“No.” I sighed. “He’s rather a fan of a good whisky. The peatier the better, I’m afraid.”
Gerry looked incredulous.
“Can you do me a favor and take him up to Louisa’s apartment? Liam’s supposed to be hanging out with Luke during the party. You can only imagine the disaster if we leave him to roam around unsupervised with all the whisky and meat floating around.”
I steered Gerry and Liam up the stairs and turned to see Bill Rothes coming through the front door with Rory.
“There you are, Abi. I’d appreciate it if you keep him indoors and limit the territory we have to cover for all this. I just removed some reporter from the front drive.”
“I’m not a dog,” Rory snapped, shaking off Bill’s grip. “Where’s Summer?”
“She’ll be here soon,” I soothed. “They’re just finishing up at the distillery.”
“Then where’s Michaelson?” he asked.
“Questioning a suspect in Stirling. Relax. Bill’s here, and Michaelson’s men are all around the perimeter of the house.”
“We’ll keep an eye on Ms. Lindley,” Bill assured us as he headed back to the door.
Rory scowled at his retreating back. “Where’s the bar?”
“Did you leave the gun at home like you promised?” I prompted.
“I’m allowed to carry it,” he replied sullenly.
“Not here. That was the deal. No drinking and waving a pistol around. Come on, I’ll trade you. I brought you a very special whisky.” I held out the bottle of Fletcher’s Reserve and extended the other hand for the gun. “There are plenty of armed guards here. Rely on them.” Rory reached inside his jacket like a sulking child and handed the gun to me. I could only hope he didn’t have another stashed somewhere.
As the guests began to arrive I settled Rory in the library with a large whisky, hid the gun in a bread box in the butler’s pantry, and went to greet our Japanese guests. They loved the tour of the Glen and the tastings, but they were positively agog over Grant’s ancestral home. They insisted on calling him the Laird of Abbey Glen in spite of his protests. For men of relatively slight build they could put away a fearsome quantity of whisky. Even Cam was stunned, giving me a wide-eyed look as he headed to the cellar to retrieve a couple more bottles.
I stood in the corner, watching Summer move through the crowd. She largely ignored Rory, and he kept his distance as if trying to shield her with anonymity. He gave me a sign, and I went to get him a fresh drink and some appetizers. The vintage Fletcher’s was a big hit, and Rory looked somewhat more relaxed.
Once everyone was settled with a drink in their hand, Patrick introduced me and I did a five-minute presentation on the Bennett Logan Memorial Trust and its goals for the future. I stressed that the revenue raised from the sale of the vintage Fletcher’s would be used to improve the lives of women and children around the world. The presentation was well received, and a number of our Japanese guests expressed interest in buying bottles at auction.
The toasts and responses continued getting more elaborate with each round. Even Cam had settled into the spirit of the event, or into the spirits, I wasn’t sure which, but he seemed to be enjoying himself. So far all was quiet. The food and drinks were getting rave reviews, and Gerry was just about ready to launch the pre-dinner video from his computer. He was trying to catch Summer’s eye to let her know he was ready to begin, but she’d been pulled into a conversation with Rory and one of the Japanese guests. I was surprised that many of them were very familiar with the Rebels and their music. We’d be hard-pressed to top this if we ever had another group come through. Summer was smiling and charming the guests, and her father stood next to her watching her with undisguised pride.
I went to move my own computer out of Gerry’s way, and he started in surprise. He’d been lost in his own observation of Summer, but as he turned to look up at me, I saw a flicker in his eyes. It was only a momentary thing, an unguarded instant, but it was there—a flash of infinite despair. The look of a man whose world had collapsed around him. He’d lost his daughter and his wife and then Bonnie. Now he was afraid of losing Summer. As he said, just when you think you’re out of the woods you find they’re more vulnerable than ever.
He turned away from me, but not before I registered the look of pure unadulterated hatred he turned on Rory. Brodie’s words came back to me in a flash. The passion that riles the blood and drives a man to kill is not possessions or land, but the heartrending loss of kin.
What an idiot I’d been. All this time I’d foolishly assumed Gerry’s daughter was young when she died. I’d seen no pictures of her as a young woman, but Louisa just told me she died from a drug overdose. That meant Summer wasn’t the only vulnerable young woman Gerry had cared for. His daughter must have been born around the time that Bonnie and Patty were. She would have grown up around the music scene and been exposed to the people her father worked with. My gut screamed that this was the missing piece of the puzzle. All of a sudden, I had to know. I extracted Patrick from his place by the drinks cart and dragged him out into the hall.
“What is it? Are we running short of whisky?”
“I need you to run a search for me,” I said earnestly. “I have to find out what happened to Gerry Wilson’s daughter.”
He looked at me like I was mad. “Now?”
“Yes, now. I have a hunch it could be critical.”
“Alright, alright.” Patrick followed me into Grant’s study, where he’d left his laptop.
I paced around the office while Patrick searched until he came up with Olivia. Olivia Wilson. A quick search of the clippings database at the Gazette pulled up an obituary, but there was a conspicuous lack of details on the cause of death.
“Sometimes the gutter press can be useful,” Patrick said, tapping away at the keys.
“Interesting, but not accurate,” I complained.
“The best pieces always have a seed of truth in them.” Patrick fidgeted and looked at his watch. “I have to get back, but take a look at this and see if it helps.”
Patrick went to rejoin his guests, and I looked through the dated gossip rags and found a picture of Olivia Wilson. She was thin and blond, weren’t they all. But she had the face of a child, an unanimated face. Her eyes were hollow and vacant, a look I’d seen so many times in the eyes of heroin users. I’d lay money on how she’d died, but even more disturbing were her companions. The photo showed Hamish Dunn and Mickey Dawson raising a toast to the person behind the camera. Rory supported Olivia with a hand around her waist, but he seemed no more attached to her than to the cocktail in his hand.
Here was the source of a deeper pain, not just the absence of money or fame, but an unbearable sense of loss and injustice. The kind that would fuel a rage that would simmer for years. Our murderer was a man who’d lost a wife, a daughter, and a surrogate daughter. I’d seen him as a dedicated man of principle, but that dedication had become obsession and his principles contorted by the injustice of life into a demand for justice. A man with nothing left to lose and a genuine motive for vengeance against Hamish the Heroin Fairy and Penrose the enabler—and Rory.
I’d let my guard down thinking Simon was our man. Now, despite all our precautions, the killer was here in the house.
I quickly went in search of Bill and told him my theory. He radioed Michaelson’s men and immediately went to find Gerry, but he was nowhere to be seen. He’d started the video presentation, then disappeared in the darkness. Suddenly Rory was at my side.
“Where’s Summer?”
“Last I saw she was with you.”
“I think she went to talk to Louisa,” Grant said, joining us. “What’s happening?”
I sent Bill off in the direction of the kitchen, and I told Grant that we were looking for Gerry.
One of Michaelson’s men looked in from the hall and beckoned me over. “Where’s Rothes?”
“Kitchen, I think,” I replied, pointing toward the rear stairs. “Have you found Gerry?�
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“He’s outside. Get Hendricks out here as quick as you can; we have a situation.”
I sent Grant to warn Cam that he’d have to take over host duties and do his best to keep our guests in the house after the video ended. Then I steered Rory outside to the front drive, where the police were standing looking toward the roof of the house. In a large flat section of the roof between two intervening turrets Summer was silhouetted against the darkening sky.
Chapter 25
Gerry appeared from behind Summer and looked down at us.
“Shoot me and I’ll take her down with me,” he shouted to the men below. Summer struggled briefly, but as Gerry moved her closer to the edge, she recoiled, slumping against him. It was hard to see with the dusky sky behind, but Summer was clearly restrained and the shimmer of silver duct tape across her mouth explained her unnatural silence.
Bill came running out of the front door with Grant and appealed for calm, but it was clear that Gerry’s focus was on Rory.
“Pretty little girl you’ve got here, Dawson. So young. So vulnerable.”
“Whatever your beef is, it’s with me, Wilson. Summer has no part of it. Leave her be.”
“Why? Is she too young to die?” Gerry sneered. “She’s nearly the same age as my daughter was. That didn’t bother you, did it? Not one little bit. Women were there to be used and discarded like trash. You didn’t pay attention to names or faces. Bonnie, Olivia, Patty. It was all just part of the game. Mick the Dick and his traveling freak show.”
“It was all part of the show,” Rory acknowledged, “but it wasn’t the way I wanted it to be. I was a victim of the machine as much as anyone else.”
“Victim,” Gerry scoffed. “You’re no victim, you’re the devil himself.” His voice took on a shrill edge. “You never took responsibility for the lives you ruined—not Olivia’s, not Bonnie’s, not any of them. All chewed up and spit out by the Rebel machine. You’re a killer. And what’s worse, you don’t even remember Olivia, do you?”
“Of course I do,” Rory said, but he was clearly struggling.
“Don’t lie to me,” Gerry screamed. “She was just twenty-three. A kid when Hamish Dunn gave her that first taste of heroin. She was hooked on the drug and on you. You toyed with her for a couple of months, then moved on, leaving her broken and addicted. Two months later, we buried her. You dragged my angel into the darkness and never looked back, you bastard.”
“I didn’t know,” Rory said bleakly.
“Didn’t know and didn’t care. Never your fault, was it? It was Bonnie’s fault for getting pregnant and my Olivia’s fault for taking too much of that poison you and Hamish hooked her on. Never yours. You’ve never been held accountable for anything you’ve done.” Gerry broke down sobbing. “You have to be made to pay. A life for a life.”
“I never knew about your daughter,” Rory pleaded. “I’m not proud of the things that happened, but they hid a lot of it from us.”
“Bury It Bruce knew all your secrets, didn’t he?” Gerry said bitterly. “Swept little Bonnie and her baby off to the side. Nothing could stand in the way of the Rebels’ rocket to fame and fortune.”
“I tried to see Summer, but Bonnie didn’t want me to,” Rory insisted.
“Bonnie was a good girl. She listened to our advice. Stay away, we said, and she did. Now you’re back trying to get your claws into Summer. Trying to ruin her life like you ruined so many others. You’re a foul cancer. I thought you’d know better than to get involved with him,” Gerry screamed, turning and shaking Summer violently. “I’d rather see you dead than corrupted by his influence.”
“No,” Rory screamed. “You know what it’s like to lose a daughter. Try to understand. I only wanted to try to make up for the lost years.”
“How do I make up for my lost years?” Gerry wailed. “There is no turning back. I lost a part of me the day she died, and today you’ll lose a part of you. Death is the easy way out. Living is the real hell. In death Summer will be protected. Back with her mother and Stella, but not you. You’ll relive this pain every day for the rest of your life.”
I felt Grant’s hand on the small of my back slowly moving me toward the open front door. “Come with me,” he whispered softly.
We slid into the front hall unnoticed. Bill was trying to negotiate with Gerry, but it wasn’t going well. I could tell he was near the breaking point. All logic seemed to have left him.
I cursed myself for being so blind. Once I realized it was Gerry it all made sense. He had easy access to Hamish’s stash at Ravenscourt, he could easily have rigged the video at the concert and stolen the guitar, and Bruce Penrose would have let him in without hesitation. Ian was the only mystery, but I was convinced there was a reason somewhere.
“What are we doing?” I asked, trotting along behind Grant.
“Bill has his hands full out front, but I think I know how we can get up to the roof without Wilson seeing us.”
I followed Grant into his study and he pulled out a small handwritten map. The scrawl was childish and the diagram inexact.
“My brother and I made this when we were kids. These are the hidden passageways that are internal to the house.” He pointed to a dotted line that ran from the butler’s pantry up to the roof. “I suspect it was made for the servants in the old days, but it’s still there now. We can use it to get to the roof. God knows how he got up there so quickly.”
“He used the door in the attic,” I said bitterly. “He was up there with Louisa and me yesterday, getting some things for the party. We were the ones that showed him the access door.”
“Never mind. He won’t have found this passage.” Grant led us to the pantry, and we passed neat shelves stacked with dishes, glasses, serving ware, and preserves. At the far end Grant began to press on the bottom corner of the wood paneling. I reached into the bread box and removed Rory’s gun. Grant continued feeling along the wall, but nothing was happening. I was beginning to wonder if this was all a figment of his boyish imagination. Grant was getting frustrated, too, and gave the wall a stout kick. With a grinding noise the panel slid back into the adjacent wall, exposing a flight of stairs banking sharply to the right and upward.
“Come on.” Grant took the stairs two at a time, and I headed up after him. At the third landing, Grant turned and raised a finger to his lips. “We should be getting close now,” he warned.
Around the next bend the stairwell ended and a ladder was set into the wall to access a wooden trapdoor above our head. I could tell Grant was attempting to calculate our course through the walls to figure out where we were going to come out on the roof.
“I’m hoping we will be in luck and be on the right side of the water tanks. That would mean he couldn’t see us from where he’s standing.”
If we came out on the wrong side we’d be in full view of a madman and his captive. That gave me very little comfort, especially as we weren’t sure whether or not Gerry was armed. I could feel my heart pounding in my chest. Grant pushed on the trapdoor, but it wouldn’t budge. He climbed farther up the ladder and threw the full weight of his body against the door. Still it didn’t budge. Grant addressed the door with a string of muttered expletives.
“Wait,” I whispered. “What’s that catch behind you?” I pointed to a small brass lever.
“Damn.” Grant slid the lever and a matching one on the opposite corner. This time when he pressed on the door there was a slight movement. Grant balanced precariously on the ladder and gingerly raised the wooden square and slid it to one side, resting it carefully next to the opening.
“Are we hidden?” I whispered.
Grant put a finger to his lips and nodded in the affirmative. He stepped back down the ladder and put his face close to mine. “I suppose there’s no point asking you to wait here?” he said softly.
I regarded him with narrowed eyes. “None at all,” I replied, gesturing to the gun in my hand.
“Where the hell did that come from?” he hissed.
“I’m her father,” Rory was yelling angrily.
“By blood only. I’m the one that raised your daughter. On the film set with me every day. We were her family, not you. Now you drift back into her life and try to take over. Thought she’d have more sense than to let you back in her life.”
“I made a mistake. A terrible mistake,” Rory pleaded. “But I love her and I want to do everything I can to make up for all we lost.”
“What you can do is suffer,” Gerry screamed. “The way I suffered. Watch your daughter’s life ebb away in front of your very eyes.” Gerry pushed Summer from behind till she was teetering on the stones at the edge of the roof.
Things were rapidly degenerating. I could only pray that Gerry’s affection for Summer would stop him from following through with his threat, but my instinct told me he had stepped beyond the point of reason. There was a perverse rationale for his actions in his own mind. A rationale that would brook no argument at this point.
Grant gestured to me, pointing to the chimney that rose up between us and the spot where Gerry was leaning over the parapet with Summer. He made his way silently around the chimney until I lost sight of him. I saw Summer’s eyes flit in Grant’s direction and she relaxed slightly in Gerry’s grip. If Gerry turned even slightly to his right he’d catch sight of Grant. We needed a diversion if Grant was going to reach Summer unseen.
I shifted the gun to my left hand and picked up a stone from the roof next to me, throwing it hard against the turret to Gerry’s left. It made a loud cracking sound. He spun around quickly, dragging his captive with him, but the distraction was enough to allow Grant to leap from behind the chimney and grab Summer. The two men tussled and Summer kicked out at Gerry, trying to get him to loosen his grasp.
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