Scots on the Rocks

by Mary Daheim

“It’s that bird,” Judith said, peering in every direction. “The great northern diver.” She pointed to an outcropping some ten yards above them on the face of the cliff. The bird let out another eerie cry, then flapped its wings and flew off into the mist.

  “Creepy,” Renie whispered. “The voice of death?”

  Judith shivered. “It seems like it. First Harry, then Chuckie. They both hated that bird.”

  Shaken into silence, the cousins waited for a few minutes before Judith saw a running light and heard the sound of a motor moving toward them. “Here comes MacRae now,” she said. “The storm has passed.”

  “But there’s not much visibility,” Renie remarked. “Or is that because I’m half blind?”

  “Both,” Judith replied as the motor went into neutral and the craft floated toward the shore.

  “Hop in,” said a voice out of the mist.

  Judith and Renie helped each other into the runabout. “Thanks, Inspector.” Judith settled onto the cushioned sheet. “I can’t see you very well in this fog.”

  There was no immediate reply. Judith waited, hearing the waves slap softly against the boat. The motor purred as they began to move out into the channel. “The inspector couldn’t make it,” the man finally said. “I’m filling in for him. The name’s Patrick Cameron. We’ve not been formally introduced.”

  Judith exchanged a quick, wary glance with Renie. “You’re not with the police,” Judith said.

  “Not officially,” Patrick said. “Hold on. We’re almost ashore.”

  “Hold it!” Renie cried. “If you’re not a cop, I’m not a passenger.”

  She stood up but Judith grabbed her arm. “Sit. You can’t swim.”

  Reluctantly, Renie complied. “I don’t like this,” she murmured.

  “Give Patrick a chance to explain,” Judith whispered.

  Renie’s expression wasn’t just skeptical; she looked on guard, though she said nothing more. The runabout moved smoothly through the shallow water, its running lights dappling the constant waves.

  By the time they got to the small dock several yards down from the beach road, the mist had thinned a bit. Judith finally made out Patrick’s form and the familiar leather jacket. “We’ll have to walk from here to my cottage,” he said. Patrick tied up the boat, which Judith noticed was a twenty-footer with an inboard motor and a fiberglass hull. “Dutch-made,” Patrick remarked as he offered to help Judith onto the narrow dock. “Which one is Flynn and which one is Jones?”

  Judith made the introductions and grabbed Patrick’s outstretched hand. “I saw you at Hollywood House,” he said. “Thanks for the help with those two thugs.”

  “Oh.” Judith shrugged. “You know Americans—always rooting for the underdog. They aren’t actually thugs, though, are they?”

  “That depends.” Patrick grimaced. “The criminal element sometimes wears an old school tie.” He turned to Renie, who hadn’t budged from her seat in the boat. “Aren’t you coming, Mrs. Jones? Or,” he added, gesturing at her eye patch, “are you waiting for the Jolly Roger?”

  “Not funny,” Renie shot back. “Do I have a choice? The body count’s rising.”

  Judith winced at Renie’s remark. She’d planned to use subterfuge to find out if Patrick knew about Chuckie’s demise. But his rugged features registered curiosity, if not surprise. “Meaning what?” he asked.

  “Chuckie Fordyce,” Renie said. “He drowned in a vat of whiskey.”

  Patrick swore, loud and long. “Now why would anyone kill a pitiful laddie like Chuckie? It makes no sense.” He made an impatient gesture. “Let’s go. We’ve much to discuss.”

  Disdaining any offer of assistance, Renie got out of the boat. Patrick motioned with one hand to indicate their misty route. After about twenty yards of careful walking along the beach, Judith saw the base of the cliff, sloping more gently upward than at the end of the High Street. She also made out the bottom rungs of a wooden stairway, and recalled that Patrick had disappeared in that direction after his encounter with Jimmy.

  “Mind your step,” Patrick urged as he went ahead. “Hold the rail.”

  Judith followed Patrick; Renie was behind Judith. The stairs looked fairly new, not having yet acquired the worn gray look of ocean-sprayed wood.

  “The Hermitage,” Patrick said wryly. “My hideaway. Come inside.”

  Judith was still wary, but even more curious. “Thank you,” she said as they entered through the back door. “We noticed this house the other night when we were returning to Grimloch. It looked quite cozy.”

  Patrick laughed. “Looks are often deceiving.” He led the cousins through a cluttered, cramped kitchen and into a common room that appeared to serve as both living and dining room. The big solid table was covered with folders, files, and computer printouts. “It lacks a woman’s touch,” Patrick remarked. “I bought this cottage years ago, before I married. Sit—if you can find a place.” He began sweeping newspapers, magazines, and more folders off of the worn sofa and a couple of side chairs. “It’s basically my fishing shack. I love the sea.”

  “But you work here,” Judith noted, sitting in one of the side chairs.

  Patrick took off his leather jacket and tossed it on the back of the sofa. “Sometimes. Drink?” He’d gone to a cupboard near the dining room table. “Any kind of Scotch you like?”

  “Whatever you’ve got,” Judith said.

  “I hate Scotch,” Renie replied, making a face.

  Patrick looked faintly startled. “Did you tell Phil Fordyce you hated Scotch, so he put out your eye?”

  “You ought to see Phil,” Renie retorted. “He’s in a body cast.”

  Patrick seemed mildly amused. “Ah. Spunky American females. That’s good.” He moved some bottles around in the cupboard. “Rye?”

  “That’s also good,” Renie said. “But don’t add anything lethal.”

  “See here,” Patrick said, pausing as he started to pour their drinks into glass tumblers. “If I intended to harm you, I’d have done it already and tossed your spunky American bodies into the sea. I’m looking for information, not trouble.” He finished filling the glasses. “Tell me exactly what happened to Chuckie.”

  Judith recounted the discovery in the dungeon while Patrick handed the cousins their drinks and eased his athletic form onto the sofa. “It was ghastly,” Judith concluded. “I was afraid something might happen because he was bragging that he knew who killed Harry Gibbs.”

  Patrick frowned and rubbed at the bridge of his nose, which looked as if it had been broken. He also had a small scar under his left eye. Judith wondered if they were remnants from the night Davey had crashed the Lamborghini. “So Chuckie claimed he knew whodunit. Nonsense, probably. Dangerous nonsense, of course.” He shook his head. “Chuckie seldom left Grimloch. I haven’t seen him in a year or so.” With a glint in his hazel eyes, Patrick leaned forward. “And how did you two get involved in this Harry Gibbs mess?”

  “An accident,” Judith said innocently. “We’re on vacation with our husbands. They’ve gone fishing with Hugh MacGowan.”

  “The MacGowan,” he murmured. “How strange to have him away at a time like this.”

  “Strange?” Judith repeated. “This vacation was planned by our husbands. They met MacGowan on a previous fishing trip. My husband’s a retired police detective.”

  “Mine’s a nut doc,” Renie said. “He could find several patients around here, maybe even a sociopath or two.”

  “Really.” Patrick didn’t look at Renie, but kept his attention on Judith. “MacGowan would’ve made arrangements for time off,” he pointed out. “It’d be known when he’d be away.”

  “I see what you mean,” Judith said. “Is MacRae not as capable?”

  Patrick shrugged. “Not necessarily. MacGowan knows everybody and everything about this area. He’s very good at what he does. MacRae is an outsider, which is a hindrance. That’s why I’ve taken it upon myself to get to the bottom of Harry’s murder.”

  Judit
h nodded. “In your capacity as security chief at Blackwell?”

  “Yes.” Patrick took a quick swig of his whiskey. “I started out with the company working on oil platforms in the North Sea. It was dangerous, if exciting, work. In my off hours I figured out ways to improve employee safety. I caught upper management’s attention and found myself propelled ever upward. I’m in charge of security, which makes me a sort of corporate policeman.”

  Judith’s first inclination was to say that it wasn’t wise for amateurs to get involved. Realizing her own hypocrisy, she nodded. “You think you can help with the official inquiry?”

  “I know the players far better than MacRae—or even MacGowan,” Patrick said with conviction. He leaned forward, a glint in his eyes and a faint smile on his lips. “So tell me—where’s the jewel case?”

  Judith was taken aback. “What jewel case?” she asked.

  Patrick chuckled. “You know. The one in your purse.”

  “Stolen,” Judith said. “The theft has been reported to the police.”

  Patrick swore softly. He took another gulp of whiskey and recovered his composure. “Do the police know what was in the case?”

  “No,” Judith said.

  Patrick’s shoulders sagged in relief. “Did you read the contents?”

  Judith felt the tension build inside as her hold on the cocktail glass tightened. “Yes.”

  “Love stuff,” Renie said.

  “Fake,” Patrick said.

  “Fake?” Judith repeated.

  He nodded. “Will told me about them. Contrived to make it sound as if Moira was having an affair, probably with me. It’s an obvious attempt to implicate her in Harry’s death by providing the motive of a lover.” He chuckled and shrugged.

  “Do you know who got hold of the original emails in the first place?” Judith inquired.

  “Will,” Patrick replied. “He didn’t know what to do with the bloody fabrications, so he brought them for Beth to read.”

  Judith nodded. “All I know,” she said, “is that I ended up with the case in my purse and then it was swiped from my room. Who’d take it?”

  “I don’t know,” Patrick admitted, getting up and going to the front window. “It’s all bosh anyway.” He stopped speaking and peered outside. A full minute passed while Judith tried to get comfortable in the too-soft side chair and Renie fidgeted with her unruly hair.

  “Are we having company?” Renie asked as Patrick continued to stare through the window.

  He didn’t answer, but moved to turn off the lamp by Judith’s chair. The only light came from the kitchen, casting a pale yellow glow as far as the dining room table.

  “MacRae isn’t supposed to meet us here, is he?” Judith asked.

  Again, Patrick didn’t answer. He walked past the cousins without a word, through the dining area and into the kitchen. Two faint clicks indicated the opening and closing of a door. Judith stared at Renie.

  “I bet he left.” Renie jumped up and raced to the kitchen. A knock sounded at the front door. Judith sat very still. Renie came back into the common room. “Patrick’s gone,” she said. “Is somebody outside?”

  Judith nodded. “Let’s sit tight.”

  The knock sounded more loudly, followed by a masculine voice calling Patrick’s name.

  “Who?” Renie whispered.

  Judith shook her head. “Someone Patrick’s avoiding.” The pounding made the doorknob rattle. “Maybe we should find out.”

  “Weaponry,” Renie said. “I’ll take the fireplace poker, you get a butcher knife.”

  “Hold off on the armaments.” Judith moved to the door as the pounding and shouting continued. “Who is it?” she asked loudly.

  The pounding stopped.

  There was no chain on the door. Judith couldn’t open it enough to see who was there without letting the man inside. She repeated her request for him to identify himself.

  “Seumas Bell,” he finally said. “Let me in.”

  Judith opened the door. “Hi,” she said cheerfully. “We’re just—”

  Seumas brushed past her, glanced at Patrick’s leather jacket on the sofa, and went straight to the kitchen.

  Renie had rejected Judith’s advice and was standing on the hearth holding the poker. “He didn’t see me. Are his eyes as bad as mine?”

  “It sounds like he’s gone into another room,” Judith said. “I assume he’s looking for Patrick.”

  Renie took a practice swing with the poker. “Shall I whack him when he comes back in here?”

  “No.” Judith found a table lamp and switched it on. “Seumas doesn’t seem interested in us. Maybe we should leave.”

  But it was too late. Seumas stormed back into view before the cousins could move. Once again, he paid no attention to them, but continued his search, bending down to look under the dining room table. “Well?” he demanded, straightening up. “Where is he?” His gaze fixed on Judith. “I’ve seen you somewhere. What are you doing here?”

  Judith held up her glass. “We’re having a drink. Patrick went out for a bit.” She wasn’t sure why she was protecting their errant host, but having helped defend him in the previous encounter with Seumas Bell and Jocko Morton, Judith decided not to change sides. “Do you have a message for him? We can deliver it when he gets back.”

  A phone rang, playing familiar notes from Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony. Seumas reached inside his hooded jacket. “The Eagle has flown,” he said after a moment or two had passed. “The Jackal is trapped.” A longer pause followed. “The Leopard? Very well.” He clicked the phone off and put it back inside his jacket. “If I were you,” he said to the cousins in a low, menacing tone, “I’d get as far away as possible before you get hurt.” He looked more closely at Judith. “Yes…Hollywood House. Now I remember. Stop meddling! You don’t understand the danger!” He turned on his heel and ran out the front door without bothering to close it behind him.

  Renie set the poker aside, shut the door, and turned the key in the lock. “Does Seumas think you’re Patrick’s accomplice from the USA?”

  Judith shrugged. “I don’t know. He’s certainly trying to scare us. I wonder how he thinks we’re involved.” Her gaze ranged over the folders, files, and printouts that littered the common room. “If we snooped, I have a feeling we wouldn’t find any incriminating evidence. Patrick’s too sharp to be careless. Blackwell’s big dogs were here last night. I doubt that Patrick’s coming back soon, so let’s go.” She unlocked the door and peered outside. “The coast is clear.”

  The salt air felt invigorating as they stepped along the narrow garden path. Patrick’s cottage looked cozy, but Judith sensed its isolation from the rest of the village as it faced the sea. Maybe, she thought, that was where Patrick felt most at home—aboard a ship or on an oil rig or in his little runabout.

  The cousins remained cautious as they walked from The Hermitage and onto the High Street. From somewhere, a bell sounded six o’clock.

  “Now what?” Renie said as they stood in front of the confectioner’s shop that had closed for the day.

  “I’m not sure,” Judith admitted as her gaze scoured the High Street where the mist was drifting past the lampposts and shop fronts. Two cars went by, driving at a leisurely speed. A white cat crept out from behind a mailbox and disappeared in the scant space between the butcher’s and the post office.

  “So quiet,” Judith remarked. “Who’d think there’s a murderer on the loose around here?”

  “Who’d think the life expectancy in St. Fergna is about thirty?”

  Judith looked up as she heard a crow cawing nearby. The bird sat on top of the High Street clock some twenty yards away. “You mean like Moira’s husbands, Frankie and Harry, along with Chuckie and Philip’s first wife, Bella?”

  “Right. Not to mention,” Renie went on, “that Italian guy, Davey, who drove over the cliff. Was that an accident?”

  “I’ve wondered, too,” Judith said. “Moira seems to attract men who die before their time.
Even Chuckie had a crush on her.”

  “Bad track record,” Renie murmured. “Two husbands, one would-be suitor, and a personal assistant. Patrick should move to Australia.”

  “He’s already married,” Judith pointed out, starting to walk up the High Street. “I wish…I wish we had more resources. I’m at a loss.”

  “How about a pub?” Renie suggested. “Drinkers always talk.”

  “Yes, I’d like to be with seemingly harmless humans,” Judith said. “Let’s try the nice pub. We’ve already done Betsy at the Yew and Eye.”

  The cousins headed for the alley where the Rood & Mitre was located. The white cat zipped out from the shadows and ran ahead of them before disappearing into the mist.

  The pub’s door was locked. “Odd,” Judith said, peering through the small mullioned window. “The lights are on.” She knocked twice.

  After a long pause, the young man with the shaggy magenta hair who had served Judith and Renie on their previous visit opened the door a crack. “Sorry, we’re closed,” he whispered. “Private party.”

  Judith peered inside but the pub was empty. “Please,” she begged. “My cousin’s going blind. She needs water for her medicine.”

  The young man’s eyes darted around the vacant pub. “Um…”

  “Oh my God!” Renie wailed, though she kept her voice down as her hands flailed in Judith’s direction. “The dark! The gloom! I’m lost!”

  The lad stepped back in alarm. “Aye, come in, come in. You’re the American ladies from Grimloch.” He moved aside and led them to the bar. “I’ll pour the water. But then you must go.”

  “Sit,” Renie murmured, collapsing onto a barstool. “Stay. Woof.”

  With a hand that wasn’t quite steady, the lad pushed the water-filled tumbler toward Renie, who was fumbling in her purse. “Weird,” he said softly. “She wasn’t blind yesterday. No patch.”

  “It’s a condition that comes and goes,” Judith explained. “It’s brought on by the weather.”

  Renie slipped something onto her tongue. She picked up the glass and swallowed. “Ahh!”

  Judith, leaning on the bar, smiled at the lad. “Now she’ll be able to use her good eye on a limited basis. Thanks. What’s your name?”