Death Distilled

by Melinda Mullet

  “What happened to Bonnie?”

  “Penrose relocated her to the video production facility in Kent and paid her off. Outta sight, outta mind kind of thing.”

  “And you never saw Summer after she was born?”

  Rory shook his head. “Bonnie didn’t want me to have anything to do with her. But Bonnie passed away about a year ago, and I reached out to Summer. She’d only just found out I was her father. She was angry and hurt. I mean, course she’d be. At first she didn’t want anything to do with me, but I just keep trying.”

  I frowned. “Does Summer know about the other attacks?”

  “She knows about Ian, but we’ve tried to keep the situation with Hamish under wraps. I haven’t told her, but I can’t swear she hasn’t heard something while she’s been visiting Ian, or when the police were looking into the gallery break-in.”

  “She’s friends with the other members of the band?” I asked, surprised. It seemed odd to me if she really hadn’t been aware of her father’s identity.

  “Bonnie and Ian’s wife, Patty, were best friends. In fact, Ian and Patty are Summer’s godparents.”

  That’s not awkward, I thought. Rory seemed to have got lost inside his own head, but he was still drinking like a fish. “Can I get you something to eat?”

  “Hm? No, I should get back. I’ve got things to do before tomorrow’s show.” He drained his glass and rose to go, pausing on the threshold for a moment. “If something happens to me tomorrow night, Patty’ll look after Summer,” he said softly, “but let her know I tried to…well, just let her know I tried.”

  I showed Rory out and watched the Mustang disappear down the drive in a cloud of dust. I had no idea what that was about. Was he looking for sympathy or comfort, or just someone to talk to? And why me? We hardly knew each other. Could it be that he trusted me more than I thought?

  I went back to the kitchen and retrieved my drink. Six months ago, I’d never have picked a whisky as my drink of choice. Now it was second nature. I stood savoring the complexity of the taste and watching the flock of fleece peacefully roaming round the back garden until I noticed the shadow of a figure at the fence.

  I went round the side of the house and found Grant leaning against the garden gate.

  “I heard you’d taken up a new hobby.”

  I was in no mood to be teased. “Is there a problem with that?”

  “Of course not. You do as you please,” Grant said mildly. He turned to look at me. “Am I interrupting something?”

  “My friend just left.”

  “No kidding. He nearly ran me over,” Grant muttered.

  He fell silent watching the sheep dozing in the fading light. I sensed he was hoping I would elaborate, but I wasn’t inclined to talk about Rory and not with Grant. I pressed my hands to my cheeks, wondering if I still looked flushed.

  “Anyway,” he said finally, “just came by to give you the name of the local estate agent to help with the office rental for the trust.”

  I looked at the paper he’d handed me with the contact information for Nora Barker. “The town’s postmistress?” I said.

  “She does double duty and she needs the commissions.”

  “Right, I’ll give her a call.” I hesitated for a moment, then said, “Could I beg another favor?”

  “No more events at the Glen,” Grant immediately replied.

  “Of course not, but if we’re still on for dinner Saturday, would you mind if I brought along a friend of mine who’s in town?”

  Grant’s eyes darkened. “I suppose, if you think he won’t be bored.”

  “She, actually.”

  Grant looked oddly relieved. “Oh, right. That’s fine. I’ll tell Louisa we’ll be four.”

  I watched Grant walk back to his car. Two weird visits in a row. There was no reason for Grant to be here either. He could have emailed Nora’s details or called me on the phone. Was he checking up on me? Jury was out as to whether I was flattered or annoyed.

  And yet I couldn’t help comparing the two men in my mind. Grant was a quietly smoldering fire. A chasm of emotional complexity that would take a lifetime to plumb. Rory, on the other hand, oozed an immediate kinetic sexual energy with an undercurrent of danger. No one would look at Rory and think that a liaison would be wise, but there were plenty of women willing to take the risk. Thrill seekers and fame junkies. Was I one of them?

  Chapter 6

  Friday morning, day two as a shepherdess, and I was already forced to concede that my grasp of animal husbandry was even more tenuous than my grasp of distilling. The sheep that I’d dubbed Oscar was still coughing in spite of sleeping in the conservatory with Liam overnight. Dr. McRae arrived first thing in the morning to give the flock a once-over, only it wasn’t McRae senior, it was his daughter Katherine.

  “Dad’s getting on a bit,” she said. “He mainly does the small animal practice in town. I specialized in horses, but I do sheep and cattle and other large animals as well.”

  “Thanks for coming out,” I said. I had a hard time picturing the petite brunette wrestling with large livestock, but she was certainly in good shape and there was a determined set to her shoulders and a no-nonsense compassion in her brown eyes that made me feel she could hold her own with her patients.

  “Have you had any experience raising livestock?” she asked cautiously.

  “None,” I admitted.

  “They aren’t like pets, you know.”

  “I appreciate that, but I just can’t let them go to the knackers. Think of this as a retirement home for aging wool-bearers.”

  “If you insist, but you must get them proper grazing land and some shelter from the elements.”

  “Hunter’s working on that now. In the meantime, Oscar seems to have a bad cough.” I led Katherine into the conservatory, where Liam was lying on the stone floor watching Oscar eat grain from a bucket.

  “I see you already have the herding dog,” she said, fondling Liam’s ears. “He seems to have bonded with Oscar here.” Katherine put a stethoscope to Oscar’s chest, and he cooperated by giving a hollow cough. “Well, he’s eating,” she said, straightening up, “and he seems in good enough spirits. Is he lethargic?”

  “A bit,” I replied, trying to sound as if I would know the difference between a lethargic sheep and a non-lethargic sheep.

  “I suspect it’s a touch of pneumonia. You’ll need to keep him isolated from the rest of the flock for a few more days, and I’ll start him on some antibiotics.”

  “I got a humidifier…it seems to have helped with the cough.”

  Katherine looked as if she was choking back a hearty laugh. “Can’t hurt, I suppose,” she said, clearing her throat, “but remember they’re livestock, not small people in woolly suits.”

  “Right,” I said, looking a bit sheepish myself.

  “Give him some warm mash in the evenings and grind up two of these tablets in the grain mixture. I’ll stop by again in a couple of days.”

  As I was seeing Dr. McRae out, Patrick pulled into the drive. At this rate I was going to need to install a revolving door.

  “Do you actually live in Edinburgh, or are you just commuting?” I asked as I led him into the kitchen.

  “Is that any way to speak to someone who is bringing you information? And quickly, I might add.”

  “Let’s see what you got. Coffee?”

  “Please.” Patrick settled himself at the kitchen table. “Why’s there a sheep in your conservatory?”

  “Oscar? He’s coughing a lot, and I’m afraid he might be contagious.”

  “Okay…let’s try that again. Why is it that you have a sheep at all?” Patrick said as if addressing a difficult child.

  “They arrived yesterday.”

  “They? There’s more than one?”

  I nodded toward the back garden where Oscar’s companions were happily munching on the herbaceous borders.

  “Where did they come from?”

  “The farm next door. Can you believe th
e estate agents were sending them off to become C-H-O-P-S?”

  “That’s what usually happens to sheep at a certain stage of life,” Patrick offered gently.

  “I’ve walked through their field dozens of times on my way to the village. I feel like I know them. I can’t just let them be sent away because their owner died. You have to understand that.”

  “Can’t say I do.” Patrick shook his head. “Why Oscar?” he asked finally.

  “You have to admit he looks like Oscar Wilde. Long, thin face. Doleful eyes.”

  “By that standard, most sheep look like Oscar Wilde. I suppose you’ve named the others as well.”

  “Oscar, Fitz, Hemingway, Beatrix, Orwell, Theo, Tolkien, and Agatha,” I counted on my fingers.

  “Authors?”

  “Of course.”

  “Theo?”

  “Theodor Geisel. A highly underrated literary genius.”

  “You’re mad.”

  “Is that what you came to tell me?”

  “No. I’ve been doing a bit of digging on your new friend.” Patrick pulled a small notebook out of his pocket and flipped to the correct page. “Rory arrived back from São Paulo on the twelfth of May.”

  “Nearly four months ago.”

  “He flew in under the radar, but someone must have tipped the paparazzi off, because he did get a bit of coverage the first couple of weeks he was back. He was spotted at the Carmichael Gallery several times. Seeing Summer, I presume, but shortly after Ian’s accident he disappeared from the radar. That was when he turned up in Balfour.”

  I put down two coffees and a plate of croissants. “According to Hunter, he used to come here with his parents when he was little.”

  “I suppose that’d explain why he’d come here.” Patrick added sugar to his coffee and stirred the contents slowly.

  “Did you find anything on his time in Brazil? Any problems there?”

  “Seems to have kept a very low profile. Bought a house outside São Paulo and built a studio in the basement. He worked with a number of local bands, recording and producing.”

  “How’s he doing financially?”

  “Still living off Rebels’ earnings. He didn’t spend crazily over the past decade, and he invested well. He’s not struggling, that’s for sure.”

  “Compared to the old days, pretty boring, then. What about Ian Waters? Did you manage to see a report on the accident?”

  “I haven’t actually seen the police report, they’re keeping it close, but according to my friend in homicide, Ian stepped off a curb in front of a cab. He was hit and thrown.”

  I thought for a second. “Then it could’ve been an accident.”

  “Not likely. Two witnesses reported seeing a man in a dark hoodie push Ian from behind as the cab approached. He slipped away in the confusion, and the police haven’t been able to find him.”

  “What about Hamish Dunn? Anything on his death?”

  Patrick flipped over a couple of pages in his notebook. “Just as Hendricks said, it was initially ruled an accident, but my contacts at the Met say that the file was quietly reopened after Ian Waters’s accident. Hamish was in the studio late at night working on a new solo project. He sent the rest of his crew home so he could finish up in peace. He’d had a few drinks earlier in the evening, according to his producer. Then he started on the Red Bull. It was common knowledge he kept a large stash of Red Bull and some vodka in the closet in Studio A. According to the report, everyone knew it was there. That alone can stress the heart to extremes, and Hamish was not in great shape. On top of that, they found traces of pure heroin in his system. He’d been on methadone for a number of years, but the amount of opiate in his blood was appreciably higher than that of a maintenance dose.”

  “Did they test the Red Bull?”

  “After the case was reopened. And yes, they found traces of liquid heroin and a small needle hole in the top of the can.”

  I peeled the first flakey layer off the top of my croissant and popped it in my mouth, allowing it to dissolve slowly. “Anyone familiar with the studio could have spiked the Red Bull with heroin, then simply waited for Hamish to make his usual vodka concoction—and pow.”

  “Right. And the killer could’ve presumed the methadone already in his system would cover the presence of the extra heroin.”

  “Clever. That means we’re looking for someone familiar with Ravenscourt and Hamish’s routine.” I took another bite of croissant. “Anything else?”

  “Mickey Dawson and his mates got into their share of trouble during the band’s heyday. They had a number of handlers, but number one was their former manager, Bruce Penrose. He ran around after the boys cleaning up their messes. All the trashed hotel rooms and the minor possession charges. They called him Bury It Bruce.”

  “He’s on Rory’s list of possible suspects,” I noted.

  “Quite a stink over the whole thing at the time. I took a quick look at the trial record. Penrose was cutting side deals with the record company and skimming off the top before the band even saw the money. He was convicted and sent to jail. Ended up declaring bankruptcy. His wife divorced him, the whole nine yards.”

  “A strong motive for hating the boys. Anyone else?”

  “Rory’s ex was quite the shrew, and the publicity around the divorce was pretty lurid, but it made for entertaining reading. Tina painted Mickey Dawson as a heartless, abusive drunk screwing his way through an endless parade of groupies. It was all over the tabloids at the time.”

  “Physical abuse?”

  “According to Tina, but there was no substantiation in the record.”

  “But after all this time I don’t see a clear motive.”

  “Money’s always a winner,” Patrick said philosophically. “Under the divorce settlement she got a share of the band’s revenue. Eighteen months later, they broke up. No band, no revenue, although she did finagle a writing credit for one of the Rebels’ big hits. She’d still get royalties on that.”

  “Then she’d get more money every time the Rebels came back into the public eye—like when one of them died.”

  Patrick grinned. “I love the way your mind works. Yes, there’s always an uptick in sales when a performer dies.”

  “But would it generate enough money to kill for?”

  “Good question. I’ve requested the rest of the court records from the Penrose trial. I’ll let you know if I find anything interesting.” Patrick looked at me over the top of his coffee cup. “Meanwhile, watch yourself tonight. Once you’re seen with Rory Hendricks you’ll go from reporting news to being news. I’m not sure you’re ready for that.”

  —

  Rory’s driver pulled up in front of the Haven promptly at four o’clock. He loaded my camera gear into the boot and I climbed into the backseat next to the man of the hour, who was dressed from head to toe in black and already working his way through a substantial highball.

  “Help yourself,” Rory said, studying the amber liquid in his glass. “Wasn’t sure how I’d feel about Abbey Glen at first, but it’s pure gold, isn’t it? Smooth, elegant, pleasing, and such a soft finish.” Rory turned and gave me a languid smile. “Just like the woman who creates it.”

  Normally I don’t drink much when I’m working, but the subtle implication of that statement drove me straight to the bottle on the floor. I poured myself a drink and took a deep calming swallow, hoping to douse the flush that had crept into my cheeks once more. The warm whisky glow slipped through my system and drove away the tension, taking the edge off my nerves.

  I was confident in my abilities as a photographer, but not in my ability to handle Rory Hendricks.

  “What’s the drill for tonight?” I asked, nudging the conversation to safer ground.

  “Some sort of drinks thing at six-thirty in the main hall at the castle. The show starts at seven-thirty with a local band called Celtic Riot. Can’t say I know much about them. After that Mayhem’s on, and I’m up last.”

  “What do you do unti
l showtime?”

  “I have a sound check at five, then a couple of press interviews if I can’t manage to give them the slip, and a meet and greet with a group of wounded vets.” Rory leaned back and closed his eyes, and I fell silent. The tension in the car was palpable. I watched out the window as we left the foothills behind and set off across the sweeping plateau toward the city of Stirling.

  It was only a half hour’s drive from Balfour, but the change in scenery was dramatic. The hills receded behind us, replaced by fields of grain that stretched for miles ahead until they washed up at the feet of the extinct volcano that served as the town’s bedrock. High above the modern supermarkets and petrol stations, Stirling Castle loomed over its contemporary neighbors perched majestically atop a natural crag surrounded on three sides by steep cliffs. It was a dramatic scene, and I began to get excited about taking photos of the concert against the backdrop of Mary Queen of Scots’ childhood home. It was the kind of visual paradox I adored.

  The car climbed its way through the historic district and entered the castle grounds through a service entrance. Rory moved the half-empty bottle of Abbey Glen into his rucksack, slipped on dark shades, and exited the car looking like he was preparing for a full-frontal assault. We were greeted by someone’s gushing assistant and adorned with a variety of lanyards, badges, and wristbands. Rory was swept away immediately to begin rehearsals and I was left alone to unpack my gear. I took the opportunity to wander around and shoot some pictures of the castle being transformed from a fifteenth-century stronghold into a music video prop.

  The esplanade had been roped off and a simple stage had been erected at the near end of the field with the castle’s main gate and the newly renovated Great Hall as a backdrop. Castle staff hustled around setting up rows of folding chairs, and at the center of the field in an open cement area, a two-tiered steel tower rose some thirty feet in the air, attempting to be as unobtrusive as possible while serving as the nerve center for the light and sound operations.