Scots on the Rocks

12

To her surprise, Judith slept soundly that night. Despite being wound up in the homicide case, the long and taxing day had worn her out. She and Renie had brought their meal of lamb cutlets, green beans, and fingerling potatoes back to Judith’s room. It was after ten when they finished, and they agreed that an early night would serve them well.

Judith came down for breakfast at nine while Renie slept in, muttering that it was barely daylight and pulling the covers over her head. In the dining room, Judith found Philip Fordyce finishing breakfast and reading the Scotsman. He glanced up to wish Judith good morning and immediately turned his eyes back to the business section.

The sideboard contained ample offerings, indicating that Mrs. Gibbs was still trying to drown her sorrows in work. Judith selected rashers of bacon, coddled eggs, scones, and fruit compote.

Surreptitiously watching Philip between mouthfuls, Judith wished she’d brought something to read, too. It felt awkward to sit a mere six feet away from another human being and not converse. At home, after preparing the guests’ food, she and Joe read the newspaper while they ate and exchanged comments. It was a comfortable way to start the day, usually before the B&B visitors came downstairs.

Philip had finished his coffee—and, apparently, the business section. He folded the paper carefully and was about to rise when Beth appeared wearing a cream lace peignoir.

“Oh, Phil,” she began before noticing Judith. “Good morning, Mrs. Flynn. Sorry, but I’m in crisis.”

Judith offered the young woman a sympathetic expression. “Do you need privacy?”

“No,” Beth replied. “It’s nothing like that.” She sat down next to her husband. “Marie just called and she’s got flu. It’s going round. She can’t go with me to help Moira.”

Philip removed his rimless glasses. “Help Moira with what? The funeral plans for Harry?”

“Not just that,” Beth replied. “Moira collapsed. She frequently has some kind of breakdown. Marie felt we should help out. You know how Moira is when it comes to adversity. To be fair, she’s had more than her share. But without Marie, I’m not sure I can handle Moira on my own.”

Judith cleared her throat. “Would you like me to come with you?”

Beth stared. “Oh, I couldn’t possibly let you! You’re on holiday.”

“I don’t mind,” Judith insisted. “My cousin and I won’t do much sightseeing until our husbands get back from fishing. I’m glad to help.”

Beth glanced at Philip. “Well…what do you think, darling?”

Philip gazed at Judith for the first time since he’d greeted her upon her arrival in the dining room. “It’s a great deal to ask of a visitor.”

“Not at all,” Judith declared. “I’m an innkeeper by trade. I’m used to taking care of people. In fact, I miss it. The only thing is, I planned to see your mother today, Beth. I wanted to apologize for…an incident with my cousin in the village.”

Beth smiled. “Oh yes. I gather Mrs. Jones lost her temper with Mummy. A lot of people do. She’s used to getting her own way.”

“So’s my cousin,” Judith said.

“I can take you to call on Mummy,” Beth offered. “Thank you so much! I’ll meet you in half an hour in the courtyard.”

Judith went upstairs to deliver the news to Renie, who was still in bed. “Wake up!” Judith shouted. “It’s almost ten o’clock. We’re going to have adventures.”

Renie rolled away as far as she could while Judith jiggled the mattress. “We’re going to Hollywood!”

Renie’s head popped out from under the covers. Her hair went every which way and her expression was surly. “You’re going to Hollywood! I don’t give a rat’s ass!” She stuck her head under a pillow.

Annoyed, Judith left Renie’s room and went across the passageway to her own quarters. Maybe Renie wouldn’t be able to go back to sleep. Maybe she’d get up, get dressed, and be able to grab some food from the dining room sideboard. Judith’s cousin could—apparently without the help of sorcery—make herself presentable in a very short time.

But twenty-five minutes later, there was no sign of Renie. Disappointed, Judith went downstairs and into the courtyard. It was a bright morning, with the sun peeking over the castle battlements. She strolled the path toward the inner gatehouse, keeping an eye out for Beth to come from the Fordyce wing. Five minutes passed, then ten. Gibbs appeared, keeping his head down and walking with a distinct shuffle.

“How are you, Mr. Gibbs?” Judith asked as he approached.

The old man merely shook his head.

Judith knew it would be awkward to pursue the query. “Are you taking us in the skiff?”

Gibbs nodded. Judith took a few steps toward the nearest flower bed. “The hyacinths are coming up. They have a lovely scent.”

Gibbs kept silent. Before Judith could say anything else, Beth came hurrying out of the door to the private apartments. “Sorry,” she apologized breathlessly, hoisting her black hobo bag over her shoulder. “I’m a bit disorganized this morning.”

“Not to worry,” Judith assured Beth. “It’s pleasant here in the courtyard.”

Gibbs was already crossing the drawbridge and heading for the lift. Beth nodded at his stooped figure. “Very sad for him and Mrs. Gibbs.”

“It would help if Harry’s parents were here,” Judith said. “Surely they’d be some comfort, despite their own grief.”

Beth kept walking, her eyes straight ahead. “Perhaps.”

The descent in the lift and the short ride to the beach were made in silence. The section between the sea and the cliff that had been designated as the crime scene was still marked off. A lone constable stood guard, feet firmly planted in the sand, hands behind his back, and eyes staring straight ahead.

“Oh no!” Beth cried after she and Judith had gotten out of the skiff and were walking to the Fordyce sedan. “The vultures have flown in.”

Judith looked up to the cliff’s edge. A dozen or more people were congregated, at least two with camcorders and other TV devices.

“I was so hoping the press would keep away,” Beth said angrily. “Philip doesn’t need negative publicity. We’ll simply have to soldier on.”

She slipped behind the wheel while Judith sat in the luxurious passenger seat. After making sure that the windows and doors were secure, Beth set her face in an impassive expression and drove up the track. Members of the press immediately pounced, trying to stop the car and shouting questions. Undeterred, Beth kept going.

“Do they know who you are?” Judith asked as the Daimler purred along the High Street while a handful of reporters gave up the chase.

“Probably,” Beth replied, annoyed. “The villagers are gossips and some are open to bribery. I apologize for the inconvenience. This must be distressing for someone like you who must lead a very quiet life.”

“Uh…yes, certainly.” Judith stared out through the window to avoid looking at Beth. It wouldn’t do to admit that she was an old hand at dealing with the media, up to and including her televised life-and-death confrontation with a merciless killer. “I understand,” Judith said as they passed the village green and moved smoothly along the road to Hollywood, “Moira has a history of ill health.”

Beth shrugged. “Moira’s always been high-strung, even when we were children at boarding school in France. Some of her problems are probably due to stress, but the pains in her side and the fainting spells are no less real because they’re caused by emotion.”

“She must’ve gotten ill after I saw her yesterday,” Judith said. “Moira seemed in good spirits when Renie and I called on her.”

Beth darted a sidelong glance at Judith. “How kind of you.”

Judith ignored what she thought was a hint of irony. The sun cast filmy rays through greening foliage as they wound along the road. Judith changed the subject. “Was Chuckie born with his affliction?”

“You mean the epilepsy?” Beth saw Judith nod. “No. He had other problems, but he took a bad fall down a staircase in his early teens. A blow to the head can bring on epilepsy. Chuckie had the best doctors, but they couldn’t help him much. The damage was done.”

“Will he be able to take over the distillery when the time comes?”

Beth slowed to turn off the road. “Most epileptics lead quite normal and successful lives. But Chuckie…” She let the sentence fade as she rolled down the window and punched the intercom buzzer that opened the gates to Hollywood House. Judith could hear Fergus’s voice. Beth didn’t finish her assessment of Chuckie. “It’s a pity,” she said as the car glided to a stop, “that Moira and Harry didn’t patch things up sooner instead of waiting until Harry got sick.”

“I understand they weren’t married long,” Judith said.

“It was rocky from the start,” Beth said with a frown as Fergus opened the front door. “They hadn’t known each other very long,” she continued, ignoring the butler’s stiff stance on the porch. “You’re here to help me care for Moira, so you should understand the situation. It was a whirlwind courtship, and after they married, things started to fall apart. Harry wanted a big role with Blackwell Petroleum. Moira didn’t mind having him work for the company, but she didn’t feel he was ready to be in a decision-making position. Her brother Jimmy agreed with her—one of the few times that they agreed about anything.”

“Had Harry any experience in business?” Judith asked.

Beth’s expression was wry. “Harry had very little experience with work, let alone the business world. He grew angry with Moira and Jimmy for being kept in the background, and got it in his head that Moira was carrying on with her secretary, David Piazza.”

“Was she?” Judith asked.

“No, I really don’t think so. They were close, probably because Harry had gotten so nasty and Davey offered a sympathetic shoulder for Moira to cry on. When he had his fatal car accident, Moira almost miscarried. But the baby was born in November, and before Christmas she and Harry tried to smooth things out. Then he got flu about a month ago. Some of these viruses linger. Moira didn’t want him near the baby, so he moved to Grimloch. He was returning to Hollywood sometime this week, but instead he got killed. I’m sure Moira blames herself.”

Judith knew the blame game. She’d felt guilty for letting Dan McMonigle eat and drink his way into an early grave. “It’s natural.”

Fergus still hadn’t moved. Beth glanced up at the butler. “I suppose. He’s the second husband she’s had die, and both very young. I can understand why she feels that way. Come, we’d better go inside before Fergus atrophies.”

The butler greeted Beth with a formal bow. Judith swore she could hear his bones creak. “Madam,” he said in mournful tones, “is in her boudoir. Elise and Dr. Carmichael are with her.”

“Elise,” Beth informed Judith as they climbed the curving staircase, “is Moira’s French maid. She’s rigid, snoopy, and overly protective, but she’s definitely loyal.”

A short, stout older man was coming down the hall. “Dr. Carmichael,” Beth said in greeting. “How is Moira?”

“As usual, nerves,” the doctor replied. “I won’t overmedicate her.” His sharp gray eyes looked at Judith. “A family friend?” he inquired.

“Sorry,” Beth apologized, and introduced Judith. “Her husband’s gone fishing with the MacGowan.”

“I’m at loose ends,” Judith said, shaking the doctor’s strong hand. “I volunteered to help Beth with Moira.”

“Very kind.” Dr. Carmichael was completely bald and wore a plaid bow tie. “Don’t think me unsympathetic, Mrs. Flynn. My patient has had much grief in her young life. Both parents gone, widowed twice over, her secretary’s death—fate’s been cruel. But I also don’t want to tempt that fate.” He turned to Beth. “You understand.”

Beth looked pained. “Moira’s prone to extremes. She’d have been better off staying in France. She was so happy there. She loved everything French, and spoke the language like a native. She doesn’t enjoy living in rural Scotland.”

The doctor shook his head. “That couldn’t be helped after her mother passed. Nor would Frankie have lived any longer there than here. He was one of those poor souls born with a fatal flaw that wasn’t diagnosed properly, and even if it had been, twenty years ago, medical practitioners didn’t have the means to correct it. The fever he caught in Africa was the final blow to his weak constitution.” He sighed and removed his spectacles, wiping them on his sweater vest. “Born too soon, died too soon.” He made a little bow. “I must go.”

Beth watched him start down the stairs. “Quite a remarkable man. He had a fine practice in Inverness but gave it up after his wife died six years ago. He moved here where there weren’t so many memories. We’re fortunate to have him.” She led the way to Moira’s suite. “Dr. Carmichael still feels guilty for not saving Davey. The accident occurred a short way from the doctor’s cottage.”

“Had Davey been drinking?” Judith inquired.

“Yes, at the Dolphin, a pub about five kilometers west of St. Fergna,” Beth replied, her hand on the doorknob. “Not a lot, but that’s a treacherous part of the coast road at night, and of course there was mist. Patrick was lucky to survive.”

“Patrick was with Davey?” Judith said in surprise.

Beth grimaced. “That’s the oddest thing. I’ve never understood exactly what happened. Patrick was found near the wreckage, unconscious. He had several injuries, at least one that was quite severe. But he didn’t recall being with Davey. Phil and I wondered if Patrick had come upon the scene right after the crash and tried to rescue Davey. Patrick’s car wasn’t nearby, but his home isn’t far from where Davey went off the road. Patrick, you see, has a place in the village, and sometimes he’d walk the two or three kilometers from there to Hunter’s Lodge where he lives with his wife Jeannie.”

“So late at night and in October?” Judith asked, recalling the time of year Davey had died.

“Oh yes,” Beth said with a little laugh. “Patrick is the rugged outdoor type. Very virile, very tough, and yet…” She paused to find the proper word. “Very sophisticated. Well educated, too. Come. We can leave our coats and purses here. We must attend to the patient.”

Moira’s boudoir was part of a sunny suite facing west. The sitting room’s predominant colors were yellow, pale blue, and lavender, and furnished with handsome pieces that were both simple and elegant.

The boudoir, however, was in semidarkness with the yellow drapes closed tight. A pale and listless Moira lay with her head propped up by satin-covered pillows. Elise, who seemed to have taken posture lessons from Fergus, stood at attention by the foot of the big bed.

“It’s a lovely morning,” Beth said to Moira. “You should be sitting in the sunshine.”

“Oh, Beth,” Moira responded in a pettish voice, “I’m too weak. The pain in my side is almost as bad as being in labor. I couldn’t. The bright light would hurt my eyes.” She lifted her head slightly from the pillow. The silky cases and sheets were trimmed with delicate lace; the duvet was ecru damask with a rose design. The rest of the bedding was equally lavish, a far cry from the striped Hudson Bay blanket and clearance sale linens Judith had on her bed at home. “Who is that with you?” Moira asked. “Where’s Marie?”

“Mrs. Flynn, from Grimloch,” Beth replied. “You met her yesterday. Marie has flu.”

“Poor Marie,” Moira murmured. “Mrs. Flynn? Oh—yes, of course. You were here with your friend.”

“My cousin,” Judith clarified.

Elise regarded Judith with unconcealed animosity. “Strangers,” she murmured, “should keep away from sick rooms. Madam doesn’t need more visitors.”

“Now, Elise,” Beth said in a pleasant voice, “I invited Mrs. Flynn because Mrs. Fleming is ill. Make yourself some coffee. Take your time.”

Elise shot Beth a resentful look, but marched out of the boudoir.

“Honestly,” Beth said after the maid left, “Elise is too prickly.”

“You know I acquired her after my mother died,” Moira said. “She’s tenaciously faithful to our family.”

“I’m not here to quarrel,” Beth insisted. “What can we do for you?”

Moira sighed. “Nothing. I’d prefer to close my eyes and die.”

“Why?” Beth scowled at Moira. “Harry’s death isn’t your fault.”

Moira turned her head away but said nothing.

Judith tapped Beth’s arm. “Should I go into the other room?”

Beth shook her head and mouthed the word “drama.”

Judith spoke up. “I lost my husband when he was fairly young.”

Moira moved just enough to look at Judith. “Was he murdered?”

“No,” Judith said. “It was more like suicide. He purposely lived a destructive lifestyle. I have my share of guilt for what happened to him.”

“But nobody blew him up,” Moira said.

“He did blow up,” Judith asserted. “Medically speaking.”

“I don’t understand.”

“He weighed over four hundred pounds,” Judith explained. “He’d developed diabetes, he could barely walk, and his entire system went berserk. I felt it was partly my fault for enabling him. That very morning, I’d brought him a big bottle of grape juice before I went to work.”

Moira looked mildly interested. “But you didn’t drink it for him.”

“No.” Judith gazed curiously at the young woman. “You mean…?”

Moira looked at Judith and then turned to Beth. “That’s still not murder or suicide.” Her tone was bitter. “And,” she added, again focused on Judith, “you didn’t escape death along with your husband.”

Judith was puzzled. “No, of course not.”

Beth moved closer to Moira. “What do you mean?”

Moira’s fingers plucked fretfully at the lace on the sheet. “Harry asked me to meet him at the beach that afternoon. I thought about going, but changed my mind. I’d been invited to a wedding in Inverness. I couldn’t join Harry and get to the reception on time. If I’d gone…” She shuddered. “I might have been murdered, too.”