“Your bairn is handsome,” MacRae remarked.
“Yes,” Moira agreed. “You must go now. It’s time for his midday feeding. I prefer giving the bottle to him myself. I’m sure you understand. Thank you, Euphemia.”
Beth pursed her lips. Judith moved to fend off a leg cramp.
“Very well.” MacRae’s voice sounded strained. “We’ll speak again, after the inquest Tuesday.”
“Oh—yes, of course.” Moira sounded vague.
Beth gestured for Judith to move out of the closet. “My God,” Beth said when they reached the sitting room, “what’s going on with Moira?”
“You know her,” Judith said. “I don’t.”
Beth threw up her hands. “I shouldn’t be talking about all this, but I’m terribly upset. Moira can be the most charming, generous, kindest woman on earth, but she has no common sense. She’s doesn’t know how to protect herself from predators. I don’t give bloody all about Harry. That marriage was a disaster. He married her for money and the power he hoped to get through Blackwell Petroleum.”
Judith nodded sympathetically. “Moira has no head for business?”
“She’s intelligent, but she’s young,” Beth said, standing near the door to the boudoir and keeping her voice down. “She likes to party. But she also likes being the nominal head of Blackwell. In time, she could—”
The door opened and the two policemen entered the sitting room.
“Mrs. Gibbs is feeding her baby,” MacRae said, and looked questioningly at Beth. “She and the governess need quiet time.”
“I’ll wait here,” Beth said, looking slightly truculent.
“Certainly.” MacRae started across the room but turned around. “Mrs. Flynn, may I speak to you for a moment in the hall?”
Surprised, Judith left with MacRae and Ogilvie. “I realize,” she said when they were in the hallway, “that I’m a stranger, but—”
MacRae held up a hand. “No need for explanations. Do you have your passport with you?”
Judith felt alarmed. “I left it at Grimloch. I can get it if you—”
“No need. The question was a ruse.” MacRae moved a few steps away from Moira’s suite but spoke softly. “You know that in this era of terrorism the authorities do background checks on foreign visitors.”
“Of course,” Judith said, her apprehension mounting.
“Thus,” MacRae continued, “we learned who you really are.”
Judith’s eyes widened. “You did?”
MacRae smiled. “Indeed. Even though you appear to be on vacation, we’d appreciate any help you can give us. This case may have international implications, as I’m sure you realize.”
“Oh. Yes. Oil.” Judith nodded several times.
“Meanwhile,” MacRae said, “just be the keen observer that’s made your reputation. Your people skills are, we understand, outstanding.”
“Thank you,” Judith said, relieved. “I had no idea how thorough these background checks could be.”
MacRae chuckled and winked. “Perfect. The American Innocent Abroad.” He saluted Judith and turned toward the central staircase.
Judith watched him start down the curving stairs with Ogilvie bringing up the rear. But MacRae stopped after a few steps and reached for his cell phone. He listened for at least a full minute. Judith saw him say something into the phone and signal to her. He rang off, spoke to Ogilvie, and came back up the stairs.
“That was the autopsy report,” MacRae said barely above a whisper. “The findings won’t be released until the inquest. Harry Gibbs was smothered, probably while unconscious. There was no sign of a struggle, you see, but cocaine was found in his system along with a large quantity of alcohol. He’d probably passed out before his killer arrived. You must act surprised when you hear the official pronouncement,” the detective added solemnly. “The inquest is at ten Tuesday in the Women’s Institute.” He saluted Judith and went down the stairs.
Judith remained in the hallway until the policemen disappeared. Apparently the security agents had checked her out on the Internet and discovered the FATSO site created by admirers of her crime solving. The acronym was actually FASTO, for Female Amateur Sleuth Tracking Offenders, but had been corrupted into the less flattering nickname, presumably because it was easier to remember.
Just as Judith was going back into Moira’s suite, she saw Elise come out of a room farther down the hall. The maid was scowling and wagging a bony finger.
“You must not go in,” Elise said with her slight French accent. “Madame needs rest. Mrs. Fordyce must also leave. I shall tell her now.”
“But I left my purse in the sitting room,” Judith protested.
“I shall retrieve it.” Elise’s dark eyes hardened. Her close-cropped black hair looked dyed and her eyebrows were haphazardly penciled in. “You think I am a thief?”
“Certainly not,” Judith said. “I must say goodbye to Mrs. Gibbs.”
“Fine,” Judith snapped. She remained in the hall, looking over the balcony above the spacious entry area with its double circular staircases, graceful columns, and Greek statuary. All seemed calm and quiet. That was, Judith thought, deceptive. Hollywood was not a peaceful house. She sensed unhappiness, perhaps handed down through
