The road ended at a frame building that overlooked the beach. In between and just off the High Street was a whitewashed cottage behind a laurel hedge. The lights were on and smoke drifted from the chimney.
“Patrick must have gone in there,” Judith said in a low voice. “That other building is dark. It doesn’t look like a house anyway.”
“Gosh,” Renie mocked, “do you suppose Patrick might live there?”
Judith ignored her. “Can you read that sign over the porch?”
Renie moved closer to the hedge. “This isn’t nearly as ferocious as the Rankerses’s man-eating shrubbery. I still have all my appendages.”
“Never mind the smart remarks. What does the sign say?”
“It says ‘The Hermitage.’ People here like to name their houses.”
“Why would he live here? Somebody said he had a rich wife.”
Renie shrugged. “I don’t recall hearing that.”
“No,” Judith said thoughtfully. “I overheard Mrs. Gunn and Philip talking about Patrick. His wife’s name is Jeannie, and she comes from money. This is a small house, great view, convenient, but not what I’d consider the kind of place a wealthy young woman would want to live.”
“Can we go now?” Renie walked toward the track to the beach. “The wind’s come up and the mist’s starting to roll in.”
“You’re not cold,” Judith asserted, reluctantly following her cousin. “You never get cold. You’re just annoyed.”
“Yes, I am. This is silly. We’ve had a very long day. I’d like to—”
Judith grabbed Renie’s arm. “Footsteps,” she whispered. “Someone’s coming. Pretend we’re looking out to sea.”
A man turned the corner from the High Street. Judith tried to see who it was without turning around to stare. “Will Fleming,” she said softly, and glimpsed him turning in to the cottage.
“Poker night,” Renie said. “Maybe Patrick calls it The Hermitage because it’s where he goes when he wants time to himself. Or a night out with the boys. So what?”
“They both work for Blackwell,” Judith said. “They’ll be seeing each other at the office tomorrow in Inverness. Why now?”
“I told you, some perfectly innocent activity,” Renie persisted. “If these men are business colleagues, why shouldn’t they socialize?”
“I realize that…” Judith stopped. “Two more.” She strolled away from Renie, ostensibly watching the mist roll in off of the sea. But out of the corner of her eye she spotted the stocky figure of Jocko Morton and the taller form of Seumas Bell.
“They’re not parking by the cottage,” Judith pointed out after the two men had gone inside. “They don’t want their cars to be seen. I’ll grant that Patrick and Will and Seumas might hang out together after work, but Jocko Morton? The waitress at Cummings House told us he was Blackwell’s CEO. You know how those people keep themselves to themselves in the corner office.”
“True,” Renie allowed. “They have their own drawbridge and moat to keep out the riffraff underlings.”
“I’m trying to remember how many people we’ve met or heard about who work for Blackwell,” Judith said. “I realize there must be a ton of employees, but the ones at this cottage are top-echelon guys.”
“No Jimmy,” Renie pointed out. “Or Moira, for that matter.”
The cousins strolled back and forth on the cliffside path, keeping an eye on The Hermitage and occasionally looking through the vapors to see how far out the tide had gone. After ten minutes had passed, no more visitors had arrived at the cottage.
“I wonder,” Judith mused, “if we could hear them from the garden.”
“No!” Renie cried. “Don’t make me crawl through that hedge!”
“We don’t have to crawl,” Judith insisted. “The others opened the gate and went down the walk to the front door. The chimney is on this side of the house, toward the sea. The curtains or drapes on each side of the fireplace are closed. That’s probably the room where they’re meeting. If we got up next to the house, we might be able to hear them.”
“Be my guest,” Renie said. “I’m staying right here and watching the tide go out. If you get caught, I’ve never seen you before in my life.”
“Fine.” Judith headed for The Hermitage. The mist swirled around her and the smell of the sea tingled in her nostrils. The village seemed very quiet, except for an occasional voice or car in the High Street.
The gate was a simple latch. Judith walked along the path that led through a fallow garden that looked as if it hadn’t been properly tended for at least a couple of years. The cottage itself was well kept, however, and a bird’s nest rested under the front eaves.
Judith moved carefully along the north side of the house, keeping low and trying not to step on anything that might create a noise—or cause a fall. Crouching under the nearest window, she listened intently.
She heard masculine voices but couldn’t identify the speakers. Nor could she make sense of what they were saying. Only a few words were distinguishable—“Blackwell,” “reserves,” “OPEC”—and “Harry.” Another ten minutes passed. Judith still could only catch an occasional word or phrase: “global market”; “Shetland and Orkney”; “outsourcing”; and “devastating disappointment.”
She was getting nowhere—except stiff in the joints. Cautiously, she started to stand, but felt a hand on her back. It was all she could do to stifle a scream. The hand pressed harder. Judith suddenly felt faint.
“Are you stuck?” Renie asked in a whisper. “Dislocated?”
