Scots on the Rocks

by Mary Daheim

  “I won’t mention that,” Judith said as the goat wandered away.

  “Lots of other stuff around here, too,” Joe said. “There’s a ruined castle right by the hotel and we’re not far from Ben Nevis and—”

  “Stop,” Judith interrupted. “You’re breaking up at this end.” It was a lie, but Barry had gotten out of the car and was trying to push it away from the hedgerow.

  “Oh—sorry,” Joe said. “Everything okay with you and Renie?”

  “It’s swell,” Judith replied. “We’ve gone for a country drive.”

  “Great,” Joe enthused. “I knew you and Renie would find plenty to do around St. Fergna. Bill sends his love. Talk to you later.”

  Judith shoved the cell phone back in her purse. “I don’t know whether to be relieved or peeved. Joe and Bill and even Hugh MacGowan don’t seem to know anything about Harry’s death. Hugh’s taking a short leave to cart our husbands around the Highlands—in style, I might add.”

  “The Bruce doesn’t like that goat,” Renie asserted. “It sounds like the husbands have gotten our goat. Why are they having all the fun?”

  Judith ignored the question. “Let’s get out of the car. Barry can’t budge it with us sitting here.”

  “I’m not helping,” Renie warned Judith. “I have a bad shoulder. I’m also weak from hunger. I wonder how that goat would taste?”

  “I have an artificial hip,” Judith said, undoing the rope. “Barry’s on his own.”

  “That restaurant’s within walking distance,” Renie said, gesturing at the site, which looked about a quarter of a mile up the road. “I really don’t enjoy riding in a car with no brakes.”

  “No window, no door, no—” Judith stopped as a car coming around the bend slowed down. But after taking a good look at the battered beater and the trio on the verge, he stepped on the gas pedal and sped away.

  “Jerk,” Renie snarled. “Couldn’t he see we’re a couple of middle-aged ladies in dire distress?”

  “I think that’s why he left,” Judith said. “Didn’t you recognize the Jag and the driver? It was Jocko Morton. I don’t think he’s a very nice man. I wonder why he left the country?”

  Renie shrugged. “When in doubt, think Enron.”

  Judith’s expression was ironic. “Or murder.”

  10

  Barry borrowed Judith’s cell and called his father to rescue him. After assuring the cousins that the brakes would be fixed in no time so that he could pick them up after they ate at the restaurant, Judith succumbed to Renie’s pleas and agreed to walk to Cummings House.

  The road’s incline was gentle; the distance was short. They went slowly, though Renie had to stop several times to allow Judith to catch up. The cousins arrived at the restaurant just after three-thirty, and were seated immediately by a cheerful older woman wearing a ruffled apron and a broad smile.

  “Tourists, eh? Lovely!” she exclaimed. “Do sit by the fireplace.”

  The dining room was small and cozy. The decor was minimal, and on this Sunday afternoon, only a handful of the dozen or so tables were occupied. There was a bar, however, which was marked by a sign with an arrow pointing off to the right.

  Cummings House didn’t offer a high tea, but Judith and Renie both found items that pleased them.

  “Haddock and chips for me,” Judith said.

  “I’ll have the homemade lamb and kidney pie,” Renie declared.

  The cheerful waitress went off toward the kitchen. Sitting in the comfortable high-backed chair, Judith stretched her legs toward the hearth. “Nice,” she remarked. “Just the sort of place you’d expect to find in the Highlands.”

  “As nice as where the husbands are?” Renie asked suspiciously.

  “Well…I’m not sure. They have TV and good food.”

  “What’s the place called?”

  Judith jogged her memory. “Hotel Glengarry?”

  “Don’t con me,” Renie snapped. “I’ve gone through Bill’s guidebook. It’s Glengarry Castle Hotel and it’s supposed to be one of the elite places to stay in the Highlands. Those creeps! They’re off having a wonderful time and we’re stuck in the middle of nowhere while you play Sherlock Holmes! Some vacation!” She leaned forward. “Tomorrow will be different. We’re going to hire a car from wherever we can get one and see the sights on our own. I refuse to sit around the castle and watch you try to solve a murder case involving people you never heard of until forty-eight hours ago. This is my vacation, too.”

  Judith studied Renie’s obstinate expression. “You’re the one who always says that fishermen should be able to do as they please.”

  “As long as they’re fishing,” Renie retorted. “Watching high-definition TV or whatever in a plush hotel and eating their way through a gourmet menu doesn’t count. That’s for us, not the husbands.”

  “This is nice,” Judith argued. “The prices are reasonable and—” She paused as a hearty laugh burst out from nearby, followed by a masculine voice:

  “What’s our advantage without Gibbs?” The man’s voice was deep and halting.

  Leaning on the side of her chair, Judith tried to see who was coming out from the bar area. “Morton,” she whispered, “with a fair-haired man I don’t recognize.”

  “Oh, damn!” Renie swore. “There’s no escape!”

  Jocko Morton and the taller, younger blond man walked by the cousins and sat down in an inglenook across the room by the window.

  “Morton must have parked in back,” Judith whispered. “I didn’t see his Jag when we came in the main entrance.”

  “I don’t care if he parked on the roof like Santa Claus,” Renie snapped. “Could we eat a meal without a side dish of sleuthing?”

  Judith sighed. “After all these years,” she said in a low, earnest voice, “you know that when somebody gets killed virtually before my eyes, I’ll try to figure out who did it. I can’t help it. It’s like you, studying everything you see with your artist’s eye. Just now, when you saw the menu, you frowned. I knew it wasn’t the food, it was the menu’s design.”

  “Wrong type font for this kind of place,” Renie said. “Too modern. They should have gone with a Monotype Corsiva, not an Arial Black. There’s no warmth, no history.”

  “You see what I mean?”

  Renie looked faintly repentant. “Okay. You have a point. I just wish your talent wasn’t for finding killers. It’d be nice to go somewhere and not stumble over a dead body.”

  “You mean and not care if I stumble over a dead body,” Judith amended. “Everybody encounters dead bodies every day.” She saw Renie start to protest. “Hold it, coz—let me finish. At home, the morning paper often has a homicide victim in the news. The obituaries may contain someone whose death is unnatural. We’re untouched by them. But when someone is killed within my purview, I have to act. Get it?”

  Renie nodded wearily. “I’ve always gotten it. I just…get fed up with it. Or maybe I get scared. It’s a dangerous avocation.”

  “Life’s a risk,” Judith said. “Now will you shut up? Here’s the food, and I’d like to try hearing what Morton’s saying across the way.”

  Renie was content to keep quiet as she delved into her lamb and kidney pie. But Morton and his companion were speaking quietly. Seriously, too, Judith noticed, except for Morton’s occasional hearty—if harsh—laughter. His companion was more solemn, rarely managing even a smile. Finally, they were eating what looked like puddings. Morton put aside the napkin on which he’d been scribbling some notes.

  The waitress came over to Judith and Renie, asking if they were enjoying their meal.

  “Very much,” Judith said. “The haddock and chips are excellent. My cousin would say the same about her meat pie if she’d stop eating long enough to talk. By the way,” she continued, dropping her voice, “the fair-haired man in the inglenook is familiar. Should I know him?”

  The waitress glanced discreetly at Morton and his fellow diner. “You mean you know him from the States?” she asked.<
br />
  “I’m not sure,” Judith fibbed. “Maybe he reminds me of someone. Is his name…Rankers, by any chance?”

  The waitress shook her head. “Nae. He’s Seumas Bell, an attorney for Blackwell Petrol. Comes here often when he has business with poor Mrs. Gibbs. But you wouldn’t know her, not being from these parts.”

  “We do know her,” Judith said. “It’s a shame about her husband.”

  The waitress’s eyes grew round as she leaned closer, exuding a lavender scent. “Oh, isn’t it though? That laddie met a cruel fate! And now Mrs. Gibbs has taken to her bed, a nervous wreck, I hear. She’s never had good health or good luck with men.” The waitress grimaced. “I mustn’t tell tales out of school, but you’re acquainted so you know.”

  “Yes,” Judith said with compassion, ignoring Renie, who had spilled gravy on her new cashmere sweater. “Two husbands dead, her parents dying fairly young, and a big oil company with no one to lean on except her half brother, who strikes me as resentful of her inheritance.”

  “I suppose you can’t blame Jimmy in a way,” the waitress said. “He’s very capable. Some would tell you he’d be a much better…what do you call them?…chief executive than his sister. She’s so much younger and hasn’t had his experience. But there it is.” The waitress looked up as a young couple entered the restaurant. “Pardon, I must see to these people. Will you be wanting a sweet?”

  The cousins declined, and the waitress hurried off. Renie was dabbing at her sweater with a wet napkin. “Well?”

  Judith frowned. “Who said that Moira took to her bed?”

  “If she has,” Renie said, “Patrick’s in it with her.”

  Judith shot a surreptitious glance in Morton’s direction. “Maybe he told the waitress. Or the other man, Seumas Bell.”

  “It could be anyone,” Renie said. “Gossip travels fast in small towns. They all know each other and don’t have a lot of things to do.”

  “True.” Judith chewed thoughtfully on her last chip.

  Morton and Bell were getting up, making ready to leave. They paid no attention to the cousins. Morton’s small piglike eyes glittered with something that might be pleasure. Bell, however, looked worried.

  “They left the napkin,” Judith said after the two men departed.

  “So?”

  “Morton was writing on it.” Judith got up, looked around to see if anyone was watching, and went to the vacant table. With a swift gesture, she grabbed the napkin and returned to her seat.

  “Let’s see what he wrote.” She unfolded the paper napkin and smoothed it out on the tablecloth. “Numbers, mostly. I don’t know what to make of them. There’s a name, though. Morton’s handwriting is wretched. See if you can read it.” She passed the napkin to Renie.

  “They might be stock prices,” Renie said. She studied the jumble of letters. “The closest I can come is ‘Venus Goo.’ That can’t be right.”

  Judith took the napkin from Renie and put it in her purse. “Just in case,” she murmured.

  Renie didn’t comment.

  The waitress presented their bill. “I have a message for you,” she said, looking apologetic. “Barry—the pizza lad from Tonio’s—rang up to say he can’t come get you. His brakes are bad, and must be fixed at the auto repair tomorrow. He said he hoped you could wait.”

  “For what?” Renie retorted. “A bus?”

  “There is a bus,” the waitress said. “It’s due here”—she paused to look at the watch pinned to her apron—“in six minutes.”

  “It stops at the restaurant?” Judith inquired.

  “If you flag it,” the waitress said.

  Renie flipped her credit card onto the table. “We’re on our way.”

  The cousins had been standing for only a minute or so when an old green and yellow bus lumbered around the bend.

  “We’ll assume it has brakes,” Renie remarked, waving at the driver. “Windows and a door are a start.”

  Only a dozen or so riders were on the bus, which was eventually going to Inverness. As she started to pay the fare, Judith suddenly realized she had only U.S. coins.

  “We haven’t changed our money yet,” Judith whispered to Renie. “Do you have any we can use here?”

  “No,” Renie said bleakly. “That change Bill left on the bureau was American.” She gazed inquiringly at the driver. “Do you take AmEx?”

  The driver scowled. “No.”

  “Bribes?” Renie asked.

  “How far?”

  “St. Fergna,” Renie replied.

  The driver sighed. “Pay me next time.” He started the bus.

  The ride was only slightly less jarring than the one in Barry’s beater. Ten minutes later, the cousins got off at the village green. Children were flying kites and playing soccer. One family was cleaning up the remains of a picnic. An amorous young couple nuzzled each other on a wooden bench. The air felt soft as a faint breeze blew through the rowan and birch trees that sheltered the green.

  “When do you figure the tide will be back out?” Judith asked.

  “It’s going on five,” Renie said, looking at an iron post clock a few doors down the High Street. “Between six and seven, I think.”

  “So we’ve got an hour to kill,” Judith noted. “I wonder if the pubs around here are open on Sunday.”

  “They are,” Renie said. “For some weird reason I remember that they finally changed the law back in the seventies to keep up with England. The Scots figured it was time to move into the twentieth century, at least as far as drinking was concerned.”

  “Then we should have a drink,” Judith said, starting across the street. “The Yew and Eye is only a couple of doors beyond the tea shop.”

  “Ah. The site of Jimmy and Harry’s brawl. I should’ve known.”

  The weathered sign hanging outside showed a faded tree and a chipped eyeball. Inside, the pub was busy. Judith and Renie managed to find a tiny table near the restrooms—or water closets, as the cousins knew they were known in the UK. It wasn’t the decor that lured customers to the Yew and Eye, Judith realized, since the interior was singularly lacking in any attempt at charm. A string of Christmas lights with several burned-out bulbs hung across the back of the bar. Kewpie dolls wearing kilts lined a plate rail on one side of the room. Black-and-white photos of mud-spattered rugby players were displayed on the other. The windows facing the street were in need of washing, and somebody had left a crimson lipstick kiss on one of the small panes. Judith decided the attraction had to be the beer.

  “I don’t recognize anybody,” Judith said, disappointed.

  “Gee—and you’ve been here almost two whole days. Tsk, tsk.”

  “Don’t be mean,” Judith retorted. “You know I love meeting new people. That’s one of the reasons I opened a B&B.”

  Renie sighed. “I know. You’re the kind who’s never met a stranger.” She swiveled in her chair to look at the list of beers posted in chalk by the bar. “Not being a beer drinker, I’m doing what I do at the racetrack—picking by name. I can’t resist a brew called Old Engine Oil.”

  “They have mead,” Judith noted. “I’ve always wanted to try it.”

  The barmaid appeared, a far cry from the clichéd buxom, rosy-cheeked vessel of good cheer. She was as old as the cousins, scrawny and scraggly, with a lean build and graying hair that hung in listless strands. Her voice was gruff, her words were terse, her name tag identified her as Betsy.

  “Drat,” Judith said after Betsy had glumly taken their order. “How can I chat her up about the face-off between Jimmy and Harry?”

  “Try some of the regulars,” Renie suggested. “Play darts.” She gestured at the board on the other side of the crowded room. “I’d do it, but my bad shoulder benched me years ago.”

  Judith shook her head. “With my luck, I’d hit Betsy.” She surveyed the other drinkers. They were of all ages, from very young to very old. At least two tables served what looked like three generations of drinkers, from a fresh-faced girl to a gnarled
old man propped up by pillows in his straight-backed chair. Apparently the Yew and Eye was a family gathering spot. “This is a waste of time. Our next move is for you to apologize to Mrs. Gunn.”

  “Whoa!” Renie held up her hands in protest. “No way.”

  “Mrs. Gunn must know all the dirt about everybody,” Judith pointed out. “If we don’t offer a truce, we’ll never get to talk to her.” She paused while Betsy wordlessly delivered their drinks. “Maybe we could take her a gift as a peace offering. Seek her out where she’s most comfortable in the house she took from her late husband’s girlfriend.”

  “For which we’d need a car to get to,” Renie pointed out.

  “You said you were going to hire one.”

  “I did?” Renie frowned. “That was when I was going nuts. I’m sane now. I suspect we’d have to rent a car in Inverness.” She sipped her Old Engine Oil. “Not bad. It tastes a little like coffee—or chocolate.”

  “It’s very dark, almost black,” Judith remarked. “My mead is honey-flavored. It’s sweet. I like it.”

  The cousins sat and sipped in silence. When Judith finally spoke, she looked apologetic. “I hate to mention this, but we should call our mothers. It’s nine o’clock at home. They should both be up.”

  “Can’t we wait until we’re back at the castle? It’s noisy in here.”

  “Okay.” Judith caught Betsy’s eye. “I can’t resist. I’ve got to try.”

  “Oh boy,” Renie muttered, “I can’t wait to hear the whopper you’re going to give her.”

  “It’s good,” Judith insisted. “Hello, Betsy. Can I trust you?”

  The barmaid looked puzzled. “What?”

  “We’re from the States,” Judith said, and feigned an embarrassed laugh. “You probably gathered that.”

  Betsy was impassive. “Nae.”

  “I’m here to look for my lost nephew.” Judith looked forlorn. “We heard he’d been seen in St. Fergna.”

  There was no comment from Betsy.

  “His name’s Jim. Jimmy, we call him.” Judith’s lower lip trembled. Renie stared off into the distance, apparently admiring the kilted Kewpie dolls. “He’s always had a drinking problem,” Judith went on. “He’s tall, in his thirties, dark, and often picking a fight.”