“At Tonio’s Pizza,” Barry replied, gunning the car into gear before attempting the climb up to the village. “I deliver.”
Renie had settled into the backseat. “I smell pizza, too.”
Judith gritted her teeth at the grinding of gears. “I didn’t see a pizza parlor in the High Street yesterday.”
“One street off the High,” Barry replied, leaning into the steering wheel as if to coax the car up the steep track. “Where are we going?”
Fortunately, they were going up at the moment, slowly and noisily, but the hill was finally crested. “We’d like to know what’s in and around the village,” Judith said. “We arrived Friday night, so we couldn’t see our immediate surroundings.”
“Arrived just in time for the murder,” Barry remarked. “Very exciting for these parts. Just like the telly. I don’t think we’ve ever had a murder before, at least not in my time. Maybe the Mafia’s moved to St. Fergna.” The young man sounded thrilled at the prospect. “You’re not…what’s the term? ‘Mobbed up’?”
“No,” Judith replied. “We’re very respectable.” They were moving up the High Street’s incline. “Did you know Harry Gibbs?” she asked.
“Me?” Barry laughed. “Harry and Barry, a couple of mates. Not bloody likely. Excuse my language. Harry was a cut above. No chum for the likes of me.”
“Where did he live when he wasn’t at the castle?” Judith asked.
Barry glanced at Judith. “You don’t know?”
Judith shook her head. “We’re not friends of the family. Our stay was arranged by a fishing companion of our husbands.”
“Awkward,” Barry remarked, braking at the fork in the road by the village green. “That is, you must feel peculiar being caught up in this murder thing. What have we here?”
Barry was looking at the green where at least fifty people had assembled. A stout middle-aged man in tweeds appeared to be giving a speech from the bandstand.
“It’s ruddy Morton,” Barry murmured. “I’ll be frigged. He’s back.”
“From where?” Judith asked. “Who is he?”
“Jocko Morton,” Barry replied, letting the engine sputter and idle. “He’s Blackwell Petrol’s CEO, but he did a bunk a while back, called it taking a leave, and went to Greece. What’s he carrying on about?”
Judith tried to roll down her window but it was stuck. A florid-faced Morton was waving his pudgy hands. “Can you hear him?” she asked Barry, who was leaning his head out on the driver’s open side.
“Some. He’s telling the crowd how wonderful he is and what he can do for Blackwell Petroleum and for St. Fergna and for God and country. Full of wind, that’s Jocko Morton. He likes to be the pukka sahib, thinks he knows how to run everybody’s life better than they do.”
The gathering gave a great shout. Several people were pumping their fists in the air and others were jumping up and down. Barry’s expression turned curious. “Riled up, I’d say. Why, I wonder?”
“Flyers are being passed around by a man who looks like Jocko,” Judith noted. “Can you get us one?”
“That’s Jocko’s brother Archie,” Barry said, starting to get out of the car. “He runs the local garage. Be right back.”
Barry jogged off to fetch a flyer. The car started to inch forward, heading toward the green. “Why are we moving?” Renie asked.
“I don’t think Barry set the emergency brake,” Judith said, leaning across the front seat. “I found it.”
The car kept going, despite Judith’s hard tug on the brake. “Damn! I don’t think it works.”
The car kept crawling along, edging ever nearer to the oblivious gathering that spilled out almost into the street. Judith pulled again on the brake lever. It still didn’t stop the old rattletrap from moving. “Look out!” she cried in warning. But the crowd couldn’t hear her. Just as she was certain they were going to mow down a half dozen villagers, Barry sprinted back to the car and jumped in.
“Sorry,” he said, fumbling under the dashboard and pulling on a rope. “I should get this fixed, but then I don’t have many emergencies.” The car stopped six inches short of any would-be victims.
Judith was aghast. “You use a rope to pull on the brake?”
Barry shrugged. “It works, doesn’t it?” He handed Judith a flyer, his face grim. “Kind of ugly. They’re calling Mrs. Gibbs a murderer. Or would she be a murderess?”
“Let’s hope she’s not either one,” Judith replied.
Renie leaned over the seat to look at the white sheet of paper with the bold black lettering. “Jezebel? Whore? Scorpion? As in the critters that kill their mates?”
“Jocko Morton doesn’t seem to be in his company owner’s corner,” Judith said. “This is inflammatory.” She looked up from the flyer. Jocko used a bullhorn to call for quiet. The crowd finally stopped spewing what sounded like venom, but not before Archie Morton emerged from the fringe and appeared to make some threats.
“Save your strength for the inquest,” Jocko shouted. “Let the rich know that they can’t get away with murder!”
The crowd burst into another round of cheers and chants. Even from a distance, Judith could tell that Jocko looked smug. “I don’t get it,” she remarked. “He’s Blackwell’s CEO and he wants Moira arrested?”
“That’s not so mysterious,” Renie said. “There must be a fight over top-level decision-making, and Jocko thinks Moira’s an obstacle to his position and livelihood. I’ve seen it before with some of my graphic design clients. Dog- eat-dog, and it’s not always the money, but ego.”
