“I don’t always have to do those things to have secrets,” Chuckie declared. “But I won’t share my secrets with you anymore because maybe I never loved you. Maybe I love Moira. Maybe I always did.”
“Then I’m pleased for you. I wish you well.” Beth Fordyce was coming straight toward Judith, who was forced to duck inside the scullery. Beth sailed by and went out of the kitchen. A moment later, the dining room door closed. Beth and Chuckie were gone. Judith put the dinner things on the counter and went back the way she’d come. The elevator seemed like a good idea. She was extremely tired.
But Judith’s brain wasn’t ready for rest. “Philip and Mrs. Gunn are conspiring,” she announced upon arriving in her room.
“About what?” Renie, who was setting off a fire in the grate, stood up. “Are you saying that’s relevant to Harry’s death?”
“Maybe,” Judith said, setting the bottles and glasses on the dresser. “I don’t know what they’re up to.”
“What would Harry Gibbs have to do with Glengrim distillery or Mrs. Gunn?” Renie asked.
“It sounds like it’s all connected to business,” Judith explained, pouring the drinks.
“You know,” Renie said, taking the Drambuie snifter from Judith, “this isn’t any of
Judith thought for a moment. “No. For me, that would be morally reprehensible.”
“Be practical,” Renie urged. “You’re a visitor in a foreign country. You’re the guest of a local cop. The police in the UK are very competent. You don’t know any of the people involved. Let Scotland’s criminal justice system do the job. Otherwise you’re just in the way and probably in danger. You know how Joe’s going to react to that. It’d spoil the whole vacation. This is our long-planned getaway.”
“That’s the problem,” Judith said bleakly. “I can’t let anybody get away with murder.”
8
The rest of the evening proved uneventful. Renie retreated to her room around eleven. Judith set her travel clock for eight- thirty. But it was well after midnight before she finally settled down. Upon awakening, she couldn’t remember what she’d dreamed, but knew she’d passed a restless night. The comforter was half off the bed and one of the pillows had fallen on the floor. Maybe, she thought, she’d been haunted by poor Harry and the life that had been cut so short.
After showering, putting on her makeup, and dressing in her new slacks and twin set, she went across the hall to Renie’s room. There was no response to her knock. The door was locked. Judith didn’t blame Renie; she’d locked her own door, too. Her cousin must be sleeping in, as was her habit. It was after nine, and if they were to eat breakfast before Mass in the chapel at eleven, Renie had better get going. Judith knocked harder and called out. “It’s me! Wake up!”
A full minute passed before Renie staggered to the door. “Is the sun up yet?” she asked in a groggy voice.
“It’s cloudy, but it’s not exactly dawn. You missed that,” Judith said, closing the door behind her. “Come on, we have to eat.”
“Oh. Eat.” Renie was wandering around the room in her flannel nightgown. “Breakfast. I remember. Good concept.” She wove her way to the garderobe.
When the cousins arrived in the dining room half an hour later, the sideboard held another generous repast.
“Porridge,” Renie said. “Real Scottish porridge. I read somewhere that they have an annual porridge-off around here. Inverness, maybe. They go for the Golden Sprutle.”
“The what?” Judith asked.
“Sprutle,” Renie repeated. “It’s the stick used to stir porridge.”
“Only you would know that,” Judith said, shaking her head.
“True,” Renie agreed. “I’m a font of useless knowledge.”
“I’m going to try the tangerine marmalade,” Judith said. “It’s in another crock like the salad dressing with the fancy
“Putting up preserves is a lost art,” Renie noted. “Remember how our mothers did it every year? I tried it when I was first married, but it was too much trouble. Canning was always in August, the hottest time of the year, standing at the stove and getting even hotter.”
“You’re babbling,” Judith declared. “I like it better when you don’t talk before ten o’clock.”
Just as the cousins were finishing, Mrs. Gibbs entered the dining room. Her cheeks were pale and there were dark circles under her eyes.
“Father Keith will arrive before eleven,” she said in a toneless voice. “Do ye know where to find the chapel? It’s in the southwest tower. Look for the cross over the door.”
Judith’s expression was compassionate. “We’re so sorry about your grandson. If there’s anything we can do —”
Mrs. Gibbs cut her off with a sharp gesture. “What’s to be done? The laddie’s gone to God. Pray for his poor soul, that’s what to do.”
“Of course,” Judith said. “Have you reached his parents?”
“An impossible task,” Mrs. Gibbs said. “They never should o’ had the bairn. Free spirits, they call themselves. Worthless, I call them.” She turned and went back to the kitchen.
“Not fond of Sonny,” Renie remarked, stirring sugar into her tea. “Why can’t parents take responsibility for ending up with rotten kids?”
