“That’s one of the things I’m planning to do while I’m home,” I said, relieved to switch subjects for a moment.
“And how long are you home for?”
“Until I’m not,” I replied. All my adult life I’d been a free spirit and I didn’t like having to answer to anyone, especially when I wasn’t sure of the answer myself. I needed time to decompress, to unwind, to regain my perspective on life. I couldn’t say how long that would take, and I wouldn’t even if I could. “I’ll be here at least long enough to get the trust’s offices set up. I was hoping to get a little place on the high street and run things from here. It’ll mean a couple of jobs for the locals.”
Grant nodded silently, his mind elsewhere. “Do you think you could have some materials on the trust by the time we host this VIP event?”
I nodded.
“And for now it’s a one-time thing?”
“Yes.”
Grant sighed heavily. “Then I suppose we can give it a shot.” He pulled out his calendar. “Let’s see when this might work.”
“It’s a week Saturday.”
“A week Saturday?” Grant glared at the calendar. “Today’s Wednesday, that’s less than ten days.”
“It has to be when the Japanese distillers are in town. There’s no flexibility on that point.”
“Bloody marvelous.” Grant ran his hands through his sandy blond hair until it stood on end like a brush. “Alright, alright, let’s just get it over with. Tell Patrick to keep it simple. Quick tour and a tasting. In and out. Nothing elaborate.”
“I’ll tell him,” I said. I could only hope he’d listen.
—
Liam and I returned to the house for dinner and found my resident handyman, Hunter Mann, microwaving a cottage pie in the kitchen.
“You’re out of HP sauce,” he said by way of greeting.
I poured myself a glass of wine from the bottle on the counter and sat down at the kitchen table. Hunter, as usual, was puttering around as if he owned the place. For the past nine years Hunter had helped my uncle renovate and refurbish this house that Ben’d christened the Haven. Hunter’s wood-carving skills were legendary, as were his father’s and his grandfather’s before him. The mantel and trim work he’d installed in the library were nothing short of breathtaking, but I had my suspicions that as soon as he finished the last project he had he went back and started again at the beginning. An endless cycle of remove, renovate, and replace.
He certainly showed no signs of moving on anytime soon. Still, in his shabby jumper and paint-spattered jeans, he’d become a part of the fabric of my life in Balfour and I couldn’t imagine a day without his grizzled whiskers and his mischievous grin. Not to mention that without him I’d have to trail over to the Chocolate Bar every time I needed to tap into the village grapevine.
As Liam gave Hunter his usual delirious greeting, rolling on his back like a puppy waiting for a tummy rub, I asked, “What’s new?”
“Not much. Finished repairin’ that section of railin’ on the top floor. Oh, and that bloke who’s stayin’ at Fell Farm stopped by lookin’ for you. Name’s Hendricks.”
The mysterious stranger. My heart skipped a beat. He certainly wasn’t wasting any time. “Did he say why he wanted to see me?”
“Nae, lass. Just asked if you’d stop by.”
“When?”
“Soon as you can, I’d reck’n. He seemed more ’n a mite anxious to me.”
“Right, I’ll nip over first thing in the morning,” I said, racking my brain. Hendricks, Hendricks. I strained my mental resources, but nothing came to mind. Clearly not a friend, and I couldn’t remember any colleagues by that name. It would have to be someone I’d done a story on. Harold’s earlier comments had me running through the roster of characters I’d photographed for a piece on the Colombian drug cartels a few years back. A violent unforgiving crew to say the least, but what would one of them be doing here? And what could they possibly want with me?
I searched the name Hendricks on my computer, but all I got was Gin, Jimmy, and some American baseball player. None of which were helpful. I fed Liam, said good night to Hunter, and went to run a bath. I sat in the bubbles watching my fingers get pruny and contemplating my first full day at home. So far not the peaceful reprieve I was hoping for. Patrick’s comments about pirates and smugglers had me wondering about the body buried beneath the Stag, so close to the churchyard but not in it. Who was it? An infamous criminal, or perhaps the victim of a heinous crime? Maybe it was just the journalist in me, but the bones whispered to me from the village’s past. They had a story to tell, and to be honest, investigating the past held more allure right now than the horrors of the present I’d recently left behind. If it weren’t for the stranger at Fell Farm, the bones at the Stag would be filling my imagination.
Well, maybe not completely. Grant’s rugged face and haunting eyes crept into my mind unbidden.
He was still damnably attractive and as much of an enigma as he’d been when I fled Scotland three months ago. Yes, fled. I’d never run from a challenge in my life, but the intense emotions surrounding Ben’s death and the violence and mayhem attending my inheritance left me feeling vulnerable and sorely tempted to look to Grant for comfort, but it would’ve been a mistake. We hardly knew one another, and try as I might I still couldn’t get a read on him. Leaving had been the right choice at the time; I could only hope that coming back so soon hadn’t been a miscalculation.
Chapter 3
The next morning after breakfast I went outside to confront the new car I’d ordered before returning home. I couldn’t keep on borrowing an estate car from Grant every time I needed to go somewhere, but it was just me and Liam. We didn’t need anything big. On a whim I’d ordered a navy blue Mini Cooper with a white stripe down the side. A compact reliable little car, but for some reason the model they’d delivered was a convertible. It was the height of optimism in this perpetually damp part of the world. I’d been tempted to tell Hunter to send it back, but frankly I didn’t want the hassle. I wouldn’t be using it much anyway.
I opened the door and Liam vaulted into the front seat without the slightest hesitation, looking back at me expectantly. I climbed in and started the engine. It drove beautifully, and now all she needed was a name. Ben and I always named cars. It was a ritual we both looked forward to. A new life, a new car, and a sunroof in a country that averages more than two hundred days of rain a year. “Hope” seemed the right choice.
I followed Hunter’s directions round the valley to Fell Farm. As I pulled into the drive, I saw the bright blue convertible Ford Mustang that had Harold in such thrall. It was a sleek-looking machine. Next to it, Hope looked like a kiddy car. The Mustang was parked in front of an old stone barn with a slate roof that had clearly once been a stable. The current owner had converted the upper portion of the stall doors into glassed-in windows with large decorative shutters. The adjacent house was low slung and constructed of the same stone and exposed timbers. It rambled along a ridge that looked away to the east, taking in a sweeping view of the mist-covered hills on the far side of the valley. In the diffuse light the scene looked like a muted watercolor painting in lavenders and earth tones. Liam made a quick circuit of the flower beds, nosing through the carpet of white phlox and leaving his calling card before joining me on the front porch.
My knock was answered by a man with shoulder-length dark shaggy hair with a trace of silver mixed in. A few days’ worth of stubble graced his chin, and he looked as if he was not long out of bed. He was dressed in a flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows and well-worn jeans that were clearly expensive when new. His pale blue eyes studied me cautiously through the narrow opening in the doorway, and I registered the butt of a gun protruding from under a folded newspaper on the credenza just inside the door. Liam pressed close to my side, sensing my rush of adrenaline, but he wasn’t growling. Seeing the gun made me wonder if I should’ve brought a witness as well as the fur cavalry, and ye
t I couldn’t quite shake the feeling that I wasn’t looking into the eyes of a complete stranger.
“Mr. Hendricks? I’m Abigail Logan,” I said. “I understand you’ve been looking for me?”
“Yeah, sorry.” He stepped backward and swung the door wide. “Come in, and drop the mister. Rory’s good enough.”
I hesitated slightly, but Liam was my barometer and he seemed fine with Hendricks, neither overjoyed nor cautious. “Are you okay with dogs?” I asked. He nodded, and we followed our host inside. The interior reflected the exterior with untreated stone floors and exposed timbers in the ceiling, but the rustic backdrop was tastefully accented by minimalist Danish Modern furnishings in rich shades of plum and pine. I was no fan of contemporary art. I preferred the detail of realism, but I knew quality when I saw it. The two large canvases in the dining room would run to six figures easily.
A computer sat open on the kitchen table atop several days’ worth of newspapers, and a dozen ceramic coffee mugs were lined up next to the sink like soldiers on parade. A wine rack shaped like a metal sculpture of a tree dominated the side wall. It was only half full, mainly reds, and a basket on the kitchen island overflowed with used corks.
“Coffee?” Rory asked.
“Please.” I perched on the edge of a stool pulled up to the counter and watched as Hendricks fired up an espresso machine. He looked up and caught my eye, which for some reason made me flush.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to stare, it’s just that you remind me so much of…well, did anyone ever tell you that you’re the spitting image of Mickey Dawson, the former lead singer from the Rebels?” I blurted out, suddenly feeling ridiculous.
He turned away and rummaged in the cabinet for coffee. “Mickey Dawson’s long dead. I go by my given name now.”
I felt a surge of relief flood over me, but it took everything I had to swallow the squeal of excitement that jumped to my throat. Hendricks was no criminal, but he was every inch the infamous bad boy of rock and roll, the subject of many a female fantasy, including mine. The Rebels were a legendary band with a heavy dose of R&B, known for smart lyrics and innovative instrumentals in an era that was rife with fluffy bubblegum pop ballads. At the height of their popularity they played sold-out arenas all over the world. Mickey Dawson was the hot one. Lead singer and often lyricist, he had a boyish charm and a sexual charisma that overwhelmed even the most sophisticated of women.
A gift he took ample advantage of in his youth, if the rumors were to be believed.
His childhood mate, the band’s composer and keyboard player, Ian Waters, was the sweet one. Ian was the one the mums liked and often looked out of his depth surrounded by the excesses of his bandmates. Drummer Hamish Dunn was known as the Trippy Hippie, and Stewart Forbes on bass was the wild child, the risk taker. Together they became rock gods, running with the likes of the Stones and the Who, infamous for the trappings of the sex, drugs, and rock-and-roll lifestyle they came to epitomize. Their talent burned like a fierce flame but was extinguished just as suddenly when the band broke up.
I’d been obsessed with Mickey Dawson in my university days, following the band around the UK as far as my finances would allow. I couldn’t believe I was sitting this close to Mickey…Rory, watching him make coffee for me.
I took a deep calming breath and put on my best I’m a reporter, nothing rattles me face. “What are you doing up here in the back of beyond?” I ventured.
“Avoiding people.”
“Not a bad place to do it, but last I heard you were living in South America.”
Rory turned and leaned on the counter between us, his shoulders hunched and his eyes down. “I was. Spent the last twelve years in Brazil trying to escape the Rebels.”
“Why?” I blurted out.
“Fourteen years with the band took its toll on all of us, and Mickey was out of control,” Rory insisted. “He had to go.”
“But you created him,” I said.
Rory shook his head vehemently. “Not me. Mickey Dawson was the creation of our record label. They were the ones that decided I needed a stage name. A more flamboyant persona, and Mickey was born. Mick the Dick we used to call him. He was what rock and roll was supposed to be about in those days, and it wasn’t the music.”
“That may be, but the music you and Ian created was great. Your first album was brilliant. It’s still a classic today.”
“Yeah, it wasn’t bad,” he admitted. “We had a real fire in those days.” Rory got a faraway look in his eyes. “But things went south so fast. By the time A Jerk in Progress was released, we could barely function as human beings, let alone as musicians.”
Rory handed me a coffee in a ceramic mug covered in burgundy and gray swirls.
“You mentioned a mutual friend?” I said with a slight tremor in my voice.
“Yeah, I sort of lied about that,” Rory admitted. “Wasn’t sure the award-winning photojournalist would come up to see the strange man on the hill if I just asked.”
“But how did you know I was here?”
“Hired a local handyman when I first arrived to do some work around the house. He told me you had a place up here.”
Hunter. I’d been set up. “What can I do for you?”
Rory’s focus returned to me, and I could feel a tingle running down my spine. “I’m playin’ at a benefit concert for wounded vets in Stirling tomorrow night. Was supposed to be Ian Waters, but obviously he can’t, so I agreed to do it since I’m up here anyway.”
“That’s great, but where do I fit in?”
“The concert’s a high-priced fundraiser for the vets, and they’ve scheduled the show on the parade grounds at Stirling Castle. I need an official photographer.”
“Wow. I mean, I’d love to do it, but surely there are more qualified tour photographers.”
“I want you,” Rory pressed.
“Sure, if you really want me,” I said, beaming foolishly. Belatedly I thought to ask, “Why isn’t Ian performing?”
“You didn’t hear about the accident?”
I shook my head. “No, I’ve been out of the country for the past three months.”
“Ian was the victim of a hit-and-run a couple of weeks ago. He’s still in a coma.”
“That’s awful.” I’d met Ian Waters once on an AIDS relief mission in Africa. What a heartbreaking waste of that immense talent. “He was such a lovely man,” I said sadly.
Rory nodded. “He’s been more active in social causes recently than music, although that was changing.”
“You and Ian stayed in touch after the band broke up?” I thought I knew the answer, but I wanted to hear it from the horse’s mouth.
Rory looked uncomfortable. He’d never been known for giving interviews to the press and this kind of disclosure was obviously difficult for him. “Ian and I’d been mates since we were kids at school, but the end of the band was pretty much the end of our friendship. We haven’t spoke in years. A lot of things were said, bridges burned.”
“What about the rest of the band? Stewart Forbes died about five years ago, didn’t he?” I asked.
Rory nodded. “Stew died in a boating accident. He was always a speed freak. Fast cars and even faster boats. It’s a wonder he lived as long as he did.”
I remembered the accident. It had shattered fans’ ongoing hopes for an eventual reconciliation and reunion for the Rebels. “And what’s Hamish Dunn up to these days?”
“Hamish died about eight weeks ago. Shortly after I came back to London.”
“Hamish, too. How?” I asked.
“According to the papers, it was a heart attack.”
I looked at Rory intently over the rim of my coffee mug. “It doesn’t sound like you believe that.”
“The police found traces of pure heroin in Hamish’s system. Not a lot, but enough.”
“Accidental overdose or suicide?” the reporter in me asked immediately.
“Not sure they cared. Frankly, I think they’d have just left it at acci
dental overdose if they could’ve, but in the wake of Ian’s hit-and-run, they’ve reopened the investigation.”
I didn’t like the way this was heading. I leaned forward. “A group of four and now basically you’re the last man standing. That seems beyond coincidental.”
“Not too many people know the whole story. Ian’s wife’s been doing her best to keep the press at bay, but the police think it’s suspicious. If it is some kind of vendetta against the band, it makes sense I’d be the next target.”
My instinct said there was a story here. Potentially a big one. A band with a wild past, being systematically killed off. Why? More important, “Why now?” I asked aloud. “What’s changed to trigger something like this after so many years?”
Rory shrugged. “I have no clue. Other than me coming back to the UK.”
“Do the police in London have any leads?” I asked.
“They’ve got people on the case, but they aren’t sharing much with me. The latest was a break-in at the Carmichael gallery in London. Several expensive paintings were stolen.”
I wasn’t clear on the connection between a London gallery and the conversation we were having. “And some of the art was yours?” I suggested.
“No.” Rory pulled a guitar pick out of his pocket and rubbed the smooth surface with his thumb like a talisman. “Summer Carmichael’s my daughter.”
Another exclusive. I had no idea that Rory had kids. Not surprising he had them, but managing to keep them out of the press all these years was a feat. “Were any of the other band members’ families targeted?”
Rory shook his head.
“Then are you sure this is connected to the attacks on the band?”
“Whoever it was scrawled ‘In tears of rage you’re going down for the last time’ on the wall where the paintings had been.”
I scanned through my lyric memory, which was mysteriously always more accurate than any other part of my mental archives. “The song was called ‘Drowning,’ right? From the Rebels’ first album.” Someone was going out of their way to make the connection with the Rebels clear. “That’s an awful lot of activity around a band that hasn’t performed together in more than a dozen years,” I noted.
Death Distilled Page 3
