Holy Terror in the Hebrides (4 page)

“‘See how these Christians love one another’?” I quoted.

“You got it.”

We ate in silence for a few minutes, and then I replenished both our wineglasses. “I confess I’m intrigued. I’ve met one of your party, Sister—er, that is, Teresa. Can you tell me about the others?”

“So we’ve eaten our dinner, and I won’t spoil my appetite. So. Five others.” He ticked them off on his fingers. “Hattie Mae Brown. She’s black. Baptist. Leads her church choir.”

I could just see her swaying in a gold lamé choir robe, having a wonderful time.

“Janet Douglas. Presbyterian. Gardener.”

“Gardener? But—”

“Does church gardens all over Chicago. Works of art.” His dry tone left me in doubt as to whether he considered the work to be of great value or not. He went on with his list, touching his middle finger. “Grace Desmond. Unitarian. Feeds the hungry.”

“That sounds worthwhile.”

Jake just grunted and went on with his list. “Bob Williams. Methodist.” He was the ring finger. “Youth leader. Big church, works with neighborhood kids, too. And Chris Olafson’s Lutheran, big-shot organist.”

He might well have been the one the two women had been discussing on the bus, then. I’ve known a good many gay musicians, especially, for some reason, organists.

“Toffee pudding?” asked our young waiter, approaching with a tray. “Or cheese? Or both?”

“Pudding for me,” I said. Jake nodded.

“Coffee’s served in the lounge,” the waiter said as he put down our desserts. “And here’s cream for your pudding, unless you’d rather have custard?”

“Cream is lovely, thanks.” I poured it greedily, golden richness so thick it almost needed to be spooned, and offered the pitcher to Jake. He shook his head regretfully.

“I touch that stuff, my doctor has a heart attack even before I do.”

I thought about Tom Anderson coming to all this forbidden bounty, and then shrugged. Lynn and I would be doing his cooking, and we’d avoid the cholesterol. Meanwhile I’d enjoy it and worry about the consequences later (a decision I make with regrettable frequency).

“Now,” I said when I’d eaten about half the sticky, rich, sinful, incredibly good mixture, “tell me what they all have against me.”

Jake raised his bushy black eyebrows.

“When I walked into the lounge before lunch, you were all sitting there, and everyone looked daggers at me. Even you.”

“Oh. Yeah. No, that was just general ill will, had nothing to do with you. Except—I don’t know.” He tilted his head to one side and pulled at an earlobe. “Now you mention it, you might be a problem. A catalyst, see what I mean?”

“No,” I said flatly.

“Tell you what. Bring the rest of your pudding, have some coffee with me, and you’ll see for yourself.”

I didn’t know what Jake was talking about, but curiosity is my besetting sin, and Iona seemed likely to provide few other amusements after nightfall, so I followed Jake into the lounge and sat down in one of the plush armchairs while he went to the sideboard to get us both some coffee.

Stan had obviously sized me up as a soft touch. I had barely sat down before he was in my lap, inquiring about the cream on my pudding.

“Wait till I’ve finished,” I whispered conspiratorially. “I’ll let you lick the bowl. We won’t tell your people.” Although it was apparent, from his behavior, that Stan operated under very few inconvenient rules.

As I waited for Jake and the coffee, I glanced casually around the room, trying to establish what sociologists call the “group dynamic.” The trouble was that, as far as I could tell, there wasn’t any group dynamic, because what I was looking at wasn’t a group. It was a collection of individuals. The only people who were sitting together were the tall young man with bad skin and the elegant silver-haired woman, and as I watched out of the corner of my eye, she said something brief, stood up, and walked away, while his face turned even paler than usual and his hands clenched. I was the only one who saw the little scene; the other four people, sitting separated from each other, were concentrating very hard on their coffee. No one spoke.

Jake handed me a cup of coffee and sat down. I finished my pudding and put the bowl on the floor, rattling the spoon a bit. I hoped the noise would cover my muttered “Tell me which is which.”

“We can’t whisper,” he muttered back, stirring his coffee longer than necessary. “They’ll think we’re plotting something.”

“Then introduce me.”

Jake rolled his eyes heavenward. On the whole I agreed with him; I’d probably regret this. But there are times when my curiosity outweighs my caution, and really, how much unpleasantness could I get into in a day or two?

“It’s your funeral.” Jake stood up. “Hey, everybody! I want you to meet Dorothy Martin, here, a fellow American. I’ve told her about our trip, and she wanted to get to know you. Teresa I guess you’ve already met, huh?”

I smiled at Teresa; she nodded and returned her eyes to her coffee.

“And this is our Grace—Grace Desmond.” He indicated the beautiful woman still standing at the sideboard. She came over and held out a correct, if not cordial, hand.

“What an appropriate name,” I said. “You look so much like Grace Kelly.”

“How do you do, Mrs. Martin,” she replied coldly, clasped my hand for the minimum possible time, and turned her back. I caught a glint of amusement in Jake’s eye.

“Janet Douglas is hiding over there in the corner, and that’s Hattie Mae Brown on the couch.”

“Janet, Hattie Mae.” Janet was the wiry little woman Hattie Mae had been talking to on the bus, but they weren’t talking now. Janet glanced up and then looked away without so much as a nod; Hattie Mae smiled doubtfully, glanced from Jake to me, and said, “Pleased to meetcha,” before turning back to the magazine she was pretending to read.

“And the gentlemen are Chris Olafson” —he indicated the goodlooking blond in the blue sweater, who nodded without enthusiasm—“and Bob Williams.”

Bob unfolded his length from the squishy armchair and stood. He walked over to me with the corners of his mouth turned resolutely up and his hand extended.

“You are welcome among us, Mrs. Martin,” he said in the kind of hushed, pious voice that makes my toes curl. “I don’t know where you live in America, or if you have a church home, but—”

“Actually, I live in England now. How do you do, Mr. Williams.” I took his hand and then tried not to wipe mine on my slacks.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” I said brightly and untruthfully to the room in general. “I’ll only be staying in the hotel for a night or two, but perhaps we’ll see each other walking around the island. I’m sure you’ll excuse me if I make an early night of it, after a long journey, and I hope you all have a wonderful time on Iona.”

Before I escaped to my room, I thought I heard from Hattie Mae a loud, skeptical “Hmmph!”

I
N THE SMALL
hours of the night the wind began to rise. A tree branch scraped against my window, my curtains flapped. The sounds crept into my dreams, creating images of a creaky ship, sailing hellfor-leather to an unknown but dreaded destination. When an especially loud crack of the sails finally woke me, I lay tense, my heart pounding, wondering if it had been a real sound or mere nightmare terror. I could hear nothing but the tumult of the wind, and gradually I relaxed, told myself it had been a gust slamming a door shut, put in my earplugs, and slept dreamlessly for the rest of the night.

In the morning, night terrors were forgotten. Brilliant sunshine left no dark corners for them to lurk in, and the sounds of the diminished wind were gentle and soothing. The weather had changed, though; it was cold in the room. I shivered when I finally crawled out from under my duvet and banged the window shut. Bless Lynn for warning me about the weather! I pulled out my warmest slacks and sweater, and debated a while before leaving the long underwear in the drawer.

Once I was dressed and warm, I made some tea with the electric kettle in the room, and sat down to consider last night’s uncomfortable little scene in the lounge.

Through bad luck and my own stupidity, I’d landed in the middle of a group of people who were antagonistic toward each other and, apparently, toward me as well—except for Jake, who was pleasant enough. Now, there are people who seem to thrive on conflict, but I’m not one of them. I’m more comfortable with harmony and goodwill, and it was pretty obvious there wasn’t a lot of that in this crowd. And I’d seen what Jake meant about a catalyst. Tensions were ready to boil up. If one of them decided I made a convenient scapegoat, an excuse for a quarrel—or, on the other hand, if one confided in me, invited me to take sides—well, either way, I’d end up in the middle in more than one sense.

So I’d better steer clear of them. It ought to be easy enough to do. Mealtimes were the risky times, but with a little planning I could surely hit the dining room when the rest were all ready to leave. Look preoccupied, take a book, and stick to my table for one. I had fallen in love with Iona already, and I wasn’t going to let a bunch of strangers spoil it for me. A pity about Jake—I’d have enjoyed getting to know him—but maybe I’d have a chance later in the week, away from the hotel.

With which sensible resolution I looked at the clock (late enough, surely), picked up a mystery novel I’d brought with me, and went in search of breakfast. The stairway, a carefully preserved remnant of the fine house this used to be, was built in a lovely curve, with beautifully carved balusters; I lifted my head and became the Duchess of Argyll on the way down. The impersonation suffered when I tripped over Stan, who was napping in a sunny patch at the foot of the stairs. He moved off with a reproachful yowl, and I, plain Dorothy Martin again, went in to get my breakfast.

The dining room was a cheery place in the morning, with strong sunshine pouring in through the east windows. I had timed it almost right; Hattie Mae was sitting at a table in the corner. She looked up when I came in and gestured with her coffee cup. I smiled distantly and headed for a table on the other side of the room.

I was allowed to order in peace, and had gotten halfway through my kipper and eggs before a shadow fell across the book I had propped in front of my plate. I looked up, reluctantly; Hattie Mae’s bulk stood between me and the sunlight.

“What you readin’?”

“
What Mrs. McGillicuddy Saw.
It’s an old Agatha Christie, one of my favorites.” Whoops, tactical mistake. I had admitted I’d read the book before. It’s a little hard to pretend you’re totally engrossed in a book you know like the back of your hand.

Hattie Mae was sharp. “Oh, then I ain’t stoppin’ you from knowin’ who done it. Mind if I sit down?”

Well, what could I do, short of being totally rude to the woman? I waved my hand at the other chair and took a bite of kipper. If my mouth was full she couldn’t expect me to carry on a conversation.

But Hattie Mae was perfectly capable of keeping things going all by herself.

“I just thought I ought to warn you to be careful, honey. You seem like a nice woman, and there’s a lot of funny people around here. You got to take care of yourself among the godless. ‘Be sober, be vigilant; because your adversary the devil, as a roaring lion, walketh about, seeking whom he may devour.’ First Peter 5:8.”

I swallowed a kipper bone the wrong way and had a coughing fit, and by the time Hattie Mae had finished pounding me on the back she was feeling protective, and ready for a good, long chat.

“Now, Dottie,” she began eagerly.

“Dorothy,” I said, as firmly as I could in my choked voice. “‘Dottie’ is an insult on this side of the Atlantic.”

“Okay, Dorothy!” Hattie Mae beamed. “My, I’m glad you told me, honey! Now listen, we don’t got much time, and I wanted to be
sure
you knew what all was goin’ on here, before it’s too late.”

“Actually, I don’t think—”

“I tell you, Dottie—Dorothy—if I’d a knowed what kind of people I’d have to be travelin’ with, I’d a never came on this here trip!” She leaned ever the table, her ample bosom just missing my book, and began to hiss at me in a kind of stage whisper—entirely unnecessarily, since we were alone in the room. “I ain’t never seen such a scandalous bunch o’ folks callin’ theirselves Christians! ‘For such are false apostles, deceitful workers, transforming themselves into the apostles of Christ.’ Second Corinthians 11:13.”

I was ready for that one; I was eating eggs. Safer.

“Why, did you know, that Jake you was talkin’ to last night ain’t even a Christian at all, but a Jew! An’ that Grace, she’s a Unitarian, and that’s just as bad; they don’t believe nothin’, s’ far as I can make out. Bob, he thinks he’s the only one among us that’s got religion, and he never shuts up about it. He’s at least a Methodist, an’ that’s respectable. But that nun! Would you believe it? A nun, carryin’ on in blue jeans and a T-shirt! An’ I don’t trust them Cath’lics, nohow. That Janet, she ain’t got too good a temper, and she don’t think much of me, neither, ’cause I’m black and I know my Bible better than she does. But the worst of ’em all is that—that—” She shuddered and took a sip of my water to fortify herself, and I took advantage of the brief lull.

“If you’re referring to Mr. Olafson, I believe he’s a very fine musician, you know. I understand you’re a musician, yourself. Perhaps one day the two of you could give us a concert.”

I got my own back, anyway. It was Hattie Mae’s turn to choke. Coughing, chins wobbling, she put down the glass and glared at me.

“Dorothy, I don’t think you understand what I’m tryin’ to tell you,” Hattie Mae began when she was able to speak. “That man is one of Those! He—”

I put my fork down. My food didn’t taste quite so good anymore. “Hattie Mae. What I understand is that you’ve taken a dislike to your fellow travelers. They may not all be appealing people, but I wish you’d let me make up my own mind about them. I don’t like to prejudge people. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have an appointment.”

“Well! I was just tryin’ to warn you! But suit yourself!”

Her voice followed me out the dining room door and into the hall, where I pulled my jacket from its peg, jammed on my hat, and made for the front door.