The Girl with the Phony Name (19 page)

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Authors: Charles Mathes

BOOK: The Girl with the Phony Name
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“Start digging, Dr. Fraser,” said MacLean, handing him the shovel. Mike stared at it, but didn't move.
“Shall I strike him with my cloob?” said MacLean, looking to Lucy.
“We're going to dig here whether you like it or not, Dr. Fraser,” she said coolly. “And if Mr. Wharrie does the work, I don't think he'll be as careful as you.”
“Kidnapping is a crime, you know,” Mike said in a final attempt to get her to see reason. “Or do you propose to kill me, too, when I've done your dirty work?”
Wharrie looked to MacLean, who looked to Lucy. Mike was instantly sorry he had brought the subject up.
“Employees of the Metropolitan Museum aren't supposed to steal people's jewelry, Dr. Fraser,” she said innocently. “You didn't want to be involved with Robert MacAlpin's accident, but you left the scene and removed evidence as well. Think what a mess I can make of your reputation if you press charges against us.”
Mike tried to smile. She didn't have to involve the police to hurt him. Just the details of this sordid kidnapping—if he were crazy enough to report it—would be enough to make him look an idiot to his colleagues. Brickwall would eat him alive.
Mike took the shovel. He had said his piece. If she wanted to take responsibility for this, there was nothing more he could do. She had him over a barrel and she knew it.
The ground was hard-packed peat. Mike took off his shirt after an hour. MacLean went back to the cottage and brought out chairs. The others sat and drank tea and watched him dig for three hours in the hot sun. The hole was more than six feet down when they finally gave up.
There was nothing buried under the gravestone. Not even a body.
W
harrie stopped the car in front of Dr. Lackey's cottage. Fraser pushed open the door and got out. His face was smeared with dirt, his red hair was tangled and matted, his eyebrows knitted together over his horn-rimmed glasses. To her dismay, Lucy thought he looked adorable.
“No hard feelings,” said Fraser, throwing his jacket over one shoulder. His hands were dirty, blistered.
“Thanks,” she said, feeling confused. She tried not to look as lost as she felt. She hadn't come here to find a treasure, hadn't even known one existed. Why, then, did she feel so disappointed?
Lucy still couldn't believe Fraser wasn't going to press charges. He could nail them to the wall if he wanted to. Why was he being so decent? He couldn't really be worried about being involved in Robert MacAlpin's death, could he? The police were bound to take his word over hers. He was a Ph.D., for crissakes. How could she ever have been gullible enough to believe he was a fence?
“What are you going to do now?” Fraser said, leaning over the car.
Lucy shrugged. “Go back to New York, I guess. There's not a lot more I can do here.”
“Yer not going to give oop yet, girl?” said MacLean unhappily from the backseat. “We're all havin' such a grand time, airen't we, Ranald?”
“Aye,” said Wharrie, staring straight ahead, gripping the wheel tightly.
Lucy smiled. “Thanks, guys.”
“Will I see you again, Lucy?” asked Fraser.
“Why would you want to?” answered Lucy, bewildered.
“Because I'm out of my mind, obviously. And because I had fun this morning, God help me.”
“I dinna approve,” said MacLean from the back, sticking his nose into the air.
“I don't think it would be such a good idea,” Lucy said, dropping her head to hide her blush. “But thanks, anyway.”
“Why not?”
“Oh, it never works out when you kidnap a man for the first date.”
“Maybe this time will be different,” he persisted.
“Let's go, Ranald,” Lucy said, feeling herself weaken, fearing to make herself any more of a fool than she already had. Wharrie started the engine.
“Call me if you change your mind,” shouted Fraser as they pulled away. “I'm in the Manhattan book. On East Seventyninth Street. Michael Fraser. F-R-A-S-E-R.”
Lucy couldn't help looking back over her shoulder. Michael Fraser, Ph.D., was standing in the middle of the road watching them drive away.
 
It was nearly three o'clock in the afternoon when Wharrie pulled the sedan up in front of the Manor Lodge.
“When aire ye goin' back to New York, Lucy?” asked MacLean, struggling out of the backseat to open the door for her.
“I don't know,” she said wearily. “Maybe Mr. Wing will turn up my birth certificate in Glasgow and I can get a real passport.”
“But yer goin' to see the Fingon oop in Canada?” MacLean pressed.
Lucy felt her muscles tense. She had longed for a family all her life, but after hearing about the Fingons she had been relieved that they were all gone. The thought of another branch of these monsters thriving anywhere in the world was unbearable.
“I don't want anything to do with the Fingons,” she said quietly.
“Have ye thought of stayin' here?” said Wharrie gently. “It's where yer roots aire and ye'd be welcome, even though yer name is not.”
“This is no place for a young person,” said MacLean.
Wharrie shook his head. “No, I suppose not.”
“Thanks for all your help, both of you,” she said sincerely. “What would we have done if there had been a treasure in that grave?”
“Kept it,” said MacLean with a big smile.
“Something was there once, I'll wager,” said Wharrie, snapping his fingers. “Else why dinna we find bones? It was dug oop, it was.”
“Let me know if you ever find it,” said Lucy, getting out of the car.
“Say, why don't we all have a wee drink?” said MacLean.
“Naught be open on Sunday,” said Wharrie.
“We'll go to my place. What do ye say, Lucy?”
“I don't think so,” she laughed, having learned her lesson well enough.
“At least let me buy ye both a farewell dinner,” MacLean twinkled. “For
auld lang syne
.”
“All right,” Lucy smiled.
“We'll pick ye oop at seven. There's a place I ken but a few miles from here. Now how aboot that drink, Ranald?”
They smiled at one another and drove off singing. Lucy walked through the lobby, fishing in her pocket for her room key, feeling sorry for herself. She wanted to be Lucy Trelaine
again, not some Fingon. Even if there had been a treasure, it could never have been enough to compensate her for descending from such people.
Abruptly she stopped. Where was her key? She remembered taking it with her this morning. Could it have fallen out of her pocket somehow at the little cottage?
Lucy nearly jumped into the air when she felt the hand tap her shoulder. Whirling around, she found herself facing the tall, skinny desk clerk in the tweed jacket.
“I'm terribly sorry, Miss Snicowski,” he said, blushing. “I called your name three times, but ye dinna seem to hear me.”
“Yes,” said Lucy, rattled, the pretense of Tina Snicowski entirely forgotten. “What is it?”
“These messages came for ye,” said the man. She realized he was staring. It took her a moment to remember that her eyes had changed color since last he saw her.
“Thanks.” She smiled and gave him a pound note from her pocket. “And can you get me another room key? I seem to have misplaced mine.”
“Certainly.” He swallowed and walked away, casting glances back over his shoulder.
Lucy made a thorough inspection of her room when she got upstairs. Nothing seemed to be out of place. Surely the key had fallen out of her pocket in the excitement today. Still, perhaps it would be wiser to change rooms. Or was she being paranoid?
Lucy glanced at the message slip in her hand. Wing wanted her to call him at the Glasgow Hilton. There was also a small envelope addressed to Tina Snicowski. Lucy tore it open.
Dear Miss Snicowski,
I understand you wish to see me. Perhaps you can stop by for tea today. My driver will collect you at 3:30 if that is convenient.
Cordially yours,
Fitzroy MacDonald of that Ilk
Lucy had never ridden in a Rolls-Royce before. It was nice, though not so much different from normal cars. She was separated from the gray-uniformed chauffeur by a glass panel.
Wing had been out, but Lucy had left a message for him to check the Lis birth records under the name Barbara Fingon. She barely had time enough to wash her face and put on a clean dress before MacDonald's chauffeur announced his presence.
For the past fifteen minutes they had been driving within the boundaries of the MacDonald estate. Practically the entire eastern coast of the island belonged to them. Out of the window Lucy could see the castle now, an enormous stone structure looking out over the sea. There were actually a few trees around it.
She didn't like the MacDonalds on principle, but she was too curious to turn down the invitation. Lord MacDonald might still be able to fill in some of the details about the Fingons, her sordid family. What had changed his mind about seeing her? she wondered.
The Rolls pulled up in front of the castle. The chauffeur got out and wordlessly opened her door. The massive walls made the building seem like a small city. Lucy followed a walk toward a portcullis. When she turned around, the car was already driving away.
Lucy followed simple stone steps through an inner courtyard to a bleak wooden door with a huge iron knocker. Forbidding gray stone rose on all sides. No doubt the MacDonalds had needed this protection against their kinsmen if the Fingons were any guide. She clasped the knocker and swung it three times against the door. Nothing happened for a full minute, then a thin man with an enormous nose emerged. He was wearing a black suit and a winged collar.
“Mr. MacDonald is expecting me,” Lucy said, gaping at the man's getup. Did the MacDonalds think they were in an old movie or something?
“
Lord
MacDonald will see you in the drawing room,” said the butler in a pompous voice. “Follow me.”
He turned and led her down a hall with a black-and-white-checked marble floor. Suits of armor and portraits lined the walls.
“How big is this place?” said Lucy, amazed.
“The castle has one hundred twenty-seven rooms,” replied the man with curt disapproval.
They passed through several other rooms, all packed from floor to ceiling with paintings, ornate furniture—obscenely superfluous riches compared to the island's prevailing poverty. They finally stopped in a gigantic chamber with a three-story ceiling and a fireplace larger than a New York City apartment. A huge staircase at the end of the room rose to a second-floor gallery.
“I shall summon the earl,” said the butler, and left through a studded door on the other side of the room.
There were several dark chairs with high backs and a long leather sofa, but Lucy stood in the center of the room, her hands folded in front of her. She wasn't going to be intimidated by these people's stage sets.
Suddenly a man appeared at the top of the stairs in a kilt, with two golden retrievers at his side. Lord MacDonald strode purposefully down the stairs until he was right in front of her, a thickset, balding figure with thin lips, sallow skin, and a bushy moustache.
“Hallooo!” he suddenly roared. “You must be Miss Snicowski. Am I pronouncing that right? Snicowski? Are you related to the people who make the helicopters? No, that was Sikorsky. I have it. The conductor.”
“Actually my name isn't Snicowski at all, Mr. MacDonald,” said Lucy, damned if she was going to address him as Lord.
“Then what is it, pray tell?” he harrumphed, looking her straight in the ear.
“I don't know, actually,” said Lucy, reaching involuntarily
toward her earrings, wondering if the little holes would ever knit back together. “But I think I'm Barbara Fingon's daughter.”
“Eh wot? Barbara? Nice girl. Whatever happened to Barbara, I wonder?” His accent was not at all like MacLean's or Wharrie's. In fact, he sounded distinctly British.
“If I'm right, she was killed in a car crash when I was a baby.”
“Is that so?” he said.
“Yes,” said Lucy.
They stared at one another for a few seconds. Finally MacDonald spoke again.
“So how is old Hewby?”
“Huh?” said Lucy, baffled.
“Bartlett Hewby. He called yesterday. Said I should see you. How is he?”
“He's fine, I guess,” said Lucy, wondering if MacDonald often got calls from basset hounds.
“We had some good times. Made some money. Do you see him often?”
Lucy shrugged helplessly. “I take him for a walk every once in a while.” Obviously Tak Wing had something to do with this.
“Old boy must be eighty-five. Still walks with young girls, eh? Good show.”
Lucy nodded, realizing finally that Wing must have named his dog for a real man, a real man with connections, and one whom Wing could call on for a favor.
“About the Fingons,” said Lucy, determined not to miss this opportunity, no matter how bizarrely it had come about. “I wonder if you might tell me …”
“No, sorry, 'fraid not. Must run to the mainland. Business, you understand. Have tea with my daughter on the east terrace. Catriona. She was Barbara's best friend. Charming girl. She's living here between divorces. Rackine will show
you there. Rackine!” he hollered and the pickle-nosed butler reappeared.
“Show this young lady to my daughter.”
“Yes, m'lord,” said Rackine.
MacDonald vanished down the hall, the dogs at his heels.

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