Death Distilled

by Melinda Mullet

  As the crowd thinned, Patty and I returned to the kitchen to stand with Rory. He was still pacing the space like a caged animal. By the time Michaelson showed up, Rory was in a foul mood.

  “That was quite the stunt you pulled, Hendricks. If you’d stayed off the stage, none of this would have happened.”

  “If your men had been doing their job, none of this would have happened,” Rory countered angrily.

  I stepped in and tried to calm the waters. “Recriminations won’t help. Can we just focus on what happened to Leo Moore?”

  “It appears to have been an accident,” Michaelson conceded. “No one witnessed the incident—it was too dark—but from the burns on his hands, he was touching the generator when the power surged and caused the explosion. He was thrown over the rail by the force of the current. For what it’s worth, the coroner said he would have died instantly.”

  “That’s something, at least,” Rory remarked grimly.

  “Did you see Mr. Moore before the show?” Michaelson asked.

  Rory nodded. “He helped set me up in the bunker under the stage. I stayed there through most of Mayhem’s set. The guys were talking to me through the headphones.”

  “Did he say anything about problems with the power or the system setup?”

  Rory shook his head. “No, nothing. Just joking around like always.”

  Michaelson turned to Patty. “And where were you during the show?”

  “Backstage looking for Rory and dealing with the caterers and the fundraisers. Then later I came out front to watch the end of Rory’s set with Abi.”

  “Did you notice anyone backstage that was acting peculiar? Anyone that seemed nervous or tense?”

  “Are you kidding?” Patty said. “With that bunch peculiar is the norm.”

  “Alright. You can go for now, but I’ll need you both to make yourselves available over the next few days. Meanwhile,” he said, turning to me, “a word in private.”

  Rory looked up at me. “I’ll wait for you in the car.”

  I followed Michaelson out of the kitchen and back into the Great Hall, now empty except for the cleaner’s and a few lingering security personnel.

  “ ‘I’ll wait for you in the car’? What exactly is your relationship with Rory Hendricks?” Michaelson demanded.

  “He’s just a,” I groped for the right word and settled on “client.”

  Michaelson studied me dubiously. “And you’re only here taking photographs?”

  “Mostly, yes. Rory asked me to take pictures of everything, talk to people, exercise my professional skills of observation.”

  Michaelson turned and paced a few steps away, then returned, clearly wrestling with something. “Much as I hate to admit it,” he said finally, “it’s not a terrible idea. You have a keen eye, Logan, and as press I expect you’ve had more cooperation than my men’ve had.”

  I could see Michaelson was itching to find out what I knew, but I was going to make him ask.

  “I saw you talking to Rory’s ex-wife, Tina Doyle, earlier tonight. What did she have to say?”

  I thought about prevaricating, but I wanted Michaelson to share information with me, and it had to be a two-way street. Besides, I had nothing to hide. “She’s a mess,” I said frankly. “I’m sure she has an axe or two to grind with Rory, but I doubt she has the brains to pull off something like this. She’s scared of that husband of hers and an alcoholic, if I had to guess.”

  Michaelson nodded. “Anyone else strike you as significant?”

  Bruce Penrose sprang to mind, but I knew he was blindingly obvious. Michaelson would be looking into him already. Instead I said, “Talked to a former band member named Simon Moye. He was pushed out by the band’s shady manager before the Rebels hit it big, and he’s justifiably bitter. If I were writing a story about the attacks on the Rebels, those are the leads I’d be following from tonight.”

  “What’s your impression of Rory Hendricks?” Michaelson asked, watching my face closely.

  “He seems a lot calmer now. Trying to stay out of the limelight and build some kind of relationship with his daughter.”

  “Could he be a killer?”

  I’d refused to think about that, but clearly Michaelson had no qualms. I struggled to tune in to my own instincts, but they were being dulled by my obsession with Rory. “Not intentionally,” I said in the end. That much at least rang true.

  “The band went through a violent breakup before Hendricks left the country,” Michaelson noted. “Maybe our hacker found out he’s back and seeking revenge against his bandmates?”

  “If Rory was behind this madness, why would he write ‘Death Awaits’ on his own wall?”

  “To deflect attention from the fact that he’s the only living member of the original band that hasn’t been attacked head-on since he came back to the country.”

  “No. I don’t buy it. I’ve spent time with him. He’s genuinely scared for his daughter, and he’s willing to take risks to make this stop.”

  Michaelson shrugged. “We’ll see.” He made a point of looking me dead in the eye before saying, “I know I can’t tell you not to interfere in this investigation, Logan, because you will anyway, but no hiding the ball. I expect you to share anything you find, however insignificant.”

  “I’ll send you copies of any of my pictures that might help, but can I expect some information from you in return?”

  “No comment,” Michaelson muttered.

  Chapter 10

  It was gone two in the morning when we left the castle for home. My ears were still ringing from the volume of the show, and it made my head feel fuzzy and disconnected, like I was experiencing things from outside of myself. Rory had finished the rest of the bottle of Abbey Glen while waiting for me in the car, and was now dozing fitfully on my shoulder. I was exhausted too, but my head kept turning over the events of the evening like a kaleidoscope.

  Fragments of information floated in and out of focus, connecting in random patterns. Rory as the killer. It simply wasn’t logical, but then again, neither was Leo Moore’s accident. Thirty years of experience dealing with power and sound systems. Why would he have put himself in a place where he would risk electrocution? My gut said there was more to the story than that. Had the generator been rigged? Had Leo seen someone tampering with the video equipment before Gerry arrived? Did he put two and two together when the bloody image appeared? Could someone have timed that power surge on purpose? It could’ve been an accident, but I wasn’t completely convinced.

  I looked down at the man sleeping by my side. My gut instinct said he wasn’t guilty, but here in the dark, my heartbeat responding to his nearness, I wondered if I was being blinded by my own fascination with the man. Could he have had a hand in Hamish’s death or Ian’s accident? They argued, they had personal and professional differences, but why wait this long to extract vengeance for some past grievance? It didn’t compute. I was convinced the word killer was there to cause Rory distress. The actual killer wants him to know that he’s vulnerable. In his dressing room, onstage, and even at his daughter’s gallery. This was just the beginning for Rory, and I could only hope the police were prepared.

  —

  Patrick looked up from the paper as I staggered into the kitchen later that morning looking bleary and somewhat shell-shocked from the night of noise and confusion.

  “I see you’ve made yourself at home,” I grumbled, eyeing the omelet and bacon he’d made for himself.

  “It is gone eleven,” Patrick pointed out. “I was in my office for two hours before I came here. But I wanted to get the news firsthand. Looks like quite a night.” Patrick turned the newspaper to face me. “Made the front page.”

  “At least it’s below the fold.” I sighed. The image on the cover caught Rory absorbed in an intricate guitar riff as the blood-soaked image and the word killer loomed behind him.

  “Press is having a field day. Reporters asking questions about Hamish and Ian again, and the details are being resu
scitated.”

  “I suspect that’s what the culprit wanted.” I poured myself a cup of coffee and stole a piece of bacon from Patrick’s plate, sharing half with Liam.

  “To increase publicity?”

  “In part. If you have a vendetta against someone, you wouldn’t want your actions to go unnoticed. Plus he’s letting Rory know he’s not safe anywhere. Onstage or off.”

  “What are the police saying about the video feed?”

  “According to the head tech guy the system was hacked, but the hacker could’ve been anywhere.”

  “That’s certainly true,” Patrick said. “These kind of things can be hard to pinpoint.”

  “Did the paper mention the message scrawled on the wall of Rory’s dressing room?”

  “Didn’t see anything on that. What was the message?”

  “ ‘Death Awaits.’ ”

  “Then the killer was actually there. Threatening Rory with one of his own lyrics.”

  “Right, or an accomplice. Right now I’m most interested in who’s feeling betrayed by Rory. As he points out, the other band members were attacked quickly and directly. Whoever this is seems to be toying with Rory. Makes me think that Rory’s the main focus of this attack,” I said. “But Rory says he can’t remember anything from the past that would have inspired this kind of hostility.”

  “I’d wager Rory doesn’t remember much from the eighties,” Patrick said grimly.

  “Who does?” I said, retrieving my bag from the hall table.

  “While you were out last night having fun without me, I looked over the rest of the trial records from Hendricks et al. v. Penrose. The man made a lot of enemies along the way. This one caught my eye.” Patrick slid the piece across the table and I saw a familiar face frowning back at me.

  “Simon Moye. I talked to him last night.”

  “Wouldn’t have thought he’d have been there,” Patrick said, surprised. “What did you think?”

  I dug out a packet of index cards from the bottom of my purse and put Simon’s name on the first card, adding self-contained, wary, and tense. “He was there as Mayhem’s producer, and he was certainly bitter about the past, but I’m not sure if seeing Rory brought it all back, or if he just never got over feeling cheated.”

  Patrick looked over my shoulder at Simon’s three words. “Interesting, but hardly criminal. I did a bit more digging on Moye, because he struck a chord with me. Penrose really did screw him over. Paid him a pittance for signing a contract giving up all his rights to the music he helped create with the Rebels. It might have seemed like a decent sum at the time, but not after the Rebels hit it big.”

  “That would definitely stick in your throat, and from talking to him I’d say he resented the boys for standing by and letting it happen.”

  “He certainly lost out on fame and fortune because of it.”

  “Not only that, Hamish Dunn replaced him in the band and Hamish was the first one to be killed. Simon admitted to having seen Hamish a week before he died,” I said, making additional notes on Moye’s card.

  “You’d think he’d go after Penrose first,” Patrick observed.

  “Maybe he’s next. I hear he’s in town hustling for his rock-and-roll-memorabilia business.” I handed Patrick his card. “I’m going to set up a meeting to see if I can interest him in some signed prints from the show.”

  Patrick opened his computer and began typing away. “Impressive collection”—he turned the screen toward me—“if it’s genuine. A 1979 bespoke Stratocaster signed by Jeff Beck. The guitar itself would be worth a fortune. Signed…who knows.”

  “According to Penrose, about four thousand pounds,” I remarked. I continued to page through the offerings. “Plant, Page, Stewart, Clapton, Bono, Kinks. How does he get his hands on all this?”

  “Probably leftover connections from his days in the business,” Patrick said. “And, I would suspect, the creative use of a digital printer and a Sharpie.”

  “I’d like to know where he was the night of the gallery break-in and at the time of Ian’s accident.”

  “I’ll see what I can find, but I’m not sure the police spoke to him in connection with either.”

  “Then it’s about time someone did.” I grabbed a second card and put Penrose’s name at the top, adding the words counterfeits and alibis.

  Patrick mopped up the last of his egg with a piece of toast. “Penrose went from a highly paid record company exec with all the perks to jail within six months. He may have re-created himself in the States, but he doesn’t seem like the kind to forgive and forget.”

  “That’s for sure.”

  “What about the ex, Tina Doyle? Did you see her?”

  I moved the cards aside and grabbed the last piece of toast from the rack on the table. “She was actually kind of pitiful. Drinking like a fish, and the makeup couldn’t quite cover the bruise on the side of her face. Could be a drunk fall, but from the way her husband was manhandling her I’d bet not.”

  “What was your sense of her as a person?”

  “Unstable, hollow, and dissolute. Not smart enough to concoct a revenge like this on her own, but with help maybe.” I wiped the crumbs off my fingers and pulled out a third card. “I saw her talking to a guy backstage. The body language was pretty intimate. I don’t know who he was, but I’ll show Michaelson the photo and see what he can come up with.”

  “Michaelson’s the DI on the case? How’s that working out?”

  “So far not bad. If I play my cards right, I think we might actually be able to help each other.”

  —

  After his brunch, Patrick headed over to the Glen to meet with Cam and Grant. I left a message on Bruce Penrose’s voicemail asking for a meeting and then wandered outside to see Hunter, who was unloading wood for the flock’s new fence. I needed a break from the frenzied pace of the rock-and-roll world. I handed Hunter a coffee loaded with sugar and cream, and we stood on the flagstone porch watching the sheep.

  “Did you know they’d found a tunnel from the church leading to the Stag?” I said. “Reverend Craig says it would’ve been used for hiding whisky and smugglers.”

  “Aye, doesnae surprise me,” Hunter noted. “Everyone had hidin’ spots in those days, even the kirk. Me great-great-granddad did a big trade in coffins and Bible boxes with false bottoms, and desks with hidden drawers. Used to call ’em dram drawers.”

  It was almost impossible to one-up Hunter with any village news. I didn’t know why I even tried. “Then you also heard through the Balfour network that we found the grave of Angus Fletcher?”

  Hunter looked at me. “You donnae say.”

  For the first time since I’d known him, I saw Hunter at a loss for words. “Hidden beneath the chancel,” I elaborated.

  “After all this time,” he said, looking away toward the hills. “Poor soul.”

  “The vicar had no idea how he got there, but I’d love to unearth the story. I have a feeling it would tell us a lot about Balfour’s past and about the Fletcher boys.”

  “Well, if anyone can find the secret, it’d be you, lass, but there’s been a lot of water under that bridge.” It seemed to me that Hunter looked a bit sad, and I opted for a change of subject.

  On a whim, I said, “If everyone had a hiding place of some sort, wouldn’t there have been one here, at the Haven?” I asked.

  Hunter nodded. “Bound to ha’ been.”

  “Can you help me find it?”

  “Like as not destroyed in the renovations to the old croft,” Hunter replied philosophically.

  Ben’s house had undergone extensive expansion and improvement since he bought the place fifteen years before, but the flagstones and the fireplace in the front hall were vestiges of the original farm croft that once belonged to Angus Fletcher and eventually became the original location of Abbey Glen’s predecessor distillery, Fletcher’s. “The old croft wasn’t that big, was it?”

  “Nae, just a two-room job.”

  “If there was
a hiding place, where would it have been?”

  “Most were ’neath the floor or by the hearth.”

  “The fireplace in the front hall is original,” I said enthusiastically.

  “Aye.” Hunter looked skeptical.

  “Come on,” I said, pushing him into the house in front of me. “Show me what I’m looking for.”

  “You’d be lookin’ for an indent in the stone—a small hole.”

  Hunter and I ran our hands over every piece of stone in the hall fireplace surround and rolled up the kilim rugs to get a good look at the flagstones. There wasn’t even a chip, after all these years.

  “The Fletcher family were stonemasons by trade,” Hunter pointed out. “Whisky was just a hobby of sorts in the early days. They cut stones for fences, floors, and fireplaces. Course, wasnae much else to do round here but farmin’ and the odd bit of wood and stone work. That’s one reason this place was so well built.”

  I couldn’t help feeling disappointed. I wanted a mysterious tunnel of my own. Hunter went back to his fence and I dug out the Rebels’ first CD from Ben’s music collection. As Mickey Dawson’s powerful guitar solos echoed through the house, I went back to studying the original stonework in the front hall. It was logical that Fletcher’s would’ve had a hiding place—it was owned by one of the most infamous smugglers in the valley—but where would it be? If they were stone makers they wouldn’t want something that would ruin the alignment of the fireplace. That wouldn’t sit well. It would be an anomaly, a flaw, something that they wouldn’t want to look at every day.