Fergus nodded and left.
Moira stood up. “This is awkward. I’d forgotten Mr. Cameron was coming by. He’s Blackwell’s head of engineering and also in charge of security. No matter what else happens, business must be done, with the oil world so vital and volatile. Fergus will get the petrol and see you out.”
“She’s smooth,” Renie remarked after Moira had left. “She must have inherited the petroleum company from her family.”
“I doubt that Moira’s more than twenty-five,” Judith said. “Jimmy looks quite a bit older. If their parents are dead, why didn’t he inherit the business along with his sister?”
“That is odd,” Renie agreed. “Jimmy mentioned he was an attorney for the company as well as for Moira. I wonder where the head offices are. I thought most of the North Sea oil business was around Aberdeen.”
“Let’s find out,” Judith said, going to the desk. “There must be a letterhead in here somewhere.” She opened the middle drawer but found only pens, paper clips, postage stamps, scissors, and other utilitarian items. The top drawer on the right yielded the company stationery. “The main offices are in Inverness, but there are branches in Aberdeen, London, and Copenhagen.”
“I suppose the family wanted the headquarters closer to where they live,” Renie conjectured. “Judging from the architecture, this house was probably built in the late eighteenth or early nineteenth century.”
Just as Judith moved away from the desk, Fergus appeared holding the five-liter gas can far away from his body as if he expected it to explode like Harry’s car. “Your petrol,” he said solemnly.
“Thanks, Fergus,” Renie responded, taking the can from him. “You’re a good egg. I’ll remember you in my will.”
Fergus coughed slightly. “Pardon, ma’am?”
“Never mind,” Renie said blithely. “We can let ourselves out.”
The butler seemed dubious. “I’ll escort you to the door.”
“Why not?” Renie retorted. “As my husband would say when he wants us to move along, ‘Let’s boppin’!’”
Looking pained, Fergus stepped aside as the cousins walked out of the library. He accompanied them through the entry hall and on to the front door. With a barely perceptible nod, he wished them good day.
“Right back atcha, Fergus,” Renie called over her shoulder.
“Coz…” Judith murmured. “Can it.”
“Can it yourself,” Renie snapped as they descended the steps. “This thing’s heavy and hard to carry with my bum shoulder.”
“Keep your mouth shut and your eyes open,” Judith declared.
“Why?”
“Because,” Judith said, “if you’d been paying attention instead of showing off, you’d have been able to peek into the parlor. The door wasn’t completely closed. I saw Mr. Cameron.”
“So?”
“Mr. Cameron is Patrick,” Judith said. “The announcement of his arrival was a sham. Moira didn’t realize we’d already seen her with him from the road. She doesn’t want us—or anyone else—to know how chummy they are. Philip Fordyce and Mrs. Gunn talked about rumors concerning Moira and Patrick. Tranquilizers or not, Moira doesn’t seem overcome by losing husband number two.”
“How do we get out?” Renie asked as they walked down the driveway. But before Judith could respond, the gate swung open. “Ah—remote control from Fergus,” Renie murmured.
Barry was dozing in the car. Through the glassless window, Renie jabbed him in the shoulder. “Fill ’er up!” she called.
“Oh!” The young man awoke with a start and threw his hands up in the air, banging his fingers against the car’s roof. “Don’t shoot me! I haven’t got any money! I’m stony broke!”
“It’s us,” Renie said. “The American battle-axes. Go ahead, put the gas in the tank. I’m setting the can down here by the door.”
“Wow!” Barry exclaimed. “How’d you manage to get that?”
“Sheer charm,” Renie said, getting into the backseat. “Hi, Bruce. How are you doing?”
The hamster jumped onto his wheel and began to run like mad. Barry got out of the car. Judith stood watching him as he coped with the gas tank—no easy task, since it looked as if the original cap had been replaced with a cork.
“How,” she inquired, “did Moira inherit Blackwell Petroleum?”
“Her mum and dad died,” Barry replied as bits of cork broke off while he attempted to unplug the tank. “Mr. Blackwell’s been gone since before I was born. Her mum passed on two, three years ago.”
“But why didn’t Jimmy get the company?” Judith asked. “He must be at least ten years older than Moira.”
The cork finally came out. “Jimmy’s a bastard,” Barry said.
“You mean he was disinherited because he was…what?”
“A bastard,” Barry repeated, pouring gasoline into the tank. “His dad—Moira’s dad, too—played around.”
“Oh,” Judith said, enlightened. “Jimmy’s illegitimate.”
“Right. No way was Moira’s mum going to let Jimmy have part ownership. He could work for Blackwell, but no owning it for the likes of him, a mere by-blow. The missus was that put out.”
