Scots on the Rocks

by Mary Daheim

  “I believe that, too,” Renie said hastily. “I mean—yes, he is.”

  MacRae smiled slightly. Judith figured he was accustomed to rattling even the most hardened of criminals. Obviously he’d done his homework on the Flynns and the Joneses.

  “I’m afraid,” MacRae said in an appropriately somber voice, “that Harry Gibbs was killed this evening.”

  “We guessed as much,” Judith said quietly. “It’s very sad.”

  “Indeed.” MacRae paused. “We understand you heard the explosion. What time was that?”

  “A little after six,” Judith answered. “I’d taken a nap and woke up just a few minutes before the hour.” She looked at Renie. “You came in a few minutes later.”

  MacRae nodded and glanced at his subordinate. “That agrees with the other reports, eh, Mal?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The DCI gazed at the cousins. “You met Harry Gibbs?”

  “Yes,” Judith said. “Not long after we arrived yesterday. He came into the drawing room while we were having our predinner cocktails. He didn’t talk much—he had a couple of quick drinks and left.”

  “He was friendly?” MacRae’s question invited candor.

  “Friendly?” Renie echoed. “Not really. I thought he looked at us as if we were some kind of virus.”

  MacRae chuckled; Ogilvie’s smile was tense.

  “That was the only time you saw him?” MacRae asked in a tone that indicated he already knew the answer.

  “Mr. Gibbs—his grandfather—had Harry give us a ride into the village,” Judith explained. “He dropped us off and told us he was going on beyond St. Fergna. Later, when we came back to the castle, he was on the beach, swimming in the nude.”

  Again MacRae nodded. “That was a habit of his. No harm in it, really, but rather foolish this time of year. Did you see him after that?”

  “No,” Judith said, “not after he came out of the water and went back to his car. At least I assume that’s what he did, probably to dress.”

  “You didn’t see him drive from the beach?”

  “No.” Judith shook her head. “We returned to Grimloch with Philip and Beth Fordyce, who’d just arrived.”

  “Harry mooned us,” Renie said. “Is that a motive for murder around here?”

  MacRae regarded her curiously. “You think Harry Gibbs was murdered?”

  Renie grimaced and shot Judith a quick glance. “Well…it usually is when my—” She broke into a coughing fit.

  But Judith knew that Renie had already said too much.

  7

  Alpin MacRae didn’t miss a beat. “It’s early days to render an opinion,” he said smoothly, covering Renie’s gaffe. “When an explosion is involved, it’s natural to conclude there was foul play. We prefer to err on the side of caution.”

  “Very wise,” Judith said. “How are Mr. and Mrs. Gibbs doing?”

  “They’re shocked,” MacRae replied, “and grieving. Mrs. Gibbs asked us to tell you that she won’t be serving dinner tonight, but breakfast will be ready by nine tomorrow morning.”

  “Please tell her that’s not necessary,” Judith asserted. “We can manage our own. We won’t burden them at such an awful time.”

  “The Gibbses appear to be practical folk,” MacRae said. “Harry’s parents will be informed, though that may take time. They’re surviving.”

  “Surviving what?” Renie asked.

  MacRae was impassive. “Apparently they enjoy going to exotic locales and living off the land. Mr. Gibbs thought they might be somewhere on the Amazon River.”

  Renie shuddered. “How horrible. My husband refuses to go anywhere that doesn’t have digital cable. Except for fishing, that is.”

  “It seems Harry’s parents are adventurers,” MacRae said.

  Judith couldn’t help but raise a hand, as if she were a student and MacRae the teacher. “Have the Fordyces been notified?”

  “Yes,” the DCI answered. “They were contacted on their cell phone. They’d gone into Inverness for the evening. We expect them back soon.”

  “What about Chuckie?” Renie inquired.

  MacRae looked puzzled. “Chuckie? Who is that?”

  “We understand,” Judith said cautiously, “that he’s Mr. Fordyce’s son. He lives here—at least part of the time—at the castle.”

  “You’ve met the laddie?” MacRae asked.

  “Y-y-yes,” Judith said. “He’s a bit…odd.”

  The detective seemed faintly amused. “And how might that be?”

  Judith frowned. “He seems small for his age. That is, his face looks older than his size would indicate. I doubt that he’s much over five feet tall. His behavior is…unusual.”

  MacRae gazed at Renie. “Has your husband met him?”

  “Briefly,” Renie replied. “Chuckie tends to pop up unexpectedly.”

  MacRae nodded. “Has Dr. Jones made any sort of evaluation?”

  “Yes,” Renie said. “Bill says he’s nuts.”

  Ogilvie had to put a hand over his mouth to keep from laughing, but MacRae merely nodded again. “Not a clinical diagnosis,” he remarked, “but evocative. Unstable, in other words.”

  Renie shrugged. “Probably.”

  “We’ll have to speak with this Chuckie,” MacRae said, more to Ogilvie than to the cousins. “That will be all for now, ladies. Thank you for your cooperation.” The DCI led the way out but paused to turn back to Judith and Renie. “We understand you’ll be staying here for at least a fortnight. If you see or hear anything of interest, please keep us informed.” His expression was somber. “And do be careful.”

  Well,” Judith said after the detective and his sergeant had left, “MacRae certainly knows more about us than we do about him. I wonder if MacGowan filled him in before we ever got here.”

  “You mean MacGowan expected somebody to get killed just because you arrived at Grimloch?”

  Judith was annoyed. “Of course not! I mean, conversation. You know—MacGowan is taking two Americans fishing, and their wives will be staying at the castle—and so on.”

  “Possibly,” Renie said. “What do we do about dinner?”

  “You have a one-track mind,” Judith chided. “I’ll admit I’m getting hungry. The Gibbses may expect us to forage for ourselves. Shall we?”

  “You bet,” Renie said, sliding off of the chest. “Let’s go.”

  Mr. and Mrs. Gibbs were nowhere to be seen in the passageway that led to the ground-floor guest area. “I know how to get into the kitchen through the dining room,” Judith said. “Follow me.”

  “Can’t you walk any faster? I’m practically stepping on your heels. Good thing I’m not wearing shoes.”

  “You know I can’t walk much faster,” Judith replied, hearing her cousin’s feet slap against the stone floor like scattered applause. “It’s been a long day. And why aren’t you wearing shoes?”

  “My feet got wet. I think my shoes are ruined. I left them to dry out on what looks like a heater in our room.”

  The dining room was dark. “We’ll have to feel our way,” Judith said. “I’ve no idea where the light switch is located.” She began groping her way toward the table and chairs. Renie kept a hand on her cousin’s back. “I found a chair,” Judith said. “When we get to the end of the table, we keep going almost straight ahead. There are two doors.” She reached the end of the long table, proceeding more slowly since there was nothing to grasp. “It’s not far,” she reassured her cousin, and touched the wall. “I think the door is a little to the—”

  “Open the window.”

  Judith gave a start. “What?”

  “I didn’t say anything.” Renie moved closer to Judith. “Who’s there?” she called.

  “Open the window.”

  Judith tried to figure out where the voice was coming from. “Except for the window instead of the gate part, that’s what I heard in your room,” she whispered to Renie. “Who is it?”

  “Chuckie?” Renie guessed.

 
; “That’s not how he sounds. Too high-pitched, even for Chuckie.”

  The cousins didn’t budge, standing in silence. But they heard nothing more.

  “Where did that voice come from?” Judith murmured.

  Renie hazarded another guess. “The far end of the room?”

  “The fireplace is there,” Judith said, no longer whispering. “There’s a door, too, as I recall.” She edged along the wall. “Ah! The kitchen.”

  Both the door into the dining room and the baize door into the kitchen were unlocked. The lights were already on in part of the big kitchen. Renie headed straight for the refrigerator. Judith took time to stroll around the area, discovering a pantry, a scullery, and a large cooler stocked with fresh fruit and vegetables. She took out a head of lettuce, a tomato, scallions, and a rosy apple.

  “I’ll make a salad,” she volunteered.

  Renie was slicing a big ham. “Hot or cold?” she asked.

  “A sandwich is fine with me,” Judith said. “I’ll find bread.”

  She was looking for the bread box when Beth Fordyce entered the kitchen from a door off of the old scullery.

  “Oh!” Beth exclaimed. “You’re the guests. I wager you’re sorry you ever came to Grimloch.”

  “We’re so sorry about Harry,” Judith said. “Was he a close friend?”

  “No,” Beth replied. “I know Moira. She married my brother.”

  “You mean,” Judith said, “her first husband?”

  Beth removed a bottle of bicarbonate of soda from a cupboard. “Yes, Frankie. He died.” She gave the bottle several hard shakes, careful to keep it away from what looked like a very expensive pleated cream jersey top and putty-colored cropped pants. “I don’t know why Phil doesn’t bring his own medicine when he knows he’s got a bad stomach.”

  “So your maiden name is Gunn?” Judith inquired, recalling the headstone marking Francis Gunn’s grave in the local cemetery.

  Beth nodded. “Poor Moira. She’s had horrid luck with husbands.”

  Judith found the bread. “What caused the explosion that killed Harry?”

  Beth looked at Judith curiously. Her features had the kind of animation that indicated she wasn’t as empty-headed as Renie had guessed. “It wasn’t the explosion that killed him. Who told you that?”

  “Well…we inferred it, I suppose,” Judith said. “We heard the big bang. The police were here and they didn’t say otherwise.”

  “The police are still here,” Beth said, making a face. “Why do you think Phil’s stomach is upset?” She shook her head and departed the same way she’d come into the kitchen.

  Renie was gazing at Judith. “So how did Harry die?”

  “That’s what I’d like to know,” Judith said, finding a tub of butter in the cupboard by the bread box. “Maybe he drowned.”

  “So why was his car blown up?”

  “I don’t know.” Judith buttered the bread and started searching for mustard. “He may not have been in the car when the bomb went off. That would make sense. If he’d been…well, literally blown up…nobody at the scene would be sure how he died unless it was the result of the explosion. They might not even know if the remains were Harry’s.”

  Renie had found a bowl for the salad. “I wonder how Moira’s faring on this latest voyage into widowhood. She must feel hexed.”

  “I wonder where she lives,” Judith said. “Not always with Harry, since he seemed to spend time here at the castle.”

  “The rich are different,” Renie pointed out, “as we have discovered. They don’t live conventional lives like the rest of us poor persons.”

  “Maybe Joe can learn more when he and Bill get back tomorrow,” Judith said, cutting up the tomato. “I gather MacGowan hasn’t been called in on the case.”

  Renie had returned to the refrigerator. “I see five kinds of salad dressing. What’s your choice?”

  “Blue cheese?”

  “Okay. Me, too.” Renie brought out a small crock. “This is homemade. See the handwritten label with the fancy letter G?”

  “Very nice. Mrs. Gibbs, I suppose.”

  “Who else?” Renie spooned the thick dressing into the salad bowl. “Do we eat here or in the dining room?”

  “Let’s not do either,” Judith responded. “We don’t know where the dining room lights are and there’s really no place to sit in here. We should check out the drawing room and maybe have an after-dinner drink from the liquor cabinet.”

  Judith and Renie put their meals on a pewter tray and carried them out through the door Beth had used. They found themselves in a small hallway by the indoor elevator. Around the corner was the passageway that led to the drawing room. The lights were on. Someone had recently used the room. Cigar smoke hung in the air.

  “Philip Fordyce?” Judith said as they settled onto a Regency sofa covered in dark green velvet. “I can’t imagine Gibbs sitting around smoking cigars.”

  “Maybe it’s Chuckie,” Renie said. “He’d do just about anything.”

  “I wonder if the police have tracked him down for questioning,” Judith mused. “Want half of this apple?”

  “No, thanks.” Renie took a large bite of sandwich. “AhwunnerufChuggienosowtomakabum.”

  “Chuckie may be the type who’d not only know how to make a bomb, but would enjoy setting it off to hear it go bang,” Judith said, accustomed to hearing Renie talk with her mouth full. “Although he did ask what the noise was, indicating it surprised him.”

  The drawing room door opened. A tired-looking Philip Fordyce entered, appearing surprised to see the cousins. “Pardon,” he said, going to the liquor cabinet. “Did I leave my drink in here?”

  Judith scanned the large room. “I don’t see it. Do you remember where you were sitting?”

  “I wasn’t,” Philip answered tersely. “Never mind. I’ll pour a fresh one.” He went to the cabinet and got out a bottle of Scotch.

  “I understand,” Judith said, “you own the Glengrim distillery. I had some of your whiskey last night. It’s excellent.”

  Philip didn’t look up from the glass he was filling halfway. “Yes.”

  Judith glanced at Renie, who was chomping away at her sandwich. She hoped her cousin would keep her mouth shut about her dislike of Scotch. Philip remained by the liquor cabinet, savoring his drink.

  “How long will you be?” he inquired after a long pause.

  Judith turned to look directly at him. “In here?”

  “Yes.”

  “As long as it takes,” Renie said, fortunately not with her mouth full. “Why? Isn’t this the guest part of the castle?”

  “I’m expecting someone momentarily,” Philip explained.

  “We’re almost—”

  Judith was interrupted by Renie. “Anybody we know?”

  “Doubtful,” Philip replied with a severe look for Renie. “You arrived only yesterday, did you not?”

  “Right, but my coz and I get around. You’d be surprised.” For emphasis, Renie wiggled her eyebrows.

  “If you don’t mind…” Philip began, but at that moment the door opened and a haggard Gibbs showed Mrs. Gunn into the drawing room.

  “A fine mess this is, Philip,” she declared, though her manner seemed almost jubilant. The sparkle in her eyes dimmed when she saw Judith and Renie. “My word! What are they doing here?”

  “Told you so.” Renie chortled and flexed her bare toes.

  “You’re acquainted?” Philip asked Mrs. Gunn, who was eyeing Renie’s unshod feet with disgust.

  “We’ve met,” Mrs. Gunn said through taut lips. “I’d no idea you were offering them hospitality.”

  “It’s rather involved,” Philip said. He raised his voice and addressed the cousins. “Would you mind? Mrs. Gunn and I have private matters to discuss.”

  Judith gathered up the remains of her dinner. “Of course,” she said, wishing for once that she could be as rude as Renie. There was nothing she’d like more than to hear what type of “private matters” Phili
p Fordyce and Mrs. Gunn wanted to talk about. “Is it possible that we could take a small bottle and glasses to our rooms?”

  “Please.” Philip took a backward step, as if he was afraid the cousins might contaminate him.

  “No Scotch for me,” Renie said. “I’d rather drink motor oil.”

  Judith went to the cabinet and got two glasses, a pint of Glengrim Scotch, and an airline-sized bottle of Drambuie. Renie was already out of the room. With her hands full, Judith had trouble closing the door before she joined her cousin in the passageway.

  “You were awful,” Judith declared. “Though I don’t actually blame you. Despite your loathing of Scotch, I got you some Drambuie, which, as you damned well know, has Scotch in it.”

  “The other ingredients disguise the taste,” Renie replied blithely. “Here, let me take your food. I finished mine and left the dirty plate in the drawing room.”

  Judith handed over everything but the Scotch. She and Renie were almost to the stairs when Judith stopped. “I’m going back to take your plate to the kitchen. I’m also going to apologize for your big mouth.”

  Renie sighed. “You’re going to listen at the keyhole. If there is a keyhole. Go ahead. I’ll see you upstairs in your room.”

  Judith didn’t care if a keyhole existed. She hadn’t been able to shut the door tightly because of her burdens. Her only concern was if Philip or Mrs. Gunn had closed it after the cousins’ departure.

  But, no doubt because of what Judith perceived as their sense of urgency, the door remained slightly ajar.

  “Journalists!” Mrs. Gunn was saying in her husky voice. “If that’s all you’re worried about…” The rest of the sentence was lost to Judith.

  “Harry must have died on our property,” Philip said. “I don’t like scandal attached to Glengrim. It’s rotten publicity. Why couldn’t he have stayed at Hollywood?”

  “Because of his flu,” Mrs. Gunn replied impatiently. “Moira didn’t want Harry near the baby. She’s very protective, a natural nurse. Moira was a pillar of strength for my poor Frankie when he became ill.”

  “Come, come, Kate,” Philip said so loudly that Judith figured he must be near the door. “Harry seemed quite recovered when Beth and I arrived this afternoon. He took one of his bare-bum swims.”