She shut up when Adamson spoke into the phone, relaying the message as tersely as possible. Clicking off, he turned to the cousins. “He’ll be here as soon as he can get a police launch. The tide’s in.” He cleared his throat. “Ah…what do you think happened here, Mrs. Flynn?”
Judith found the constable’s deferential manner unusual. Maybe, she thought, the police in the UK were different from the tight-lipped Americans she knew so well. “I don’t think it was an accident. I’m afraid that Chuckie bragged about the knowledge he had—or thought he had—concerning who killed Harry Gibbs. That leads me to conclude that the murderer of Harry and Chuckie is the same person.”
“Very logical,” Adamson murmured. “Incredible.”
“Her middle name,” Renie remarked, fiddling with her eye patch.
“Logical?” Adamson said, impressed.
“No,” Renie responded. “Incredible.”
Judith shot her cousin a dirty look.
“I’m going,” Renie said. “That Scotch smell makes me queasy.”
“Coz!” Judith began, but after a false start bumping into the doorjamb, Renie was on her way.
“Sensitive,” Adamson remarked.
“Not even close,” Judith said irritably.
A moment later, Glen returned with Philip Fordyce. The whiskey magnate’s usual savoir faire was obviously shaken. He was out of breath and his graying brown hair was unkempt.
“Unbelievable,” he said in a hoarse voice. “My God! Not Chuckie!”
Judith discreetly moved as far away from the trapdoor as she could. Adamson descended once more, apparently to position the body for Philip’s viewing. A wrenching groan was the only sound Philip made when he saw his dead son. For a long moment the bereaved father stood like a statue, staring off into the afternoon’s dying light. As Adamson climbed out of the dungeon, Beth Fordyce rushed into the storage room.
“Phil!” she cried. “Phil! Is it true? Gibbs just told me…” She threw her arms around her husband. “Oh no! I can’t look!”
“Don’t,” Philip said quietly. He squared his shoulders, and with Beth still clinging to him, he walked away without another word.
Judith waited to make sure the Fordyces were out of hearing range. “Can you tell how Chuckie died? Was there any sign of trauma?”
Adamson shook his head. “Not that I could see. But even with a torch, I couldn’t find anything suspicious. And I didn’t dare remove the body all the way out of the barrel.”
Judith nodded. “I understand.” She sniffed at the Scotch-tainted air. “There’s another, sweeter odor as well. I’ve been trying to figure it out.” She paused, recalling her nights tending bar at the Meat & Mingle. “Ah!” she exclaimed softly. “I know what it is. It smells like a Rob Roy.”
Realizing it might be some time before MacRae and his forensics crew arrived, Judith went in search of Renie. She knew she wouldn’t have far to look. Renie was in the kitchen, eating bread and cheese.
“Just a snack to tide me over,” Renie said.
“Bring it to my room. Glen’s going to check out our…mishap,” she amended to spare Mrs. Gibbs’s feelings. Theft never sat well with an innkeeper. Murder, of course, was worse, as Judith well knew.
“I gathered you didn’t tell Mrs. Gibbs about Chuckie,” Judith said as they took the elevator to the guest floor.
“I leave that up to the cops,” Renie said. “Besides, she might not have given me any food if I’d mentioned it.”
Five minutes later, Glen arrived in Judith’s room, still looking shaken. “Could Chuckie have had an accident?” he asked optimistically.
Judith shook her head. “Chuckie might have been upset over Harry Gibbs’s death. Granted, his emotional state was fragile. He was epileptic and might have had a seizure, but that’s a stretch.” She pointed to the bureau. “I put the jewel case in the top drawer.”
Glen looked inside. “How long did you have it here?” he asked, putting on a pair of latex gloves.
“No more than an hour,” Judith answered. “We returned to this room a little after two-thirty and left again close to three-thirty.”
“Who,” Glen inquired, “knew you had the box?”
“Nobody,” Judith replied. “Except for whoever put it in my purse, probably at Hollywood House. Has anyone reported it missing?”
“Nae,” the constable said. “Did the case contain jewels?”
“No,” Judith didn’t elaborate about the emails. “The case looked valuable, though.” She turned to Renie, who was sitting cross-legged on the bed, adjusting her eye patch. “Don’t you agree, coz?”
Renie nodded. “It did when I could still see. Old, too, and finely wrought. It was polished, as if it had been someone’s treasure.”
“Mrs. Jones is a graphic designer,” Judith explained. “She has an eye for such things.”
“Only one, it seems.” Glen sounded dubious. “You’re certain you don’t know how the case got into your purse?”
Judith grimaced. “It sounds stupid, but so much has been happening, not just today, but ever since we arrived at Grimloch, that I didn’t check why my purse felt heavy. It’s always overloaded when I travel.”
