Mary Daheim - Scots on the Rocks

MacRae looked puzzled. “Chuckie? Who is that?”

“We understand,” Judith said cautiously, “that he’s Mr. Fordyce’s son. He lives here—at least part of the time—at the castle.”

“You’ve met the laddie?” MacRae asked.

“Y-y-yes,” Judith said. “He’s a bit…odd.”

The detective seemed faintly amused. “And how might that be?”

Judith frowned. “He seems small for his age. That is, his face looks older than his size would indicate. I doubt that he’s much over five feet tall. His behavior is…unusual.”

MacRae gazed at Renie. “Has your husband met him?”

“Briefly,” Renie replied. “Chuckie tends to pop up unexpectedly.”

MacRae nodded. “Has Dr. Jones made any sort of evaluation?”

“Yes,” Renie said. “Bill says he’s nuts.”

Ogilvie had to put a hand over his mouth to keep from laughing, but MacRae merely nodded again. “Not a clinical diagnosis,” he remarked, “but evocative. Unstable, in other words.”

Renie shrugged. “Probably.”

“We’ll have to speak with this Chuckie,” MacRae said, more to Ogilvie than to the cousins. “That will be all for now, ladies. Thank you for your cooperation.” The DCI led the way out but paused to turn back to Judith and Renie. “We understand you’ll be staying here for at least a fortnight. If you see or hear anything of interest, please keep us informed.” His expression was somber. “And do be careful.”

Well,” Judith said after the detective and his sergeant had left, “MacRae certainly knows more about us than we do about him. I wonder if MacGowan filled him in before we ever got here.”

“You mean MacGowan expected somebody to get killed just because you arrived at Grimloch?”

Judith was annoyed. “Of course not! I mean, conversation. You know—MacGowan is taking two Americans fishing, and their wives will be staying at the castle—and so on.”

“Possibly,” Renie said. “What do we do about dinner?”

“You have a one-track mind,” Judith chided. “I’ll admit I’m getting hungry. The Gibbses may expect us to forage for ourselves. Shall we?”

“You bet,” Renie said, sliding off of the chest. “Let’s go.”

Mr. and Mrs. Gibbs were nowhere to be seen in the passageway that led to the ground-floor guest area. “I know how to get into the kitchen through the dining room,” Judith said. “Follow me.”

“Can’t you walk any faster? I’m practically stepping on your heels. Good thing I’m not wearing shoes.”

“You know I can’t walk much faster,” Judith replied, hearing her cousin’s feet slap against the stone floor like scattered applause. “It’s been a long day. And why aren’t you wearing shoes?”

“My feet got wet. I think my shoes are ruined. I left them to dry out on what looks like a heater in our room.”

The dining room was dark. “We’ll have to feel our way,” Judith said. “I’ve no idea where the light switch is located.” She began groping her way toward the table and chairs. Renie kept a hand on her cousin’s back. “I found a chair,” Judith said. “When we get to the end of the table, we keep going almost straight ahead. There are two doors.” She reached the end of the long table, proceeding more slowly since there was nothing to grasp. “It’s not far,” she reassured her cousin, and touched the wall. “I think the door is a little to the—”

“Open the window.”

Judith gave a start. “What?”

“I didn’t say anything.” Renie moved closer to Judith. “Who’s there?” she called.

“Open the window.”

Judith tried to figure out where the voice was coming from. “Except for the window instead of the gate part, that’s what I heard in your room,” she whispered to Renie. “Who is it?”

“Chuckie?” Renie guessed.

“That’s not how he sounds. Too high-pitched, even for Chuckie.”

The cousins didn’t budge, standing in silence. But they heard nothing more.

“Where did that voice come from?” Judith murmured.

Renie hazarded another guess. “The far end of the room?”

“The fireplace is there,” Judith said, no longer whispering. “There’s a door, too, as I recall.” She edged along the wall. “Ah! The kitchen.”

Both the door into the dining room and the baize door into the kitchen were unlocked. The lights were already on in part of the big kitchen. Renie headed straight for the refrigerator. Judith took time to stroll around the area, discovering a pantry, a scullery, and a large cooler stocked with fresh fruit and vegetables. She took out a head of lettuce, a tomato, scallions, and a rosy apple.

“I’ll make a salad,” she volunteered.

Renie was slicing a big ham. “Hot or cold?” she asked.

“A sandwich is fine with me,” Judith said. “I’ll find bread.”

She was looking for the bread box when Beth Fordyce entered the kitchen from a door off of the old scullery.

“Oh!” Beth exclaimed. “You’re the guests. I wager you’re sorry you ever came to Grimloch.”

“We’re so sorry about Harry,” Judith said. “Was he a close friend?”

“No,” Beth replied. “I know Moira. She married my brother.”

“You mean,” Judith said, “her first husband?”

Beth removed a bottle of bicarbonate of soda from a cupboard. “Yes, Frankie. He died.” She gave the bottle several hard shakes, careful to keep it away from what looked like a very expensive pleated cream jersey top and putty-colored cropped pants. “I don’t know why Phil doesn’t bring his own medicine when he knows he’s got a bad stomach.”

“So your maiden name is Gunn?” Judith inquired, recalling the headstone marking Francis Gunn’s grave in the local cemetery.

Beth nodded. “Poor Moira. She’s had horrid luck with husbands.”

Judith found the bread. “What caused the explosion that killed Harry?”

Beth looked at Judith curiously. Her features had the kind of animation that indicated she wasn’t as empty-headed as Renie had guessed. “It wasn’t the explosion that killed him. Who told you that?”

“Well…we inferred it, I suppose,” Judith said. “We heard the big bang. The police were here and they didn’t say otherwise.”

“The police are still here,” Beth said, making a face. “Why do you think Phil’s stomach is upset?” She shook her head and departed the same way she’d come into the kitchen.

Renie was gazing at Judith. “So how did Harry die?”

“That’s what I’d like to know,” Judith said, finding a tub of butter in the cupboard by the bread box. “Maybe he drowned.”

“So why was his car blown up?”

“I don’t know.” Judith buttered the bread and started searching for mustard. “He may not have been in the car when the bomb went off. That would make sense. If he’d been…well, literally blown up…nobody at the scene would be sure how he died unless it was the result of the explosion. They might not even know if the remains were Harry’s.”

Renie had found a bowl for the salad. “I wonder how Moira’s faring on this latest voyage into widowhood. She must feel hexed.”

“I wonder where she lives,” Judith said. “Not always with Harry, since he seemed to spend time here at the castle.”

“The rich are different,” Renie pointed out, “as we have discovered. They don’t live conventional lives like the rest of us poor persons.”

“Maybe Joe can learn more when he and Bill get back tomorrow,” Judith said, cutting up the tomato. “I gather MacGowan hasn’t been called in on the case.”

Renie had returned to the refrigerator. “I see five kinds of salad dressing. What’s your choice?”

“Blue cheese?”

“Okay. Me, too.” Renie brought out a small crock. “This is homemade. See the handwritten label with the fancy letter G ?”