“I’m not helping,” Renie warned Judith. “I have a bad shoulder. I’m also weak from hunger. I wonder how that goat would taste?”
“I have an artificial hip,” Judith said, undoing the rope. “Barry’s on his own.”
“That restaurant’s within walking distance,” Renie said, gesturing at the site, which looked about a quarter of a mile up the road. “I really don’t enjoy riding in a car with no brakes.”
“No window, no door, no—” Judith stopped as a car coming around the bend slowed down. But after taking a good look at the battered beater and the trio on the verge, he stepped on the gas pedal and sped away.
“Jerk,” Renie snarled. “Couldn’t he see we’re a couple of middle-aged ladies in dire distress?”
“I think that’s why he left,” Judith said. “Didn’t you recognize the Jag and the driver? It was Jocko Morton. I don’t think he’s a very nice man. I wonder why he left the country?”
Renie shrugged. “When in doubt, think Enron.”
Judith’s expression was ironic. “Or murder.”
10
Barry borrowed Judith’s cell and called his father to rescue him. After assuring the cousins that the brakes would be fixed in no time so that he could pick them up after they ate at the restaurant, Judith succumbed to Renie’s pleas and agreed to walk to Cummings House.
The road’s incline was gentle; the distance was short. They went slowly, though Renie had to stop several times to allow Judith to catch up. The cousins arrived at the restaurant just after three-thirty, and were seated immediately by a cheerful older woman wearing a ruffled apron and a broad smile.
“Tourists, eh? Lovely!” she exclaimed. “Do sit by the fireplace.”
The dining room was small and cozy. The decor was minimal, and on this Sunday afternoon, only a handful of the dozen or so tables were occupied. There was a bar, however, which was marked by a sign with an arrow pointing off to the right.
Cummings House didn’t offer a high tea, but Judith and Renie both found items that pleased them.
“Haddock and chips for me,” Judith said.
“I’ll have the homemade lamb and kidney pie,” Renie declared.
The cheerful waitress went off toward the kitchen. Sitting in the comfortable high-backed chair, Judith stretched her legs toward the hearth. “Nice,” she remarked. “Just the sort of place you’d expect to find in the Highlands.”
“As nice as where the husbands are?” Renie asked suspiciously.
“Well…I’m not sure. They have TV and good food.”
“What’s the place called?”
Judith jogged her memory. “Hotel Glengarry?”
“Don’t con me,” Renie snapped. “I’ve gone through Bill’s guidebook. It’s Glengarry Castle Hotel and it’s supposed to be one of the elite places to stay in the Highlands. Those creeps! They’re off having a wonderful time and we’re stuck in the middle of nowhere while you play Sherlock Holmes! Some vacation!” She leaned forward. “Tomorrow will be different. We’re going to hire a car from wherever we can get one and see the sights on our own. I refuse to sit around the castle and watch you try to solve a murder case involving people you never heard of until forty-eight hours ago. This is my vacation, too.”
Judith studied Renie’s obstinate expression. “You’re the one who always says that fishermen should be able to do as they please.”
“As long as they’re fishing,” Renie retorted. “Watching high-definition TV or whatever in a plush hotel and eating their way through a gourmet menu doesn’t count. That’s for us, not the husbands.”
“This is nice,” Judith argued. “The prices are reasonable and—” She paused as a hearty laugh burst out from nearby, followed by a masculine voice:
“What’s our advantage without Gibbs?” The man’s voice was deep and halting.
Leaning on the side of her chair, Judith tried to see who was coming out from the bar area. “Morton,” she whispered, “with a fair-haired man I don’t recognize.”
“Oh, damn!” Renie swore. “There’s no escape!”
Jocko Morton and the taller, younger blond man walked by the cousins and sat down in an inglenook across the room by the window.
“Morton must have parked in back,” Judith whispered. “I didn’t see his Jag when we came in the main entrance.”
“I don’t care if he parked on the roof like Santa Claus,” Renie snapped. “Could we eat a meal without a side dish of sleuthing?”
Judith sighed. “After all these years,” she said in a low, earnest voice, “you know that when somebody gets killed virtually before my eyes, I’ll try to figure out who did it. I can’t help it. It’s like you, studying everything you see with your artist’s eye. Just now, when you saw the menu, you frowned. I knew it wasn’t the food, it was the menu’s design.”
“Wrong type font for this kind of place,” Renie said. “Too modern. They should have gone with a Monotype Corsiva, not an Arial Black. There’s no warmth, no history.”
“You see what I mean?”
Renie looked faintly repentant. “Okay. You have a point. I just wish your talent wasn’t for finding killers. It’d be
