The chef turned and lifted the lid off another roasting pan, creating a curtain of steam between himself and the couple. Armondo sniffed the air, grabbed a large spoon, and ladled juices from the bottom of the pan onto a leg of lamb. It smelled wonderful. Angela stifled a giggle and gazed at her fiancée from beneath her long lashes.
"That went well," she whispered.
Duncan couldn't stay aggravated for long with Angela by his side.
"Come on, let's do as the bloke says and go back to our table."
Skye, Donald, and Reginald Norcroft awaited them. While the innkeeper blew his nose on a handkerchief and Skye fought back tears, Duncan shook Reggie's hand. The older gentleman looked dapper as always, and his agreeable countenance brought a smile to the investigator's face.
"I didn’t realize you knew the vicar, Reggie."
"Yes, yes. I spent many a day here in the village with Donny when we were young boys. Quite the rascals, you know, but Reverend Ferguson always took our pranks well."
"An managed a few on us as weel," the innkeeper added, chuckling.
"Quite right! Of course, after I was grown and married, Emma and I often visited Donny and Aggie. The vicar would remind me of the misdeeds of my youth, and Emma would laugh so loud!"
"Aye, we often had him for dinner at the inn when ye'd come," Donald added, wistfully.
Angela glanced at Skye as the widowers reminisced. The whites of her eyes were still red from crying and her face remained puffy. She did her best to comfort the lass as villagers filled in around them. Susanne Wallace squeezed next to Donald, who happily made room for her. The attractive woman wore a fitted black suit that showed off her trim figure to its best advantage. Her silvery-blonde locks appeared well-coiffed and natural—perfect for a woman of her age. She listened attentively to the innkeeper's conversation with Reginald, nodding at appropriate moments.
Soon, a man at the dais instructed the crowd, by table, to partake of the buffet. Duncan caught a glimpse of Mondo moving between roasters, slicing beef, lamb, and pork while a long line of people formed. He, himself, chose food from the side dishes provided by local women. Scotch eggs, neeps and tatties would do him fine.
During the meal, the mood lightened as the decibel level rose. Everyone had a story to tell about the vicar, and as they exchanged these tales, smiles and laughter followed. Even Skye picked up a bit. The reverend would have been proud.
Duncan left his fiancée with the others and went to track down Chief Inspector Wallace. He found the policeman in the foyer, preparing to light a cigarette.
"Hallo, John," Duncan called as Wallace opened one of the glass double doors to go outside, allowing a frigid breeze into the building.
"Duncan, good to see you. I wish it were under better circumstances," he said, shaking his friend's hand while holding the door in place with his back.
"Aye, that it were," he responded, pulling his lapels up over an exposed section of his neck.
"How have you been?" Wallace asked as the two walked from the community center.
It wasn't like the policeman to make small talk, and his actions gave Duncan pause.
"I didn’t know you smoked," Duncan commented in an off-handed way, beginning to feel uneasy at what might follow.
"Just took it up again. Casualty of the job. My wife's not pleased, I can tell you that. She's back in there," the inspector tilted his head towards the center and continued, "so I'm out here."
Duncan pulled a small tin from his pocket.
"You'll need several of these when you've finished smoking," he said, shaking the box of mints.
Wallace smiled and nodded.
"Actually, Duncan, there's something I want to discuss with you before you hear it elsewhere."
The knot in Duncan's stomach grew tighter. He dragged his fingers through his hair, pulling aside the stray locks that dangled across his forehead. The only real dealings he had with the inspector involved the Merlon Murders, and any discussion of that made him uncomfortable. In his mind, at least one person got away with murder, while two accomplices went to jail and a third sustained life-altering injuries. He gave a nod to the inspector, pushing down the tension building in his chest.
"I'm sure you know that Peter Menzies was released after detention and arrest on an undertaking until it was determined that his sister would live," Wallace began.
"Yes."
"After her health stabilized, Peter's case got referred to the High Court, and he received a discounted sentence for Voluntary Culpable Homicide, after plea negotiations. The lad hoped for a four-year sentence so he'd get an automatic release in two years, but the judge gave him five."
"He'll have to serve two-thirds of his sentence, then," Duncan stated, almost to himself.
"That's what we need to discuss, I'm afraid. Peter was sent to Glenochil, but there was water damage there after an insignificant fire. Sprinklers went off and that sort, drenching the place. The system transferred him to Greenock while repairs were made."
Duncan's mind raced, and some of the color drained from his face. He knew that Constable William Ainsley, the villain who had pushed Peter's sister from Castle Taye and a key player in the death of Stuart Menzies, had been remanded to Greenock until trial for murder. Since Ainsley had been a policeman when involved in the crime, the bench came down hard on him. He'd pled not guilty and stubbornly sat in prison for the past year. His case would not go to court for another six months.
"What's happened?"
"It appears Peter committed suicide four days ago. Hung himself. They've kept it quiet while they notify his family."
Duncan felt as though a weight had been dropped on him from thirty meters. Peter had been a minor criminal and misfit, drawn into a murder by superior minds. Duncan could still remember the delinquent's wrenching reaction after his sister fell from Castle Taye's battlement. He lurched as he felt a wave of nausea hit his stomach.
"You all right?" Wallace asked, dropping his cigarette to the pavement and crushing it with his foot. "You look a little peely wally."
The chief inspector placed a hand on Duncan's shoulder.
"How did his sister take it?" he asked between gasps for air.
He felt an incredible amount of guilt for how the case played out, and now another tragedy had occurred.
"She can't be found."
"What? Isn't she in hospital?"
Duncan's head spun along with his churning intestines. Julia Menzies had been pushed from a great height and survived the fall, but she remained paralyzed.
"Apparently not. Their mother hasn't laid eyes on her either. She left her rehabilitation hospital three weeks ago, and no one's seen her since."
Duncan remained dumbfounded, his mouth gaping wide at the chief inspector.
"She was supposed to keep up with outpatient therapy, but she never came back." Wallace paused, pried the tin of mints from Duncan's hand, opened its hinged lid, and popped three in his mouth. He continued, "Someone picked her up, signed her out, and that was that."
The head of Dewar & Associates grabbed the iron railing and lowered himself onto the community center's front steps, shaking his head. After a moment, he glanced up at John Wallace. The chief inspector, dressed in a black suit, looked more like a business owner than a copper. Short, but well-built, he now towered over the seated Scotsman. His closely clipped, thick black hair and face devoid of wrinkles—save small laugh lines at the corners of his blue eyes—belied his true age. A pasty complexion gave the impression the policeman stayed indoors, and the bulb on the end of his nose kept him from appearing conventionally handsome. The forty-something inspector allowed his discerning gaze to roam over Duncan's face, measuring the man's response.
"Didn't they leave a name, an address?" he asked.
"Of course they did. John Smith of 666 Harley Street, London."
The men looked at each other in silence for a moment before they broke into a laugh. It was not humor, but morbid irony that drove the outburst. The g
etaway driver thumbed his nose at them by listing a number associated with the devil and a street known for doctors' offices as his residence. Duncan needed the release, and the two continued chuckling for a minute.
"The girl was never charged, seeing as to her injuries and the fact that she was most likely a minor player in the case. They're releasing the news about Peter to the press tomorrow since they can't find her. Sorry to break it to you at such a time as this, but I only found out myself yesterday," Wallace added.
"You don't think Ainsley is responsible, do you?"
He held his breath, waiting for the chief inspector's answer. Another sharp gust of wind hit, sending a shiver up Duncan's spine.
John Wallace rubbed his chin and stared into space for several moments before popping another of the strong mints between his lips. He rolled the breath freshener against the roof of his mouth with his tongue.
"It's possible. The timing might lead one to believe he did, but that's not my jurisdiction. I mentioned it to the authorities when I got the call. It's up to them to sort it out."
Wallace offered Duncan his hand, but he rose from the steps unaided. As they entered the community hall, the chief inspector returned the depleted tin of mints.
"Do these things really work?" he asked.
"Yes, but she'll still be able to tell you've had a cig," Duncan replied.
"How?"
"The guilt's written all over your face."
Chapter 2
A Dinner Date
"What's wrong?" Angela asked as soon as they pulled out of the car park.
He had returned from his talk with the chief inspector white as a ghost. The other mourners had not noticed, but his fiancée knew something terrible must have occurred.
"It's Peter Menzies. He committed suicide, or at least that's what it looks like," Duncan said without emotion, his eyes trained on the road.
Angela stifled a gasp and instead reached for his arm, giving it a squeeze.
"I'm terribly sorry."
The lass knew him well enough to bite her tongue and wait for him to reveal whatever information he wished to share. She was his assistant during his last case at Lawful and General and painfully aware of its details and the price he paid for his involvement with Caroline Menzies, Peter's step-aunt.
The Scotsman remained silent as the Jaguar coupe glided down the A827 and onto the A9, towards Edinburgh. Angela stared out the window without noticing the fir covered hills and straths or the scent of fine leather that filled the plush, new interior. An odd ray of sunshine poked through the clouds now and then, revealing that the day remained far from spent. They'd driven half way to Edinburgh when he finally spoke.
"He was transferred to Greenock. After all these months, he's sent to the same prison as Ainsley and he kills himself? I just don't buy it."
Angela waited, knowing he was far from finished.
"And another thing. They can't even find his poor sister to tell her. Even the mother doesn't know where she is. I'm never going to be rid of this case. Just when I've come to terms with it, some other horrid event happens. It will follow me to the grave!" he bemoaned, gripping the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles turned white.
The lass drew in a sharp breath and exhaled slowly, moving her hand up and down his arm in an attempt to comfort and calm him.
"Duncan, you're not responsible for Peter Menzies. He made a deal with the devil when he got involved in that murder. I've often thought how fortunate we were that you weren't killed during that investigation. I believe you came close, perhaps more than once."
Surprised, he took his eyes off the road and glanced at Angela. She'd never confided her fears to him about the case. He did have more than one narrow escape investigating that insurance claim. Duncan took a hand off the wheel and ran it through his thick, dark locks. He had to find a way to get some peace regarding this.
"Thank you, Darling," he said, patting her thigh. "Want to elope?" he added with a grin.
Angela slapped his arm and laughed. She loved how he could break a somber mood with his wit.
"Let's settle for dinner. I'm catching a train tomorrow morning and I need to make an early night of it," she replied.
"All right," Duncan said in as petulant a voice as he could muster, then released a long sigh. He continued, "There's an interesting looking Indian place down the street from Mum's restaurant. Want to give it a try? We could look in on whatever progress she and Mondo have made."
"Brilliant!"
A half hour later, the investigator parked his Jaguar in front of Margaret's would-be restaurant in Polwarth, a popular section of Edinburgh. Just around the corner from an intersection and on the ground level of a period building housing renovated flats, the location promised steady foot traffic. Mondo and Duncan's mum had searched for several months looking for the right site at the right price. The street contained three other restaurants, dotted across less than half a kilometer, and several shops.
Looking through the window, he could see no sign of Margaret. He pounded on the door, rattling an old glass panel and brass knob which didn't seem firmly attached to its plate. He took note of the peeling paint and general shabby condition of the entrance. No wonder the price was right.
No answer came from within, so Duncan tried the knob, glancing up and down the street. Hopefully, no one would think he was breaking and entering. The lack of people about made him wonder if this location had been a good choice for his mum. The ball turned loosely in his hand but didn't catch. He jiggled the handle and felt it click, then pushed the door open, calling, "Mum? Mum, you here?"
"In the back, Duncan," came the response.
"Be careful," the investigator advised, pointing to various food service related objects strewn across the floor. He took Angela's hand and guided her through the main room to a hall leading to the kitchen. He whispered, "The place is a mess."
"Looks great, Mum!" Duncan exclaimed with mock cheer.
Margaret Dewar spun to face her visitors. Sweat dripped down her red face as she brushed dark curls from her eyes. His mum appeared disheveled, flummoxed, and irritated. By the dust on her clothing, she'd obviously been slaving away all day.
"Maybe you can do something with this stove, Duncan. The man hooked it up today and left before I had a chance to try it out. I can't get it to turn on. I don't know what the problem is! I've got to unpack a delivery before it gets too late, and—"
The ringing of her son's mobile phone interrupted Margaret.
"Well?" she snapped, exasperated. "Take your call, Duncan. I'll muddle through somehow."
Not the type to be easily ruffled, Margaret appeared to have reached her limit. Angela and Duncan exchanged glances. So much for a nice meal at the Indian restaurant.
"We've come to help, Margaret. I know I'm not dressed for heavy lifting, but surely I can unpack your delivery and help put things away. We're at your disposal," Angela said, then turning to her fiancée, she continued with a shooing gesture. "Go. Answer your call while we girls make a game plan for this evening."
Duncan nodded and squeezed Angela's hand, then he loosened his tie as he walked to the future dining area to see who attempted to contact him. He recognized the number as belonging to Lawful and General, his former employer. The investigator listened to the message with interest. His imagination hoped they'd apologize, admit they were wrong, and beg him to take his old job back.
He exhaled his disappointment. The new head of his old department wanted to know if he was available for a consulting job in Edinburgh. Something about a suicide. That was the last sort of case he wanted at the moment, and his stomach tightened briefly. Still, re-establishing ties to a major insurance company would be good for Dewar & Associates and could lead to more clients. He decided to give Hadley Cocoran a ring back tomorrow.
He returned to the kitchen and found Angela wiping down shelves as his mum emptied plates from boxes. Duncan removed his coat and tie and rolled up his shirt sleeves. His fiancée handed
him a list she'd scrawled.
"Here's our objectives for this evening. Start with the stove, Miracle Worker!" she ordered.
He had been wondering if they thought he was just that. What do I know about commercial ovens other than that they can kill a cook? Just because he'd investigated the death of a chef didn't mean he knew his way around a restaurant kitchen. He poked about the range, turned some knobs, and determined it was a gas stove. Purchased used, it was still a newer model. He checked for a pilot light, but he couldn't find one. Duncan began to suspect the problem. Glancing behind the large appliance, he spotted the solution.
"I need someone with a tiny arm over here!" he yelled from behind the stove.
Angela made her way across the room and kneeled near the back of the oven.
"See that cord? Can you reach it and place it in the power socket?"
Angela reached between the stove and wall and grasped the wiring, feeling for the plug.
"Got it," she said, grinning up at her tall Scotsman.
Duncan pulled the lass from the floor, planting a kiss on her cheek. Then he flipped a lever on the range. The familiar click, click, click signaled the electric ignition worked, and soon, a flame burst from the grill.
"Thar she blows!" he said, triumph in his voice. He added, "Now you can whip us up something for dinner, Mum."
Margaret was not amused.
"Or we could call for a takeaway from the Indian place down the street. Do some reconnaissance on the competition," Angela quickly suggested.
By the end of the night, he had hooked up the dishwasher and taught his mum how to operate the contraption, using instructions he found on the internet. The plates, bowls, cups and saucers had all been washed and put away, the tiles mopped and odd items picked up from the floor. The Indian food gave them sustenance to continue working late into the evening. It looked like a different place when they left.
"Thank you, Darling, for saying we came to help. You really saved the day for Mum," Duncan said after walking Angela to the door of his parents' home.
The Siamese Suicides: A Duncan Dewar Mystery of Murder & Suspense (Duncan Dewar Mysteries Book 6) Page 2