Scots on the Rocks

13

Moira!” Beth cried. “Why would anyone want to kill you? Or Harry, for that matter?”

“Don’t be naïve,” Moira retorted. “You know about the power struggle at Blackwell, especially now that Morton’s come back.” She looked again at Judith. “I’m sorry. You’re a stranger, so you have no idea what’s been happening. But it’s hardly a secret. We’ve had the media in the UK give us a great deal of negative coverage.”

Beth was nodding. “Will complains about how ugly it’s gotten. His own position is precarious. The press has hounded him mercilessly about the company’s financial status. He won’t discuss it, of course. After all, it’s a privately held company.”

Judith looked apologetic. “I’m ignorant of big business. I was a librarian before I started my B&B.”

Moira grimaced. “I wish I’d never inherited Blackwell.”

Beth sat down on a tufted satin-covered chair. “You don’t mean that. Neither you nor your mum wanted Jimmy in charge.”

Moira’s color began to rise. “We certainly didn’t want Morton. Why didn’t he stay in Greece? Why did he come back now?”

“That,” Beth said, “is a good question. When did he get here?”

Judith felt like an interloper. She edged toward a divan a few feet from the bed and sat down. It seemed that the two women had forgotten she was in the room.

Beth, however, appeared to have read Judith’s mind. “Oh, Mrs. Flynn, this must be so tiresome for you. Let’s get Moira up and take her out into the garden. We can have some tea or a cool drink.” She shot her friend a sharp look. “What have you eaten today?”

“Nothing,” Moira replied. “I couldn’t possibly keep anything down. I’m very queasy.”

“Nonsense!” Beth snapped. “You can eat toast. Or porridge. I’ll have Elise fetch you something. Come, you must get dressed.”

But Moira was adamant. “No. I’ll try to drink some tea.”

Beth looked disgusted. “Frankly, you…” She clamped her lips shut. “I’ll speak to Elise.”

Beth left the boudoir. Judith had been studying Moira. Except for her pale, porcelain-like skin and the dark shadows under her eyes, the newly made widow didn’t have the appearance of someone in misery. Certainly she’d been in good health and satisfactory spirits the previous day.

Judith dared to risk a question: “Are you taking medication?”

“A liquid digestive aid,” Moira answered. “Aspirin for headache.”

“No prescription drugs?”

“No.” Moira frowned. “Dr. Carmichael is strict about prescribing them. He’s very old-fashioned. He wouldn’t renew my tranquilizers.” She began plucking at the sheets again. “What’s taking Beth so long?”

“Maybe she couldn’t find Elise,” Judith suggested.

“Elise wouldn’t leave her post in the sitting room. I might need her at any moment.” Moira gave a start. “I hear voices. Who is it?”

Judith listened but couldn’t hear anything.

“They’re outside,” Moira said. “Look out the window. But don’t part the drapes and don’t open the casement.”

“I don’t have X-ray vision,” Judith said, getting up and crossing the room to the two tall windows. “You should’ve hired Superman.”

“Ohhh…” Moira wadded up the sheet in her fists. “Just see what’s happening. I can’t endure a disturbance.”

Judith peeked between the drapes. The boudoir opened onto a balcony overlooking the front of the house. She slipped through the door between the two windows. Directly below she saw a parked car that hadn’t been there earlier. A male and a female voice sounded as if they were arguing. A moment later, Jimmy moved into Judith’s line of sight.

“Just tell her I’ll be back when I’m able,” he said impatiently.

“She needs you,” the female voice called. “Don’t be so selfish!”

Judith saw Beth step out into the drive. Jimmy kept going, long strides taking him to the car that was parked behind the Daimler. Without looking back, he got in and started the engine. Beth ran up the stairs and disappeared under the overhang.

“Your brother is going away,” Judith said, closing the balcony door.

Moira sat up. “What do you mean?”

“Ask Beth.” Judith sat down again. “She tried to stop him.”

“Why was he here again?” Moira’s voice was shrill. “Why didn’t he come to see me? Where’s Beth?”

“Probably bringing your tea,” Judith said.

Moira sank back onto the pillows and covered her eyes with the back of her hand. “Go find her. Get Elise. I’m in pain.”

And I’m in a pickle, Judith thought. She wished Renie had come along. Her cousin would have some sharp words for Moira. It wasn’t in Judith’s nature to be rude, but her patience was wearing thin.

“I have an artificial hip,” Judith said calmly. “It’s not easy for me to go up and down stairs. Don’t you have an intercom or some way you can contact your servants?”

“It doesn’t always work properly,” Moira said in a sulky voice.

“Where is your pain?”

Moira grimaced and rubbed the right side of her abdomen. “Here. Why would anyone want to kill me?”

“Would it have something to do with your petroleum company?”

“People don’t kill people over business issues.” Moira bit her lower lip. “Or do they?”

“It’s been known to happen.”

“Maybe in the States,” Moira said. “Certainly not in Scotland.” She sat up again. “Where is Beth? Where is Elise?”

“I don’t know!” Judith snapped. “What can I do for you that doesn’t require searching all over this very large house?”

“Nothing.” Moira avoided Judith’s gaze. “Why did you come?”

“Beth asked me,” Judith replied. “She knew we’d met.”

Moira slowly turned to look at Judith again. “You told her you were here yesterday?”

“Of course.”

“Did you tell her anything else?”

“Such as how chipper you seemed? No. I tend to be discreet.”

Relief swept over Moira’s face. “Thank you. Harry’s death hadn’t sunk in yet. My emotional responses are often delayed.”

“That happens. I knew you weren’t feeling well enough to attend Mass at the castle,” Judith added innocently.

“I couldn’t face seeing where Harry died,” Moira said. “Or his grandparents. Too, too difficult.”

That was possible, Judith thought, but it didn’t explain Moira’s vivacity with Patrick the previous day. Before Judith could speak, Beth entered the bedroom. She was out of breath and looking annoyed.

“Those press people followed us to Hollywood,” she announced. “They’re trying to climb over the fence.”

“Call the police!” Moira cried. “Those predators must be stopped!”

“The police are on their way,” Beth replied. “That detective phoned a few minutes ago to say that he was coming to interview you again.”

“No!” Moira pressed a hand to her breast. “Send him away!”

“I can’t,” Beth asserted. “Don’t you want to help the police find who killed Harry? And who may have wanted to kill you, too?”

“Why is Jimmy going away?” Moira demanded.

Beth sat on the edge of the bed. “Jimmy’s off to Paris. He didn’t have time to see you because he was afraid he’d miss his flight.”

“Was Angie with him?” Moira asked.

“No,” Beth replied. “You know she’s having a difficult pregnancy.”

“Jimmy’s up to something,” Moira said in disgust. “What can it be? Surely nothing to do with—”

A knock interrupted Moira’s speculations. Beth got up to admit Elise. The maid carried a tray with an array of tea items. Wordlessly, she set the tray on the bedside table and left. Before she could close the door, Fergus announced Alpin MacRae and Malcolm Ogilvie.

MacRae assured Moira that the press would be dispersed. “I apologize for the intrusion,” he said earnestly. “I wouldn’t trouble you if this wasn’t urgent. You must be desperate to have us find your husband’s killer.”

“I’m not,” Moira replied.

MacRae, who had struck Judith as imperturbable, seemed taken aback by Moira’s response. He recovered quickly, however. “That’s a peculiar attitude,” he said mildly. “I’d like to hear your reasons.” He glanced at Judith and Beth. “It will be easier if we speak privately.”

“Mrs. Fordyce must stay,” Moira insisted. “We’re having tea.”

MacRae smiled indulgently. “I’m sure Mrs. Fordyce and…Mrs. Flynn, isn’t it?” he said, looking at Judith and seeing her nod. “The ladies can enjoy their tea in the sitting room and join you later.”

“Then my maid must be present.” Moira looked beseechingly at Beth. “Please. Send Elise in.”

MacRae shook his head. “No, no. This is just a simple chat. Your friends will be outside should you need them. Sergeant Ogilvie and I have no intention of upsetting you.”

“We’ll have tea later,” Beth said, moving to leave. “Relax, Moira.”

Judith followed Beth out of the boudoir. The younger woman went to another door and opened it. “I assume you want to eavesdrop, too,” she said. “This is Moira’s closet. There’s a vent in the wall. We can hear some of the conversation coming from the other side in the boudoir.”

The offer surprised Judith. “I’m a virtual stranger. I’m not sure I should listen in on such a private matter.”

Beth was solemn. “If Marie had come, she’d be in this closet with me. Four ears are better than two. Moira needs any help she can get.”

Judith dismissed her qualms. There was no doubt in her mind that she wanted to eavesdrop. The only thing that would be worse, she told herself, was if she were an interloper who was deaf. She studied the capacious closet, which was almost as big as her bedroom at Hillside Manor. Moira’s extensive wardrobe hung in zippered bags in two long rows. Three chests contained drawers labeled sweaters, shirts, blouses, and tops. There were ten stacks of shoe boxes, plastic containers marked for accessories, and two more chests for lingerie. The faint smell of mothballs mingled with the scent of jasmine.

Beth noticed Judith’s reaction and laughed softly. “These are her transitional winter-to-spring clothes. The rest are in storage, along with most of her furs, and the valuable jewelry is in a bank vault.”

“How can she possibly wear all this?” Judith asked.

Beth shrugged. “Clothes are her security blanket. Love hasn’t worked out nearly as well for her as Armani and Dolce & Gabbana.” She beckoned to Judith. “Come. The vent’s above the end of this rack.”

The first words she heard were spoken by MacRae. “When did you receive this note?”

“Saturday, around noon,” Moira said, though her voice was rather faint. “That is, my husband left it for me then. I wasn’t home. I didn’t get back until much later.”

“Did Mr. Gibbs specify what time he wanted you to meet him at the beach?” MacRae asked.

“Not exactly.” Moira paused. “Please, may I see if my baby’s awake from his nap? Could you summon his governess?”

MacRae’s next words were inaudible. Judith guessed that he had turned away to speak to Ogilvie. “This won’t take long, Mrs. Gibbs,” he said in a louder voice. “Did your husband mention a time frame?”

“Well…that afternoon. Harry loved the beach. He loved to swim. He loved the outdoors. Hunting, fishing, hiking, climbing, all kinds of outdoor activities. Most of them I enjoyed, too. But I was otherwise engaged on Saturday, you see.”

“I gather you hadn’t been living together at the time of his death,” MacRae noted, and paused, apparently waiting for Moira’s response.

“A temporary arrangement,” she replied after a few seconds had passed. “Due to his recent illness. He had very bad flu, and I felt it unwise to risk him contaminating our baby. A virus can be dangerous to a wee one. Are you sure the governess will bring Jamie to me?”

“All in good time,” MacRae assured her. “Are you positive you destroyed the note your husband left for you?”

“Of course. I told you that during our previous interview. Why would I keep it?”

MacRae didn’t answer. “Earlier,” he went on, “you insisted that your husband had no enemies. Yet we’ve learned since that he was not on good terms with several of the other executives at Blackwell, including your own brother.”

“Half brother,” Moira corrected. “His last name is Blackwell only because my father insisted upon it. Jimmy’s mother wasn’t married to my father. Ever.”

Judith heard a door open. “Euphemia,” Moira said, “give the baby to me. My governess, Euphemia Beaton.”

“Your bairn is handsome,” MacRae remarked.

“Yes,” Moira agreed. “You must go now. It’s time for his midday feeding. I prefer giving the bottle to him myself. I’m sure you understand. Thank you, Euphemia.”

Beth pursed her lips. Judith moved to fend off a leg cramp.

“Very well.” MacRae’s voice sounded strained. “We’ll speak again, after the inquest Tuesday.”

“Oh—yes, of course.” Moira sounded vague.

Beth gestured for Judith to move out of the closet. “My God,” Beth said when they reached the sitting room, “what’s going on with Moira?”

“You know her,” Judith said. “I don’t.”

Beth threw up her hands. “I shouldn’t be talking about all this, but I’m terribly upset. Moira can be the most charming, generous, kindest woman on earth, but she has no common sense. She’s doesn’t know how to protect herself from predators. I don’t give bloody all about Harry. That marriage was a disaster. He married her for money and the power he hoped to get through Blackwell Petroleum.”

Judith nodded sympathetically. “Moira has no head for business?”

“She’s intelligent, but she’s young,” Beth said, standing near the door to the boudoir and keeping her voice down. “She likes to party. But she also likes being the nominal head of Blackwell. In time, she could—”

The door opened and the two policemen entered the sitting room.

“Mrs. Gibbs is feeding her baby,” MacRae said, and looked questioningly at Beth. “She and the governess need quiet time.”

“I’ll wait here,” Beth said, looking slightly truculent.

“Certainly.” MacRae started across the room but turned around. “Mrs. Flynn, may I speak to you for a moment in the hall?”

Surprised, Judith left with MacRae and Ogilvie. “I realize,” she said when they were in the hallway, “that I’m a stranger, but—”

MacRae held up a hand. “No need for explanations. Do you have your passport with you?”

Judith felt alarmed. “I left it at Grimloch. I can get it if you—”

“No need. The question was a ruse.” MacRae moved a few steps away from Moira’s suite but spoke softly. “You know that in this era of terrorism the authorities do background checks on foreign visitors.”

“Of course,” Judith said, her apprehension mounting.

“Thus,” MacRae continued, “we learned who you really are.”

Judith’s eyes widened. “You did?”

MacRae smiled. “Indeed. Even though you appear to be on vacation, we’d appreciate any help you can give us. This case may have international implications, as I’m sure you realize.”

“Oh. Yes. Oil.” Judith nodded several times.

“Meanwhile,” MacRae said, “just be the keen observer that’s made your reputation. Your people skills are, we understand, outstanding.”

“Thank you,” Judith said, relieved. “I had no idea how thorough these background checks could be.”

MacRae chuckled and winked. “Perfect. The American Innocent Abroad.” He saluted Judith and turned toward the central staircase.

Judith watched him start down the curving stairs with Ogilvie bringing up the rear. But MacRae stopped after a few steps and reached for his cell phone. He listened for at least a full minute. Judith saw him say something into the phone and signal to her. He rang off, spoke to Ogilvie, and came back up the stairs.

“That was the autopsy report,” MacRae said barely above a whisper. “The findings won’t be released until the inquest. Harry Gibbs was smothered, probably while unconscious. There was no sign of a struggle, you see, but cocaine was found in his system along with a large quantity of alcohol. He’d probably passed out before his killer arrived. You must act surprised when you hear the official pronouncement,” the detective added solemnly. “The inquest is at ten Tuesday in the Women’s Institute.” He saluted Judith and went down the stairs.

Judith remained in the hallway until the policemen disappeared. Apparently the security agents had checked her out on the Internet and discovered the FATSO site created by admirers of her crime solving. The acronym was actually FASTO, for Female Amateur Sleuth Tracking Offenders, but had been corrupted into the less flattering nickname, presumably because it was easier to remember.

Just as Judith was going back into Moira’s suite, she saw Elise come out of a room farther down the hall. The maid was scowling and wagging a bony finger.

“You must not go in,” Elise said with her slight French accent. “Madame needs rest. Mrs. Fordyce must also leave. I shall tell her now.”

“But I left my purse in the sitting room,” Judith protested.

“I shall retrieve it.” Elise’s dark eyes hardened. Her close-cropped black hair looked dyed and her eyebrows were haphazardly penciled in. “You think I am a thief?”

“Certainly not,” Judith said. “I must say goodbye to Mrs. Gibbs.”

“Non,” Elise declared, shaking her head. “I shall tell her for you.”

“Fine,” Judith snapped. She remained in the hall, looking over the balcony above the spacious entry area with its double circular staircases, graceful columns, and Greek statuary. All seemed calm and quiet. That was, Judith thought, deceptive. Hollywood was not a peaceful house. She sensed unhappiness, perhaps handed down through generations.

The silence was broken by the sound of a slamming door. An angry Beth Fordyce was marching out of Moira’s suite. “The nerve!” she exclaimed. “Elise ordered me out! And Moira just lay there with the baby and didn’t say a word! Where’s her pluck?”

“I got the heave-ho, too,” Judith said. “But you’re an old friend.”

“I thought I was,” Beth muttered. “Oh—here’s your handbag. Elise practically threw it at me. We might as well go see Mummy.”

“Thanks,” Judith said, juggling the purse, which seemed unusually heavy. Or maybe she was unusually tired. The vacation had become more stressful than restful.

Judith and Beth got only halfway downstairs when they heard a commotion coming from outside of the house.

“The press?” Judith suggested. “I thought the police were going to make them go away.”

Beth stopped with her hand on the gilded balustrade. “It sounds like Morton and…Patrick?”

Fergus was moving across the entry hall at a faster pace than usual. He stopped at the door, his ear pressed against the wood.

Beth continued downstairs; Judith followed.

“What’s going on out there?” Beth demanded.

Fergus looked down his long nose at Beth. “A dispute, I believe, possibly involving violence.”

“Oh, for—!” Pushing Fergus aside, Beth dashed to the door. The startled butler kept his balance by grasping the legs of a marble Artemis.

As Beth opened the door, Judith drew closer. To her astonishment, she saw Patrick Cameron take a swing at Jocko Morton, knocking the heavyset man onto the steps. Seumas Bell jumped on Patrick’s back, trying to restrain him. Morton squealed like a pig when Patrick landed a second and third blow.

“Stop!” Beth screamed. “You’ll kill each other!”

Her words went unheeded. All three men were rolling around on the gravel drive. Beth shouted at Fergus, “Get a gun! Now!”

“Which gun, madam?”

“One that’s loaded, you cretin! Hurry!”

Judith stood in the doorway, watching in horror as Seumas Bell broke free from the writhing pile and yanked a heavy urn off of a pedestal. He was about to bring it down on Patrick’s skull when Judith used all her might to throw her purse at him. By a stroke of luck it hit Seumas in the temple, momentarily stunning him. He reeled slightly and looked to see where the missile had come from.

“Who are you?” he asked, blinking several times.

“I’m a peacemaker!” Judith shouted as Patrick jumped up from an apparently unconscious Jocko and decked Seumas, who dropped the urn before falling backwards into the driveway. The urn smashed, strewing chards of concrete and soil onto Jocko’s elevator shoes.

Fergus appeared on the porch holding what looked to Judith like a blunderbuss. “Will this do?” he asked Beth.

“Oh, good Lord!” Beth cried. “There must two dozen guns in this house and you bring me a freaking musket? Did you call the police?”

“No coppers!” Patrick looked defiant as he smoothed his dark red hair and rubbed his knuckles. “These two are out of it. I’m going to see Moira.” He jumped over Jocko and took the stairs two at a time.

Seumas was coming to, moaning and rolling around in the driveway, getting gravel all over his dark pinstripe suit. Jocko had opened his eyes, but was staring straight up into the noonday sun.

“Turn out that bloody light,” he mumbled. “Pull the curtains. Douse the glim.”

For the first time, Judith noticed the red BMW sports car she’d seen on her previous visit. Directly behind it was Jocko Morton’s Jaguar sedan. She guessed that Jocko and Seumas had followed Patrick to Hollywood House.

“I think,” Beth said calmly, “that you should both leave. I presume at least one of you is able to drive.”

“No,” Morton said, poking at various body parts. “I’m injured.”

“I’ll drive,” Seumas said, standing up and brushing the gravel from his suit. “But Patrick hasn’t heard the last of this.”

“I hope I have,” Beth said sternly. “Don’t you dare get me or Philip mixed up in your squalid affairs.”

“Our squalid affairs?” Seumas was indignant. “I’m an attorney, and a highly ethical man.”

“How odd,” Beth said blithely. “How can you possibly be both?”

“You’re on their side,” Seumas sneered. “Don’t pretend that you and Philip haven’t got your own ax to grind. And never try to tell me that the bairn is Harry’s! We all know who sired the little bastard!”

Beth kept her lips closed tightly, but her lively eyes shot arrows at Seumas as he helped get Jocko to his feet. Fergus was still holding the musket, cocking the weapon as the two men staggered to the Jaguar.

“Shall I fire now?” he inquired of Beth.

Beth flipped a thick strand of black hair over her shoulder. “Why not? Shoot over their heads, just to hurry them along.”

The butler fumbled with the musket. “Wait!” Judith cried. She hurried to retrieve her purse, backtracked inside the house, and put her fingers in her ears. Nothing happened.

“I believe it’s jammed,” Fergus said dolefully as Morton flopped inside the Jag.

“It probably has no balls,” Beth said in a disgusted voice. “There seems to be a serious lack of them around here.”

Fergus coughed softly. “Beg pardon, ma’am?”

Beth sighed and turned to Judith. “We may as well go as soon as those two idiots are out of here.”

“Why were they fighting?” Judith asked.

Beth grimaced. “Business? Moira?” She shook her head. “I don’t know. Phil and I’ve been out of the country. Moira and Marie and I email each other when we’re not here, but it’s usually girl talk—mainly about Moira’s baby, which, frankly, gets boring since Marie and I don’t have children yet. Damn, why doesn’t Seamus move that car?”

“Why has Morton been in Greece?” Judith asked.

“His health,” replied Beth. “Or so he claimed. He needed better weather. But Will told Marie that Jocko was healthy as a horse, and his leave of absence was to avoid some business problems.”

Judith recalled the get-together at the cottage by the sea but wondered how much she should reveal. “I got the impression that these Blackwell executives were fairly tight.”

Beth stared at her. “You did? Don’t believe it. The one thing they agreed on lately is that the pup, Harry, was a huge pain in the arse.”

At last Seumas started the Jag and drove out through the open gates at an accelerated speed.

“Maybe,” Beth said, “he’ll get both of them killed.” She put a hand to her mouth. “I shouldn’t say that, not after what happened to Davey.”

Driving away from Hollywood House, Judith posed a question. “Was Davey’s accident around here?”

Beth nodded. “Up ahead there’s a turnoff to the coast road. About a kilometer east is a wicked curve where it happened. Davey liked speed. He had a reckless side, but the official ruling was faulty brakes.”

“Wasn’t it a new car?”

Beth nodded. “A Lamborghini Diablo. Aptly named, it seems. It crashed onto the rocks below, and was horribly mangled. Of course Davey was…” She grimaced. “Moira was too ill to attend the funeral.”

The Daimler sped past the turnoff to St. Fergna. “Did I say that when I met Moira she was putting flowers on his grave?” Judith asked.

“Oh?” Beth smiled faintly. “Moira was very fond of Davey. She relied increasingly on him.”

“For business decisions,” Judith asked, “or…emotionally?”

Beth sighed. “Both, I suppose. Moira and Harry were already having problems. After they married, Harry turned into a completely different person. Marie and I felt as if he’d been putting on an act all the time they were going together. He was incredibly rude to Moira even in public. God only knows how badly he behaved in private. It’s a wonder she didn’t…” Beth stopped speaking as her cheeks turned pink.

“Kill him?” Judith finished for her.

Beth slowed down to take a sharp curve. “You know I don’t mean that literally.”

“Of course not.” But Judith knew from previous experience that the spouse was always the prime suspect when it came to murder.