Demonstrating her good intentions, Judith started the car and backed up slowly along the verge until she could see a patchy grass and dirt surface she thought would lead them to the dumpster.
“Where are we?” Renie asked.
“I think we’re just a few yards from where Jimmy left the Honda.”
There was no car. There were no people, not Jimmy, not the two cops. “Jimmy must have driven off,” Judith speculated. “But where did MacRae and Ogilvie go? They don’t know St. Fergna like Jimmy does. He’d be able to use all sorts of escape routes.”
“It’s been less than ten minutes,” Renie pointed out. “Maybe the cops are lost in the fog.”
“That’s possible.” Judith glanced at her watch. “It’s dark as well as misty. I don’t know where to search.”
“You might try driving on a road,” Renie suggested. “The left-hand side, okay?”
“You’re holding out your right arm.”
“Huh? Oh!” Renie was chagrined. “I can’t see which is which.”
Judith turned the car around to head back to the coast road. “No cops,” she pointed out as they joined the road almost at the same spot where they’d started. “No backup in sight. I’m nervous. We can get into serious trouble for this stunt.”
“You prefer sitting in the mist on a dark night with a murderer loose and we’ve been warned several times that we’re in danger?” Renie shook her head. “It’s harder to catch a moving target. Keep driving.”
“Okay, we’ll keep moving. By the way, I gather Jimmy didn’t know about Chuckie or he’d have mentioned it. On the other hand, he was probably in the area when Chuckie was—” She jumped as a female voice came over the car’s radio. “This is Control. MacRae, please come in.” Judith eased the car to a stop. “MacRae, please come in,” the voice repeated as Judith and Renie stared stupidly at each other.
“DCI MacRae,” the woman said, slightly louder. “Are you there?”
Renie held up her hand for silence and poked several buttons on the radio. “Yes?” she said in her deepest voice, which even normally was a cross between Tallulah Bankhead and a bullfrog.
“Mrs. Marie Fleming of the Priory on Monk Road has reported her husband, Will Fleming, Blackwell Petroleum’s chief financial officer, as missing. Please contact her as soon as possible.”
The radio went silent.
“You just impersonated a police officer!” Judith exclaimed in horror. “We’re going to prison!”
“I didn’t claim to be MacRae,” Renie argued. “All I said was ‘yes.’”
Fingers clasping and unclasping the steering wheel, Judith shuddered. “I can’t believe we’re doing this! What’s wrong with you? What’s wrong with me?” She took a deep breath and sat up straight. “And where’s Monk Road?”
Renie clicked open the glove compartment. “Let’s see if there’s a map. This isn’t MacRae and Ogilvie’s usual territory. Turn on the overhead light. Ah,” she said softly, “here it is. You have two eyes,” she added, handing the map to Judith. “You look.”
“It’s west a couple of miles,” Judith said after a brief pause. “It’s not on the water. We go through St. Fergna and then hook left twice.” She handed the map back to Renie. “We aren’t going there, are we?”
Renie shook her head. “Of course not.”
The cousins exchanged rueful glances.
“This is so wrong,” Judith said as she turned onto the deserted High Street. “But it’s possible that somehow MacRae and Ogilvie are at the Priory already. Maybe Marie Fleming came looking for them.”
Renie smirked. “As ever, coz, sound logic.”
“We have to start looking for them somewhere,” Judith retorted. She was almost to the fork in the road and the village green. “What’s that?” she said, espying a big banner stretched across the bandstand.
“Bedsheet?” Renie said. “Clothesline?”
Judith slowed to a stop. “It says ‘Tomorrow is Judgment Day—Inquest 10 a.m. Women’s Institute.’”
“Jocko Morton rallying the troops,” Renie remarked. “He’s certainly got it in for Moira.”
“I suppose,” Judith said slowly as she made a left turn by the graveyard, “there’s a chance he’s right. But I despise his rabble-rousing tactics. Tell me when you see the sign for Monk Road.”
“You’re kidding, of course,” said Renie.
“Oh. Sorry.” Judith slowed down. Visibility on the road west was only about twenty feet, and subject to change.
They’d crept along for less than a mile before they saw a cluster of red and yellow lights up ahead. “What’s that?” Renie asked. “It looks like a traffic jam, which isn’t likely in a village the size of St. Fergna.”
“An accident, maybe?” Judith suggested, slowing down to less than ten miles an hour. “They’re blocking the road.” She frowned, noticing not only cars but bicyclists and pedestrians, some carrying flashlights. At first she thought they were singing, but realized as she rolled down the window that they were chanting in angry voices.
“Can you hear that?” Judith asked.
Renie had also opened her window. “I’m blind, not deaf. Yes—it sounds like ‘Jezebel.’ Isn’t that what the flyer called Moira when Jocko staged his show the other night?”
“Among other things,” Judith said grimly. “They must be marching to Hollywood House. We’re stuck behind them. If I honk, they might take out their wrath on us—and this police car. I wish it were a real cruiser. We could
