Reluctantly, Renie complied. “I don’t like this,” she murmured.
“Give Patrick a chance to explain,” Judith whispered.
Renie’s expression wasn’t just skeptical; she looked on guard, though she said nothing more. The runabout moved smoothly through the shallow water, its running lights dappling the constant waves.
By the time they got to the small dock several yards down from the beach road, the mist had thinned a bit. Judith finally made out Patrick’s form and the familiar leather jacket. “We’ll have to walk from here to my cottage,” he said. Patrick tied up the boat, which Judith noticed was a twenty-footer with an inboard motor and a fiberglass hull. “Dutch-made,” Patrick remarked as he offered to help Judith onto the narrow dock. “Which one is Flynn and which one is Jones?”
Judith made the introductions and grabbed Patrick’s outstretched hand. “I saw you at Hollywood House,” he said. “Thanks for the help with those two thugs.”
“Oh.” Judith shrugged. “You know Americans—always rooting for the underdog. They aren’t actually thugs, though, are they?”
“That depends.” Patrick grimaced. “The criminal element sometimes wears an old school tie.” He turned to Renie, who hadn’t budged from her seat in the boat. “Aren’t you coming, Mrs. Jones? Or,” he added, gesturing at her eye patch, “are you waiting for the Jolly Roger?”
“Not funny,” Renie shot back. “Do I have a choice? The body count’s rising.”
Judith winced at Renie’s remark. She’d planned to use subterfuge to find out if Patrick knew about Chuckie’s demise. But his rugged features registered curiosity, if not surprise. “Meaning what?” he asked.
“Chuckie Fordyce,” Renie said. “He drowned in a vat of whiskey.”
Patrick swore, loud and long. “Now why would anyone kill a pitiful laddie like Chuckie? It makes no sense.” He made an impatient gesture. “Let’s go. We’ve much to discuss.”
Disdaining any offer of assistance, Renie got out of the boat. Patrick motioned with one hand to indicate their misty route. After about twenty yards of careful walking along the beach, Judith saw the base of the cliff, sloping more gently upward than at the end of the High Street. She also made out the bottom rungs of a wooden stairway, and recalled that Patrick had disappeared in that direction after his encounter with Jimmy.
“Mind your step,” Patrick urged as he went ahead. “Hold the rail.”
Judith followed Patrick; Renie was behind Judith. The stairs looked fairly new, not having yet acquired the worn gray look of ocean-sprayed wood.
“The Hermitage,” Patrick said wryly. “My hideaway. Come inside.”
Judith was still wary, but even more curious. “Thank you,” she said as they entered through the back door. “We noticed this house the other night when we were returning to Grimloch. It looked quite cozy.”
Patrick laughed. “Looks are often deceiving.” He led the cousins through a cluttered, cramped kitchen and into a common room that appeared to serve as both living and dining room. The big solid table was covered with folders, files, and computer printouts. “It lacks a woman’s touch,” Patrick remarked. “I bought this cottage years ago, before I married. Sit—if you can find a place.” He began sweeping newspapers, magazines, and more folders off of the worn sofa and a couple of side chairs. “It’s basically my fishing shack. I love the sea.”
“But you work here,” Judith noted, sitting in one of the side chairs.
Patrick took off his leather jacket and tossed it on the back of the sofa. “Sometimes. Drink?” He’d gone to a cupboard near the dining room table. “Any kind of Scotch you like?”
“Whatever you’ve got,” Judith said.
“I hate Scotch,” Renie replied, making a face.
Patrick looked faintly startled. “Did you tell Phil Fordyce you hated Scotch, so he put out your eye?”
“You ought to see Phil,” Renie retorted. “He’s in a body cast.”
Patrick seemed mildly amused. “Ah. Spunky American females. That’s good.” He moved some bottles around in the cupboard. “Rye?”
“That’s also good,” Renie said. “But don’t add anything lethal.”
“See here,” Patrick said, pausing as he started to pour their drinks into glass tumblers. “If I intended to harm you, I’d have done it already and tossed your spunky American bodies into the sea. I’m looking for information, not trouble.” He finished filling the glasses. “Tell me exactly what happened to Chuckie.”
Judith recounted the discovery in the dungeon while Patrick handed the cousins their drinks and eased his athletic form onto the sofa. “It was ghastly,” Judith concluded. “I was afraid something might happen because he was bragging that he knew who killed Harry Gibbs.”
Patrick frowned and rubbed at the bridge of his nose, which looked as if it had been broken. He also had a small scar under his left eye. Judith wondered if they were remnants from the night Davey had crashed the Lamborghini. “So Chuckie claimed he knew whodunit. Nonsense, probably. Dangerous nonsense, of course.” He shook his head. “Chuckie seldom left Grimloch. I haven’t seen him in a year or so.” With a glint in his hazel eyes, Patrick leaned forward. “And how did you two get involved in this Harry Gibbs mess?”
“An accident,” Judith said innocently. “We’re on vacation with our husbands. They’ve gone fishing with Hugh MacGowan.”
“The MacGowan,” he murmured. “How strange to have him away at a time like this.”
“Strange?” Judith repeated. “This vacation was planned by our husbands. They met MacGowan on a previous fishing trip. My husband’s a retired police detective.”
“Mine’s a nut doc,” Renie said. “He could find several patients around here, maybe even a sociopath or two.”
“Really.” Patrick didn’t look at Renie, but kept his attention on Judith. “MacGowan would’ve made
