Renie bristled. “Wish I could see out of both eyes. Where is he?”
“Coming to the other end of the bar,” Judith replied. “He’s sitting next to a guy in a hat.”
“What guy? What hat?”
Judith took a quick peek at the man who was a dozen barstools away with a couple of younger men in football jerseys sitting between him and the cousins. “Slouched posture, hat pulled down, raincoat collar pulled up. What some might call suspicious.”
“You suspect he’s—?”
Ian pushed the food orders under the canvas flap and started pouring drinks only a few feet away from the cousins. “Yo!” Renie called to him. “How about a couple of dark ales and a menu?”
Ian nodded. “Be right back after I set up these pints.”
Judith discreetly watched Archie talk to the man in the hat. “I think,” she whispered, “the mysterious stranger is Jimmy Blackwell.”
“In semidisguise?” Renie nodded. “That figures. It’s stupid, but it figures. Jimmy’s well known around here. If he doesn’t want to be recognized, he should be dressed as a bottle of Scotch.”
The pub was filling up not only with drinkers but with supper customers. Judith noticed that no one seemed to be paying attention to Archie and the man she thought was Jimmy Blackwell.
“Typical,” Judith remarked sadly. “A terrible murder occurs and causes a big fuss for a short time—then people return to their self-absorption and go on with their lives. It always strikes me as sad.”
“They have to make sure that they’re still alive,” Renie pointed out. “Or else they think death is contagious.”
Ian had come back to the bar where he took the cousins’ orders for salmon, chips, salad, and two glasses of a reddish-hued beverage.
“What is this?” Renie asked after Ian had given them their drinks.
“Dark Island,” Ian replied. “It’s a traditional Orkney ale, from the same brewers who make SkullSplitter. Some say it has a magical flavor.”
“Mmm,” Renie murmured after a sip. “A bit like chocolate malt.”
Judith sampled hers. “Nutty, too.” She made a slight gesture to her right. “Is that Jimmy Blackwell with Archie Morton?”
Ian shook his head. “I don’t think so. Jimmy B never comes here.”
“B for Blackwell?” Judith said.
Ian looked embarrassed. “Nae. For ‘bastard.’ Not his fault, of course, but that’s what folks around here call him behind his back.”
“We heard,” Judith said, “Jimmy hangs out at the Yew and Eye.”
Ian shook his head again. “He doesn’t hang out at any of the pubs. Not much of a drinker or party type.”
“But,” Judith pointed out, “he recently got into a fight with Harry Gibbs at the Yew and Eye.”
“Oh—aye, so he did,” Ian agreed. “But I heard Jimmy B went there not to drink but to…well, have it out with Harry.”
Judith lowered her voice even more as two older men sat down next to the cousins at the bar. “Over how to run Blackwell Petrol?”
Ian shrugged and started to edge toward the newcomers. “I suppose that, and Harry wanting to run the show.” He smiled apologetically before moving on.
“I’m sure that’s Jimmy,” Judith whispered to Renie. “What’s he doing with Archie Morton? And how did Eanruig Gunn get the Blackwell shares for his mistress? The company’s family-owned.”
“Let me see,” Renie muttered, taking a pen out of her purse and sliding a napkin closer. “Phil is currently married to Beth, who is Kate and Earwig’s—I’m calling him that because I can’t pronounce his name—daughter, whose brother Frankie was married to Moira. So maybe Frankie got some Blackwell shares through his marriage.”
“Yes, Eanruig was alive when Moira and Frankie married.” Judith tried to peer around the bar customers but the pub was filling up. Her view of Archie and the alleged Jimmy was blocked. “Dang. I can’t see.”
“Stop,” Renie snapped. “You’re not making me feel any better.”
“They’re really busy,” Judith said. “Ian’s mom might need help.”
“Oh God!” Renie held her head.
Undeterred, Judith slipped off the barstool and went to find the kitchen door. It was just to the right off of the bar; she’d passed it when they’d gone to the storage room.
Ian’s mother was surprisingly young, an auburn-haired woman of forty with freckles and a plump prettiness. “What’s this?” she demanded, flipping hamburger patties on a smoking grill. “A complaint?”
“No,” Judith replied, wearing her most ingratiating smile. “I came to help you. Your son says you’re overworked.”
Ian’s mother looked up from the grill. “He did, did he? I don’t believe it! Kids these days!” She smacked one of the patties with the spatula. “Go away. The rules forbid customers in the kitchen.”
“I’m an innkeeper, a cook, and a bartender,” Judith said. “My first husband and I owned a restaurant, and now I have a B&B. I’ve had decades of experience and I’ve got dish towels older than you are.”
