Scots on the Rocks

by Mary Daheim

  Renie stared at her cousin. “You are?”

  “I wasn’t kidding about this jacket being evidence, though I’m not exactly sure how.” She dialed Alison’s number again. “It just dawned on me we’re stuck here. I got so focused on that jacket…Alison? Hi, Mrs. Flynn again. Could Barry pick us up at Hollywood House?”

  “He’s making a delivery outside of St. Fergna so he won’t be back for a while,” Alison said. “Can you wait?”

  “We don’t have much choice,” Judith said. “Thanks.”

  “No luck?” Renie asked as they went through the open gates.

  Judith nodded. “Gibbs,” she said suddenly. “Maybe he can collect us.” She dialed Grimloch’s number and got better results. Mrs. Gibbs informed her that Mr. Gibbs would be along in fifteen minutes. The tide was changing; he’d have to take his skiff. Judith called Alison back to tell her not to bother Barry.

  “So,” Renie said, moving under the shelter of a hawthorn tree, “who killed Davey?”

  “Harry,” Judith answered simply. “Who else resented Davey that much? His sudden rise was fodder for gossip about an attraction between employer and employee. Jealousy is such a powerful motive. It must have gnawed at Harry. I assume he tampered with Davey’s brakes. Judging from the Dolphin receipt, we know Davey wasn’t alone. He paid cash for the meal because Harry never carried money.”

  “Aha!” Renie exclaimed. “The burger. Davey was a vegetarian, not to mention that even I couldn’t eat that much food and drink that many drinks by myself.”

  “Right,” Judith said as a lorry drove past the cousins. “I finally remembered what Kate Gunn told Beth about her fancy fern. Kate mentioned that it was the feast day of Saint Thérèse of Lisieux, which should have dawned on me earlier as the first of October. But all I could think of was Cousin Marty’s birthday until you griped to me about the old church calendars and my own birthday. I’ll bet that was Harry, driving around in a panic after Davey crashed his car. MacGowan may have checked the garage repair records and discovered that Harry’s Rover had been in for a repair—after he wiped out Kate’s fern. Harry followed Davey and went down to the site to make sure his rival was dead. He took off Davey’s suede jacket, knowing that the telltale receipt was in the pocket. But because Harry wasn’t the brightest guy around and flustered to boot, he never removed it.”

  “Harry also had to deal with Patrick’s arrival,” Renie pointed out. “That must’ve scared the hell out of him. I wonder if Patrick saw Harry’s Rover before he climbed down the cliff.”

  “Maybe not,” Judith replied. “Patrick was walking from the opposite direction. Anyway, Harry had to act fast, clobber Patrick, and flee the scene. He finally went home, put the jacket with Davey’s clothes in the carriage house, and later gave them to the thrift shop without getting rid of the receipt. As I mentioned, Harry wasn’t very smart.”

  “No wonder Moira didn’t give him any real power at Blackwell,” Renie said. “But he lucked out because Patrick got amnesia.”

  Judith shook her head. “No.” A midsize sedan approached but kept going. “Not Gibbs,” she murmured. “I think Moira guessed that Davey’s crash was no accident. Harry must have returned that night in some kind of emotional state. She’s pregnant, with a husband who’s just killed the man he thought was his rival. Think bloodlines. Everybody here does, including Moira’s father, who refused to let his illegitimate son inherit the company despite Jimmy’s competence. Moira couldn’t risk people thinking her baby’s father wasn’t Harry, so they reconciled, which must have galled her, but was necessary. Somehow pressure was put on MacGowan, who may have had his own ideas about what happened. And Patrick kept quiet for the sake of Moira’s reputation. He’s always been loyal to her, and arresting Harry wouldn’t have been in Moira’s long-term interests involving her son.”

  “But with Harry dead,” Renie said, “why would his killer want MacGowan out of the way?”

  Judith shrugged. “Maybe Moira didn’t exaggerate. It’s possible that she was intended to be a victim, too. Harry may have told someone he’d invited her to join him on the beach. Whether or not that’s so, his killer didn’t want MacGowan around to reopen the matter of Davey’s death and link both crimes. Harry was probably gullible. Who fed him tales about Moira and Davey? Somebody was goading Harry to get rid of his wife’s alleged lover and go to prison.” She paused. “Here’s Gibbs.”

  After getting in the car, Judith thanked Gibbs for coming. “If you don’t mind,” she added, “could we stop at the Hearth and Heath inn?”

  “Aye.” Gibbs kept his eyes on the wet road. The rest of the brief trip was made in silence.

  Judith and Renie got out, asking Gibbs to wait.

  “Do you suppose Bill and Joe are here already?” Renie asked as they entered the inn through the guest entrance.

  “Let’s hope,” Judith responded.

  They were in a foyer, replete with framed swatches of tartans of various clans. MacRae was on the phone, standing by an antique table Judith guessed served as the registration desk. Two dried arrangements of heather, thistle, and some plants she didn’t recognize stood at each end of a shelf holding maps and tourist guides.

  Seeing the cousins, MacRae ended the call after a few brief words. “Sorry,” he said. “Your husbands weren’t at Morton’s garage.”

  Judith was stunned. “They weren’t?”

  “No,” MacRae said regretfully. “Nor the MacGowan, either.”

  Judith and Renie exchanged anxious looks. “I was so sure…” Judith began, and trailed off, feeling helpless and panicky.

  “I must confess,” MacRae said, “I had doubts about your idea, but I checked with my superior, who knows MacGowan quite well, and he confirmed that Hugh doesn’t use a cell phone.”

  “They must be somewhere,” Judith said in a strained voice. “Are you still searching?”

  “Indeed,” MacRae replied. “One of ours is missing, too.” He grimaced. “The cell number belongs to your husband, Mrs. Flynn.”

  “I thought so,” Judith said. “Bill is like MacGowan—he won’t carry a cell phone, either.” She glanced at Renie, seeking comfort. But Renie seemed equally shaken, pale and wide-eyed. Trying to dampen her fears, Judith turned back to MacRae. “We have to talk. I’ve something to show you and a confession to make.”

  MacRae ushered the cousins into the study, which was lined with bookshelves stocked with popular fiction. There were comfortable chairs and a gas-powered fireplace. Judith figured the room was designed for guests, though the police had made it their own with computers, phones, and file folders. A map of the vicinity hung above the fireplace. Judging from the pushpins and red X’s on the beach and at Grimloch Castle, it wasn’t there for the convenience of visitors, but to show the crime scenes and other pertinent locations.

  “Ogilvie’s searching with the constables,” MacRae said, sitting at the desk. “What is it you have to tell me?”

  Judith and Renie had also sat down. “It’s about some emails we found in the jewel case.” Briefly, Judith summed up the contents, forcing herself to focus on the matter at hand, rather than fretting about Joe and Bill. “At first I thought the exchanges were between Moira and Patrick. But it occurred to me just now when we came in that those emails aren’t as recent as I’d assumed.”

  Renie stared at Judith. “It did? Why didn’t you say so?”

  Judith looked faintly sheepish. “It was the dried heather by the desk.” She turned back to MacRae. “One of the messages mentioned the last heather of the season. I grow the plant in my garden at home, and heather doesn’t bloom past September. There was also something about going to bed early and the sun setting. That sounds more like late summer or early fall than this time of year.”

  MacRae looked impressed; Renie seemed annoyed. “Do go on,” the detective urged.

  “That means,” Judith explained, “they were written months ago, probably in September, before David Piazza died. Those emails were intended to sound as if
Davey and Moira were the ones having the affair and possibly plotting to get rid of Harry. Whoever wrote them probably showed the emails to Harry in order to incite him to violence.”

  “Fascinating.” MacRae smiled in approval, cleared his throat, and folded his hands on the desk. “Please don’t take this as criticism. I realize you have your own methods when you’re on the job.”

  “I…” Judith started to ask if there might be confusion about what the “job” really was, but thought better of it. This wasn’t the time to get sidetracked. “The emails were mistakenly put into my purse by Moira’s maid, Elise. They were meant for Beth Fordyce, not me. I think Moira wanted Beth to see them and perhaps get rid of them for her. If you ask Will Fleming, I think you’ll learn that he found them and brought them to Grimloch. The case they were in ended up at Hollywood House in my purse. I have no idea who later took it out of my room.” She paused and put Davey’s jacket on the desk. “There’s one more important thing,” Judith said, and offered her theory about the pub receipt.

  “My word!” MacRae exclaimed softly. “You are the goods, Mrs. Flynn! I’ll review MacGowan’s notes on the accident. Are you returning to Grimloch?”

  “Yes,” Judith said, getting up. “Gibbs is waiting for us. Unless we can help find Joe and Bill. Doing nothing will drive us crazy.”

  MacRae thought for a moment. “Really, I don’t see how you can help. I’ve requested extra personnel to expand the search. I’ll keep in close touch, of course.”

  “I understand,” Judith said as she and Renie were escorted from the study by MacRae. “I can’t believe all three were abducted.”

  “Very puzzling,” MacRae admitted.

  MacRae escorted the cousins outside. The Morris saloon was nowhere in sight.

  “Where’s Gibbs?” Renie asked, looking in every direction.

  “Perhaps,” MacRae suggested, “he was called away.”

  “I don’t think he has a cell phone,” Judith said.

  A horn honk caught their attention. “Need a lift?” Barry shouted.

  “We do,” Renie said. “We’ve been stranded by Gibbs.”

  “Come on,” Barry said from where he’d stopped in the middle of the road. “Where to?”

  “Grimloch,” Judith replied, “but if Gibbs went there without us, the skiff’s on the other side. We’ll be stuck on the beach.”

  “Let’s look,” Barry said, making a wide U-turn in the middle of the road and almost running down MacRae, who was still standing in front of the inn. “Whew! Good thing I missed him.”

  Judith braced herself on the dashboard. “You might be a little more careful,” she advised. “The rain is coming down harder and the roads are slick.”

  “Aye,” Barry said blithely. “Sorry I couldn’t fetch you earlier. Mrs. Gunn ordered four pizzas, and it takes a bit to go to her place and back. Family doings, maybe,” Barry said.

  “It’s early for dinner,” Judith pointed out.

  “Mrs. Gunn’s different from other folk,” Barry said.

  “Yes.” Judith made no further comment, but she wondered if Kate had called some kind of emergency meeting. Maybe, she thought, the reason was related to Kate’s abrupt departure from the Rood & Mitre.

  The High Street was almost deserted on this stormy late afternoon. Barry shot through the coast road intersection; the car rumbled down to the beach where the skiff was tied up at the edge of the paved area.

  “Guess Gibbs went on a lark,” Barry said. “Want me to row?”

  “Well…you’ll have to,” Judith said. “We owe you two jackets.”

  Barry helped the cousins get into the skiff. “What about The Bruce?” Renie asked. “Doesn’t he like boats?”

  “He gets seasick,” Barry said as he plied the oars.

  Five minutes later, the cousins were inside the castle. “I wonder where Gibbs went,” Judith said as they trudged up the stone stairs to their rooms. “I hope nothing’s happened to him.”

  “Why should he be spared?” Renie snapped. “A lot of us are in danger.” She stopped at the top of the stairs. “Your room or mine?”

  Judith shrugged. “Yours, I guess. You’ve got a view of the village.”

  “If we can see it through the rain,” Renie said, leading the way. “It’s after four o’clock and I’m still not hungry, but I’m getting crabby as well as worried sick.”

  Inside the Joneses’ room, Renie spotted a piece of paper a few inches from the door. “What’s this? A ransom note for our husbands?”

  “What does it say?” Judith asked anxiously.

  “‘Dinner will not be served tonight.’ That’s it.”

  “I wonder why,” Judith said. “Does this have to do with Gibbs?”

  “Maybe it’s got more to do with Harry’s funeral tomorrow,” Renie said. “Both Gibbses must be terribly upset.”

  “True,” Judith agreed, beginning to pace and fighting the urge to bite her nails. “I cannot just stay here and have a nervous breakdown!”

  “We don’t have a choice,” Renie pointed out, taking her eye medication kit off of the bureau. “Let’s go get a drink.”

  “I don’t feel like drinking.” Judith stopped pacing and stared at Renie. “You aren’t wearing your patch!”

  Renie’s smiled wanly. “My eye’s much better. I wish my nerves were.”

  “Me, too.” Judith wandered over to the window. “There’s a boat heading this way. It looks like the police launch.” She turned back to face Renie. “Let’s see who it is.”

  “Bill and Joe?” Renie asked excitedly, heading for the stairs.

  “Wouldn’t MacRae call us if they’d been found?” Judith asked.

  “Maybe the storm screwed up the phones,” Renie suggested. “The wind sounds like it’s blowing through the chinks in the castle walls.”

  The cousins waited at the courtyard door. Five minutes passed. Judith and Renie exchanged several worried glances. Judith finally opened the door to peer outside. “Nothing.”

  Another five minutes passed. Judith looked again. Several people Judith couldn’t identify in the gathering gloom were crossing the courtyard, headed for the Fordyce apartments. Except, she noticed, one lone figure was heading their way.

  “Gibbs,” Judith said, leaving the door open.

  Wind and rain blew into the entry area. Gibbs walked slowly, head down, shoulders slumped. He didn’t look up when he entered. “Patrick jumped out of the window and escaped,” he mumbled, and continued down the passageway.

  “Whoa!” Renie said under her breath. “How does he know? Did he help Patrick get away? And why did Gibbs arrive in the police launch?”

  Judith leaned against the door she’d just closed. “Patrick probably jumped out of the window at the inn. He’s very fit. He could do it easily.”

  “Did Gibbs help him get away?” Renie asked.

  “Maybe,” Judith said, “that’s why he left us stranded. Come on. Let’s ask him.”

  The cousins headed for the kitchen. When they entered, there was no sign of Gibbs. His wife glanced up from the counter where she’d been peeling carrots. Mrs. Gibbs’s red-rimmed eyes indicated that she’d been crying.

  “Where’s Gibbs?” Judith asked politely.

  “I dinna ken,” Mrs. Gibbs mumbled, and dropped the peeler onto the floor.

  “I’ll get it,” Renie volunteered.

  The older woman’s hands were shaking. “Thank ye,” she said to Renie. “It’s all for naught.”

  “What is?” Judith asked.

  Mrs. Gibbs sniffed twice and wiped at her cheek with the back of her hand. “Everything.”

  Judith moved closer. “I don’t understand.”

  “My whole life…wasted,” Mrs. Gibbs declared, avoiding Judith’s gaze. “Naught to show for it. A reckless son and a butchered grandson!” Her voice rose. “Work, work, work—and why? This was ours!” She swept a hand in a wide arc. “Then Matthew and his silly schemes lost it for us to that Fordyce! Bought it out from under us fo
r not half its worth! The Master indeed! Och, Philip Fordyce is The Master all right! Treats us like slaves, he does! And now it’s finished.” She looked at the framed MacIver tartan on the wall. “My clan motto—‘I will never forget.’ How could I not remember how our lives were ruined?” Mrs. Gibbs turned on her heel and walked away.

  “I’ll be damned,” Renie said under her breath.

  “I’ve wondered about this whole setup,” Judith admitted. “The old folks working their tails off while Matt and Peggy travel the world.”

  “Harry’s marriage was intended to bail them out?” Renie suggested.

  “Very likely,” Judith said. “But there’s got to be more to it.”

  “Like what?” Renie asked.

  “I’m trying to sort through what Mrs. Gibbs meant,” Judith said, starting out of the kitchen. “Come on. Let’s go to the Fordyce suite.”

  Renie was right on Judith’s heels. “We’re party crashers?”

  “Whatever’s going on there isn’t a celebration,” Judith asserted as they entered the passageway connecting the castle’s living sections. “I’m not sure what it really is, but I don’t want to miss it.”

  They reached the two doors, one of which led to the Fordyce suite, the other to the storage room and dungeon. Judith shuddered. “Poor Chuckie.” She opened the other door and walked down the carpeted hallway with the ugly abstract paintings chosen by Philip’s second wife. The corridor took a sharp left turn into a wider hall with zebra-striped wallpaper. “Gack,” Renie said. “The second Mrs. F had ghastly taste. Why do so many people with money lack the knack for using it wisely?”

  “Not our problem,” Judith said, taking in several doors along the way. “Where would everybody have gone?”

  The answer came when they reached an alcove where Constable Adamson stood at the door. “DCI MacRae was going to fetch you when he got here,” the constable said. “They’re in the drawing room.”

  The cousins entered a large, unattractive room decorated in red, black, and white with furniture that looked impossibly uncomfortable. PC Glen stood by a white stone fireplace. Gathered in various states of impatience and anxiety were Philip and Beth, Marie and Will, Jocko and his brother Archie, Peggy and Matt Gibbs, and Seumas Bell.