Did You Declare the Corpse by Patricia Sprinkle

Author:Patricia Sprinkle
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Tags: Detective, Mystery & Detective - General, Police Procedural, MacLaren (Fictitious character), Mystery & Detective, Mystery, Yarbrough, Women judges, Fiction - Mystery, Scotland, Mystery & Detective - Women Sleuths, Fiction, Suspense, Women Sleuths, Traditional British, Large type books, General, Tourists, Vacations
ISBN: 9780786285341
Publisher: Waterville, Me. : Thorndike Press, 2006.
Published: 2006-05-13T21:00:00+00:00

The woman at the post-office counter was the woman Dorothy had thought looked like Jim. There was a slight resemblance: white hair, bushy eyebrows, and a certain look around the eyes, but if you travel at all, you know there are a finite number of faces in the world. I’m forever running into people who look like somebody I know. And as Jim had pointed out, it was their noses that looked the most alike.

She waited on me with courtesy but little warmth. As she handed me stamps and change, I saw that her hands and wrists were twisted with arthritis, and she wore no wedding ring on her poor swollen fingers. I hoped she could soon retire in a modicum of comfort.

“I met a little girl on the bridge today who said she feeds your hens and pets,” I told her.

Her stark face brightened. “Wee Morag. Aye, she loves animals, but her mother cannae have them in the hotel, so she comes up and takes care of mine. She’s a right wee dear, that one.” Which differed slightly from the “wee terror” Eileen had described. “Are ye over from America, then?” She thawed enough to lean on her counter.

“Yes, hoping to find some trace of my ancestors in Auchnagar. I thought I might look in the cemetery, for a beginning.”

“Aren’t ye wi’ Watty’s tour? Ask Joyce, then. She stayed a week last spring readin’ kirk records and gatherin’ information. I’d think she knows what there is to know.”

“She was researching a play,” I told her. “She had accidentally run into the laird’s wife—I think it was in your very doorway—and the laird’s wife said if Joyce would write a play, perhaps she would put it on in the community center. It’s going to be Saturday night.” I stopped when I remembered the post office had a notice for the play in its window.

Her lips twisted in what I suppose was a smile of sorts. “Is that how Joyce tells the story?”

“How would you tell it?”

“That she researched the village, found out Mrs. MacGorrie comes in here every morning at ten, and hung around to bump into her. She had to come twice—the laird’s wifey was out of town the first day.” Her chuckle was deep and infectious.

I chuckled, too. “I guess writers get desperate at times.” I picked up my stamps and turned to go. “Until I can talk to Joyce, maybe I’ll try the cemetery. Is it next to one of the churches?”

“Och, no. Cross the burn, turn right, and go three-quarters of a mile. Ye cannae miss it.”

As I passed through the village, I saw Sherry in a pricey-looking wool shop, fingering a plaid cape like the one she had on. She rubbed the material between her fingers, then nodded and handed the clerk her charge card. If she didn’t stop buying, we were going to have to tie a storage container to the back of our plane on the way home.

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