Scots on the Rocks

by Mary Daheim

  Scots on the Rocks

  Mary Daheim

  S COTS ON THE R OCKS

  A Bed-and-Breakfast Mystery

  Mary Daheim

  Contents

  1

  Judith McMonigle Flynn put a fifty-dollar bill on the table,…

  2

  The rest of the week passed quickly, but that following…

  3

  Good Lord!” Judith gasped. “It’s real? It’s not a mirage?”…

  4

  It wasn’t surprising that Renie wasn’t on hand when Judith…

  5

  As Judith and Renie finished a lunch of smoked salmon…

  6

  The fire was burning brighter. Judith and Renie were transfixed.

  7

  Alpin MacRae didn’t miss a beat. “It’s early days to…

  8

  The rest of the evening proved uneventful. Renie retreated to…

  9

  Moira Gibbs and the man named Patrick were holding hands…

  10

  Barry borrowed Judith’s cell and called his father to rescue…

  11

  Mrs. Gibbs looked as if she’d aged ten years in eight…

  12

  To her surprise, Judith slept soundly that night. Despite being…

  13

  Moira!” Beth cried. “Why would anyone want to kill you?…

  14

  The house Kate Gunn had confiscated from her late husband’s…

  15

  When the cousins reached the guest quarters, they went into…

  16

  Chuckie?” Renie said under her breath. “I don’t know.” Judith…

  17

  That bunch was in the dark in more ways than…

  18

  Jimmy Blackwell had disappeared in the vicinity of the dumpster,…

  19

  Moira let out an anguished wail. “No! Not Harry’s parents!…

  20

  What do you mean, ‘missing’?” Renie responded with an anxious…

  21

  Renie looked dubious. “Now you have the sight?” “No,” Judith…

  22

  I really do feel sorry for Moira,” Judith said as…

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Other Books by Mary Daheim

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  1

  Judith McMonigle Flynn put a fifty-dollar bill on the table, glared at her husband, Joe, and said, “I’ll take that bet.”

  “Sucker,” said Joe, the gold flecks dancing in his green eyes. “Since when has your mother ever called me by name? It’ll be ‘Knucklehead’ or ‘Lunkhead’ or ‘Dumbbell’ before she ever refers to me as Joe. We’ve been married almost fourteen years. If you can remember when she ever used my real name, I’ll give you fifty bucks right now.”

  “I can’t. But,” Judith went on, crossing her arms and looking mulish, “Mother’s mellowing. Last night she said your barbecued spareribs were delicious.”

  Joe chuckled. “They came from Nicky Napoli’s rib joint.”

  “Mother didn’t realize that,” Judith countered.

  Joe pocketed his fifty-dollar bill. “Why bet against each other with our own money? Change the stakes. Who gets to choose our next vacation?”

  Judith was still glaring at Joe. “Vacation? What’s a vacation?”

  Joe pulled out a kitchen chair. “Sit. Look,” he said earnestly as Judith reluctantly eased herself into the chair, “I realize you’ve been under a lot of pressure lately. Except for St. Valentine’s Day, February’s always a slow month at the B&B. March won’t be much better, with Easter not until mid-April. Why not take some time off to go somewhere wonderful?”

  Judith grimaced. “My state B&B board review is next week.”

  Joe had sat down at the kitchen table opposite his wife. “It’s Tuesday, right? We’ll have the rest of the month for a getaway.”

  Judith looked glum. “If I feel like it. For all I know, they’ll yank my innkeeper’s license.”

  “Don’t think negative,” Joe admonished. “It’s not your fault you’ve found a few dead bodies in your career. It’s happened to me, too.”

  “You were a cop,” Judith pointed out.

  “True.” Joe looked down at the green-and-white-striped tablecloth. He seemed to be having trouble finding the right words.

  “I’ve never gone out of my way searching for victims,” Judith asserted. “They usually come to me. Furthermore,” she continued, gathering steam, “not that many people have been killed on the premises in the sixteen years since I turned the family home into Hillside Manor. I’d guess that any inn, motel, or hotel would have a similar fatality ratio.”

  “You’ve had your share of bad luck.” Joe didn’t sound convinced.

  “I could use some good luck.” Judith reached across the table. “I’ll take that bet. I want to go somewhere with sun and a beach and rooms fit for royalty. What about you?”

  Joe’s high forehead creased in concentration. “Somewhere I can fish. Fresh-or saltwater. I’ll research possibilities.”

  Judith nodded. “Done.”

  The Flynns shook hands.

  “Done” was probably not a good choice of words for Judith.

  I figured,” Cousin Renie said late Tuesday morning, “you needed cheering up before you get the verdict from the B&B board later this afternoon. I’ve made lunch reservations at Queen Bess’s Tea Shop.”

  “That sounds nice,” Judith said in a small voice.

  “I’m paying.”

  “That’s nice, too.”

  Renie, formally known as Serena Jones, glanced at Judith. “How’s the bet coming?”

  “It’s not,” Judith replied as they crossed the bridge that spanned the city’s ship canal. “Mother hasn’t called Joe anything since we made the bet. She’s so quiet lately. It worries me.”

  Renie turned right off the bridge. “Face it,” she said, “our mothers are old. They can’t live forever.” She frowned as she braked for a five-way stop. “Or can they?”

  “They may outlast us,” Judith responded with a wan smile. “When my artificial hip bothers me, I get so worn out going back and forth to the toolshed with Mother’s meals and medications and whatever else, not to mention my job at the B&B and keeping track of Mike and his family and going up and down, down and up all those stairs in a four-story house—”

  “Tell me about it,” Renie broke in. “At least your mother is on the premises. Mine’s almost a mile away and you know how she phones me six times during my waking hours and expects me to jump whenever she needs a spool of thread or has a twinge in her neck. I average one trip a day to her apartment—and still work as a graphic designer.”

  “You sound as if you need a vacation, too,” Judith noted.

  Heading east, Renie steered the Joneses’ Toyota Camry—affectionately known to its owners as “Cammy”—above the city’s main freeway. “I probably do. January and February are always hectic with annual reports. But once my concepts are ready to be filled with useless, boring copy, things slow down. Did you choose your spot yet?”

  Judith nodded. “Dana Point. Why don’t you two come with us?”

  Renie made a face as she headed past the tree-lined streets north of the University. “I may not be a sun-and-sand person, but Bill, as a native Midwesterner, gets glum when the days are still gloomy. I’ll think on it.”

  “It’d be fun,” Judith asserted as Renie started down a narrow street on a steep hill. “Dana Point has a whale watch during March. The beaches are wonderful and we could go over to Catalina.”

  “It’s still California,” Renie said, and yawned.
“I prefer a swanky mountain resort at Bugler in British Columbia.”

  “At Dana Point, Joe and Bill could charter a boat,” Judith argued as Renie made a quick turn to park on the verge of the cemetery that was located by the tea shop. “The deep-sea fishing there is excellent.”

  Renie parked across from the tea shop on the edge of the Catholic cemetery where both of the cousins’ fathers and several other Grover family members were buried. “We’ll toast them with an Earl Grey,” Renie said. “Let’s eat.”

  The tea shop was busy, but Judith and Renie were seated almost immediately. The cozy comfort lifted Judith’s spirits only a trifle. Her dark eyes scanned the surroundings—flowered draperies, framed photos of English royalty, past and present, sketches of famous castles, stuffed animals, and live doves in a cage by the front window. Dana Point seemed a world away.

  “Tea,” Renie said. “A brisk cup of tea will do you wonders. Stop acting like you’re on a permanent trip to the cemetery.”

  Judith smiled weakly. “Sorry. I’m kind of tired.”

  Renie glanced up at the white-aproned waitress. “A pot of Earl Grey with steak and kidney pie,” she said, closing the menu.

  “Uh…the same,” Judith said, not having studied the selections.

  “Okay,” Renie said, after their server left. “Pay attention, heed my advice. Cheat.”

  Judith was aghast. “Coz! Our parents taught us never to cheat!”

  The waitress returned with a bone china teapot that had a pattern of purple flowers. “Get your mother in on it,” Renie said, pouring tea through an antique strainer. “Cut a deal.”

  “How?”

  Renie stirred cream and sugar into her Royal Worcester cup. “It’s March, baseball spring training. Bet Joe he can’t hit a ball over the Rankerses’ hedge.”

  Judith was puzzled. “So?”

  “Have your mother watch. When he hits the ball—doesn’t matter where—have her cued to say, ‘Good one, Joe.’ For DiMaggio, get it? Aunt Gert can remember that. It’s from her good old days.”

  Judith shook her head. “It sounds complicated. Before I can set it up, she’s bound to call him some awful name. If she does, I lose.”

  “Then act fast. Right after we finish lunch.” Renie paused to sip her tea. “Have you chosen a place to stay at Dana Point?”

  “One of my weekend guests from San Diego suggested the St. Regis Monarch Beach Resort,” Judith replied. “It’s pricey, but worth it.”

  Renie gave a nod. “Maybe we could come along. Bill loves to walk the ocean beaches. Now eat, sip, and relax. Victory’s in the bag.”

  Judith, however, had her doubts.

  An hour and a half later, Renie pulled into the Flynns’ driveway. She insisted on staying until Judith heard from Ingrid Heffelman. “Bring the cordless phone,” Renie said. “Joe’s MG is gone, so he’s not home. Let’s tell your mother about our plan so you can win the bet.”

  Somewhat reluctantly, Judith picked up the receiver and headed out the back door. “I tell you, Mother’s not herself lately. Last Friday night, she wouldn’t even play bridge with those retired schoolteachers.”

  “Yes,” Renie said. “My mom had to get a sub for her—Nora Plebuck, who can’t drive and lives out north. I got stuck picking up my mom, collecting Nora, and taking them home. I felt like a damned taxi.”

  Judith nodded in sympathy. “I figured you’d end up being the patsy. But I couldn’t talk Mother into going.” She tapped once on the door to the converted toolshed, then turned the knob.

  Gertrude was in her chair behind the cluttered card table. The TV was turned off. It struck Judith that the old lady had been sitting and staring. Or perhaps catching one of her many catnaps.

  “Hi,” Judith said cheerily. “Renie’s here.”

  Gertrude’s faded old eyes focused briefly on her niece. “So?”

  “So,” Renie said, kissing her aunt’s cheek, “you should be agog.”

  Gertrude snorted. “I should be a dog? Louder, Serena. I’m deaf.”

  “Never mind,” Renie said. “How do you feel?”

  “With my fingers,” Gertrude said. “When I can bend ’em.”

  “Is that why you didn’t play cards the other night?” Renie inquired.

  Gertrude’s expression was glum. “Maybe.”

  Renie and Judith exchanged anxious glances. Gertrude’s lethargy was upsetting. “Want to come for dinner tomorrow night at our house?”

  “Why? You can’t cook.”

  “I actually can,” Renie said. “Lamb steaks and greenie noodles?”

  Gertrude shook her head.

  “Pot roast?”

  Gertrude again shook her head.

  “Fried chicken?”

  Gertrude didn’t bother to respond.

  “We could play cribbage after dinner,” Renie suggested.

  Gertrude’s head jerked up. “Never!”

  “Oh, come on, Aunt Gert,” Renie said, putting a hand on the old lady’s shoulder. “You know you’ll beat me. I haven’t played crib for so long that I’ll have to relearn the game.”

  Gertrude pulled away from her niece’s touch. She was so upset that her head began to shake and she clamped her lips shut.

  “Mother,” Judith said with concern, “what’s wrong? Are you sick?”

  There was a long pause before Gertrude spoke. “Sick at heart.”

  Judith leaned down closer to her mother. “About what?”

  “I won’t tell you.”

  “Okay,” Renie said, moving away from her aunt. “Don’t. But we’ve got something to tell you.”

  Gertrude’s face brightened. “You’re both getting a divorce?”

  “No, Mother.” Judith sighed. “It has to do with…” She frowned and glanced at Renie. “Maybe we shouldn’t.”

  “Shouldn’t what?” Gertrude demanded, looking more like her usual prickly self.

  Renie gave her cousin a warning look. “Make a bet. Judith against Joe.”

  “I like that part,” Gertrude said.

  “Good,” Renie said. “Here’s the deal and what we want you to do.”

  The old lady listened attentively, but didn’t comment until Renie had finished relating her plan to have Gertrude refer to Joe DiMaggio’s hitting prowess. When she did speak, she sounded confused. “I don’t get it. I always liked Lou Gehrig better. You know his nickname?”

  Renie nodded. “The Iron Horse, because he never missed a game.”

  “Oh, that’s so,” Gertrude agreed. “But he had another nickname—Biscuit Pants. I forget why, but I like it.”

  “Interesting,” Renie remarked. “I didn’t know that. Remember—all you do is say, ‘Way to go, Joe,’ when he hits the ball.”

  “Sounds screwy to me,” Gertrude muttered. “Do I win a prize?”

  Renie nodded. “You don’t have to eat dinner at our house.”

  “Sounds good to me,” Gertrude said.

  The cordless phone rang, making Judith jump. Swiftly, she picked the receiver up from the card table and answered.

  “You got a reprieve,” Ingrid Heffelman announced. “Not that I agree with it.”

  “What do you mean?” Judith asked, moving away from her mother and Renie to hear more clearly.

  “The board deadlocked, with one abstention,” Ingrid said in disgust. “They’ll have to vote again next month. Consider yourself on probation. Meanwhile, if you find another damned corpse, your innkeeping goose is cooked.”

  “I won’t,” Judith asserted. “I promise.”

  What a relief!” Judith exclaimed after the cousins left the toolshed. “I was sure that Ingrid would convince the board that I’m a blight on the profession.”

  “Now you can focus on your vacation,” Renie pointed out.

  “I will,” Judith promised. She looked through the window over the kitchen sink. “Darn. It’s starting to rain. I won’t be able to coax Joe out to the backyard to hit baseballs until tomorrow.”

  “That’s okay,” Re
nie said, picking up her big black handbag from the counter. “It’ll give you time to remind your mother what to say.”

  “True.” Judith followed Renie as she headed for the back door. “I thought you’d mention why we were making the bet—like asking Mother why she hasn’t called Joe by any of her more insulting names lately.”

  Renie shrugged. “I assume that’s part of her recent lack of pep. But she perked up after she heard our plan.”

  “You didn’t specify what the bet was for,” Judith pointed out.

  “Of course not.” Renie slung the handbag over her shoulder and opened the back door. “Then I would’ve had to explain about the usual names she calls Joe and she might’ve turned ornery.”

  “Oh.” Judith nodded. “And just as well you didn’t mention the vacation part. Mother might have balked. She hates it when I go away.”

  “So does my mom,” Renie said. “Like to my own house instead of her apartment. See you.”

  When Joe arrived at five-thirty, Judith was preparing appetizers for the guests’ social hour. “Where’ve you been all afternoon?” she asked.

  “Research,” he told her, hanging his jacket on a peg in the hallway between the kitchen and the back door.

  “I thought you turned down your last two cases.”

  “I did,” Joe said, kissing Judith’s cheek. “Defend me against the infidel. As in ‘infidelity.’ I’m sick of following husbands and wives who stray. Why don’t suspicious spouses just ask?”

  Judith mixed hard-boiled egg yolks with mayonnaise and tiny shrimp. “So what kind of research were you doing?”

  “For our vacation,” Joe replied. “Sporting goods stores, the travel agent on top of Heraldsgate Hill, checking with Bill and his resources.”

  “Have you made a choice?”

  Joe took a bottle of Harp lager out of the fridge. “I’ve narrowed it down to three places. Bill says he’ll go along with any of them.”