The Girl with the Phony Name (22 page)

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Authors: Charles Mathes

BOOK: The Girl with the Phony Name
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“To Julius Fingon of Nova Scotia.”
“Aye.”
“And he knew that if I went to Lis I might turn up the truth and destroy the life he had built for himself as Robert MacAlpin.”
“But it was the brooch he wanted,” said MacLean. The brooch and the Fingon treasure.”
“Did Julius Fingon know of this?” said Lucy. “Of what happened to Robbie MacAlpin?”
“Nae,” MacLean shook his head, unable to meet Lucy's eyes. “When the month ha' passed, Julius Fingon come back to the Fairy's Egg like he promised.
“‘Have you got the brooch for me?' says he.
“‘No, Mr. Julius Fingon,' says I.
“‘How did ye ken my name?' says he.
“‘It doesna matter,' says I. ‘But I think perhaps ye should pay me something anyhow, to insure I willna tell Laird Geoffrey wha' ye were oop to.'
“‘Come wi' me back to mi hotel,' says he.
“When I follow him outside, he throws me into an alleyway. He was a giant man, Lucy. I couldna break free. He holds me against a wall and with his thumb, he scoops out my eye.”
Lucy recoiled in horror. MacLean reached up and touched his patch, the thirty-year-old pain still fresh in his face.
“‘If ye get me the brooch I'll make ye rich, MacLean,' says Julius Fingon. ‘If ye tell anyone about me, I'll be back for your other eye.'
“He leaves me bleeding in the dirt, Lucy. The irony of it was tha' Laird Geoffrey had been stricken and never was conscious again. I had no one to tell.”
Lucy shook her head. MacLean stared out over the sea.
“Ye dinna kill Hugh Grimmon, Lucy,” said MacLean. “It was the hand of justice that struck him down, as sure as it was the hand of justice that took my eye. I spent the last thirty years hopin' tha' the brooch would come back to me so I could dangle it in front of Julius Fingon and make him pay for wha' he done to me. To show him justice.”
“I don't think that anyone will find justice here,” Lucy said sadly.
“I should chust stand aside, then, and let you go to him, I suppose?” said MacLean. “Let two Fingons split the treasure and leave me with nothing to show for my life?”
“But Angus …” began Lucy, reaching out a hand, the anger she had been feeling turning toward pity.
“Give me the brooch, lass,” he said quietly. “I know ye ha' it with ye.”
Lucy stopped, surprised, hurt.
“Is that what this was all about? Was everything you've done and said just to get that brooch?”
“It cost me my eye. I will ha' the brooch, Lucy.”
“It's back at the hotel,” she said.
MacLean lips curled into a grim smile.
“Never trust a hotel, isna tha' what you said yesterday? Of course, I took tha' key from ye and searched your room when you were at MacDonald Castle, chust to be sure.”
“Why didn't you just keep the brooch after you took it from Fraser?” said Lucy, stalling, trying to figure out what to do. “You had it in your pocket.”
“I could hairdly do that with an unpredictable lad like Ranald standin' over me with a shotgun,” he said, smiling sadly. “And besides, it seemed better to wait and take the whole Fingon treasure if we happened to find it.”
“But we didn't.”
MacLean said nothing. Lucy felt the tears welling up in her eyes.
“I thought you were my friend, Angus,” she said, her teeth clenched.
MacLean's smile abruptly vanished.
“GIVE ME THE BROOCH!” he shouted and slammed the club into the dash in front of her, denting the metal, producing a fearful noise.
Lucy's hand scrambled into her pocket and held out the Fingon brooch. MacLean tore it from her fingers, not taking his eyes off her.
“Now put your hands in your lap in front of you,” he commanded.
Lucy put her hands in her lap. MacLean glanced briefly at the silver ring in his hand, then tucked it into his front pocket, not lowering the club.
“I'm sorry, lass. Now turn around. I'll hit ye once on the back of the head. You'll nae feel a thing. When they find the car, the accident will speak for itself. Wharrie had a bit too much to drink. He took ye for a ride in the mountains, lost control of the car. Case closed.”
Lucy looked desperately behind her.
“Ranald can't help you, I'm afraid,” said MacLean humorlessly. “I put enough chloral hydrate in his whiskey to knock out a elk. Turn around, Lucy.”
MacLean was perspiring freely, clearly building up his nerve. Lucy tried to think of something to do, but nothing came to mind. The man was old, but still a lot bigger than she was. And he had the club.
“Turn around,” he rasped.
“So you don't have to look at me when you do it?”
“Aye,” he whispered. “It's a bonnie face, Lucy. I dinna want to …”
His voice trailed off.
“If you think I'm going to make this easy for you,” said Lucy angrily, “you're nuts.”
The man wet his lips and swallowed. He lowered the club marginally.
“You can still stop, Angus. You haven't killed anybody yet.”
“Nae.”
“Then put down the club.”
“I canna. Dinna ye see?”
“If it was the hand of justice that killed Hugh Grimmon,” she said desperately, “then what will happen to you if you do this now?”
“Turn around, Lucy.”
“Please, Angus.”
“Turn around!”
“No!”
“Turn around, damn you!”
MacLean raised the club over his head, grazing the car's upholstered ceiling. Lucy's hands involuntarily went up in front of her face and she grabbed his hand as it descended, deflecting the blow. The club crashed into the dashboard. Lucy tried to hold on to MacLean's hand, but he was too strong. The club rose again.
MacLean's teeth were clenched, his face strained. Lucy heard a shrill scream, realized it was hers. Time seemed to slow down as she watched the club descending forever toward her face.
In the instant before it struck, she seemed to see a shadow passing overhead like the angel of death. She involuntarily closed her eyes, waiting for the impact.
It never came.
Instead she heard a terrible sound, the sound she thought would have been made when the club struck her flesh. When she opened her eyes, however, she saw that it had been the sound of Wharrie's boot smashing into the side of MacLean's head.
The big Scot struggled to right himself, pulling his foot back from the unconscious form of MacLean. Then he boosted himself up in the backseat and, ignoring Lucy's cowering figure, he stared at the shattered dashboard in disbelief.
“Look wha' tha' daft coof's doon to my caire!” he groaned.
I
t was three days later. The entire Lis police force, all four officers, augmented by a dozen volunteers, had been digging for the past few hours in the hard ground outside the cottage at the foot of Dumlagchtat Castle. A few locals had gotten wind of the grim activity and stood under umbrellas, watching the constables.
Lucy sat, sheltered from the light drizzle, in the backseat of the single island police car. With her was Catriona MacDonald. Tak Wing sat in the front next to Chief Constable Gordon Livingstone, a large Britisher with a lined, gray face.
“ … but our department doesn't run sophisticated tests on accident victims,” Chief Constable Livingstone was saying. “There would have been no reason to suspect foul play if MacLean had been able to carry out his plan. It was certainly lucky that Mr. Wharrie came around.”
“Wharrie turn out to be okay guy,” marveled Wing. “Save Rucy even though drugged, pick Wing up at airstrip—even apologize for World War II. What come over him, Rucy, you think?”
“You were the one who told me to expect miracles,” said Lucy, turning away from the window. She had been eyeing the crowd, hoping to see Michael Fraser, but there was no reason to believe Mike would even hear about this search, let alone still be on the island. What would she say to him, anyhow?
“Well, it's all too morbid even to think about,” said Catriona MacDonald. “It's simply unbelievable that these horrible men could get away with Robbie MacAlpin's murder for thirty years.”
“No one would have even known there was any murder,”
said Livingstone sadly, “had not Miss Fingon looked into things.”
Lucy winced. She still hadn't adjusted to being called Fingon. It wasn't a name she was proud of.
“The thing that surprises me about this whole affair,” the chief constable continued, looking down at his notebook, “is that this … Hugh Grimmon … was able to sneak through customs using another person's passport. That still strikes me as very hard to believe.”
Lucy swallowed hard. Tak Wing grinned.
There was a tap at the window. Lucy looked up and saw Lord MacDonald. He was accompanied by one of the constables, whose blue uniform was covered by a wet slicker.
“Afternoon, m'lord,” said Livingstone, opening the door and tipping his hat.
“Livingstone,” said Lord MacDonald.
“Well, I should get over and see how the lads are doing,” said the chief constable, departing the sedan. Lord MacDonald brushed the rain off his coat and plopped down in the empty seat next to Tak Wing.
“I say, bit damp out there. Don't think I know you,” he said, staring at Wing.
“Tak Wing,” twinkled the little man, bowing as well as he could manage from a seated position. “American entrepreneur.”
“That so? I'm a bit of an entrepreneur myself.”
Catriona patted Lucy's hand.
“We're all frightfully sorry about this, Lucy,” she chattered. “Poor Robbie. He was such a sweet boy. All these years we had thought so ill of him, when all along he was …”
“Bit rough for you, eh wot?” said MacDonald heartily, turning around in his seat to face Lucy. “You don't have to be here, you know. They'll send word if they find anything, I'm sure.”
“No,” sighed Lucy. “It's all right. I feel relieved it's over. I really do.”
“You poor dear,” said Catriona. “You must come stay with us until this whole dreadful mess is settled.”
“No, thanks,” said Lucy. “I have to get back to New York and help Mr. Wing with some financing.”
As nice as the MacDonalds were being now, Lucy knew they wouldn't give her the time of day if her name weren't Fingon. Friends like that she could live without.
“Do a bit of finance, too, Mr. Wing?” said MacDonald.
“Wing very experienced in art of deal,” said Wing with a very strange expression on his face. “Can see that you involved with big deal right now.”
“I say, that's amazing!” exclaimed MacDonald. “I am involved in a big deal, in fact. Selling one of my Inverness factories. How did you know?”
“You try to get better price, they say take it or leave it.”
“By George, that's uncanny!”
“They bluffing,” said Wing triumphantly. “You can get much more.”
“You mean they'll increase the offer on the table? Are you sure?”
“Father, please,” said Catriona. “Do you have to discuss business at a time like this?”
“No,” said MacDonald cheerfully. “Quite right. But you must join me for lunch, Mr. Wing. I'd be very interested to hear more about this.”
“Father has some news that might cheer you, Lucy, darling,” said Catriona pointedly. “You did get it, didn't you, father?”
“Yes, indeed,” chortled Lord MacDonald, turning to Lucy, clearly pleased with himself. “The foreign office has located your birth certificate, my dear. In New York.”
“You're kidding,” said Lucy with an involuntary laugh.
“Quite serious. It gave the embassy staff a devil of a time. They checked every possible date after Barbara landed, found nothing, were totally stymied. The Yanks are so damned clever with their computers that they're lost entirely unless
you can give them the exact information they're looking for.”
“I know,” said Lucy. “But they found it?”
“Very nearly gave up, but then some bright lad thought to check the dates before the
Queen Elizabeth
docked.” Macdonald sniffed. “Seems you were born at sea.”
“Then I'm not a U.S. citizen after all?” said Lucy, totally confused.
“On the contrary. Your mother was Scottish, but the ship was in U.S. territorial waters at the time of your birth, so you are technically a dual national. The foreign office is working on a U.K. passport for you right now. Should have it ready in a few days.”
“Did you get a copy of the birth certificate?” Lucy asked quietly.
“No, but I have all information right here.”
“Can you tell me my birthday?”
Lord MacDonald pulled out a fax and placed reading glasses on his nose.
“Now let's see. Date of birth: September twenty-ninth. Mother: Barbara Fingon. Father: Robert MacAlpin. Weight: six pounds, four ounces.”
September 29. Lucy was even older than she had thought. For some reason she didn't care.
“Don't you want to know your name?” asked MacDonald.
Lucy looked up, afraid to ask.
“It's Lucy,” he bellowed happily. “Lucy Fingon.”
“Dear Barbara,” said Catriona taking a handkerchief out of her patent-leather bag and dabbing her eyes. “She must have named you Lucy because it was on the Fingon brooch. The brooch said MacAlpin, and she loved a MacAlpin. It said Lucy, and she named you Lucy. The poor darling. So sentimental. So sweet.”
“Pleased to meet you, Rucy Fingon!” exclaimed Wing, pumping her hand enthusiastically.
Lucy felt numb. Lucy Fingon. It wasn't as pretty a name as
Lucy MacAlpin Trelaine, but it was hers. It belonged to her by right of birth. And she was still Lucy. Thank God Barbara Fingon hadn't gone with Bethoc!
“I have another surprise for you, my dear,” said MacDonald, looking incredibly smug.
“I think I've had all the surprises I can manage for a while, thank you,” said Lucy.
“I spoke to Julius Fingon in Canada this morning,” said MacDonald as if she hadn't spoken. “You can't imagine his surprise when I told him about his long lost cousin Lucy Fingon. He had no idea Barbara was pregnant when she disappeared, of course. People were very discreet about that sort of thing in those days. He wants very much to speak with you. What do you think of that?”
Lucy didn't say anything. When she was a little girl she had dreamed of this moment. She would finally find her real family. They would be rich and beautiful. They would take her away from the poverty, the cruelty of the world. It hadn't worked out the way she thought.
MacDonald and Catriona looked at her expectantly. Wing was smiling ear to ear. The rain was falling harder now. It beat insistently on the roof of the car.
“I have Julius's number right here,” said Lord MacDonald, digging into his jacket pocket. “You can call him any time after …”
“I'm not going to call him,” said Lucy.
“You can't possibly blame him for what happened to your father, old girl,” said MacDonald, rubbing his hands together. “He knew nothing about what MacLean had done. Was terribly angry when I told him. He's a wealthy man, Lucy. Seems eager to make it up to you.”
“I think he's done enough,” said Lucy.
“But you're a Fingon,” said Catriona, looking to her father. “Blood is thicker than water and all that.”
Lucy didn't say anything. Julius Fingon had set in motion the events that had made her an orphan. His pursuit of the
Fingon treasure had cost Robbie MacAlpin and Barbara Fingon their lives, to say nothing of what had happened to Hugh Grimmon and Angus MacLean. She had nearly been killed herself.
No, Lucy wanted nothing from the Fingons. She would build her own life, meet the world on her terms. She wasn't going to be swept along anymore. She was going to choose what was important and what was not. Lucy smiled. For the first time in years she didn't feel like a failure.
“But what will you do?” sputtered Lord MacDonald.
Suddenly she felt a gentle hand on her shoulder.
“We go home now, Rucy?” Tak Wing said.
Home. Lucy had never been homesick before; she had never had a home to miss. Now she thought of her rooms in the silly house in Weehawken and smiled.
“Yes, Mr. Wing,” said Lucy and smiled. “We go home.”
Chief Constable Livingstone suddenly appeared out of the rain at the window. MacDonald reached over and opened the door.
“I'm sorry, Miss Fingon,” said Chief Constable Livingstone, leaning in. “I think we've found your father.”
No one said anything for a moment. Lucy wondered why she didn't feel like crying. She had been crying at the drop of a hat lately. Perhaps she was all cried out.
“You poor lamb,” said Catriona, putting her arm around Lucy's shoulder and squeezing her gently. “All this has been too much for you.”
“No,” said Lucy. “I'm fine. But it's funny, don't you think?”
“What's that, dear?” said Catriona.
“I came here to find out who I was, and now I have. But I still don't know the first thing about Lucy MacAlpin Trelaine.”

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