Death Distilled

by Melinda Mullet

  “Do the police have any suspects?”

  “Not that they’ve told me. I only have two employees. A receptionist and a guy that comes in half days to help with packing and moving things. I’ve known both of them for years, and I don’t believe either one would have anything to do with this. They’d have nothing at all to gain. I figure it was someone with a grudge against Rory who figured out we’re related. Let’s face it, I’m paying for the sins of my father. And Ian is too.”

  “What makes you think this is all about your dad?”

  “The police are looking for people that might have a grudge against Rory or the Rebels, but let’s face it, Rory was the Rebels, and from what I’ve heard he left a trail of battered and bruised souls in his wake,” Summer said bitterly. “You saw what happened last night. It’s all coming home to roost.”

  “But who’d hate your father that much, and after all these years?” I asked.

  “My mum should’ve,” Summer said angrily, “and no doubt there’s a string of other women left by the wayside.”

  “Seems a long time to hold a grudge,” Patrick said gently.

  Summer downed her drink and handed the glass to Patrick for a refill. “Could just be a case of out of sight, out of mind.” I watched her move closer to the warmth of the fireplace, wrapping her arms around her slight frame. “Rory’s been gone for twelve years, maybe someone’s angry that he came back. You can’t just run away and abandon everything and then expect to be welcomed with open arms when you decide to show up again.”

  It was plain that Summer was angry with her father. “Must be tough for you to have him back on the scene after all these years,” I said.

  Summer shrugged and tried to look unimpressed. “I didn’t even know he was my father until last year. All that time I thought he was dead. Would’ve been easier if he’d stayed dead to me.”

  She was understandably resentful of her father’s absence. Could she be trying to punish him? She’d have more reason than most to be angry with him and to resent all that he and the Rebels stood for. I had a hard time reconciling the incident at the gallery with the other attacks on the Rebels. No one else’s family had been targeted, and none of the other attacks were on personal property. Could Summer have staged the theft? Could she be taking advantage of the attacks on the Rebels to finagle a bit of money from the insurance company? She did say the gallery was losing money and it was her three most expensive items that went missing.

  “I don’t mean to be rude,” Summer said, her eyes scanning the room, “but can we talk about something else? I’ve had it with the Rebels and the police and all this nonsense.”

  “Sure,” I said as Summer’s words echoed clearly in my head. Vibrant, calculating, and damaged. Damaged was the wild card, but it was too soon to tell.

  “How are you going to fill your time while you’re up here?” Patrick asked.

  “I have no idea,” Summer said, pivoting toward Grant as he entered the room. “I’m working on promoting a couple of new artists, but that’s mainly phone calls and such.” She looked at Grant from under her thick brown lashes. “What would you suggest I do?”

  Patrick chimed in before Grant had a chance. “Didn’t you say you started out as an event planner?” The research he’d done for me had obviously paid off, as Summer hadn’t mentioned her earlier career. “It just so happens that we’re hosting a group of dignitaries for a tour of Abbey Glen next Saturday night. Maybe you could give us some advice. I’m sure you’d have tons of great ideas, and it would help to fill your time while you’re stuck up here. Of course, it would mean working closely with Grant….”

  I glared at Patrick behind Summer’s back. “I’m sure Summer doesn’t have time to waste on your little project.”

  “Sure I do,” she replied, turning a dazzling smile on Grant. “I’d be happy to help in any way I can.”

  “Grant’s trying to keep this event small and low-key,” I interjected.

  “Why?” Summer moved in close, taking advantage of the difference in their heights to look up at Grant from beneath her lashes.

  Grant cleared his throat. “Well, we’re a small operation. This is the kind of thing the big guys do.”

  “You produce an elite product,” Summer said as she turned the full power of her sultry gaze on Grant. “You’re a big guy in your own way.”

  “I suppose that’s true,” Grant conceded with a smile. “You know a lot more about this than I do. I’m willing to defer to your expertise.”

  And timber. Grant had fallen for Summer’s charms lock, stock, and whisky barrel. I could barely talk him into the event, and now he was handing the reins over to a complete stranger.

  Patrick’s eyes flashed with excitement. He could tell he’d found a kindred spirit.

  “I can organize a knockout event for your VIPs,” Summer offered. “A tasteful showcase of the very best of Scotland.”

  “That would be brilliant,” Patrick said enthusiastically.

  “This could be just what I need to take my mind off all the craziness at home,” Summer said, warming to the idea. “Come on, it’ll be fun.” Summer slipped her arm through Grant’s once more. Soon he was showing her pictures of the Glen and offering her tastings of his favorite whiskies.

  Patrick was delighted with the latest development, but I was left feeling like the Scots in the wake of Culloden.

  Chapter 12

  It was twelve forty-five on Sunday morning. The Old Vic in Stirling had been open for fifteen minutes and already my companion was nursing a half-finished pint of stout. A late-morning summons from Bruce Penrose had sent me skittering out of the house in a whirlwind, but I managed to slide in the door only ten minutes late. The Rebels’ former manager was easy to spot. Thinning hair cut short on the sides and embellished with an elaborate comb-over that drew unnecessary attention to its odd shade of shoe-polish brown. No doubt attributable to a home dye job gone awry. He was decked out in a striped polyester shirt and a pair of unnecessarily tight black jeans forced to cower beneath a prodigious belly.

  Penrose looked me up and down. “You Rory’s pet paparazzi?”

  “I’m the tour photographer,” I replied, pulling up a chair.

  “Hope you used a soft lens; that face hasn’t worn well.”

  “Many women would disagree,” I replied, thinking how the years had simply added a new complexity to the infamous eyes and chiseled an even deeper edge to his perfect cheekbones.

  “What ya got for me?”

  I pulled out my computer and displayed a few preselected photos.

  Penrose nodded. “And you can get them signed?”

  “Sure.”

  Penrose drained the rest of his beer and waved for another without offering me anything. “What about some pictures of Mickey with the bloody backdrop, or anything from the tower accident?”

  “I don’t do that kind of work.”

  Penrose shrugged. “Your loss. They’d be big sellers. I’d use my own pictures, but the crowd was pushing so much they were out of focus.”

  “You were at the concert?”

  “Course. In my business, you have to stay close to the action.”

  How close, I wondered. “What other kind of things do you sell?” I asked.

  “Anything the public wants to buy. Vintage tour posters, guitars, coffee mugs, Mick Jagger’s used Kleenex, anything the fans’ll pay for. And the fans will pay for anything. If it’s signed, you get a premium. Golden oldies are the best. Those fans have the money to spend, and they want a bit of their youth back. Your Jaggers, your Bowies, your Rod Stewarts—money in the bank. Better if they’re dead, mind you.”

  “You get more if they’re dead?” I asked.

  “Demand spikes. You can make a real killing.”

  Penrose didn’t seem to notice the bad pun. “Did you make a killing after Hamish Dunn died?” I asked.

  Penrose looked slightly uncomfortable.

  “And I suppose if something happens to Ian Waters it�
�ll be a real bonanza,” I said, trying not to sound as disdainful as I felt.

  Penrose scowled, his eyes flitting around nervously. “I have no control over that,” he snapped, “but I’d be a fool to ignore the upside potential.”

  Did he have no control? Rory and Ian had ruined him personally and professionally by dragging him through the courts. Certainly a viable motive for revenge. Was Penrose killing the Rebels one by one and profiting from their deaths? If so, why bother to point a finger at Rory? Why not eliminate him right away? “You knew the Rebels back in the day,” I observed. “Is Rory a killer?”

  Penrose looked startled for a moment, then laughed. “A lady-killer maybe, but he doesn’t have the balls to kill anyone. Someone’s just havin’ him on. Maybe even someone from the studio. Great publicity, after all. Everyone’s talking about the show, aren’t they?”

  The inflammatory nature of the video from Friday night would send the price of memorabilia from the show through the roof. Penrose might need some technical help, but I could see him trying a stunt like that. No wonder he was anxious for the photos. “How long before you head back to London?”

  “Few more days, at least.” Penrose downed the rest of his beer and belched. “How soon can you get me the signed prints?”

  “Give me a couple of days.”

  “Make sure you get him to sign Mickey Dawson, mind you. None of this Hendricks crap.”

  “All he has to do is sign the prints?”

  “That’s all.”

  “You don’t need any proof it’s his signature?”

  “As if,” Penrose scoffed. “More’n half the stuff out there’s forged. But I have a reputation to uphold. I use the real thing.”

  Sure you do, I thought. I tried to come up with a way to ask about his movements on the day Ian was hit, but I couldn’t think of anything that wouldn’t arouse suspicion. I’d have to rely on Patrick. In the meantime, the word unprincipled had leapt to mind, quickly followed by self-serving and insecure.

  As a suspect it just didn’t get much better.

  —

  Back at the Haven, I wandered out to Hunter’s makeshift sheep pen, seeking solace in the calm of the sweet woolly faces of my charges. Oscar was still confined to the solarium, but the rest of the flock seemed content. They’d quickly gotten used to my having sheep treats in my pockets and they trotted enthusiastically toward the fence when they saw me coming, their short white tails flopping up and down in time with their bouncing gait. Fitz and Beatrix were always first, the two of them jostling for my attention. Orwell and Tolkien hung back slightly as if in conversation, and Hemingway, Agatha, and Theo brought up the rear, waiting patiently for their due.

  If nothing else, the sheep were worth the investment for their calming influence. Just being in their presence made me feel contented and at peace. Peaceful enough to contemplate the gallery anomaly dispassionately. I’d been turning the incident over in my mind since last night. The theft didn’t fit the MO of the other attacks. It wasn’t directly against a member of the band and it involved property, not a person. It would’ve given me a perverse joy to nail the lovely Summer with insurance fraud, but as irksome as I found her, my gut told me she was telling the truth when she said she wasn’t involved. If not Summer, then who? Whoever it was had to be concerned that Summer was having financial difficulties and they had to know the value of the art they were stealing.

  The only person who fit both of those criteria was Rory. It had to be Rory. From the art hanging on the walls at Fell Farm, he knew his stuff. I’d bet Summer refused to accept any money from her father even though the business was struggling. If he staged a phony robbery, Summer would be able to claim the insurance without knowing Rory was involved. The purported connection to the attacks on the Rebels would quiet any suspicions of fraud on the part of the insurance company. I knew there was something Rory was hiding, but that begged the question of the threat in Rory’s dressing room. Was he responsible for that, too? That made less sense, but I wasn’t willing to give up my theory. The details of the robbery had been in the press. The killer could’ve appropriated the red spray-paint lyrics to unsettle Rory before the show. He was definitely shaken, and that was easier to reconcile than the gallery anomaly.

  Maybe I was better at criminal investigation than I gave myself credit for. It would certainly make it easier to focus on the killer going forward if I didn’t have to try to reconcile the gallery incident. I wouldn’t tip off the insurance company. They could work it out for themselves, or not.

  I gave Theo one last scratch behind the ears, then headed back to the front of the house feeling slightly smug.

  A large manila envelope addressed to me was leaning on the door. I slit it open and discovered the first translation of Brodie Fletcher’s book from Fiona Harper. I made a cup of tea and dug out a packet of digestive biscuits. Liam’s favorite. One for me, one for him, and three for Oscar, who was resting in the sun near the door of the conservatory. I pulled the lounger up next to them and started to read.

  Abi:

  Stayed up rather too late with your manuscript last night. It’s absolutely fascinating. According to the front leaf it’s a book of tales written by Brodie Fletcher for his nephew Cooper. Although village lore suggests that Brodie killed Cooper’s father, I can’t find any support for that interpretation in these stories. No estrangement or animosity between Angus and Brodie or their families. It’s a real mystery.

  I know you’re anxious to see what Brodie had to say, so I’m forwarding the first installment as I continue to work on the rest. Let me know if you have any questions,

  Fiona

  JANUARY 1816

  A new year begins much like the old, and time marches on unforgiving. My life these days is increasingly uncertain, and the work we do fraught with danger. There is no guarantee from God that I’ll be granted the privilege of watching you grow to become a man. To sit round the fire with a dram of our own making and share the tales of our past. It was a pleasure denied to your father, and your grandfather. It is in their names that I dedicate these stories to you that you may always know your place in the world and in the rich history of our land.

  So many stories to tell, but at the heart of them all is the remarkable life of your grandfather, Daniel Fletcher. To understand him, you must ken the spirit of the man. Daniel was a Scot. A true Scot. A man of honor and dignity. Fierce and stalwart in defense of his family, his people and his land. He was a stonecutter by trade, like your father, like me, and like your great-grandfather before him. In a peaceful time it would’ve been a good living and a good life. But our land hasn’t been blessed with peace for many a year.

  By the time he was your age, Daniel was an apprentice stonecutter, but more important, he’d learned to run a sma’ still from his father, and with his help Fletcher’s whisky had become the pride of the Lowlands. When Daniel and his Da went to mend fences or build walls they would always bring along a supply of whisky to sell. Their reputation spread throughout the region. The demand grew and grew. Eventually, more people wanted whisky than walls, and they were willing to pay dear for it.

  In March of 1746 Daniel was eighteen years old. Scotland was in the midst of another fierce rebellion against the tyranny of English rule. The fighting had spread through the length and breadth of the country. It happened that Daniel and his father, along with two of the other village lads, were taking a delivery of grain and whisky to the town of Blair to supply Lord Murray, who was laying siege to the castle there. Murray’s men had trapped a British battalion in the fortress, and they needed provisions to continue the fight. Whisky most of all.

  While the Fletchers were in Blair, Murray received orders to lead his men north to join the Jacobite forces massing near Inverness. Daniel and his father were anxious to fight for the return of our exiled Stuart king and they volunteered on the spot, marching out with the rest of the ill-fated clansmen.

  Daniel joined a faction of Murray’s men who were to lead a ste
alth attack on Lord Cumberland’s troops lying nearby at Nairn. It was a tactic he knew well, and it was a sound plan. Catch the enemy as they slept and rout the bastards before they could attack, diminishing the king’s forces before the next day’s battle. But the Fates were not with them that night. There was a heavy cloud and the path was hidden by the darkness and the trailing fog. The going was slow and cumbersome. Daniel and the night raiders became lost and turned back on themselves in confusion.

  By the time they were near enough the enemy to strike, it was nigh on dawn, and too late to execute the plan. Their failure doomed the rest of the Jacobite forces to march on to the moor at Culloden exhausted, poorly provisioned, and far outnumbered. It was a tragedy waiting to happen. Yet our army pushed forward, their spirits unbroken. Your grandfather marched into the front lines of the battle with Lord Murray’s troops. There they faced off against the full might of King George’s army.

  It was a bleak day. Daniel moved in from the rear with the night raiders. They tried in vain to hold their ground in a bog, with a line that was sorely o’erstretched. Too few men and reinforcements that never came. The battle was swift but deadly, and to add to the pain, the driving rain and sleet blew full force into the faces of our men. Daniel was loath to speak of it, but once told the tale to your father and me, recalling the screams and the cries. The terror of the men. The noise of the guns, and the stench of death as the mud mixed with the blood of his friends and neighbors. And through it all the icy rain that numbed the very soul. Daniel’s father, your great-grandfather, died on the frozen field that day.

  Brodie was a gifted storyteller. I shivered slightly, thinking of his description of the battlefield at Culloden. So little had changed in all the intervening years. I could have penned the same words about any number of battlefields I had witnessed in my career. The panic, the assault on the senses, and the wasted lives. So much pain and so little gain. We’re told that history repeats itself, but sadly we seldom hear the echoes. I turned back to Fiona’s translation.