“Meanwhile,” MacRae said, “just be the keen observer that’s made your reputation. Your people skills are, we understand, outstanding.”
“Thank you,” Judith said, relieved. “I had no idea how thorough these background checks could be.”
MacRae chuckled and winked. “Perfect. The American Innocent Abroad.” He saluted Judith and turned toward the central staircase.
Judith watched him start down the curving stairs with Ogilvie bringing up the rear. But MacRae stopped after a few steps and reached for his cell phone. He listened for at least a full minute. Judith saw him say something into the phone and signal to her. He rang off, spoke to Ogilvie, and came back up the stairs.
“That was the autopsy report,” MacRae said barely above a whisper. “The findings won’t be released until the inquest. Harry Gibbs was smothered, probably while unconscious. There was no sign of a struggle, you see, but cocaine was found in his system along with a large quantity of alcohol. He’d probably passed out before his killer arrived. You must act surprised when you hear the official pronouncement,” the detective added solemnly. “The inquest is at ten Tuesday in the Women’s Institute.” He saluted Judith and went down the stairs.
Judith remained in the hallway until the policemen disappeared. Apparently the security agents had checked her out on the Internet and discovered the FATSO site created by admirers of her crime solving. The acronym was actually FASTO, for Female Amateur Sleuth Tracking Offenders, but had been corrupted into the less flattering nickname, presumably because it was easier to remember.
Just as Judith was going back into Moira’s suite, she saw Elise come out of a room farther down the hall. The maid was scowling and wagging a bony finger.
“You must not go in,” Elise said with her slight French accent. “Madame needs rest. Mrs. Fordyce must also leave. I shall tell her now.”
“But I left my purse in the sitting room,” Judith protested.
“I shall retrieve it.” Elise’s dark eyes hardened. Her close-cropped black hair looked dyed and her eyebrows were haphazardly penciled in. “You think I am a thief?”
“Certainly not,” Judith said. “I must say goodbye to Mrs. Gibbs.”
“Non,” Elise declared, shaking her head. “I shall tell her for you.”
“Fine,” Judith snapped. She remained in the hall, looking over the balcony above the spacious entry area with its double circular staircases, graceful columns, and Greek statuary. All seemed calm and quiet. That was, Judith thought, deceptive. Hollywood was not a peaceful house. She sensed unhappiness, perhaps handed down through generations.
The silence was broken by the sound of a slamming door. An angry Beth Fordyce was marching out of Moira’s suite. “The nerve!” she exclaimed. “Elise ordered me out! And Moira just lay there with the baby and didn’t say a word! Where’s her pluck?”
“I got the heave-ho, too,” Judith said. “But you’re an old friend.”
“I thought I was,” Beth muttered. “Oh—here’s your handbag. Elise practically threw it at me. We might as well go see Mummy.”
“Thanks,” Judith said, juggling the purse, which seemed unusually heavy. Or maybe she was unusually tired. The vacation had become more stressful than restful.
Judith and Beth got only halfway downstairs when they heard a commotion coming from outside of the house.
“The press?” Judith suggested. “I thought the police were going to make them go away.”
Beth stopped with her hand on the gilded balustrade. “It sounds like Morton and…Patrick?”
Fergus was moving across the entry hall at a faster pace than usual. He stopped at the door, his ear pressed against the wood.
Beth continued downstairs; Judith followed.
“What’s going on out there?” Beth demanded.
Fergus looked down his long nose at Beth. “A dispute, I believe, possibly involving violence.”
“Oh, for—!” Pushing Fergus aside, Beth dashed to the door. The startled butler kept his balance by grasping the legs of a marble Artemis.
As Beth opened the door, Judith drew closer. To her astonishment, she saw Patrick Cameron take a swing at Jocko Morton, knocking the heavyset man onto the steps. Seumas Bell jumped on Patrick’s back, trying to restrain him. Morton squealed like a pig when Patrick landed a second and third blow.
“Stop!” Beth screamed. “You’ll kill each other!”
Her words went unheeded. All three men were rolling around on the gravel drive. Beth shouted at Fergus, “Get a gun! Now!”
“Which gun, madam?”
“One that’s loaded, you cretin! Hurry!”
Judith stood in the doorway, watching in horror as Seumas Bell broke free from the writhing pile and yanked a heavy urn off of a pedestal. He was about to bring it down on Patrick’s skull when Judith used all her might to throw her purse at him. By a stroke of luck it hit Seumas in the temple, momentarily stunning him. He reeled slightly and looked to see where the missile had come from.
“Who are you?” he asked, blinking several times.
“I’m a peacemaker!” Judith shouted as Patrick jumped up from an apparently unconscious Jocko and decked Seumas, who dropped the urn before falling backwards into the driveway. The urn smashed, strewing chards of concrete and soil onto Jocko’s elevator shoes.
Fergus appeared on the porch holding what looked to Judith like a blunderbuss. “Will this do?” he asked Beth.
“Oh, good Lord!” Beth cried. “There must two dozen guns in this house and you bring me a freaking musket? Did you call the police?”
“No coppers!” Patrick looked defiant as he smoothed his dark red hair and rubbed his knuckles. “These two are out of it. I’m going to see Moira.” He jumped over Jocko and took the stairs two at a time.
Seumas was coming to, moaning and rolling around in the driveway, getting gravel all over his dark pinstripe suit. Jocko had opened his eyes, but was staring straight up into the noonday sun.
“Turn out that bloody light,” he mumbled. “Pull the curtains. Douse the glim.”
For the first time, Judith noticed the red BMW sports car she’d seen on her previous visit. Directly behind it was Jocko Morton’s Jaguar sedan. She guessed that Jocko and Seumas had followed Patrick to Hollywood House.
“I think,” Beth said calmly, “that you should both leave. I presume at least one of you is able to drive.”
“No,” Morton said, poking at various body parts. “I’m injured.”
“I’ll drive,” Seumas said, standing up and brushing the gravel from his suit. “But Patrick hasn’t heard the last of this.”
“I hope I have,” Beth said sternly. “Don’t you dare get me or Philip mixed up in your squalid affairs.”
“Our squalid affairs?” Seumas was indignant. “I’m an attorney, and a highly ethical man.”
“How odd,” Beth said blithely. “How can you possibly be both?”
“You’re on their side,” Seumas sneered. “Don’t pretend that you and Philip haven’t got your own ax to grind. And never try to tell me that the bairn is Harry’s! We all know who sired the little bastard!”
Beth kept her lips closed tightly, but her lively eyes shot arrows at Seumas as he helped get Jocko to his feet. Fergus was still holding the musket, cocking the weapon as the two men staggered to the Jaguar.
“Shall I fire now?” he inquired of Beth.
Beth flipped a thick strand of black hair over her shoulder. “Why not? Shoot over their heads, just to hurry them along.”
The butler fumbled with the musket. “Wait!” Judith cried. She hurried to retrieve her purse, backtracked inside the house, and put her fingers in her ears. Nothing happened.
“I believe it’s jammed,” Fergus said dolefully as Morton flopped inside the Jag.
“It probably has no balls,” Beth said in a disgusted voice. “There seems to be a serious lack of them around here.”