Scots on the Rocks

8

The rest of the evening proved uneventful. Renie retreated to her room around eleven. Judith set her travel clock for eight-thirty. But it was well after midnight before she finally settled down. Upon awakening, she couldn’t remember what she’d dreamed, but knew she’d passed a restless night. The comforter was half off the bed and one of the pillows had fallen on the floor. Maybe, she thought, she’d been haunted by poor Harry and the life that had been cut so short.

After showering, putting on her makeup, and dressing in her new slacks and twin set, she went across the hall to Renie’s room. There was no response to her knock. The door was locked. Judith didn’t blame Renie; she’d locked her own door, too. Her cousin must be sleeping in, as was her habit. It was after nine, and if they were to eat breakfast before Mass in the chapel at eleven, Renie had better get going. Judith knocked harder and called out. “It’s me! Wake up!”

A full minute passed before Renie staggered to the door. “Is the sun up yet?” she asked in a groggy voice.

“It’s cloudy, but it’s not exactly dawn. You missed that,” Judith said, closing the door behind her. “Come on, we have to eat.”

“Oh. Eat.” Renie was wandering around the room in her flannel nightgown. “Breakfast. I remember. Good concept.” She wove her way to the garderobe.

When the cousins arrived in the dining room half an hour later, the sideboard held another generous repast.

“Porridge,” Renie said. “Real Scottish porridge. I read somewhere that they have an annual porridge-off around here. Inverness, maybe. They go for the Golden Sprutle.”

“The what?” Judith asked.

“Sprutle,” Renie repeated. “It’s the stick used to stir porridge.”

“Only you would know that,” Judith said, shaking her head.

“True,” Renie agreed. “I’m a font of useless knowledge.”

“I’m going to try the tangerine marmalade,” Judith said. “It’s in another crock like the salad dressing with the fancy G on it. Mrs. Gibbs must be a wizard in the kitchen.”

“Putting up preserves is a lost art,” Renie noted. “Remember how our mothers did it every year? I tried it when I was first married, but it was too much trouble. Canning was always in August, the hottest time of the year, standing at the stove and getting even hotter.”

“You’re babbling,” Judith declared. “I like it better when you don’t talk before ten o’clock.”

Just as the cousins were finishing, Mrs. Gibbs entered the dining room. Her cheeks were pale and there were dark circles under her eyes.

“Father Keith will arrive before eleven,” she said in a toneless voice. “Do ye know where to find the chapel? It’s in the southwest tower. Look for the cross over the door.”

Judith’s expression was compassionate. “We’re so sorry about your grandson. If there’s anything we can do—”

Mrs. Gibbs cut her off with a sharp gesture. “What’s to be done? The laddie’s gone to God. Pray for his poor soul, that’s what to do.”

“Of course,” Judith said. “Have you reached his parents?”

“An impossible task,” Mrs. Gibbs said. “They never should o’ had the bairn. Free spirits, they call themselves. Worthless, I call them.” She turned and went back to the kitchen.

“Not fond of Sonny,” Renie remarked, stirring sugar into her tea. “Why can’t parents take responsibility for ending up with rotten kids?”

Judith shook her head. “Sometimes kids are just bad apples.”

“Maybe.” Renie checked her watch. “Ten-twenty. I wonder how many people attend Mass in this Scottish Reformed Church country? Which reminds me, speaking of parents. It was Saint Margaret of Scotland who had six kids, and three turned out fine but the other trio was awful. She once remarked that even Ted Williams never batted five hundred.”

Judith smiled. “I doubt she used those words, since she must’ve died about nine hundred years before Ted Williams was born.”

“Oh?” Renie feigned innocence. “Maybe Saint Margaret meant shooting from the field. Or pass completions. You get the point, though I’m not sure I agree with it.”

The dining room door from the passageway opened. Beth Fordyce entered, wearing a very short yellow nightgown. “Coffee!” she exclaimed, her slanting brown eyes widening. “Where?”

“Try the silver urn,” Renie said. “We’re drinking tea this morning.”

“What a ghastly night,” Beth said, taking a cup and saucer from the sideboard. “I hardly slept. I’ve never been interrogated by the police. What do I know about Harry’s death? It’d be like him to blow up his own car, from what I’ve heard. He craved attention.” She poured her coffee and sat down a couple of places from Judith. “Phil is wild.”

Judith was puzzled. “You told us the explosion didn’t kill Harry.”

Beth nodded. “That’s what I was told. The autopsy’s tomorrow. The Sabbath is sacred around here.” With delicate fingers, she picked up her cup and saucer. “I must dress for Mass.”

After Beth left, Judith looked at Renie. “So she’s RC. Who else?”

Renie shrugged. “We seem to have fallen into a nest of papists.”

“Ordinarily, that’d be fine with me,” Judith said, “but at the moment, I have my doubts about whether these people practice what they preach. Especially,” she added grimly, “‘Thou shalt not kill.’”

Father Keith was elderly, white-haired, and rail-thin, but he zipped through the liturgy at top speed. The only reference to Harry Gibbs was during the intercessions when the priest asked the small congregation to pray for the dead man’s soul.

Despite the brevity of the service, Judith had time to take in the age-old beauty of the chapel. The statues of Jesus, Mary, St. Joseph, and St. Fergna probably weren’t the originals, but they definitely dated from the eighteenth or even seventeenth century. The Stations of the Cross in bas-relief also looked as if they’d been added later. Behind the altar the stained-glass windows depicted various saints Judith couldn’t identify. The workmanship looked very old, though a few sections looked as if they’d been replaced after attacks by enemies or Mother Nature. The tabernacle was crafted from ancient gold and studded with jewels.

Philip and Beth Fordyce, Mr. and Mrs. Gibbs, and—to Judith’s surprise—Mrs. Gunn were in attendance. So were a dozen strangers, though she couldn’t help but notice a pretty young woman in the back pew wearing a gorgeous sable coat. As Father Keith concluded the Mass after the final blessing, he all but darted out of the chapel. Judith surmised that he was a kind of circuit-riding priest who still had at least one more Mass to celebrate in another nearby village or town.

As the worshippers left the chapel, Judith noticed that Beth had paused to light a votive candle.

“Hold it,” Judith whispered to Renie.

“Why?” Renie shot back. “Father Speedo skipped the sign of peace. I wanted to take the opportunity to deck Mrs. Gunn again.”

“She might have decked you,” Judith said. “Here comes Beth.”

“Is there a priest shortage in Scotland, too?” Judith asked.

“Oh yes,” Beth replied, “especially in the Highlands. The few younger priests who are ordained all seem to want to teach. Pardon, I must speak with Will and Marie.”

The cousins trailed behind Beth as she called to the couple Judith had noticed in the last pew. The woman, who apparently was Marie, exuded a lush air with her fair skin, masses of auburn hair, and all that expensive fur. The man at her side was of average height, with a receding hairline, a long, lean face, and a slightly hooked nose.

Judith’s observations were cut short by a commotion on the cobbled walkway to her left. Philip and Chuckie were arguing. Or rather, Chuckie was screaming at his father and jumping up and down.

“I’m not going to hell!” Chuckie shouted. “I get bored in church! That’s why I threw oranges at the priest during Christmas Mass!”

Philip grabbed his son by the collar, dragging him away from the others. Judith couldn’t hear what Philip was saying, but Chuckie wore a truculent expression and kept shaking his head as he leaned against the half-timbered wall. Judith noticed that Beth had abruptly stopped talking to Will and Marie. Except for Mrs. Gunn, the rest had left.

“Phil!” Beth shouted. “Let me speak with Chuckie!”

Chuckie took a couple of swings at his much taller father but missed. With a weary expression, Philip walked off. He’d gone only a few feet before Chuckie raced up from behind and tackled the older man. Philip fell flat on his face. Chuckie sat on him and hooted in derision.

Beth headed toward her husband and her stepson. “Chuckie, Chuckie, what are you doing?” she asked in a resigned voice. “Get up. I’ll make you some cocoa.”

“Really?” Chuckie grinned at her as Philip tried to dislodge his errant son. “With biscuits?”

“Of course. Come along now. Be my good boy.”

Chuckie sprang off of his father and hurried to take Beth’s outstretched hand. “What kind of biscuits?” he inquired.

“Your favorites,” Beth said, leading Chuckie away.

The man called Will was helping Philip get up. The woman named Marie strolled over to Judith and Renie. She spoke in an undertone. “Chuckie’s quite mad, you know.”

“No kidding,” Renie retorted.

“He should be institutionalized,” the woman said, brushing her chin against the sable collar of her splendid coat. “These days they treat crazy people with pills. I don’t think it works very well.”

Philip was brushing himself off while Will looked the other way, perhaps to save them both from the embarrassment of the moment.

“Are you friends of the Fordyces?” Judith inquired.

Marie smiled slightly. She was several years younger than her husband who appeared to be close to forty. “Beth and Moira and I all went to school together. My husband, Will Fleming, is the Blackwell Petroleum comptroller. That’s how we met.” Her smile widened, showing dimples. “Will’s very clever. Believe it or not, he can be quite funny.”

Judith glanced at Will, who was looking anything but amused at the moment. He’d finally walked away from Philip.

“We should go, Marie,” he said. “The tide will be changing shortly.”

Marie nodded. “Of course, darling.” She turned to the cousins. “Beth says you’re guests here. You’ve had rather a rude welcome.”

“We’re used to it,” Renie said.

“Really?” Marie giggled, then suddenly sobered. “I shouldn’t laugh. It’s quite dreadful about Harry. Still, it’s the sort of thing one would expect of him.” She scooted away to join her husband, who was already at the arched entrance to the castle.

“Harry’s not getting a lot of sympathy,” Renie noted. “I’m beginning to think I was right the first time—he was a jerk.”

“I pity him,” Judith said, but shut up as Philip approached.

“I apologize,” he said stiffly, “for my son. He’s unwell. You mustn’t think ill of him. He has a genetic defect, causing physical and emotional growth problems. I’ve sent him to the best doctors and clinics. When he takes his medication, he’s well behaved and quite bright.”

“It must be very hard on you,” Judith said before Renie could open her big mouth and spoil what must be a difficult admission for a man like Philip Fordyce. “I sympathize.”

“Very kind of you,” Philip murmured. “Excuse me, I feel a need to walk the beach.”

Judith watched him move away, hampered by a slight limp. “Maybe we should go someplace, too,” she said.

Renie frowned. “Where?”

“The village? I think I can walk that far.”

“Everything’s probably closed on the Sabbath,” Renie pointed out.

“True.” Judith gazed around the courtyard. The sun had come out from behind the clouds. Judith noticed an old sundial in the flowerbed near the door where Beth had left with Chuckie. She strolled toward it with Renie following her.

“No hands,” Judith noted. “It’s symbolic, don’t you think? This place is really timeless.”

Renie disagreed. “It’s marking time, a millennium’s worth of centuries. So many people have come and gone, yet the castle remains.”

Renie stopped as a strange, eerily familiar sound captured the cousins’ attention. Judith looked up. Near the top of the castle’s second story, the great northern diver was perched on a corbel, emitting his haunting cry. The bird preened a bit before flapping its wings and sailing off over the courtyard and out of sight.

“That weird call,” Judith said softly. “It sounds like the bird is mourning.”

“Maybe,” Renie allowed. “Or uttering a cry for help.”

Despite the sun, Judith shivered. “I’m not a fanciful person, but there is something spooky about this place. Maybe it’s all the history.”

“History is nothing but old gossip,” Renie declared. “Who did what to whom and why and how it all turned into a war or a revolution.”

Judith frowned. “Maybe. I wonder if there really is a ghost here. Certainly there’s a voice, telling us to open the gate or the window. Where does it come from?”

“TV,” Renie said. “For not being fanciful, you’re sounding a little loopy. Remember on our first trip to Europe we reached Deauville the night before taking ship for home, we got to the cheap B&B and were terrified before we rang the bell?”

Judith’s mind traveled back to that chilly October night in Normandy. “Yes. The house was dark, it looked run-down, and when we finally rang the bell nobody answered. We almost grabbed our suitcases and ran off.”

“Oh yes. It was raining and blowing like mad. We were sure the owners were inside plotting our imminent demise.” Renie grinned. “Instead they had the lights out and wouldn’t come to the door because they wanted to finish watching a rerun of I Love Lucy. In French.”

Judith smiled. “So I’m imagining the atmosphere at Grimloch?”

Renie was studying the daffodil and hyacinth greenery that was poking its way out of the peaty ground. “I can’t dismiss the murder that’s occurred since we arrived, but we should be used to it.”

“If people knew about my track record when it comes to dead bodies,” Judith said, “they’d avoid me like the plague.”

“But they don’t,” Renie pointed out. “As I told you years ago when the first homicide happened at Hillside Manor, it was good advertising.”

Judith grimaced. “I’ve never been convinced of that. Most people don’t pay attention to anything that goes on outside of their own little world.” She looked around the courtyard again. All seemed quiet except for the flags that fluttered gently at half-staff in the occasional wind from the sea. “There’s a third flag today,” Judith noted. “It’s got the stag’s head on it. They must hoist it when The Master’s in residence.”

“Makes sense,” Renie said. “So what are we going to do with ourselves until Bill and Joe get back later today?”

Judith considered. “Do you suppose there’s a taxi?”

“Land or water?”

“We can walk to the beach now,” Judith pointed out. “Let me use my cell. I’ll call local directory information. I wonder if I just dial zero…”

Renie was sorting through her wallet. “I’ve got a number on my bill from the woolen shop. Try that.” She handed the invoice to Judith.

“They won’t be open,” Judith said, but tried the number anyway. There was neither a live response nor a recorded message. “Drat.”

“Hold on,” Renie said. “Bill gave me a list of helpful contacts before we left home. You know how thorough he is. I forgot I had it in my…Ah!” Renie read from her husband’s hand-printed list. “Directory assistance for Scotland is 192.”

Judith dialed the three digits. An operator answered, asking for what city or town. Judith said St. Fergna. The ring changed to a different sound but was picked up on the third beep. The voice at the other end sounded strangely familiar.

“I’m calling from Grimloch Castle,” Judith said. “Is there a taxi service in the village?”

“Mrs. Jones? Or is it Mrs. Flynn?” asked the female voice on the other end. “This is Alison, from the woolen shop.”

Judith laughed. “I thought you sounded like someone I knew,” she said. “It’s Mrs. Flynn. We feel stranded. Are you the local directory service person in addition to working in the store?”

“I have two jobs,” Alison said. “I’m saving to get married. There’s not much to do here in winter. There’s no taxi as such, but my fiancé, Barry, can give you a lift. He’s bored. Where do you want to go?”

“We’re not sure,” Judith admitted, “but we’ll make up our minds by the time he gets here. How soon, do you think?”

“Let me ask him.” Alison turned away from the phone. Judith could still hear her voice, followed by a brief male response. “Five minutes, if you like, Mrs. Flynn.”

“That sounds fine,” Judith said. “We’ll pay, of course.”

“Well…you don’t have to. Barry’s not a very good driver. But we can use the money.”

“Of course,” Judith said. “We’ll head for the beach. Thank you so much.” She hung up and grinned at Renie. “A local lad who apparently has no connection to the castle and its crew. He may prove very helpful.”

Renie sighed. “Here we go again.”

When Judith and Renie got out of the lift, they noticed that there were several people on the beach in both directions. Families, couples, young, old, and in-between—but no one was within a hundred yards of the strand in front of the castle. Although there was no visible barrier, apparently there was an understanding between the villagers and Philip Fordyce. It might be the twenty-first century, but when his flag flew over Grimloch, The Master still reigned in his fiefdom.

The cousins had almost reached the parking area when a small old car came rattling down the track. Judith couldn’t distinguish the make or model, but parts of it were painted blue, other parts red, and the rest of the exterior was rusted out.

“Hallo!” called the driver, leaning out through the window. Except, Judith realized as she approached the beat-up vehicle, there was no window. A clear plastic flap was held in place by a big piece of masking tape. “I’m Barry MacPherson. You must be the American ladies.”

“We are,” Judith said. “Thanks for coming to get us.”

“Gives me something to do,” Barry replied cheerfully. “Which of you is which?”

The cousins introduced themselves. Barry nodded. He was in his early twenties, with a crown of dark red hair shaved into a mullet. He had freckles, and although he was sitting, he struck Judith as the lanky type, with long fingers and big knuckles.

“So,” Barry said, “you being the tall one, Mrs. Flynn, sit up front, please. Mrs. Jones, you’ll have to make do in the backseat. Just move the trash. I didn’t take time to tidy up as I wanted to collect you before the tide came in much higher.”

Judith glanced at the backseat. Or in the area of the backseat, since it wasn’t visible, but was covered with discarded fast-food boxes, CDs, items of clothing, and a small cage containing a dwarf hamster.

“That’s The Bruce,” Barry said. “He bites. Mind your fingers.”

“I bite, too,” Renie said, showing off her large front teeth. “And I’m much bigger.” Reluctantly, she crawled into the backseat and started making room for herself. “The hamster’s cute,” she said. “He smells like fish and chips.” Seeing the grease-stained newspaper wrappings, she went on: “Everything smells like fish and chips. Or worse. We have a dwarf lop bunny named Clarence. We keep him very fresh. He doesn’t bite, but he’s got a mean left hook.”

Barry chuckled good-naturedly. “The Bruce goes everywhere with me, even to work.”

“Where do you work?” Judith inquired, settled into the passenger seat despite the feel of broken springs poking her bottom.

“At Tonio’s Pizza,” Barry replied, gunning the car into gear before attempting the climb up to the village. “I deliver.”

Renie had settled into the backseat. “I smell pizza, too.”

Judith gritted her teeth at the grinding of gears. “I didn’t see a pizza parlor in the High Street yesterday.”

“One street off the High,” Barry replied, leaning into the steering wheel as if to coax the car up the steep track. “Where are we going?”

Fortunately, they were going up at the moment, slowly and noisily, but the hill was finally crested. “We’d like to know what’s in and around the village,” Judith said. “We arrived Friday night, so we couldn’t see our immediate surroundings.”

“Arrived just in time for the murder,” Barry remarked. “Very exciting for these parts. Just like the telly. I don’t think we’ve ever had a murder before, at least not in my time. Maybe the Mafia’s moved to St. Fergna.” The young man sounded thrilled at the prospect. “You’re not…what’s the term? ‘Mobbed up’?”

“No,” Judith replied. “We’re very respectable.” They were moving up the High Street’s incline. “Did you know Harry Gibbs?” she asked.

“Me?” Barry laughed. “Harry and Barry, a couple of mates. Not bloody likely. Excuse my language. Harry was a cut above. No chum for the likes of me.”

“Where did he live when he wasn’t at the castle?” Judith asked.

Barry glanced at Judith. “You don’t know?”

Judith shook her head. “We’re not friends of the family. Our stay was arranged by a fishing companion of our husbands.”

“Awkward,” Barry remarked, braking at the fork in the road by the village green. “That is, you must feel peculiar being caught up in this murder thing. What have we here?”

Barry was looking at the green where at least fifty people had assembled. A stout middle-aged man in tweeds appeared to be giving a speech from the bandstand.

“It’s ruddy Morton,” Barry murmured. “I’ll be frigged. He’s back.”

“From where?” Judith asked. “Who is he?”

“Jocko Morton,” Barry replied, letting the engine sputter and idle. “He’s Blackwell Petrol’s CEO, but he did a bunk a while back, called it taking a leave, and went to Greece. What’s he carrying on about?”

Judith tried to roll down her window but it was stuck. A florid-faced Morton was waving his pudgy hands. “Can you hear him?” she asked Barry, who was leaning his head out on the driver’s open side.

“Some. He’s telling the crowd how wonderful he is and what he can do for Blackwell Petroleum and for St. Fergna and for God and country. Full of wind, that’s Jocko Morton. He likes to be the pukka sahib, thinks he knows how to run everybody’s life better than they do.”

The gathering gave a great shout. Several people were pumping their fists in the air and others were jumping up and down. Barry’s expression turned curious. “Riled up, I’d say. Why, I wonder?”

“Flyers are being passed around by a man who looks like Jocko,” Judith noted. “Can you get us one?”

“That’s Jocko’s brother Archie,” Barry said, starting to get out of the car. “He runs the local garage. Be right back.”

Barry jogged off to fetch a flyer. The car started to inch forward, heading toward the green. “Why are we moving?” Renie asked.

“I don’t think Barry set the emergency brake,” Judith said, leaning across the front seat. “I found it.”

The car kept going, despite Judith’s hard tug on the brake. “Damn! I don’t think it works.”

The car kept crawling along, edging ever nearer to the oblivious gathering that spilled out almost into the street. Judith pulled again on the brake lever. It still didn’t stop the old rattletrap from moving. “Look out!” she cried in warning. But the crowd couldn’t hear her. Just as she was certain they were going to mow down a half dozen villagers, Barry sprinted back to the car and jumped in.

“Sorry,” he said, fumbling under the dashboard and pulling on a rope. “I should get this fixed, but then I don’t have many emergencies.” The car stopped six inches short of any would-be victims.

Judith was aghast. “You use a rope to pull on the brake?”

Barry shrugged. “It works, doesn’t it?” He handed Judith a flyer, his face grim. “Kind of ugly. They’re calling Mrs. Gibbs a murderer. Or would she be a murderess?”

“Let’s hope she’s not either one,” Judith replied.

Renie leaned over the seat to look at the white sheet of paper with the bold black lettering. “Jezebel? Whore? Scorpion? As in the critters that kill their mates?”

“Jocko Morton doesn’t seem to be in his company owner’s corner,” Judith said. “This is inflammatory.” She looked up from the flyer. Jocko used a bullhorn to call for quiet. The crowd finally stopped spewing what sounded like venom, but not before Archie Morton emerged from the fringe and appeared to make some threats.

“Save your strength for the inquest,” Jocko shouted. “Let the rich know that they can’t get away with murder!”

The crowd burst into another round of cheers and chants. Even from a distance, Judith could tell that Jocko looked smug. “I don’t get it,” she remarked. “He’s Blackwell’s CEO and he wants Moira arrested?”

“That’s not so mysterious,” Renie said. “There must be a fight over top-level decision-making, and Jocko thinks Moira’s an obstacle to his position and livelihood. I’ve seen it before with some of my graphic design clients. Dog-eat-dog, and it’s not always the money, but ego.”

Judith turned to Barry. “Where’s Hollywood?” she asked as the name suddenly popped into her head.

“To the left,” Barry said, and turned in that direction. “That’s where Harry lived when he wasn’t at the castle. It’s Moira’s house. Very nice, though I’ve only delivered there twice.”

The elderly car made several strange noises as they passed whitewashed cottages and a row of stone houses. Moments later they were going through the rather flat countryside. Judith didn’t recognize all of the trees that flanked the road, though she saw several tall rowans in bud and a few wild rhododendron bushes.

She judged they’d gone about two miles when Barry slowed down. “The gate to Hollywood’s on your right. We can’t go in, but you can get a glimpse of…Oh, bloody hell! I’m out of petrol!”

The car began to go even slower as Barry fought the wheel to reach the narrow verge. “Sorry. I’d have checked the gauge, but it broke.”

Judith turned to look at Renie, who had been unusually quiet during the ride. Her cousin was petting the hamster in her lap.

“He reminds me of Clarence,” she said. “He’s so soft, and he only tried to bite me once.”

“Great,” Judith murmured. Her thoughts weren’t with Clarence or the hamster or even Renie. She’d been given a golden opportunity and intended to seize it. “Would Moira Gibbs have any petrol to spare?”

Barry chuckled. “Aye, she does at that. But we mustn’t bother her at such a time. I can walk back to the village.” He snapped his fingers. “I forgot. The petrol pump’s closed for the Sabbath.”

“How far are we from the gate to Hollywood?” Judith inquired.

“Just up there,” Barry said, pointing to a stone marker less than twenty-five yards away.

“We have no choice,” Judith declared. “We’ll have to walk to Moira’s house. We met her yesterday at the graveyard.” She turned back to Renie. “Put the hamster in his cage, coz. Let’s go.”

Barry, however, proved reluctant. “We shouldn’t, truly,” he insisted. “Mrs. Gibbs must be all weepy and sad.”

“Then we’ll console her,” Judith said, getting out of the car.

The door fell off.

“Oh no!” she cried. “I’m so sorry!”

“Never mind. It does it all the time,” Barry assured her. “I can tie you in with the emergency brake rope on the way back. I don’t know what I’d do without that rope. Really handy, it is.”

Judith and Barry walked up the road. Renie trailed, having taken the time to restore The Bruce to his little wire home. Turning in at the stone marker, which bore the engraved name hollywood house, Judith noticed that the iron gates were shut. She could see a Georgian house with a circular drive where a red BMW sports car was parked.

She could also hear laughter.

It didn’t sound to Judith as if Moira Gibbs was mourning her late husband.