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

the time the tune died into stillness, tears stung my eyes. “Is he really good,” I asked Laura, “or is it just the setting?”

    “He’s good. He wins competitions all the time.” I saw that her eyes were wet and pink, and she dabbed them with a tissue and turned away.

    “Oh, honey! Is it your folks you’re missing? Or Ben?”

    She shook her head and spoke in a voice clogged with tears. “It’s Kenny. We talked a while last night, and oh, Mac, he’s so unhappy.” Now what was I supposed to say to that?

    Nothing, as it turned out. Laura must have felt she’d said too much, because she turned and strode off down to the waterside.

    Meanwhile, Brandi was applauding. “That was pretty,” she called. “What was it?”

    “It’s called ‘Loch Lomond,’ ” Watty explained. “There’s a legend that after the Battle of Culloden, the English chose some at random to be hung and sent ithers walkin’ home, and this was written by a soldier who knew he’d be hung. He’d left his true love on these banks, y’ken? So he tells his comrade that by deein’, he’ll come home to her by the low road and arrive sooner than those who travel yon high road.” He jerked one thumb to indicate the road we’d just traveled and began a hoarse rendition of the chorus: “O, ye’ll tak the high r-r-road and I’ll tak the low r-r-r-oad . . .”

    Brandi’s eyes widened in recognition. “I’ve heard that before. Play it again, Kenny.” She tilted her head to listen as he played it again. Only Sherry seemed unaffected by his playing. She leaned against the bus, filing her nails.

    “That was marvelous!” Brandi set gold bangles ringing as she waved at him. “Now play something cheerful.” Kenny obliged.

    The breeze was strong enough to penetrate my trench coat and sweater, and I was shivering all over, so when Kenny started a third tune, I decided to head back to the bus.

    I found Jim busy at his laptop and Marcia working needlepoint. I slid in behind her and said, “No wonder the pipes are the national instrument of Scotland. What else could send music soaring so far among the hills and over the water?”

    “They do sound fine,” she agreed.

    After a few minutes’ silence, I asked, “Are you feeling any better?”

    “A bit, perhaps.” She produced a slight cough, then gave me a weak smile. “It’s nothing for you to worry about, eh?” She returned to her needlework.

    “What are you making?”

    “Covers for my dining-room chairs. It helps steady my thoughts.”

    Another silence while I tried to think of something else to say. She didn’t make it easy. “It’s nice that Dorothy came with you on this trip.”

    She turned her work and started a row in the other direction. “Actually I only came to bring Dorothy. She’s very shy, eh? And even though she’s twenty-five, she still lives at home. Except for playing the flute, she’s not shown interest in much of anything, but she lit up last summer when I first started talking about coming to Scotland. This spring, I was about to back out of the trip, but she asked if she could come with me, so I decided to come after all. I hope that seeing a bit of the world might inspire her to spread her wings and begin to live a bit.”

    Something she herself had said sent a spasm of pain across Marcia’s face. Before I could reply, she had given a pained little “Oh!” and closed her eyes. Then she pressed her lips together and laid her head back against the seat as if life had become too heavy to bear.

    “Are you all right?” I asked.

    She nodded and murmured, “I will be in a few minutes.”

    If I’d been a nurse, perhaps I could have helped her. As it was, I looked out my window at the loch in the mist and felt utterly useless.

    I also felt cold. The heat was dissipating from the bus, and my toes were already numb.

    The others came back about two minutes before I froze to my seat.

    We stopped for morning coffee in a small village, with