Scots on the Rocks

16

Chuckie?” Renie said under her breath.

“I don’t know.” Judith was shaking from the shock. “We’ve got to find the cops.” She steadied herself to recover the strength she needed to put one foot in front of the other. Five minutes later they were back in the kitchen, asking Mrs. Gibbs if she knew the whereabouts of the police.

“They went to your rooms,” she replied, sorting pippins as she peered at Judith. “Are ye ill? You’re verra pale.”

“Just…tired,” Judith fibbed. “Thanks.”

The cousins found the constables knocking on the Flynns’ door. Glen and Adamson both removed their regulation caps when they saw Judith and Renie. “We’re here about the theft,” the taller one said.

Judith recalled that he was Adamson. “Never mind that now.” She let the constables in as Renie excused herself to fetch her emergency eye medication. “Please,” Judith emphasized after she stood near the hearth and tried to sound rational, “don’t think I’m fantasizing. But a few minutes ago Mrs. Jones and I went into the storage room and opened the trapdoor to the dungeon.” She paused, taking in the constables’ stoic faces. “I used a flashlight to look at that barrel in the dungeon because it didn’t make sense to have it filled with water.”

Adamson’s cheeks turned slightly pink; Glen frowned, his eyes avoiding Judith. “A leak,” said Glen. “Something spilled from above.”

“That is possible,” she allowed, “but I saw a head in that barrel. You must look. It’s very strange.”

“A human head?” Glen said, looking skeptical.

“So it appears,” Judith replied. “It could be Chuckie.”

The constables exchanged quick, stupefied glances. “We’ll check it out,” Adamson said. “You’d better stay here.”

That was fine with Judith. She had no desire to watch a body being recovered after what must have been a gruesome way to die. “We’ll talk about the theft later,” she said, seeing the constables to the door.

As soon as they were gone, Judith went across the hall to Renie’s room. Her cousin was cussing and struggling with eye patch, gauze, and tape. “I’m out of practice,” she complained. “What did the cops do when you told them they had to go bobbing for heads in a barrel?”

“Only one head, I hope,” Judith said, sinking into an armchair. “For all I know, they think I’m nuts.”

Renie looked in the mirror and realized that the patch was on crooked. “Damn. These things are tricky, but the good news is that the medication is working so that I can see out of my other eye. Sort of.”

“Good.” Judith shifted restlessly in the chair. “I hate the waiting game. If that’s a corpse, Adamson and Glen will bring in their superiors, a medic, and God knows who all. It could be an hour or more before we hear anything.” She stood up. “Let’s go back to the dungeon.”

Renie was aghast. “No! I don’t want to see a pickled person! I wouldn’t take biology in high school or eat pickled pigs’ feet!”

“Then I’ll go by myself,” Judith said, heading for the door.

“Oooh…” Renie tossed the small box containing her eye supplies onto the bureau. “Okay, I’m coming. But I’ll gripe the whole time.”

“You always do,” Judith said resignedly.

By the time the cousins reached the storage room, Adamson had climbed down into the dungeon. Glen, seeing Judith and Renie, held up a hand. “No closer, please. And keep silent.” He bent down again to talk to his fellow officer. “Well?”

“A head,” Adamson confirmed. “And a body—a dead one at that.”

“Chuckie?” Judith said, a hand to her breast.

Adamson didn’t answer right away. “A wee laddie,” he finally said, his voice lower. “Can you identify this Chuckie?”

Judith blanched. “No. Let his father do that.” She leaned against a stack of cartons and prayed. Chuckie had mentioned that sometimes he slept in a barrel. Maybe he’d been joking. But now, Judith thought sadly, a barrel was where he’d gone to sleep for all eternity.

Glen helped Adamson out of the dungeon. Both constables looked embarrassed. “The initial search should’ve been more thorough,” Adamson said, brushing dust and cobwebs from his regulation jacket. “But who’d expect to find a body in a whiskey cask?”

Judith kept from saying that she’d found bodies in stranger places. “It’s…unusual,” she allowed.

“Aye,” Glen said somberly. “I’ll fetch his father. Mr. Fordyce returned a while ago.”

Adamson nodded to his fellow constable. “I’ll stand guard and call the guv.” He turned sad gray eyes on the cousins. “Do you want to go?”

Renie started to open her mouth but Judith beat her to it. “No. Unless regulations prevent us from staying.”

“Nae,” Adamson said, dialing his cell phone. “DCI MacRae told us to consider you part of the investigative team.”

“He did?” Judith asked, surprised. “That is, I know he—”

She shut up when Adamson spoke into the phone, relaying the message as tersely as possible. Clicking off, he turned to the cousins. “He’ll be here as soon as he can get a police launch. The tide’s in.” He cleared his throat. “Ah…what do you think happened here, Mrs. Flynn?”

Judith found the constable’s deferential manner unusual. Maybe, she thought, the police in the UK were different from the tight-lipped Americans she knew so well. “I don’t think it was an accident. I’m afraid that Chuckie bragged about the knowledge he had—or thought he had—concerning who killed Harry Gibbs. That leads me to conclude that the murderer of Harry and Chuckie is the same person.”

“Very logical,” Adamson murmured. “Incredible.”

“Her middle name,” Renie remarked, fiddling with her eye patch.

“Logical?” Adamson said, impressed.

“No,” Renie responded. “Incredible.”

Judith shot her cousin a dirty look.

“I’m going,” Renie said. “That Scotch smell makes me queasy.”

“Coz!” Judith began, but after a false start bumping into the doorjamb, Renie was on her way.

“Sensitive,” Adamson remarked.

“Not even close,” Judith said irritably.

A moment later, Glen returned with Philip Fordyce. The whiskey magnate’s usual savoir faire was obviously shaken. He was out of breath and his graying brown hair was unkempt.

“Unbelievable,” he said in a hoarse voice. “My God! Not Chuckie!”

Judith discreetly moved as far away from the trapdoor as she could. Adamson descended once more, apparently to position the body for Philip’s viewing. A wrenching groan was the only sound Philip made when he saw his dead son. For a long moment the bereaved father stood like a statue, staring off into the afternoon’s dying light. As Adamson climbed out of the dungeon, Beth Fordyce rushed into the storage room.

“Phil!” she cried. “Phil! Is it true? Gibbs just told me…” She threw her arms around her husband. “Oh no! I can’t look!”

“Don’t,” Philip said quietly. He squared his shoulders, and with Beth still clinging to him, he walked away without another word.

Judith waited to make sure the Fordyces were out of hearing range. “Can you tell how Chuckie died? Was there any sign of trauma?”

Adamson shook his head. “Not that I could see. But even with a torch, I couldn’t find anything suspicious. And I didn’t dare remove the body all the way out of the barrel.”

Judith nodded. “I understand.” She sniffed at the Scotch-tainted air. “There’s another, sweeter odor as well. I’ve been trying to figure it out.” She paused, recalling her nights tending bar at the Meat & Mingle. “Ah!” she exclaimed softly. “I know what it is. It smells like a Rob Roy.”

Realizing it might be some time before MacRae and his forensics crew arrived, Judith went in search of Renie. She knew she wouldn’t have far to look. Renie was in the kitchen, eating bread and cheese.

“Just a snack to tide me over,” Renie said.

“Bring it to my room. Glen’s going to check out our…mishap,” she amended to spare Mrs. Gibbs’s feelings. Theft never sat well with an innkeeper. Murder, of course, was worse, as Judith well knew.

“I gathered you didn’t tell Mrs. Gibbs about Chuckie,” Judith said as they took the elevator to the guest floor.

“I leave that up to the cops,” Renie said. “Besides, she might not have given me any food if I’d mentioned it.”

Five minutes later, Glen arrived in Judith’s room, still looking shaken. “Could Chuckie have had an accident?” he asked optimistically.

Judith shook her head. “Chuckie might have been upset over Harry Gibbs’s death. Granted, his emotional state was fragile. He was epileptic and might have had a seizure, but that’s a stretch.” She pointed to the bureau. “I put the jewel case in the top drawer.”

Glen looked inside. “How long did you have it here?” he asked, putting on a pair of latex gloves.

“No more than an hour,” Judith answered. “We returned to this room a little after two-thirty and left again close to three-thirty.”

“Who,” Glen inquired, “knew you had the box?”

“Nobody,” Judith replied. “Except for whoever put it in my purse, probably at Hollywood House. Has anyone reported it missing?”

“Nae,” the constable said. “Did the case contain jewels?”

“No,” Judith didn’t elaborate about the emails. “The case looked valuable, though.” She turned to Renie, who was sitting cross-legged on the bed, adjusting her eye patch. “Don’t you agree, coz?”

Renie nodded. “It did when I could still see. Old, too, and finely wrought. It was polished, as if it had been someone’s treasure.”

“Mrs. Jones is a graphic designer,” Judith explained. “She has an eye for such things.”

“Only one, it seems.” Glen sounded dubious. “You’re certain you don’t know how the case got into your purse?”

Judith grimaced. “It sounds stupid, but so much has been happening, not just today, but ever since we arrived at Grimloch, that I didn’t check why my purse felt heavy. It’s always overloaded when I travel.”

Glen nodded absently while working his forensic magic on the bureau. “Given the time frame, who do you know was in the castle between two-and three-thirty?”

Judith thought back. It was going on five o’clock, but it seemed as if hours and hours had passed since she’d discovered that the silver case was missing. “Mr. and Mrs. Gibbs, Mrs. Fordyce, and Chuckie.”

“Don’t forget Will Fleming,” Renie added. “We don’t know when Philip Fordyce got back from wherever he’d gone.”

“Mmm,” Glen murmured. “May I take your fingerprints, ladies?”

“Of course,” Judith said. “My husband’s are on file with the U.S. authorities because he’s a retired police detective.”

Glen looked at Renie. “Mrs. Jones?”

She shook her head. “Can’t. Don’t have fingerprints.”

“Beg pardon?” said the constable.

Renie held up her hands. “I have fingers, but no prints. When I was working my way through college I had a civil service job with the city. Everyone had to be fingerprinted, but mine wouldn’t take. My grooves were too shallow. Sorry. I’m a freak of nature.”

“I’m afraid it’s true,” Judith said, “in many ways.” She ignored Renie’s sharp, one-eyed glare. “I’ll vouch for her. I’ve been with her almost the entire time.”

Glen gave Judith a sympathetic look. “We’ll do our best to recover the case.” With a tip of the cap, he departed.

Judith sighed. “I feel just horrible about Chuckie. We should’ve prevented it, but I don’t know how.”

“Coz, you know perfectly well that people do what they want to do,” Renie reminded Judith. “His murder seems to limit the suspects.”

Judith was pacing the room. “Maybe. But we really don’t know who was at the castle today. Somebody could’ve sneaked in. There doesn’t appear to be a security system.”

Renie allowed that was so. “It’s after five. What now?”

Judith considered. “We could find Mr. and Mrs. Gibbs and ask if they know if any other outsiders came to Grimloch.”

Renie shrugged. “Okay. But Mrs. Gibbs was going to do some cleaning in the Fordyce quarters before she started dinner.”

“Then we’ll look for Mr. Gibbs. Go get your coat. He may be outside, though it’s almost five and getting dark.”

Five minutes later, the cousins met in the passageway and started down the winding staircase. At the bottom they saw Gibbs.

“Message for ye,” he said, holding out a slip of paper.

Judith thanked Gibbs and read the brief note before turning to Renie. “We’re wanted by the police.”

This is odd,” Judith said as the cousins hurried across the courtyard. “The message says he’ll meet us and take us into the village to talk about the latest information.”

“Maybe MacRae sent the message before he found out about Chuckie,” Renie pointed out as they got into the lift. “How come you didn’t mention that odd voice we keep hearing to the cops?”

“I’d rather they didn’t think we’re gaga,” Judith replied as the lift creaked its way downward.

A jolt that made the cousins cringe signaled that the cage had hit the ground. It was not only growing dark, but the mist had settled in, shrouding the far shore. As the cousins walked out onto the rocky ground, a strange noise startled them both.

“It’s that bird,” Judith said, peering in every direction. “The great northern diver.” She pointed to an outcropping some ten yards above them on the face of the cliff. The bird let out another eerie cry, then flapped its wings and flew off into the mist.

“Creepy,” Renie whispered. “The voice of death?”

Judith shivered. “It seems like it. First Harry, then Chuckie. They both hated that bird.”

Shaken into silence, the cousins waited for a few minutes before Judith saw a running light and heard the sound of a motor moving toward them. “Here comes MacRae now,” she said. “The storm has passed.”

“But there’s not much visibility,” Renie remarked. “Or is that because I’m half blind?”

“Both,” Judith replied as the motor went into neutral and the craft floated toward the shore.

“Hop in,” said a voice out of the mist.

Judith and Renie helped each other into the runabout. “Thanks, Inspector.” Judith settled onto the cushioned sheet. “I can’t see you very well in this fog.”

There was no immediate reply. Judith waited, hearing the waves slap softly against the boat. The motor purred as they began to move out into the channel. “The inspector couldn’t make it,” the man finally said. “I’m filling in for him. The name’s Patrick Cameron. We’ve not been formally introduced.”

Judith exchanged a quick, wary glance with Renie. “You’re not with the police,” Judith said.

“Not officially,” Patrick said. “Hold on. We’re almost ashore.”

“Hold it!” Renie cried. “If you’re not a cop, I’m not a passenger.”

She stood up but Judith grabbed her arm. “Sit. You can’t swim.”

Reluctantly, Renie complied. “I don’t like this,” she murmured.

“Give Patrick a chance to explain,” Judith whispered.

Renie’s expression wasn’t just skeptical; she looked on guard, though she said nothing more. The runabout moved smoothly through the shallow water, its running lights dappling the constant waves.

By the time they got to the small dock several yards down from the beach road, the mist had thinned a bit. Judith finally made out Patrick’s form and the familiar leather jacket. “We’ll have to walk from here to my cottage,” he said. Patrick tied up the boat, which Judith noticed was a twenty-footer with an inboard motor and a fiberglass hull. “Dutch-made,” Patrick remarked as he offered to help Judith onto the narrow dock. “Which one is Flynn and which one is Jones?”

Judith made the introductions and grabbed Patrick’s outstretched hand. “I saw you at Hollywood House,” he said. “Thanks for the help with those two thugs.”

“Oh.” Judith shrugged. “You know Americans—always rooting for the underdog. They aren’t actually thugs, though, are they?”

“That depends.” Patrick grimaced. “The criminal element sometimes wears an old school tie.” He turned to Renie, who hadn’t budged from her seat in the boat. “Aren’t you coming, Mrs. Jones? Or,” he added, gesturing at her eye patch, “are you waiting for the Jolly Roger?”

“Not funny,” Renie shot back. “Do I have a choice? The body count’s rising.”

Judith winced at Renie’s remark. She’d planned to use subterfuge to find out if Patrick knew about Chuckie’s demise. But his rugged features registered curiosity, if not surprise. “Meaning what?” he asked.

“Chuckie Fordyce,” Renie said. “He drowned in a vat of whiskey.”

Patrick swore, loud and long. “Now why would anyone kill a pitiful laddie like Chuckie? It makes no sense.” He made an impatient gesture. “Let’s go. We’ve much to discuss.”

Disdaining any offer of assistance, Renie got out of the boat. Patrick motioned with one hand to indicate their misty route. After about twenty yards of careful walking along the beach, Judith saw the base of the cliff, sloping more gently upward than at the end of the High Street. She also made out the bottom rungs of a wooden stairway, and recalled that Patrick had disappeared in that direction after his encounter with Jimmy.

“Mind your step,” Patrick urged as he went ahead. “Hold the rail.”

Judith followed Patrick; Renie was behind Judith. The stairs looked fairly new, not having yet acquired the worn gray look of ocean-sprayed wood.

“The Hermitage,” Patrick said wryly. “My hideaway. Come inside.”

Judith was still wary, but even more curious. “Thank you,” she said as they entered through the back door. “We noticed this house the other night when we were returning to Grimloch. It looked quite cozy.”

Patrick laughed. “Looks are often deceiving.” He led the cousins through a cluttered, cramped kitchen and into a common room that appeared to serve as both living and dining room. The big solid table was covered with folders, files, and computer printouts. “It lacks a woman’s touch,” Patrick remarked. “I bought this cottage years ago, before I married. Sit—if you can find a place.” He began sweeping newspapers, magazines, and more folders off of the worn sofa and a couple of side chairs. “It’s basically my fishing shack. I love the sea.”

“But you work here,” Judith noted, sitting in one of the side chairs.

Patrick took off his leather jacket and tossed it on the back of the sofa. “Sometimes. Drink?” He’d gone to a cupboard near the dining room table. “Any kind of Scotch you like?”

“Whatever you’ve got,” Judith said.

“I hate Scotch,” Renie replied, making a face.

Patrick looked faintly startled. “Did you tell Phil Fordyce you hated Scotch, so he put out your eye?”

“You ought to see Phil,” Renie retorted. “He’s in a body cast.”

Patrick seemed mildly amused. “Ah. Spunky American females. That’s good.” He moved some bottles around in the cupboard. “Rye?”

“That’s also good,” Renie said. “But don’t add anything lethal.”

“See here,” Patrick said, pausing as he started to pour their drinks into glass tumblers. “If I intended to harm you, I’d have done it already and tossed your spunky American bodies into the sea. I’m looking for information, not trouble.” He finished filling the glasses. “Tell me exactly what happened to Chuckie.”

Judith recounted the discovery in the dungeon while Patrick handed the cousins their drinks and eased his athletic form onto the sofa. “It was ghastly,” Judith concluded. “I was afraid something might happen because he was bragging that he knew who killed Harry Gibbs.”

Patrick frowned and rubbed at the bridge of his nose, which looked as if it had been broken. He also had a small scar under his left eye. Judith wondered if they were remnants from the night Davey had crashed the Lamborghini. “So Chuckie claimed he knew whodunit. Nonsense, probably. Dangerous nonsense, of course.” He shook his head. “Chuckie seldom left Grimloch. I haven’t seen him in a year or so.” With a glint in his hazel eyes, Patrick leaned forward. “And how did you two get involved in this Harry Gibbs mess?”

“An accident,” Judith said innocently. “We’re on vacation with our husbands. They’ve gone fishing with Hugh MacGowan.”

“The MacGowan,” he murmured. “How strange to have him away at a time like this.”

“Strange?” Judith repeated. “This vacation was planned by our husbands. They met MacGowan on a previous fishing trip. My husband’s a retired police detective.”

“Mine’s a nut doc,” Renie said. “He could find several patients around here, maybe even a sociopath or two.”

“Really.” Patrick didn’t look at Renie, but kept his attention on Judith. “MacGowan would’ve made arrangements for time off,” he pointed out. “It’d be known when he’d be away.”

“I see what you mean,” Judith said. “Is MacRae not as capable?”

Patrick shrugged. “Not necessarily. MacGowan knows everybody and everything about this area. He’s very good at what he does. MacRae is an outsider, which is a hindrance. That’s why I’ve taken it upon myself to get to the bottom of Harry’s murder.”

Judith nodded. “In your capacity as security chief at Blackwell?”

“Yes.” Patrick took a quick swig of his whiskey. “I started out with the company working on oil platforms in the North Sea. It was dangerous, if exciting, work. In my off hours I figured out ways to improve employee safety. I caught upper management’s attention and found myself propelled ever upward. I’m in charge of security, which makes me a sort of corporate policeman.”

Judith’s first inclination was to say that it wasn’t wise for amateurs to get involved. Realizing her own hypocrisy, she nodded. “You think you can help with the official inquiry?”

“I know the players far better than MacRae—or even MacGowan,” Patrick said with conviction. He leaned forward, a glint in his eyes and a faint smile on his lips. “So tell me—where’s the jewel case?”

Judith was taken aback. “What jewel case?” she asked.

Patrick chuckled. “You know. The one in your purse.”

“Stolen,” Judith said. “The theft has been reported to the police.”

Patrick swore softly. He took another gulp of whiskey and recovered his composure. “Do the police know what was in the case?”

“No,” Judith said.

Patrick’s shoulders sagged in relief. “Did you read the contents?”

Judith felt the tension build inside as her hold on the cocktail glass tightened. “Yes.”

“Love stuff,” Renie said.

“Fake,” Patrick said.

“Fake?” Judith repeated.

He nodded. “Will told me about them. Contrived to make it sound as if Moira was having an affair, probably with me. It’s an obvious attempt to implicate her in Harry’s death by providing the motive of a lover.” He chuckled and shrugged.

“Do you know who got hold of the original emails in the first place?” Judith inquired.

“Will,” Patrick replied. “He didn’t know what to do with the bloody fabrications, so he brought them for Beth to read.”

Judith nodded. “All I know,” she said, “is that I ended up with the case in my purse and then it was swiped from my room. Who’d take it?”

“I don’t know,” Patrick admitted, getting up and going to the front window. “It’s all bosh anyway.” He stopped speaking and peered outside. A full minute passed while Judith tried to get comfortable in the too-soft side chair and Renie fidgeted with her unruly hair.

“Are we having company?” Renie asked as Patrick continued to stare through the window.

He didn’t answer, but moved to turn off the lamp by Judith’s chair. The only light came from the kitchen, casting a pale yellow glow as far as the dining room table.

“MacRae isn’t supposed to meet us here, is he?” Judith asked.

Again, Patrick didn’t answer. He walked past the cousins without a word, through the dining area and into the kitchen. Two faint clicks indicated the opening and closing of a door. Judith stared at Renie.

“I bet he left.” Renie jumped up and raced to the kitchen. A knock sounded at the front door. Judith sat very still. Renie came back into the common room. “Patrick’s gone,” she said. “Is somebody outside?”

Judith nodded. “Let’s sit tight.”

The knock sounded more loudly, followed by a masculine voice calling Patrick’s name.

“Who?” Renie whispered.

Judith shook her head. “Someone Patrick’s avoiding.” The pounding made the doorknob rattle. “Maybe we should find out.”

“Weaponry,” Renie said. “I’ll take the fireplace poker, you get a butcher knife.”

“Hold off on the armaments.” Judith moved to the door as the pounding and shouting continued. “Who is it?” she asked loudly.

The pounding stopped.

There was no chain on the door. Judith couldn’t open it enough to see who was there without letting the man inside. She repeated her request for him to identify himself.

“Seumas Bell,” he finally said. “Let me in.”

Judith opened the door. “Hi,” she said cheerfully. “We’re just—”

Seumas brushed past her, glanced at Patrick’s leather jacket on the sofa, and went straight to the kitchen.

Renie had rejected Judith’s advice and was standing on the hearth holding the poker. “He didn’t see me. Are his eyes as bad as mine?”

“It sounds like he’s gone into another room,” Judith said. “I assume he’s looking for Patrick.”

Renie took a practice swing with the poker. “Shall I whack him when he comes back in here?”

“No.” Judith found a table lamp and switched it on. “Seumas doesn’t seem interested in us. Maybe we should leave.”

But it was too late. Seumas stormed back into view before the cousins could move. Once again, he paid no attention to them, but continued his search, bending down to look under the dining room table. “Well?” he demanded, straightening up. “Where is he?” His gaze fixed on Judith. “I’ve seen you somewhere. What are you doing here?”

Judith held up her glass. “We’re having a drink. Patrick went out for a bit.” She wasn’t sure why she was protecting their errant host, but having helped defend him in the previous encounter with Seumas Bell and Jocko Morton, Judith decided not to change sides. “Do you have a message for him? We can deliver it when he gets back.”

A phone rang, playing familiar notes from Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony. Seumas reached inside his hooded jacket. “The Eagle has flown,” he said after a moment or two had passed. “The Jackal is trapped.” A longer pause followed. “The Leopard? Very well.” He clicked the phone off and put it back inside his jacket. “If I were you,” he said to the cousins in a low, menacing tone, “I’d get as far away as possible before you get hurt.” He looked more closely at Judith. “Yes…Hollywood House. Now I remember. Stop meddling! You don’t understand the danger!” He turned on his heel and ran out the front door without bothering to close it behind him.

Renie set the poker aside, shut the door, and turned the key in the lock. “Does Seumas think you’re Patrick’s accomplice from the USA?”

Judith shrugged. “I don’t know. He’s certainly trying to scare us. I wonder how he thinks we’re involved.” Her gaze ranged over the folders, files, and printouts that littered the common room. “If we snooped, I have a feeling we wouldn’t find any incriminating evidence. Patrick’s too sharp to be careless. Blackwell’s big dogs were here last night. I doubt that Patrick’s coming back soon, so let’s go.” She unlocked the door and peered outside. “The coast is clear.”

The salt air felt invigorating as they stepped along the narrow garden path. Patrick’s cottage looked cozy, but Judith sensed its isolation from the rest of the village as it faced the sea. Maybe, she thought, that was where Patrick felt most at home—aboard a ship or on an oil rig or in his little runabout.

The cousins remained cautious as they walked from The Hermitage and onto the High Street. From somewhere, a bell sounded six o’clock.

“Now what?” Renie said as they stood in front of the confectioner’s shop that had closed for the day.

“I’m not sure,” Judith admitted as her gaze scoured the High Street where the mist was drifting past the lampposts and shop fronts. Two cars went by, driving at a leisurely speed. A white cat crept out from behind a mailbox and disappeared in the scant space between the butcher’s and the post office.

“So quiet,” Judith remarked. “Who’d think there’s a murderer on the loose around here?”

“Who’d think the life expectancy in St. Fergna is about thirty?”

Judith looked up as she heard a crow cawing nearby. The bird sat on top of the High Street clock some twenty yards away. “You mean like Moira’s husbands, Frankie and Harry, along with Chuckie and Philip’s first wife, Bella?”

“Right. Not to mention,” Renie went on, “that Italian guy, Davey, who drove over the cliff. Was that an accident?”

“I’ve wondered, too,” Judith said. “Moira seems to attract men who die before their time. Even Chuckie had a crush on her.”

“Bad track record,” Renie murmured. “Two husbands, one would-be suitor, and a personal assistant. Patrick should move to Australia.”

“He’s already married,” Judith pointed out, starting to walk up the High Street. “I wish…I wish we had more resources. I’m at a loss.”

“How about a pub?” Renie suggested. “Drinkers always talk.”

“Yes, I’d like to be with seemingly harmless humans,” Judith said. “Let’s try the nice pub. We’ve already done Betsy at the Yew and Eye.”

The cousins headed for the alley where the Rood & Mitre was located. The white cat zipped out from the shadows and ran ahead of them before disappearing into the mist.

The pub’s door was locked. “Odd,” Judith said, peering through the small mullioned window. “The lights are on.” She knocked twice.

After a long pause, the young man with the shaggy magenta hair who had served Judith and Renie on their previous visit opened the door a crack. “Sorry, we’re closed,” he whispered. “Private party.”

Judith peered inside but the pub was empty. “Please,” she begged. “My cousin’s going blind. She needs water for her medicine.”

The young man’s eyes darted around the vacant pub. “Um…”

“Oh my God!” Renie wailed, though she kept her voice down as her hands flailed in Judith’s direction. “The dark! The gloom! I’m lost!”

The lad stepped back in alarm. “Aye, come in, come in. You’re the American ladies from Grimloch.” He moved aside and led them to the bar. “I’ll pour the water. But then you must go.”

“Sit,” Renie murmured, collapsing onto a barstool. “Stay. Woof.”

With a hand that wasn’t quite steady, the lad pushed the water-filled tumbler toward Renie, who was fumbling in her purse. “Weird,” he said softly. “She wasn’t blind yesterday. No patch.”

“It’s a condition that comes and goes,” Judith explained. “It’s brought on by the weather.”

Renie slipped something onto her tongue. She picked up the glass and swallowed. “Ahh!”

Judith, leaning on the bar, smiled at the lad. “Now she’ll be able to use her good eye on a limited basis. Thanks. What’s your name?”

“Ian,” he replied, still looking nervous.

“What kind of party? A wedding? A birthday?” Judith asked.

Ian shook his head.

Judith clasped her hands in front of her and gazed up into the beamed ceiling. “Most mysterious. How about a séance?”

Ian’s jaw dropped. “How’d you know?”

Judith did her best to hide her surprise, while Renie broke out into a choking fit. “I have my ways,” Judith said blithely, whacking Renie on the back several times. “Actually, I’m a medium.”

“Actually, she’s a large,” Renie gasped. “Stop hitting me!”

Ian looked justifiably confused. “You’re here for the séance?”

“Only as an observer,” Judith said, reluctantly taking fifty pounds from her wallet and placing it in front of Ian. “Where should I be?”

“Uh…I’m not sure,” Ian replied, timorously accepting the bribe. “I’ll check.” He disappeared through a hallway at the end of the bar.

Renie had stopped coughing. “You ever try to swallow a breath mint whole?” she demanded of Judith. “That’s why I choked. I wasn’t going to waste a real pill on your latest nutty masquerade. And how did you make that wild guess about a séance?”

“Hypocrite,” Judith chided. “Who played a witch, then claimed to be a seer? As for the séance…” She shrugged. “It just popped into my head. I figured it’s a gathering of Blackwell’s bigwigs. Chuckie’s death may have triggered a reaction, which is why Seumas rushed off after he got that call at Patrick’s. Maybe they use a séance as a cover. I bet Jocko and Seumas and Will are here. Jimmy Blackwell, too.”

“Then Jimmy didn’t leave the country,” Renie remarked.

“Probably not,” Judith said. “The Inverness cops had time to stop him. Remember the animals Seumas mentioned on the phone? The Eagle has flown—Patrick? The Jackal is trapped—Jimmy, stuck in Scotland? I’m not sure who the Leopard is, though.”

Ian reappeared from the back of the pub. “They’re in the office,” he said. “There’s a peephole in the storage room next door. I’ll show you.”

The cousins followed Ian down the hall to the first door on the right. A single bulb dangled from the ceiling. There was just enough room to move single-file between the supplies that lined the walls.

“Here,” Ian whispered, pointing to a small space between cartons of crisps, paper napkins, and glassware. “Sort of a bird’s-eye view.”

“That’ll do,” Judith said. “They mustn’t know I’m observing. It could break the spell.”

“Got it. I’ll leave now.” Ian squeezed past Judith and Renie.

Judith leaned into the peephole area. “Darn. I can’t see much.”

“Who can?” Renie said with a martyred air.

Judith focused on the back of a man’s head. “Seumas, but not Jocko,” she murmured. “No Jimmy, either.” The third man turned slightly. “Will Fleming.”

“Will?” Renie frowned. “Who else?”

Judith wished she had a wider view of the darkened room. “They’re at a table…four of them…Kate and another woman.”

“Who’s the medium?”

“Nobody’s talking. They’re just sitting, holding hands.”

A moment later a woman’s high voice spoke in a slow, drifting sort of tone: “What to do? What was Harry going to do? Answer, Eanruig.”

“Earwig?” said Renie, trying to lean closer to the peephole.

Judith shook her head. “Kate’s late husband.”

“I must know how to act,” Kate begged. “Please, Eanruig, speak!”

A long pause followed, broken by Seumas’s impatient voice. “This isn’t working. May I suggest common sense?”

“No!” Kate snapped. “Eanruig will tell us. He never rushed into business decisions. I insist on more time to reach him!”

“Nonsense!” Seumas snarled.

“Oooh…” The woman whose face Judith couldn’t see was groaning. “Buona notte,” she said in a deep voice. “Who will avenge me?”

Renie stared at Judith. “What? It sounds Italian.”

Judith nodded. “It’s the woman with her head down.”

“No!” Kate cried. “We want no intruder! Eanruig, speak to me!”

A tense silence followed; the unidentified woman rocked back and forth in the chair.

“It’s over!” Seumas shouted. “We’re done here!”

Will Fleming sighed and leaned forward. “Darling! Wake up!”

The woman who seemed to be acting as the medium jerked in her chair and sat up straight. “What? Where am I?”

“It’s Marie Fleming,” Judith said, surprised.

“Bedbug City,” Renie muttered.

Judith kept her eye on the gathering as the lights were turned up and the quartet rose from the table.

“I told you this wouldn’t accomplish anything,” Seumas said to Kate. “It’s all speculation. Harry had no real knowledge of alternative energy or renewable sources. He was showing off.”

Will Fleming turned a stern face to Seumas. “I told you Philip should be here. What can have happened to him?”

“He’s lost his only son,” Kate retorted. “Where’s your pity?”

Judith couldn’t see Seumas’s expression. He merely shrugged and put on his hooded jacket. Marie spoke to Kate, apologizing for her lack of psychic ability.

Kate nodded. “I’m sorry, too, but you’ve had flu. It must affect your contact with the spirit world. All those dreadful germs.”

They started for the door. “Maybe,” Will said, “I should phone Philip to find out why if he—” The door shut behind them.

After their footsteps had gone past the storage room, Judith closed the peephole’s flap. “Whose idea was this?”

“The séance? Or the peephole?”

“I figure the answer is the same for both.” Judith smiled wryly at Renie. “Kate Gunn. But what’s she up to?”

“No good?”

“No doubt.”