by Mary Daheim
“We’re fine,” Judith said. “We want to offer our condolences. This must be a terrible shock for you.”
“Oh, it is,” Moira said, sitting down. “I’m muddling through on sheer nerve—and handfuls of tranquilizers.”
Judith wanted to believe that Moira was grieving. Surely a young woman with a baby who had been widowed twice would be devastated.
“I’ve been widowed, too,” Judith said with compassion. “I was left with a teenage son. That’s a difficult stage under any circumstances.”
“I would imagine,” Moira said. “Poor you. Now,” she went on, leaning forward and folding her hands on her knees, “you must tell me about your gas problem. Is it some sort of leak?”
Renie made a face. “I should’ve said petrol. We ran out. I keep forgetting that we’re two countries separated by a common language.”
Moira laughed. “Three,” she pointed out. “We have many Scots words the English don’t understand. I’ll have Fergus provide you with a five-liter can. Will that be enough?”
“Ample,” Renie replied. “Thanks. We’ll reimburse you.”
Moira waved a slender hand. “No, no. That would be inhospitable of me. We keep an extra supply on hand. Did you hire a car?”
“Not exactly,” Renie said. “It’s like a car…but…” She made a helpless gesture.
Moira frowned. “I heard the castle’s Morris saloon is being repaired.”
“It is,” Judith said, then changed the subject before Renie could lead their hostess further astray. “How old is your son?”
Moira smiled tenderly. “Almost five months old. He’s utterly adorable and quite good-natured.” A soft rap sounded on the library door. “Yes, Fergus?”
After the butler informed his mistress that her brother was on the telephone, he made a stately exit. Moira got up and went to a desk that looked as if it had been inspired by Chippendale.
“Pardon,” she apologized to the cousins. “Yes, Jimmy,” Moira said into the phone. “What is it now?”
Judith tried to pretend she wasn’t eavesdropping. “This is a wonderful room,” she said to Renie. “Look at all the leather-bound books encased behind glass.”
Renie gazed at her surroundings. “Valuable, maybe. Some are probably collectors’ items.”
Judith rose and walked over to the nearest bookcase, which was just opposite Moira.
“Oh, Jimmy, just take care of it!” Moira said testily. “You’re so good at handling this sort of thing. It’s hardly the first time. Don’t pester me with details. I’m sick of the whole thing.” She rang off. “I’m so sorry for the interruption,” she said, sitting back down. “My brother is extremely competent and very clever. I’ve no idea why he has to bother me with problems he can easily solve for himself. Where were we?”
Judith also sat down again. “Talking about your son?”
Moira smiled. “Oh—little Jamie. I named him for my father. He’s trying to crawl. I’d let you see him, but he’s down for a nap.”
“Never wake a kid from a nap,” Renie warned. “Mothers deserve some peace and quiet.” She grimaced. “Sorry. That’s an unfortunate thing to say, given what’s happened.”
“You mean to Harry?” Moira shook her head. “It was bound to. He brought it on himself.”
Judith tried to hide her astonishment. “He had enemies?”
Moira’s smile was ironic. “I suppose we all do, when we’re in business. But I can’t imagine…” She grew serious. “Like his parents, Harry was a risk-taker. Hang gliding, jumping out of airplanes, mountain climbing, rock climbing, hunting wild animals with a bow and arrow—he tried everything. He was fortunate not to have gotten himself killed long ago.” She noticed the curious expression on Judith’s face. “Please, make no mistake. It’s a terrible tragedy, but one has to face facts. Harry lived on the edge. He didn’t use good judgment.”
Judith began to understand. “You think it was an accident?”
Moira shrugged. “What else? We should have an official verdict after the autopsy. Jimmy set the funeral for Wednesday. I doubt that his parents will be—”
Another soft rap at the door interrupted her. “Yes?” she said.
Fergus stood stiffly in the doorway. “Mr. Cameron is here, ma’am.” His lips barely moved. Judith wondered if he could do ventriloquism.
“Tell him to wait in the west drawing room,” Moira said. “Would you please fetch five liters of petrol for these ladies?”
Fergus nodded and left.
Moira stood up. “This is awkward. I’d forgotten Mr. Cameron was coming by. He’s Blackwell’s head of engineering and also in charge of security. No matter what else happens, business must be done, with the oil world so vital and volatile. Fergus will get the petrol and see you out.”
“She’s smooth,” Renie remarked after Moira had left. “She must have inherited the petroleum company from her family.”
“I doubt that Moira’s more than twenty-five,” Judith said. “Jimmy looks quite a bit older. If their parents are dead, why didn’t he inherit the business along with his sister?”
“That is odd,” Renie agreed. “Jimmy mentioned he was an attorney for the company as well as for Moira. I wonder where the head offices are. I thought most of the North Sea oil business was around Aberdeen.”
“Let’s find out,” Judith said, going to the desk. “There must be a letterhead in here somewhere.” She opened the middle drawer but found only pens, paper clips, postage stamps, scissors, and other utilitarian items. The top drawer on the right yielded the company stationery. “The main offices are in Inverness, but there are branches in Aberdeen, London, and Copenhagen.”
“I suppose the family wanted the headquarters closer to where they live,” Renie conjectured. “Judging from the architecture, this house was probably built in the late eighteenth or early nineteenth century.”
Just as Judith moved away from the desk, Fergus appeared holding the five-liter gas can far away from his body as if he expected it to explode like Harry’s car. “Your petrol,” he said solemnly.
“Thanks, Fergus,” Renie responded, taking the can from him. “You’re a good egg. I’ll remember you in my will.”
Fergus coughed slightly. “Pardon, ma’am?”
“Never mind,” Renie said blithely. “We can let ourselves out.”
The butler seemed dubious. “I’ll escort you to the door.”
“Why not?” Renie retorted. “As my husband would say when he wants us to move along, ‘Let’s boppin’!’”
Looking pained, Fergus stepped aside as the cousins walked out of the library. He accompanied them through the entry hall and on to the front door. With a barely perceptible nod, he wished them good day.
“Right back atcha, Fergus,” Renie called over her shoulder.
“Coz…” Judith murmured. “Can it.”
“Can it yourself,” Renie snapped as they descended the steps. “This thing’s heavy and hard to carry with my bum shoulder.”
“Keep your mouth shut and your eyes open,” Judith declared.
“Why?”
“Because,” Judith said, “if you’d been paying attention instead of showing off, you’d have been able to peek into the parlor. The door wasn’t completely closed. I saw Mr. Cameron.”
“So?”
“Mr. Cameron is Patrick,” Judith said. “The announcement of his arrival was a sham. Moira didn’t realize we’d already seen her with him from the road. She doesn’t want us—or anyone else—to know how chummy they are. Philip Fordyce and Mrs. Gunn talked about rumors concerning Moira and Patrick. Tranquilizers or not, Moira doesn’t seem overcome by losing husband number two.”
“How do we get out?” Renie asked as they walked down the driveway. But before Judith could respond, the gate swung open. “Ah—remote control from Fergus,” Renie murmured.
Barry was dozing in the car. Through the glassless window, Renie jabbed him in the shoulder. “Fill ’er up!” she called.
“Oh!” The young
man awoke with a start and threw his hands up in the air, banging his fingers against the car’s roof. “Don’t shoot me! I haven’t got any money! I’m stony broke!”
“It’s us,” Renie said. “The American battle-axes. Go ahead, put the gas in the tank. I’m setting the can down here by the door.”
“Wow!” Barry exclaimed. “How’d you manage to get that?”
“Sheer charm,” Renie said, getting into the backseat. “Hi, Bruce. How are you doing?”
The hamster jumped onto his wheel and began to run like mad. Barry got out of the car. Judith stood watching him as he coped with the gas tank—no easy task, since it looked as if the original cap had been replaced with a cork.
“How,” she inquired, “did Moira inherit Blackwell Petroleum?”
“Her mum and dad died,” Barry replied as bits of cork broke off while he attempted to unplug the tank. “Mr. Blackwell’s been gone since before I was born. Her mum passed on two, three years ago.”
“But why didn’t Jimmy get the company?” Judith asked. “He must be at least ten years older than Moira.”
The cork finally came out. “Jimmy’s a bastard,” Barry said.
“You mean he was disinherited because he was…what?”
“A bastard,” Barry repeated, pouring gasoline into the tank. “His dad—Moira’s dad, too—played around.”
“Oh,” Judith said, enlightened. “Jimmy’s illegitimate.”
“Right. No way was Moira’s mum going to let Jimmy have part ownership. He could work for Blackwell, but no owning it for the likes of him, a mere by-blow. The missus was that put out.”
“That must rankle,” Judith said.
“Aye, especially after Harry got a plush job with the company.”
A Jaguar sedan had slowed to see what was going on by the side of the road. Judith thought the driver was Jocko Morton, the man who’d been giving the speech on the village green. He looked, he saw—and sped on. Curious, she followed the car with her eyes, wondering if it would turn in at Hollywood. But Morton kept going. “What did Harry do at Blackwell?” she asked, turning back to Barry.
He shrugged. “I don’t know.” Finishing with the tank, he put the cork back in and screwed the cap onto the petrol can. “Anyway, Harry and Jimmy got into it at the Yew and Eye pub last week. A regular brawl, it was. What should we do with this can?”
“We’ll drop it off at the gate,” Judith said. “You mean a fistfight?”
“Aye, with chairs thrown and bottles broken and pints spilled.”
“Were you there?” Judith asked as Barry escorted her to the passenger side.
“Aye, me and my mates. Quite a show they put on until Will Fleming broke it up. Here,” he said as Judith got into the seat, “move a mite to the right and I’ll fetch the rope to keep you in.”
While Barry went to get the rope from the boot, Judith turned to Renie. “Did you hear that about Jimmy and Harry at the pub?”
Renie nodded. “I wouldn’t have known who to root for.”
“I don’t understand much about any of this,” Judith admitted. “I always think of the oil business as a Middle Eastern thing—or Texas.”
“I don’t think about it at all,” Renie said. “Bill takes care of Cammy. For all I know, gas could cost a hundred bucks a gallon.”
Judith shot her cousin a dirty look. “It’s a global concern. You shouldn’t be so cavalier.”
“Is there something I can do about it?” Renie demanded.
“No,” Judith allowed as Barry struggled with securing the rope, “but this Blackwell business may be the reason why Harry was killed.”
“Moira thinks it was an accident,” Renie reminded Judith.
“I don’t believe it,” Judith countered.
Barry finally fastened the rope and came around to the driver’s side. “What’s your fancy, ladies? We could drive to John O’ Groats with this much petrol. ’Course we couldn’t drive back.”
“Bill made a list,” Renie said, taking a small notepad out of her purse. “Culloden, where Bonnie Prince Charlie was defeated. Cawdor and Brodie Castles. Moray Firth for dolphin sightings. Nairn, where the sun shines more than anywhere else along the northern coast. Culbin Sands, to watch a bunch of birds. We might also consider food. It’s been a long time since breakfast.”
“Um…” Judith stared out through the windscreen, which had several squiggly cracks. “Barry, why don’t you just drive us around this area? I’m a people person, not a nature or history lover. Where does Jimmy live? Or the Flemings? And tell us more about Jocko Morton.” She ignored Renie’s groan.
“Jimmy and his wife live on the other side of St. Fergna,” Barry replied. “Nice house, modern-like. The Flemings have a place down the road here. You can’t see either of them from the car. Morton has a condo in Inverness and a shooting lodge somewhere—I forget.”
“Oh.” Judith was disappointed. “What about Mrs. Gunn?”
“Ah, she’s got a grand house on Spey Bay. I hear she took it from her husband’s ladylove.”
“My, my,” Judith said. “Do all businessmen here have mistresses?”
Barry looked genuinely puzzled. “I don’t know. We could ask.” He turned a serious face to Judith. “Might be cheeky, though.”
“I mean,” Judith clarified, “Mr. Blackwell and Mr. Gunn both played around, right?” She saw Barry nod. “Who is Jimmy’s mother?”
“Lucy Morton,” Barry answered. “I forget her maiden name. Later on, she married Jocko’s cousin, Rob. They live in Inverness.”
“Please tell me that Rob doesn’t work for Blackwell Petroleum.”
“Nae—he’s a dentist.”
“And Mr. Gunn’s girlfriend?”
“She’s not a dentist.”
Judith sighed. “I don’t mean that. Who was she?”
“A ladyship,” Barry replied. “Let me get this right…the Honorable Diana Porter-Breze. Bonniest woman I ever saw, though not young, not at all. Older than Mr. Gunn, much older than Mrs. Gunn. Nice, too.”
“Does she still live around here?”
Barry shook his head. “She moved to Inverness. Or Paris.”
“Gee,” Renie said plaintively, “The Bruce and I are fading away back here. Any chance of finding a restaurant?”
“There should be pizza in one of those boxes,” Barry said.
“The Bruce may like cold pizza,” Renie said, “but The Cousin doesn’t. Try again.”
Judith checked her watch. “It’s almost three. When’s high tea?”
“How about the village tearoom?” Barry asked.
“We went there yesterday,” Renie said. “What else is nearby?”
Barry considered. “There’s a fine place down the road. Cummings House, it’s called. Alison and I ate there once. It’s pricey, though.”
“Money’s no object,” Renie declared. “I’m starved.”
Barry struggled to start the car, but eventually the engine caught and the vehicle lurched forward. They passed the gate to Hollywood and continued on the road for at least a mile. Judith admired the rowan and birch trees, though after another mile or two, the road climbed slightly. Now they were winding among alder and pine. Then the road dipped precipitously. The car sped down the hill into a glen.
Judith saw a two-story timber-fronted building up ahead. As they raced along the road, she saw the sign proclaiming Cummings House. “Is that the place?” she asked.
“Aye,” Barry said, and gulped.
“I thought we were stopping there,” Judith said.
“I thought we were, too,” Barry agreed, pumping the brakes, “but I guess not. The car won’t stop. Oh well.”
The road had flattened out. “You don’t have seat belts in this thing!” Renie shouted. “You’re going to get us killed!”
“Nae,” Barry responded, turning around to look at Renie. “Mind The Bruce. Don’t let his cage slip off the seat.”
“Watch the damned road!” But Renie put a steadying hand on the ca
ge as the car began to slow down.
On the next bend, Barry aimed for a hedgerow. The car thudded into the barrier and groaned to a stop. Judith hazily guessed they were going only about ten miles an hour. She caught herself on the dashboard; Renie was holding The Bruce’s cage and cussing her head off.
Barry was slumped over the wheel. “Whew!” he exclaimed, and whistled softly. “Sorry. How’s The Bruce?”
“He’s filing a lawsuit for whiplash,” Renie snapped. “How are we getting to the restaurant? Afoot?”
Before Barry could answer, Judith’s cell phone rang.
“How’s it going?” Joe inquired in a cheerful voice.
Judith gritted her teeth as she peered through the windscreen and saw a goat peering back from the other side of the hedgerow.
“Uh…we’re not going at the moment,” she replied, mouthing her husband’s name for Renie’s benefit. An acrid stench filled Judith’s nostrils—no doubt, she figured, the odor of burning brakes. Or the goat. “Where are you?” she asked Joe. “At the castle?”
Joe’s chuckle sounded forced. “No. No, actually we’re at Invergarry by Loch Oich. We had some luck on the Spey, but Hugh thought we should try some of the other nearby streams and lochs. He’s on leave, you know, so he doesn’t have to get back to work for a week or so. We’ll go from here to the River Beauly and Beauly Firth, maybe on Tuesday. Hugh says the salmon fishing there is amazing.”
“You mean,” Judith said, looking at Renie, “you and Bill aren’t returning to Grimloch anytime soon?”
“Well…this is a once-in-a-lifetime chance to fish these waters,” Joe explained. “Not just anybody can access them. Since Hugh’s offered us the opportunity, we could hardly turn him down.”
“Hardly,” Judith said dryly. “Are you camping out?”
“What? Oh—no, you know Bill. He’s not one for camping.”
“Neither are you,” Judith pointed out. “Your idea of camping is a rustic five-star lodge with a jazz combo for your evening entertainment. Where are you staying tonight?”
“We just checked into the Glengarry Castle Hotel. Hold on,” Joe said. “Bill, you got the remote? Thanks.” There was a pause. “Great digital TV reception here. Tell Renie that Bill’s eating a banana ice cream sundae. I think I’ll talk him into giving me a taste.”