by Mary Daheim
“And vice versa,” Renie asserted, looking mulish. “I wouldn’t have bothered if I hadn’t been bored and wanting to help you sleuth.”
“I appreciate it.” Judith moved toward the road and gazed out toward Grimloch. “Here comes Gibbs.”
Renie was looking in the other direction. Judith followed her gaze. Around the corner from the small office was the repair area. Three men were working on two cars. A black Volvo sedan was up on a hoist; a green SUV had its hood raised. Five other vehicles including a gray vintage Morris saloon were parked behind a chain-link fence. Judith assumed the Morris belonged to Gibbs. A Doberman patrolled the area.
Three minutes later, Gibbs arrived, doffed his cap at the cousins, and went into the office. Five minutes passed. Renie was growing impatient. Judith passed the time by watching the mechanics, who appeared to be as diligent as they were good-natured. Although she couldn’t make out the words, she could tell from their manner that they were ribbing each other as they worked.
“What’s taking so long?” Renie demanded. “Does Gibbs have to work off the repair bill?”
“Here he comes,” Judith said as Gibbs and Archie Morton headed for the chained-off area. “I suggest we stand by the road. I don’t want you duking it out with Archie and causing another Ugly American scene.”
Almost another five minutes passed before Gibbs got behind the wheel and drove out through a gate Archie had opened for him. The saloon stopped so the cousins could get in. Gibbs merely grunted a greeting. His lined face still showed the ravages of his grandson’s death.
As they drove down the dirt track, Judith broke the silence. “Is Archie a good mechanic?” she asked.
Gibbs nodded. “The best. He’s kin.”
“My,” Judith remarked, “there are lots of family links here.”
“’Tis a village,” Gibbs pointed out. “Little changes in St. Fergna.”
“I guess not,” Judith said.
“I’ll let you off by the lift,” Gibbs said. “I keep the car in the shed on the beach. But the shed be gone now, blown up wit’ Harry’s car.”
Judith had forgotten about the wooden shed she’d seen on her first morning at Grimloch. She and Renie had been with Harry at the time. She shuddered in spite of herself. “Oh. Yes. We feel so awful about imposing on you and Mrs. Gibbs at such a time.”
“Canna be helped,” Gibbs said, slowing down as they neared the foot of the cliff. “Here ye be.”
Judith and Renie got out and went straight to the lift. The diving birds roamed the shore just where the low tide was lapping at the sands. More clouds were gathering, but the air smelled fresh and salty.
The lift had already been summoned from above. “Someone must be using it,” Judith said, craning her neck to see the cage. “It’s coming.”
The contraption made its usual rattle-rattle-bang noises as it descended. At ground level, Judith saw Chuckie grinning between the bars. He looked not unlike a chimp at the zoo.
“Hallooo!” Chuckie called. “You going up?”
“Yes,” Judith said.
Chuckie shook his head. “Not with me.” Still grinning, he poked the button and the lift began to ascend.
“Hey, twerp!” Renie called. “Come back here!”
The lift rose ten feet and stopped. It started again and went up another six feet. Judith could hear Chuckie laughing. At last, the cage came back to ground level.
“Hallooo!” Chuckie cried again. “Do you know the password?”
“It’s ‘I won’t beat Chuckie to a pulp if he lets us in,’” Renie snapped.
“Close enough,” Chuckie said, no longer grinning. “Hop in.”
“Shouldn’t we wait for Gibbs?” Judith said, stepping into the lift.
Chuckie shook his head. “He always tinkers with that old car of his. Fifty years he’s had it. Must run on witchcraft.” He punched the button to start the lift. “It seems Archie Morton’s a warlock.”
“I heard,” Judith said over the creaking and clattering of cage and cables, “you want to talk to the police.”
“Oh, I do.” Chuckie smiled slyly. “I know a thing or two.”
“You mustn’t tell anyone but the detectives,” Judith cautioned.
Chuckie didn’t respond. His smile faded as he pushed another button. The lift stopped halfway up the cliff.
“Why did you do that?” Renie demanded.
“The view,” Chuckie said. “See the waves? Gentle now, but March winds can churn them up to five times as tall as any mere man. Even a man as tall as Harry. See the sands. Tiny grains, each as wee as a flea. But together they ring the rocks and form the shore. Small things can become gigantic. Don’t you agree?”
“Sure,” Renie said. “I remember my cousin’s first husband.”
“Coz!” Judith shot Renie a dirty look. “Yes, Chuckie, I understand what you’re saying. And the view is impressive. Could we go up now?”
Chuckie didn’t seem to hear her. “Birds, dolphins, shellfish, all teeming with life. All those shipwrecks, flotsam and jetsam,” he murmured. “Then—boom! Harry is flotsam and jetsam, gone forever.”
The wind had suddenly picked up, blowing through the bars of the cage. Judith was getting nervous. “Very sad,” she said quietly. “I really would like to go to my room. My purse is heavy.”
“So’s my shopping bag,” Renie said, jiggling the big sack in which she’d put Judith’s new cape. “Let’s go, before I get really annoyed.”
Chuckie scowled. “Don’t you want to know who killed Harry?”
“As I mentioned,” Judith said, “you mustn’t confide in anyone but the police. You could put yourself at risk.”
Chuckie hooted. “What do you know about murder?”
Judith didn’t feel like telling Chuckie that she knew murder far too well. “If you’re sure who killed Harry, you’ve a moral obligation to tell the police. Why didn’t you speak up yesterday when they were at Grimloch?”
Chuckie started to pout. “I wasn’t ready. I was hiding.”
“Okay,” Judith said reasonably. “Let’s call them when we get inside the castle. If you could help the police, you’d be a real hero.”
Chuckie stared down at his sneakers but said nothing.
The brief silence was broken by a weird yet familiar cry.
Judith looked all around. On a narrow rocky cliff she saw the great northern diver. His white breast puffed out as he uttered that chilling sound from his long, sharp beak.
Chuckie cringed and covered his face with his hands. “I hate that bird! He’ll peck out my eyes!”
“Not if we get the hell out of here,” Renie said, leaning across Chuckie’s bowed back to poke the lift button. “It’d serve you right for stranding us on this damned cliff.”
The cage clattered up to the castle level. Gratefully, Judith made a hasty exit with Renie right behind her. Chuckie remained inside, still bent over and covering his face.
“Come on,” Judith urged, looking down the cliffside to see the bird fly off toward the beach. “You’re safe.”
Slowly, Chuckie stood up and dropped his hands to his sides. “If,” he mumbled as he walked out of the lift, “I’d had some oranges, I could have thrown them at that awful creature. I like most birds. I watch them with my really special binoculars. But not that one. It’s evil.”
Judith walked toward the castle entrance just as a light rain began to fall. “Let’s ask Mrs. Gibbs to make tea,” she called over her shoulder.
“I hate tea,” Chuckie said, kicking at some loose rocks along the edge of the walk. “You won’t listen to me. I’m going to my special place.”
“We’ll listen,” Judith said, stopping short of the guests’ door.
But Chuckie moved away, hands in his pockets, head down.
Judith watched him go past the chapel. “Chuckie’s going to the dungeon,” she said, sounding worried. “I think that’s a really bad idea.”
15
When the cousins reached the gu
est quarters, they went into the Flynns’ room where Renie hung the woolen cape in the wardrobe and Judith put the silver jewel case on the bed.
“Now,” she said, “I’m calling the cops.”
“About those emails?” Renie asked.
“No,” she replied, digging out her cell phone. “About Chuckie. He may or may not know who killed Harry, but if he’s bragging about it, he could be in danger.” A moment later, she was connected to DCI MacRae.
“The wee laddie, eh?” MacRae said thoughtfully. “Is he credible?”
Judith hesitated. “Possibly not,” she admitted, “but something occurred to me when we were in the castle lift. My cousin and I went down to the beach after the explosion. When we returned, the lift was up. It shouldn’t have been since no one else mentioned using it. I wonder if the killer sought refuge in the castle after Harry’s car blew up.”
“Ah! We knew we could count on you to notice even the smallest shard of evidence. So this Chuckie lad may have seen that person?”
“He could have,” Judith said, “or he might have witnessed something on the beach before the murder and the explosion. Which, do you think, came first?”
“It’s difficult to tell,” MacRae replied. “The explosion was probably meant to conceal how Harry Gibbs was murdered. However, something must have gone amiss with the killer’s plan. The body was virtually unmarked, so we conclude that Harry wasn’t in the car when the bomb went off but near a log close to the bank.”
“Interesting,” Judith remarked, glancing at Renie, who was perusing the emails. “I noticed some people farther up the beach earlier. Maybe someone came along and the killer was afraid of being spotted. Have any witnesses been found?”
“No one’s come forward,” MacRae said. “Let’s see—it’s going on three o’clock. Ogilvie and I are just finishing a late lunch in Inverness. If you think Chuckie Fordyce may have some genuine information, we can come out to the castle before the tide comes in.”
“Good,” Judith said. “I really think Chuckie should speak with you, whether he actually knows anything or not. If he’s bragging about his supposed knowledge, he might be courting disaster.”
“Indeed. I’ll see you shortly.” MacRae hung up.
Renie looked up from the emails. “Well?”
Judith related everything that MacRae had told her. “Isn’t it ironic?” she said in conclusion. “Harry was everything a young woman could want in appearance, but totally flawed inside. Chuckie is a physical and emotional wreck in a different way. Which is more tragic?”
“Do I really have to answer a dumb question like that?”
“No.” Judith sighed. “Any luck figuring out those emails?”
“Not without names or Internet addresses attached,” Renie said. “That’s the weird part. Unless,” she continued, rubbing her chin, “one of the parties wanted to save these missives but conceal the source. Do modern lovers go all soggy over emails? I find that odd.”
“It’s the way people communicate,” Judith pointed out. “The handwritten or even typed letter is a rarity today.”
“True,” Renie allowed. “I suppose cave dwellers used to hang on to chunks of rock that their beloveds chiseled romantic notions on, like ‘You’re the hot sauce to my raw rhinoceros meat.’”
“Maybe.” Judith scanned the emails once again. “There’s nothing specific. That is, it’s all about how much these two want to be together and what they must do to make that happen. It’s not exactly a plan to knock off rivals, though I suppose it’s implied.”
Renie looked inquiringly at Judith. “Do we give these to MacRae?”
Judith grimaced. “Not yet. We don’t know how or why they got into my purse. Our priority is Chuckie. The detectives should be here in a few minutes. Let’s go down to the courtyard to meet them.”
“Okay,” Renie said, gathering up the emails and putting them back in the silver case. “By the way, didn’t we have husbands when we arrived in Scotland? I seem to recall being with a couple of people who had deeper voices than we do.”
Judith frowned. “I suppose they’re so caught up in fishing they forgot we were here. Maybe it’s just as well. I’m not sure I want Joe to find out we’re involved in another murder.”
“Wouldn’t Hugh MacGowan have been informed by now?”
“Maybe not if he’s on vacation. Let’s go.” Judith went to the door. “I wonder what MacRae and Ogilvie have been doing in Inverness besides eating lunch?”
“Checking out Blackwell’s headquarters?” Renie suggested.
“Possibly.” Judith moved carefully down the winding staircase. As she reached the bottom, she heard voices. “MacRae here already?” she said over her shoulder to Renie.
But it was Will Fleming, talking to Mrs. Gibbs. “So where is Philip?” he asked. “His car’s gone.”
“The Master’s wife brought it back an hour or so ago,” Mrs. Gibbs replied. “He went rushing out not long after.”
“You don’t know where?” Will inquired in his smooth, soft voice.
“Nae,” Mrs. Gibbs insisted with a resolute shake of her head.
Will saw the cousins and smiled faintly. “Good afternoon, ladies. Have you seen Mrs. Fordyce in the past half hour or so?”
“No,” Judith replied. “Beth dropped us off a little after twelve.”
Mrs. Gibbs started to walk away. “I told ye,” she murmured, “Master’s lady likes to walk the beach, rain or shine.” She kept going.
“Is there a problem?” Judith asked.
Will sighed. “There’s very little going on that isn’t a problem. The past few days have been chaos.”
“How’s Marie feeling?” Judith inquired. “Beth told us she was ill.”
“Flu,” Will replied. “The current strain lasts forty-eight hours.”
“Harry’s must have been severe,” Judith remarked.
“Ah…” Will grimaced. “That was different. Moira was worried about the baby catching it. And Harry…well, Harry had complications.”
Before Judith could inquire about the “complications,” Beth came through the door with MacRae and Ogilvie right behind her. “Look who I found…Will?” she said in surprise. “What are you doing here?”
“Marie lost her…scarf. She thought it might be here somewhere. What’s this about?” Will inquired, nodding at the detectives.
“Merely following up,” MacRae said blandly.
Beth studied Will briefly. “You look as if you need a drink,” she said. “Let’s go to the family suite. Phil stashes his special malts there.”
MacRae watched the couple go back out through the guest door. “Very deft,” he said quietly. “For all her youth, the lovely Mrs. Fordyce is an accomplished executive’s wife.”
“She seems levelheaded, too,” Judith said.
MacRae nodded. “Yes. Beth Fordyce is blessed with a variety of gifts, including common sense. Alas, that’s not always the case with beautiful young women. Shall we go into the drawing room?”
Judith hesitated. “You don’t think Beth might know where to find Chuckie? She’s his stepmother and seems to know how to handle him.”
“All in good time,” MacRae said with a wave of the hand, indicating that Judith and Renie should precede him down the drafty passageway.
Judith didn’t budge. “No,” she said, the harshness of her tone surprising her as well as the others. “You have to find him now.”
MacRae’s thick eyebrows lifted in surprise. “Well!” He turned to Ogilvie. “See if Mrs. Fordyce—or Mrs. Gibbs—knows the wee laddie’s whereabouts.”
“He was headed for the dungeon when we saw him,” Judith said.
“I see.” MacRae frowned as Ogilvie nodded and went off on his search. “This Chuckie is an odd one.”
“Yes,” Judith agreed as they walked along the passageway. “He has both physical and emotional problems.”
“Intelligent?” MacRae asked, opening the door for the cousins.
“I think
so,” Judith replied, “in an offbeat kind of way.”
“Cunning is more like it,” Renie put in, sitting on one of the settees and kicking off her shoes. “Mrs. Gibbs mentioned that Chuckie will someday take over the distillery from his father. That struck us as unlikely.”
MacRae settled into one of the bergère chairs. “Yet Fordyce, I’m told, is a dynast at heart. Keep the business in the family. Still, he’s fairly young, and perhaps hopes for children by his present wife.”
“Speaking of business,” Renie said, wearing what her cousin called her professional boardroom face, “what shape is Blackwell Petroleum in? We heard Jocko Morton went off to Greece to avoid some kind of probe.”
“Yes,” MacRae replied. “An internal audit, I believe, initiated by Will Fleming, the company’s financial officer. Nothing came of it, however, and Morton is back, as you well know.” He looked directly at Judith, who had sat down next to Renie. “I understand there was a rumpus at Hollywood House this morning.”
“I’m afraid so,” Judith said. “Did someone contact the police?”
“An anonymous tip,” MacRae said. “By the time a constable arrived, everything was peaceful. The servants insisted it must be a mistake. Your version would be different, I imagine.”
Judith nodded, and gave her account of the fight between Patrick Cameron and his two adversaries. “That’s another reason I assume all isn’t running smoothly at Blackwell. Although,” she continued, “last night my cousin and I saw Will, Morton, and Bell go into the cottage called The Hermitage.”
MacRae nodded. “That’s what you might call Patrick Cameron’s bachelor pad before he married Jeannie.”
“Not a happy marriage, perhaps?” Judith suggested.
“There are rumors,” MacRae conceded. “Gossip is a natural hobby in villages. I grew up in Edinburgh, so I’m not attuned to these small places where everyone knows everyone else’s business and may be a first cousin once removed as well.”
Judith was puzzled. “Do you mean rumors or connections?”
“Both, actually,” MacRae explained. “Blackwell’s offices are in Inverness, yet several top executives live in or around St. Fergna.”
