“Can’t we wait until we’re back at the castle? It’s noisy in here.”
“Okay.” Judith caught Betsy’s eye. “I can’t resist. I’ve got to try.”
“Oh boy,” Renie muttered, “I can’t wait to hear the whopper you’re going to give her.”
“It’s good,” Judith insisted. “Hello, Betsy. Can I trust you?”
The barmaid looked puzzled. “What?”
“We’re from the States,” Judith said, and feigned an embarrassed laugh. “You probably gathered that.”
Betsy was impassive. “Nae.”
“I’m here to look for my lost nephew.” Judith looked forlorn. “We heard he’d been seen in St. Fergna.”
There was no comment from Betsy.
“His name’s Jim. Jimmy, we call him.” Judith’s lower lip trembled. Renie stared off into the distance, apparently admiring the kilted Kewpie dolls. “He’s always had a drinking problem,” Judith went on. “He’s tall, in his thirties, dark, and often picking a fight.”
Betsy’s lean face showed only mild curiosity. “He’s a Yank?”
“Ah…yes.”
The barmaid shook her head. The strands of hair swayed listlessly. “No Yanks here since Christmas.”
“Oh. You see,” Judith said, sounding very confidential, “I heard there was a brawl here in the last few days and that a man named Jimmy was involved. I thought…you know, it might be my nephew. We’d like very much to find him and put him back in the Home.”
Betsy’s plain features finally showed animation. “He’s crazy?”
“We don’t call it that,” Judith replied. “Our family describes him as communally challenged. ‘Maniac’ and ‘outcast’ are such cruel words, don’t you agree?”
Betsy nodded. “Aye, cruel.”
“So you’re certain this Jimmy wasn’t my nephew?” Judith asked as Renie seemed to slip lower and lower in her chair.
“Aye,” Betsy replied. “I know this one—Jimmy Blackwell. Not a brawler by nature, but an attorney.” She lowered her voice. “He got into it with the lad who was killed yesterday, Harry Gibbs.”
“Really?” Judith evinced surprise. “What did they fight about?”
Betsy said shrugged. “I canna say.”
“Blackwell Petroleum?” Judith suggested.
Betsy stared hard at Judith. “Say, aren’t ye the ladies staying at the castle?”
“Yes,” Judith said, keeping her composure. “That’s why we came here. To look for Jim. Jimmy, I mean. My Jimmy.”
Betsy stood up straight. “Well, ye willna find him here. And it’ll do ye no good to ask about our Jimmy and poor Harry. I dinna tell tales about our own. Do ye want another pint or no?”
“Um…no, thank you.”
Sharp chin jutting, Betsy stalked away.
“Some sleuth,” Renie murmured, sitting up in her chair. “Even I wouldn’t believe your nephew story. You know how news of strangers travels in a small town. And even faster in a village like St. Fergna.”
Judith was studying the customers. “Ordinary folk. But close-knit. Clannish, in the true sense of the word. In the face of tragedy, do they all clam up and feel as if the rest of the world’s against them?”
“Probably,” Renie said. “It’s bred in their bones. In centuries past, they’d all hole up in the castle and wait out the siege.”
“That makes it hard to learn the truth,” Judith said. “Let’s go.”
“I haven’t finished my Old Engine Oil,” Renie protested. “Do they take credit cards or do we end up working off the tab as barmaids?”
“I saw logos on the door for Visa and MasterCard,” Judith said.
Renie took a final gulp of her beer. “What’s the rush? The tide won’t be out for another half hour.”
“Patrick Cameron just went by,” Judith said. “At least it looked like him. It’s hard to tell through those dirty windows.”
“So we’re going to chase him down the High Street?”
Judith was already halfway to the door. “Pay the bill with your AmEx card. I’ll see where he’s going.”
It was almost dark outside, though the old-fashioned wrought-iron streetlights were on. Judith saw Patrick disappear around the corner by the road that paralleled the shore. “What took so long?” she demanded when Renie came out of the pub.
“I couldn’t figure out the bill,” Renie replied. “Where’s Patrick?”
“Out of sight,” Judith said. “Let’s see if we can spot where he went.”
“This is absurd,” Renie declared, “like a bad spy movie.”
