Scots on the Rocks

by Mary Daheim

  Betsy’s lean face showed only mild curiosity. “He’s a Yank?”

  “Ah…yes.”

  The barmaid shook her head. The strands of hair swayed listlessly. “No Yanks here since Christmas.”

  “Oh. You see,” Judith said, sounding very confidential, “I heard there was a brawl here in the last few days and that a man named Jimmy was involved. I thought…you know, it might be my nephew. We’d like very much to find him and put him back in the Home.”

  Betsy’s plain features finally showed animation. “He’s crazy?”

  “We don’t call it that,” Judith replied. “Our family describes him as communally challenged. ‘Maniac’ and ‘outcast’ are such cruel words, don’t you agree?”

  Betsy nodded. “Aye, cruel.”

  “So you’re certain this Jimmy wasn’t my nephew?” Judith asked as Renie seemed to slip lower and lower in her chair.

  “Aye,” Betsy replied. “I know this one—Jimmy Blackwell. Not a brawler by nature, but an attorney.” She lowered her voice. “He got into it with the lad who was killed yesterday, Harry Gibbs.”

  “Really?” Judith evinced surprise. “What did they fight about?”

  Betsy said shrugged. “I canna say.”

  “Blackwell Petroleum?” Judith suggested.

  Betsy stared hard at Judith. “Say, aren’t ye the ladies staying at the castle?”

  “Yes,” Judith said, keeping her composure. “That’s why we came here. To look for Jim. Jimmy, I mean. My Jimmy.”

  Betsy stood up straight. “Well, ye willna find him here. And it’ll do ye no good to ask about our Jimmy and poor Harry. I dinna tell tales about our own. Do ye want another pint or no?”

  “Um…no, thank you.”

  Sharp chin jutting, Betsy stalked away.

  “Some sleuth,” Renie murmured, sitting up in her chair. “Even I wouldn’t believe your nephew story. You know how news of strangers travels in a small town. And even faster in a village like St. Fergna.”

  Judith was studying the customers. “Ordinary folk. But close-knit. Clannish, in the true sense of the word. In the face of tragedy, do they all clam up and feel as if the rest of the world’s against them?”

  “Probably,” Renie said. “It’s bred in their bones. In centuries past, they’d all hole up in the castle and wait out the siege.”

  “That makes it hard to learn the truth,” Judith said. “Let’s go.”

  “I haven’t finished my Old Engine Oil,” Renie protested. “Do they take credit cards or do we end up working off the tab as barmaids?”

  “I saw logos on the door for Visa and MasterCard,” Judith said.

  Renie took a final gulp of her beer. “What’s the rush? The tide won’t be out for another half hour.”

  “Patrick Cameron just went by,” Judith said. “At least it looked like him. It’s hard to tell through those dirty windows.”

  “So we’re going to chase him down the High Street?”

  Judith was already halfway to the door. “Pay the bill with your AmEx card. I’ll see where he’s going.”

  It was almost dark outside, though the old-fashioned wrought-iron streetlights were on. Judith saw Patrick disappear around the corner by the road that paralleled the shore. “What took so long?” she demanded when Renie came out of the pub.

  “I couldn’t figure out the bill,” Renie replied. “Where’s Patrick?”

  “Out of sight,” Judith said. “Let’s see if we can spot where he went.”

  “This is absurd,” Renie declared, “like a bad spy movie.”

  The road ended at a frame building that overlooked the beach. In between and just off the High Street was a whitewashed cottage behind a laurel hedge. The lights were on and smoke drifted from the chimney.

  “Patrick must have gone in there,” Judith said in a low voice. “That other building is dark. It doesn’t look like a house anyway.”

  “Gosh,” Renie mocked, “do you suppose Patrick might live there?”

  Judith ignored her. “Can you read that sign over the porch?”

  Renie moved closer to the hedge. “This isn’t nearly as ferocious as the Rankerses’s man-eating shrubbery. I still have all my appendages.”

  “Never mind the smart remarks. What does the sign say?”

  “It says ‘The Hermitage.’ People here like to name their houses.”

  “Why would he live here? Somebody said he had a rich wife.”

  Renie shrugged. “I don’t recall hearing that.”

  “No,” Judith said thoughtfully. “I overheard Mrs. Gunn and Philip talking about Patrick. His wife’s name is Jeannie, and she comes from money. This is a small house, great view, convenient, but not what I’d consider the kind of place a wealthy young woman would want to live.”

  “Can we go now?” Renie walked toward the track to the beach. “The wind’s come up and the mist’s starting to roll in.”

  “You’re not cold,” Judith asserted, reluctantly following her cousin. “You never get cold. You’re just annoyed.”

  “Yes, I am. This is silly. We’ve had a very long day. I’d like to—”

  Judith grabbed Renie’s arm. “Footsteps,” she whispered. “Someone’s coming. Pretend we’re looking out to sea.”

  A man turned the corner from the High Street. Judith tried to see who it was without turning around to stare. “Will Fleming,” she said softly, and glimpsed him turning in to the cottage.

  “Poker night,” Renie said. “Maybe Patrick calls it The Hermitage because it’s where he goes when he wants time to himself. Or a night out with the boys. So what?”

  “They both work for Blackwell,” Judith said. “They’ll be seeing each other at the office tomorrow in Inverness. Why now?”

  “I told you, some perfectly innocent activity,” Renie persisted. “If these men are business colleagues, why shouldn’t they socialize?”

  “I realize that…” Judith stopped. “Two more.” She strolled away from Renie, ostensibly watching the mist roll in off of the sea. But out of the corner of her eye she spotted the stocky figure of Jocko Morton and the taller form of Seumas Bell.

  “They’re not parking by the cottage,” Judith pointed out after the two men had gone inside. “They don’t want their cars to be seen. I’ll grant that Patrick and Will and Seumas might hang out together after work, but Jocko Morton? The waitress at Cummings House told us he was Blackwell’s CEO. You know how those people keep themselves to themselves in the corner office.”

  “True,” Renie allowed. “They have their own drawbridge and moat to keep out the riffraff underlings.”

  “I’m trying to remember how many people we’ve met or heard about who work for Blackwell,” Judith said. “I realize there must be a ton of employees, but the ones at this cottage are top-echelon guys.”

  “No Jimmy,” Renie pointed out. “Or Moira, for that matter.”

  The cousins strolled back and forth on the cliffside path, keeping an eye on The Hermitage and occasionally looking through the vapors to see how far out the tide had gone. After ten minutes had passed, no more visitors had arrived at the cottage.

  “I wonder,” Judith mused, “if we could hear them from the garden.”

  “No!” Renie cried. “Don’t make me crawl through that hedge!”

  “We don’t have to crawl,” Judith insisted. “The others opened the gate and went down the walk to the front door. The chimney is on this side of the house, toward the sea. The curtains or drapes on each side of the fireplace are closed. That’s probably the room where they’re meeting. If we got up next to the house, we might be able to hear them.”

  “Be my guest,” Renie said. “I’m staying right here and watching the tide go out. If you get caught, I’ve never seen you before in my life.”

  “Fine.” Judith headed for The Hermitage. The mist swirled around her and the smell of the sea tingled in her nostrils. The village seemed very quiet, except for an occasional voice or car in the High Street.

&n
bsp; The gate was a simple latch. Judith walked along the path that led through a fallow garden that looked as if it hadn’t been properly tended for at least a couple of years. The cottage itself was well kept, however, and a bird’s nest rested under the front eaves.

  Judith moved carefully along the north side of the house, keeping low and trying not to step on anything that might create a noise—or cause a fall. Crouching under the nearest window, she listened intently.

  She heard masculine voices but couldn’t identify the speakers. Nor could she make sense of what they were saying. Only a few words were distinguishable—“Blackwell,” “reserves,” “OPEC”—and “Harry.” Another ten minutes passed. Judith still could only catch an occasional word or phrase: “global market”; “Shetland and Orkney”; “outsourcing”; and “devastating disappointment.”

  She was getting nowhere—except stiff in the joints. Cautiously, she started to stand, but felt a hand on her back. It was all she could do to stifle a scream. The hand pressed harder. Judith suddenly felt faint.

  “Are you stuck?” Renie asked in a whisper. “Dislocated?”

  Judith sighed in relief as the faintness evaporated. “Damn you,” she said softly. “You terrified me.”

  “You have to see something odd.” Renie was still whispering as she helped Judith straighten up. “Come on. It’s the castle.”

  The cousins crept out of the garden and back onto the path by the road. “Watch,” Renie said, pointing to the castle. “You have to wait until the mist rolls away.”

  “Watch what?” Judith asked.

  “You’ll see.”

  Judith and Renie waited for three, maybe four minutes. “I can barely make out the castle’s outline,” Judith complained.

  “Just wait.”

  At last the mist floated to the east, revealing Grimloch’s bulk on top of the steep cliff.

  “Do you see the light on your far right?” Renie inquired.

  “Yes. So?”

  “It’s in our room.”

  Judith frowned. “Are you sure? Or did you leave it on?”

  “This morning in broad daylight? You know I hate bright lights when I wake up. I’m a mole person. Think about the castle layout. That light’s coming from the second floor, near the stairway in the guest wing. Bill and I overlook the village and the beach. It’s got to be our room.”

  “Maybe Mrs. Gibbs is cleaning it,” Judith suggested.

  “At six o’clock on the Sabbath?” Renie shook her head.

  Judith stared at the amber glow in the lighted window. Before she could say anything else, the light went out.

  11

  Mrs. Gibbs looked as if she’d aged ten years in eight hours. She was not only still pale, but her body seemed to have withered. Her hands shook and her lips trembled as she met the cousins at the castle door.

  “How are you feeling?” Judith asked with concern.

  Mrs. Gibbs didn’t answer immediately. She stepped aside, a hand clutching at the fabric of her gray dress. “How should I feel?” she finally responded. “Sad, helpless, angry. Who did this horrid thing?”

  “The police will find out,” Judith asserted. “I’m sure they’re very capable. Have they contacted you today?”

  Mrs. Gibbs shook her head. “The inquest is Tuesday. Moira called to tell us. Imagine, being too sick to come to Mass here in the chapel to pray for the poor laddie’s soul! She’s young, she should carry on, she’s not bowed down with age like some of us. Where’s her spunk?”

  Judith didn’t dare look at Renie. Moira had seemed to have plenty of spunk when they’d seen her at Hollywood. “We heard she’d taken to her bed,” Judith remarked.

  “Aye, Moira’s a great one for that when there’s trouble.” Mrs. Gibbs’s voice was uneven. “An excuse, that’s all.” She wiped her hands on her apron. “God help us, life must go on. Will ye want supper?”

  Judith glanced at Renie. “I don’t know. We ate a late lunch.”

  “So we’ll eat a late supper,” Renie said, adding hastily, “if it’s not too much trouble, Mrs. Gibbs.”

  “In truth, work keeps my mind off my troubles,” Mrs. Gibbs replied. “Nine o’clock in the dining room?”

  “We’ll come get it,” Judith volunteered. “We can eat in our rooms.”

  “Say,” Renie put in, “was anyone in my room in the last hour?”

  Mrs. Gibbs scowled at Renie. “No. Why do ye ask?”

  “We thought we saw a light on in there just before we returned to the castle,” Renie explained.

  “Oh.” Mrs. Gibbs hesitated. “’Twas probably a trick of the eyes. Oftentimes the lights from the village reflect on the castle windows. Excuse me, I must tend to The Master and his wife.”

  “A quick question,” Judith put in. “Can we hire a car?”

  Mrs. Gibbs shook her head. “Only if the garage has one to rent out. You might ring them tomorrow.”

  “Your own car won’t be back by then?” Judith inquired.

  Their hostess shrugged. “You must ask Gibbs. I canna drive.”

  The cousins proceeded upstairs where Renie wanted Judith to help her inspect the Joneses’ room. “We don’t have anything worth stealing,” Renie said. “I suspect it might have been Chuckie wandering around. Unless his father grounded him after the debacle in the courtyard.”

  There was no sign of anything missing or out of order, however. Judith sat on the bed, perusing a list of services and goods in the area.

  “I’d forgotten what Barry told us,” she remarked. “The local garage is owned by Archibald Morton, Jocko’s brother.”

  Renie sank into an armchair. “No luck eavesdropping at The Hermitage?”

  “I’m afraid not,” Judith admitted. “Except for hearing Harry’s name mentioned, it sounded like business.”

  “You’re working in the dark,” Renie said, and yawned. “By the way, if you want to talk to Mrs. Gunn, tell her I’m subject to fits of violence.”

  “You are,” Judith said.

  “Only when provoked.”

  Judith slid off of the bed and went to the door. “I thought I heard someone out in the passageway.” She peered out into the empty corridor. “Nothing. I could’ve sworn I heard a noise.”

  “I didn’t hear it,” Renie said with a shrug.

  “I’d like to explore the rest of the castle,” Judith declared. “Of course I wouldn’t want to disturb Philip and Beth.”

  “Beth seems okay,” Renie said. “Maybe she’ll give you a tour.”

  Judith looked at her watch. “It’s going on seven. I’m going down to the drawing room for a drink.”

  “You already had a drink at the pub.”

  “I never finished it.”

  “Too bad. I paid for it.”

  “Are you coming with me?”

  “No.”

  “I’ll see you in a bit.” Judith went out into the passageway and closed the door behind her.

  The drawing room was dark. Judith found the switch and turned on the lights. It wasn’t yet seven. The Fordyces still might show up for drinks, though it was possible that, owning a distillery, Philip would keep his favorite Scotch in his suite.

  After passing the time by studying the furnishings and other decor, Judith poured herself a small Scotch-rocks. If nothing else, it’d be a conversation starter if and when the Fordyces appeared.

  At seven-fifteen, she heard voices in the corridor. Female voices, she realized. A moment later, Beth Fordyce and Marie Fleming entered the drawing room.

  “Mrs. Flynn,” Beth said with a smile, “did you meet Marie?”

  “Yes,” Judith said, putting out her hand to Will’s voluptuous wife. “We spoke while Chuckie was misbehaving.”

  Beth shook her head. “I feel so sorry for Chuckie. He’s epileptic.”

  “That’s unfortunate,” Judith said. “But I assume he receives excellent medical treatment.”

  “When he wants it,” Beth replied, making drinks for herself and Marie. “He’s also h
ad a growth problem, a lack of certain hormones. You’d never guess it, but he’s almost twenty-three. Naturally, he’s bitter, and blames his father for everything.”

  “What about his mother?” Judith held up a hand. “I’m sorry, I’m prying. But I assume his mother was Philip’s first wife.”

  Beth nodded. “Yes, Bella. She died. So did his second wife. Philip has had bad luck with wives.”

  “Until now,” Marie put in, accepting her glass from Beth. “My Will’s first wife passed away, too. The early demise of spouses around here is positively frightening.”

  “Phil’s second wife wasn’t really that young,” Beth pointed out. “She was older than Phil, and died of cancer. Phil and I hope that the third time’s a charm for him. Maybe it’ll be the same way for Moira.”

  “I doubt it,” Marie said with bite. “Moira’s in love with love. She’s shown terrible judgment when it comes to men. If they’re good-looking and have a great body, she goes for them. Beth and I are smarter than that. We both married real men, not callow boys.”

  Judith was reminded of Grandma Grover’s advice: “It’s better to be an old man’s darling than a young man’s slave.” Marie and Beth might have agreed with her. “Didn’t you go to school together?” Judith asked.

  “Ah yes,” Beth replied. “We three, we merry little band of lassies at a French boarding school. Moira fell for the headmaster, the gardener, and the man from animal control. She was always losing her dog.”

  “On purpose, I think,” Marie said, and both young women laughed.

  Judith smiled, thinking about the rich, pretty trio making mischief away from home. It was a world she’d never known, but imagined it as an enchanted life. And knew that it was no preparation for reality.

  “I met Moira at the graveyard,” Judith said. “She was putting flowers on the grave of a young Italian man.”

  The young women laughed again. “Davey Piazza was her personal assistant,” Beth replied. “She met him when he was playing in a rock band in Edinburgh, but the group broke up soon afterwards, and somehow he ended up in St. Fergna at loose ends. He couldn’t decide whether he wanted to play the drums or race sports cars. Moira felt sorry for him—he had wrenching dark eyes—so she offered him a job.”