The Siamese Suicides: A Duncan Dewar Mystery of Murder & Suspense (Duncan Dewar Mysteries Book 6)

by Victoria Benchley

  "I'm good, thank you. I'll be spending the weekend in Taye, and—"

  "Are ye staying at the cottage or the inn?"

  Abigail carried a torch for Donald Merriwether, owner of the Blue Bell, hence her interest in where Duncan planned to sleep. The investigator felt sorry for the woman's unrequited affections. He felt certain she couldn't compete with Susanne Wallace.

  "I think I'll camp out at the cottage. How are you, Abigail? Everything running smoothly?

  "Aye, aye. I couldn't ask for anything more. What can I do fir ye, Duncan?"

  "I need some reading material and a recommendation for a local contractor."

  "Do ye, now?"

  "Yes. Have you got anything on the art world? You know, the shady side?"

  Before the owner of Cat's Books could answer, he heard a bell ringing in the background, signifying a customer had entered the shop.

  "Stop by when ye come," she said in a whisper that sounded like a command.

  Abigail hung up on him to attend to her business. Duncan placed his cellular in his pocket and strolled back to his office. He knew the Antiquities and Curiosities business was not flourishing from his review of their financials. Begs had answered his question honestly, without hesitation. It seemed a simple case, but he wanted to be sure. Ever since the Merlon Murders, he'd become suspicious, distrusting even the most likeable of folks, even those like Clarence Begbie.

  The clear sky of the morning no longer remained, taken over by dark clouds. He hurried back to his own workplace, hoping to beat the rain. Before he could enter, a smartly dressed man dashed from the building. Duncan looked up at the windows above his office and saw the lights on. So, the head shrinker's open for business. He'd have to introduce himself to his neighbors, but not today. He needed to add some data to his fault tree analysis. He hoped to finish off this case and make his recommendation to Hadley sometime next week. Then, he could collect the remainder of his fat consulting fee from L and G and move on.

  Duncan settled into his chair before opening his emails. Gerald Campbell, the photo expert, had reviewed police pictures and the video from Begbie and Wainwrithe. He'd run his own computer programs and attached the results. It all pointed to suicide, based on the victim's height, injuries, and the scene. He forwarded everything to Herbert Smith, his preferred forensics specialist, along with a note explaining the case. Then, he entered what he'd learned into his fault tree analysis and ran its related software. It would take a while to get the results, and he'd have to include Herbert's conclusions. Still, it seemed an open and shut case.

  His thoughts turned to Peter Menzies and William Ainsley as he stared mindlessly out the window. A drizzle fell, coating the glass pane, but Duncan took no note. By the time he realized the sun had set, his fingertips were numb from thumping a continuous beat against the table top. He flipped on his desk lamp, the vintage model Angela chose for him, and composed an email to Ben Davis.

  When Duncan first became famous, he was often approached by people proffering their services. Some were on the up and up, and some were not. Some operated in the grey area between the two. Ben lived in that dim, foggy place. On occasion over the years, Duncan utilized the private investigator's skills and his connections in hard to solve cases. Peter's death looked like just such a circumstance.

  He cleared out just as the heavy sky released a downpour, bumping into, no doubt, another of the shrink's patients on his way. He stopped in the street to check if the doctor's lights were still on and confirmed his suspicions. The lady he passed looked frazzled and in need of a good psychologist. He headed for the bus stop, jingling his keys in his pocket and calling to mind whether he had locked his office before leaving. With the mentally unstable running about the building, he couldn't be too careful.

  A sad sight met him when he arrived home. There, surrounding the table in his mum's kitchen sat Harold, Angus, and his dad. They passed around bundles from the local chippie. A lone bulb in the adjoining sitting room provided a dim light.

  "Here, Lad," James said, trying to sound enthusiastic. He pulled out a chair for his son. "Have some cod."

  Duncan glanced at the faces of his siblings. His dad tended to place a positive spin on everything. Harold and Angus sported expressions that said it all.

  "Not as good as Penny's, eh?" Duncan said under his breath as he took his seat.

  Harold nodded his agreement. His brother met his current girlfriend, or rather his one and only girlfriend, in a chippie on Lindisfarne. The scran served there had been scrumptious.

  Duncan bit down on a soggy piece of fried fish, then he popped a cold chip in his mouth. After chewing, he released a long sigh. Angus said nothing, but he moved his head in an almost imperceptible shake.

  "Listen, lads. I know it's not what we've been accustomed to, but we need to be thankful for what we have. This is your mother's time to pursue her dream, and we should support that. You're all too old to be relying on Mum for your meals as it is."

  Duncan wondered if his father harbored any hidden resentment as Harold jumped for the fridge, an empty glass in his hand. His brother tended to do things on impulse, with gusto. While he fumbled in the icebox, the cellular he'd left next to his half-eaten fish buzzed. Duncan glanced at the small screen which read, Fighting Illini. From his time in the States, he knew that to be the nickname of a college in Illinois, the same state that produced Caroline Menzies. He reached for his brother's phone just as Harold plopped back in his chair, sloshing ale from his glass.

  "Who's messaging you from Illinois?" Duncan demanded in a suspicious tone.

  All heads snapped in his direction. Harold wiped two fingers on the table cloth and proceeded to tap his phone, all while humming a cheerful tune.

  The gangly redhead threw several chips in his mouth and answered while chewing, "Caroline."

  Angus choked on a bite of fish he'd been holding in his mouth since Duncan's outburst, and it lodged in his throat while James looked on, eventually whacking his son on the back to help move the morsel along. Harold continued humming before Duncan snatched the phone from under his nimble digits. He scanned the screen as his fingers swiped up and down, perusing the messages that passed between his former love and his brother. He never heard his father's admonition.

  "Now, Son, please stay calm while we get to the bottom of this."

  "Hey, give me back my phone," Harold whined.

  Angus saw his brother's nostrils flare just before he lunged for Harold, giving him a split second to grab Duncan's shoulder and prevent him from tackling their errant sibling. What followed was a wrestling match of sorts and not very pretty. The cellular's screen ended up smashed into shards as Angus attempted to keep the other two from coming to blows. Harold hopped around the room as if the floor were on fire while Duncan gave chase, lunging around his larger brother and swinging unsuccessfully at the other.

  "Enough!" James finally yelled.

  Angus shoved Duncan onto a divan before pointing Harold to a chair across the room. The redhead plopped in the seat and folded his arms across his chest in an exaggerated fashion, sure he'd been ill-treated. James moved to a neutral area between his sons as Angus dropped down next to Duncan, uncertain whether he'd need further restraining.

  "You've gone too far, Harold," the oldest Dewar son said, his voice eerily calm.

  Nae a good sign, thought Angus, whose brogue surfaced whenever irked. He kept an eye on his older brother, ready to spring at him again if need be. Harold was crazy to keep in contact with the woman who had ruined Duncan's career, but everyone knew the redhead marched to his own very different drum.

  "Wheesht!" James snapped.

  The elder Dewar inhaled deeply and slowly released his breath.

  "Now, Harold. Why would Caroline Menzies contact you?" James asked in as calm a voice as he could muster, training his eyes on his freckle-faced lad.

  "Because we're friends," Harold responded as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

  Duncan
jumped up, but Angus was ready for him. He grabbed his shoulders and shook his head slowly, contorting his face into an expression that said, You can't attack a simpleton. He got the message and sat down again.

  "Harold, why would you maintain a friendship with Duncan's ex-girlfriend, knowing she may have been involved in a murder and that things ended badly between she and your brother?" James's tone sounded as if he were speaking to a child.

  Harold rolled his eyes to the ceiling as his red brows nearly met between his eyes before one migrated high up on his forehead. He was clearly deep in thought.

  "There's no reason to be jealous, Duncan. You know I love Penny," he finally said.

  Another small melee ensued before James regained order and Angus forced Duncan back onto the sofa. In truth, the investigator wanted to hear Harold's explanation. The two had grown closer since their time on Lindisfarne, and he couldn't understand why his brother would do such a thing.

  "I'm going to ask you again, Harold. Why is Caroline contacting you?"

  "I help her with her predictions, that's all!" Harold exclaimed, gesticulating his frustration with the idiots surrounding him.

  "Weel, that clears the mizzle, don't it!" Angus said.

  "Shut up, Angus," James and Duncan barked in unison.

  "It was my Christmas present to her, if you recall?"

  They all remembered how Harold had given Caroline a small, handmade book of football predictions. She'd been impressed and made a big deal over the present, flattering the Dewar boy. He had a gift with numbers and had developed a system that allowed him to predict the outcome of sporting events with some regularity. Apparently, the woman had kept up with him over the ensuing eighteen months.

  "Harold, you have to break off contact with her." It was Duncan who spoke. "You may not realize it or even believe it, but Caroline is a criminal. Another person involved in the Merlon Murders died recently. You cannot be friends with her and you cannot tell her any of us found out about your correspondence. Do you understand, Harold?"

  "No, I don't."

  "Then you will just have to take your brother's word for it," James interjected. "I'll keep this for now," he added, holding up the cellular, its screen broken in so many places the cracks resembled a spider's web.

  "You cannot confiscate my phone!" Harold exclaimed. "I'm not a schoolboy!"

  "No, you're not. But in light of what Duncan just shared, there could be evidence here," their father said, nodding towards the broken mobile phone.

  "I'm going home!" Harold said, stomping from the house.

  The three remaining Dewars sat in silence for several minutes. James rose, moved into the kitchen, and returned with a bottle of whisky and three glasses. He poured each of them a serving of the stiff drink.

  "Don't be too hard on your brother, Duncan," his father said after a sip. He put his glass down and tossed him the cellular. "See what's on there," he added. "Harold will come around."

  Duncan caught the phone and headed to his bedroom without a word, taking his drink with him. James shrugged, gulped the remaining alcohol from his glass, and called it a night. Only Angus remained in the dimly lit room, surrounded by half-eaten fried fish and chips. The wall clock had ticked out another two hours before Margaret and Armondo entered the house.

  "Oh, hello, Angus. Nice to see you, Dear. So nice of you to wait up for us." Margaret greeted her son as Mondo opened the refrigerator, examining its contents.

  Angus gave his mum a squeeze and peck on the cheek.

  "Hello, Mum," he mumbled.

  "I think I'll just head to bed. It's been a long day," she chirped over her shoulder before strolling off.

  "So, Angus, what do we have to eat besides the mushy chip?" Mondo said with a shudder, picking up a piece of fish between his fat thumb and forefinger before dropping it again. The flesh on the chef's large nose gathered in wrinkles towards his eyes, and his lips stretched near his ears without parting.

  "This is all your fault!" Angus snapped, drawing himself up within inches of Armondo before stomping out of the house.

  Chapter 6

  Never a Dull Moment

  Duncan pulled his car up the drive belonging to the cottage he'd purchased on the outskirts of Taye. He was glad to have this getaway, glad to be out of Edinburgh and away from Harold, whom he still wanted to throttle. The added plus of avoiding all the hubbub right before the grand opening of his mum's restaurant proved to be the icing on the cake. He smiled, admiring the quaint dwelling he'd purchased for his future with Angela. He could imagine them living here full-time.

  He'd been all through Harold's phone, and his brother had told the truth. Except for casual questions about Duncan's wellbeing, Caroline had kept her messages to sporting wagers with the rare inquiry as to the health of various Dewars.

  Abandoned for some years, the stone cottage possessed the charm of another era. The roof, made of unusual pointy slate tiles, remained sound, thus avoiding any major damage, but the place needed a good cleaning and some updating. Plus, the utilities would have to be reinstated. All of that could wait. For now, he just wanted to relax and enjoy his surroundings. In spite of some unpleasant things he'd experienced in Taye, the place had begun to feel like home for Duncan. A strong pull brought him back to the village time and again. Of course, he'd had many fine experiences here as well, and grown close to many of the people who lived in these parts.

  As the clouds above parted, a lone sunbeam lit a corner of the house, bringing to his attention the bright green shrubs nearby and the masonry of the structure. He wished Angela could be here to share this moment with him. He hastily punched her work number into his mobile.

  "Hallo, Darling. Guess where I am."

  "Waverly station?"

  Waverly was Edinburgh's largest train station and where he'd catch a ride to London to see her if he couldn't get a flight.

  "No, Sweetheart. Unfortunately, you'll have to wait until next week to see me. I'm at the cottage."

  "Oh, you went up early then?"

  "Yes, decided to work from here. It's beautiful and peaceful."

  "I'm glad, Duncan. I've got some good news for you, too."

  "You've reconsidered eloping?"

  Angela laughed and said, "No, don’t be daft. When I come up for the grand opening, I'll be staying a while. I'll be there an extra few days to relax and help your mum, if she needs it."

  "Oh, nothing doing! You'll help me!"

  "Well, let's wait and see how the restaurant progresses. Most ventures require more work than people realize."

  "You're very generous, Angela. But, I could use your help too, you know."

  "So you claim, Duncan."

  The two spoke for several more minutes before signing off. He then climbed out of his automobile and took in a long breath of crisp Scottish country air. It smelled of rain, pine, and the raw outdoors. He planned to take some notes and prioritize what needed to be done to the cottage before driving to Cat's Books in Tyne. Later, he'd have dinner with Donald and Skye at the Blue Bell and hopefully charge his electronic devices before returning to the cottage for the night.

  His thoughts were on his agenda as he reached for the door knob. Suddenly, something seemed amiss. The door was not latched, and Duncan became sure he'd heard a sound coming from within the house. Recent events made him jumpy. He gently pushed against the wooden slab, attempting to open it without a sound. There! He heard the noise again—a definite thump or punch of some sort.

  "Hey!" he shouted into the structure.

  "Hey yersel!" a gruff voice came back.

  That was all it took. Duncan strode into his house, his cottage, his home, ready to run the rascal out with blows, if necessary. He encountered a short, well-built man, dressed in a jumper, grasping a hammer in his hand.

  "Can Ah help ye?" the man asked, lifting a dark, bushy brow.

  "Can I help you?" Duncan retorted.

  "Ach! Ah'll nae blether with a dozy bloke and Ah'll nae go round and round with ye e
ither!"

  "Now see here. I own this place and you're trespassing!"

  "Oh, am Ah now? Haud yer gagging. Ah was asked to swatch this heap but dinnae fash yersel, it's too hoachin for me. Ah'll take me leave."

  With that, the little man dropped his hammer into an elongated pocket on the side of his denim jumper and marched from the cottage. Only after he'd left did Duncan guess he could be a contractor sent by Abigail. He'd question her later. He had no plans to hire a difficult fellow like that!

  After examining the house, he spotted the cause of the noises he heard. Someone had punched a hole in the wall in the parlor and another in the kitchen. He guessed his unwanted guest had checked for something in the walls or tried to raze the place. He'd arrived in the nick of time. Duncan shook his head and laughed. He guessed he'd probably have to sit next to the man in a pew on Sunday. Won't that prove interesting? Life in Taye would never be dull.

  He examined the small entry. A floor made of large multi-colored smooth stones greeted him. An arch led the eye into the sitting room. The foyer only needed a good cleaning and perhaps a new coat of paint on the plaster walls. The lounge had a low, beamed ceiling and a large fireplace. He made a note to have someone check for the soundness of the chimney. A nice size, the room would be large enough for two sofas and several chairs, and he could imagine curling up on a couch with Angela on a winter night here, perhaps sharing a Sherlock Holmes mystery.

  Behind the wall that housed the fireplace stood the kitchen. This area needed serious help, but it could eventually house a table and enough cabinets and counters for a growing family. Duncan worked his way back into the parlor and observed the rustic, open stairs clinging to one wall. Consisting of just treads, the thick boards looked ancient. A fragile, rough-hewn handrail appeared as though ready to give way at any moment. Thinking of his safety, he bypassed the upper level for a hallway to the rear of the room that lead to a snug library. This will make a perfect office, he thought. The windows here provided a view of forest land behind the house. Next door, a cozy bedroom with its own fireplace beckoned. A lone bathroom, in terrible shape, completed the ground floor.