Mary Daheim - Scots on the Rocks

The cousins trudged closer to the old stone arch. “It’s the Gunn family plot,” Renie said. “Same name as the pushy old bag in the shop.”

“You’re right.” Judith studied the monument, noticing that some of the letters were chipped, and ivy crept up its twin columns. Still, it was obvious from the neatly clipped grass that the plot was well tended. “Here’s Eanruig Gunn, who died four years ago at fifty-five. Maybe your Mrs. Gunn is his widow. There’s a ship on the marker.” She looked to her left where a statue of an angel overlooked another grave. “This one’s from three years ago, maybe a son, Francis Gunn, twenty-two. No wonder Mrs. Gunn is crabby. She’s had her share of tragedies.”

“I’ve had my share of graves,” Renie said. “Let’s eat.”

The cousins strolled out of the cemetery through the lich gate. Judith smiled. “Weird, huh? Our first tourist stop is a cemetery.” She paused, waiting for a couple of bicyclists to pass. “Nice,” she went on, breathing in the sea-tinged air. “No heat, no hurry, no murders.”

“That’s a dumb thing to say,” Renie chided.

Judith grimaced. “Yes. I wonder why…” She gave herself a shake. “That’s what I get for standing on top of a bunch of bodies. Oh well.”

Renie refrained from saying the obvious.

5

As Judith and Renie finished a lunch of smoked salmon tarts with cream cheese and capers, one of their cell phones rang.

“Yours,” Renie said. “Mine’s not on.”

Judith scrambled for the phone in her large travel purse. “Hello?” she said breathlessly.

The voice at the other end was faint and almost unrecognizable. “Joe?” Judith said so loudly that three elderly ladies at an adjoining table stared—discreetly. “I can’t hear you,” she said, lowering her voice. “Should I go outside to…What? You’ve been spayed?”

Renie was looking alarmed. “Where’s Bill?”

“Oh.” Judith slumped in relief. “You’re at Speyside. When will…Why not?…Joe, I can’t hear you very well…Okay, fine, goodbye.” She clicked off. “The husbands are fishing in the morning,” she informed Renie. “They’re on the River Spey and won’t be back tonight.”

Renie received the news with unusual calm. “Sure. The river’s probably hot. They can’t possibly leave. That’s why they’re there.”

Judith sighed in resignation. “Your father was an avid fisherman. Mine wasn’t. You understand the species better than I do.”

“My father considered fishing a religion,” Renie recalled. “He told me it was no accident that so many of Jesus’s disciples were fishermen, especially Saint Peter. Really, the whole fishing thing is a spiritual experience. It must be magic on these local rivers and streams.”

“You’re being too nice,” Judith pointed out, trying to calculate the tip for their lunch. “That’s not like you. We have no car, so how do we get to church for our own religious experience?”

“Don’t we get a dispensation when we’re traveling?” Renie asked with a quizzical expression. “We’re strangers in a strange land.”

Judith calculated an adequate tip and stood up. “Let’s collect our new clothes and go back to the castle. Frankly, I’m still tired.”

Renie checked her watch. “It’s going on three. The tide’s probably halfway in. Let’s call Gibbs to see if he can pick us up. Didn’t Joe say there was a chauffeur?”

“Who is also probably Gibbs,” Judith pointed out. “Strange—I didn’t see any other car parked on the beach except Harry’s.”

Renie frowned. “You’re right. But maybe we didn’t look far enough. For all we know, there’s a freight elevator somewhere on the cliff and they park their vehicles in the castle garage. Or stable.”

“I doubt that,” Judith said as they exited the tea shop. “Maybe the clerk at the woolen store knows how it’s done.”

The clerk was looking slightly frazzled. “Oh, hello,” she said in a voice that was no longer chipper. “I suppose you want your purchases.” She went to a door at the far end of the counter and disappeared.

“We’ll have to exchange our money Monday when the bank is open,” Judith said. “I can’t put everything on my credit card.”

“I saw a Royal Bank of Scotland on the corner by the village green,” Renie said. “I haven’t spotted an American Express office, but maybe there’s one off the High Street.”

“I don’t think there’s much more to the commercial section than what we’ve seen. The rest of the village looks like cottages and other private homes. I doubt that more than a few hundred people live here.”

“Probably not,” Renie agreed. “It’s off the beaten track.”

For a couple of minutes, the cousins waited in silence. Renie looked through a rack of tailored jackets; Judith resisted the old urge to bite her fingernails.

“What’s taking so long?” Judith finally said. “This place isn’t big enough to lose our packages.”

Before Renie could answer, the clerk reappeared. “Sorry,” she apologized, “but I had to lock your purchases in the safe. I use it so seldom that I never get the combination right the first few times.”

Judith was curious. “Do you have a problem with theft?”

“Oh no,” the clerk asserted. “Only in the summer when the visitors come to the beach. Especially the young ones. But…” She blushed and avoided looking at Renie. “Mrs. Gunn was a mite upset.”

“Who wasn’t?” Renie retorted. “What did she do after I left? Threaten to cut up our clothes with a cleaver?”

“Ah…” The clerk winced. “Rather like that, yes.”

Judith nudged Renie. “We must apologize. I hate coming across as typical rude American tourists.”

“Yeah,” Renie mumbled. “But Mrs. Gunn pushed me first.”

“Please,” the clerk said. “My name’s Alison, by the way. Mrs. Gunn is sometimes difficult.”

Judith felt compelled to play peacemaker. “We visited the church graveyard. Mrs. Gunn has suffered recent losses.”

“That’s so,” Alison agreed. “Her husband was killed in a hunting accident. Then her eldest son died very young. It was some sort of fever he’d picked up on a trip to Africa. He was never strong. His wife—still just a bride, really—had done her best to nurse him back to health, but…” Alison stopped and shook her head. “It was all so sad. I admired Moira’s devotion.”

“Moira?” Judith echoed.

“Moira Gibbs,” Alison responded, “now that she’s remarried.” The clerk’s expression had turned sour.

“We met her at the cemetery,” Judith said. “She was putting flowers on the grave of a man with an Italian name.”

Alison nodded. “Davey. He worked for her.”

“Oh?” Judith couldn’t rein in her natural curiosity. “Moira looks so young. What does she do?”

“She inherited Blackwell Petroleum,” Alison explained. “Her parents are both dead. Her father died young, and her mother ran the company for many years until she passed away about the same time that Frankie—Moira’s first husband—died. Moira’s half brother helps run the company. Davey was her personal assistant.”

“And now,” Judith said, “Moira’s married to Harry Gibbs. Does he work for Blackwell Petroleum?”

Alison frowned. “Well—Harry’s not one for working.”

After nineteen years with Dan McMonigle, Judith understood. She was about to ask how Harry’s parents could afford to travel so much, but two young women entered the shop. Renie hurriedly asked Alison if she knew how to get back to the castle when the tide was in.

“You can use this phone,” Alison said, bestowing a friendly smile on the newcomers. “Here, I’ll do it for you.” After a pause, Alison informed whoever had answered that the American guests needed transport. “Gibbs will be along shortly,” she told the cousins.