Llewelyn-Jones was in town again. I wondered for a moment if he was Rory’s intruder, but weasel man was too thin. “What kind of questions was he asking?”
“All sorts. How long Hendricks has been here and who he knows. How well you two know each other.” Floss gave me a knowing look.
“What’d you say?”
“Told him it was none of his damn business. Whatever’s goin’ on, we don’t tell tales to strangers.” Floss looked at me expectantly, hoping that I would share some sort of juicy details with respect to our relationship in return for her loyalty. “Those pop stars can be pretty wild, you know,” she went on at last, “but I’m sure you’re bein’ careful.”
“I am, Floss, thanks.”
“I hear Grant has a new friend and all,” Floss offered, studying my face for the response I was doing my best to hide.
“Really?” I said, hoping to sound suitably disinterested.
“Aye, I saw them at Mr. Yakimoto’s t’other night when I went in to grab some takeaway. They were having a wee bite in the back. Make a stunnin’ couple, don’t they? Her with that coppery hair. Can you imagine the gorgeous bairn should they marry?” Floss was watching me closely, and I was searching desperately for an escape.
I’m not proud of what I did next, but needs must.
“Speaking of lovely couples, Rev. Craig and Fiona Harper seem to be spending a lot of time together these days.” I failed to mention that I was the one who’d encouraged them to do so.
“You don’t say.” Floss was clearly giving the matter some careful consideration before bestowing her blessing. “They’d be a good match,” she said, nodding finally. “She’d make a good vicar’s wife. Smart and kind. Let’s hope they get themselves sorted soon. Too long since we had a happy gatherin’ at the kirk.”
“By the way, I’ve been meaning to ask, any of the stores on the High Street available to let?” I hoped to forestall a return to the subject of Grant and Summer.
Floss considered this for a moment. “Old Noke’s place is empty now. He was an accountant or some such, but he passed on about a year and a half ago. Sure it needs a good clean, but it’s available. Startin’ your own wool shop?” she asked with a giggle.
“No, not at all. I just need some basic space to set up offices for the Bennett Logan Memorial Trust.”
“Fancy that. Will you be hirin’ any locals?”
“Eventually. There will be a board and then me, and I suppose I’ll need a receptionist-cum-assistant. Any ideas?”
“My niece is lookin’ for a spot of work. Nice lass. Just finished a manicurist’s course down in Glasgow, but her dad’s been poorly and she came home to help her mum out. Bit of extra cash wouldnae go amiss.”
“Right, have her drop by the house when she gets a minute. Maybe we can work something out.”
I headed back to the car and let my gaze wander from the old stone bridge leading out of town across the meandering river to the kids running round the village green chasing a dog. Someone had ridden into the greengrocer’s and tethered their horse to a bench in the park. Farther down the High Street an elderly man emerged from the post office wearing a kilt and smoking a pipe. Visually at least, not much had changed in the village over the past two hundred years. I could just as easily have been in Balfour in Brodie’s day, watching the wagons trundling out to sell whisky to the villages near and far.
It was beautiful, but the throbbing in my arm reminded me that danger still lurked up in the hills.
—
Back at the house, Hunter made more of a fuss of Liam’s injuries than he did of mine. Liam was given a heaping serving of cottage pie without the pastry, and Hunter carried Liam’s favorite pillow out into the garden so the “wee lad can rest in the sun for a bit.” This set off a loud, long bleating from the sheep pen as Oscar complained of his confinement, until Hunter let him out and he trotted across the yard to Liam and stood next to him, watching over his injured companion.
“In my admittedly limited experience with sheep, I’ve never seen anything like this,” I said, patting Oscar on the head.
“Sheep are verra loyal beasts,” Hunter said. “They’ve a strong memory for good and bad folk. If you’ve been kind to them, they’ll remember. If not, you’d best watch your back.”
I left Liam recooperating with Hunter and Oscar and drove to the Larches to see how the preparations for the Japanese incursion were coming.
The bandage on my arm brought me some short-lived sympathy, and I used it as a cover to unveil Rory’s latest plan. As I suspected, it didn’t go over well.
“The last thing I need is to have this program upstaged by him and his lunatic stalker,” Patrick moaned. “It’ll be a disaster.”
“Guaranteed publicity,” I pointed out.
“The kind of publicity I can live without,” Patrick said, his eyes flashing. “And God forbid something terrible happens. The Japanese will be affronted and the Whisky Society will have my head on a platter. It just doesn’t bear thinking about.”
“I’m hoping Michaelson can talk him out of this, but if not just be prepared.”
“Grant will blow a gasket,” Patrick continued. “The guest list keeps growing. First, it was just the six Japanese distillery owners and some of their staff; now most of the senior staff from the Whisky Society will be here as well. But I doubt they’re expecting a show with their whisky.”
“Let’s see what happens before we tell Grant.”
“None of this ‘we’ stuff. You’re telling Grant.” After a moment, Patrick brightened slightly. “Maybe you can get this all sorted before Saturday. How’s it going?”
“I have a short list of suspects. It may get even shorter if Bill can tell us who was in Rory’s studio this morning. How’d the filming go?” I asked, switching subjects.
“Not bad, in spite of the foul weather,” Patrick said. “Summer and I took Gerry over to the Glen and gave him a tour. He shot all the inside video of the machinery in action, focusing on the components that Cam said were vital. Then he and Cam wrote a script to use as a guideline.”
“When will it be ready?”
“Gerry’s going to take the film back to Stirling, and he plans to borrow some equipment at a local sound studio to edit the film and some of your stills into a working video. I’ll run down later in the week to record the voiceover, and then it’ll be ready for presentation at the reception.”
Summer dashed in at that point, looking to discuss lighting for the ballroom, and she dragged Patrick off in her wake.
I headed down to the kitchen and found Louisa plying Gerry with tea and cakes.
“ ’Allo, stranger,” she said brightly.
“Any of those going spare?” I asked, pointing to the plate of scones that had risen to an unbelievable height before being liberally dusted with granulated sugar on their golden brown tops.
“Help yourself,” Gerry said, sliding a pot of jam and the plate of scones toward me.
“What’d you think of the Glen?” I asked, topping my scone with a huge dollop of homemade black currant jam.
“It’s brilliant. We shot all the inside footage today,” Gerry said. “Should be all we need, though I’d like to run back up here in the next day or so, if the weather cooperates, to get some outside shots.”
“We really appreciate all your help,” I said.
“Always have a hard time saying no to Summer,” he said with a fond smile.
“Aye, she seems to have all the lads wrapped around her little finger,” Louisa remarked with less warmth than I was used to.
“You’ve known Summer since she was a baby, haven’t you?” I asked Gerry.
“I have,” Gerry said. “She was a real beauty, even then.” Gerry reached for his wallet and pulled out a dog-eared photo of Summer as a toddler sitting on the lap of a dark-haired woman.
“Is that Bonnie?” I asked.
“No, that’s my wife, Stella.” A look of such sadness passed over Gerry’s face, I wan
ted to reach out and take his hand.
“She passed back in February.” He cleared his throat. “Forty years we were married.”
The loss of his life companion had clearly been a crushing blow. Thank goodness he still had Patty and Summer to keep an eye on him.
“This one’s the girls,” he said, displaying a picture of Patty and a strawberry blonde posing with New Year’s hats and blowers. I could see where Summer got her hair from. “That’s Bonnie on the left. Stella took her under her wing when she landed at Southfield. She was pregnant with Summer and all alone. We’d lost our own daughter, you see, and I suppose we liked having the young ones around. It filled the void. We were there from the day she gave birth to Summer till the end.” Gerry paused for a moment, and when he continued his voice was hoarse. “Life’s not fair like that. So many rotten people keep going on and on, and a sweet kid like Bonnie can’t win for losing.”
“You were with Bonnie when she died?”
Gerry nodded. “We promised Bonnie we’d look out for Summer. Now it’s just me,” Gerry said wistfully, “but I do my best to keep an eye on her.”
“All this must be making that tough.”
“Mickey’s got security,” he replied, “and the Larches’ seems like a safe place for her. I know she’s being well fed, at least,” he said, winking at Louisa.
“Go on,” she said, pushing the plate of scones back toward him. “I have to go get set up for dinner.”
I took the moment alone with Gerry to ask a couple of questions about Lion Man.
“Have they scheduled the funeral yet for Leo Moore?”
“Memorial’s next week down in London,” Gerry said with a sigh. “Such a waste.”
“Did you know him well?”
“Well enough. We’d worked together for years. He had an incredible ear. Couldn’t put anything past him. He’d hear speaker buzz from three blocks away.”
I watched Gerry closely. He wasn’t lavish with his praise, but when he did pass a remark it was genuine—no empty praises from him.
“He’s been working with sound equipment almost as long as you have,” I noted. “Was it risky to be messing with the generator in the dark?”
“Leo knew his stuff. Can’t see him mucking about if there was a risk.”
“Could someone have triggered the surge when Leo was near the generator?”
“On purpose?” Gerry looked completely baffled. “Why? Leo was a good man. Who’d want to hurt him?”
That was the question. “Maybe he saw something he wasn’t meant to see,” I suggested.
“But electrocuting someone. That’s insane.”
Insane, yes. But not implausible. We were dealing with a murderer after all.
—
I was pulled from a deep sleep the next morning by my cellphone buzzing on the pillow next to me. I squinted at the screen and saw Stirling CID.
“I have some news,” Michaelson said without preamble. “Just got the report on the samples of skin from under your nails. The DNA was a match for what we had on file for Bruce Penrose.”
Finally something concrete to work with. “Have you spoken with him yet?” I asked, pushing Liam off my knees and sitting up.
“We’re waiting for one more piece of information from the forensic lab.”
“Any idea what Penrose was doing in Rory’s studio?” I asked.
“One of his associates suggested he might’ve been trying to get his hands on some original signed Rory Hendricks pottery.”
“Hoarding it until Rory’s dead?” I said, looking at the stolen vase on my bedside table.
“It’s worth considering,” Michaelson said grimly.
Michaelson rang off, and I rolled out of bed and dressed hurriedly. I was anxious to keep my appointment with Penrose. He didn’t know we were onto him yet, and it would be a good chance to see how he responded to a piece of original Hendricks art. I’d arranged to meet Penrose at his hotel room at ten-thirty, but it couldn’t hurt to get there a bit early. He was anxious for the Mickey Dawson prints, and should be glad to see me to confirm I hadn’t recognized him from yesterday’s escapade. I dressed quickly and headed out to the car, hesitating before deciding to bring Liam along. A little extra muscle and some sharp teeth couldn’t hurt, especially when going to a criminally inclined man’s hotel room alone.
I parked the car in a garage on the edge of the Old Town and walked the three blocks to Penrose’s hotel. The Parker Hotel was a low-budget affair on the outskirts of the tourist area. The upholstered chintz furniture in the lobby had seen better days, and the dated lace doilies scattered around were clearly there to cover stains and cigarette holes rather than to enhance the decor.
The young man behind the front desk was wearing a rumpled suit made of cheap fabric that appeared to be at least one size too large for him. He didn’t even deign to look up from his phone screen as I entered. Liam followed me into the elevator, unobserved as far as I could tell, and we ascended to the fourth floor.
I knocked on the door to room 419 but got no response.
I looked at my watch. It was only ten o’clock. Perhaps Penrose was out getting breakfast. I couldn’t resist the opportunity to have a quick look around his room before he came back. I could hear the maid’s cart approaching round the bend in the corridor and I quickly dug in my bag for a pair of dark sunglasses. I put them on and told Liam to sit.
“Excuse me?” I made a point of addressing the wall adjacent to the young woman’s head as she pushed the cart closer. “This is my room—four nineteen,” I said, running my fingers over the braille letters on the wall plaque, “but I seem to have lost my key. Could you let me in?”
The maid studied me briefly, then shrugged, obviously deciding there was no real risk of my reporting her if I couldn’t see her. She pulled out a master key and opened the door to 419. I thanked her profusely and slipped inside.
It took my eyes a few moments to adjust to the darkness even after I removed the glasses. There was a smell of sweat and stale beer and something else that was definitely off. A suitcase was packed and sitting by the door waiting for its owner, and through the door to the right I could see a layer of wet towels strewn all over the bathroom floor. Beyond that I saw little of note. Toothbrush, shaving gear, and prescriptions for Prozac and Lipitor thrown into an open toiletry kit. Items common enough for a man of his age.
The hackles on Liam’s neck rose as we moved farther into the room and he pulled me toward the far side of the bed.
Penrose wasn’t out—he was lying on the floor between the bed and the wall, partially covered in a pale yellow duvet that had slid off the bed. A red flowering of blood stained the carpet behind his head, and the vacant look in his eyes told me there was nothing that could be done to help him now.
Chapter 18
Damn, damn, damn. Not only was it a waste of a life, however paltry, this also took Penrose out of the running as chief suspect and dropped me right in it.
My heart was pounding. The maid who’d let us into the room would remember. There was no way to deny we’d been here. I needed to get the hell out. Now. I backed away from the body slowly, careful not to touch anything. Liam started to whine, and I shushed him with a pat on the head. Out of the corner of my eye I saw several signed LPs on the table by the window, along with an assortment of Sharpie pens. Two acoustic guitars were leaning on the wall opposite the bed, along with another suitcase. A third guitar, a red and black Fender, had been abandoned on the floor, the neck broken and the strings askew. It fit the description of Rory’s missing axe, and if I had to guess, I’d say it had made violent contact with the back of Penrose’s head in the minutes before his death.
I didn’t dare stay any longer, in case someone else arrived and found me in the room with the dead body. I put the dark glasses back on, used my sleeve to turn the door handle, and peered out into the hallway. The maid’s cart was parked outside of a room down the hall, but she was nowhere in sight. I slipped out, silently drag
ging Liam along in my wake as I headed for the exit stairs at the far end of the hallway. Once the door closed behind us I ran down at top speed, not slowing until we emerged in the alley behind the hotel. I took a deep breath and quickly began assessing my options.
Michaelson would find out I was there soon enough. Better to confess than to be caught. Wasn’t it? I’d just as soon have kept running, but I’d only make myself look more guilty.
I put in a call to the main precinct number and was told that DI Michaelson was out. I left a message that I’d called and knew it wouldn’t be long.
By now my hands were shaking from the delayed shock of the experience, and I headed down the block to the nearest pub. I ordered a large whisky and took a moment to catch my breath. Who would’ve wanted Penrose dead? I tried to quickly quell the first thought that leapt into my head. The first one I knew would leap to Michaelson’s mind. Had Bill been careless enough to tip Rory off already? Did Rory know that Penrose had been the intruder? I had to admit that smashing Penrose over the head with a guitar suited Rory’s style, especially a guitar he claimed was missing after the show. But it was too obvious. And even if he’d done it in a fit of rage, surely he wouldn’t have left the murder weapon behind.
It had to be someone else. Had Penrose seen something he shouldn’t have while he was at Fell Farm yesterday? Had he double-crossed someone he was working with on something that had nothing to do with the Rebels? Or was this, too, simply an extension of the assault on the Rebels?
Simon Moye should have been a part of the Rebels’ success and would’ve been if not for Penrose’s interference. He had every reason to hate Penrose and wish him dead. Was this a complex vendetta against the band and the manager who’d ended his career so many years before? But why wait until now? Could he not watch Rory’s career take off again as he was left on the sideline? Or was it simply a matter of opportunity? Both Rory and Penrose were back in the area. Had their return sparked a fresh wave of anger and resentment?
Death Distilled Page 17
