Did You Declare the Corpse? by Patricia Sprinkle Read Free Book Online Page B

armrest, put my feet in the other seat, and snuggled down with a blanket and pillow, trusting somebody would wake me in Glasgow.

    Only when I was about to drift off did I remember I was carrying a lot of cash, traveler’s checks and a passport, and Joe Riddley wasn’t there. Who would guard my pocketbook? Who’d nudge me if I snored? I swung my legs around and sat up, resigned to one heck of a long night.

    I read a while, then—bored and stiff—got up and joined a circulating ring of folks hiking to stave off death from blood clots. Up at the thick curtain separating first class from us peons, I peeked through to see how the other one-half of one percent lives. Brandi was dozing and Jim had a spreadsheet on his laptop screen, in easy view. I work with spreadsheets every day, but I’d never seen one belonging to a multimillionaire, so I leaned forward to see if his was more interesting than mine. It wasn’t. His columns were just labeled “patrons served” and “cost per serving” instead of “original order” and “stock on hand.”

    Back in steerage I waved at Laura, who was watching a movie, and pitied Dorothy and Marcia, who were in a long center row with three squirming children whose parents were dozing in the row ahead. After I’d made the U-turn at the back and headed up my own side of the plane, I found Kenny sprawled in an aisle seat glowering at a drink. Fumes surrounded him. Four small empty scotch bottles and a glass with a few melted cubes in the bottom sat on his tray table. Sherry slept against the window, wearing an eye mask. She had taken off her hair clip, and her hair slithered down her shoulders like black snakes. I tiptoed by with a little wave, but Kenny crooked a finger at me, so I stopped. I figured I could turn my head a little if I found it necessary to breathe.

    “You friends with Laura?” His voice was a soft, hoarse croak.

    “Yes. Her folks were some of my best friends.”

    “I liked old Skye. Knew him for years.” He swirled the ice around in the bottom of his glass. “I guess Laura and her brother inherited the whole shebang, huh?”

    I frowned. “You’ll have to ask her about that.”

    “I guess.” He pursed his plump red lips and blew air through them, staring morosely ahead of him. “Some folks have all the luck, don’t they?” He was just sober enough to realize how that sounded, because he lifted one hand and wiggled it. “Oh, I don’t mean Skye and Gwen Ellen dying. And Laura deserves the best. She was always a good kid.”

    “She still is,” I assured him. “A real fine person.”

    “Yeah.” He sank into either thought or a stupor.

    I moseyed on and found Joyce working on a laptop with the screen turned away from the aisle. “We’ve got some busy bees on this tour,” I greeted her. “You and Jim make me feel like a slacker. Are you writing another play?”

    “No, just working on some line changes.” She lowered the screen. “I’d made the laird seem weak in one scene. Are you looking forward to the trip?”

    I allowed as how I was, and then—since she didn’t seem to mind talking—I propped my backside on her armrest and asked, “How’d you come to write a play about Auchnagar?” What I really wanted to ask was, “Did you arrange this whole trip so you’d have an audience?”

    She gave a deprecating little laugh that couldn’t hide her pride. “It was a miracle, really. When I was preparing for this tour, I stayed a week in the village. Leaving the post office one morning, I literally ran into Mrs. MacGorrie—the laird’s wife.”

    She paused, so I nodded, to keep her pump primed. “She’s American,” she went on, “but interested in Scottish history and ancient arts. She’s turned an abandoned church into an arts center where they have demonstrations of ancient weaving and pottery-making and all sorts of lectures. So after I’d apologized for nearly running her down, I asked if there would be anything going on at