by Mary Daheim
“Damn!” Judith exclaimed softly. “Now MacRae’s probably having his own press conference.”
Before she could look out of the windows, Constable Glen entered through a side door. “Mrs. Flynn, Mrs. Jones!” he said in surprise. “May I help you?”
“Yes,” Judith said. “Can you please tell DCI MacRae that we’ve reason to believe that neither our husbands nor Hugh MacGowan are safe? That text message didn’t come from them. It was a hoax, meant to deceive all of us.”
Glen frowned. “Pardon? How do you know?”
“Never mind,” Judith said, trying to remain patient. “Just tell him. I think I know where they are.”
Glen looked disconcerted. “He’s with the media. I can’t interrupt.”
“Then do it as soon as he’s done,” Judith said, more sharply than she’d intended. “Please. Tell MacRae I think they’re at Morton’s garage.”
Glen looked flummoxed. “The auto repair?”
“Yes.” She composed herself and tried to smile. She failed.
“I’ll relay the message…” He broke off as Seumas Bell came into the parlor.
“Where’s Cameron?” Seumas demanded of Glen.
“In our temporary headquarters in the study across the hallway,” Glen answered. “You’re his legal counsel?”
“No,” Seumas snapped. “I refuse to represent him. I’m not a criminal lawyer and I detest murderers. I’ll tell him in person.” He suddenly seemed to notice the cousins. “What are they doing here?”
Glen’s color rose. “They…ah…”
“I’m going to represent Patrick,” Renie declared. “Go ahead, look me up under the American Inns of Court under S. E. Jones. I’m big stuff on the other side of the pond and I’ve practiced as a barrister over here.”
Bell tried to conceal his astonishment but didn’t quite manage it. “You’re a…” He cleared his throat. “Then you’re welcome to him.” He turned on his heel and left the room.
Glen was staring at Renie. “I didn’t realize…”
“Never mind. My brother-in-law’s the attorney. Bub and I have the same initials. That’s because,” she went on, “his real name isn’t Bub. Still, he’s a terrific lawyer, and he did come to England once. For something. I forget.”
Glen seemed justifiably confused. “If you’ll excuse me, I should—” Shouts and loud noises suddenly erupted, and not, Judith judged, from outside. “What’s that?” Alarmed, the constable raced from the parlor.
Judith and Renie followed him to the door from which he’d entered. They saw Patrick Cameron pummeling Seumas Bell before hurling him onto the floor.
“Now, now,” PC Glen called. “None of that! Oops!” He lost his balance as Seumas rolled into his legs.
“Keep that swine away from me!” Patrick barked. “He’s the one who should be under arrest!” He went back into what was presumably the study and slammed the door.
“We’re out of here,” Judith said to Renie. “Let’s go.”
Leaving through the tradesmen’s entrance, Judith stopped to catch her breath on the brick path. “Between you and these crazy Scots, I can only take so many brawls in one short span of days. Besides, we can’t do anything about Joe and Bill until MacRae gets our message. We’ll have to trust him to act fast. I’m sure he will with a fellow cop at risk.”
“Let’s hope.” Renie sighed and clutched at the ruined suede jacket she was still holding. “Damn and double damn. Maybe we should’ve gone to California after all.”
Judith looked askance. “Right. It’s so safe. Nothing bad ever happens in California,” she said.
“Now what do we do?” Renie asked. “We’ve no wheels.”
Judith studied the inn’s well-tended garden and tried to calm herself by imagining how it would look when the bulbs were in bloom and the herbaceous borders had leafed out. At home, she found working with plants, digging in the dirt, and pruning overgrown shrubs was a form of therapy after a difficult day. But just thinking about the process and its results came as no comfort ten thousand miles away from Hillside Manor. “We could sit in the gazebo and pray,” she suggested.
“Sounds good to me,” Renie said.
They walked the twenty feet to the gazebo with its dark green latticework and sat down after making sure the wooden seats weren’t wet from the rain and mist. “I don’t hear any noise coming from the front of the inn,” Judith said after a couple of minutes of silence. “Maybe the media’s gone.”
“Good,” said Renie. “Then MacRae can find our husbands. What makes you think Morton’s got them locked up in the repair shop?”
“Because he wouldn’t let Barry deliver the pizza there,” Judith replied. “According to Barry, he always takes…What was the mechanic’s name? Rob?” She saw Renie nod. “Barry always delivers Rob’s pizza in person to get his big tip.”
“You’re scaring me,” Renie declared. “Why would Morton be holding our husbands?”
“It has to do with MacGowan,” Judith said. “Whoever killed Harry wanted MacGowan out of the way because he’s a smart cop who probably knows too much. Somehow MacGowan must’ve found out about the murder—that is, both murders. Unfortunately, Joe and Bill were with him, and…” She shook her head. “I know it all sounds crazy, but I’m sure MacGowan didn’t send that text message to MacRae. Joe told me MacGowan detested new technology and refused to use it.”
Renie was nervously fidgeting with the jacket. “I don’t see how all three of them could’ve been kidnapped.”
“That’s what I don’t understand,” Judith admitted. There was a pause while the cousins fretted in silence.
“Maybe we should go to Morton’s garage,” Renie said.
“No. Too dangerous,” Judith responded. “Let the cops do it.”
“Damn,” Renie said softly. “The Bruce chewed the label off of this jacket. Now we don’t know the maker. The lining’s all stained, too, probably from pizza sauce. Let me see if there’s a label inside the pockets.” She checked the two on the exterior. “No luck.” Turning the jacket over, she poked a finger in the half-eaten inside pocket. “No…wait, there is something…” She pulled out a receipt, which bore The Bruce’s teeth marks. “This is from the Dolphin pub on October first. Wasn’t that the date of Davey’s death on his grave?”
“Yes,” Judith said. “I remember because it’s Cousin Marty’s birthday. Let’s see.”
Renie handed over the receipt. “Nineteen pounds four shillings and sixpence,” Judith murmured. “Four beverages, one burger, chips, a side of onion rings, and a spinach salad, not to mention a dab of catsup on the—” She stopped. “Let me see that lining.”
“Here.” Renie gave the jacket to Judith. “It’s clouding over. I’ll bet it’s going to rain again.” She looked at her watch. “Good Lord, it’s almost three! Where has the day gone?”
“This isn’t pizza sauce or catsup.” Judith stared at Renie. “I’m no expert, but it looks like dried blood.”
“So?” Renie looked puzzled. “Davey must’ve been wearing this jacket when he crashed his car. Of course there’d be blood on it.”
“It’s all wrong,” Judith said. “Who’d donate a bloodstained jacket to a thrift shop, even for a worthy cause?”
“Moira?”
“I wonder.” Judith carefully folded the jacket and tucked the receipt into her purse. “Davey was dead when Dr. Carmichael found him. Patrick was injured, but lying away from the wreck. Let’s call Carmichael,” Judith said, taking out her cell phone and dialing Alison’s number. “It’s pesky Mrs. Flynn. Have you got Dr. Carmichael’s listing?”
“I know it by heart,” Alison replied. “Have to, for emergencies.” She rattled off the doctor’s surgery number. “Are you ill?” “No,” Judith assured her. “Just an idle query. Thanks so much.” She dialed the doctor’s number. A pleasant female voice answered. She informed Judith that Dr. Carmichael was seeing a patient and had three more scheduled before the surgery closed at five. “Please,” Judith
begged, “tell him this is urgent.” She gave the woman her cell number.
“But that’s not local,” the woman said. “Where are you?”
“At the Hearth and Heath,” Judith informed her.
“Then come along,” the woman said. “We’re next door to the east.”
Judith rang off and stood up. “We’re going to see the doctor.”
When the cousins exited the garden through the gate facing the road, they saw what they presumed was the last of the media vehicles pulling away. Only a couple of onlookers lingered by the inn.
“Luckily,” Judith said, “we don’t look important.”
“We’re not,” Renie asserted as they approached the small whitewashed one-story building that housed the surgery. “How could the cops have missed that jacket if Davey was wearing it?”
“Because,” Judith said, ringing the bell, “I don’t think Davey was wearing it when the cops got there. That’s what we’re going to find out.”
A slim blonde about forty-odd opened the door. “You’re Americans,” she said. “I figured it out after I studied your cell phone number. Not traveler’s tummy, is it? The water’s perfectly safe here.”
“No,” Judith said as an elderly man shuffled into the waiting room from another direction. “Till next time,” he said. “Always a next time.” He went out the front door.
“Poor Mr. Murchison,” the blonde said. “Old age is painful.”
Dr. Carmichael appeared from the same part of the surgery Mr. Murchison had just left. “Susan told me you’d called,” he said, nodding at a woman with a toddler who’d just been admitted by the blonde. The doctor nodded at the mother and child. “I assumed it was you ladies. Let’s go into my office.”
“We won’t keep you,” Judith assured him as they left the waiting room. “In fact, we can do this right here.” She held out the jacket. “Do you recognize this?”
The doctor frowned. “No. It’s a bit of a wreck, isn’t it?”
Judith quickly explained about the hamster, the thrift shop, and her suspicions about bloodstains. Dr. Carmichael took the jacket from her and examined it more closely.
“Davey Piazza wasn’t wearing a jacket when I saw him. Odd, I remember thinking, because it was a chilly night.”
“Did you see it anywhere at the scene?” Judith asked.
“Why…” The doctor tapped his cheek several times. “No, I don’t think so. I discovered Patrick Cameron lying nearby, but I didn’t notice a jacket. It was dark and misty, of course.” He shook his head. “And now Patrick’s been arrested. Such a dreadful past few days.”
“Yes,” Judith agreed sympathetically. “Are those stains blood?”
The doctor looked again. “Very likely, but I’d have to make a more thorough examination.”
Judith nodded. “Thank you. We’ll leave you to your patients.”
Outside under the encroaching gray clouds, Renie poked Judith’s arm. “You have a theory. Let’s hear it.”
Before Judith could respond, Constables Glen and Adamson came out of the inn, heading for their patrol car parked at the road’s edge. Seeing Judith and Renie, they stopped.
“We’re off to Morton’s,” Glen called. “Don’t fret, we’ll get your husbands back to you safely.”
“Thanks! Good luck! Be careful!” Judith’s words followed the policemen into their vehicle.
“Shall we wait at the inn?” Renie asked.
Judith thought about it for a moment. “No. I trust the cops. Doing nothing would make me even more nervous than I am right now. Let’s take the bus.”
“What bus?” Renie asked, mystified.
“That bus,” she said, “coming this way.” She pointed to her left. “We’ll flag it down. We’re going to Hollywood.”
The driver was the same one who had given the cousins a free ride from Cummings House. Judith insisted on paying him for the previous ride and added a tip. If the man behind the wheel was surprised, he didn’t show it, but thanked them in a grumpy manner.
It took five minutes to reach their destination. Judith and Renie had remained silent during the brief journey. As expected, Fergus responded on the intercom. He didn’t sound pleased when Judith identified herself, but he opened the iron gates anyway.
“Madam is in her boudoir,” he said. “She’ll see you now.”
“Thanks, ol’ buddy,” Renie said. “You’re a sport.”
Fergus looked affronted.
Judith was relieved to see that Moira was alone, lying in bed and looking almost as pitiful as when the cousins had last seen her.
“I’m so sorry to be such a poor hostess,” she apologized, “but I’m still very ill. I wouldn’t have let you call on me if I didn’t think you had news of those silly emails.”
Judith couldn’t hide her surprise. “Who told you that?”
“Elise,” Moira said. Her face fell. “You do know what happened to them, don’t you?”
“We know they were stolen from my room at Grimloch along with the case,” Judith said. “We haven’t heard if they’ve been recovered.”
“Oh!” Moira flung a hand over her eyes. “How could Elise have made such a mistake?”
“Maybe,” Judith said, “she told you that to cheer you.”
Moira struggled to sit up. “Please, be seated. Oh, I don’t understand any of this! It’s all a vicious plot! Now Patrick’s under arrest, and I know he didn’t kill Harry! That bomb was meant for me!”
The cousins sat down in the side chairs by the bed. “You can help us find the killer,” Judith said, showing Moira the suede jacket. “You gave this to the thrift shop. It belonged to David Piazza.”
Moira frowned. “Goodness, it’s ruined. Davey owned a jacket like that, yes. But I didn’t give it to the thrift shop.”
“I heard,” Judith said, “you gave all his clothes away.”
Moira shook her head. “I did no such thing.” She paused. “Harry may’ve done it.” She paused again. “You see, Davey lived in the carriage house here on the grounds. After his accident, Harry went through his things, making sure there were no important business papers and clearing everything out because I couldn’t stand to see the place the way it was when Davey was alive. I couldn’t bear to do it myself. Maybe Harry took the clothes to the thrift shop. I really don’t know.”
Judith nodded. “That makes sense.”
“Yes,” Moira agreed. “I had a collapse very like this one after Davey died.” She moaned softly. “How much more can I endure?”
Judith couldn’t help but sympathize with Moira. The young woman had certainly been bombarded with tragedies. Still, her self-absorption caused even Judith’s soft heart to harden a bit.
“Life is not easy,” Judith declared. “Nobody lives unscathed. You have your son and some devoted friends. You’re able to live comfortably—a privileged life, in fact. We make choices, and some of them are wrong. I know—I’ve made mistakes and paid the price.”
“I don’t,” Renie said. “Only idiots screw up.”
Judith was shocked. “Coz! Watch your mouth!”
“Don’t start,” Renie warned, looking nasty. “You know what happens when we quarrel. I win.” She turned to Moira. “Sorry about that. Ever fought with your closest friends?”
Realizing what Renie was up to, Judith waited for Moira’s response.
“I have at that,” she admitted, falling back against the pillows. “Marie and I had a terrible falling-out a while ago.” Moira laughed weakly. “I thought she was marrying the wrong man. Imagine! I’m not one to criticize. I felt Will was too old for her and I didn’t trust him. Oh, I had reasons not to at the time.” Her expression was rueful. “Will always took Jimmy’s side against me in any dispute. Maybe Will lacked faith in my judgment, maybe he thought I relied too much on Davey Piazza, maybe early on he simply felt that I didn’t have enough business experience.” She shrugged. “But Will’s changed in recent months. Now Marie and I are close again and I have complete faith in Will
’s loyalty.”
“That’s wonderful,” Renie said. She looked at Judith. “Okay, coz, I forgive you. For whatever it was,” she added.
Moira’s pale face showed some color as she sat up again. “What are you going to do with that jacket?”
“Give it to the police,” Judith said.
“No!” Moira’s hand shot out to snatch the jacket, but Judith was too quick for her.
“Why not?” Judith inquired mildly.
“I…” Moira closed her eyes for a moment. “It seems a silly thing to do.” She started to cry softly. “I want the jacket, as a keepsake.”
“Sorry,” Judith said. “Maybe later. You see,” she continued, standing up, “it’s not a souvenir. It’s evidence.”
The cousins had almost reached the door when Moira uttered a plaintive cry. “You don’t understand,” she wailed as Judith turned to look at her. “Historically,” Moira went on, dropping her voice and sounding somber, “we’ve had three verdicts in Scotland—guilty, not guilty, and not proven. No matter what happens, many people will believe I’m responsible for Harry’s death. ‘Not proven,’ they’ll whisper, and for the rest of my life I’ll live in purgatory.”
She turned her face to the wall and began to sob very softly.
22
I really do feel sorry for Moira,” Judith said as they exited Hollywood House. “Living in a village makes gossip even worse.”
“I’ll bet she moves after all this,” Renie remarked, walking along the driveway in a soft drizzle of rain. “Back to France, maybe. These days she could run Blackwell from an ice floe off of Antarctica.”
Judith nodded. “Oh well. We found out who the Leopard is—Will Fleming. He changed his spots.”
“Power struggle,” Renie said. “Harry versus Jimmy. Jimmy versus Jocko Morton. Seumas Bell versus Patrick. Any number of combinations, all struggling for control while Philip and Kate wait in the wings to make their buyout offer.”
“Right,” Judith agreed, taking out her cell phone. “At least I’m fairly sure who killed Davey Piazza.”