“Power struggle,” Renie said. “Harry versus Jimmy. Jimmy versus Jocko Morton. Seumas Bell versus Patrick. Any number of combinations, all struggling for control while Philip and Kate wait in the wings to make their buyout offer.”
“Right,” Judith agreed, taking out her cell phone. “At least I’m fairly sure who killed Davey Piazza.”
Renie stared at her cousin. “You are?”
“I wasn’t kidding about this jacket being evidence, though I’m not exactly sure how.” She dialed Alison’s number again. “It just dawned on me we’re stuck here. I got so focused on that jacket…Alison? Hi, Mrs. Flynn again. Could Barry pick us up at Hollywood House?”
“He’s making a delivery outside of St. Fergna so he won’t be back for a while,” Alison said. “Can you wait?”
“We don’t have much choice,” Judith said. “Thanks.”
“No luck?” Renie asked as they went through the open gates.
Judith nodded. “Gibbs,” she said suddenly. “Maybe he can collect us.” She dialed Grimloch’s number and got better results. Mrs. Gibbs informed her that Mr. Gibbs would be along in fifteen minutes. The tide was changing; he’d have to take his skiff. Judith called Alison back to tell her not to bother Barry.
“So,” Renie said, moving under the shelter of a hawthorn tree, “who killed Davey?”
“Harry,” Judith answered simply. “Who else resented Davey that much? His sudden rise was fodder for gossip about an attraction between employer and employee. Jealousy is such a powerful motive. It must have gnawed at Harry. I assume he tampered with Davey’s brakes. Judging from the Dolphin receipt, we know Davey wasn’t alone. He paid cash for the meal because Harry never carried money.”
“Aha!” Renie exclaimed. “The burger. Davey was a vegetarian, not to mention that even I couldn’t eat that much food and drink that many drinks by myself.”
“Right,” Judith said as a lorry drove past the cousins. “I finally remembered what Kate Gunn told Beth about her fancy fern. Kate mentioned that it was the feast day of Saint Thérèse of Lisieux, which should have dawned on me earlier as the first of October. But all I could think of was Cousin Marty’s birthday until you griped to me about the old church calendars and my own birthday. I’ll bet that was Harry, driving around in a panic after Davey crashed his car. MacGowan may have checked the garage repair records and discovered that Harry’s Rover had been in for a repair—after he wiped out Kate’s fern. Harry followed Davey and went down to the site to make sure his rival was dead. He took off Davey’s suede jacket, knowing that the telltale receipt was in the pocket. But because Harry wasn’t the brightest guy around and flustered to boot, he never removed it.”
“Harry also had to deal with Patrick’s arrival,” Renie pointed out. “That must’ve scared the hell out of him. I wonder if Patrick saw Harry’s Rover before he climbed down the cliff.”
“Maybe not,” Judith replied. “Patrick was walking from the opposite direction. Anyway, Harry had to act fast, clobber Patrick, and flee the scene. He finally went home, put the jacket with Davey’s clothes in the carriage house, and later gave them to the thrift shop without getting rid of the receipt. As I mentioned, Harry wasn’t very smart.”
“No wonder Moira didn’t give him any real power at Blackwell,” Renie said. “But he lucked out because Patrick got amnesia.”
Judith shook her head. “No.” A midsize sedan approached but kept going. “Not Gibbs,” she murmured. “I think Moira guessed that Davey’s crash was no accident. Harry must have returned that night in some kind of emotional state. She’s pregnant, with a husband who’s just killed the man he thought was his rival. Think bloodlines. Everybody here does, including Moira’s father, who refused to let his illegitimate son inherit the company despite Jimmy’s competence. Moira couldn’t risk people thinking her baby’s father wasn’t Harry, so they reconciled, which must have galled her, but was necessary. Somehow pressure was put on MacGowan, who may have had his own ideas about what happened. And Patrick kept quiet for the sake of Moira’s reputation. He’s always been loyal to her, and arresting Harry wouldn’t have been in Moira’s long-term interests involving her son.”
“But with Harry dead,” Renie said, “why would his killer want MacGowan out of the way?”
Judith shrugged. “Maybe Moira didn’t exaggerate. It’s possible that she was intended to be a victim, too. Harry may have told someone he’d invited her to join him on the beach. Whether or not that’s so, his killer didn’t want MacGowan around to reopen the matter of Davey’s death and link both crimes. Harry was probably gullible. Who fed him tales about Moira and Davey? Somebody was goading Harry to get rid of his wife’s alleged lover and go to prison.” She paused. “Here’s Gibbs.”
After getting in the car, Judith thanked Gibbs for coming. “If you don’t mind,” she added, “could we stop at the Hearth and Heath inn?”
“Aye.” Gibbs kept his eyes on the wet road. The rest of the brief trip was made in silence.
Judith and Renie got out, asking Gibbs to wait.
“Do you suppose Bill and Joe are here already?” Renie asked as they entered the inn through the guest entrance.
“Let’s hope,” Judith responded.
They were in a foyer, replete with framed swatches of tartans of various clans. MacRae was on the phone, standing by an antique table Judith guessed served as the registration desk. Two dried arrangements of heather, thistle, and some plants she didn’t recognize stood at each end of a shelf holding maps and tourist guides.
Seeing the cousins, MacRae ended the call after a few brief words. “Sorry,” he said. “Your husbands weren’t at Morton’s garage.”
Judith was stunned. “They weren’t?”
“No,” MacRae said regretfully. “Nor the MacGowan, either.”
Judith and Renie exchanged anxious looks. “I was so sure…” Judith began, and trailed off, feeling helpless and panicky.
“I must confess,” MacRae said, “I had doubts about your idea, but I checked with my superior, who knows MacGowan quite well, and he confirmed that Hugh doesn’t use a cell phone.”
“They must be somewhere,” Judith said in a strained voice. “Are you still searching?”
“Indeed,” MacRae replied. “One of ours is missing, too.” He grimaced. “The cell number belongs to your husband, Mrs. Flynn.”
“I thought so,” Judith said. “Bill is like MacGowan—he won’t carry a cell phone, either.” She glanced at Renie, seeking comfort. But Renie seemed equally shaken, pale and wide-eyed. Trying to dampen her fears, Judith turned back to MacRae. “We have to talk. I’ve something to show you and a confession to make.”
MacRae ushered the cousins into the study, which was lined with bookshelves stocked with popular fiction. There were comfortable chairs and a gas-powered fireplace. Judith figured the room was designed for guests, though the police had made it their own with computers, phones, and file folders. A map of the vicinity hung above the fireplace. Judging from the pushpins and red X’s on the beach and at Grimloch Castle, it wasn’t there for the convenience of visitors, but to show the crime scenes and other pertinent locations.
“Ogilvie’s searching with the constables,” MacRae said, sitting at the desk. “What is it you have to tell me?”
Judith and Renie had also sat down. “It’s about some emails we found in the jewel case.” Briefly, Judith summed up the contents, forcing herself to focus on the matter at hand, rather than fretting about Joe and Bill. “At first I thought the exchanges were between Moira and Patrick. But it occurred to me just now when we came in that those emails aren’t as recent as I’d assumed.”
Renie stared at Judith. “It did? Why didn’t you say so?”