. Was there anything I knew about either of them that the Auchnagar police might not discover?
All that thinking did what the mountains had not. I laid my head back and dozed.
Behind me, I heard someone call, hesitantly, “MacLaren?”
I turned and saw Joyce coming down the garden path, again wearing her trench coat. I greeted her with a welcoming smile. “Hey. I’m just sitting here enjoying the sunshine.”
She came nearer and stood with her hands behind her, pale and looking plumb worn out. “I saw you down here and came to apologize for what I said at noon. I’ve been real worried about this tour, but that was no reason to be rude to you.”
“Nor for me to be rude to you,” I agreed. “I’m sorry, too, and it’s too nice a day to harbor grudges. Why don’t you sit a spell, and tell me how things are going and what we’re going to do next—if that doesn’t sound too motherly?” I smiled to show that was a joke.
An answering smile flitted across her face for an instant. Then she shook her head. “That sounds nice, but not today.” She took a step closer. “You know, don’t you?”
As she looked down at me, she wore the same unhappy expression the camera had caught years before in the picture of Norwood Hardin’s marriage. Again little things fell into place. None seemed important at the time. All were desperately important now.
“You’re Jocelyn Gray,” I said with a nod. “Jim kept calling you ‘Josie,’ and you called him ‘Jim’ before he came inside, although Brandi called him Jimmy. That migraine you had at breakfast yesterday gave you a chance to fetch Kenny’s
sgian dubh,
didn’t it? And I guess you did order the coffins and pay by mail, signing Jim’s name to the order. Was one of them to provide a fitting, symbolic resting place for Norwood after you killed him?”
She didn’t say a word.
“You sent them to the wrong place, though. Jim—Hamish—would have known the local distinction between the chapel and St. Catherine’s. You didn’t, and nearly fell down the stairs when I told you they had turned up in the Catholic church. You must have been on your way to kill Norwood that very minute, Kenny’s weapon in your bag with the props.”
She blinked, and I remembered what I couldn’t after our nocturnal conversation. Her eyes were blue that night, until she went to wash her face. Then she must have put her brown contacts back in. This afternoon, in the soft Scottish sunlight, her mousy brown hair showed golden roots, and one look at her face confirmed my instincts from that evening: she was more wild woman of the mountains than mouse.
Slowly she brought her right hand from behind her. It held one of the swords from her play, and she looked like she planned to use it and knew how.
I gulped, my mouth dry. Why had I blabbered on so about what I knew? Heck, I hadn’t even known most of it until I said it. Truth itself had come pouring out of depths I didn’t know I had. But while the Bible says truth will set you free, it was about to see me freer than I’d hoped to be for a few years yet.
I couldn’t hope to escape. I could not run with the afghan wrapped around me like a cocoon. Besides, this woman was thirty years younger and jogged almost every morning. Why hadn’t I stayed in better shape? Learned karate?

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