“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
