The Girl with the Phony Name (11 page)

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Authors: Charles Mathes

BOOK: The Girl with the Phony Name
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“N
ow you be careful, Lucy, you hear?” said Neal Bell, bending down to straighten Lucy's raincoat as Tina and Aunt Sally looked on.
Lucy nodded bravely, feeling like a little girl. It was strange having all these people fuss over her, but she didn't resist.
Only a few days had passed, yet here she was at J.F.K. with five earrings in her left ear, her hair cut short, brown contact lenses in her eyes, and a ticket to the Isle of Lis in her jacket pocket. How had she let Wing talk her into this harebrained scheme?
“Don't worry about a thing, girl,” said Tina, Lucy's uncanny doppelgänger, giving her a pat. “You look great.”
“I'm not kidding, Lucy,” said Neal, a worried look crossing his face. “Don't tell anyone who you really are. You be
Clark Kent. Superman doesn't have a secret identity for nothing, you know.”
“I made some sammiches for you, Lucy,” said Aunt Sally, shyly offering a paper bag.
Lucy took the bag and hugged the great hulking figure. Aunt Sally smiled and blushed. Lucy wondered again how she could let them do all this for her. Tina could go to jail if she got caught, for crissakes.
Tak Wing had finished supervising the loading of their luggage at the curb station and now swooped back down on the little group, opera cape flowing, teeth flashing, top hat cocked at a rakish angle. He seemed to be enjoying himself hugely.
“Mr. Wing,” began Lucy urgently, “I still think this is …”
“Uh, uh, uh,” said Wing sternly, shaking his finger. “Case closed. No more argument, please, thank you very much. You have glasses?”
“Yes, Mr. Wing,” said Lucy, patting her pocket. Tina's spare glasses had lenses like the bottom of Coke bottles. Lucy was totally blind when she wore them.
“Wear glasses all the time.”
“Right.”
“Passport?”
“Yes, yes.”
“Okay. Time to go,” said Wing, shaking his pocket watch, then holding it to his ear as if the cold night air might have slowed it down.
“You be careful, Lucy,” Neal said, bending down and giving her a brief, unexpected hug. “You hear me?”
Lucy nodded.
“Bye-bye, Lucy,” said Aunt Sally and shuffled back toward the Cadillac, nervously wringing her hands.
“Do the Snicowskis proud, Lucy,” said Tina, embracing her tightly.
“Are you sure you can manage?” said Lucy, genuinely concerned.
“They spend whole life without us before, yes?” said Wing, tapping his watch again. “Come, come. Time to fly away.”
Lucy couldn't understand how Wing could still be so jolly after their meeting at First Connecticut on Friday. The loan officers had practically laughed out loud at the Neat ‘n' Tidy balance sheet. They hadn't even had the courtesy to go through the motions of thinking it over.
“Frankly, Mr. Wing,” said one of them, picking lint off his lapel, “Brazil is a better credit risk than you.”
“New Jersey a lot closer.”
“No thanks.”
Wing had taken the rejection as gracefully as ever but Lucy knew the game was over. Wing wasn't sacrificing his remaining chances of raising money by going to Scotland with her; no bank was going to bail out Neat ‘n' Tidy. And Scottish banks certainly weren't going to be any different. Scots were notoriously tight with a buck. Or so she had heard—she herself wouldn't know.
An L-1011 roared into the air above them. Lucy put her hand on Wing's arm.
“I still don't understand why you're doing this, Mr. Wing,” she said quietly.
“Wing your friend,” he sputtered. “This what friends do. We go now, okay?”
“Sure.”
Wing turned and headed toward the departure area.
“Bye, Lucy,” said Tina, tears welling in her eyes.
“Good-bye, honey,” said Neal. “Be lucky.”
Lucy impulsively kissed the old chauffeur on the cheek. She couldn't see the blush on his face, but she knew it was there. Tina bit her lip and waved. Aunt Sally played with a stuffed animal in the car. Lucy turned on her heel and followed Wing into the terminal.
Half an hour later she was scrunched into a window seat flying over the Atlantic.
This Sunday-night flight was the first one they could take and make the connection to Lis. Lucy had wanted to wait and plan things more carefully—after twenty-one days she could also have gotten a cheaper fare—but Wing had been adamant.
“Timing is everything, Rucy,” he had declared. “Opportunity knocking now. No one home?”
It was true. Besides, if she had had more time to think about what she was getting herself into, she probably would have changed her mind. Still, Lucy wished Wing hadn't insisted they fly business class. One would think the man was a millionaire the way he spent her money.
“Take, please,” said Wing, holding out an envelope, interrupting her thoughts.
“What's this?”
“Two thousand British pounds,” said Wing. “Put in pocket.”
“Mr. Wing, I …”
“I get at Barclays. You must have cash.”
“I have everything I need.”
“Ha. You think Wing stick to you like glue? Wing have other fishes to fry. You cannot use Rucy Trelaine credit cards because you are Tina Snicowski now. You take, please. Advance on salary.”
“Thanks,” Lucy said and reluctantly took the envelope, hoping the exchange rate wouldn't drop over the next few weeks, costing her more to pay him back.
“Take this, too,” said Wing, handing her a thin, odd-sized volume.
“What now?”
“Is guidebook. You read. One of us should know where we going. Wing once get stuck in Australia without guidebook, not know where to go …”
Lucy tried desperately to fight off panic. Wing went on talking, but she barely heard him. The thought of going through British customs on a forged passport with this flamboyant character was suddenly terrifying. Lucy had spent
years on the road learning how to be invisible. Traveling with Wing was going to be like being center stage in a purple spotlight. Naked. If only she could just forget MacAlpin, the brooch, everything. But Lucy knew she had come too far. She had to find out the truth. She had to know who Lucy MacAlpin Trelaine really was.
Eventually dinner came. Lucy wrestled with her tray table and pecked at the airline dinner. Wing attacked his meal with gusto. She tried to listen to his tall stories, but couldn't keep her mind on what he was saying. The in-flight movie was a Mel Gibson film. Wing loved it. After the first killing, Lucy couldn't bear to watch.
Wing finally dozed off, but Lucy couldn't even think of sleeping. The seat was too narrow, the engines were too noisy, she was too excited, too afraid.
She tried to read, but the guidebook gave little more sense of Lis than french fries give of France: Lis was one of the larger islands of the Hebrides, between Skye and Mull in location as well as size. Its population had been falling steadily since the nineteenth century. Dr. Johnson had visited in 1773 and called Lis “a place of cruel beauty.” Boswell was less impressed, comparing it unfavorably with Rum and Eigg. There were mountains, wildlife, and some castles to see. There was a town called Dumlagchtat.
By the time the plane landed at Heathrow, Lucy had what seemed to be a permanent crick in her neck. Her watch said three o'clock in the morning, but local time was 9:00 A.M.
“Now aren't you happy we fly business class? Much more comfortable, yes?”
“Yes,” Lucy agreed, looking at herself in the little mirror from her wallet. The dark circles under her eyes probably weren't permanent. Her hair would grow back, of course, but now she would have to go through the rest of her life with five holes in her ear.
“I gotta be nuts,” she muttered to the window as she nervously filled out the check-in documents.
“You say something, Rucy?” said Wing happily. “I mean Tina.”
“Not me.”
Lucy had been practicing Tina's convoluted signature for the last three days, but it still didn't look right. It was too late to worry, however. The hatch was opening.
“Put on glasses, please.”
Lucy took them out of her jacket pocket and complied.
“You ready?” said Wing.
“No.”
“Good. Let's go.”
Peering owl-like over the top of Tina's thick glasses, Lucy hung on to Wing's arm and hoped she wouldn't walk into a wall. They followed the crowd to the baggage carousel, retrieved Wing's suitcase and her two bags, then headed toward the exit station.
“Please, God, don't let him make a scene in customs,” mumbled Lucy to her luggage, trying to follow Wing's advice and expect a miracle. The little Japanese Chinaman was calmly combing his goatee with his fingers as if he smuggled orphans through customs all the time.
Lucy expected giant, stone-faced officers to search through their bags, yell questions, perhaps wheel out a fluoroscope. Instead a little man in a blue shirt took their passports without even looking up.
“What is the purpose of your trip?” he said in a flat British voice. Lucy wondered if everyone could hear her heart pounding.
“Investigate investment opportunities in U.K.,” replied Wing, who seemed to have taken over for both of them. He was very subdued, very matter-of-fact. Maybe he did have some survival sense after all, Lucy marveled.
“How long do you plan to be here?”
“Few weeks. Maybe less.”
“And you, miss?”
“I'm Mr. Wing's secretary.”
“Miss … Snicowski,” said the man, looking up for the first time from her documents.
Lucy stiffened automatically.
“Yes, sir,” she said, looking at the floor.
“Have a pleasant stay in Great Britain.”
“Thank you very much,” said Wing. Lucy bowed automatically. She had been hanging around a certain Oriental gentleman too long. The man stamped their passports and passed them back through the little window of his booth.
Wing was already speeding down the hall. Lucy followed at a run and didn't look back until she had cleared the international arrival area. No Royal Marines were in pursuit. There wasn't even a suspicious bobby.
“How you like England so far?” Wing finally grinned.
“I expected something more exotic,” Lucy said, looking around for the first time. The airport was like any other airport, the people still looked like people, the Musak was Rodgers and Hammerstein.
“We must find shuttle plane to Scotland,” he said, scurrying down the hall. “Have less than hour to catch flight.” He pronounced it “fright,” which Lucy found apropos. She had already caught fright. Now she took a deep breath and let her heart descend out of her throat and settle back where it belonged.
So far so good. She had successfully managed to gain entry illegally to Great Britain. She was now an international criminal.
T
he shuttle plane broke through the clouds over Glasgow. Lucy stared out the window, disappointed. It looked like any industrial town in New England: narrow, red-brick houses, high-rise apartments, and office buildings. Only the chimneys were odd—tapering cannons pointing defiantly at the gray sky.
“You okay, Rucy?” Wing asked as they deplaned.
“I have an adrenaline headache, I have jet lag, and these damned contact lenses are destroying my eyeballs. Other than that I feel great.”
“Still not want to wear Tina's glasses?”
“I can't believe that being totally blind is going to help my chances, Mr. Wing. In fact I think I should drop this whole ridiculous disguise.”
“Better for fox to look like hound sometime,” said Wing, wearing his favorite inscrutable expression.
“Just what every woman wants to hear,” said Lucy.
“What if you don't like what you find? What if what you find don't like you? This way you have out.”
“I'm sorry, Mr. Wing,” Lucy nodded. “You're right. I didn't mean to snap. I'm just a little nervous today. Lord knows why.”
“Wing understand. We find connecting plane, go to Lis, everything okay. Okay?”
Lucy nodded.
The Glasgow airport was old-fashioned, but familiar. It was still hard for Lucy to believe she was in another country. There were no men in kilts, no bagpipers. Young men in blue jeans and leather jackets stood around, their hands in their pockets. Women in tweed coats sat on benches. Only when
people spoke did the place seem foreign. Everyone sounded like he was choking on a chicken bone.
Everyone also seemed to be staring at them.
Lucy was sure it was because she looked so suspicious in her disguise until a thin, black-haired man in a short coat stepped out in front of them and jabbed Wing with his finger.
“What aire you supposed to be?” he said ominously in the strange gutteral dialect, staring at Wing's top hat. Wing stared straight into the man's eyes for a moment, then smiled.
“Wing undertaker looking for new business. How you feeling?”
“I feel fine,” said the man indignantly.
“Glad to hear that,” said Wing, whipping out a business card. “Come see me when you kick bucket. I give you discount.”
The man stood staring at the card as Wing walked briskly on, Lucy at his heels.
“Friendry place!” he said happily. Lucy didn't have the heart to argue. All she wanted was a shrimp cocktail and a hot shower. Did they have shrimp in Scotland? she wondered. Did they have showers?
The Island Air commuter terminal turned out to be simply a desk by a door. There were some folding chairs, but there was no one around. Lucy sat down and opened the bag of sandwiches Aunt Sally had given her the day before, a world away.
“Tuna or ham?” she said.
“Ham,” replied Wing.
She handed him the soggy sandwich and they ate in silence. Lucy was really beginning to hate tuna.
“When does plane leave?” Wing yawned after he finished eating. Lucy checked their tickets.
“Another forty minutes.”
“Wake, please.”
Wing tilted his top hat over his face. In no more than two minutes he was breathing heavily, obviously asleep. Lucy
stared at the little figure, wondering how in the world the man could sleep at a time like this. Here they were, a million miles from nowhere—she illegally—headed toward a place with which their only connection was a dead man and a word on an old piece of jewelry. Was she the only one with enough sense to be scared shitless?
After a while an elderly couple, laden with suitcases, sat down across from her in two of the folding chairs. The woman smiled at Lucy.
“Going to Lis, dearie?”
“Yes, I am,” Lucy said nervously, glancing at the sleeping figure of Wing. She was on her own.
“First time then?” The woman had a brusque voice and wore a tweed coat. Her accent was English.
“Yes. How did you know?”
“You don't exactly look like a local,” said the woman and laughed heartily.
“What you put them things in your ear for?” said the man, equally enthusiastic and shaped like a beer can.
Lucy gulped. “Decoration?”
“We're the Pembles,” said the woman, obviously pleased with the fact. “I'm Maura. He's Tim.”
“I'm … Tina Snicowski.”
“What kind of a name is that?” demanded Tim.
Lucy realized she had no idea.
“We're from Weehawken,” she stammered.
Maura nodded. “Is that near Estonia?”
“You'll be just another white settler on Lis,” chortled Tim.
“A what?”
“That's what the natives call you if you try to improve any island properties. They're a stupid, indolent lot, don't have the brains to appreciate the beauty of what they've got. We have a lovely vacation cottage, used to be a dump, practically. The little blighters treat us like dirt for fixing it up.”
The woman nodded. “All they're interested in is a handout. You'll see. Made nothing of the place in a thousand
years, but they resent anyone who tries to bring a little money into their economy. It's simply scandalous.”
“And they're nasty, too,” said Tim. “One of them threatened to give me a ‘creepie' when I was down on my knees trying to paint our porch. A creepie, can you imagine?”
“What brings you to Lis?” said Maura eagerly.
“My boss is looking for investments,” said Lucy nervously, certain the Pembles were spies for English customs.
“Him?” said Tim, gesturing at Wing with his chin.
“Yes.”
“He's going to be disappointed then, he is. Just another white settler, that's all he'll be on Lis.”
“Well, he likes new experiences.”
“Where are you staying?” asked Tim.
Lucy dug into her travel folder. “In Iolair. At the Manor Lodge. Actually we hoped to stay in Dumlagchtat, but there doesn't seem to be a hotel there.”
“There's nothing there at all,” said the woman with a sniff. “Whatever did you want to go there for?”
“I have a friend whose people were from Dumlagchtat,” said Lucy, carefully trying out the cover story she and Wing had invented. “I promised I'd look them up while I'm here. Do you know any of the local history?”
“Good God, no,” snorted the man. “Waste of time. Nothing ever happened there.”
“All of yiu fer Lis?” said a voice behind them. Lucy looked around. A slender boy in a leather coat was unlocking the door to the field. He looked about fifteen years old.
“I'm Ronnie MacPherson, yer pilot. If you hand me yer tickets we can get goin' afore the rain.”
Lucy rose and shook Wing's arm, gently. He pushed his top hat back into place and was up in an instant, oblivious to the Pembles' open-mouthed stares.
“Are you a Chinaman or a Jap?” said Tim finally.
Maura nudged him in the side with her elbow.
“He can't help what he is, ducks,” Tim chuckled. “No offense intended there, guv. So which is it?”
“Wing from Weehawken,” said Wing, winking at Lucy and handing his ticket to MacPherson.
They all followed the boy out onto the tarmac toward an airplane that looked to Lucy like a Volvo station wagon with wings.
“Is this the plane?” she exclaimed.
“Aye. Dinna worry about not havin' enough room. We kin seat six when we put in t'other seat. Ah think here comes yer baggage.”
An old man in a plaid shirt was wheeling out Wing's bag and Lucy's two suitcases on a cart. He and Ronnie threw them into the rear of the plane along with the Pembles' carry-ons.
“All aboard,” said MacPherson.
“You sit up front with pilot, Tina,” said Wing, taking the single seat at the very rear of the tiny cabin.
The Pembles took their places, chattering happily, as if flying in oversized juice crates was their idea of a good time. Lucy could hear thunder in the distance. Practically trembling with fear, she got in next to Ronnie MacPherson. He pressed a few buttons, the single propeller started to turn, they taxied.
MacPherson conversed incomprehensibly with the tower, then suddenly they were speeding down the runway. Lucy could feel the wheels leaving the ground and stared, horrified, as Glasgow receded beneath them.
“It's parfectly safe,” smiled the boy pilot proudly, lighting up a cigarette. Rain clattered in sheets against the windows. Lucy felt every muscle in her body stiffen up, but no one else seemed to notice. Wing began telling the Pembles some lie about how he once had lived in Mayfair. MacPherson grinned like an idiot. Lucy put her hands in her lap and reacquainted herself with God.
The plane rose to cruising altitude and followed the coast northward. Maura and Tim regaled Wing with unflattering
stories about the Lis locals. The overcast sky made the farms and cliffs the same color as the sea. At one point Lucy shut her eyes and tried to sleep but couldn't. The tiny plane bounced wrenchingly though air currents and turbulence. After what seemed an eternity, they crossed a small body of water and banked over a strange island that looked like the back of an enormous sea creature.
“Lis,” said MacPherson, winking at her.
Lucy looked down at the red mountains rising out of the ocean and at last felt like she was truly in a foreign land. The place below looked like the surface of the moon.

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