"Well, I'm sure you are for some, but what I meant was are you Doctor Brightly from the second floor?"
She laughed again, throwing her head back even further, revealing a small medallion on a gold chain around her neck.
"Helen Brightly, at your service," she said, shifting the kind of leather satchel college students employ to carry their books to her left arm before offering him her right hand. "And you must be the Dashing Duncan."
Oh, no. She doesn't look old enough to remember those headlines.
"You can just call me Duncan," he said, grabbing her fingers, the heat of a blush creeping past his ears.
"Did you need something? I'm happy to give my fellow tenants a courtesy appointment," she said, looking askance at the awkward handshake he'd engaged. Her brows knit ever so slightly towards one another in a critical fashion, but her brown eyes still twinkled.
"Uh, oh, no. Just glad to meet, finally. I've seen your customers coming and going and your light on in the window," he said, releasing her hand with an unintentional jerk.
"Clients. Those are my clients you saw. I'm not operating a grocery," she said sternly before breaking out in another fit of laughter. "Just teasing," she said between giggles. "I'm used to people being taken aback by what I do. You can't blame me for pulling your leg."
"Not at all," he replied, feeling a smidge of relief but still a tad disconcerted from this encounter with a shrink.
Of course, L and G employed one from time to time. But he'd only read their reports, psychological profiles of beneficiaries or of applicants for large policies. He'd never held a discourse with one.
"I am pleased to meet you, my neighbor from below." Her voice dropped to an ominous tone with the word, below, and she pointed her index finger towards the floor before allowing another giggle to escape her lips. He got the joke. "If there's nothing more?" she asked, lifting one brow.
"Well, I was wondering if you give grief counseling. Do you have experience in that?" he asked in spite of his misgivings and her quirky sense of humor.
Helen's demeanor changed at once.
"Yes, I've often had clients who've lost a loved one. I'd be glad to see you if—"
"Oh, it's not for me. My fiancée just, well, she lost someone, and I thought I'd mention to her that counseling might be a good idea. Since you've had experience—I'm not sure she'd even be interested, but—" he stammered.
"Not to worry. Here's my card." She pulled a professional looking piece of white cardstock from a pocket in her suit jacket as her demeanor and tone switched from friendly to all business.
It contained all her pertinent professional information, but he could feel a pattern of raised ink on its backside. Curious, he flipped the small card over to find a Rorschach inkblot.
"Clever, isn't it?"
"Aye, just don't ask me what I see," he said without thinking.
She stifled a laugh and eyed him up and down.
"I'm in and out, so if she feels like chatting, she can just pop by. I won't be offended if she'd prefer not to."
"Thank you, Dr. Brightly," he said, slipping her card into his pocket.
"Do call me Helen," she said, heading back into the stairwell.
Duncan unlocked his office, not knowing what to think of the young doctor. He shook his head in disgust when he remembered his meeting tomorrow with Hadley, Mr. Burning Man. He sat at his desk, flipped on his computer, and googled Burning Man. Then he got to work.
He busied himself researching Bertram Wainwrithe's parents. Information buried in the insurance files provided enough leads for him to make progress, even though the details he sought lay in the distant past. The man's father never returned from the Second World War. A pilot, he'd perished somewhere over Europe. Young Bertie, born in 1940, never knew his dad, but he grew extremely close to his mum. He was still in his early twenties when Beryl started exhibiting signs of what is now known as early onset Alzheimer's Disease, or perhaps Dementia. Duncan couldn't determine which. By the late 1960s, the poor woman had to be institutionalized. Her death, years later, coincided with her son's move to Geneva. Bertram later spoke of his experiences caring for her in an interview published by a charity he supported. The group raised money for research and to aid families dealing with the illness.
He ran his hands through his hair, then pinched the bridge of his nose. A headache throbbed behind his temples. He found the investigation depressing. Wainwrithe carried a heavy burden regarding his mum. Duncan could tell by what he'd said in the article he found on the internet. If the man had symptoms of the disease, why didn't his medical records reflect it?
He inhaled a deep breath and rolled his shoulders, stood, and stretched. He'd lost track of the time while researching Bertram's family history. He looked forward to getting home and seeing his loved ones.
He didn't have to suggest seeing a psychologist to Angela. His mum saw to it at supper that night. Surprisingly, the lass said she'd consider it.
"There's one right above Duncan's office. Downright convenient," Margaret said before dashing off to Cocina Gaélico.
"Are you prepared for your meeting with Hadley?" Angela asked when they were alone.
"Yes, I think he'll be surprised with my findings."
"Oh, did your analysis prove anything?"
"No, not yet."
Angela's brow furrowed.
"Not to worry, Darling. I'm on to an unexpected path. Everything's under control," he said, patting her hand.
"I always did think your fault tree was a bit fiddly."
"What?"
"Never mind."
"That fault tree's been my bread and butter. It's a perfectly valid—"
"Duncan, please don't mention anything about the will or FAFA to Hadley. I haven't decided yet what I'm going to do, and I'd like to handle it in my own way," she interrupted.
"Of course, Sweetheart." He smiled, but he didn't like hearing her appraisal of his fault tree.
The next morning, he met a smug face when he entered Hadley's office. The man was beginning to make his skin crawl. He hoped Angela would quit her job, post-haste.
"Hello, Duncan. Please have a seat. How is Angela holding up?"
"As well as can be expected," he replied with caution, sensing the man was up to no good.
"Poor girl, losing someone she was so close to." He shook his head from side to side and rubbed his chin between his thumb and index finger in a show of empathy. "We're having luncheon today. Did she mention it? I want to make sure she knows she's got my full support here at L and G. Do you have anything to report?" he added.
Duncan's replacement shuffled papers on his desk and signed several sheets with a flourish before slurping down some green juice from a clear container he kept nearby. He avoided eye contact as well. Duncan ignored his question about whether he had knowledge of his upcoming meal with his fiancée. Maybe Hadley arranged for it while he made his way to the office this morning. That would explain why Angela hadn't mentioned it.
"The experts all confirm it was suicide," Duncan said, pushing his one-page report across the desk towards his would-be rival.
L and G's newest vice president arched his brows in mock surprise. He ran his eyes over the document and tapped Duncan's signature with his forefinger.
"I guess we've no more need of you, Duncan. Sort of a waste of the firm's money, I'd say. Not to worry, I'll have accounts cut you a check," he said, standing.
"I wouldn't be so quick to approve a disbursement to Clarence Begbie." He also stood.
Hadley Cocoran smirked even as his computer dinged, signifying an email had arrived.
"Ah, ah, ah. Forgetting yourself a little? That's my job now, Duncan, and I say there's no reason to hold up Mr. Begbie's payment."
"John Holcolm might differ."
John Holcolm possessed quite a bit of clout, not to mention seniority, at L and G. Charles Bishop reported directly to him. After sharing his concerns with the company's fine arts expert, the property loss department h
ad retained Duncan's services to look further into Begbie and Wainwrithe. No life insurance proceeds would be paid out, for the time being.
He turned to leave, wishing he could see Hadley's face when he opened that email.
"What do you mean? What's John got to do with—"
He'd stopped abruptly, and Duncan, figuring the man had opened his message from Holcolm, shrugged without looking back. He'd reached the doorway when Hadley showed his true colors.
"Dewar! If you think you can make me look bad, you're mistaken! No one trusts your judgment anymore! Not even Angela. Did she tell you about her weekly trips to Spain? Did she? What about our trip to France next week?"
The man's screaming prompted a startled office girl to peer over a cubicle and observe the commotion. Before Duncan whirled to face Hadley, he noticed her white knuckles gripping the space's padded partition. Everything seemed to move in slow motion, including the horrified expression creeping over the secretary's face. As he turned, he found his rival inches away. Color drained from the man's flushed face as the investigator drew himself up to his full height.
"You were saying?" Duncan growled through gritted teeth.
Hadley took a step back and swallowed hard.
"Security!" he yelled, bumping his knee, hard, against a desk corner as he retreated behind the piece of furniture, desperate to put some distance between himself and the large Scotsman.
Duncan laughed and allowed his eyes to graze slowly over the coward, showing his contempt of the man. He turned and strolled from the office.
"Goodbye, Susan," he said, suddenly remembering the girl's name.
"Goodbye, Mr. Dewar. Have a nice day," she called after him, wide-eyed.
Chapter 10
The Truth Always Comes Out
When the lift's polished doors closed, he got a good look at himself. No wonder Hadley seemed so scared. His lips remained in a twisted grimace, and his dark eyes stared blankly from a face that quickly flushed from white to scarlet. Somehow, even his hair appeared feral, as if blown askew by a gale-force wind. He sucked in a deep breath of stale elevator air as a tune from the sixties played over a speaker. His knees went weak and he leaned against the wall for support.
He couldn't believe Angela would deceive him as the cad had intimated. But then again, her seemingly close friendship with Nigel and deep relationship with Sunny did suggest she'd spent a great deal of time with the duo. Aside from the desire to punch Hadley, he only felt a gnawing pain in the pit of his stomach, owing to the idea that his fiancée didn't trust him enough to share the truth of her activities. He hurried to his car, pulled out his cellular, and dialed the one person he hoped could help him.
"Hallo."
"Duncan? What's wrong? You sound strange."
"I need to talk to you."
"All right. I’m at the garage on Herring Wynd but—"
"I'll be right over."
Angus sat the receiver in its cradle and shook his head. What on earth has happened now?
Ten minutes later, Duncan made his way to the office at the side of a mechanic's bay and pushed the door open, not thinking to knock.
His brother took one look at him and asked, "Wha' stole yer scone?"
He told Angus the whole story, including his doubts about Angela and Hadley's claim that they'd planned a trip abroad together.
"Yer bum's oot the windae if ye think the lass woood choose em oer ye. Still, I'd like to ring that dobber's neck!"
The emergence of a heavy brogue revealed his brother's ire. Angus didn't suffer outsiders meddling with his family.
"Maybe she's reconsidering our marriage. Maybe—"
"Mince! Dinnae speak such cakey words. The shitebag's trying to nick yer lass. That's all. Jist get a haud o yirself and remember she loves ye. I know Angela and I know her heart's set on ye. Wait 'til ye've calmed and then discuss it with her."
"All right. Don't mention any of this to anyone, especially Mum, until I get it worked out," he said, rising to leave.
"Now, geez a bosie," Angus said in a syrupy voice, standing. He closed his eyes and smiled sweetly, nodding his head with outstretched arms.
Duncan managed a laugh and shook his head.
"No way. You'll have to ring Harold if you want a cuddle," he said before leaving.
"Don't firget to bring yer car in fir servicing," Angus called after him.
His mobile phone rang before he reached the Jaguar. He recognized a number from L and G's London office.
"Hallo, Duncan Dewar here."
"Hello, Duncan. John Holcolm. I hear there was a bit of a disturbance up your way this morning," he said with a chuckle.
"Word sure travels fast, John."
"Well, Susan is sort of our hidden asset in Edinburgh. She's got an art history degree and has been biding her time until a spot opens for her in Charles's department. She rang him straight away this morning."
"Hadley got his feathers a tad ruffled."
"Ha! You always were the diplomat, Duncan. We don't want you to worry about Cocoran. We're quite pleased with your progress and you're to report directly to Charles for the duration. Feel free to use the Edinburgh office if you wish or just work out of your own. I'll leave you to it, then."
"Thank you, John."
"No thanks necessary. Good day."
Apparently, Hadley's reign isn't as secure as he'd like to believe. The thought brought a smile to his face as he made his way to Grassly Close.
His stomach growled as he climbed the steps to his office. He'd forgotten about eating. Startled, he found the cleaning girl dusting his desk. Checking his watch, he realized this wasn't her normal time.
"Sorry, Sir. I thought I'd tidy the building during dinner. Didn't know ye'd be here. I'm almost finished." She scurried from behind the furniture.
"That's all right. Don't you normally come in the evening?"
"Sometimes. Sometimes, early morning. I've a personal conflict today."
"Well, please continue if I'm not in your way."
"Oh, not a tall, Sir, not a tall."
Duncan dove into his work and didn't notice when the girl left, only pausing to turn on his desk lamp when it grew dark outside. Thankful for the distraction from his own personal conflict, he attempted to match items from the inventory list, forwarded by Charles Bishop, to information found on the internet regarding artwork sold by Begbie and Wainwrithe, as well as records he'd viewed at the auction house. He glanced up with a start when Angela entered. The lass looked happy.
"Hello." She leaned across the desk and gave Duncan a peck. "Your mum's given me another night off if you'd like to have supper."
"You seem chipper," he said tentatively.
"Well, I took Margaret's advice."
"Regarding?" He raised his brows and forced a smile.
"Counseling. I caught the doctor from upstairs just as she was closing up." She paused and looked at her watch. "Goodness! She spent an hour with me right in the hallway outside her office. That was very kind of her."
"So, you met Helen. Do you like her?"
"I didn't realize her first name was Helen. You know her?"
"We met the other day. Different sort of lass, but nice enough."
"Yes, Dr. Brightly is very nice. That hour went by as if it were a few minutes. I plan to see her again. I do feel better after our chat."
"About Sunny?"
"Of course about Sunny." Angela made a face and was about to say something when Duncan interrupted.
"Let's grab supper."
As Duncan drove to The Silver Chalice, an intimate establishment with romantic views, he wondered how to bring up Hadley's accusations. He felt relief when Angela mentioned it first.
"How was your meeting with Hadley this morning?" she asked.
"Interesting. How was luncheon?"
"Oh, he cancelled. Texted me that he had to participate in an unexpected conference call. He's been a bit strange lately. I'm glad your meeting went well."
I didn't say t
hat.
The hostess gave them a booth with a fabulous view of Edinburgh. Angela glanced around the dimly lit restaurant and smiled. White lilies graced the tables while sparkling crystal teardrops, hanging from chandeliers, reflected candlelight. Navy damask wallpaper added to the formal atmosphere and contrasted nicely with the starched white table linens and glowing silverware. Classical violin music played softly over hidden speakers. Duncan squeezed the girl's hand, interrupting her thoughts.
"I think your boss tried to fire me today," he said gently.
"What? Oh, Duncan, I'm sorry." Angela appeared truly concerned for him. Getting sacked twice by the insurance company would be humiliating.
"Don't be. L and G remains my client."
"Whatever happened?"
"I'm not completely sure. He felt that he no longer needed my services since it looks like Mr. Wainwrithe did, in fact, take his own life, in spite of there being additional questionable circumstances. John Holcolm overruled him."
"Ouch. Did things get ugly?"
"A bit. I'd say Hadley Cocoran went off the rails. He brought you into it, Angela."
The lass gasped and tried to withdraw her hand, but he held firm.
"What did he say?" she managed to mutter.
"Quite a few things." He kept his voice soft and continued, "He shouted that you found me untrustworthy and something about the two of you going to France together."
Angela let out a long sigh and shook her head.
"He actually yelled at you?"
"Uh huh. Loud enough to get the attention of one of the secretaries."
"Duncan, did you hurt him?"
Angela glanced at him through her long lashes. He noticed her eyes had returned to their normal violet shade of blue, no doubt thanks to Helen Brightly. He brushed a strand of glossy hair away from her cheek to get a better look at her face. In this light, the red tones of her thick mane melted into brown, creating a chestnut color.
"What if I did?"
"I'd say you were justified, but all the same, I hope you didn’t."
The Siamese Suicides: A Duncan Dewar Mystery of Murder & Suspense (Duncan Dewar Mysteries Book 6) Page 9