“It’s difficult to tell,” MacRae replied. “The explosion was probably meant to conceal how Harry Gibbs was murdered. However, something must have gone amiss with the killer’s plan. The body was virtually unmarked, so we conclude that Harry wasn’t in the car when the bomb went off but near a log close to the bank.”
“Interesting,” Judith remarked, glancing at Renie, who was perusing the emails. “I noticed some people farther up the beach earlier. Maybe someone came along and the killer was afraid of being spotted. Have any witnesses been found?”
“No one’s come forward,” MacRae said. “Let’s see—it’s going on three o’clock. Ogilvie and I are just finishing a late lunch in Inverness. If you think Chuckie Fordyce may have some genuine information, we can come out to the castle before the tide comes in.”
“Good,” Judith said. “I really think Chuckie should speak with you, whether he actually knows anything or not. If he’s bragging about his supposed knowledge, he might be courting disaster.”
“Indeed. I’ll see you shortly.” MacRae hung up.
Renie looked up from the emails. “Well?”
Judith related everything that MacRae had told her. “Isn’t it ironic?” she said in conclusion. “Harry was everything a young woman could want in appearance, but totally flawed inside. Chuckie is a physical and emotional wreck in a different way. Which is more tragic?”
“Do I really have to answer a dumb question like that?”
“No.” Judith sighed. “Any luck figuring out those emails?”
“Not without names or Internet addresses attached,” Renie said. “That’s the weird part. Unless,” she continued, rubbing her chin, “one of the parties wanted to save these missives but conceal the source. Do modern lovers go all soggy over emails? I find that odd.”
“It’s the way people communicate,” Judith pointed out. “The handwritten or even typed letter is a rarity today.”
“True,” Renie allowed. “I suppose cave dwellers used to hang on to chunks of rock that their beloveds chiseled romantic notions on, like ‘You’re the hot sauce to my raw rhinoceros meat.’”
“Maybe.” Judith scanned the emails once again. “There’s nothing specific. That is, it’s all about how much these two want to be together and what they must do to make that happen. It’s not exactly a plan to knock off rivals, though I suppose it’s implied.”
Renie looked inquiringly at Judith. “Do we give these to MacRae?”
Judith grimaced. “Not yet. We don’t know how or why they got into my purse. Our priority is Chuckie. The detectives should be here in a few minutes. Let’s go down to the courtyard to meet them.”
“Okay,” Renie said, gathering up the emails and putting them back in the silver case. “By the way, didn’t we have husbands when we arrived in Scotland? I seem to recall being with a couple of people who had deeper voices than we do.”
Judith frowned. “I suppose they’re so caught up in fishing they forgot we were here. Maybe it’s just as well. I’m not sure I want Joe to find out we’re involved in another murder.”
“Wouldn’t Hugh MacGowan have been informed by now?”
“Maybe not if he’s on vacation. Let’s go.” Judith went to the door. “I wonder what MacRae and Ogilvie have been doing in Inverness besides eating lunch?”
“Checking out Blackwell’s headquarters?” Renie suggested.
“Possibly.” Judith moved carefully down the winding staircase. As she reached the bottom, she heard voices. “MacRae here already?” she said over her shoulder to Renie.
But it was Will Fleming, talking to Mrs. Gibbs. “So where is Philip?” he asked. “His car’s gone.”
“The Master’s wife brought it back an hour or so ago,” Mrs. Gibbs replied. “He went rushing out not long after.”
“You don’t know where?” Will inquired in his smooth, soft voice.
“Nae,” Mrs. Gibbs insisted with a resolute shake of her head.
Will saw the cousins and smiled faintly. “Good afternoon, ladies. Have you seen Mrs. Fordyce in the past half hour or so?”
“No,” Judith replied. “Beth dropped us off a little after twelve.”
Mrs. Gibbs started to walk away. “I told ye,” she murmured, “Master’s lady likes to walk the beach, rain or shine.” She kept going.
“Is there a problem?” Judith asked.
Will sighed. “There’s very little going on that isn’t a problem. The past few days have been chaos.”
“How’s Marie feeling?” Judith inquired. “Beth told us she was ill.”
“Flu,” Will replied. “The current strain lasts forty-eight hours.”
“Harry’s must have been severe,” Judith remarked.
“Ah…” Will grimaced. “That was different. Moira was worried about the baby catching it. And Harry…well, Harry had complications.”
Before Judith could inquire about the “complications,” Beth came through the door with MacRae and Ogilvie right behind her. “Look who I found…Will?” she said in surprise. “What are you doing here?”
“Marie lost her…scarf. She thought it might be here somewhere. What’s this about?” Will inquired, nodding at the detectives.
