Mystery: The Cook's Comeuppance: A Duncan Dewar Mystery of Murder and Romantic Suspense (Duncan Dewar Mysteries Book 3)

by Victoria Benchley

  "Yes, but we're not dealing with normal people here. These are artists. Some may even be recluses. Did you notice his fingernails?"

  "No, why would I look at his nails?"

  "Because, they were chewed down to nubs. If I had to guess, Geoffry is an uptight kind of person without anyone to confide in. He frequents these dive bars alone and stays out all night. I'll tell you one thing, we're going to check this place out tonight," Duncan told his brother, holding up the piece of paper with the bar's name and location. He added, "There's no crew member named Miguel in the police reports, nor did Ben Davis mention a third man on the job."

  The brothers followed Frogo's directions to Isabella's quarters.

  "I've never met a real poet before," Angus said.

  "Neither have I," Duncan commented, as they marched down a deserted hall, arriving at a door with 17 posted in brass numbers on a raised panel.

  The others they had passed were all stained wood. Isabella's door had been painted in a sloppy manner, gloss black. Duncan looked at his brother, frowned, then knocked. Almost at once, they heard the hinges creak and an eye appeared, blinking, in the narrow space between the jamb and door.

  "What do you want?" the artist whispered.

  Her voice gave Duncan th'willies.

  "Frogo Valentine said you would be expecting us. I'm Duncan Dewar and this is Angus," Duncan said, stepping aside to give Isabella an unblocked view of his brother. "I'm here to investigate Ella Peña's death," he added.

  Isabella coughed, then invited the brothers inside. The atmosphere in the apartment made Duncan uncomfortable. This was the only gloomy room he'd been in at the academy. He twisted to make sure Angus followed before entering further into the artist's lodgings.

  It became obvious who painted the apartment's entry black. Large swathes of the color marked the room's interior as well, forming strange characters on the walls that were of no earthly alphabet. He guessed the poet didn't receive many visitors.

  She sat down in a chair and the brothers followed suit, positioning themselves on the divan. Duncan felt the walls might close in on them, so oppressive was the ambience. Question her and get out quick, he thought.

  "Ms. Ramon, what can you tell me about Ella Peña? Did you spend any time with her?"

  Isabella's eyes blinked in rapid succession as she answered.

  "Ella was the academy's cook. She was my friend, my only friend here. I spent quite a lot of time with her," the artist clipped, raising her chin.

  Shocked by her answer, Duncan was caught off guard. This was the first person to claim to know Ella well.

  "I'm sorry for your loss," he stammered. "When did you become friends?"

  "As soon as she arrived here. She took an interest in my work and I took an interest in her."

  "Do you know of anyone else she was friendly with? Any other close associations she formed here?"

  Isabella shook her head, No.

  Duncan continued, "Do you have any idea why she was in the courtyard, the night she died?"

  Isabella continued her blinking as she thought about her answer.

  After a moment she said, "She often worked late. Sometimes, I'd hang out in the kitchen with her over a nightcap. But that evening, I went to bed early. She seemed preoccupied and wasn't interested in conversation."

  "Did she have any enemies that you knew of?" he asked.

  Isabella grinned before hissing, "No, she was a wonderful person."

  Time to go. Duncan rose and Angus mirrored his movements.

  "Thank you for your help. If you think of anything else, please call me," Duncan said, handing his business card to the artist.

  "Oh, I will," Isabella said, still hissing.

  He noticed her blinking had slowed and wondered what that meant.

  She continued, reaching for a small, black book on the credenza, "I've got something for you, as well."

  Oh, goodie, Duncan thought, his hand already on the knob. The poet caught him at the apartment's entry and pressed the tome into his free hand. He glanced at its cover as he pulled on the door handle, The Complete Works of Isabella Ramon.

  "Thank you," he said, relieved to enter the hallway and be free of that room.

  He turned to say good-bye, but Isabella had already shut the door.

  "Ach, what a loon," Angus said in a low tone as they made their escape.

  "Did you notice she never questioned why I asked about Ella's possible enemies? If she thought it was an accident, that would have bothered her," he confided in his brother.

  * * * * * *

  They met Frogo at the Bodega Manchiego, where Duncan went his first night in Spain. It was ten p.m. and crowded. The director had already ordered two bottles of local wine by the time they arrived and was saving a spot near the back of the restaurant. Four plates of tapas sat on the small table. Fresh anchovies topped with sliced garlic and chopped parsley, drizzled with olive oil, filled one dish. Paper thin slices of jamón serrano, piled high, packed another. A third plate held small, fried balls covered in bread crumbs. Duncan popped one of these in his mouth and enjoyed the crispy outer coating before the soft center filled with cheese melted on his tongue. The final plate held an array of olives. He washed several salty anchovies down with a glass of local red wine.

  "Did you enjoy Geoffry's art?" Frogo asked. "It's unique, no?" he added.

  "It's amazing what he can accomplish with paper," Duncan said, adding, "every artist I've met at the academy is unique and talented."

  "I stepped on that big scrap he had on the floor. I thought it was a drop cloth!" Angus admitted.

  "Oh, my. The delivery charges on that scrap were as much as the cost of the paper. They had to get it to Manchiego without creasing," Frogo explained. He continued, "What do you think of our Priorat vino, Duncan? It's known for its serious flavor."

  "Mmm, very good," the Scotsman replied.

  "And what did you think of our poet in residence?" Frogo ventured, averting his gaze.

  "She's cracked!" Angus exclaimed.

  A quick moment of silence ensued before Duncan said, "I'm surprised the academy allowed her to redecorate."

  Frogo burst into a laugh, and both brothers joined him.

  "Artists can be eccentric, no? Especially Americans," he added.

  "She is, and her poetry is morbid, all focused on death," Duncan stated.

  He'd read her book before tossing it in the waste bin back at the casa. Like Isabella, it gave him th'willies.

  Changing the subject, Angus asked, "Frogo, what do you recommend we see while I'm here?"

  The director thought for a moment.

  Then, he said, "Campo de Criptana is worthwhile. There you will find ten windmills still standing, just like the ones in Don Quixote. These are south of Toledo. You will definitely want to tour Toledo, the home of El Greco. Many of his paintings can be found there, and the city is beautifully preserved. Illescas is a medieval town between here and Madrid you can visit in a day. Of course, there is much to see and do in Madrid. Many people find the strawberry train to Aranjuez quite charming, and you can tour the royal palace there."

  "I've done that already," Angus said with chagrin.

  The brothers laughed and explained to Frogo how Angus arrived at Manchiego via the strawberry train, the local bus service, and finally on the back of a Vespa. The conversation continued in an easy fashion with laughter, anecdotes, and information about Spain and Scotland exchanged. Frogo was eager to hear of their time in the States, having never visited America. Angus was happy to supply several embarrassing stories featuring Duncan and himself. Frogo laughed until he developed a cough. The men finally parted around one in the morning, half way between the bodega and the casa.

  As soon as Frogo disappeared up the street where he lived, Duncan said, "All right. Now, we've got to head back the direction we came from."

  "What?" Angus said, confused.

  "We're going to hit up Geoffry's hang out and see what we can discover about Miguel a
nd the crowd that goes there," Duncan said.

  "I'm exhausted, Duncan. I forgot all about that. Can't we just go back to your villa and sleep it off?"

  "No, I want to visit this bar and I'm not going alone. I need a big baw juggler like you to come along in case there's trouble."

  "All right," Angus acquiesced, figuring Duncan could use his help.

  The brothers turned around and headed for La Aceituna on Torro Calle. Geoffry had not given a street number, but Duncan figured once they arrived at the proper road, the bar would be easy to find.

  Following directions from his mobile phone, Duncan located Torro Calle. It was several streets beyond the bodega Frogo frequented. He could not discover any references for La Aceituna on his cellular, so they would have to explore the dark lane to find it. Once past Bodega Manchiego's road, the avenues became even narrower. There were no longer cafes and restaurants with people spilling onto the streets, and they rarely spotted anyone. Those they did observe appeared down and out, not the happy villagers he'd grown used to seeing. Glad to have Angus with him, Duncan wasn't sure he would attempt this by himself. It was definitely the bad part of town.

  Torro Calle, or Bull Street, curved and twisted up a hill. The buildings were almost all connected to each other, but here and there they'd observe an empty space between structures that resembled a small ginnel, wide enough only for foot traffic. Sometimes, they could make out rubbish and other items in these areas, but for the most part it was too dark to see what might lurk there.

  "This doesn't feel right, Duncan," Angus whispered, glancing around at the buildings, most of which were boarded up or closed with shutters.

  Rarely did any of the structures have lights on. Duncan wondered how Geoffry ever found La Aceituna or why he'd want to.

  "Let's just go a little farther. If it's not around the next bend, we'll give up," Duncan promised, ignoring the trapped feeling developing in his stomach as the road narrowed even more.

  All at once, bright lights illuminated a wall next to the brothers and a compact vehicle came bouncing around the curve in front of them. The car flew towards them like a bat out of hell.

  "Get back," Duncan yelled at Angus, as they plastered themselves against a stone building.

  The driver gunned the engine, just avoiding hitting the brothers. He never slowed. Luckily, the Dewars had quick reflexes. They watched, speechless, as the vehicle disappeared around the next turn. Duncan had gotten a good look at two of the passengers in the automobile, definitely undesirables.

  "Whew! That was a close shave," Angus said with a nervous snicker.

  "I'm sorry I got you into this, Angus. We can turn around if you'd like. I'll come back in daylight."

  "Ach. May as well finish the job since we're here. Dinnae fash yersel. Is this the kind of thing ye encountered when ye worked for Lawful and General?"

  His Scottish slang and accent always reared their heads when Angus became riled. Duncan remembered the injuries he sustained when a suspect tried to run him down with a car.

  "Only once," he answered.

  If Angus didn't want him to worry, he wouldn't. There were two of them. He was skilled in martial arts and his brother could street fight. Timnor Omnis Abesto, Let Fear be Far From All, the MacNab clan motto came to mind.

  They moved beyond the bend in the street and examined the buildings with care, hoping to spot the bar. Duncan pointed to a small sign ahead, protruding from a ramshackle stucco façade. Dim light shone from between the structure's shutters. Chunks of plaster were missing, revealing old stone construction. As they drew closer, they could just make out an olive painted on the weathered sign.

  "La Aceituna?" Duncan whispered to Angus, who shrugged in reply. He continued, "What else could it be?" and crossed the road for a better look.

  He pushed on the old wooden door and it gave way, scraping the slate floor beneath. Sure enough, they'd found La Aceituna. Through the smoky room, he could distinguish a bar and a few tables. Bare filament bulbs hung from wires, providing poor lighting. The space was small, but still crammed with people.

  Angus whispered, "Jings, it's hoachin."

  Conversation ceased as all heads turned towards the door where the brothers entered. A strong, unpleasant, sour smell hung in the air, like a mist. He recognized the odor of foreign tobacco and spilled alcohol. The Dewars encountered blurry eyed men, scowls on most faces. It appeared they were still in their work clothes and that these had been drug through mud or coal dust. Only one kept his face forward, staring at the bottle before him. Duncan headed towards that man, like he knew what he was doing, and Angus followed, grabbing an empty stool and taking it with him. After a moment, people went back to their conversations and ignored the two large Scotsmen who stood out like sore thumbs amongst the tan Spaniards.

  Duncan stopped when he reached where the man sat at the bar. Angus pushed the stool between that man and another bloke, creating room for him to sit. Then he turned his back to his brother, folded his massive arms across his chest and watched the other patrons. At over two meters tall, Angus made an imposing figure in the tiny bodega. His dark hazel eyes scanned the room continuously.

  Duncan felt his brother's back against his own. A barkeep squeezed in the space between the counter and a stone wall beyond.

  "Qué quieres?" he said.

  He assumed he asked, What will you have? He glanced at the label on the brown bottle in front of the man next to him.

  "Cerveza," he replied, hoping it meant ale.

  The Spaniard reached below the filthy slab of wood that served as a bar, retrieved a brown bottle, and removed its top on a metal device nailed to the counter. He shoved the drink at him and stared until Duncan realized the barkeep was awaiting payment. Duncan dug a few Euros from his pocket and pushed them across the bar.

  All this time, the man next to him never glanced his way. Duncan peeked sideways at him. He appeared small and had a mustache. He looked to be in his thirties and already had drunk his limit. He glimpsed the pocket of the man's dirty work shirt. There, embroidered in what were once red threads, was ALCALA. Duncan took a drink. The ale was warm and nasty-tasting. He remembered reading somewhere that Spaniards enjoyed sherry.

  As the bartender moved past him again, Duncan said, "Dos sherry," holding up two fingers with one hand and pointing first to himself and then to the man next to him with the other.

  The barkeep grinned, revealing a missing tooth, and retrieved two shot glasses from under the counter, slamming them down in front of Duncan. For the first time the man with ALCALA on his pocket glanced towards him. He remembered that Geoffry said Miguel spoke English.

  He moved one shot glass towards the man and said, "What's your name, Friend?"

  The man smiled, revealing crooked, stained teeth and slurred something that started with an M. Duncan was sure this was Miguel.

  The bartender poured a clear liquor into the glasses and moved further down the counter. Miguel grabbed his shot and downed it. Duncan tried to do the same, but the foul liquor tasted so horrible, he almost spewed it out. He barely got the drink down, fighting a gag response. This definitely was not sherry. Miguel grinned and nodded at him like he understood how bad the alcohol tasted. He also was missing a tooth.

  He leaned closer to Miguel and said in a low tone, "There's better drink a few streets over. Let's get out of here."

  "Sí," the man said, leaning into Duncan.

  He stepped from his bar stool and took Miguel by the elbow, trying to steady him. He nodded towards the door and Angus got the message. Duncan wanted to get Miguel somewhere to question him, close to Manchiego's garrison post, if possible. The three inched towards the entrance, without the other patrons taking notice. He couldn't wait to leave the foul atmosphere of this place for the fresh air promised outside in the street.

  Miguel teetered between bars tools and tables as they neared the exit. Almost there. Just as Angus reached for the door, screaming erupted from behind. Duncan turned to see what c
aused the commotion. He should have run for the door instead.

  Somewhere between tables being turned over, bottles breaking, and men shouting, Duncan heard a high pitched whistle. He recognized the dark blue uniforms of the men streaming into the bar from the back doorway. Most had raised clubs in one hand while keeping their other on their guns. In a split second, chaos took over.

  Duncan raised his hands over his head and took a step back towards the entrance, still hoping to escape. Instead of running into Angus, he felt a dull object jab the small of his back, hard. He turned his head and glimpsed a young official de policía behind him. His brother was nowhere in sight, and neither was Miguel.

  - 10 -

  A Kiss From a Lamb

  Duncan had never been arrested, and certainly not in a foreign country. By the time the patrons of La Aceituna were packed into gendarmerie vans, it was after three in the morning. He hoped Fernando Torrez would be on duty at the garrison post. He could vouch for Duncan. Unfortunately, they were not taken to the garrison post.

  He fought the urge to vomit all the way to jail. The van smelled of sweat, alcohol, blood, and tobacco. It was overpowering. The turns the vehicle made, not being able to see out, and jostling amongst the cuffed prisoners gave Duncan motion sickness.

  When the van arrived at its destination, a wave of relief swept over him. Pulled from the paddy wagon, he drank in all the fresh air his lungs could hold. Once inside the building, an officer removed his cuffs and lectured him in a heavy accent regarding English tourists drinking too much and causing disturbances in Spain. Duncan didn't bother explaining that he was Scottish or that he wasn't at the bodega to booze it up. He was sure Angus would bail him out soon.

  Segregated from the other prisoners, the officer placed Duncan in a cell adjoining theirs. This didn't make him popular with the Spanish detainees. They spat vile sounding words at him and acted as though they would tear him limb from limb, if only they could break through the bars between them. He got the impression the patrons of La Aceituna blamed him for this ordeal.