“From where?” Judith asked. “Who is he?”
“Jocko Morton,” Barry replied, letting the engine sputter and idle. “He’s Blackwell Petrol’s CEO, but he did a bunk a while back, called it taking a leave, and went to Greece. What’s he carrying on about?”
Judith tried to roll down her window but it was stuck. A florid-faced Morton was waving his pudgy hands. “Can you hear him?” she asked Barry, who was leaning his head out on the driver’s open side.
“Some. He’s telling the crowd how wonderful he is and what he can do for Blackwell Petroleum and for St. Fergna and for God and country. Full of wind, that’s Jocko Morton. He likes to be the pukka sahib, thinks he knows how to run everybody’s life better than they do.”
The gathering gave a great shout. Several people were pumping their fists in the air and others were jumping up and down. Barry’s expression turned curious. “Riled up, I’d say. Why, I wonder?”
“Flyers are being passed around by a man who looks like Jocko,” Judith noted. “Can you get us one?”
“That’s Jocko’s brother Archie,” Barry said, starting to get out of the car. “He runs the local garage. Be right back.”
Barry jogged off to fetch a flyer. The car started to inch forward, heading toward the green. “Why are we moving?” Renie asked.
“I don’t think Barry set the emergency brake,” Judith said, leaning across the front seat. “I found it.”
The car kept going, despite Judith’s hard tug on the brake. “Damn! I don’t think it works.”
The car kept crawling along, edging ever nearer to the oblivious gathering that spilled out almost into the street. Judith pulled again on the brake lever. It still didn’t stop the old rattletrap from moving. “Look out!” she cried in warning. But the crowd couldn’t hear her. Just as she was certain they were going to mow down a half dozen villagers, Barry sprinted back to the car and jumped in.
“Sorry,” he said, fumbling under the dashboard and pulling on a rope. “I should get this fixed, but then I don’t have many emergencies.” The car stopped six inches short of any would-be victims.
Judith was aghast. “You use a rope to pull on the brake?”
Barry shrugged. “It works, doesn’t it?” He handed Judith a flyer, his face grim. “Kind of ugly. They’re calling Mrs. Gibbs a murderer. Or would she be a murderess?”
“Let’s hope she’s not either one,” Judith replied.
Renie leaned over the seat to look at the white sheet of paper with the bold black lettering. “Jezebel? Whore? Scorpion? As in the critters that kill their mates?”
“Jocko Morton doesn’t seem to be in his company owner’s corner,” Judith said. “This is inflammatory.” She looked up from the flyer. Jocko used a bullhorn to call for quiet. The crowd finally stopped spewing what sounded like venom, but not before Archie Morton emerged from the fringe and appeared to make some threats.
“Save your strength for the inquest,” Jocko shouted. “Let the rich know that they can’t get away with murder!”
The crowd burst into another round of cheers and chants. Even from a distance, Judith could tell that Jocko looked smug. “I don’t get it,” she remarked. “He’s Blackwell’s CEO and he wants Moira arrested?”
“That’s not so mysterious,” Renie said. “There must be a fight over top-level decision-making, and Jocko thinks Moira’s an obstacle to his position and livelihood. I’ve seen it before with some of my graphic design clients. Dog-eat-dog, and it’s not always the money, but ego.”
Judith turned to Barry. “Where’s Hollywood?” she asked as the name suddenly popped into her head.
“To the left,” Barry said, and turned in that direction. “That’s where Harry lived when he wasn’t at the castle. It’s Moira’s house. Very nice, though I’ve only delivered there twice.”
The elderly car made several strange noises as they passed whitewashed cottages and a row of stone houses. Moments later they were going through the rather flat countryside. Judith didn’t recognize all of the trees that flanked the road, though she saw several tall rowans in bud and a few wild rhododendron bushes.
She judged they’d gone about two miles when Barry slowed down. “The gate to Hollywood’s on your right. We can’t go in, but you can get a glimpse of…Oh, bloody hell! I’m out of petrol!”
The car began to go even slower as Barry fought the wheel to reach the narrow verge. “Sorry. I’d have checked the gauge, but it broke.”
Judith turned to look at Renie, who had been unusually quiet during the ride. Her cousin was petting the hamster in her lap.
“He reminds me of Clarence,” she said. “He’s so soft, and he only tried to bite me once.”
“Great,” Judith murmured. Her thoughts weren’t with Clarence or the hamster or even Renie. She’d been given a golden opportunity and intended to seize it. “Would Moira Gibbs have any petrol to spare?”
Barry chuckled. “Aye, she does at that. But we mustn’t bother her at such a time. I can walk back to the village.” He snapped his fingers. “I forgot. The petrol pump’s closed for the Sabbath.”
“How far are we from the gate to Hollywood?” Judith inquired.
“Just up there,” Barry said, pointing to a stone marker less than twenty-five yards away.
“We have no choice,” Judith declared. “We’ll have to walk to Moira’s house. We met her yesterday at the graveyard.” She turned back to Renie. “Put the hamster in his cage, coz. Let’s go.”
Barry, however, proved reluctant. “We shouldn’t, truly,” he insisted. “Mrs. Gibbs must be all weepy and sad.”
“Then we’ll console her,” Judith said, getting out of the car.
The door fell off.
“Oh no!” she cried. “I’m so sorry!”
“Never mind. It does it all the time,” Barry assured her. “I can tie you in with the emergency brake rope on the way back. I don’t know what I’d do without that rope. Really handy, it is.”
Judith and Barry walked up the road. Renie trailed, having taken the time to restore The Bruce to his little wire home. Turning in at the stone marker, which bore the engraved name hollywood house, Judith noticed that the iron gates were shut. She could see a Georgian house with a circular drive where a red BMW sports car was parked.
She could also hear laughter.
It didn’t sound to Judith as if Moira Gibbs was mourning her late husband.
9
Moira Gibbs and the man named Patrick were holding hands as they started up the steps to the elegant three-story house. Judith recognized Patrick from his sturdy build and the leather jacket he’d worn when he met Jimmy on the beach after the explosion.
The couple apparently hadn’t seen the trio at the gate. Judith called to them while Renie looked for a buzzer or an intercom. Barry, however, simply gaped in disbelief at Patrick and Moira.
“That’s no way to act,” Barry muttered. “If somebody blew up Alison, I’d feel quite glum.”
Judith’s shouts were ignored by the couple, who headed inside the house without turning around. Renie, however, had found a keypad. She poked a button labeled visitor. Judith could hear a stilted masculine voice respond.
“You got gas?” Renie asked.
“Pardon?” the masculine voice said, sounding affronted.
“Gas, petrol, whatever you call it here. We’re stuck,” Renie said. “Tell Moira that Hugh MacGowan wouldn’t like us having problems. The name’s Jones, by the way. The other one is Flynn. Moira knows us.”
Judith was leaning over Renie’s shoulder. She heard a woman respond but couldn’t make out the words. After a brief pause the stilted voice resumed speaking. “You may enter. The mistress will see you.”
“Nice work,” Judith said to Renie as the gates opened smoothly.