“What is?” Judith asked.
Mrs. Gibbs sniffed twice and wiped at her cheek with the back of her hand. “Everything.”
Judith moved closer. “I don’t understand.”
“My whole life…wasted,” Mrs. Gibbs declared, avoiding Judith’s gaze. “Naught to show for it. A reckless son and a butchered grandson!” Her voice rose. “Work, work, work—and why? This was ours!” She swept a hand in a wide arc. “Then Matthew and his silly schemes lost it for us to that Fordyce! Bought it out from under us for not half its worth! The Master indeed! Och, Philip Fordyce is The Master all right! Treats us like slaves, he does! And now it’s finished.” She looked at the framed MacIver tartan on the wall. “My clan motto—‘I will never forget.’ How could I not remember how our lives were ruined?” Mrs. Gibbs turned on her heel and walked away.
“I’ll be damned,” Renie said under her breath.
“I’ve wondered about this whole setup,” Judith admitted. “The old folks working their tails off while Matt and Peggy travel the world.”
“Harry’s marriage was intended to bail them out?” Renie suggested.
“Very likely,” Judith said. “But there’s got to be more to it.”
“Like what?” Renie asked.
“I’m trying to sort through what Mrs. Gibbs meant,” Judith said, starting out of the kitchen. “Come on. Let’s go to the Fordyce suite.”
Renie was right on Judith’s heels. “We’re party crashers?”
“Whatever’s going on there isn’t a celebration,” Judith asserted as they entered the passageway connecting the castle’s living sections. “I’m not sure what it really is, but I don’t want to miss it.”
They reached the two doors, one of which led to the Fordyce suite, the other to the storage room and dungeon. Judith shuddered. “Poor Chuckie.” She opened the other door and walked down the carpeted hallway with the ugly abstract paintings chosen by Philip’s second wife. The corridor took a sharp left turn into a wider hall with zebra-striped wallpaper. “Gack,” Renie said. “The second Mrs. F had ghastly taste. Why do so many people with money lack the knack for using it wisely?”
“Not our problem,” Judith said, taking in several doors along the way. “Where would everybody have gone?”
The answer came when they reached an alcove where Constable Adamson stood at the door. “DCI MacRae was going to fetch you when he got here,” the constable said. “They’re in the drawing room.”
The cousins entered a large, unattractive room decorated in red, black, and white with furniture that looked impossibly uncomfortable. PC Glen stood by a white stone fireplace. Gathered in various states of impatience and anxiety were Philip and Beth, Marie and Will, Jocko and his brother Archie, Peggy and Matt Gibbs, and Seumas Bell.
Beth rose from a red tufted divan and went to greet the cousins. “You don’t have to be here. This is going to be ugly.”
“It already is,” Renie murmured, her eyes roaming around the room. “And I don’t just mean some of the people.”
“I know, I know,” Beth said nervously. “Phil called this meeting.”
Jocko Morton lumbered away from a table where drinks had been set up. “It’s outrageous!” He shot Philip a nasty look. “You’ve never invited any of us for a social occasion! Now you have the police haul us here as if we were common criminals! I’ll sue!”
“Quiet!” Seumas snapped. “You’ve made enough mischief already!”
“Haven’t you all?” Marie said quietly from the crook of Will’s sheltering arm. “I feel as if I’m in a vipers’ den.”
“Ha!” Jocko cried. “You should know. You married one!”
“Don’t speak to my wife that way,” Will said calmly, though there was steel in his voice. “Where’s that self-righteous villain Jimmy?”
“Slunk off,” Seumas said, refreshing his drink. “Slippery bastard.”
Archie Morton sneered. “What about Patrick? He killed young Gibbs. Patrick’s spent more time in Moira’s bed than Harry ever did.”
“But not,” Seumas put in snidely, “more than Davey.”
“That’s a lie!” Marie exclaimed. “Moira never slept with Davey!”
“Please!” a grim Matt Gibbs begged. “We’ve lost a son.”
“You’ll lose more than that,” Jocko threatened, fists clenched. “Your Venezuelan oil gambit is in checkmate now!”
Matt and Peggy exchanged quick glances. “Nonsense,” Peggy Gibbs snapped. “You can’t undo what’s done.”
“You’re done,” Seumas asserted with a nasty smirk. “And,” he added, looking at Philip, “why are the police here?”
“Venus goo,” Judith murmured. “That’s what Jocko’s note on the napkin meant—Venezuela.”
Philip strode to the middle of the room. “I’m your host.” His keen eyes moved slowly, taking in each member of the fractious gathering. “I invited the constables because I anticipated tempers would flare.”
“What’s the point of all this?” Jocko rasped.
“I have also lost a son,” Philip said calmly. “Chuckie was as dear to me as any child could be. Perhaps more so, because of his physical and emotional flaws.” His eyes fixed on Matt and Peggy. “Your son’s flaws weren’t obvious. Chuckie might still be alive if Harry hadn’t been killed. You’re guilty of both of their deaths.”
“You’re horrible!” Peggy shouted. “We’d never harm Harry! We weren’t even in Scotland when he was murdered and we can prove it!”
Philip shrugged. “I didn’t say you personally did the deed, but you caused his death. He was your ticket to great wealth and power.”
Peggy’s brittle façade was cracking. “It’s business,” she said in an unsteady voice. “Taking risks, seizing opportunities, using—” She stopped and buried her head against Matt’s chest.
“You don’t cross the line,” Philip said sternly. “You don’t connive with corrupt foreign officials who have huge oil interests. You don’t,” he went on, his voice rising, “use your son to sell out his wife’s inheritance.”
“That’s right!” Seumas shouted. “Harry was your frigging puppet! He had to have his strings cut!”
Peggy let out a piercing cry. Matt let go of her and charged at Seumas. Constable Glen moved swiftly between the two men. “That’ll do!” he cried. “No violence! Please!”
Matt backed off. Seumas stood still, his expression belligerent. Peggy had collapsed onto an empty chair.
“Where’s MacRae?” Renie whispered. “This is really ugly.”
“Why don’t you bop somebody?” Judith murmured. “It’s perfect timing for you to get into another brawl.”
Archie Morton swallowed a big gulp of Scotch. “I’m leaving. I’ve got cars to fix.”
“No, sir,” Glen said politely. “You’re staying. You can’t work now anyway. Your repair site is a crime scene.”
“What?” Archie’s face grew red. “Why the bloody hell is that?”
“I think you know,” Glen replied.
Archie snarled at the constable and poured himself another shot.
“Bomb,” Will said.
Beth stared at him. “What?”
“The one that killed Harry,” Will said. “Who else but Archie would know how to make a bomb?” He avoided looking at Archie, who appeared nearly apoplectic. “Isn’t that so, Constable?” Will inquired of Glen.
“I couldn’t say, sir,” Glen answered stoically.
Archie downed three shots in a row before turning to his brother. “It wasn’t my idea! It was yours, Jocko! I thought it was a prank!”
“Ridiculous!” Marie exclaimed. “You’re all crooks!”
Jocko turned his back on Archie and looked at Will. “You and your wife better keep quiet. You’re as guilty as any of us, Fleming.”
“We’ll see about that,” Will said mildly.
Seumas advanced on Will. “You made a deal with the coppers.”