Did You Declare the Corpse? Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Teaser chapter

  Praise for Patricia Sprinkle

  Who Killed the Queen of Clubs?

  “Time to sit on the veranda with a nice glass of lemonade and enjoy this down-home mystery full of charming characters and sparkling Southern witticisms.”—FreshFiction.com

  “A terrific read.”—Romantic Times

  When Will the Dead Lady Sing?

  “Patricia Sprinkle takes the reader on a trip to the ‘real’ South, the South of family traditions, community customs, church-going, and crafty, down-home politics. Reading it is like spending an afternoon in the porch swing on Aunt Dixie’s veranda. . . . A delightful book.”

  —JoAnna Carl, author of the Chocoholic mysteries

  Who Let That Killer in the House?

  “Sprinkle’s third Thoroughly Southern Mystery is thoroughly absorbing.”—The Orlando Sentinel

  Who Left That Body in the Rain?

  “Forming a triumvirate with Anne George and Margaret Maron, Sprinkle adds her powerful voice to the literature of mysteries featuring Southern women. . . . Highly recommended.” —Mystery Time

  “Who Left That Body in the Rain? charms, mystifies, and delights. As Southern as Sunday fried chicken and sweet tea. Patricia Sprinkle’s Hopemore is as captivating—and as filled with big hearts and big heartaches—as Jan Karon’s Mitford. Come for one visit and you’ll always return.”

  —Carolyn Hart, author of the Henrie O and Death on Demand mysteries

  “Authentic and convincing.”

  —Tamar Myers, author of Grape Expectations

  “An heirloom quilt. Each piece of patchwork is unique and with its own history, yet they are deftly stitched together with threads of family love and loyalty, simmering passion, deception and wickedness, but always with optimism imbued with down-home Southern traditions. A novel to be savored while sitting on a creaky swing on the front porch, a pitcher of lemonade nearby, a dog slumbering in the sunlight.” —Joan Hess, author of The Goodbye Body

  Who Invited the Dead Man?

  “A wonderfully portrayed Southern setting . . . MacLaren seems right at home in her tiny town.”—Library Journal

  “Touches of poignancy mixed with Southern charm and old secrets make Who Invited the Dead Man? a diverting read.”

  —Romantic Times

  And her other novels . . .

  “Light touches of humor and the charming interplay between MacLaren and her magistrate husband make this a fun read for mystery fans.”—Library Journal

  “Sparkling . . . witty . . . a real treat and as refreshing as a mint julep, a true Southern pleasure.”—Romantic Times

  “Sparkles with verve, charm, wit, and insight. I loved it.”

  —Carolyn Hart

  “Engaging . . . compelling . . . a delightful thriller.”

  —Peachtree Magazine

  “The sort of light entertainment we could use more of in the hot summer days to come.”—The Denver Post

  “[Sprinkle] just keeps getting better.”

  —The Post and Courier (Charleston, SC)

  Thoroughly Southern Mysteries

  WHO INVITED THE DEAD MAN?

  WHO LEFT THAT BODY IN THE RAIN?

  WHO LET THAT KILLER IN THE HOUSE?

  WHEN WILL THE DEAD LADY SING?

  WHO KILLED THE QUEEN OF CLUBS?

  SIGNET

  Published by New American Library, a division of

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street,

  New York, New York 10014, USA

  Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto,

  Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)

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  Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices:

  80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  First published by Signet, an imprint of New American Library, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  First Printing, February 2006

  Copyright © Patricia Sprinkle, 2006

  All rights reserved

  REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  eISBN : 978-1-101-03434-7

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  For Babs and Dave Rose, for I was a stranger and you took me in.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I spent the fall, winter and early spring of 1966-67 in the village of Braemar, Scotland, to see if I had the discipline and any talent to write. The village took me into its heart and so entered my own heart that I have returned several times. The idea for this book has grown with each visit, and was finalized during a visit in the spring of 2003.

  The village of Auchnagar in this book is not Braemar, and all persons in the book are fictitious. Only the cheerful goodwill and tolerant kindness toward strangers are the same.

  History recounted in the book comes primarily from the 1978 edition of a series of histories written by Scottish historian John Prebble: The Highland Clearances, Glencoe, and
Culloden (published by Penguin Books). The poem which Mac shouts into the mist at Glen Coe is a personal translation of the first stanza of Hermann Hesse’s “Im Nebel.”

  I want to particularly thank the Kilgour/Ewan families, who treat me like a cousin and who all pitched in enthusiastically to help create this book. Thanks to Martin for consultation on certain legal aspects of this case; to Davie, John and Lisa for a fantastic ceilidh at Eddie’s eightieth birthday party; to Liz for putting up with me on a tour of the western Highlands that formed the basis for Mac’s tour here; to Julie and Eddie for chuckles, information, and countless cups of tea; to Davie for patiently answering frantic e-mails on such varied subjects as the price of wooden coffins and whether a touring piper would be permitted to play spontaneously at various sites, and to Julie, Eddie, Davie, Eileen, Lisa and even little Calum for sitting down and coming up with a name for Auchnagar. Finally, thanks to their patriarch, the former Dave Rose, a wise and humorous Scot who first gave me copies of John Prebble’s histories of Scotland. Where I have failed to capture Scotland well, it is certainly not their fault! Davie, an accomplished piper, appears briefly as himself in the book.

  Thanks also to the Morgan family—Cathie, John, and Mary—who graciously house me on each visit and treat me like family, and who agreed I could base Heather Glen on their Mayfield Guest House.

  American piper Dave Love helped keep me straight on what an American piper would be likely to wear abroad, and Sulena Long shared her expertise after taking several American-based bus tours in the United Kingdom. I appreciate you both.

  Dorothy Cowling and Marcia, real librarians in Calgary, asked to have their names in this book, but the characters do not resemble either of them in the least—eh?

  Finally, I owe an enormous debt to my editor, Ellen Edwards, who helped me make this a far better story; to my agent, Nancy Yost, for wisdom on the bad days and chuckles on the good ones; and to Bob, my husband, encourager, and friend.

  CAST OF CHARACTERS

  MacLaren Yarbrough: Georgia magistrate and co-owner of Yarbrough Feed, Seed and Nursery

  Joe Riddley Yarbrough: MacLaren’s husband, co-owner of Yarbrough Feed, Seed and Nursery

  Travelers on Gilroy’s Highland Tour

  Joyce Underwood: tour guide

  Watty: bus driver

  Laura MacDonald: MacLaren’s young traveling companion, also from Hopemore

  Jim and Brandi Gordon: business tycoon and his wife from the North Georgia mountains

  Ken and Sherry Boyd: Savannah restaurant owners, musicians, and Scottish enthusiasts

  Marcia Inch and Dorothy Cowling: Calgary librarians with Scottish heritage

  Residents of Auchnagar, Scotland

  Gavin and Kitty MacGorrie: Laird of Auchnagar and his American wife

  Norwood Hardin: Kitty’s brother and perpetual guest

  Eileen Lamont: proprietress of Heather Glen guest house

  Roddy Lamont: Eileen’s grown son

  Alex Carmichael: owner of village art gallery

  Father Ewan: village priest

  Ian Geddys: village joiner

  Barbara Geddys: postmistress, Ian’s sister

  Morag MacBeth: child who cares for Barbara’s animals

  Sergeant Murray and Constable Roy: Auchnagar police

  1

  Roddy Lamont charged into the dining room of the Heather Glen guesthouse, interrupting our midday dinner. “Father? Father! Fit’s to be done wi’ the coffins in the narthex, then?” His petulant face was flushed and beads of perspiration dotted his forehead beneath a mop of ruddy curls. He must have run all the way up the hill.

  We’d been in the village of Auchnagar for less than twenty-four hours, but I remembered enough of my morning lesson in broad Scots to know that “fit” meant “what.”

  Father Ewan, who ate his Friday midday dinner at Heather Glen on his housekeeper’s day off, was a tall stocky man who enjoyed his food. He rose from the table with obvious reluctance. “Coffins? Whose are they?”

  Roddy’s shoulders rose in an eloquent shrug. “I just went in to mop the narthex, and the bl”—a quick look at his mother and he finished smoothly—“oomin’ place is full of coffins. I was workin’ in the back, y’ ken, so I never saw them comin’ in, but you shoulda told me if we’re havin’ a funeral—much less two.” He pulled a blue handkerchief from his back pocket and wiped his face. His mother twisted her hands under her apron and glowed with pride at how seriously Roddy was finally taking a job, until he added in indignation, “I’m off to the bike rally at three, and this has put me behind.”

  Father Ewan looked with regret at his gooseberries topped with vanilla custard. He’d already said how fond he was of that dessert. But he laid down his napkin and gave those of us around the table a slight bow. “Excuse me, but I’d better go see what this is about. I’ve had no notice of anyone dying hereabouts.” He gave me a courteous nod. “If you’re still interested, I can take you on that wee look ’round the chapel as soon as I sort this out, Mrs. MacLaren. Come along when you’re done with your meal.”

  “It’s Yarbrough,” I corrected him. “MacLaren Yarbrough.”

  “And it’s Judge Yarbrough,” Laura MacDonald added—unnecessarily, I thought. Since the fact that I’m a magistrate back in Georgia mattered not one whit on a bus tour through the Scottish Highlands, I hadn’t mentioned it before. It makes some folks so nervous to discover I’m a judge that I sometimes wonder what undisclosed crimes lurk in their pasts.

  “We’re going for a hill walk after dinner,” Laura reminded me.

  Since “a hill walk” in Scotland entails a strenuous climb up narrow mountain trails, I said firmly, “I’ll skip the walk and visit the church.”

  “Well, come along when you’re done, then.” The priest was already heading for the door. “This shouldna take long—there’s obviously been some kind of mistake. It’ll soon be sorted.”

  I put down my napkin. “Why don’t I come with you now? I can be looking at the grounds while you’re occupied.” That was a perfect excuse for me to skip the gooseberries, which lay in my bowl like pale green eyeballs. I’d been wondering how to get out of eating them.

  I trotted after the two men as they strode out the back door and down the hill. Roddy was still full of grievance. “I saved cleanin’ the narthex ’til the last, y’ ken, so I could mop the flair and front steps, then leave them to dry while I came up for my dinner. I must have been Hooverin’ at the back when Ian brought them in, but you’d think he’d have the sense to give me a shout. He shouldna just dump people like that and go away.”

  Seeing that I was panting from trying to keep up with Roddy’s long legs, Father Ewan waved for him to stop opposite the schoolhouse halfway down the hill—or “brae”—and reached into the pocket of his black suit for a cell phone.

  “Stop a wee whiley and let me give Ian a ring. Ian Geddys is our local joiner,” he added to me as he punched in a number.

  As he sidled away to talk, I asked Roddy, “What’s a joiner?”

  Roddy—who never stood if he could lean—propped himself against a house that abutted the sidewalk across from the school and gave me the look that folks from central Georgia, back in the States, would give somebody who asked, “What’s a bird dog?”

  “Y’ dinna have joiners in America?” Clearly, he wondered how we managed to survive.

  I shook my head.

  He reached down the neck of his gray pullover and brought up a crumpled pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket. The way the sweater sagged, that must be a frequent habit. He held the pack out to me, and when I refused, he took time to light up and exhale slowly. The way his brow was furrowed, he was trying to figure out how best to explain something obvious to an ignoramus. “He’s a sort of builder, y’ ken? He makes cupboards, lays carpet, puts up wallpaper—he joins things.” He flapped one hand to conclude the explanation.

  Father Ewan snapped his phone shut, stowed it in a pocket, and came back to us with a broad sm
ile. “False alarm, lad. The coffins are stage props. Ian is out, but Barbara was home for her dinner, and she said the coffins are for that play the Americans are putting on tomorrow night.” He nodded my way.

  Guilt by association made me say quickly, “I don’t know anything about coffins, and we aren’t putting on the play. It’s just being put on while we’re here. Our tour guide wrote it.”

  “That must be the way of it, then.” Roddy nodded with enlightenment. “The lass said to take them to the chapel, and that dunce Ian didn’t ask what she meant by that.” He squinted down at me through another cloud of smoke. “Folk not from here look at the sign that says St. Catherine’s Chapel and think it’s called ‘the chapel’—never knowin’ our lot’s got the chapel and St. Catherine’s is just St. Catherine’s—not the chapel a-tall. Used to be Church of England, but nowadays it’s just a meeting hall.”