“He’s old enough to drink,” Renie said. “A lot, it seems.”
“Unbalanced,” Bill declared in his most authoritative psychologist’s manner. “Something’s off.”
Renie grinned at Judith. “Lucky us. Your husband notices details like wedding bands and mine diagnoses a nut job at fifty paces.”
“Hmm,” Judith murmured. “Maybe there are enough people around here to keep us intrigued.”
Joe put an arm around Judith. “People—my wife’s favorite hobby.”
Renie gazed at the drawing room door. “Dinner—my favorite hobby. Shall we dine?”
“I think,” Joe said, “we’ll be summoned. It’s not quite eight-thirty. Anybody want to freshen this most excellent beverage?”
Judith and Bill requested just a jot more. Renie shook her head. “I’ve hardly touched my Canadian. Liquor is off-putting after my bout with Wild Turkey. I can barely stand the smell, let alone the taste.”
“Serves you right,” Bill said.
At precisely eight-thirty, Gibbs reappeared. “Dinner is served,” he announced. “Cook will present.”
The dining room was long and rather stark with its stone walls, two recessed windows, and an open fireplace where logs burned fitfully. The single table for sixteen was covered with a white linen cloth. The settings were handsome, however, with gleaming silver, elegant plates, and sparkling crystal glasses. The chairs were quite plain, though upholstered with faded brown damask. A candelabrum burned at the end of the table where the place settings had been laid.
A swinging door opened. Cook appeared, delicately balancing two soup plates on each arm.
“Mrs. Gibbs?” Judith said in surprise.
“Aye.” Mrs. Gibbs, who was attired in a flowered frock protected by a big white apron, adroitly set Judith’s soup in front of her. “Feather fowlie. Granary rolls in covered bread basket.” She delivered the rest of the soup and presumably returned to the kitchen.
Judith tasted her soup. “It’s delicious,” she said, accepting the roll basket from Bill. “The fowlie must be chicken. I wonder if Mr. and Mrs. Gibbs take care of this entire castle themselves.”
Joe shrugged. “Could be. It’s the off-season.”
Renie looked across the table at Bill. “Cute,” she murmured. “But not now. I’m eating.”
Bill looked up from the roll he was buttering. “What’s cute?”
“You,” Renie said. “With the kneesies.”
“Kneesies?” Bill looked puzzled. “I’m sitting five feet away from you. How could my knees stretch so far? You know I’m a thirty-inch long in the leg and a thirty-four waist.”
“I know the thirty-inch part,” Renie said dryly. “The waist measurement is…Hey!” She turned to Joe and then to Judith. “Who’s bumping me? Cut it out! I almost slopped my soup.”
“So what?” Bill inquired. “You’re a messy eater.”
“My knees aren’t near you,” Joe asserted. “I’m a thirty-two long and a…ah…um…”
“Forget it,” Judith snapped, almost saying that her husband couldn’t count that high. “It’s not me. You must be hitting something.”
“No,” Renie declared. “I haven’t moved my…Yikes!”
The table rocked and the fine white linen cloth flew up at the corner between Renie and Joe. A head of short, curly dark hair poked out and turned to gaze at the startled diners.
“Hello. I’m Chuckie.”
Judith gasped—and stared. The boy looked like a gnome, with small dark eyes, a long chin, and a big, cheerful grin.
Joe was the first to recover. “Hello, Chuckie. Do you live under this table?”
Chuckie shook his head before crawling out and sitting on his haunches. Judith guessed him to be in his early teens, but small for his age. She assumed he was the person who had skittered across the passageway earlier.
“I live lots of places,” Chuckie said. “I’m rich.”
“That’s good,” Joe said. “How about living somewhere other than where we’re having dinner?”
Chuckie scowled. “Where?”
“Do you have more than one castle?” Joe asked, his mellow voice even softer, as if he were interrogating a juvenile offender.
Chuckie shook his head. “Sometimes I sleep in a barrel.” He got to his feet and surveyed the table. “A roll, please.”
Bill passed him the basket. Chuckie studied the remaining rolls closely before making his choice. He began picking the roll to pieces, dropping the bits on the floor as he moved away.
“So I won’t get lost,” he said, and left the dining room.
“The short one’s crazier than the tall one,” Bill said.
“He’s certainly creepier,” Renie asserted. “How old?”
