Inside Patrick was in the process of trying to convince Grant to open the entire distillery to his Japanese guests.
“The Still House is enough.” Grant sounded like this day was pushing him to the end of his rope. “I don’t want people poking through every part of the operation, laying all our secrets bare.”
“Why not make a video instead?” Summer suggested. She was curled up in a chair by the fire, looking like the cat that got the cream. “With your own video you can control what you show and when. And a professionally filmed and edited video would show Abbey Glen off to its best advantage. You could even use it for other groups that might eventually come through.”
“I suppose that might work,” Grant conceded. “But who’d we get to film this masterpiece?”
“Uncle Gerry would do it,” Summer said. “He’s the best. Patty said he’s stuck in Stirling for a few more days while the police go over all the equipment with a fine-toothed comb. As long as he leaves the computers behind, I don’t suspect they’d care if he brought some cameras up here for a day or two and did some filming.”
Patrick looked to Grant. “Seems like a reasonable plan.”
“Okay,” he conceded. “See if he’ll do it, but ask how much this is going to cost. We’re not a big corporation, you know.”
“He’ll give us a good deal,” Summer said with a wink. “He’s the closest thing I have to family other than Patty and Ian, and I use him whenever I can for projects at the gallery.”
Summer went off with Patrick to make the call.
Grant turned on me as soon as we were alone. “This Hendricks bloke of yours is a real piece of work. Is he exaggerating the risks here?” Grant demanded.
“No,” I replied. “If anything, he’s not taking it seriously enough. I thought performing Friday night was a huge risk.”
“What’s he playing at, then?”
“He’s trying to protect his daughter.”
“She doesn’t seem to want his protection.”
“Kids don’t always know what they need,” I said, trying to keep the sarcasm from my voice.
“She’s no kid,” Grant countered quickly.
“Oh, you noticed, did you?” I snapped.
Grant closed the space between us and looked down at me, his eyes a dark gray green. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing,” I said, straightening up and inadvertently moving closer. “Your affairs are your own business.”
Grant looked incredulous. “You can’t possibly think—”
“Why not?” I said, backing away and doing my best to stare him down. “As you say, she’s not a child and she’s certainly all over you.”
“What about you and the Guitar God?” he challenged. “You’re seeing more than your share of him. It’s all anyone can talk about in the village, and you blush like a schoolgirl every time he looks at you.”
“I do not,” I protested.
Grant raised an eyebrow and gave me a look. “You do.”
The conversation was deteriorating rapidly. “This isn’t getting us anywhere,” I insisted. “The important thing is that between you and Louisa inside and Rory’s people outside, Summer will be safe here.”
“Oh, I’ll make sure she’s safe,” Grant said firmly. “But mark my words, somewhere along the line Hendricks did something to cause this hatred to surface. Just watch you don’t get caught in the backlash.”
Further argument was cut short by Patrick and Summer’s return. Grant excused himself and headed over to the distillery. Patrick went outside to take another call and I was left alone with Summer.
“I seem to be causing friction everywhere I go.”
“No, it’s fine. Grant’s just a bit stressed by the coming invasion.” I hoped she’d only caught the end of our conversation.
“Rory’s uptight, too,” she said. “Patty can always calm him, but he’s still mad about yesterday.”
“How’s the arm?”
Summer touched her shoulder lightly and winced. “It’s still sore, but it’s getting better.”
“Any news from the gallery?”
“Insurance company is still sitting on the claim, but my lawyer says it shouldn’t be long now.”
“Good thing you were well insured,” I commented.
“I had to be. The gallery’s all I have. Mum got alimony while she was alive. Bloody Carmichael’s penalty for not having the guts to stick around when things got ugly, but it all stopped the day she died.”
“Hasn’t Rory offered to help?”
“I don’t want his money or his help.”
I watched Summer’s face as I said, “Doesn’t it strike you as odd that the thief would leave a Rebels lyric on the wall and then target the three most valuable paintings in the room?”
“Odd how?”
“I’m trying to figure out whether this robbery has anything to do with the attacks on the Rebels or did someone just want it to look that way?”
“Who would do that?”
Summer looked genuinely confused. “You won’t accept money from your father. Could he be trying to get you money from the insurance company and leveraging the attacks against him to ensure they don’t question the theft?”
“You think he’d do that for me?”
“He might. Moreover, the theft doesn’t really fit with the other attacks on the Rebels. No one else’s family members were targeted, and all the other incidents were physical injuries not property damage.”
Summer sighed heavily and went to pour herself another drink. Her hand shook as she brought the glass to her lips. “If they refuse to pay out I’ll be finished. Why couldn’t he just leave well enough alone?”
For the first time I felt a twinge of sympathy for Summer. In the past twelve months she’d lost her mother, discovered that she was the illegitimate love child of Mickey Dawson, and now was on the verge of financial ruin. It was a lot to swallow.
“Try not to worry. It was actually a pretty clever scheme. If the insurance company doesn’t figure it out, you’ll get the cash. If they do, Rory’ll have to give the paintings back and you’ll be able to sell them.”
Summer looked slightly cheered by that thought. She started to say something more but was interrupted by her cellphone. She grimaced apologetically and retreated to the other side of the room to talk.
—
I waited around to try to catch Patrick, but he was constantly on the move. I finally went home, fed the fleece, and collapsed on the couch with a bowl of soup. It had been a lost day. I was no closer to nailing down a definitive motive, and neither Patrick nor Michaelson had come through with anything helpful. To make matters worse, I kept picturing Summer having a cozy evening by the fire with Grant.
As if reading my thoughts, Liam jumped up on the couch and lay down on top of me. He was soon snoring softly, and I was lulled into oblivion by his warmth and the rhythm of his heart. We must have been there for some time, because my leg was asleep, but I was woken by Liam issuing a growl from deep in his throat. I strained to listen in the dark and heard a soft scrabbling noise in the front hall. It sounded like someone was dragging something across the floor.
There was an intruder in the house, and I had nothing to defend myself with except a TV remote and a bottle of aspirin. My heart was pounding so loudly I was sure it could be heard outside my body. The door to the conservatory was ten feet away behind me. The odds of reaching it without being detected were nil. I put a hand on Liam’s collar, afraid that whoever it was might be armed.
My indecision seemed to stretch on forever, but it was only a matter of seconds and as the noises from the hall grew louder, I decided to drag Liam with me and make a break for the kitchen.
I started to ease myself off the couch and was nearly upright when I heard a bloodcurdling scream followed by a loud thud.
Chapter 16
Liam leapt off the couch and I followed him into the hall, turning on the light as I went. Two suitcases sat by the front d
oor, and a pair of well-shod feet were flailing in the air out from the depths of the kilim rug that had sunk into the space left by the missing floor slab. Whoever it was, he no longer had the advantage in this situation.
I grabbed hold of the feet and pulled. Liam sunk his teeth into the nearest piece of trouser and helped as best he could. Tug-of-war was one of his favorite games. After several minutes, we were rewarded with the site of a red-faced Patrick lying on the floor sputtering in indignation.
“What the hell is this? Some kind of booby trap?”
“Burglar alarm,” I said mildly. “It worked quite well, as you can see.” I tried to stifle my amusement but finally gave up. “You deserve it, sneaking into my home unannounced in the middle of the night.”
“It’s only eleven o’clock,” Patrick said bitterly. “And look at the state of these pants. Liam’s drooled all over them.”
“You seem to have a change of clothes,” I said, indicating the suitcases by the stairs.
“I was hoping you’d let me stay here till the weekend. I’m feeling a bit third-wheelish at Grant’s.”
“What’s the magic word?” I teased.
“Penrose’s financials,” Patrick offered.
Finally. “Welcome to Abi’s B&B.” I escorted Patrick into the sitting room and poured him a drink.
“What the hell is that hole about, anyway? One of Hunter’s fix-it jobs?”
“Long story. Secret room left over from Fletchers’ illicit past, but first tell me what you got on Penrose.”
“Not what you would call a lucky man. He started this memorabilia business in the U.S., selling bits and pieces he had left over from his days in music. At first they were all legit and he was doing quite well. Then seems he started running out of things to sell and got creative with some of his merchandise. Fakes can be hard to prove, but there were some complaints, and he came back to the UK because things were getting uncomfortable Stateside. You’ve seen the website. He’s asking big prices online but not making many sales. He bought a bunch of stuff secondhand, but the inventory’s not moving. He’s sunk everything he’s got in the business.”
“Then the stakes are high. Has he sold off anything of Hamish’s since he died?” I listened for the answer while fetching Patrick a drink from the kitchen.
“Funny you should ask. He had an entire online catalogue of stuff, and it went like hotcakes in the weeks after Hamish died.”
“Getting rid of Ian and Rory would be lucrative and satisfy his desire for revenge.” I flopped back on the couch and stroked Liam’s head. “That’s a motive I can work with. Now, what about Tina?”
“She’s been married to Doyle for nearly five years, and you’re right, there was a prenup. It was all over the check stand rags when they got engaged. She could bail out of the marriage but she’d get next to nothing.”
“But Tina would see a surge in royalties every time one of the Rebels died.”
“Technically true, but nowhere near enough to support her lifestyle. She seems like a long shot to me.” Patrick kicked off his shoes and put his feet on the table between us.
“Get enough booze and drugs in the mix and rationality goes out the window,” I offered.
Patrick shrugged. “Could be, but if it’s her, she’s not doing it alone. Better find an accomplice.”
“I’m working on it, even though I expect it’s a dead end. Penrose is my front-runner hands down. As soon as I get the pictures ready I’ll have another word with him.” I stared into the fire until I heard the sound of snoring. First Patrick, then Liam. I slipped away upstairs and left the boys to it.
—
Patrick was still asleep when I came down the next morning. I looked at the clock on the microwave. Nine-thirty. My woolly wordsmiths were eating me out of house and home, and I needed some more sheep chow. I should have just enough time to stop before I was due at Rory’s to get the prints signed for Penrose.
Liam and I headed out the front door and were surprised to see a man leaning against the fence, smoking a cigarette. He reminded me of a weasel, trim and restless with two dark, beady eyes peering out from beneath a gray cloth cap. As I approached, he flipped the butt into the sheep pen.
“Oy,” I barked. “Go get that right now. My animals’ll get sick if they eat that kind of rubbish.”
The outburst must have startled him, because he bent down and retrieved the end of the cigarette without argument.
“Who are you and what are you doing here?” I demanded.
“Robert Llewelyn-Jones with the Daily Sun,” he replied quickly. “Wanted to ask you a few questions about Mickey Dawson.”
“I’ve got nothing to say. Get off my property.”
“You’ve been spendin’ a lot of time with Mickey,” he prodded. “Backstage at the show, and him movin’ up here to be close to you. Come on. Has the infamous Mickey Dawson found a new harbor for his dinghy?”
I kept marching toward Hope. “Go away.”
“Maybe we’re going to be playing happy families with that lovely daughter of his?”
I’d had enough experience with the gutter press. I wasn’t about to answer any questions. I knew full well the story would be twisted into something grotesque with or without my comments, but there was no way I was going to contribute to my own defamation. Liam stood beside me, growling menacingly in the back of his throat. He knew when I was unhappy and was quick to make his own displeasure clear. My visitor kept glancing down at him nervously.
“Get off my property now,” I demanded.
“Come on, darlin’, just a quick pic and a quote. We’ll make it worth your while.”
I put my hand in front of my face to block the shot, but continued to move toward him threateningly. “Get out. And if I see you here again, I’ll call the police.”
The Daily Sun backed away, proclaiming his innocence before climbing back into his own vehicle and driving away. I was relieved he hadn’t put up more of a fight, but I knew it wasn’t over. If the weekly rags were sniffing around for fan fodder, how long would it be before they stumbled onto the real story?
I pulled out my phone and called Michaelson.
“Just ran off a reporter from the Daily Sun who’d camped out in my driveway.”
“What did he want?”
“Fishing for some kind of personal relationship between me and Rory Hendricks.”
“And is there one?” Michaelson inquired.
“Not their business even if there was. And the answer is still no,” I added hastily.
“Hang on a minute.” I could hear the flaming of a match as Michaelson lit his cigarette. He must be outside the office. Now was as good a time as any for some questions.
“Any sign of Penrose on the CCTV footage from outside Rory’s dressing room?” I asked when he came back on the line.
“It was at a bad angle. Hard to identify anyone.”
Damn. I was hoping to place Penrose backstage. “Have you found out anything about the video hack?”
Michaelson was silent for some time. I thought maybe we’d lost the connection. “Off the record?” he said finally.
“Off the record,” I echoed.
“We traced the virus to a computer at Ravenscourt Studios in London, but it was one of the ones in the mixing studio. Any number of people had access to it. And there was a generic log-on code. Anyone could’ve signed in and sent the virus to Gerry Wilson’s computer.”
“No joy there, then. What about the lights?”
“The lights were being run on two generators, both hooked into the light and sound tower. A third generator was powering the amps and the speakers backstage. The two generators at the tower had been linked together. The lighting crew on the lower deck indicated there was no power anomaly before all the lights went out. It was as if someone flipped the master switch.”
“Could someone have done that remotely?”
“It’s possible, but hard to trace now. When the lights came back, the sudden demand caused a ma
ssive power surge that cascaded into the main generator up on the lighting deck. Leo Moore was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“Any chance the surge wasn’t an accident?”
“For God’s sake let’s not go there. I have enough on my plate as it is, and I don’t have a shred of evidence someone intentionally electrocuted Leo Moore. Unless Gerry Wilson told you something he didn’t tell me. Did he?”
“No, of course not. I was just thinking out loud. You’re looking for a hacker from Ravenscourt, or someone with an accomplice at Ravenscourt,” I mused. “Which would also give that person access to Hamish Dunn’s Red Bull.”
“What do you know about Hamish Dunn?” Michaelson said, the frustration clear in his voice.
“Enough to know it was no accident,” I said. “I told you I have sources in London.”
“In the lab, apparently.” I could hear irritation mixed with admiration in Michaelson’s voice. “Then you know what I know.”
“Anything on Tina Doyle’s friend?”
“His name’s Jai Kapur. A technical producer at Ravenscourt. He was at the show helping with audio on some live footage they were filming for a music video.”
“Any idea where Kapur was the night Hamish died, or when Ian was hit?”
“Back off. I have someone looking into it.”
I knew I was pushing my luck, but it was worth a try. “If something happens to Rory Hendricks, who gets his money?”
“Don’t waste my goodwill, Logan. You don’t need me to find that out.”
“Exactly. No reason why you shouldn’t tell me. I know you’ll have already checked, so it saves me time.”
“And I live to save you time,” Michaelson snapped. “He changed his will about six months ago. The estate is now split between Summer Lindley and Patty Waters.”
“Patty?”
I heard Michaelson take a drag on his cigarette. “Has Hendricks said anything to you about a past relationship with Patty Waters?”
“Not in so many words,” I hedged. “Did Patty tell you they were involved?”
Death Distilled Page 15