Read Online Did You Declare the Corpse? by Patricia Sprinkle - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Patricia Sprinkle
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attendant. At least after a flight, everybody leaves.”
“Where was she?” I asked.
Joyce’s shoulders rose in a shrug. “You heard her. She told me the same—there was somebody she had to see, and she forgot the time. And meanwhile, I stood out there over an hour getting all the grit in Glasgow under my contacts.” She bent her head and one by one removed hard lenses, rinsed them in her water glass, and put them back in. Then she blinked a few times and gave us her prim smile. “At least that feels better.”
Laura passed her hot scones and jam. “Is this your first tour?”
Joyce’s lips twisted into a rueful smile. “Can you tell? It’s my first and last.” I was surprised and a bit chagrined. It had never occurred to me that we wouldn’t have a seasoned, well-informed guide. She heaved a sigh that seemed to come from the soles of her feet. “It all sounded a lot easier than it is.”
Laura chuckled. “Most things do. But hey, everybody speaks English, we’re all grown-ups, and at least some of us have been to Scotland before. It’s going to work out.” After that she steered the conversation toward places they’d visited that afternoon. Having nothing to contribute, I listened, and watched.
Around Laura, Joyce relaxed like a woman who has found herself among her own people in a foreign land. Her face lost its uptight expression and her whole demeanor expanded. Even though at least ten years separated them, they were sisters in the casual way they held their bodies, handled silver at the table, and signaled waitresses. Both were obviously daughters of privilege, raised to take it for granted that the comforts of the world were theirs by right.
So what the heck was Joyce doing conducting a low-profit bus tour through the Scottish Highlands?
7
The rest of them went out on a pub crawl that night, but I’m not much for sitting around in bars. Besides, I was ready for my bed. However, between sending up prayer flares for my folks on the Gulf of Mexico and wondering about people on the tour, I didn’t sleep much. I kept asking myself why Joyce was leading tours, why Jim and Brandi were on a bus tour rather than riding in a private limousine and staying in five-star hotels, why Kenny and Sherry had come on this tour when there were places they’d rather see at a different time of the year, and why Marcia had come at all when she was so obviously ill. As a group, we seemed several cups short of a gallon.
About the time I drifted off to sleep, Laura’s alarm rang. “Just going for a run,” she whispered. I dozed again, but never did really sleep. No wonder I felt a tad testy when we gathered at the bus—especially since Joyce had told us the night before to be there half an hour earlier than the schedule said. It didn’t cheer me one whit that Laura and Joyce were pink-cheeked from their run. Brandi, Jim, Kenny, and Sherry were late, so the rest of us waited half an hour in the front hall when we could have been sleeping. Then Kenny showed up dressed out in kilt, matching tie, long green socks, white shirt, dark jacket, feathered bonnet, a sporran, and white spats. “Sorry to be late. I misplaced my spats.”
From the look Sherry shot him, they’d had one royal spat that morning.
When Brandi and Jim sauntered down, I figured she was late because it took so long to look that good. She was stunning in a green boiled-wool jacket and gray wool slacks—slacks almost exactly like the new ones I wore, except hers were five sizes smaller and six times more expensive. She took one look at Kenny and exclaimed, “You look simply darlin’! Stand over against that wall so I can take your picture. Now come over here, Sherry, and let me get one of the two of you.”
The rest of us surged out to the waiting bus with our bags.
When Kenny handed the driver their bags, he cocked one bushy eyebrow at the bag labeled “Bagpipes.” “Riddy for a bit o’ music, air ye, lad?”
“Och,
“Where was she?” I asked.
Joyce’s shoulders rose in a shrug. “You heard her. She told me the same—there was somebody she had to see, and she forgot the time. And meanwhile, I stood out there over an hour getting all the grit in Glasgow under my contacts.” She bent her head and one by one removed hard lenses, rinsed them in her water glass, and put them back in. Then she blinked a few times and gave us her prim smile. “At least that feels better.”
Laura passed her hot scones and jam. “Is this your first tour?”
Joyce’s lips twisted into a rueful smile. “Can you tell? It’s my first and last.” I was surprised and a bit chagrined. It had never occurred to me that we wouldn’t have a seasoned, well-informed guide. She heaved a sigh that seemed to come from the soles of her feet. “It all sounded a lot easier than it is.”
Laura chuckled. “Most things do. But hey, everybody speaks English, we’re all grown-ups, and at least some of us have been to Scotland before. It’s going to work out.” After that she steered the conversation toward places they’d visited that afternoon. Having nothing to contribute, I listened, and watched.
Around Laura, Joyce relaxed like a woman who has found herself among her own people in a foreign land. Her face lost its uptight expression and her whole demeanor expanded. Even though at least ten years separated them, they were sisters in the casual way they held their bodies, handled silver at the table, and signaled waitresses. Both were obviously daughters of privilege, raised to take it for granted that the comforts of the world were theirs by right.
So what the heck was Joyce doing conducting a low-profit bus tour through the Scottish Highlands?
7
The rest of them went out on a pub crawl that night, but I’m not much for sitting around in bars. Besides, I was ready for my bed. However, between sending up prayer flares for my folks on the Gulf of Mexico and wondering about people on the tour, I didn’t sleep much. I kept asking myself why Joyce was leading tours, why Jim and Brandi were on a bus tour rather than riding in a private limousine and staying in five-star hotels, why Kenny and Sherry had come on this tour when there were places they’d rather see at a different time of the year, and why Marcia had come at all when she was so obviously ill. As a group, we seemed several cups short of a gallon.
About the time I drifted off to sleep, Laura’s alarm rang. “Just going for a run,” she whispered. I dozed again, but never did really sleep. No wonder I felt a tad testy when we gathered at the bus—especially since Joyce had told us the night before to be there half an hour earlier than the schedule said. It didn’t cheer me one whit that Laura and Joyce were pink-cheeked from their run. Brandi, Jim, Kenny, and Sherry were late, so the rest of us waited half an hour in the front hall when we could have been sleeping. Then Kenny showed up dressed out in kilt, matching tie, long green socks, white shirt, dark jacket, feathered bonnet, a sporran, and white spats. “Sorry to be late. I misplaced my spats.”
From the look Sherry shot him, they’d had one royal spat that morning.
When Brandi and Jim sauntered down, I figured she was late because it took so long to look that good. She was stunning in a green boiled-wool jacket and gray wool slacks—slacks almost exactly like the new ones I wore, except hers were five sizes smaller and six times more expensive. She took one look at Kenny and exclaimed, “You look simply darlin’! Stand over against that wall so I can take your picture. Now come over here, Sherry, and let me get one of the two of you.”
The rest of us surged out to the waiting bus with our bags.
When Kenny handed the driver their bags, he cocked one bushy eyebrow at the bag labeled “Bagpipes.” “Riddy for a bit o’ music, air ye, lad?”
“Och,
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