Chapter Seven (Untitled)

[Note: Earlier posts contain previous chapters. If this is your first visit, I highly recommend that you read the chapters in order. Also, be warned that as this is a work in progress, consistency is not guaranteed. For instance, names of characters — and och aye, that does include ghosts — are not written in stone. Example: the protagonist, who began as Debra, is now Gloria.]

I sank onto the room’s single chair and massaged my forehead, where a dull throb was making itself felt.

“I just . . . I don’t . . . "

“Shall I send for a cup of tea?”

I stared at him.

 “Tea? No. Thanks, but no. A stiff drink would be more like it.”

“Well, we don’t usually, but . . . of course. Pardon me.”

While he was gone, I struggled to sort things out.

My first thought was that this was Gran’s idea of a joke. But no. I’d felt her as surely as if she’d stopped by the house and peeped into the window for a quick wave goodbye on her way to hell.

Which, in truth, she had.

And then there was the call from the captain.

Of course, the captain.

By the time Mr. MacLean returned I was pacing in the narrow space between the bed and the window.

“Here we are,” he announced unnecessarily as he carried in a silver tray with three short glasses, a decanter of some golden liquid, and a small pitcher of what appeared to be water.

Apparently he and another someone meant to have a drink with me. Fine. I’ve never cared to drink alone.

As he poured the golden liquid, he asked, “Water?”

I peered at the decanter.

“Is that scotch?”

His smile was tolerant.

“Aye. But we call it whisky here.”

“I’ve never had it.”

His smile broadened.

“A bit of water then. It will round out the flavor for you.”

As he poured, there was a light knock on the door, which he’d left open, and a pale, dark-haired young woman stepped in.

“I’m Jean MacLean,” she said, holding out a white hand. “How do you do.”

“My wife,” Mr. MacLean put in.

“Pleased to meet you,” I replied automatically, standing to reach across the bed.

The firmness of her handshake belied her fragile appearance.

“I’m awfully sorry about the confusion over your grandmother,” she said.

But her voice was cool and her eyes on mine were assessing. I had the distinct impression she didn’t trust me.

I accepted a glass from her husband and lifted it in her direction with a brief, “Cheers.”

“Slange,” they both replied, but I was already drinking.

The warmth in my chest was immediately soothing. 

I closed my eyes for a moment and breathed a deep sigh.

Think, woman.

When I opened my eyes, they were both watching me.

The captain. Start there.

“Perhaps you could tell me how I might find Captain Will Mackay. He was a friend of my grandmother and it was he who called to tell me she’d died.”

I heard the formality in my tone and choice of words. Not my usual style, but one that I fall into when someone or some situation threatens me. And I did definitely feel threatened here. Though for the life of me I couldn’t say why I should be.

On hearing the captain’s name, Jean’s eyes narrowed. Her husband, though, seemed to give the name serious consideration.

“I’ve not heard of him. But a captain, you say?”

“Yes. I’m afraid that’s really all I know. Other than that he’s quite old. So a retired captain, I suppose. Oh, and it appears that he doesn’t keep a telephone in his home.”

Mr. MacLean was nodding, apparently thinking this over, but his wife continued to assess me in a way that was becoming annoying.

I took another slug of whiskey (this being no time for genteel sips), and arched my eyebrows at her.

“Mrs. MacLean? Have you any thoughts on the matter? Are you perhaps familiar with Captain Mackay?”

“Not a bit,” she replied, a bit smugly I thought. “But if there is such a person, I’m sure the police will track him down soon enough.”

“The police?”

The nerve of the little bitch!

“Of course,” she said, putting down the glass which hadn’t once touched her lips. “You say your grandmother’s dead, yet nobody in Orkney seems to know anything about it but this captain, who ... ”

She waggled her fingers in the air, an obscure move that only befuddled me.

“The police will be very interested in speaking with him,” she finished.

“Well if that isn’t just the cat’s behind!” I snapped, feeling a mild pleasure at the look of puzzlement that crossed her face.

And at that moment, footsteps sounded on the creaky stair. We all turned toward the open doorway and sure enough, right on cue a man in uniform appeared.

It really was getting to be a bit ridiculous.

“All we’re missing is Miss Marple,” I muttered under my breath.