Death Distilled

by Melinda Mullet

  “Not really. Most of the execs are new since my day.”

  “You said the band’s breakup was complicated,” I said softly. “Is there anything in that situation that might be resonating here?” At first I thought Rory was going to refuse to answer again.

  “We grew too fast and burned too hot, but what happened was between the four of us. I don’t believe it has anything to do with what’s happening. Those demons were put down long ago.”

  I wasn’t sure I believed him, but I had to accept his answer for now. Rory finished with the photos and put my computer on the coffee table, but I noticed he didn’t move away from me. I turned and met his eyes in a steady gaze. I could’ve leaned forward a fraction and he would’ve kissed me. I hesitated for a long moment, torn, but finally turned away. Rory was there next to me, his arm around my shoulder, the famous eyes were beckoning, but there was something missing. It was hollow, as if he was simply going through the motions. The way he greeted fans or signed autographs. Channeling a version of Mickey Dawson that was long gone. There was a shadow over Rory, and I still hadn’t figured out why.

  I reached forward and grabbed my glass, retreating behind the Macallan. I drank it down and poured another before gesturing vaguely at the painting on the wall. “You and Summer share a love of modern art.”

  Rory shrugged. “We do, but it hasn’t been enough to bond over.”

  “Have you been to her gallery?”

  “Yeah, several times. Came in and bought a couple of pieces when I first came back. Had my eye on one of the ones that was stolen.”

  “Thief seems to have had good taste,” I noted. “Knew exactly which pieces were worth the most.”

  Rory didn’t look at me. “So?”

  “Have the police suggested it might be an inside job?”

  “Why would they? The writing’s on the wall, as they say. Definitely connected to the attacks on the Rebels.”

  I watched Rory’s face carefully, but he still didn’t look my way. He wasn’t going to tip his hand, but I was sure he knew more than he was saying. He poured me another drink and foolishly I downed it.

  I was feeling warm, and my head was spinning from the alcohol. Driving home was unwise, but to my addled brain the thought of staying was worse. Rory looked faintly surprised when I started to gather my things together, but he didn’t argue. He simply walked me out and watched me climb into Hope and drive away.

  —

  Monday-morning hangovers are the worst. Headache, varying degrees of personal loathing for having rolled home in such a disgraceful state, and the horror of a new week staring you in the face. I pulled the covers over my head to block out the sun, but any hopes of a lie-in were shattered by the noise of breaking glass from the first floor of the house. I dragged myself downstairs to find a puddle and a broken vase on the floor of the conservatory. Liam and Oscar stood casually by, looking like butter wouldn’t melt in their mouths. I shooed them both outside. Oscar’s cough had finally subsided, and it was time for him to rejoin the rest of the flock. I cleaned up the glass, made coffee and a cheese-and-bacon sandwich, and took a few minutes to wade through my accumulating emails.

  One from a University of Glasgow server caught my eye. It was a note from the archaeology grad student that corralled Liam last week.

  Ms. Logan— Just wanted to let you know that we dated the bones found in Balfour to the early part of the 1800’s. (1800-1820 +/-). The buttons found in the grave site were military issue. Used on vests and jackets for British troops in the mid to late 1700’s. Many British soldiers died and were buried in Scotland during the Risings and in the years that followed. Although the site was interesting to us as students of anthropology, your landlady will be pleased to know that the grave is not per se historically significant and should not impede her construction project. Cheers, Andrew.

  I had read Brodie’s stories of the Jack Gordon and his Red Riders, so it was a good bet that what we’d unearthed was one of the hated gaugers. Perhaps we would yet find out who it was.

  I shuffled back to the kitchen to put the kettle on and contemplate my next move. Before I could reach a decision, my morning peace was disturbed by a firm knock at the front door. Whoever it was had no respect for the dead. I padded to the door in my slippers to find Rev. Craig on the front step in a pair of hiking boots and a Police t-shirt, looking fresh as the proverbial daisy. The powers that be had a sense of humor.

  I invited the vicar in and offered him a cup of tea.

  “You’re sure I’m not intruding?” he said, eyeing my sloppy attire and puffy eyes.

  “No. Just a bit of a cold, that’s all.” I gave a halfhearted cough and gestured to a chair.

  “The house is lovely. It was your uncle’s, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes, he died about six months ago. I’m still getting used to the idea that it’s mine now.” I put a dark brown glazed teapot and two cups on the table.

  “You seem to be settling in nicely. And I hear through the grapevine that I’m not the only one with a new flock to attend to.”

  I smiled ruefully. “I’m a bit of a softy when it comes to sheep. I just couldn’t let them go to the knackers. I know people round here think I’m daft for keeping sheep as pets, but what can you do?”

  “They seem very content,” Rev. Craig said, watching the wool brigade grazing in the fenced space Hunter had arranged for them.

  I had to smile. Irrepressible, faithful, and compassionate came to mind. The perfect shepherd for his flock. “What do you think of Brodie’s stories?” I asked.

  “Fascinating. Thanks for sharing them with me. Is it true you found the journal here at the Haven?”

  I nodded. “In the fireplace from the original croft. Want to see?”

  Rev. Craig grinned. “I was hoping you’d ask.”

  We stood cramped and twisted, peering up into the soot-laden hearth. I was going to have to get the damn thing cleaned if people were going to keep visiting. Rev. Craig explored around the inside of the niche in the stone with his fingers.

  “Did you know there’s a small lever on the side here?” he asked.

  “No. Can you move it?”

  After struggling for a few minutes, Rev. Craig shook his head. “Do you have any pliers handy? My hands are too big.”

  I dug around in Hunter’s toolbox, which had taken up residence under the stairs in the front hall, and returned with a pair of needle-nose pliers. Rev. Craig manipulated the lever as best he could in the tight space, and finally we heard a soft grating noise. The ground beneath us vibrated and I nearly fell backward as the section of the rug I was standing on suddenly dipped downward. The vicar grabbed my arm and helped me step off before flipping the rug back. We both stared in amazement at the rectangular hole that had appeared in the previously unblemished floor of the entryway, with steps leading down beneath the house. I returned to the kitchen, swallowed two aspirin, and grabbed a flashlight.

  The steps were narrow and steep. We were forced to go down backward. The room was a good ten by twelve feet, more than large enough to hide several men at a pinch. Some of the space had been taken up by wooden shelves that lined the walls and someone had abandoned several clothbound ledgers.

  I brushed off decades of dust and carefully opened the binding, afraid the pages within would fall away to dust. The mice had been nibbling at the corners, but I could still make out a small spider script laid out in neat columns, notations of dates and inventories of goods followed by comments on their distribution. Rev. Craig looked over my shoulder.

  12 February 1798

  1 silver ladle, 2 silver candlesticks and a gilt frame. Heather McKinley

  Dozen silver spoons Owen Moore

  18 March 1798

  Small silver mirror and brush Robbie McDonald

  Silver snuff box (Illegible)

  “This must be where they stored the restitution Brodie spoke of. There are dozens and dozens of names in here—relations of almost everyone in the village and beyond.”


  “Fiona will love this,” Craig said, grinning from ear to ear. “It’s wonderful.”

  In the back corner I saw a small wooden box with an inlaid lid. Seashells and scrollwork wound across the top and down the sides. On the bottom the name W. Mann. No doubt one of Hunter’s ancestors. I opened the lid gingerly, lifting out some shredded paper to reveal a silver tea strainer and a collection of silver collar studs and shirt buttons. Beneath those in a worn velvet pouch was a large intricately carved quaich. The piece was at least eight inches across and looked far too ornate for daily use.

  “It’s gorgeous.” I ran my fingers across the Celtic knots that adorned the handles. “I wonder where it came from.”

  Rev. Craig held the cup in the beam of the flashlight. “Might be possible to find out. It looks very unique. I have a contact in London who’s an antiques dealer. Maybe he can trace it for us.”

  “You’ve got Angus Fletcher’s grave under the church, I have the Fletcher boys’ storehouse, and it looks like we have a British officer buried by the Stag,” I said. “Archaeologically speaking, it’s been quite a week.”

  “I wonder if Angus’s curious burial had any connection to this hidden room and its ledgers,” Rev. Craig mused.

  “Wouldn’t surprise me. I know it’s a story I’d like to tell,” I said. “Sadly, I have too many pressing things on my plate right now to give it the attention it deserves.”

  “Perhaps we could help you with the research,” Rev. Craig offered, flushing slightly. “Fiona and I make a good team, you know.”

  I looked closely at Rev. Craig and saw the telltale reddening at the tips of his ears. I hadn’t been paying enough attention earlier. After bragging that I notice the smallest of details, this one had blown right past me. Perhaps because I wasn’t looking for it.

  They seemed to be a great fit. Gentle souls. Kind and intelligent, with an avid interest in books and history. In a small town like this, with so few choices a real connection was a rare and precious thing. “I think that would be a wonderful idea,” I said, already machinating in my head. “I’m awfully pressed right now. Perhaps you and Fiona could look at the rest of the stories together and see if you find any answers to our two mysterious burials. Of course, it will mean spending a lot of time with Fiona. I hope that won’t be a problem?”

  The smile on Rev. Craig’s face was answer enough.

  Chapter 15

  After the vicar left, I cleaned myself up and decided to track Patrick down at the Larches. I wanted a look at Bruce Penrose’s financial data, and he couldn’t avoid me if I cornered him face-to-face. Besides, even if I wouldn’t admit it out loud, I wanted to see what Summer was up to now.

  I turned into the long drive that led up to the house and I was surprised to see Rory’s Mustang pull in behind me. A tan rental car was parked in the drive already, and Summer was leaning on the boot talking to Patty. Rory strode over to the two of them, his face flushed with anger. I parked Hope across the other side of the drive, away from the imminent explosion, and stayed in the car out of deference to Grant’s guests, but I wasn’t above cracking the window slightly to try to catch the gist of the conversation.

  “You can’t control my life,” Summer was yelling. “I’m twenty-six years old, and you think you can show up out of the blue and take over like I was a child.”

  “You act like a child, I’ll treat you like one,” Rory bellowed. “And you,” he said, turning to Patty, “you’re encouraging her.”

  Patty looked like she was about to cry, but she said something softly but firmly to the two of them, gesturing toward the house and my car. She was clearly pleading for calm. She leaned across and gave Summer a hug and a kiss on both cheeks before pushing her toward the front door of the Larches.

  Rory looked like he was about to start ranting again, but she laid a hand on his arm and he became still, his eyes focused on the ground at his feet. He seemed to relax in Patty’s presence, and yet the look on his face was one of defeat, not ease.

  After another word or two that I couldn’t pick up, Patty got into the rental and drove off down the drive.

  I got out of the car and approached Rory gingerly.

  “Trouble in paradise?”

  “After yesterday, Summer should be sticking close to home,” Rory said, a grim look on his face, “but she just tells me to bugger off. No respect at all for her old man. Patty was worried about her, and she came up this morning before she headed back to London to be with Ian. Summer convinced her godmother to give her a lift over here.”

  “She’s not a child,” I pointed out gently.

  Rory stood with his hands on his hips, glowering at no one in particular.

  “I’d say you did well to get her to agree to come up here at all. And look at this place. It’s like a fortress. She’s as safe here as anywhere. Grant has a good staff. They’ll help keep an eye on her.”

  “What’s this Grant bloke like?” Rory demanded. “She seems pretty obsessed with him.”

  I hesitated for a moment. “He’s a good man. She won’t come to any harm here. Come in and meet him. It’ll make you feel better.”

  The front door was ajar. We let ourselves in and found the others in the sitting room. “Rory, this is Grant MacEwen and Patrick Cooke. Guys, this is Rory Hendricks.” I couldn’t help feeling a bit smug. Still awed at being able to introduce the idol of my youth like he was an old friend.

  Rory and Grant shook hands like two dogs sizing each other up. Summer glared at her father from the far side of the room, then hightailed it off to the kitchen to see Louisa.

  “It’s been great having Summer here to help,” Patrick gushed. “She’s amazing. We couldn’t pull this off without her.”

  “I appreciate what you’re doing to keep Summer busy,” Rory said. “But while she’s here she’ll have to have my security people round. They’ll stay outside, but they have to be here.”

  “Isn’t that a bit extreme?” Grant said with a frown. “She’s an adult. She can take care of herself.”

  Patrick and I exchanged glances.

  “There are legitimate risks, Grant,” I said, quietly laying a hand on Rory’s arm to temper the explosion I could feel resurfacing.

  Grant scowled. “I can appreciate that you might need protection from your fans, Mr. Hendricks,” he said, looking at the two of us, “but I don’t think Summer has much to worry about. She runs a legitimate business and she keeps a low profile.”

  “Look, mate,” Rory said through clenched teeth, “she’s my daughter and I’ll decide what she needs.”

  Patrick put a toe in the water. “Rory’s right, better safe than sorry. There are all kinds of wackos out there,” he added.

  “In Balfour?” Grant scoffed, trying to keep his voice low.

  “Enough,” I said firmly. “Look, Rory, Patrick knows the situation. He’s one of the best investigative reporters in the business, and he’s been helping me out. Grant isn’t unreasonable, and he’s very discreet,” I said pointedly. “I think it would be best if you just leveled with him.”

  Rory looked as if he were going to fight me for a minute, but then gave in, providing Grant a cursory outline of the situation.

  Grant’s eyes darkened as he listened. “Fell Farm isn’t an easy place to defend,” he said. “And she’s eluded your security people already, by your own admission.”

  “Maybe she should stay here,” Patrick suggested. “She’d be on-site to supervise the setup for the event this weekend, and she’d have plenty of folks around to keep an eye on her.”

  Rory frowned. “I appreciate the offer, but I’d rather keep tabs on her myself.”

  “We do have plenty of room,” Grant said, and after a moment’s hesitation, “She’d be welcome here if she wants to stay.”

  “Welcome here for what?” Summer said, returning with Louisa.

  Patrick grinned. “Grant suggested you come and stay here for the rest of the week to help finalize the event prep.”

&n
bsp; In that moment I could’ve cheerfully strangled him.

  “That’s what I suggested to Abi,” Summer said, sliding in next to Grant and regarding him like steak on a plate.

  Grant looked at Louisa over Summer’s head. “You okay with this?”

  Louisa looked surprised to be asked, but if Grant was looking for an out, Louisa wasn’t giving it to him. “I’ll go make up the greenroom,” she said.

  Rory’s face hardened. “We appreciate the offer, but I don’t think we need to impose.”

  “Don’t be silly,” Summer snapped. “And don’t speak for me. It makes sense all around. I’ll run home later and grab a few things.” Rory was furious at being dismissed by his own daughter.

  I felt for Rory, and I did my best to salvage the situation. “Maybe she could just stay for a couple of days, Rory, while you make sure things are safe for her at Fell Farm.”

  Rory scowled. “I suppose, but I’ll be sending my own security people over. I’m not leaving her safety in the hands of a bunch of strangers.”

  Grant looked cross, as if he couldn’t quite figure out how he wound up in this situation. Served him right. If he didn’t want Summer to stay he should’ve said so, but let’s face it, he’d have to be dead to not be interested. She was perfection, and now she would be around and available 24/7.

  I led Rory out to his car and did my best to placate him. “I know this isn’t what you wanted, but the main thing is she’ll be safe here.”

  “Safe from whoever’s after me, but what about that middle-aged lothario in a kilt?” he growled.

  “From what I’ve seen, I think Summer can hold her own.”

  Rory didn’t look convinced. Ironic given the number of women he’d taken advantage of in his time.

  “Just leave her here till Saturday, with someone from your security team on-site. It’ll buy us some time to try to sort things out.” I watched the Mustang disappear down the drive in a cloud of dust. I couldn’t help thinking Rory must be disappointed in me. I’d hoped I’d have an answer for him by now, but this private investigation thing was tougher than it looked. I turned back to the house feeling disheartened.