Scots on the Rocks

15

When the cousins reached the guest quarters, they went into the Flynns’ room where Renie hung the woolen cape in the wardrobe and Judith put the silver jewel case on the bed.

“Now,” she said, “I’m calling the cops.”

“About those emails?” Renie asked.

“No,” she replied, digging out her cell phone. “About Chuckie. He may or may not know who killed Harry, but if he’s bragging about it, he could be in danger.” A moment later, she was connected to DCI MacRae.

“The wee laddie, eh?” MacRae said thoughtfully. “Is he credible?”

Judith hesitated. “Possibly not,” she admitted, “but something occurred to me when we were in the castle lift. My cousin and I went down to the beach after the explosion. When we returned, the lift was up. It shouldn’t have been since no one else mentioned using it. I wonder if the killer sought refuge in the castle after Harry’s car blew up.”

“Ah! We knew we could count on you to notice even the smallest shard of evidence. So this Chuckie lad may have seen that person?”

“He could have,” Judith said, “or he might have witnessed something on the beach before the murder and the explosion. Which, do you think, came first?”

“It’s difficult to tell,” MacRae replied. “The explosion was probably meant to conceal how Harry Gibbs was murdered. However, something must have gone amiss with the killer’s plan. The body was virtually unmarked, so we conclude that Harry wasn’t in the car when the bomb went off but near a log close to the bank.”

“Interesting,” Judith remarked, glancing at Renie, who was perusing the emails. “I noticed some people farther up the beach earlier. Maybe someone came along and the killer was afraid of being spotted. Have any witnesses been found?”

“No one’s come forward,” MacRae said. “Let’s see—it’s going on three o’clock. Ogilvie and I are just finishing a late lunch in Inverness. If you think Chuckie Fordyce may have some genuine information, we can come out to the castle before the tide comes in.”

“Good,” Judith said. “I really think Chuckie should speak with you, whether he actually knows anything or not. If he’s bragging about his supposed knowledge, he might be courting disaster.”

“Indeed. I’ll see you shortly.” MacRae hung up.

Renie looked up from the emails. “Well?”

Judith related everything that MacRae had told her. “Isn’t it ironic?” she said in conclusion. “Harry was everything a young woman could want in appearance, but totally flawed inside. Chuckie is a physical and emotional wreck in a different way. Which is more tragic?”

“Do I really have to answer a dumb question like that?”

“No.” Judith sighed. “Any luck figuring out those emails?”

“Not without names or Internet addresses attached,” Renie said. “That’s the weird part. Unless,” she continued, rubbing her chin, “one of the parties wanted to save these missives but conceal the source. Do modern lovers go all soggy over emails? I find that odd.”

“It’s the way people communicate,” Judith pointed out. “The handwritten or even typed letter is a rarity today.”

“True,” Renie allowed. “I suppose cave dwellers used to hang on to chunks of rock that their beloveds chiseled romantic notions on, like ‘You’re the hot sauce to my raw rhinoceros meat.’”

“Maybe.” Judith scanned the emails once again. “There’s nothing specific. That is, it’s all about how much these two want to be together and what they must do to make that happen. It’s not exactly a plan to knock off rivals, though I suppose it’s implied.”

Renie looked inquiringly at Judith. “Do we give these to MacRae?”

Judith grimaced. “Not yet. We don’t know how or why they got into my purse. Our priority is Chuckie. The detectives should be here in a few minutes. Let’s go down to the courtyard to meet them.”

“Okay,” Renie said, gathering up the emails and putting them back in the silver case. “By the way, didn’t we have husbands when we arrived in Scotland? I seem to recall being with a couple of people who had deeper voices than we do.”

Judith frowned. “I suppose they’re so caught up in fishing they forgot we were here. Maybe it’s just as well. I’m not sure I want Joe to find out we’re involved in another murder.”

“Wouldn’t Hugh MacGowan have been informed by now?”

“Maybe not if he’s on vacation. Let’s go.” Judith went to the door. “I wonder what MacRae and Ogilvie have been doing in Inverness besides eating lunch?”

“Checking out Blackwell’s headquarters?” Renie suggested.

“Possibly.” Judith moved carefully down the winding staircase. As she reached the bottom, she heard voices. “MacRae here already?” she said over her shoulder to Renie.

But it was Will Fleming, talking to Mrs. Gibbs. “So where is Philip?” he asked. “His car’s gone.”

“The Master’s wife brought it back an hour or so ago,” Mrs. Gibbs replied. “He went rushing out not long after.”

“You don’t know where?” Will inquired in his smooth, soft voice.

“Nae,” Mrs. Gibbs insisted with a resolute shake of her head.

Will saw the cousins and smiled faintly. “Good afternoon, ladies. Have you seen Mrs. Fordyce in the past half hour or so?”

“No,” Judith replied. “Beth dropped us off a little after twelve.”

Mrs. Gibbs started to walk away. “I told ye,” she murmured, “Master’s lady likes to walk the beach, rain or shine.” She kept going.

“Is there a problem?” Judith asked.

Will sighed. “There’s very little going on that isn’t a problem. The past few days have been chaos.”

“How’s Marie feeling?” Judith inquired. “Beth told us she was ill.”

“Flu,” Will replied. “The current strain lasts forty-eight hours.”

“Harry’s must have been severe,” Judith remarked.

“Ah…” Will grimaced. “That was different. Moira was worried about the baby catching it. And Harry…well, Harry had complications.”

Before Judith could inquire about the “complications,” Beth came through the door with MacRae and Ogilvie right behind her. “Look who I found…Will?” she said in surprise. “What are you doing here?”

“Marie lost her…scarf. She thought it might be here somewhere. What’s this about?” Will inquired, nodding at the detectives.

“Merely following up,” MacRae said blandly.

Beth studied Will briefly. “You look as if you need a drink,” she said. “Let’s go to the family suite. Phil stashes his special malts there.”

MacRae watched the couple go back out through the guest door. “Very deft,” he said quietly. “For all her youth, the lovely Mrs. Fordyce is an accomplished executive’s wife.”

“She seems levelheaded, too,” Judith said.

MacRae nodded. “Yes. Beth Fordyce is blessed with a variety of gifts, including common sense. Alas, that’s not always the case with beautiful young women. Shall we go into the drawing room?”

Judith hesitated. “You don’t think Beth might know where to find Chuckie? She’s his stepmother and seems to know how to handle him.”

“All in good time,” MacRae said with a wave of the hand, indicating that Judith and Renie should precede him down the drafty passageway.

Judith didn’t budge. “No,” she said, the harshness of her tone surprising her as well as the others. “You have to find him now.”

MacRae’s thick eyebrows lifted in surprise. “Well!” He turned to Ogilvie. “See if Mrs. Fordyce—or Mrs. Gibbs—knows the wee laddie’s whereabouts.”

“He was headed for the dungeon when we saw him,” Judith said.

“I see.” MacRae frowned as Ogilvie nodded and went off on his search. “This Chuckie is an odd one.”

“Yes,” Judith agreed as they walked along the passageway. “He has both physical and emotional problems.”

“Intelligent?” MacRae asked, opening the door for the cousins.

“I think so,” Judith replied, “in an offbeat kind of way.”

“Cunning is more like it,” Renie put in, sitting on one of the settees and kicking off her shoes. “Mrs. Gibbs mentioned that Chuckie will someday take over the distillery from his father. That struck us as unlikely.”

MacRae settled into one of the bergère chairs. “Yet Fordyce, I’m told, is a dynast at heart. Keep the business in the family. Still, he’s fairly young, and perhaps hopes for children by his present wife.”

“Speaking of business,” Renie said, wearing what her cousin called her professional boardroom face, “what shape is Blackwell Petroleum in? We heard Jocko Morton went off to Greece to avoid some kind of probe.”

“Yes,” MacRae replied. “An internal audit, I believe, initiated by Will Fleming, the company’s financial officer. Nothing came of it, however, and Morton is back, as you well know.” He looked directly at Judith, who had sat down next to Renie. “I understand there was a rumpus at Hollywood House this morning.”

“I’m afraid so,” Judith said. “Did someone contact the police?”

“An anonymous tip,” MacRae said. “By the time a constable arrived, everything was peaceful. The servants insisted it must be a mistake. Your version would be different, I imagine.”

Judith nodded, and gave her account of the fight between Patrick Cameron and his two adversaries. “That’s another reason I assume all isn’t running smoothly at Blackwell. Although,” she continued, “last night my cousin and I saw Will, Morton, and Bell go into the cottage called The Hermitage.”

MacRae nodded. “That’s what you might call Patrick Cameron’s bachelor pad before he married Jeannie.”

“Not a happy marriage, perhaps?” Judith suggested.

“There are rumors,” MacRae conceded. “Gossip is a natural hobby in villages. I grew up in Edinburgh, so I’m not attuned to these small places where everyone knows everyone else’s business and may be a first cousin once removed as well.”

Judith was puzzled. “Do you mean rumors or connections?”

“Both, actually,” MacRae explained. “Blackwell’s offices are in Inverness, yet several top executives live in or around St. Fergna.”

“Typical of some American companies,” Renie pointed out. “When people are transferred to a firm’s headquarters, they often play follow-the-leader. Someone finds a pleasant place to live that’s within easy commuting distance of the job, and the next thing you know, all of the newcomers congregate there because the area’s a known factor.”

“Yes, I suppose that’s true,” MacRae agreed. “As for the rumors I spoke of, I referred to the ones about the Camerons. Several people have told us that the Camerons are quite happy together.”

“He does seem rather intimate with Moira,” Judith remarked. “Or maybe I’m reading something into it that’s not the case.”

“He’s ambitious,” MacRae said, “but most of the Blackwell executives are. Greedy, too.”

“Did you know,” Judith inquired, “that Jimmy has gone to Paris?”

MacRae grimaced. “We’re not sure he got away. The Inverness police were notified to watch the airport. There are other ways to get to Paris, so the Sûreté has been notified. Taking flight would be very unwise on James Blackwell’s part.”

Judith leaned forward on the settee. “Is he a serious suspect?”

MacRae’s face hardened. “They all are, don’t you think?”

Judith couldn’t disagree. “I appreciate your candor. So often I’ve been involved in situations where the local police withhold information.”

“Not here, Mrs. Flynn,” MacRae said with a warm smile. “We’re more than willing to cooperate with someone of your stature.”

“I’m flattered,” Judith said as guilt pangs stabbed her conscience. I should hand over those emails, she thought. But still she hesitated. “Don’t you think we should see if Ogilvie has found Chuckie?”

“Yes,” MacRae said. “Which way would my sergeant have gone?”

“We only know the courtyard route to the other wing,” Renie said, slipping into her shoes.

“That’s fine.” MacRae rose from the chair and went to the door, opening it for the cousins.

Mrs. Gibbs was in the passageway. “Did ye want tea?” she inquired of the detective.

“No, thank you.”

“Have you seen Chuckie?” Judith asked Mrs. Gibbs.

She shook her head. “Not since lunch. If ye’ll be wanting Gibbs’s car, it won’t be ready until late today or tomorrow.”

“But,” Judith said, “we came with him when he brought it back from the garage.”

Mrs. Gibbs shook her head. “Gibbs found something else wrong. Fuss and fret, that’s Gibbs. He’s gone back to the car shop with Archie Morton. No wonder there’s always something awry. That car is auld as the hills.”

“We don’t need transportation,” Judith said. “Although we should have asked Archie Morton if he had a car for hire.” She shot Renie an annoyed glance. “A shame we got sidetracked.”

As usual, Renie looked unrepentant.

Mrs. Gibbs had been standing stoically, hands at her sides, eyes cast down. Suddenly she lurched forward and grabbed MacRae by the arms. “You will arrest our dear laddie’s killer, won’t you? Please! Justice must be done!”

“Of course!” MacRae gently disengaged himself from Mrs. Gibbs’s grasp. “That’s why we’re here, to find your grandson’s murderer.”

Mrs. Gibbs looked stunned. “Do wealth and privilege keep ye from doing your duty? You must arrest Moira at once! Why must we always be the victims of an unjust world?”

Words were futile. Despite MacRae’s insistence that there was no solid evidence against Moira Gibbs, Mrs. Gibbs remained adamant. Judith felt sorry for the old lady, who tore at her apron and sobbed. “Not fair!” she wailed, and stumbled down the passageway.

MacRae sadly shook his head. “Poor woman. She’s convinced that we’d let Moira go free if we thought she’d murdered Harry. That’s not true, of course. But so far we have nothing to go on in that direction. She was at a wedding in Inverness.”

In the courtyard, clouds had drifted overhead and a drizzle began to fall. Judith felt as if the towers and battlements loomed above her like reminders of past dangers—and perhaps those to come.

“The dungeon is at the far end,” Judith said. “It may be locked.”

MacRae looked grim. “Not much use for locks in such a place.”

Just as they approached the tower door Judith had seen Chuckie head for previously, Ogilvie came out onto the walkway from the Fordyces’ apartments.

“Sir!” he called to his superior. “I can’t find him.” The young policeman ran down the walk, raincoat flapping behind him. “Mrs. Fordyce hasn’t seen him. Mr. Fordyce isn’t in.”

“You tried the dungeon?” MacRae asked.

“First thing,” Ogilvie answered. “Nothing. Just a barrel of dirty water. No point going down there. The dungeon must’ve been sunk deep into the rock. The room above is for storage with a trapdoor in the floor for the dungeon.”

“Chuckie told me he goes there often,” Judith said anxiously. “He mentioned a torture chamber, too.”

MacRae nodded. “Showing off, perhaps.”

Beth Fordyce and Will Fleming came out onto the walk. Will kissed Beth’s cheek and moved briskly toward the castle entrance.

“The tide has turned,” Beth called, coming to join the others. “Will has to hurry.”

MacRae frowned. “Perhaps we should, too, if Gibbs isn’t here. We could leave the skiff on the other side, though. Otherwise he might not be able to get back.”

“Gibbs has boots,” Beth said. “As long as the sea is fairly calm, he can wade to the castle up to his knees.” She brushed raindrops from her face. “You still haven’t found Chuckie?”

MacRae shook his head. “Perhaps he doesn’t want to be found.”

“Very likely,” Beth said, but she looked worried. “He rarely leaves the castle. He’s got to be somewhere. I wish Philip would get back. He might know where Chuckie’s hiding.”

MacRae looked up, down, and all around the castle precincts surrounding the courtyard. “I should think this place provides all sorts of nooks and crannies for someone who wants to avoid company.”

“Indeed,” Beth said in a hollow voice.

But Judith feared that Chuckie had already been found—by a killer.

MacRae and Ogilvie left moments later, promising to send more men to make a thorough search of the castle. Beth seemed grateful.

“I always feel like a visitor at Grimloch, not the chatelaine,” she confessed, leading the way into the private entrance. A sweep of her hand took in the entry area, which was decorated in a severe modern style with only a couple of abstract paintings and whitewashed walls. “Phil’s second wife did this. She stripped it of all the old character. I’d like to change it, but I’m not sure how to go about it.”

Renie looked at the space with her artistic eye. “Ghastly. What was she trying to prove?”

“That she was young and hip,” Beth replied. “Wait until you see the sitting room,” she continued, heading down a narrow corridor with black-and-white photographs of London street scenes on the walls. “Poor Phil. His first wife, Bella, died young from an aneurysm. His second wife, Rosemary, was much older, but very rich, and at the time, Phil was having financial problems. The dot-com crash, 9/11, the whole global downturn hurt business. His second wife died of cancer, only two years after they were married. Phil’s always felt guilty about marrying Rosemary for money, which makes him touchy whenever I mention redecorating this part of the castle. I suppose it’s his memorial to Rosemary, expressing gratitude for bailing him out of shark’s waters.”

They’d reached an open archway into what appeared to be the sitting room, all black and white with a couple of red accent pillows to break the monotony. “He’s doing well now, I gather,” Judith said as all three women sat down on the large U-shaped sofa.

“Yes,” Beth replied, “but he got a bad scare when things turned sour. Phil talks about diversifying, maybe merging with Gunn Shipping.”

Renie looked surprised. “Is your mother the sole owner?”

“Basically,” Beth replied. “My father, like Phil and his father and grandfather before him, believed strongly in keeping their businesses in the family. After my father died, Frankie inherited the position of chief officer, but the will was set up so that Mummy would actually run the business until the eldest son turned thirty. Frankie never lived that long, and all my brothers are under the official age, so Mummy is still in charge. She has quite a good head for business.”

Judith recalled overhearing the conversation between Philip and Kate Gunn. “There are no ties to Blackwell Petroleum through either Grimglen or the shipping company, are there?”

“No,” Beth replied, “though I’ve heard Jimmy has been considering some changes. The North Sea is a difficult area for oil exploration and requires investing in very expensive equipment. Production peaked a few years back, but there’s been a steady decline since. All of Blackwell’s operations are offshore, and quite far north. Jimmy, I understand, wants to merge with some of the other UK companies. Harry didn’t like that idea and thought Blackwell should invest in some of the marginal fields and put money into better exploration and drilling equipment. Jimmy and a couple of the other top executives felt that the initial expense wouldn’t be worth the return down the road.”

“If,” Judith said, “Jocko is the CEO, what exactly is Jimmy’s title? He seems to wield quite a bit of power.”

Beth smiled faintly. “Officially, he’s their legal counsel, though most of the work is delegated to Seumas Bell. But because Moira doesn’t always involve herself too deeply in the business, Jimmy acts as her proxy with the right to overrule everybody else, including Jocko. Or did, until Harry barged in and started to interfere.”

“Harry was a thorn in many people’s sides,” Judith remarked.

Beth thought for a moment. “He was young and arrogant. That didn’t sit well with the people who’d been with Blackwell a long time. I don’t know much about the company. Moira,” she added with a wry expression, “rarely discusses it.”

Judith had intended to bring up the relationship between Moira and Patrick when what sounded like a pager went off. Beth went to the phone on a side table. “Yes, Mrs. Gibbs?” she said into the receiver. “Of course. I’ll meet them in the courtyard.” She hung up and turned back to the cousins. “More police are arriving to search for Chuckie.”

Judith and Renie had stood up. “Can we help?” Judith asked.

Beth shook her head. “Thanks, but no. All I can do is suggest some of Chuckie’s hiding places. Oh, damn—I wish Phil were here!”

“Men go missing around here,” Renie said. “Ours are AWOL, too.”

Beth nodded once. “Then they’re the lucky ones, aren’t they?”

It was three-thirty when the cousins returned to the Flynns’ room. “Do you suppose,” Renie asked wistfully, “Mrs. Gibbs is serving tea?”

“Good grief,” Judith said in disgust, “you can’t be hungry again.”

“I will be in half an hour,” Renie asserted. “I’m thinking ahead.”

“Then stop it,” Judith said. “Turn off your stomach and turn on your brain. What should I do with those blasted emails?”

Renie shrugged. “Béarnaise sauce might improve their flavor.”

Judith shot her cousin a menacing glance. “I’m serious. Should I turn them over to the police?”

Renie brightened. “You think they have better recipes?”

“Knock it off!” Judith went to the bureau where she’d put the silver case. “I’m already frustrated. I’m getting cabin fever. I’d like to tour Speyside and Inverness and the glens and the lochs and do some of things regular tourists do.”

“No you wouldn’t,” Renie said. “You’re having a wonderful time trying to solve your latest murder. As a hobby, I suppose it beats stamp collecting and fantasy baseball.”

“Shut up.” Judith rummaged in the drawer, moving her new sweaters and wondering if the castle had a laundry for guests.

“Just think,” Renie said, stretching out on the bed, “you get to go to a real inquest tomorrow. Sound like fun?”

“Coz,” Judith said, “didn’t I put the silver case in this drawer?”

Renie sat up. “Uh…I think so. I wasn’t paying much attention.”

“It’s gone.” Judith felt the color drain out of her face as she turned to stare at Renie. “Someone stole it.”

Renie jumped off the bed. “That’s crazy. Nobody knew you had it.”

“Not true. Whoever put the case in my purse knew it.”

“But,” Renie protested, “that was at Hollywood House.”

“So what?” Judith’s shock was giving way to anger. “Those emails may be crucial to solving this homicide. Who’s been here in the last hour since we got back?”

Renie ticked off the residents and guests. “Mr. and Mrs. Gibbs. Beth and maybe Philip. Will Fleming. Chuckie. The police.” Renie shrugged. “We wouldn’t necessarily know if someone else showed up.”

“True,” Judith agreed, sitting on the chest at the foot of the bed. “Now I’ve got to tell MacRae about the theft—and try to explain why I didn’t turn the blasted emails over to him in the first place. Toss me my cell phone. My purse is on the bed. And don’t touch anything in this room in case there are fingerprints.”

Renie flipped the phone to Judith, who trapped it between her knees. “You think I’m some kind of amateur at this crime stuff?”

Ogilvie answered. Judith phrased her words carefully. “Something has been stolen from my guest room, Sergeant. Could the policemen who are looking for Chuckie check for prints when they get done?”

“Well?” Renie said after Judith rang off.

“He’ll get hold of the cops before they leave,” Judith said. “We don’t have anything worth stealing, which is why I didn’t lock the door.”

Renie nodded faintly. Judith sat quietly on the chest, watching the pale light cast lengthening shadows across the floor. “It’s officially spring,” she said at last. “The seasons have changed since we got here.”

“A lot has changed,” Renie pointed out.

Judith shook her head. “It usually does when we go anywhere. Sometimes I feel like the harbinger of death.”

“Don’t. You think just because you showed up, somebody took that as a cue to murder Harry Gibbs?” Renie held up a hand to keep Judith from talking. “Don’t say it. If you really believed that, you’d think you were the center of the universe. That’s not the real you.”

Judith didn’t argue. “Let’s find out how we get from this part of the castle to the other part without crossing the courtyard. We’ll take the elevator at the other end of the hall and ask Mrs. Gibbs. I can’t figure it out from the castle diagram because they show only the guest section and the rest is marked private or refers to structural features. Even I know a rampart when I see one.”

“What if the cops show up in your room?” Renie asked.

“I’ll leave a note, along with my cell number. Let’s go.”

“Tea?” Renie said hopefully.

Writing a brief message for the police, Judith ignored her cousin. “Let’s go,” she repeated, putting the slip of paper on the dresser mirror.

Looking disappointed, Renie followed in silence. The elevator was a smaller version of the cage on the cliff. It could accommodate two people, or perhaps just one and a service cart. The conveyance made its own strange noises, creaking and squeaking down to the ground floor.

“The kitchen and the pantry are beyond that door,” Judith said as they exited the lift. “If you ask nicely, Mrs. Gibbs will give you a biscuit.”

“It better be shortbread,” Renie grumbled.

Mrs. Gibbs was stirring a big soup pot. “No tea today,” she said when the cousins entered the kitchen. “I couldn’t bake because the oven broke. Gibbs still isn’t back to fix it. Dinner at eight.”

“We understand,” Judith said. “Excuse us, Mrs. Gibbs. How can we get to the private quarters without crossing the courtyard?”

Mrs. Gibbs brushed a strand of gray hair from her forehead. “Back the way you came, then through the door to the right of the lift.”

“Thanks,” Judith said. “By the way, have your son and his wife been contacted yet?”

Mrs. Gibbs shook her head. “They’ll never find out what’s happened to their poor laddie until they get back from the jungle and into civilized parts. That’s the way they are. It canna be helped.”

“Are their extensive travels work-related?” Judith asked.

Mrs. Gibbs removed the ladle from the soup pot and turned down the heat. “South America, South America—that’s all they know. It’s a wonder the natives haven’t put them in a pot and eaten them.”

“How often do they come back here?” Judith inquired.

Mrs. Gibbs shrugged. “Once, sometimes twice a year. What good does it do? Promises, promises—that’s all they ever make. A fine way to help us old folk! Banks and such want more than empty words!”

“That’s so,” Judith said as Gibbs entered the kitchen.

“Car’s fixed,” he said, and kept going through to the dining room.

Mrs. Gibbs went after him, waving the soup ladle. “Now fix the oven, mon!”

Judith and Renie followed Mrs. Gibbs’s directions and found themselves in another narrow passageway where the only light came from a few orange bulbs that had been set in the ancient iron sconces. The three doors along the way had once led to the great hall, but, if Judith remembered correctly, that section was now the Gibbses’ lodgings.

At the end of the passageway they found two doors. Judith opened the one on the left. A carpeted hallway with abstract paintings on the walls indicated that this was part of the Fordyce suite. The door to their right was harder to budge. Judith had to put her shoulder against it before it opened with a harsh, scraping sound.

“Where are we?” Renie asked, looking around a large room with two narrow window slits far above the cousins’ heads.

Judith scanned the cartons, boxes, barrels, and chests that covered most of the floor and were stacked almost six feet high. The air felt dank and stale. “It must be the storage area.” She grimaced at the mounds of various containers, many covered in dust and cobwebs. The room was so crowded that Judith found it oppressive, even overwhelming. “What else could it be?”

“I don’t know,” Renie replied as thunder rumbled close by. “I can’t see anything.”

Judith glared at her cousin. “Not funny, coz. Here’s the trapdoor,” she added, pointing to an area near a pile of wooden crates that were marked with black letters spelling LINENS.

“I’m not kidding,” Renie asserted. “I can’t see. My chronic corneal dystrophy has come back.”

“Good grief!” She was familiar with Renie’s problem, involving blurred vision and drooping eyelids. Sure enough, Renie’s left eye was half closed. “What brought that on?” she asked in a shocked voice.

“All the gray,” Renie replied. “Not to mention the stress from flying, whether I’m drunk or sober. I’ve got my medication and eye patches with me. I never go anywhere without them. I’ll be fine,” she said, and walked straight into a large wooden crate marked china. “Ooof! What’s this?” she asked, bracing herself on the crate.

“You’re in China,” Judith replied. “Don’t move while I look at this so-called dungeon.” She used both hands to tug at the iron grip that was sunk into the trapdoor’s well-worn wood. Fortunately, it lifted easily.

Judith stared into the opening. “No cobwebs, no dust, no dirt. It’s clean, like it’s used often.”

“Chuckie?” Renie suggested, feeling her way toward Judith. “He goes into the dungeon to play with his imaginary rack.”

“Maybe. I see the rain barrel.” She paused. “Why would it be full of water? There shouldn’t be any leaks down there.”

“Seepage through the walls?”

“Not possible.” Judith sniffed. “Can you smell that?”

“Let me move closer,” Renie said. “Maybe my sense of smell is better now that I can’t see. They say that when you lose…Aaack! I just touched something horrible covered with hair!”

“That’s my head,” Judith snapped. “Don’t lean on me!”

“Sorry. Oops!”

“Now what?” Judith demanded, turning to look at Renie, who had stumbled and fallen on top of a carton cluttered with small objects.

“Don’t worry about me,” Renie snarled. “Now I’m blind andfeeble.” Awkwardly, she righted herself and dusted off her cashmere sweater. “Just carry on with—”

“Open the door.”

The cousins both jumped.

“The same voice,” Judith whispered.

“Almost the same message,” Renie whispered back.

Judith looked around the room but saw no hiding places. All of the storage containers were piled flush against the walls.

“Open the door.”

Renie shuddered. “Way too creepy. Let’s get out of…Aaaaah! I feel something cold and clammy and dead! Help!”

“That would be my hand,” Judith said through gritted teeth. “Stop touching me. Where’s that voice coming from? It can’t be in this hole.”

“Who cares? I’m going.” Renie tripped over Judith’s foot and barely managed to stay upright. “Which way’s the door?”

“You can’t go without me,” Judith retorted. “Shut up and listen.” But the voice had gone silent. “It must mean that we should open the trapdoor.”

“We already did. It’s a ghost,” Renie declared. “I don’t care if it’s giving hot racetrack tips.”

“You don’t believe in ghosts.”

“I changed my mind.”

“Bad timing for that.” Judith pointed to the trapdoor. “Now sniff.”

“Medicinal,” Renie said after a few seconds.

“Not quite…booze!” Judith exclaimed. “It smells like Scotch.”

“That figures,” Renie said. “Philip owns a distillery. Maybe he stores some of his private stash here and it leaked.”

“Into the dungeon? That’s where it’s coming from. Did I see a flashlight on top of one of those boxes by the door?”

“You might have,” Renie said. “I can’t see anything.”

Judith went to the carton where she’d noticed the flashlight. She clicked it on and focused its bright beam on the barrel some ten feet beneath the basement floor. “That’s odd,” she said in a curious voice. “It looks like there’s something floating in the water. Or the Scotch. In fact, it looks like a—” Lightning flashed through the narrow windows. Judith sucked in her breath as thunder rattled the casements. “Holy Mother!” she gasped, reeling backwards toward Renie. “It looks like a head!”