Death Distilled

by Melinda Mullet

  I was so mesmerized by all that was going on, I was caught unawares by the approach of a petite woman in jeans and a purple silk crop top. Her short brown hair was accented with magenta tips, but she carried off the edgy look with grace, given that she was probably well into her forties. “You Abi?” she yelled above the noise of Rory’s sound check.

  I nodded.

  “Patty Waters, Ian’s wife. Rory asked me to show you around.”

  “Thanks, that’d be great,” I yelled back. I watched Patty out of the corner of my eye as she steered me away from the deafening vibration of the speaker array. Faint lines were etched at the sides of her eyes that hadn’t been Botoxed away, and the accompanying dark circles told of recent nights without sleep. “I was sorry to hear about your husband,” I said as the noise from the stage diminished momentarily.

  “Don’t write him off yet,” she said firmly. “He’s a fighter.” Patty turned and looked into my eyes. “I don’t know what Rory’s up to, but if you can do anything, anything at all, to help find out why this happened to Ian I’ll be forever grateful.”

  “I’m not sure I can help,” I said honestly, “but I’ll try.” I suddenly felt guilty for indulging my personal obsession with Mickey Dawson, rather than focusing on the very real fate of Ian Waters and Hamish Dunn.

  Patty resumed walking away from the stage, and I followed along behind, allowing her three words to resonate in my head. Tough, vibrant, and reticent.

  “Who do you want to talk to first?” she asked.

  “How about the crew heads, Johnnie Reynolds and Leo Moore? Rory says they’ve both been around since the early days.”

  “Lion Man and JR are good guys,” Patty said with a frown. “Surely you don’t think…”

  “Do I think they’re murderers? Probably not, but they’ve been around a long time and seen a lot. If anyone knows the secrets behind the Rebels’ facade, it’ll be them.” I was making this up as I went along, but crew sees things and they seemed like as good a place to start as any.

  Chapter 7

  Patty led me through the chairs to the sound and light tower, flagging down a solidly built man with a long face and a balding head. What remained of his hair had gone untrimmed for many years, and a long dark braid fell a good third of the way down his back. We climbed onto the lower-level platform and I looked around curiously.

  “JR, this is Abi Logan. She’s here as the official photographer for the show.”

  JR nodded, and gestured to the space behind him. “Welcome to the lighting center. I run lights from down here and Lion Man runs the sound shop from upstairs. He can get a bit stroppy when things get hectic, but his bark’s worse than his bite.”

  “Don’ you go talkin’ me down to the pretty lady,” came a voice from behind me. I turned to see a tall, thin man with sharp brown eyes and dreadlocks that cascaded down his shoulders from beneath the orange and yellow knit cap on his head. I was just about 5’8”, but Lion Man was a good head taller than me, making him well over six feet. As I approached, he took in the camera around my neck and gave me a grin.

  “Well, it’s about time, someone’s comin’ to get pictures of the real stars of the show.”

  “You bet,” I said, pulling the camera out and snapping a couple of casual shots of JR and Lion Man clowning around. “You two were with the Rebels back in the bad old days, weren’t you?”

  “Best I can remember,” Lion Man said, laughing. “JR and Rory were big drinkin’ buddies. They’d bring me along once in a while, but man, they were tough to keep up with.”

  I continued to take shots of JR testing the lighting arrays onstage. “You surprised to see Rory back?”

  “Yeah, but it’s all good.”

  “Anyone not happy he’s here?”

  “I’m sure some people aren’t, but bugger ’em. Listen to the sound. He’s still a genius with that axe,” Lion Man said.

  I stepped backward and almost tripped over a fat cable taped to the deck behind me. “That’s a lot of wiring. You must pull a ton of juice for a show like this.”

  “Too much. We have to bring our own,” JR said. “One generator on the stage for the mics, the speakers, and the band’s gear. And two on the tower, one down here for the light show, and a smaller one up top for the sound crew.”

  “It’s an amazing setup.” The rest of my comments were cut off by a roar from Lion Man demanding his crew attend to an issue in the right-hand speaker bank. I honestly couldn’t make out a significant difference, but Lion Man clearly could. He strode away. I could see that JR was frantically busy. Further questions would have to wait. I moved aside, looking around for Patty, and found her standing at the back of the tower, hugging a stocky older gentleman in a lightweight jacket and an old pair of jeans. His face had a lived-in look about it, but his bearing reflected a seniority that placed him above Patty and the crew around us.

  “Abi, meet Pappa Bear.”

  “Gerry Wilson,” the man said, a warm smile softening the lines of his face.

  “Gerry’s my boss,” Patty said. “And he’s the surrogate father for this crew of misfits.”

  “I don’t envy you,” I teased. “Are you with Ravenscourt Studios?”

  “I’m in charge of a division called Southfields. We do all the music videos and live concert footage for the studio’s artists.”

  “Are you filming the show tonight?”

  “Parts of it.”

  “It must be a real challenge out here in the open like this.”

  “Not the easiest venue, but we’ve got better at it over the years. We’re trying out a new state-of-the-art projection screen tonight.” Gerry pointed to a sheer mesh curtain hanging behind the stage. “Right now it’s transparent and you have a clear view of the castle, but later we’ll project from behind and it will become an opaque viewing medium.”

  “Amazing. What a great juxtaposition of old and new.”

  “Come up and take a look after the show if you’re interested,” Gerry said, “but right now I need to go keep an eye on the lads.”

  Gerry hustled up the ladder to the platform above with surprising agility for a man of his age. “Gerry seems like a nice guy.”

  “He’s the best,” Patty said. “I’ve worked for him for more than twenty-five years. He and his wife, Stella, were like parents to Bonnie and me in the early days. And he absolutely dotes on Summer.”

  I pulled out my list of people to find and crossed JR, Lion Man, and Gerry off the list. I wished I could eliminate them as suspects as easily as that, but at least I’d had a chance to put names and faces together. It was a start.

  “Where to now?”

  “I’m afraid I need to get back at it,” Patty apologized. “Guests are starting to arrive and I need to check on the reception. You can come with me and see if there’s anyone you want to talk to.”

  While we were out front, the number of people milling around backstage had increased dramatically. Caterers, florists, press. The youngsters seemed to be in charge of the event. Most were painfully thin and dressed in black. Pale skinned and doing their best to look haughty and indispensable. Between songs for the sound check, Led Zeppelin blared from the wall of black speakers turned to face the audience. Overall, it was loosely organized chaos.

  Patty leaned in and said, “The bar setups are in the Great Hall. If Tina Doyle’s here, that’s where you’ll find her.”

  “What can you tell me about Tina?” I asked.

  “Her new husband, Richie Doyle, is one of the promoters of tonight’s fundraiser, which means I have to be polite. He’s a top exec at Ravenscourt Studios.”

  “What does Tina do?”

  “Hangs round being a pain in the arse mostly. Mind you, she’s smart enough to always take care of herself. She marries money, and back in the day she even finagled her way to a partial writing credit for ‘Hell on Heels,’ though she didn’t write a word. Rory gave in just to shut her up. She gets royalties just for inspiring the most vitriolic portrait o
f a harpy ever penned. If you want to get anything coherent out of her, I’d do it before the bar starts to hit back.”

  The Great Hall was a daunting structure: a massive stone dining hall with a forty-foot ceiling and a glorious hammer-beam roof. The original building dated from the end of the Middle Ages, but it’d been renovated recently. The light that filtered through the high stained-glass windows provided a warm glow. Along the side walls five fireplaces, lit in spite of the balmy weather outside, helped to drive away the chill that seeped up from the floor. Several dozen tall tables set with black and silver cloths were scattered throughout the open space and two well-stocked bars had been placed at either end of the hall.

  “There’s Tina.” Patty pointed to the far end of the room. “Drunken cow. Just tell her you’re with the fashion press and then she’ll be all over you.”

  —

  Tina was holding up the bar farthest from the entrance, dressed in a pair of crimson leather leggings and a flowing print blouse open to the navel, displaying an unnaturally firm expanse of flesh that must have cost someone a small fortune. The shirt’s failure to gape open down the front could only be attributed to heavy-duty double-sided tape. She stood swaying on a pair of five-inch Louboutins, watching a video of Rory’s earlier warm-up being projected onto one of the soft cream-colored stone walls of the hall.

  “Ms. Doyle?”

  Tina turned and looked at me, struggling for a moment to focus on my face. Her once-perfect eyeliner had started to smudge, and crimson lip gloss was caked on the side of her glass and smeared on her teeth. Like so many of her ilk, she was stick thin, in an unhealthy kind of way. There was no life in the overprocessed blond hair and her hazel eyes were vacant. A faint blue shadow arched around her left eye, and I wondered if it was a souvenir of an earlier drunken escapade. “Do I know you?” she slurred.

  “Name’s Abi. London press.” I tried to be as vague as possible. “Love, love, love the outfit,” I gushed. “Could I bother you for a couple of quick pictures for our readers?”

  “You wit’ Obsession magazine?” Tina asked, her East London accent being revived by the alcohol.

  I smiled slightly and winked. “I’m supposed to be flying under the radar. Guess I’m not doing such a hot job.” Tina flipped a curtain of hair over her shoulder and raised her glass in salute. I shot off a couple of pictures. “Gorgeous,” I said enthusiastically. “You and your husband are heroes to be raising money for the vets like this.”

  “Wha…? I mean, yeah, we are,” Tina said. “Such a fabulous cause.” Tina’s gaze continued to roam around the room nervously, always returning to the video on the wall.

  “Everyone’s so impressed you managed to talk Mickey Dawson into coming out of retirement just for this.”

  Tina did her best to straighten up and focus on my face. “Mickey was a real arse at times, but it wa’n’t all bad,” she said with a smirk. “We ’ad amazing chemistry together. Just couldn’t stand each other outside the bedroom.” She gave a studied pout. “But ’e’d still do anythink for me.”

  I could tell she was lying. Unstable, hollow, and dissolute entered my head. Tina was struggling to remain relevant in this three-ring circus, but the years hadn’t been kind to her and now she was simply the pathetic shadow of a once-vibrant young woman. I was willing to bet she and Rory hadn’t spoken in years.

  “Have you had a chance to see him since he got back from South America?”

  “He’s been round the studio,” she said, vaguely waving her empty glass in the direction of the bartender. He came to fill her up, raising an inquisitive eyebrow in my direction. I shook my head no and watched Tina make short work of a vodka and soda. “ ’E’s still got it, don’ ’e,” she said as she watched Rory on the video trading riffs with an unbelievably adroit bass player.

  “Think there’s any plans for a reunion tour?” I tossed out.

  “That’d be up to Ian. ’E’s the roadblock, i’n’t ’e? All that bad blood…”

  Tina looked as if she was about to elaborate, but she suddenly stiffened. I followed her gaze to see a man in a three-piece suit and a blood-red tie striding across the room. Tina hastily downed the last drops of her drink and turned away from me as the man arrived in front of us.

  “No press,” he said, pushing my camera to the side and grabbing Tina roughly by the arm. “Get moving, you slag. I won’t have you embarrassing me tonight.” Tina was pulled away like a rag doll, her eyes reflecting a fear that made me suspect the faint bruising on the side of her face came courtesy of this man, her husband, Richie Doyle.

  Patty was busy with the caterers, so I wandered back out to the side of the stage and watched the crew hustling around taping down cables and fine-tuning instruments. A line of multicolored electric guitars leaning against an old cannon caught my eye, and I took several shots.

  The last of the sound checks had come to an end and “Satisfaction” blared from the stage’s sound system at top volume. I hadn’t seen Rory since he was whisked away immediately after his warm-up for interviews, but I caught sight of him now standing backstage, chatting with four wheelchair-bound veterans. I picked my way through the crowd to his side and began snapping photos. Rory continued to smile for his enraptured fans, but the smile didn’t quite reach his eyes.

  After he shook the last hand, he moved toward me and put an arm around my shoulders before gesturing to his security guards, who formed a barrier around us and led us through the crowded backstage to a dressing room that had been created out of one of the casements near the main entrance. My heart was racing. It was the first time I’d experienced being the center of a crowd’s attention. Usually my job was to fade into the background and go unnoticed. Having everyone stare and press forward to get closer was a strange and slightly intoxicating feeling, no doubt compounded by having Rory’s arm around my shoulder.

  Rory conferred with his guards briefly before closing the door and leaning against it like a trapped animal. “Christ. It hasn’t changed one bit. If anything, it’s worse.”

  I looked around the makeshift dressing room. Once a garage for the massive cannons that fortified the castle, the long barrel-shaped storeroom had been outfitted with a leather couch, a couple of armchairs, and a food table heaving with fruit baskets and snack platters along with a staggering selection of booze. As I turned back to face Rory, I gasped and pointed to the space behind his head.

  The words Death Awaits had been scrawled across the back of the heavy wooden door in red spray paint.

  Chapter 8

  Rory turned to look. “It’s started,” he said with a kind of grim satisfaction.

  “You need to get the police in here right away,” I said, approaching the door.

  “No way,” Rory insisted. “They’ll try to stop me from performing.”

  “I should think so. For God’s sake, whoever this is, they aren’t ones for idle threats.” I held Rory’s eye. “Taking the stage tonight would be suicidal.”

  “Try and stop me,” Rory said sullenly.

  I shook my head in exasperation. “Is this the first time you’ve been in here?” I demanded.

  “I dumped my bag before we headed out to do interviews.”

  “What time?”

  “ ’Bout an hour ago.”

  That meant someone was in here less than an hour ago, but based on the amount of food in here any number of people could have come and gone in that time. “Whoever did this isn’t long gone,” I pressed. “The police need to track him down while they still can.”

  Rory looked as if he were about to dig his heels in, but suddenly relented. “I suppose you’re right. Go find the local bloke and bring him here.”

  “Thank you,” I said, ducking outside to hunt for DI Michaelson. I found him on the far side of the stage and his eyes narrowed slightly as I approached. Even from a distance I could tell he wasn’t pleased to see me. He was dressed for the occasion in gray jeans, a well-worn t-shirt, and a black leather jacket. He blended in
with the crowd, but there was no mistaking the air of authority that surrounded him. He was everything a policeman should be. Steely, tenacious, scrupulous.

  Celtic Riot was on the stage and I had to struggle to make myself understood. I finally conveyed to Michaelson that Rory needed him and we set off at a trot to the casement entrance, ducking inside to escape the noise. The message was still scrawled menacingly on the back of the door, but Rory was nowhere in sight.

  Damn. I should’ve known he’d given in too easily. Sending me to find the police had simply been a ploy to get rid of me. Michaelson dragged the security guards in from the other side of the door, but they were no help. Rory hadn’t told them where he was going and they hadn’t been told to keep people out of the room before he arrived. Anyone could have come and gone without drawing attention to themselves.

  “ ‘Death Awaits’ was a song title, wasn’t it?” Michaelson asked.

  I was surprised he would know. “Yeah, it was,” I agreed. “One of Ian and Rory’s songs from the War album.”

  Michaelson nodded, and turned to address me directly. “Alright, Logan, why exactly are you here?”

  “I’m Mickey Dawson’s official photographer,” I said, gesturing to the camera still hanging around my neck. “Here to memorialize the comeback.”

  Michaelson didn’t look convinced, but he didn’t press the issue. “When did you find this?”

  “About fifteen minutes ago. I was trying to convince Rory to tell the police about the graffiti and he was insisting he wanted to perform. He was sure security’d try to stop him.”

  “He’s right about that,” Michaelson said, reaching for his phone and addressing one of his men. “Find Rory Hendricks, and bring him to me.”

  Patty stuck her head in the door and looked at me inquiringly.