“Where?” Rene asked.
“Kate Gunn’s home,” Hugh replied.
“What?” Renie exploded. “You were eating pizza and guzzling God-knows-what while we were driving ourselves nuts with worry?”
“The pizza was second-rate,” Bill said. “No sausage. One was vegetarian. What’s the point of that?”
Hugh moved away from the fireplace. “I must go. Jimmy still hasn’t been found. But he will be.” He stopped in front of Judith. “And thank you and your agency for the invaluable help.” He saluted and left.
“Agency?” Judith repeated. “Not the CIA, surely!”
“Why not?” Joe said. “It’s better than being called FATSO.”
Judith was stunned. “How could they make such a mistake?”
Joe shrugged. “You know government red tape. I suppose Scotland Yard or British intelligence asked for help in this international oil scam and some bureaucrat lost the memo.”
Judith shook her head. “It could happen. But,” she said, beaming at Joe, “you’re safe. That’s the main thing.”
“Yes, yes, yes,” Renie agreed, still on an adrenaline rush. Suddenly she stood still. “Wait a minute. Where did that voice come from? The one that said ‘Open the door’?”
Bill reached into his jacket pocket. “This?” He held out a metal gadget about the size of a matchbook and squeezed the front: “Open the window.” He squeezed again: “Open the gate.” “It’s my latest invention. I brought it along because Hugh knows somebody in the real estate business who’s looking for a gimmick to show houses when the agent isn’t around. I forgot to take it when we went fishing. I left it on the dresser.” Bill frowned at the gadget. “It’s got my name on the back, so MacRae gave it back to me. His sergeant found it in the storage room after Chuckie’s body was removed. It was on top of some boxes.”
“I fell on that box!” Renie exclaimed. “I must have activated it! I’ll bet Chuckie loved playing tricks with that, the little—” She stopped and turned somber. “The poor wee laddie.”
“My, yes,” Judith said, and snapped her fingers as she turned to Renie. “That light in your room that we saw the other evening—I’ll bet it was Chuckie, looking for more gadgets.”
“He must have been disappointed,” Renie said.
“Okay,” Joe said, slapping his hands together. “We’re not going fishing for a couple of days until MacGowan and MacRae wind up this case. What do you lovely ladies want to do tomorrow?”
Judith and Renie exchanged doleful looks. “Uh…” Judith began, “we have to attend a funeral.”
“At least there won’t be another inquest,” Renie put in.
Joe’s face fell; Bill scowled at his wife. An uncomfortable silence filled the room.
“Oh,” Joe finally said, “let the girls have their fun. We could take a boat out on the sea if it’s not too rough.”
“The wind’s almost stopped,” Bill noted as the two men walked toward the window. “I’ve got the names of a couple of rental places.”
“Sounds good,” Joe said. “They’ll have the gear. We need heavy—”
Renie collapsed on the bed. “I’m starved.”
Judith sank into an armchair. “Me, too. And exhausted.”
“We need a vacation,” Renie declared.
“Maybe we should have gone to California,” Judith said.
Renie eyed Judith doubtfully. “You’re kidding!”
Judith smiled. “Of course.”
Acknowledgments
Special thanks to Jim Bilsand of the Grampian Police for his generous assistance. If there are any deviations from fact, I alone stand convicted.
About the Author
MARY RICHARDSON DAHEIM is a Seattle native with a degree in communications from the University of Washington. Realizing at an early age that getting published in books with real covers might elude her for years, she worked on daily newspapers and in public relations to help avoid her creditors. She is married to David Daheim, a humanities professor emeritus, and lives in her hometown in a century-old house not unlike Hillside Manor, except for the body count. Daheim is also the author of the Alpine mystery series and the mother of three daughters.
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ALSO BY MARY DAHEIM
Just Desserts
Fowl Prey
Holy Terrors
Dune to Death
Bantam of the Opera
A Fit of Tempera
Major Vices
Murder, My Suite
Auntie Mayhem
Nutty As a Fruitcake
September Mourn
Wed and Buried
Snow Place to Die
Legs Benedict
Creeps Suzette
A Streetcar Named Expire
Suture Self
Silver Scream
Hocus Croakus
This Old Souse
Dead Man Docking
Saks & Violins
Credits
Jacket design by Ervin Serrano
Jacket illustration by Bill Mayer
Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
SCOTS ON THE ROCKS. Copyright © 2007 by Mary Daheim. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
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