by Mary Daheim
“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.”
17
That bunch was in the dark in more ways than one,” Renie remarked as they walked into the pub’s empty serving area. “If some of them didn’t know why Philip Fordyce wasn’t there, they haven’t heard about Chuckie. Now what?”
Judith saw Ian hang up the open sign. “Let’s drink beer.”
“And eat. Hey, Ian!” Renie motioned to the young publican. “Who’s cooking?”
“Me mum,” he said. “She’s in the kitchen.”
Judith joined Renie and Ian. “How often are these séances held?”
Ian scratched his high forehead. “Once a month? Nae—four, five times a year? I’ve only worked at the pub since last summer.”
“Why have the séances here instead of a private home?”
“This was Mr. Gunn’s favorite place,” Ian replied, acknowledging a trio of young men who had just entered the Rood & Mitre. “To drink and eat, that is. Mrs. Gunn thinks his spirit is close by.” He uttered a short laugh. “People act odd sometimes, don’t they?”
“True,” Judith agreed. “Did Mrs. Gunn come with her husband?”
Ian cocked his head to one side and grinned impishly. “Never. He came alone.” The lad lowered his voice. “Me mum and dad own this pub. They could tell some tales about the local folk. Me dad said Mr. Gunn jumped from the frying pan into the fire when he’d stop for a pint or two.” Ian winked. “Coming from the lady friend’s, going to the wife.”
Judith nodded. “The lady friend who owned the house where Mrs. Gunn lives now.”
“Aye. Mr. Gunn built it for Mrs. B.P.”
“You mean,” Judith corrected politely, “for Porter-Breze, right?”
Ian ran a hand through his shaggy magenta hair. “Aye, but me mum always calls her Mrs. B.P. because Mr. Gunn gave her a big chunk of Blackwell Petroleum.” A half dozen other customers had entered the pub. “Pardon, I must serve these regulars.”
Judith moved closer to the bar, trying to get a peek at Ian’s mother.
She could see the service counter at the back, but a canvas flap hid the opening to the kitchen.
“If we ate something,” Renie said, sidling up to Judith, “we could offer our compliments to the chef in person.”
“True,” Judith said. “Ian’s mother sounds like a useful source.” She gazed around the pub where four older people were sitting down while Archie Morton came through the front door. “Don’t look now, but your foe in a potential bar fight has arrived.”
“Who?”
“Archie.” Judith moved to a barstool and sat down. “Ignore him and order something when Ian finishes with his other customers.”
Renie bristled. “Wish I could see out of both eyes. Where is he?”
“Coming to the other end of the bar,” Judith replied. “He’s sitting next to a guy in a hat.”
“What guy? What hat?”
Judith took a quick peek at the man who was a dozen barstools away with a couple of younger men in football jerseys sitting between him and the cousins. “Slouched posture, hat pulled down, raincoat collar pulled up. What some might call suspicious.”
“You suspect he’s—?”
Ian pushed the food orders under the canvas flap and started pouring drinks only a few feet away from the cousins. “Yo!” Renie called to him. “How about a couple of dark ales and a menu?”
Ian nodded. “Be right back after I set up these pints.”
Judith discreetly watched Archie talk to the man in the hat. “I think,” she whispered, “the mysterious stranger is Jimmy Blackwell.”
“In semidisguise?” Renie nodded. “That figures. It’s stupid, but it figures. Jimmy’s well known around here. If he doesn’t want to be recognized, he should be dressed as a bottle of Scotch.”
The pub was filling up not only with drinkers but with supper customers. Judith noticed that no one seemed to be paying attention to Archie and the man she thought was Jimmy Blackwell.
“Typical,” Judith remarked sadly. “A terrible murder occurs and causes a big fuss for a short time—then people return to their self-absorption and go on with their lives. It always strikes me as sad.”
“They have to make sure that they’re still alive,” Renie pointed out. “Or else they think death is contagious.”
Ian had come back to the bar where he took the cousins’ orders for salmon, chips, salad, and two glasses of a reddish-hued beverage.
“What is this?” Renie asked after Ian had given them their drinks.
“Dark Island,” Ian replied. “It’s a traditional Orkney ale, from the same brewers who make SkullSplitter. Some say it has a magical flavor.”
“Mmm,” Renie murmured after a sip. “A bit like chocolate malt.”
Judith sampled hers. “Nutty, too.” She made a slight gesture to her right. “Is that Jimmy Blackwell with Archie Morton?”
Ian shook his head. “I don’t think so. Jimmy B never comes here.”
“B for Blackwell?” Judith said.
Ian looked embarrassed. “Nae. For ‘bastard.’ Not his fault, of course, but that’s what folks around here call him behind his back.”
“We heard,” Judith said, “Jimmy hangs out at the Yew and Eye.”
Ian shook his head again. “He doesn’t hang out at any of the pubs. Not much of a drinker or party type.”
“But,” Judith pointed out, “he recently got into a fight with Harry Gibbs at the Yew and Eye.”
“Oh—aye, so he did,” Ian agreed. “But I heard Jimmy B went there not to drink but to…well, have it out with Harry.”
Judith lowered her voice even more as two older men sat down next to the cousins at the bar. “Over how to run Blackwell Petrol?”
Ian shrugged and started to edge toward the newcomers. “I suppose that, and Harry wanting to run the show.” He smiled apologetically before moving on.
“I’m sure that’s Jimmy,” Judith whispered to Renie. “What’s he doing with Archie Morton? And how did Eanruig Gunn get the Blackwell shares for his mistress? The company’s family-owned.”
“Let me see,” Renie muttered, taking a pen out of her purse and sliding a napkin closer. “Phil is currently married to Beth, who is Kate and Earwig’s—I’m calling him that because I can’t pronounce his name—daughter, whose brother Frankie was married to Moira. So maybe Frankie got some Blackwell shares through his marriage.”
“Yes, Eanruig was alive when Moira and Frankie married.” Judith tried to peer around the bar customers but the pub was filling up. Her view of Archie and the alleged Jimmy was blocked. “Dang. I can’t see.”
“Stop,” Renie snapped. “You’re not making me feel any better.”
“They’re really busy,” Judith said. “Ian’s mom might need help.”
“Oh God!” Renie held her head.
Undeterred, Judith slipped off the barstool and went to find the kitchen door. It was just to the right off of the bar; she’d passed it when they’d gone to the storage room.
Ian’s mother was surprisingly young, an auburn-haired woman of forty with freckles and a plump prettiness. “What’s this?” she demanded, flipping hamburger patties on a smoking grill. “A complaint?”
“No,” Judith replied, wearing her most ingratiating smile. “I came to help you. Your son says you’re overworked.”
Ian’s mother looked up from the grill. “He did, did he? I don’t believe it! Kids these days!” She smacked one of the patties with the spatula. “Go away. The rules forbid customers in the kitchen.”
“I’m an innkeeper, a cook, and a bartender,” Judith said. “My first husband and I owned a restaurant, and now I have a B&B. I’ve had decades of experience and I’ve got dish towels older than you are.”
The woman laughed. “That’s good, I like it. Make salads. The greens are in that plastic bin.” She sighed as she swiftly buttered the buns. “Hard to believe Ian’s so thoughtful. Maybe he’s growing up.”
“Eventually, they do,” Judith said, putting on a pair of latex gloves. “I have a son, too.”
“What’s your name? I’m Grizel. Grizel Callum. Roy—that’s me husband—is down with flu. It’s going round, I hear.”
“I’m Judith Flynn, from the States. My cousin and I are here with our husbands. The men are off fishing.”
“Leaving you to work in my kitchen?” Grizel made a face. “Just like men. Where’s your cousin? Can she cook?”
“Uh…sort of,” Judith replied, slicing lettuce. “But at the moment, she has eye troubles. She’s half blind.”
“Ah.” Grizel wiped perspiration from her forehead. “Ian tells me you have the sight.”
“The sight?” Judith frowned. “I said I was a medium. I lied.”
Grizel looked startled. “You did? Why?”
Judith debated with herself about being candid. Her conscience won. “My husband’s a retired policeman. I’ve gotten involved in some investigations over the years, and discovered I have a certain knack for solving crimes. When Harry Gibbs was killed, I couldn’t help myself. I started trying to figure out who had committed such a terrible crime.”
“Ah.” Grizel’s face softened. “You must have a good heart.”
Judith shrugged modestly. “Sometimes I think it’s an obsession.”
“A good one,” Grizel remarked, putting the burgers on serviceable beige plates. “Salads, please.” She took the mixed greens from Judith and called to her son from under the canvas flap. “Ian! Orders here!”
“You must know the people involved in Harry’s death,” Judith said, slicing a firm tomato. “Is that Jimmy Blackwell at the end of the bar?”
“Jimmy B? I didn’t see him,” Grizel replied. “A brassy blonde’s sitting on the end stool next to that ornery devil Archie. She’s a hairdresser, by the name of Petula.”
“But you know Jimmy B?”
Grizel nodded after scanning the new batch of orders Ian had handed to her. “In the way that everybody knows everybody in a village. Not that he and I would stop for a chat. Jimmy B is far too
grand for the likes of me. And him born on the wrong side of the blanket! Putting on airs, more so than his sister, whose parents were joined in holy wedlock.”
“Moira?”
“Lovely lass to look at,” Grizel declared, “though not having the good sense God gave a goose. Unlucky in love. And silly, if ye ask me. It’s a good thing we live in a village. So few of us, and not dependent on a big company like Blackwell Petrol.” She licked her lips, as if she were savoring the gossip she’d stored inside. “Up to no good, I figure, like all those greedy oil folk. Might as well live in Saudi Arabia.”
“No good?” Judith repeated. “In what way?”
Grizel shrugged. “I’ve no head for business except running our own. But I hear things. Maybe Harry’s doing, maybe Jocko Morton’s. As I said, Moira should never have gotten mixed up with Harry.”
“I understand she fell in love,” Judith remarked.
“She’s always falling in love.” Grizel made a disgusted gesture. “Oh, Harry could turn a lassie’s head, but his own was empty. Come here bragging about how he was the big man at Blackwell Petrol and the rest were past their prime. No wonder Harry and Jimmy B got into it at the Yew and Eye!” She scooped up a handful of sliced potatoes and tossed them into the deep-fry basket with a vengeance. “I wouldn’t put it past Jimmy B to have murdered Harry. But then again, the whole Blackwell lot probably wanted to do the same.”
“You think Harry was killed by one of his business associates?” Judith asked, chopping scallions and beginning to feel the heat from the grill and the deep fryers.
“It wouldn’t surprise me,” Grizel replied. “Of course I know it couldn’t have been Jimmy B even if he’d be my odds-on pick.”
“Jimmy couldn’t have done it?” Judith asked in surprise.
Grizel sighed. “Nae. He was here most of that afternoon.”
“I thought he didn’t drink,” Judith said.
“He’ll take an occasional pint or a wee dram,” Grizel replied, draining grease from a basket of golden-crusted plaice. “On Saturday he came here with his laptop and had a late lunch and a pint and worked for more than three hours. Chatty, too, with some of the regulars, but then I was the only one working that shift and we weren’t so busy.” She dished up four plates of fish and chips, collected more salads from Judith, and called again to Ian. “A lull,” Grizel said, again wiping her forehead. “Ye put in an order, didn’t ye?”
