The Girl with the Phony Name (18 page)

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Authors: Charles Mathes

BOOK: The Girl with the Phony Name
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M
ike Fraser was famished. He hadn't eaten since breakfast yesterday morning in Glasgow, figuring to have something once he got back to Lis.
The two Scotsmen had picked him up at the airstrip, claiming that the fellow who had been driving him had a cold. Mike had thought nothing of it, just told them to take him to the best restaurant on the island. He had a lot to celebrate. Instead they had brought him to this leaky shack and left him tied to a chair all night.
Mike took another huge bite of the cheese sandwich MacLean had produced from his picnic basket. There was also hot tea from a thermos, which the others were drinking from plastic cups.
Mike was still pretty angry, but a part of him couldn't help enjoying the excitement. Nothing like this ever happened at the museum. He hadn't had such a ridiculous adventure since his frat brothers at Yale had dropped him off on a country road at 2:00 A.M.
“You were talking about Robert MacAlpin,” said the girl.
Mike grinned. She was a tough little number. He almost hadn't recognized her at first; she looked all of twelve years old with her hair cut short like that. And her ear looked like a traffic light! What could have prompted her to do such a thing? Then he remembered she had also had him kidnapped. Obviously, sanity wasn't one of her top priorities.
“I swear I'd never met the man before that day, Lucy. We talked on the phone. He told me his name was Scott.”
Even though they were all politely having lunch, Mike knew the situation was still precarious. The best policy was to stick as close to the truth as possible, without jeopardizing his or the museum's interests. Except for the tremendously uncomfortable night he had just endured, no real harm had been done. Yet.
“If you didn't know MacAlpin, then what were you doing at Trump Tower?” she asked angrily.
Mike looked up from his sandwich and studied the girl. The way she had been talking to him, one would think that he was the criminal, not her. How could she expect him to believe that she hadn't known what her friends were up to? Still, she had him in a ridiculous position. He would have to play his cards very carefully indeed.
“I don't usually do appraisals, but the man was a real salesman,” Mike shrugged innocently. “He said he had an artifact that might lead to a whole trove of Celtic treasure. If I authenticated the piece, he said he would give the museum right of first refusal to whatever he ultimately found. It sounded a little crazy, but I figured there was nothing to lose. That's all there was to it.”
The girl looked skeptical. Mike took another bite of his sandwich, wondering if he should feel flattered. Apparently she couldn't believe he had been so stupid. He had let himself be kidnapped by the Scottish Mutt and Jeff, hadn't he?
“Why did you chase me through the park?” she said.
“I wanted to talk to you about the brooch,” he answered truthfully. “It belongs to you, doesn't it? The museum can't
go around playing finders-keepers like we could in the old days, you know.”
She looked quite pale, almost greenish in this light. Like she was ready to throw up or something. Could be guilt, Michael theorized, taking another sandwich from the basket and biting into it. He was beginning to feel sorry for her. Maybe she had a conscience after all.
“You expect me to believe you were just there to appraise my brooch?” she said, hands on her hips, her enormous blue eyes flashing. “Then why did you keep it?”
Michael waited to answer until he had swallowed the food in his mouth. This was no time to forget his manners.
“I wanted to return it. Every time I tried to, you ran away. I didn't know where to find you. I didn't even know your real name.”
She smiled wryly. “What did you tell the police?”
“I didn't think it would be prudent to involve the museum in Mr. MacAlpin's unfortunate … accident,” Mike said carefully, “so I didn't stick around.”
“It
was
an accident,” she said quickly, as if she had read his mind.
“I believe you,” he said, chewing. She didn't really look like a killer. She looked kind of cute, in fact. Mike's thoughts were interrupted by a twangy voice from the corner. It was the older man with the patch over his eye, the one Lucy had called MacLean.
“Excuse me, Dr. Fraser,” he said, sipping his tea, “but why dinna we return to the subject of the treasure?”
“Since MacAlpin was dead and I had the brooch—” Mike shrugged, “I thought I might try to find this treasure he spoke of. Dumlagchtat was the obvious place to start looking, since it's written on the back of the artifact. Professor Lackey told me the legend of the Fingon treasure. I'm staying at his cottage. But while we're on the subject, I might ask Lucy what brings her here?”
The girl flushed. “I'm looking for my family,” she said quietly.
“But there aren't any Fingons left on Lis, are there?” asked Mike. She looked at her shoes. The other man, Wharrie, leaped in to change the subject.
“Ye said the brooch told where the treasure is. So where is it?”
Wharrie was the big, red-faced one. He had barely spoken at all since they arrived, but neither had he relaxed his grip on the shotgun.
Mike couldn't help but smile. He'd lived so long in the institutional world of government bureaucracy and museum committees that it was refreshing to find someone who still believed life was so simple.
“You just want to go and dig it up, I suppose,” he said gently. “It's not as easy as that, my friend.”
“Why not?” said Lucy.
Mike finished the second sandwich and rubbed his hands together to dispose of the crumbs.
“First, there may not be a treasure at all,” he said, trying not to sound professorial, but counting the point off against his finger nevertheless. “Just because I think it might be here, doesn't mean that I'm right.
“Second,” he continued, counting another finger, “there's the question of ownership. Let's say there is a treasure and let's say it is buried where I think it is. To whom does it belong?”
“To whoever finds it,” said Wharrie.
“Not under Scottish law,” said Mike. “In fact it belongs to the property owner, who in this case is one Julius Fingon of Nova Scotia, Canada.”
“A Fingon?” blinked Lucy, looking genuinely surprised. “In Nova Scotia?”
“Julius Fingon bought the castle after the death of his distant cousin, Lord Geoffrey.” Mike nodded. “That's what I went to Glasgow to find out. I've written for Julius Fingon's
permission to excavate, but it could be months before the legalities are ironed out.
“Of course,” said Mike, counting a third finger, “since the treasure may be connected with Kenneth mac Alpin, the government may try to claim it under the Historical Artifacts Act.”
“Not if we dig it oop first an' doon't mention the fact,” said Wharrie humorlessly.
“Fourth,” said Mike, ignoring the interruption and happily finishing with his hand, “you can't just go out with a spade and dig up something like this. Part of the treasure is its archaeological value. An excavation must be planned and carefully executed to properly document the site for historical purposes. That could take years.”
“Not if we dig it oop first an' doon't mention the fact,” repeated Wharrie.
Mike was getting a little annoyed. It was frustrating to deal with people who couldn't understand reality, even when you took great pains to illuminate it.
“I told you,” he said levelly. “You can't …”
“Yer the one who canna, Dr. Fraser,” said MacLean. “Ye canna come here and steal our treasure and turn it over to some foreigner in Canada, tha's wha' ye canna do.”
“But, there's the question of ownership …”
“Ownership be damned, man,” growled MacLean. “What's in this for you, then?”
“Well,” said Mike reasonably, “the museum might possibly propose to buy what it could from the proper owner … .”
“And so Lucy and the rest of us would be cut out entirely!”
Mike bit his lip and looked at Lucy, who seemed lost in thought. She was smart enough to understand the subtleties of the situation. Surely she could explain the facts of life to these rustics.
“There are legal remedies Miss … Fingon … could apply if she believed she had a claim,” Mike declared with annoyance when Lucy didn't come to his rescue. “The case would
proceed through the courts. It might take some time, of course, but there's a right way to do this and there's a …”
“Do we have a shovel?” the girl said suddenly.
Mike couldn't believe it. How could she even consider such a step? He tried to rise to his feet, but MacLean pushed him back.
“There's one in the boot o' the car,” said Wharrie.
“You can't destroy a historical site,” Mike said as reasonably as he could manage. “It's unethical. Think of the knowledge that would be lost.”
“I don't care about knowledge,” said the girl, almost breezily.
“Look,” he said in the most patient voice he could muster. “You're obviously an intelligent person. You must have some respect for scholarship …”
“I'm not going to let another Fingon steal anything from this island.”
“That's incredibly naïve,” said Mike, suddenly furious. “You're a Fingon yourself, aren't you? Or was that all bullshit? What sort of game are you playing, lady?”
“Let's get that shovel,” said Lucy, turning to her companions, her eyes blazing, her jaw set. Mike started toward her, but both Wharrie and MacLean stepped forward to stop him.
“I can't believe you would really do something like this!” he exclaimed.
“Well, believe it,” she said defiantly.
Mike was genuinely angry now. How could she be so stubborn?
“Well, I won't tell you where it is,” he said, folding his arms in front of him. “It's too important. It's a matter of principle. Shoot me if you must.”
Wharrie raised the shotgun. “Shall I shoot him then, Lucy?”
Mike immediately felt like an idiot. Was he really going to die for the art museum? Had the sandwiches gone to his brain? There might not even be any treasure.
“You're not going to let him shoot me, are you?” Mike asked, his voice wavering now.
“No,” the girl announced after what was an excruciatingly long pause for Mike. “That won't be necessary.”
“I knew you'd see reason,” he said, breathing again.
“Aire ye sure?” said Wharrie, obviously disappointed.
“We're not going to chust give oop, aire we, lass?” said MacLean, his jaw slack, his fist tightening around the club, his gray eyes watery.
“No,” she said with a smile. “We just don't need Dr. Fraser to tell us where to look.”
“Why not?” said MacLean.
Wharrie stared at her. Mike stared, too.
“Because I already know.”
 
Mike was convinced that the girl was trying to trick him until she led them to the precise spot he had in mind.
“How did you figure it out?” he asked unhappily.
“You told me yourself,” she replied.
“When?”
“You said you came here because Dumlagchtat was written on the back of the brooch. You said the treasure might be connected with Kenneth mac Alpin. The name mac Alpin is also on the brooch, Dumlagchtat mac Alpin Bethoc. There's only one other word of the inscription, and you said in New York that Bethoc was an old family name from the house of Alpin. I just asked myself where would an old family name mark the place to dig? You did say it had to be dug up, didn't you?”
They all stared at the worn gravestone in front of them in the little cemetery by the entrance to Dumlagchtat Castle. Amidst all the stones marking the final resting places of five hundred years of Fingons, there was only this one without dates and just a single name—Bethoc.
Mike felt like a fool for underestimating this Lucy Scott or Fingon or whatever her name was—again. First she had outrun
him, then she had outmanned him, and now she had outthought him.
“I can't believe it took me so long to figure it out,” she said, adding insult to injury.
Now that they were out of the gloomy cottage Mike could get a better look at her. Why had she done that to her hair? he wondered. She didn't look so pale anymore, but she wasn't his type at all, too short, too flat, definitely too smart. Why did she look so appealing then, fists clenched, jaw defiant, those idiotic earrings in her ear?

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