Read Did You Declare the Corpse? Online
Authors: Patricia Sprinkle
Did You Declare the Corpse? (23 page)
I left the police station thinking I had one more question: I wanted to know how the laird’s brother-in-law had spent his morning. If he had a good alibi, I needn’t mention their quarrel.
And if you are remembering that Joe Riddley didn’t want me involved with murder, I’ll tell you what I told him: I wanted to talk with Norwood so I wouldn’t
need
to be involved.
need
to be involved.
18
The wind cut through me like a knife as I hurried up the brae, so I clasped my arms around me, stuck my hands under my arms for warmth, and tried not to envision Jim’s face floating just ahead of me.
I stood in Eileen’s small back hall for a moment to thaw and listened wistfully to the chink of china and the low voices of her talking with Marcia. I wished I could join them, but there’s a difference between being a family member and being a paying guest. As soon as I got my breath back, I would head down to the village tearoom for something hot to drink.
Before I could reach the staircase, Eileen opened the door. “MacLaren! Where on earth is your coat?” Without waiting for an answer, she took my arm and pulled me toward a huge green Aga—a stove with a heavy black top, like my grandmother used to have. Glad to see her filling the kettle, I stood as close to the Aga as I dared until I felt warm. To erase Jim’s image, I forced myself to concentrate on the yellow kitchen with its dark green floor, crisp white curtains and tablecloth embroidered with bright daffodils, tulips, and iris, and large floral calendar.
Eileen and her cheerful kitchen must have been good medicine for Marcia, for she was bustling around setting out cups, saucers, and spoons like she felt at home in her aunt’s kitchen, and when I stopped shaking, she motioned me to a chair at the table.
“Have you talked to the police?” I asked as I sat down.
Eileen nodded. “Aye. Constable Roy was up and said there’s been an accident in the village. He wanted to speak with Mrs. Gordon, but I haven’t seen her since breakfast.”
Marcia turned from putting cookies on a plate. “Do you know what happened?”
“Unfortunately, yes. Jim Gordon’s been killed.”
Marcia gasped. Eileen pressed one hand to her heart and murmured, “Dear God!”
I took a sip of strong black tea to steady my own nerves before explaining, “Father Ewan and Roddy found him in one of the coffins that were left in the chapel. He was apparently struck on the back of the head.”
Marcia sank into the chair across from me and took a large gulp of tea. Eileen gave me a wary look. “They don’t think Roddy had anything to do with it, do they?”
I don’t know why that hadn’t occurred to me. Roddy certainly had the best opportunity, and he had an aversion to work. If Jim had gone into the chapel for a tourist’s visit and tracked dirt over a floor Roddy had already mopped, would Roddy’s annoyance have escalated into a hard shove? People who get knocked down do sometimes die of head injuries, if they hit something like a stone floor. And what better defense than to come charging up to his mother’s dining room yelling that somebody had dropped coffins off at the church?
When I heard a little moan, I realized I had waited too long to answer. Eileen was as white as her curtains, her eyes nearly as large as her cake plate.
“Nobody said a thing about Roddy,” I assured her quickly.
“Then why hasn’t he come home for his dinner?”
“Sergeant Murray asked him to guard the body.” Seeing that she was about to ask another question, I added firmly, “I really don’t know any more than I’ve told you.”
Except that Norwood Hardin had quarreled with Jim and knocked him down, and I wasn’t going to say a word about that until I could talk to Norwood. The best time and place for that would be very shortly, down at the theater sometime after three.
A glance at my watch startled me. It wasn’t even two. How could that be, when I’d spent half a day at the church and another half at the police station?
And only six hours before, Jim Gordon had been eating his breakfast in the next room.
Marcia saw me glance at the connecting door and seemed to read my thoughts. “We never know how long any of us has got, do we?” Her voice was thick with tears.
Neither Eileen nor I felt inclined to reply, so we all finished our tea in silence. Then I thanked them, excused myself, and headed upstairs for a rest. I felt, as Daddy used to say, like I’d been rode hard and put up wet.
The house seemed so vast and empty, I found myself tiptoeing up the stairs. Which is why I startled Joyce, who was creeping out her door like a silent mouse as I reached the upstairs landing. We both jumped.
She wore her blue parka and gloves and carried her Gilroy’s tour bag.
“I’m sorry,” I greeted her, “I didn’t mean to scare you. But surely you aren’t going out with that headache?” The shadows under her eyes were as blue as the parka, her cheeks were flushed, and her eyes themselves were like glittery brown beads. I feared she had a fever.
She pressed the fingers of her free hand to her temple. “We have a rehearsal at three, and I have a few props I need to take down, as well.” She held up the bag. “I hope a little fresh air first will help.” She passed me and hurried down several steps.
“Wait!” I called. She kept one foot poised over the next step down while I stood there like a mute, trying to figure out the best way to tell her one of her tour group was lying dead in a coffin intended for the performance. Not all the fresh air in Scotland was going to help poor Joyce’s headache after she heard that—especially after she figured out her precious play was sure to be cancelled because of Jim’s friendship with Kitty MacGorrie.
I wished somebody else would show up to tell her, but nobody did and Joyce was growing restless, so I decided to blurt out the easy part first. “There was a mistake. The coffins intended for your play were delivered to the Catholic church instead of to St. Catherine’s.”
She turned and her foot apparently slipped, for she nearly pitched headfirst down the stairs. I had a quick vision of Joyce in that other coffin before she caught the rail and demanded in a puzzled voice, “Coffins? What coffins? We don’t need coffins.”
“They were ordered for the play, delivered to ‘the chapel.’ But the joiner thought that meant the Catholic church just down the brae.”
She shook her head. “But we don’t need coffins.” She took another slow step down, as bewildered as the rest of us.
I steeled myself for the next part. “Wait,” I called a second time. “That’s not all.”
She stopped again, but from the way she leaned slightly forward, I knew she was eager to get away. I went down a few steps, too. This was not news I wanted to shout. “Jim Gordon was found dead in one of the coffins.”
“Jim?” She collapsed onto a step as if somebody had stolen her muscles. Her voice was as blank as her face, and the flush in her cheeks drained, leaving her as white as a big china cat sitting on the sill of the stained-glass window. “Jim is dead?” She clutched the banister as if afraid she’d fall without support. “Are you sure?”
I nodded and tears filled her eyes. “But how? What happened?”
I was touched by her sympathy for a man who had not always made her job easier. “I don’t really know, honey. The police think he was hit over the head, then put in one of those two coffins delivered to the chapel while Roddy was cleaning in another part of the church. They will probably want to talk to you, since you’re in charge of the group, but—”
“Me?” She clung to the banister. “Why me? I don’t know a thing.” Her eyes were wide and her breath came in short gasps. “You are positive that Jim is
dead
?”
dead
?”
I nodded.
She let go of the banister and rubbed her face with both hands as if to clear cobwebs from her skin. “I can’t believe this. Have they called his family?”
“They’re looking for Brandi, I believe.”
“We’ll need to call his daughter, too. Brandi might never get around to it.” She stood and sighed. “They’ll cancel the play, I guess.” Her voice was low and tragic. “And I don’t have a clue what I’m supposed to do with the rest of you now.”
The clock in the downstairs hall chimed two.
Joyce turned at the sound and snatched up her bag. “I cannot deal with this right now. I just can’t.” She clattered down the rest of the stairs and I heard the front door bang behind her.
19
I tried to doze, but kept thinking of poor Jim, of Brandi, and of the trouble all this was going to cause for Joyce. I tried to read, but couldn’t concentrate. I told myself to get out and look for ancestors, but couldn’t bear to meet curious people who would surely know I’d been with the priest when the body was found. Things like that have a way of getting around a village.
Marcia and Eileen must have heard me pacing, because there was a discreet knock at my door. “MacLaren?” Marcia called softly. “Eileen asks if you’d like to come down to her room.”
“I’d be delighted. My own company is real tedious right now.”
Eileen’s room was behind the lounge. It held a single bed, a chest, an oak desk in one corner for accounts, a soft carpet underfoot, and three armchairs drawn up to a cheerful fire. The golden Lab dozed near the flames. He lifted his head when we walked in, gave me a long, steady look through chocolate eyes, decided I was acceptable company, and thumped his tail three times on the rug. Then he laid his head on crossed paws and resumed his nap.
“Your dog is better behaved than the laird’s,” I told Eileen, who was sitting to the left of the fire embroidering another tablecloth.
“Godfrey is a real menace,” she said fondly. “He’ll lick you to death if you let him. Chancellor, now, he’s so old, all he wants is a nap and his tea.” She bent and patted the big golden head. “Still, he can make a right noise if somebody comes in. That’s all I need.”
Marcia resumed the chair where she’d left her needlepoint, and I sat between them feeling pretty useless with nothing to occupy my hands.
Eileen knotted her thread, snipped it off, and asked as she rethreaded her needle, “What do you think poor Mrs. Gordon will want to do now, MacLaren?”
“I have no idea, but I’m afraid we may all need to stay in the village until the police no longer have questions to ask. Will that throw out your schedule?”
“Och, no. I don’t usually take guests this early. We open for the skiing season, then close down until the second week of May. I just opened this week to accommodate this group because they are painting down at Gilroy’s. I always take their overflow when I can.”
That seemed like a good opening to find out more about Watty’s arrangements down there, and talking about Watty might take our minds off Jim. “Does Watty come this way often? He seems to know a lot of people in Auchnagar. Several have mentioned him by name.”
“Och, aye, he’s in and out. One of his buses comes almost every week.” Eileen placidly plied her needle, creating a purple pansy.
I didn’t think I’d heard her correctly. “His
buses
?” I pictured a fleet of ancient relics.
buses
?” I pictured a fleet of ancient relics.
She laughed. “Don’t judge the company by that old trap he uses. It’s his favorite, because he started out with it and named it for his wife. Poor Jeanne—she only died a couple of years ago. They were very close.” I was trying to adjust to the notion of a gruff old driver having enough sentiment to hang onto a broken-down bus because he’d named it for his wife when Eileen added, “He’s done real well for himself, Watty has, between the bus tours, the hotels he took over from his dad, and the chain of tearooms he bought a few years ago.”
“Watty?”
Marcia and I were a unison chorus of disbelief.
Marcia and I were a unison chorus of disbelief.
“Aye. Don’t let those wretched clothes and that tatty old bus fool you. He’s got pounds and pounds in the bank, not to mention the properties.”
“So why is he driving a bus?” I asked when I could speak again. When I thought about the tips I’d handed him from time to time, and how he always whispered, “Thank you, miss,” I could have whopped him upside the head!
“He only drives when he makes his inspection tour,” Eileen explained. “He likes to check things out once a year himself, to be sure they’re keeping up to his standards. He dresses tatty and drives that old bus to see how new employees who don’t know him will treat him. And he usually fills the bus with people who can’t generally afford a holiday at all—ensioners, or union widows, people living on modest incomes. He’s real strict, Watty is, that his places be clean, well run, and courteous to everybody, no matter how rich or poor.”
Little things fell into place with a click. The snickers at the ceilidh when I asked the younger men at Watty’s table if they drove for Gilroy’s “too.” The fact that they let him and his dad buy their drinks without protest. Maybe even the fact that all the drinks at our table were “on the house.” The way he disappeared at every Gilroy’s Tearoom and Hotel. The table that magically appeared after Sherry refused to sit with Brandi. Even the fact that our musicians were invited to join in the ceilidh, which was obviously an honor. All of that pointed to a smooth, powerful hand behind the scenes. I had taken it for granted that Joyce was working for a well-run agency, or that the presence of Jim on the tour got us better service. It never occurred to me that Watty—
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