Mary Daheim - Scots on the Rocks

After the cousins reached the Joneses’ room, Judith checked her watch. It was almost eight o’clock. She wondered if she should call Joe to tell him what had happened, but decided against it. If he and the other two men didn’t know, the news might ruin their fishing expedition. They’d find out soon enough, when they got back Sunday afternoon.

“Where are Philip and Beth?” Judith asked as the cousins sat in the window embrasure. “Where’s Chuckie?”

“Have you looked in the bathtub?”

Judith sighed. “Beth can’t be his mother. She’s too young. And what did Mr. and Mrs. Gibbs mean when they said something about ‘it should be Moira’?”

“Oh, coz,” Renie said resignedly, “you’re already turning this into a murder case. You don’t know if foul play was involved.”

“Range Rovers don’t blow up on their own.” Judith resumed her speculations. “It should be Moira who blew up Harry? It should be Moira who was blown up? It should be Moira and Harry?”

“Any or none of the above.” Renie leaned closer to the window. “Somebody’s coming. A car’s driving onto the beach parking area.”

Judith peered through the old, irregular glass. “An unmarked car, dark color. But it’s not the Fordyce Daimler.”

Two men got out and walked toward the lift. “Cops?” Renie said.

“Could be.”

The men disappeared, hidden by the cliff’s outcropping. “Should we go downstairs after they deliver the bad news?” Judith asked.

“Wouldn’t that be intrusive?”

“Mr. and Mrs. Gibbs aren’t young. No one else seems to be around except for Chuckie,” Judith reasoned. “We may be virtual strangers, but we could offer some kind of support.”

Renie considered. “And forage for food. Okay. Ten minutes?”

“That sounds about right. Besides,” Judith went on, “we have to find out what happened.” She looked at her watch again. It was 8:06. Renie got up and began pacing around the room. Judith stayed by the window. The mist thinned and thickened, blown to and fro by the wind. The activity on the beach appeared to have diminished, and the onlookers on the bluff had dwindled to only a dozen or so curious souls.

At fifteen minutes past eight, a knock on the door startled the cousins. Renie hurried to answer it.

“Alpin MacRae,” the older of the two men announced. “Detective chief inspector, Moray division headquartered in Elgin. This is my sergeant, Malcolm Ogilvie. You must be the guests, Mrs. Flynn and Mrs. Jones.”

“Right,” Renie said as Judith joined her. “I’m Jones, she’s Flynn.”

“No matter,” MacRae said easily. “We won’t tarry. The constables told us you were on the beach after the explosion.”

“Yes,” Judith said. “Would you like to sit?”

“No, thank you,” MacRae said politely. “This won’t take long. Do sit.” His keen blue eyes studied Judith. “You look quite tired.”

“Well…I am, I guess,” Judith said, and sank into an arm-chair near the hearth. “I have an artificial hip. Walking too much wears me down. Not to mention the long flight.” She stopped speaking. MacRae was a big man whose solid presence invited confidences. His sergeant was no more than thirty, with fair hair and a skimpy mustache. He seemed somewhat intimidated, either by his surroundings or by his superior.

MacRae had moved to the hearth, hands clasped behind his back. “You know Hugh MacGowan, I understand.”

“Our husbands do,” Judith replied. “They’re on a fishing trip with him now. My husband is a retired police detective.”

MacRae nodded and looked at Renie, who was sitting on a large oak chest at the foot of the bed. “Mr. Jones is a psychologist, I believe.”

“I believe that, too,” Renie said hastily. “I mean—yes, he is.”

MacRae smiled slightly. Judith figured he was accustomed to rattling even the most hardened of criminals. Obviously he’d done his homework on the Flynns and the Joneses.

“I’m afraid,” MacRae said in an appropriately somber voice, “that Harry Gibbs was killed this evening.”

“We guessed as much,” Judith said quietly. “It’s very sad.”

“Indeed.” MacRae paused. “We understand you heard the explosion. What time was that?”

“A little after six,” Judith answered. “I’d taken a nap and woke up just a few minutes before the hour.” She looked at Renie. “You came in a few minutes later.”

MacRae nodded and glanced at his subordinate. “That agrees with the other reports, eh, Mal?”

“Yes, sir.”

The DCI gazed at the cousins. “You met Harry Gibbs?”

“Yes,” Judith said. “Not long after we arrived yesterday. He came into the drawing room while we were having our predinner cocktails. He didn’t talk much—he had a couple of quick drinks and left.”

“He was friendly?” MacRae’s question invited candor.

“Friendly?” Renie echoed. “Not really. I thought he looked at us as if we were some kind of virus.”

MacRae chuckled; Ogilvie’s smile was tense.

“That was the only time you saw him?” MacRae asked in a tone that indicated he already knew the answer.

“Mr. Gibbs—his grandfather—had Harry give us a ride into the village,” Judith explained. “He dropped us off and told us he was going on beyond St. Fergna. Later, when we came back to the castle, he was on the beach, swimming in the nude.”

Again MacRae nodded. “That was a habit of his. No harm in it, really, but rather foolish this time of year. Did you see him after that?”

“No,” Judith said, “not after he came out of the water and went back to his car. At least I assume that’s what he did, probably to dress.”

“You didn’t see him drive from the beach?”

“No.” Judith shook her head. “We returned to Grimloch with Philip and Beth Fordyce, who’d just arrived.”

“Harry mooned us,” Renie said. “Is that a motive for murder around here?”

MacRae regarded her curiously. “You think Harry Gibbs was murdered?”

Renie grimaced and shot Judith a quick glance. “Well…it usually is when my—” She broke into a coughing fit.

But Judith knew that Renie had already said too much.

7

Alpin MacRae didn’t miss a beat. “It’s early days to render an opinion,” he said smoothly, covering Renie’s gaffe. “When an explosion is involved, it’s natural to conclude there was foul play. We prefer to err on the side of caution.”

“Very wise,” Judith said. “How are Mr. and Mrs. Gibbs doing?”

“They’re shocked,” MacRae replied, “and grieving. Mrs. Gibbs asked us to tell you that she won’t be serving dinner tonight, but breakfast will be ready by nine tomorrow morning.”

“Please tell her that’s not necessary,” Judith asserted. “We can manage our own. We won’t burden them at such an awful time.”

“The Gibbses appear to be practical folk,” MacRae said. “Harry’s parents will be informed, though that may take time. They’re surviving.”

“Surviving what?” Renie asked.

MacRae was impassive. “Apparently they enjoy going to exotic locales and living off the land. Mr. Gibbs thought they might be somewhere on the Amazon River.”

Renie shuddered. “How horrible. My husband refuses to go anywhere that doesn’t have digital cable. Except for fishing, that is.”

“It seems Harry’s parents are adventurers,” MacRae said.

Judith couldn’t help but raise a hand, as if she were a student and MacRae the teacher. “Have the Fordyces been notified?”

“Yes,” the DCI answered. “They were contacted on their cell phone. They’d gone into Inverness for the evening. We expect them back soon.”

“What about Chuckie?” Renie inquired.