Scots on the Rocks

by Mary Daheim

  “Typical of some American companies,” Renie pointed out. “When people are transferred to a firm’s headquarters, they often play follow-the-leader. Someone finds a pleasant place to live that’s within easy commuting distance of the job, and the next thing you know, all of the newcomers congregate there because the area’s a known factor.”

  “Yes, I suppose that’s true,” MacRae agreed. “As for the rumors I spoke of, I referred to the ones about the Camerons. Several people have told us that the Camerons are quite happy together.”

  “He does seem rather intimate with Moira,” Judith remarked. “Or maybe I’m reading something into it that’s not the case.”

  “He’s ambitious,” MacRae said, “but most of the Blackwell executives are. Greedy, too.”

  “Did you know,” Judith inquired, “that Jimmy has gone to Paris?”

  MacRae grimaced. “We’re not sure he got away. The Inverness police were notified to watch the airport. There are other ways to get to Paris, so the Sûreté has been notified. Taking flight would be very unwise on James Blackwell’s part.”

  Judith leaned forward on the settee. “Is he a serious suspect?”

  MacRae’s face hardened. “They all are, don’t you think?”

  Judith couldn’t disagree. “I appreciate your candor. So often I’ve been involved in situations where the local police withhold information.”

  “Not here, Mrs. Flynn,” MacRae said with a warm smile. “We’re more than willing to cooperate with someone of your stature.”

  “I’m flattered,” Judith said as guilt pangs stabbed her conscience. I should hand over those emails, she thought. But still she hesitated. “Don’t you think we should see if Ogilvie has found Chuckie?”

  “Yes,” MacRae said. “Which way would my sergeant have gone?”

  “We only know the courtyard route to the other wing,” Renie said, slipping into her shoes.

  “That’s fine.” MacRae rose from the chair and went to the door, opening it for the cousins.

  Mrs. Gibbs was in the passageway. “Did ye want tea?” she inquired of the detective.

  “No, thank you.”

  “Have you seen Chuckie?” Judith asked Mrs. Gibbs.

  She shook her head. “Not since lunch. If ye’ll be wanting Gibbs’s car, it won’t be ready until late today or tomorrow.”

  “But,” Judith said, “we came with him when he brought it back from the garage.”

  Mrs. Gibbs shook her head. “Gibbs found something else wrong. Fuss and fret, that’s Gibbs. He’s gone back to the car shop with Archie Morton. No wonder there’s always something awry. That car is auld as the hills.”

  “We don’t need transportation,” Judith said. “Although we should have asked Archie Morton if he had a car for hire.” She shot Renie an annoyed glance. “A shame we got sidetracked.”

  As usual, Renie looked unrepentant.

  Mrs. Gibbs had been standing stoically, hands at her sides, eyes cast down. Suddenly she lurched forward and grabbed MacRae by the arms. “You will arrest our dear laddie’s killer, won’t you? Please! Justice must be done!”

  “Of course!” MacRae gently disengaged himself from Mrs. Gibbs’s grasp. “That’s why we’re here, to find your grandson’s murderer.”

  Mrs. Gibbs looked stunned. “Do wealth and privilege keep ye from doing your duty? You must arrest Moira at once! Why must we always be the victims of an unjust world?”

  Words were futile. Despite MacRae’s insistence that there was no solid evidence against Moira Gibbs, Mrs. Gibbs remained adamant. Judith felt sorry for the old lady, who tore at her apron and sobbed. “Not fair!” she wailed, and stumbled down the passageway.

  MacRae sadly shook his head. “Poor woman. She’s convinced that we’d let Moira go free if we thought she’d murdered Harry. That’s not true, of course. But so far we have nothing to go on in that direction. She was at a wedding in Inverness.”

  In the courtyard, clouds had drifted overhead and a drizzle began to fall. Judith felt as if the towers and battlements loomed above her like reminders of past dangers—and perhaps those to come.

  “The dungeon is at the far end,” Judith said. “It may be locked.”

  MacRae looked grim. “Not much use for locks in such a place.”

  Just as they approached the tower door Judith had seen Chuckie head for previously, Ogilvie came out onto the walkway from the Fordyces’ apartments.

  “Sir!” he called to his superior. “I can’t find him.” The young policeman ran down the walk, raincoat flapping behind him. “Mrs. Fordyce hasn’t seen him. Mr. Fordyce isn’t in.”

  “You tried the dungeon?” MacRae asked.

  “First thing,” Ogilvie answered. “Nothing. Just a barrel of dirty water. No point going down there. The dungeon must’ve been sunk deep into the rock. The room above is for storage with a trapdoor in the floor for the dungeon.”

  “Chuckie told me he goes there often,” Judith said anxiously. “He mentioned a torture chamber, too.”

  MacRae nodded. “Showing off, perhaps.”

  Beth Fordyce and Will Fleming came out onto the walk. Will kissed Beth’s cheek and moved briskly toward the castle entrance.

  “The tide has turned,” Beth called, coming to join the others. “Will has to hurry.”

  MacRae frowned. “Perhaps we should, too, if Gibbs isn’t here. We could leave the skiff on the other side, though. Otherwise he might not be able to get back.”

  “Gibbs has boots,” Beth said. “As long as the sea is fairly calm, he can wade to the castle up to his knees.” She brushed raindrops from her face. “You still haven’t found Chuckie?”

  MacRae shook his head. “Perhaps he doesn’t want to be found.”

  “Very likely,” Beth said, but she looked worried. “He rarely leaves the castle. He’s got to be somewhere. I wish Philip would get back. He might know where Chuckie’s hiding.”

  MacRae looked up, down, and all around the castle precincts surrounding the courtyard. “I should think this place provides all sorts of nooks and crannies for someone who wants to avoid company.”

  “Indeed,” Beth said in a hollow voice.

  But Judith feared that Chuckie had already been found—by a killer.

  MacRae and Ogilvie left moments later, promising to send more men to make a thorough search of the castle. Beth seemed grateful.

  “I always feel like a visitor at Grimloch, not the chatelaine,” she confessed, leading the way into the private entrance. A sweep of her hand took in the entry area, which was decorated in a severe modern style with only a couple of abstract paintings and whitewashed walls. “Phil’s second wife did this. She stripped it of all the old character. I’d like to change it, but I’m not sure how to go about it.”

  Renie looked at the space with her artistic eye. “Ghastly. What was she trying to prove?”

  “That she was young and hip,” Beth replied. “Wait until you see the sitting room,” she continued, heading down a narrow corridor with black-and-white photographs of London street scenes on the walls. “Poor Phil. His first wife, Bella, died young from an aneurysm. His second wife, Rosemary, was much older, but very rich, and at the time, Phil was having financial problems. The dot-com crash, 9/11, the whole global downturn hurt business. His second wife died of cancer, only two years after they were married. Phil’s always felt guilty about marrying Rosemary for money, which makes him touchy whenever I mention redecorating this part of the castle. I suppose it’s his memorial to Rosemary, expressing gratitude for bailing him out of shark’s waters.”

  They’d reached an open archway into what appeared to be the sitting room, all black and white with a couple of red accent pillows to break the monotony. “He’s doing well now, I gather,” Judith said as all three women sat down on the large U-shaped sofa.

  “Yes,” Beth replied, “but he got a bad scare when things turned sour. Phil talks about diversifying, maybe merging with Gunn Shipping.”

  Renie looked surprised.
“Is your mother the sole owner?”

  “Basically,” Beth replied. “My father, like Phil and his father and grandfather before him, believed strongly in keeping their businesses in the family. After my father died, Frankie inherited the position of chief officer, but the will was set up so that Mummy would actually run the business until the eldest son turned thirty. Frankie never lived that long, and all my brothers are under the official age, so Mummy is still in charge. She has quite a good head for business.”

  Judith recalled overhearing the conversation between Philip and Kate Gunn. “There are no ties to Blackwell Petroleum through either Grimglen or the shipping company, are there?”

  “No,” Beth replied, “though I’ve heard Jimmy has been considering some changes. The North Sea is a difficult area for oil exploration and requires investing in very expensive equipment. Production peaked a few years back, but there’s been a steady decline since. All of Blackwell’s operations are offshore, and quite far north. Jimmy, I understand, wants to merge with some of the other UK companies. Harry didn’t like that idea and thought Blackwell should invest in some of the marginal fields and put money into better exploration and drilling equipment. Jimmy and a couple of the other top executives felt that the initial expense wouldn’t be worth the return down the road.”

  “If,” Judith said, “Jocko is the CEO, what exactly is Jimmy’s title? He seems to wield quite a bit of power.”

  Beth smiled faintly. “Officially, he’s their legal counsel, though most of the work is delegated to Seumas Bell. But because Moira doesn’t always involve herself too deeply in the business, Jimmy acts as her proxy with the right to overrule everybody else, including Jocko. Or did, until Harry barged in and started to interfere.”

  “Harry was a thorn in many people’s sides,” Judith remarked.

  Beth thought for a moment. “He was young and arrogant. That didn’t sit well with the people who’d been with Blackwell a long time. I don’t know much about the company. Moira,” she added with a wry expression, “rarely discusses it.”

  Judith had intended to bring up the relationship between Moira and Patrick when what sounded like a pager went off. Beth went to the phone on a side table. “Yes, Mrs. Gibbs?” she said into the receiver. “Of course. I’ll meet them in the courtyard.” She hung up and turned back to the cousins. “More police are arriving to search for Chuckie.”

  Judith and Renie had stood up. “Can we help?” Judith asked.

  Beth shook her head. “Thanks, but no. All I can do is suggest some of Chuckie’s hiding places. Oh, damn—I wish Phil were here!”

  “Men go missing around here,” Renie said. “Ours are AWOL, too.”

  Beth nodded once. “Then they’re the lucky ones, aren’t they?”

  It was three-thirty when the cousins returned to the Flynns’ room. “Do you suppose,” Renie asked wistfully, “Mrs. Gibbs is serving tea?”

  “Good grief,” Judith said in disgust, “you can’t be hungry again.”

  “I will be in half an hour,” Renie asserted. “I’m thinking ahead.”

  “Then stop it,” Judith said. “Turn off your stomach and turn on your brain. What should I do with those blasted emails?”

  Renie shrugged. “Béarnaise sauce might improve their flavor.”

  Judith shot her cousin a menacing glance. “I’m serious. Should I turn them over to the police?”

  Renie brightened. “You think they have better recipes?”

  “Knock it off!” Judith went to the bureau where she’d put the silver case. “I’m already frustrated. I’m getting cabin fever. I’d like to tour Speyside and Inverness and the glens and the lochs and do some of things regular tourists do.”

  “No you wouldn’t,” Renie said. “You’re having a wonderful time trying to solve your latest murder. As a hobby, I suppose it beats stamp collecting and fantasy baseball.”

  “Shut up.” Judith rummaged in the drawer, moving her new sweaters and wondering if the castle had a laundry for guests.

  “Just think,” Renie said, stretching out on the bed, “you get to go to a real inquest tomorrow. Sound like fun?”

  “Coz,” Judith said, “didn’t I put the silver case in this drawer?”

  Renie sat up. “Uh…I think so. I wasn’t paying much attention.”

  “It’s gone.” Judith felt the color drain out of her face as she turned to stare at Renie. “Someone stole it.”

  Renie jumped off the bed. “That’s crazy. Nobody knew you had it.”

  “Not true. Whoever put the case in my purse knew it.”

  “But,” Renie protested, “that was at Hollywood House.”

  “So what?” Judith’s shock was giving way to anger. “Those emails may be crucial to solving this homicide. Who’s been here in the last hour since we got back?”

  Renie ticked off the residents and guests. “Mr. and Mrs. Gibbs. Beth and maybe Philip. Will Fleming. Chuckie. The police.” Renie shrugged. “We wouldn’t necessarily know if someone else showed up.”

  “True,” Judith agreed, sitting on the chest at the foot of the bed. “Now I’ve got to tell MacRae about the theft—and try to explain why I didn’t turn the blasted emails over to him in the first place. Toss me my cell phone. My purse is on the bed. And don’t touch anything in this room in case there are fingerprints.”

  Renie flipped the phone to Judith, who trapped it between her knees. “You think I’m some kind of amateur at this crime stuff?”

  Ogilvie answered. Judith phrased her words carefully. “Something has been stolen from my guest room, Sergeant. Could the policemen who are looking for Chuckie check for prints when they get done?”

  “Well?” Renie said after Judith rang off.

  “He’ll get hold of the cops before they leave,” Judith said. “We don’t have anything worth stealing, which is why I didn’t lock the door.”

  Renie nodded faintly. Judith sat quietly on the chest, watching the pale light cast lengthening shadows across the floor. “It’s officially spring,” she said at last. “The seasons have changed since we got here.”

  “A lot has changed,” Renie pointed out.

  Judith shook her head. “It usually does when we go anywhere. Sometimes I feel like the harbinger of death.”

  “Don’t. You think just because you showed up, somebody took that as a cue to murder Harry Gibbs?” Renie held up a hand to keep Judith from talking. “Don’t say it. If you really believed that, you’d think you were the center of the universe. That’s not the real you.”

  Judith didn’t argue. “Let’s find out how we get from this part of the castle to the other part without crossing the courtyard. We’ll take the elevator at the other end of the hall and ask Mrs. Gibbs. I can’t figure it out from the castle diagram because they show only the guest section and the rest is marked private or refers to structural features. Even I know a rampart when I see one.”

  “What if the cops show up in your room?” Renie asked.

  “I’ll leave a note, along with my cell number. Let’s go.”

  “Tea?” Renie said hopefully.

  Writing a brief message for the police, Judith ignored her cousin. “Let’s go,” she repeated, putting the slip of paper on the dresser mirror.

  Looking disappointed, Renie followed in silence. The elevator was a smaller version of the cage on the cliff. It could accommodate two people, or perhaps just one and a service cart. The conveyance made its own strange noises, creaking and squeaking down to the ground floor.

  “The kitchen and the pantry are beyond that door,” Judith said as they exited the lift. “If you ask nicely, Mrs. Gibbs will give you a biscuit.”

  “It better be shortbread,” Renie grumbled.

  Mrs. Gibbs was stirring a big soup pot. “No tea today,” she said when the cousins entered the kitchen. “I couldn’t bake because the oven broke. Gibbs still isn’t back to fix it. Dinner at eight.”

  “We understand,” Judith said. “Excuse us, Mrs. Gibbs. How can we get t
o the private quarters without crossing the courtyard?”

  Mrs. Gibbs brushed a strand of gray hair from her forehead. “Back the way you came, then through the door to the right of the lift.”

  “Thanks,” Judith said. “By the way, have your son and his wife been contacted yet?”

  Mrs. Gibbs shook her head. “They’ll never find out what’s happened to their poor laddie until they get back from the jungle and into civilized parts. That’s the way they are. It canna be helped.”

  “Are their extensive travels work-related?” Judith asked.

  Mrs. Gibbs removed the ladle from the soup pot and turned down the heat. “South America, South America—that’s all they know. It’s a wonder the natives haven’t put them in a pot and eaten them.”

  “How often do they come back here?” Judith inquired.

  Mrs. Gibbs shrugged. “Once, sometimes twice a year. What good does it do? Promises, promises—that’s all they ever make. A fine way to help us old folk! Banks and such want more than empty words!”

  “That’s so,” Judith said as Gibbs entered the kitchen.

  “Car’s fixed,” he said, and kept going through to the dining room.

  Mrs. Gibbs went after him, waving the soup ladle. “Now fix the oven, mon!”

  Judith and Renie followed Mrs. Gibbs’s directions and found themselves in another narrow passageway where the only light came from a few orange bulbs that had been set in the ancient iron sconces. The three doors along the way had once led to the great hall, but, if Judith remembered correctly, that section was now the Gibbses’ lodgings.

  At the end of the passageway they found two doors. Judith opened the one on the left. A carpeted hallway with abstract paintings on the walls indicated that this was part of the Fordyce suite. The door to their right was harder to budge. Judith had to put her shoulder against it before it opened with a harsh, scraping sound.

  “Where are we?” Renie asked, looking around a large room with two narrow window slits far above the cousins’ heads.

  Judith scanned the cartons, boxes, barrels, and chests that covered most of the floor and were stacked almost six feet high. The air felt dank and stale. “It must be the storage area.” She grimaced at the mounds of various containers, many covered in dust and cobwebs. The room was so crowded that Judith found it oppressive, even overwhelming. “What else could it be?”