Free Did You Declare the Corpse? by Patricia Sprinkle Page A

slid into the seat behind her.

    After the driver had shut the door, he stood in the aisle and made a little welcoming speech. “For those who cannae read, my name is Watty.” We all chuckled along with him, but after that, I didn’t understand enough words to make sense of what he said.

    “Is he speaking English?” I asked softly.

    “Aye,” Kenny told me. “He’s from Paisley, just outside of Glasgow. They have their own distinctive accent. You’ll get used to it.”

    Maybe if I stayed in Scotland the rest of my life.

    I had to admit, though, that Watty was entertaining as he described various attractions we passed. Some of the group were entertained because they could understand him and knew what they were looking at. The rest of us were charmed by the lilt of his voice. Sentences tended to slide down the scale and back up again at the end.

    Everybody disembarked at Loch Lomond except Jim and Marcia. He claimed he had work to do, and she was nursing a cold. Watty offered me a hand to help me down. I would have expected his to be callused from all that driving, but it was as soft as my own. “I told ye it’d clair up. Are ye riddy to see some sights noo?” He smelled of cigarettes and chocolate.

    “More than ready,” I told him. “I’ve been in Scotland more than twenty-four hours, and all I’ve seen so far are a hotel and a department store.”

    “Och, we’ve a wee bit more to show you than that. Breathe deep. The air is sweet. And yon lake is lovely with the wind drawin’ his fingers across her skin.”

    Not only a driver, but a poet.

    The mist was too low for me to see whether the wind was rippling the water’s skin or not, but I took breaths of the cold, damp air and smelled mingled fragrances of evergreens, melted snow, and ancient soil. I stood for two or three minutes just enjoying breathing, wondering if each place has a distinctive smell and what Georgia smells like to people from far away.

    Then the clear, fresh scent of Scotland was replaced by a universal one as Watty pulled a crumpled pack of cigarettes from his pocket, offered me one, and—when I refused—lit up. “Nasty habit, this. I’m givin’ it up one of these days.” He exhaled a ring that rose above his head and floated away. Then he gave me a wink. “Soon’s I figure out how to dee that wi’ chewin’ gum.” He moseyed off toward where Kenny was assembling his pipes.

    Laura spoke into my ear, “Looks like you’ve beat Dorothy to it, and found yourself a Highland gentleman.”

    “He’s not a Highland gentleman. He’s from Glasgow.”

    “Still, I think I’d better call Joe Riddley and report.”

    “If I thought it would bring him running, I’d lend you my phone.”

    She gave me a sympathetic look. “Are you missing him a lot?”

    Only about every five minutes—any time I saw something I wanted him to look at, or heard something he’d get a chuckle out of, or whenever I had to hoist those bags or calculate a price in British money—but I saw no point in putting a damper on her trip. “No, I’m storing up memories so I can bore him to death when I get home.”

    We strolled down to join Dorothy, Joyce, and Brandi, who all stood peering into the mist. Brandi exclaimed with delight each time an occasional parting showed islands in the middle of the loch.

    Kenny settled the bag beneath his arm, stuck the mouthpiece between his lips, placed his fingers on the chanter and gave the bag a squeeze. A squawk soared across the water and into the mist. After the squawk, Kenny solemnly marched up and down the waterside while “Loch Lomond” reverberated among the hills.

    I had gotten off the bus to enjoy the scenery and endure the music. I had no inkling that Kenny could play so well, or that his playing would touch something deep and plaintive within me. As the mournful notes rent the air, they created a vivid picture of lost love, sweet memories, and confidence that love survives beyond the grave. By