“You would. I’m sure it was empty by the time we reached thirty thousand feet.” She hauled her purse onto her lap. “When I travel, I tend to toss in things I might need during the—” She stopped as she felt something cold, hard, and unfamiliar. “There’s a…box or…what is this?” She removed a round, footed silver case embossed with gold rose petals and leaves. “Where did this come from?”
Renie stared at the elegant box. “You stole it?”
“Don’t be cute,” Judith said, trying to open the case. “Honestly, I swear it wasn’t in my purse when I left Grimloch this morning.”
“Where did you leave your purse unattended?”
Judith was still struggling to unfasten the case. “Let me think…At Hollywood House. I left it in Moira’s sitting room while I was talking to MacRae. Ah!” The clasp finally gave and the lid snapped open. To Judith’s surprise, there were no glittering jewels inside the velvet-lined box. “It looks like a bunch of paper.”
Renie put out a hand. “Let’s see.”
There were at least a half dozen sheets of paper stuffed inside. Judith handed three of them to Renie and kept the rest for herself.
“Emails,” Renie said. “Who saves email printouts?”
Judith scanned the first two. “Welcome to the twenty-first century. These are love letters. That is, love emails.”
Renie sighed. “There goes romance.” She read through the pages Judith had given her. “You’re right. No actual dates, headings, or to-and-from names. Very fragmentary,” she noted between bites of scampi. “Sign-offs like ‘Yours forever’ and ‘Always together.’ Gack.”
Judith’s eyes widened as she read through the emails she’d kept. “Good Lord! This sounds compromising!” She glanced around the pub to see if anyone was paying attention to the cousins. The other customers seemed involved with their own conversations and meals. Judith lowered her voice anyway. “Listen to this—‘Darling—It won’t be long now. I’m counting the hours until we’re together. Just remember, once my problem is solved, nothing stands in our way. All my love goes with you.’ What does that sound like?”
Renie scratched her head. “Well…I realize you’re putting it in context. It could be Moira, writing to Patrick.”
Judith regarded Renie with skepticism. “The only place these emails could’ve gotten into my purse was at Hollywood House. I’ve seen Moira’s maid. I know you can’t always go by looks, but she’s not the romantic type. And you’ve met Fergus. He doesn’t cut a dashing figure, either.”
“Right.” Renie looked glum. “These emails look bad for Moira and—I assume—Patrick. Here’s another one. ‘I’m making an early night of it and going to bed. Wish you were with me. The sun is setting, but it always shines when we’re together.’ And how about this? ‘Your days are so full and my arms are so empty. I kiss the sprig of heather you gave me, knowing that though it is the last of the season and will wither and fade, our love will not.’ Double gack.”
Judith shook her head. “It’s a wonder we’re not gagging on our food. But how did these emails end up in my purse?” She put her napkin on the table. “Let’s call Gibbs to have him pick us up. I’m very curious about Chuckie.”
Renie polished off the last of her chips. “I can use my cell phone. What are you going to do with those emails?”
“I should turn them over to MacRae along with the silver case. It may be an heirloom,” Judith replied, “but I’d like to find out if my purse was a convenient stash or I’m being used.” She signaled to their server to bring the bill.
Renie had called Gibbs to tell him where they were. “Shall we meet you on the High Street?” she asked.
Judith waited for Renie to speak again. Their server nodded, and apparently went to fetch the bill.
“Okay,” Renie said into the phone. “We know where it is. See you there.” She rang off. “He has to collect his car from the mechanic. We’ll meet him at Archie Morton’s garage. It’s only a short walk from here off the beach road.”
Five minutes later, the cousins were walking down the High Street. Fluffy clouds flitted across the sun as a fitful breeze blew off of the sea. As they reached the end of the main thoroughfare, Judith glanced to her right at the cottage called The Hermitage.
“I don’t see a car parked there,” she said. “Patrick must own that red BMW sports model. Maybe he’s still comforting Moira.”
“I’m not convinced she needs comforting,” Renie remarked. “On the other hand, define ‘comfort.’”
As usual, traffic was sparse on the beach road. The gawkers who had ringed the cliff in the aftermath of Harry’s death had gone to ground. So, apparently, had the media. The only people the cousins saw as they walked toward Morton’s Auto Repair were two teenage boys, taking a breather from their bicycles and resting alongside the road.
“Gibbs isn’t on the beach,” Judith noted as they espied the garage’s office entrance. “Maybe he’s already here.”
The only person in the small, cluttered office was the brawny man who resembled Jocko Morton. “Are you Archie?” Judith inquired politely.
“Aye.” He frowned at her from under dark, bushy eyebrows. “What if I am? And ye are…?”
“The Queen of Sheba,” Renie snapped, apparently not taking a liking to the man’s attitude. “We’re here to meet Gibbs from Grimloch.” She grinned and looked at Judith. “Hey—I like that. ‘Gibbs from Grimloch.’ What do you think, coz? Could this be ‘Archie of Aberdeen’?”
Embarrassed, Judith stared at her shoes. “Ask him.”
“Okay, Arch, ol’ bud,” Renie said, “where’s Gibbs?”
