“I’m praying for cozy comfort,” Renie asserted.
Judith stopped by a guardian angel statue that was patchy with moss and missing a few fingers. “Kate’s lips are moving,” she said softly, “but not exactly like a prayer—more like conversation.”
“Talking to Earwig?” Renie suggested.
“Eanruig,” Judith corrected. “Yes, maybe. Hunh. She’s wagging her finger and acting agitated.”
“Does she really expect Earwig to answer back?”
“Maybe,” Judith allowed, signaling for Renie to hush. Before she could hear any words, Kate turned in their direction. Judith poked Renie. “Pretend to study this tombstone,” she whispered.
“It’s David Piazza’s,” Renie murmured. “The roses Moira brought last week look pretty beat up.”
“Speak to Kate,” Judith urged. “She thinks you’ve got the sight.”
“Half the sight,” Renie retorted. “She’s better off with Marie playing the part of a medium.”
Judith grabbed Renie’s arm. “Do it.”
With a sigh of resignation, Renie walked over to the Gunn family plot. Judith trailed behind.
“Hi, Kate,” Renie said. “The spirits must be on vacation.”
Kate gave a start and turned around to scowl at Renie. “You! What happened? Your eye!”
Renie shrugged. “A chronic condition, affecting my vision. In fact, I have no sight at all of the type you mean. I’m a phony. Sorry.”
Judith stopped abruptly, unable to believe that Renie would blurt out the truth.
Kate made a menacing gesture. “Fraud! Liar! How dare you? I should’ve known you were evil when I met you in the woolen shop!”
“That’s pushing it,” Renie said. “I’m kind of crabby, but not evil. My intentions were good.”
Kate looked puzzled. “I don’t understand.”
“You’re a mother, I’m a mother,” Renie explained. “Quite a few young men around here, including one of your sons, have died before their time. That’s a horrible thing. I felt guilty about getting into it with you at the shop. I wanted to make it up to you after I found out about your background and your interests.”
“My interests?” Kate looked even more confused.
“Astrology, for one thing. I…well, to pretend I could help you.” Renie made a limp gesture. “It was stupid of me.”
Kate’s gaze moved to Judith, who had come up behind Renie. “That cape! And the hood! She was the witch I saw in my herb garden!”
“No,” Renie said, “that was me, wearing my cousin’s cape.”
“Americans are very peculiar,” Kate muttered. “I find your actions deplorable. You’ve no idea how vital the spirit world really is. You mock it. You mock me. I can’t forgive you.”
“Okay.” Renie shrugged. “I hope you get a message from Ear—Eanruig. It’s difficult to make sound business decisions these days. The real world’s all topsy-turvy.”
Kate turned her back on Renie. Judith finally spoke up. “I’m sorry, too,” she said, “even if you’re not in a forgiving mood. We’ll leave you in peace now.”
The cousins started walking away, but before they got more than a few feet from the Gunn memorial, Kate called out to them. “Wait!”
“Yes?” Judith said, turning back.
“If you don’t have the sight,” Kate said to Renie, “how did you know I needed business advice?”
Hoping Renie wouldn’t reveal spying on the seance at the pub or eavesdropping on Kate and Philip’s conversation at Grimloch, Judith held her breath.
“Your husband was a shrewd businessman,” Renie said. “If you came here to commune with his spirit, you must be seeking his counsel.”
“Ah.” Kate’s homely features softened. “That’s so. You’re perceptive, I’ll say that for you.”
“Good luck,” Renie said. “The shipping business is always risky. At least whiskey is one product that rarely has a downswing.”
Kate frowned. “Meaning…what?”
“Uh…” Renie faltered. “Gosh, I don’t know. I thought I’d heard that you were involved in some kind of negotiations with Philip Fordyce.”
“We’ve shipped his whiskey for years,” Kate said. “That’s not new.”
“Oh.” Renie looked sheepish. “I haven’t been here long enough to know all the local commercial connections. I do know that oil and water don’t mix, and neither do oil and whiskey.”
Kate shot Renie a sharp look. “Why not?”
Renie wore her most ingenuous expression. “I don’t know.”
“It seems,” Kate said stiffly, “that there’s a great deal you don’t know. Just like the police. It seems they have no idea who killed Harry Gibbs or Chuckie Fordyce. ‘Malicious mischief’ indeed!”
