Death Distilled

by Melinda Mullet

  I sat lost in thought for some time. Mentally tearing up Bruce Penrose’s card and considering the options beyond Simon. Tina and her beau Summer? Summer, whose mother had been swept aside by the Dustman. Where was she this morning?

  My mind was racing, and my nerves were on edge. The sudden vibration of my phone nearly made me choke on my whisky.

  “Logan?” I could have heard Michaelson’s voice from a block away without the aid of the phone. “What the hell are you playing at?”

  “You’ve been to Bruce Penrose’s, then,” I said, trying not to sound as shaky as I felt.

  “You had a ten-thirty appointment in his desk diary, and the maid tells me she let a blind woman with a dog into the room at ten o’clock which, based on her description, bears an uncanny resemblance to you.”

  “I did call you,” I hedged. “As soon as I found the body. Really. But you didn’t answer.”

  “Get over here now,” Michaelson barked.

  I downed the rest of my drink and seriously considered having a quick second before returning to the scene of the crime, but decided against it. Michaelson was on his phone outside the Parker Hotel, pacing back and forth. He glared at me and pointed to a spot on the sidewalk about five feet away. “Don’t move,” he mouthed.

  I stiffened as he completed his call and strode toward me. “I could arrest you for tampering with the scene of a crime,” he hissed.

  “I didn’t touch a thing, I swear. You know I know better than that.”

  “What were you doing in his room in the first place?” he demanded. “You conveniently failed to mention this meeting when we spoke this morning.”

  “You’d have told me not to go,” I muttered.

  “Damn right I would. Why would you take the risk?”

  “Penrose asked me to get some signed copies of pictures of Mickey Dawson in action. It was a good excuse for talking to him again. He didn’t know that I knew it was him yesterday, so I kept the appointment. I wanted to check out his room before he knew we were onto him. I didn’t expect to find him dead, for God’s sake.”

  Michaelson shook his head, the frustration clear on his face.

  “Maybe he saw someone or something at Rory’s place he wasn’t supposed to see,” I suggested.

  “Maybe. Or maybe your friend Hendricks is trying to take the law into his own hands,” Michaelson said.

  “How would Rory know that it was Penrose at his studio yesterday?” I challenged. “I didn’t tell him, did you?”

  Michaelson ignored the question and continued on his own tirade. “If you’d stayed put after you found the body I could have questioned you here, but you left the scene of the crime. Now I have to take you in for a formal statement.”

  “Oh come, you know me,” I insisted.

  “I can bend the rules for you, Logan, but I can’t break them. Just be glad I’m not putting you in handcuffs.”

  I tried not to show the fear I was feeling. Michaelson was right. I did know better. I fled in panic when I should have stayed, but seeing my chief suspect dead was unnerving. Suddenly I felt vulnerable. Could my client be the culprit? Was he fooling me the same way he’d fooled so many women before? My instincts were usually spot-on, but then again, I wasn’t usually in awe of my subject.

  I followed Michaelson to the car at the curb and we drove to the local police station in a strained silence. I was placed in an interview room and left for a good half hour. I’d paced a groove in the floor and made a mental note of every scuff, scrape, and divot on the wall. I was beginning to feel anxious about Liam, and my temper was starting to override my fear. Michaelson finally showed up accompanied by a female detective sergeant.

  I crossed my arms and glared at both of them. “Not a word till you tell me what you’ve done with Liam.”

  “Don’t push your luck, Ms. Logan,” Michaelson said with a chill in his voice. “It’s in your best interest to be beyond cooperative,” he said, pausing briefly to adjust the recorder on the desk. “However, as it happens Liam’s enjoying some quality time with our desk sergeant who, lucky for you, is a dog lover. Now, let’s get on with this. The remainder of this interview will be recorded.”

  Michaelson pushed the button and addressed me directly, his face inscrutable. “Please state your full name.”

  “Abigail Marie Logan.” We wandered through several other procedural questions before coming to the meat of the interview.

  “Can you tell us exactly what time you arrived at the Parker Hotel this morning?”

  “Shortly before ten o’clock.”

  “What brought you there?”

  “I had a meeting with Bruce Penrose.”

  “A prearranged meeting?”

  “Yes. He’d expressed interest in some signed copies of photos I’d taken of Rory Hendricks at the Wounded Warriors event last week.”

  “Why?”

  “Penrose has a business selling rock-and-roll memorabilia. He wanted to buy copies from me.” I went along with Michaelson’s line of questioning as calmly as I could, because I guessed he was trying to establish a legitimate reason for my presence on the scene. I was, after all, being truthful, albeit not completely truthful, but it would cover my tracks to some degree.

  “You arrived at Mr. Penrose’s door slightly before ten a.m. What happened next?”

  I walked Michaelson through getting into the room.

  “You weren’t due to meet Penrose until ten-thirty. Why did you come early?”

  “I had my doubts about the legitimacy of his memorabilia business. As long as he was gone I thought I’d look to see if there was any evidence that he was forging the items he was selling.”

  “And was there any evidence?”

  “I don’t know. My dog dragged me over to the window and I saw Penrose dead on the floor. I didn’t notice much after that.”

  “How many tiles are on the ceiling of this room?”

  “Thirty-seven and three quarters,” I answered without thinking.

  “You’re going to tell me you registered the number of tiles on the ceiling in this room and didn’t notice anything at a crime scene?”

  I frowned at Michaelson. I’d been adamant that my photographer’s attention to detail made me a good investigator; I couldn’t really argue when he used those skills against me. “Alright, I noticed a broken red and black Fender guitar very similar to one that went missing at the charity concert on Friday. I saw a collection of Sharpies on the table next to some signed album covers that suggest Penrose was forging signatures. I noticed that the closet was empty and the suitcase sitting by the door was straining at the zip, which led me to believe that Penrose was packed and ready to leave after our meeting this morning.”

  Michaelson nodded, a slight smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “Did you touch any of these items?”

  “No.”

  “Did you touch the body?”

  “No. I could see from where I was standing that he was dead.”

  Michaelson asked several more basic questions establishing that I had waited in the pub down the street for the police to arrive and returned voluntarily for questioning. That done, he brought the interview to a close and switched off the recorder.

  He had his DS escort me outside while he went to fetch my sidekick. Michaelson joined me on the sidewalk and handed over Liam’s leash before leading me away down the block.

  “Don’t ever do that again in the middle of one of my cases,” Michaelson said sternly.

  “Sorry, I know I made a mess. It’s just that the whole thing came as a bit of a shock to me. I had him pegged as the killer. I certainly wasn’t expecting to find him dead.”

  “You thought he was the killer, so you decided to go alone to his hotel room. I gave you credit for more sense than that.”

  “I wasn’t alone.”

  Out of sight of the police station, Michaelson lit a cigarette and said, “There was a note found on the body: ‘Broken hearts will never mend, a broken head the quicker end.�
�� Does that mean anything to you?”

  “It’s a song lyric,” I said, humming softly. “Can’t dredge up the title, but it’ll come to me. I’m guessing the broken guitar was the murder weapon?”

  “Odds on. Forensics is examining it now. Penrose had a nasty blow to the back of the head,” Michaelson said. “It would’ve taken strength, but not much skill.”

  “Time of death?” I asked.

  “Initial estimate, no more than four hours before he was found.”

  “Did the hotel have CCTV?”

  “No help there. It was broken. Penrose had another appointment before yours. Eight-thirty he was scheduled to meet with Ricky Henderson. Does the name ring a bell?”

  “No,” I said thoughtfully.

  Michaelson gave me a questioning look. “Come on. You have something. Don’t hold back.”

  “Well, it’s very nearly an anagram for Rory Hendricks.”

  “You think Hendricks paid a call on Penrose earlier today?”

  I shook my head. “I don’t believe it. Rory is many things, but he’s not stupid. He’s not going to make an appointment to see Penrose using a thinly veiled version of his own name and then murder him.”

  “He may not have intended to murder him when he made the appointment. It may have been a crime of the moment.”

  “No,” I said emphatically. “If anything, it seems more likely to me that someone’s trying to frame Rory.” I paused for a moment. “ ‘Burning Bridges.’ That’s the name of the song your lyrics came from. It’s an old Rebels tune. One Rory wrote with Simon Moye. Have you talked to Simon again?”

  “According to his mother, he and his family are on a camping holiday. She has no idea where, but we’ll find him. When did you make the appointment to see Penrose?” Michaelson asked, changing gears.

  “Yesterday.”

  “Did you know he’d checked out of the hotel this morning? That’s why the maid let you in. She thought you were the new guest.”

  “I’m not surprised. He was packed and ready to go. Was he nervous after the break-in? Did he think he’d been seen, or did he see something?”

  “That’s the question, isn’t it?” Michaelson made a few scratchy notes on a pad from his pocket.

  “Have you heard Rory wants to be our special guest for a Malt Whisky Society event we’re holding at the distillery on Saturday?” I asked.

  “He mentioned it.”

  “What did you say?”

  “Can’t really stop him, and if you’re right and he isn’t our man, it might flush the real killer out. We’ve been advising Hendricks to keep a low profile, but he does what he bloody well pleases. Just like someone else I know.”

  “Whoever’s doing this knows he’s in Balfour. The event’s been covered in both the Edinburgh and Glasgow papers. If someone was looking to get close to him, this isn’t a bad option.”

  “How many guests are you expecting?”

  “It was supposed to be quite small to begin with, but I think the guest list is up to about forty people by now. Plus extra waitstaff, parking attendants, and such.”

  “Invitation only?”

  “Technically yes, but the sponsors keep inviting more people. Patrick Cooke has an RSVP list, but it’s pretty fluid. I don’t think he wants us to know the full extent of the invasion coming our way.”

  “Alright. For now, go home and stay out of trouble. If you cross the line again my hands will be tied.”

  Like it or not, Rory was going to be the target on Saturday. Michaelson might not be focusing on Simon Moye, but I was.

  Chapter 19

  I returned home to the sound of a man’s voice coming from the rear of the cottage.

  “ ’Ello? ’Ello? Someone get me the hell out of ’ere!”

  I walked around to the rear of the house and was greeted by the sight of Robert Llewelyn-Jones perched on top of my garden table while Liam and Oscar regarded him suspiciously from ground level. Liam growled every time he took a step toward the edge of the table, and Oscar stood guard on the opposite side like the silent muscle in a gangster duo.

  “You seem to have landed yourself in a precarious position,” I remarked.

  “Call them off.”

  “Not sure I can, they generally have minds of their own. Moreover, not really sure I want to. What are you doing here? I seem to remember telling you to get off my property and not return.”

  “I was just passing by.”

  “Through the back garden?”

  “I knocked and there was no answer, so I thought you might be out here.”

  “I wasn’t.”

  “I see that. Come on. Call these damn beasts off?”

  “The dog is quite friendly to people he likes, and the sheep, well, you should be able to outrun a sheep.”

  “Bloody big sheep with a serious attitude problem, and the dog’s none too keen on me, either.”

  “You don’t say. He’s generally an excellent judge of character.”

  “Enough already, just call them away.”

  “I don’t think so. They seem to be enjoying themselves. I know I am,” I said, settling onto a deck chair on the patio. “If you want out, you’re going to have to make a run for it.”

  Llewelyn-Jones paced back and forth on the tabletop, looking for a way out.

  “Right, if you’re staying I’ll put a call in to the local police,” I said, starting to rise.

  My guest looked indecisive, but finally took a flying leap off the table. He made a break for the side gate, with Liam nipping at his heels and Oscar bringing up the rear. I followed behind, not liking Llewelyn-Jones’s odds of making it to his car without incident.

  “Well done, lads,” I said when they had escorted our unwanted visitor from the premises.

  We watched the car kick up a cloud of dust as it tore off down the drive, only to hear the blast of a horn that heralded the arrival of a bright pink Micra coming toward us.

  “Oy, nearly got run off the road by some loon racin’ past at top speed. Don’t know who they bloody think they are.” The driver emerged from the car and doubled over with a fit of coughing.

  I was preparing to oust yet another reporter when I realized the young girl in front of me didn’t fit the profile. She had wispy fair hair with the ends dip-dyed pink and tied back in a ponytail. The lurid color of the car matched her lips and nails, and she wore a bright yellow anorak over gray leggings and a lime green sweater. The combination gave me a headache.

  “I’m Trish,” she announced. For some reason she seemed to think that was all the explanation that was needed.

  “Nice to meet you, Trish,” I said, hoping for another hint.

  “Me Auntie Floss said you was needin’ some help like.”

  “Oh, right, of course.” Not quite what I’d pictured as a receptionist for the Bennett Logan Memorial Trust, but beggars can’t be choosers. “You’d better come in,” I said, motioning toward the front door.

  Trish followed me into the kitchen and hung her anorak on the back of the chair. “I’ll put the kettle on, shall I?” she said, making herself at home. “I make a good cuppa. Everyone says so.”

  I nodded silently. As was so often the case around here, people seemed to arrive in my life and settle in with little or no input from me. Hunter I’d inherited with the house. Not that I could imagine things around here without him, but it took a bit of getting used to at first. Mrs. Brookes still came in twice a week to tidy up, as she called it. I had no idea where she came from other than “up the Glen.” She’d worked for Ben, and now she worked for me whether I liked it or not.

  Trish put on the kettle and rummaged around for fresh mugs, all while chatting a mile a minute.

  “I can help out most afternoons ’cept for Tuesdays, that’s me Pilates class. Mornin’s I have to help Mum deal with Dad. He’s had a hip replacement and he’s havin’ a right rough go of it. Better if he weren’t so stubborn, but you know what men are like. Can’t tell ’em nothin’. He has to go
check on his spuds every mornin’. Haulin’ him round the garden’s a real chore, I can tell ya. You should think about plantin’ some veg. Nothin’ like fresh, but then, you’ve taken up sheep farmin’, isn’t that right?”

  I jumped in at what seemed like a reasonable opening. “Not farming, just a hobby. I’ve only got eight sheep.”

  “Is it true ya named ’em all?”

  “Yes.”

  Trish snorted with laughter. “You city folk are daft.”

  I had no suitable reply for that comment, so I moved on to “Can you work with a computer?”

  “I’m not such a great typist, my nails get in the way,” Trish said, displaying ten perfectly painted and embellished nails protruding well past the tips of her fingers. “But I do fine with spreadsheets and the like. I was good at maths in school. Suppose I could trim these back an’ go for a good solid gel manicure,” she went on thoughtfully. “What do you think?”

  I looked at my own ragged nails. “Your call on that one.”

  “Right, when do I start?”

  Not if, but when. I hesitated for a moment. She came through clearly in my head as flamboyant, but tough and dependable. Having no other immediate options, I decided to take a shot. “How about now. I can show you a bit about what we’re doing and we’ll see how it all works out.”

  I took Trish into the library and showed her the boxes that contained all of Ben’s files. “I need to create separate files for each of the charities he worked with down the years. You’ll find all the information in there.” I left a list of the organizations on the desk. “If you want to make a start, I have to run over to the Larches for a bit.”

  —

  At VIP central I found Patrick and Grant poring over a map of the estate. “Looks like we’re stuck with Mick the Dick after all,” Patrick said bitterly. “Michaelson won’t do anything about it.”

  “I tried this morning, but let’s just say I’ve used up all my goodwill for the moment.”

  “He’s asked for a detailed map of the estate grounds,” Grant growled.

  I came to look over Patrick’s shoulder at the massive map of the MacEwen estate that spread halfway across the dining room table. Grant didn’t even glance my way.