Did You Declare the Corpse? Read online

  “I’m Presbyterian.” I felt a continuing need to distance myself as far as possible from those “folk not from here” he was ridiculing.

  “Och, then ye’ll be wantin’ the kirk, down by the manse woods.” He pointed to a steeple off to our right, obviously glad to get all that cleared up for my benefit. Then he added to the priest, “Shall I shift them to one side, just, until Ian can fetch them? I’ve still got that flair to mop.”

  Roddy might not be good at working, but he was a master at complaint.

  The priest hesitated, looking back up the brae toward Heather Glen. I suspected he was debating the possibility of returning for his gooseberries. Instead, he turned on his heel and said in the tone of one successfully resisting temptation, “That’s the way, lad. I’ll just give you a hand.”

  At the bottom of the hill, we turned left onto the walk that led to the small Roman Catholic church. I don’t know when I’ve seen a prettier approach to a place of worship. The chapel itself was built of granite, like everything else in the village, but someone had rounded the outer edges of the stones just enough to replace severity with gentleness. A simple tower rose in the center and ended in a stone cross. A small rose window was set above arched front doors. Tall dark yews stood in an arc on the soft emerald lawn, arms reaching out to draw us down the walk, while welcoming masses of daffodils nodded on each side of the steps.

  “Quite bonnie, aren’t they?” Roddy nodded toward the daffodils as he reached for the giant ring that opened the dark wooden door. “Mum planted them a few years back, in memory of m’ dad.”

  Father Ewan motioned for me to precede him up the stone steps. “Come along in. It won’t take us but a minute to stack the boxes for Ian so Roddy can get on with his work.”

  When I followed them in, I shivered in the accumulated chill of three hundred winters. The small foyer (narthex, in church language) was unheated and the floor was stone—what I could see of it. One third was covered by a long table holding pamphlets and various offering boxes. The remaining space was almost filled by two wooden boxes, one long and one short, and there was no mistaking that shape.

  The narthex was dim, lit only by sunlight that filtered into the sanctuary through dark stained-glass windows and found its way through the open double doors. I inhaled that scent of holiness that fills empty places of worship and tiptoed around the boxes toward the sanctuary while Roddy and the priest shoved one box over close to the table. Behind me, I heard them cross the narthex for the other, then heard Roddy exclaim, “Hold on! There’s something in this one!”

  “There can’t be,” Father Ewan protested. “Barbara said . . .”

  Hinges creaked. Then Roddy exclaimed, “Who the devil is that?”

  “I dinna ken,” the priest replied soberly, “but whoever it is is very dead.”

  Father Ewan raised his voice and called to me—as if he hoped I hadn’t heard what they’d been saying. “You’d best go on back up to Heather Glen. I’ll show you around another time.”

  He obviously wanted to spare me the sight of whoever was in that coffin, but I had to pass it to get to the front door and Roddy was too slow in lowering the lid.

  I saw enough.

  What was it my husband had said just before I left home? Wanting him to come along, I’d reminded him, “You promised to go everywhere with me.”

  He’d replied, “I didn’t promise I’d go everywhere with you, Little Bit. That was a threat, and it only applies around here. I figure you can’t get into too much trouble in a country where you don’t know a soul. Presumably you won’t feel obligated to endanger your life trying to solve the problems of everybody in Scotland, and you aren’t likely to be stumbling over dead bodies on a bus tour.”

  And now here I stood, in a chilly church in the heart of the eastern Highlands, with a member of our tour group lying dead at my feet.

  2

  Ten days before, I’d stared down at two suitcases lying on our guest-room bed ready for vacation. The trouble was, they weren’t heading on the same vacation.

  “You promised to go everywhere with me,” I reminded my husband as he came in with a stack of clothes.

  He didn’t say a word.

  Seeing that he only carried one pair of jeans and two polo shirts, I added, “You’re gonna need more clothes than that for five days, and those shirts are blue. You packed green socks.”

  Joe Riddley shoved his clothes into the smaller bag with no concern whatsoever about wrinkles. “Fashion consultants will be left on shore. Where are my old sneakers?”

  “Moldering in the back of your closet. But don’t pretend you didn’t hear what I said at first. And don’t think I’ll forget what I’m talking about if you don’t answer me.”

  “Hope springs eternal.” He headed back to our room.

  I listened to make sure he was still rummaging in his closet, then fetched a small first-aid kit from a drawer and tucked it into his bag where he’d find it the first time he changed his shirt. I also sent up a quick prayer that they’d need nothing stronger than Band-Aids and antiseptic cream before the week was out.

  In a minute he returned with another pair of jeans and two yellow shirts, scruffy sneakers tucked under one arm. Not for an instant did he hint that the extra jeans and shirts were my idea—just dumped them into his suitcase like he’d planned to add them all along.

  “I didn’t promise to go everywhere with you.” Finally he gave the answer I would remember so clearly. “That was a threat, and it only applies around here. I figure you can’t get into much trouble in a country where you don’t know a soul. Presumably you won’t feel obligated to endanger your life trying to solve the problems of everybody in Scotland, and you aren’t likely to be stumbling over dead bodies on a bus tour. Besides, Laura’s levelheaded, and she’s promised to keep an eye on you.”

  If he had forgotten the night Laura MacDonald and I confronted two drug dealers with no weapons but my pocketbook and her knee,1 I wasn’t about to remind him.

  “Don’t forget,” he added virtuously as he plopped filthy sneakers on top of clean clothes, “taking a vacation was your idea.”

  “A vacation.” I headed to the dresser and started double-checking to be sure everything was in my cosmetics bag. “Not two.”

  For months I’d been wanting to see more of the world than Hopemore, Georgia. I was tired of juggling work at Yarbrough Feed, Seed and Nursery with my responsibilities as a county magistrate, not to mention all the things Joe Riddley and I did at church and in the community. But I had envisioned a warm tropical island with us in new bathing suits, sipping exotic drinks beneath a thatched hut while wiggling our toes in a floor of sand. I’d planned to snorkel all morning and laze under a beach umbrella all afternoon with a stack of good books.

  Instead, I was heading to Scotland, where the agency who’d arranged the tour claimed I’d need several layers to stay warm at the end of April. Instead of paddling in tepid water, I’d be following a tour guide up and down Scottish “hills”—which anybody with eyes in their head could see were mountains. And I’d be doing all that not with Joe Riddley, but with Laura MacDonald. Joe Riddley might be ornery as all get-out at times, but we’d been vacationing together for well over forty years and I saw no reason to change that.

  Besides, while Laura’s parents had been two of our dearest friends and I’ve known and loved Laura all her life, she was barely twenty-seven. I suspected we might have different definitions of the word “fun” on a vacation.

  I shoved another pair of socks into my bag. “I never dreamed you wouldn’t go with me. I’ve never been abroad without you, and that boat thing—”

  “Don’t you think we’ve covered that ground pretty thoroughly in the past few months?” His voice was gruff, and he turned his back to me. In the dresser mirror, I watched him slide something that looked like a jeweler’s box from one pocket and slip it into my bag. He turned back to his case with a frown. “Have I forgotten something?”

  “Un
derwear. If God hadn’t created Eve, do you reckon Adam would have invented underwear?”

  “If God hadn’t created Eve, Adam wouldn’t have needed underwear. He’d have obeyed God and run around happily naked.” He left before I could come up with a good reply.

  I picked up my well-thumbed travel brochure from the dresser and thought how smart the travel folks were to send everything via e-mail for us to download and print ourselves. Must save them enormous amounts of money. But as I crammed it into my pocketbook with all the other necessities for a transAtlantic flight, I glared at the perky “Explore Your Roots!” on the cover. All the roots I wanted right that minute were in Hopemore.

  Don’t get me wrong. I appreciated the fact that Joe Riddley had wanted to surprise me by giving me a two-week bus tour of Scotland that included four days in the village where Mama’s family, the MacLarens, came from. I also knew he had an ulterior motive in sending me. Laura had told him about the trip, and she’d lost both her parents the previous year. She’d been working real hard since then, for she had inherited, along with her younger brother, three motor companies he had no inclination to help her run. Laura loved the companies and ran them smoothly and profitably, but she could use a break. When he’d told me about the trip, Joe Riddley had reminded me, “Remember how Skye and Gwen Ellen used to take the kids to Scotland every year or two? This will be Laura’s first trip back alone. I think she’ll like to have a friendly face along.”

  Before you get all soft and mushy about what a selfless fellow Joe Riddley is, though, you need to know that while I was on the far side of the Atlantic, he and our younger son, Walker, would be taking my two precious grandsons deep-sea fishing in the Gulf of Mexico.

  “Cricket’s sure to fall in,” I warned for the fiftieth time as Joe Riddley came back with his rattiest boxer shorts. Every time I thought about that four-year-old loose on a boat in the middle of the Gulf, I felt desperate. I knew I ought to cancel my trip and go with them, even if I am prone to get seasick on a rowboat in a calm lake.

  Joe Riddley didn’t say a word, just started tucking underwear around his jeans, shirts, and socks with the same concentration Noah devoted to building the ark.

  “You all are going to have to watch Crick every minute,” I insisted. “You know how easily he burns. And how he climbs and wanders.” Clear as day, I saw that small, brownhaired boy climbing a mast and pitching headfirst into the sea. My knees buckled. I’d have fallen headfirst myself if I hadn’t collapsed onto the bed beside my case. “Ridd should be going, too.” Ridd, Cricket’s daddy, would keep a close eye on him. Too close for Cricket’s liking.

  “You know Ridd can’t leave in the middle of a semester.” Joe Riddley didn’t miss a beat in the underwear-distribution business. “And unlike some people, he and Martha think a mere grandfather and uncle can take adequate care of their little fellow. Besides, Crick’s almost five, swims like a fish, will wear a life jacket all the time, and has Tad to watch him.” He zipped his case like a man who’s had the last word.

  I clutched the bedspread with both hands to keep from strangling him. “How can somebody who forgets long-sleeved shirts, his own toothbrush, and a razor remember to watch a child? Furthermore, let me point out that Tad’s only eleven, with the attention span of a gnat. Less, if he takes along one of those video games he’s always playing. Crick will drown before Tad notices he’s gone. Besides, Tad’s not a strong swimmer. He couldn’t save anybody. And you men will be on the other side of the boat reeling in fish, paying no attention to those boys whatsoever. I’m not going to Scotland. I’m coming with you.”

  “It’s a men-only trip.”

  When I didn’t reply, he came over and took my chin in his hand. “It’s gonna be fine, Little Bit. You still trust God to run the universe, don’t you?” He worked my head up and down by the chin. “Well, why don’t you trust God to take care of your grandsons, for a change?” He dropped my chin and turned away. “Dang it, much as I hate to admit it, you’re right about one thing, though. I might need a long-sleeved shirt.” He stalked out, calling as he went, “We’re gonna take good care of those boys. You just ride through the hills of Scotland picturing Walker, their granddaddy, and their heavenly parent all keeping eagle eyes on them.”

  “And one of those might not get distracted by a fish.” Still, I did feel a little better. Faith is a bit like a marriage license. Most of the time you take it for granted, but on wobbly days, it’s good to call it to mind and lean back on the promises it stands for.

  Joe Riddley came back with a red plaid T-shirt and added it to his case.

  “You’re gonna look like a rainbow,” I warned.

  “Fish will be jumping into the boat to take a gander at me. Probably a couple of mermaids, too.” He stood erect and gave me a frown. “You got that international cell phone Walker lent you, so you can call every day and make sure things are okay here while I’m at sea?”

  I pulled it out of my pocketbook and showed him. “I just have to figure out where to get a SIM card once we get to Glasgow.” It still amazed me that something so small could bounce a message from Scotland to a satellite orbiting the earth, then send it accurately to Hopemore, Georgia. Walker assured me it would. He had even explained about buying a SIM card in Scotland so calls would be cheaper.

  “Good. You finished packing? Laura’s gonna to be here in less than an hour.”

  “I’m finished.” I zipped my case while still sitting on the bed, for my knees were still too shaky to bear much weight. Pulling that zipper felt like closing the lid on two little boys’ lives. Even God might get distracted by a really big fish.

  I knew better than to mention the boys again, though, and I still had one more legitimate complaint. “You could at least drive me to Atlanta. You all don’t leave ’til tomorrow.”

  “Laura’s got a perfectly good Thunderbird and friends who’ll let her park in their drive while you’re gone. Besides, I’ve got a meeting at church tonight, and saying goodbye wouldn’t be any easier in Atlanta than here.” He reached out his long arms, pulled me up against him, and leaned down to rub his chin against the top of my head. “You know what your trouble is? You’re already missing me, and you aren’t even gone yet.”

  I leaned against him, smelling his dear, familiar warmth and feeling the strong, slow beat of his heart beneath my cheek. “I don’t like going without you.” I felt ready to bawl.

  He spoke into my hair. “I’m beginning to regret it myself. Come on. We’ve got time for me to give you a little something to remember me by. And keep in mind, this is as close to danger as I want you to get in the next two weeks.”

  Laura arrived before I got my shoes on, my lipstick fixed, or my hair combed again. “Ready to go?” she asked from the stoop, too eager to leave to bother coming in.

  Laura had inherited her daddy’s big frame, deep voice, strong features, wide smile, prominent blue eyes, and sunny disposition. Her mother had wanted a cheerleader and beauty queen. She had gotten a plain, sweet child who captained champion soccer teams and grew up to get her MBA and take over the family businesses. Only recently had Laura forsaken mannish navy or gray slacks and blazers for bright colors, cut her thick, blond mane into a short, becoming style, and started wearing a little makeup. Today she looked almost pretty in tan jeans, a peach turtleneck, and a fringed jacket of chocolate-brown suede.

  The way she eyed my disheveled hair and sock feet sent me dashing back to our room.

  “I’m so embarrassed,” I whispered to Joe Riddley, who was still tucking his shirt back in his pants. “Heaven knows what she’s thinking.”

  “She thinks you’re running late and pink with excitement. At that age, did you imagine that folks over sixty . . . ?”

  “Hush!” I hissed. “She’ll hear you!” I tugged my sweater down and put on my walking shoes. “I hope I don’t die of heat prostration before we get there.” The thermometer had been climbing all afternoon and was hovering around eighty. Even though we’d been warned
that April in Scotland could be cold, there was no way it could be cold enough for a trench-coat liner. I zipped mine out and flung it on the bed as I hurried after Joe Riddley.

  Laura covered the ground behind him with the bounce she used to have in her step heading into an important soccer game. I found my own spirits dancing a little jig. I hadn’t been to Scotland in twenty years, and since then I’d researched where my own family had come from. When I finally stood in the village of Auchnagar, would I feel any sense of coming home?

  As Laura popped the trunk, Joe Riddley told her, “Remember, now, I’m counting on you to keep Mac relatively sober and prevent her from haring off after kilted Highlanders. If you happen to find a fellow you like, though, bring him on back.”