Death in the Distillery (3 page)

Janice tried to pull away from me. "I think I'm going to
faint."

Howard glanced at me and nodded. I hurried Janice to
the main house, which was of the same Spanish architecture
as the distillery and the cottages. A series of arches supported the portico around the perimeter of the mansion.

At least, it was a mansion to me. Anything larger than
two bedrooms and a bath, I considered a mansion. Inside,
the servants took over, quickly ushering her from the foyer
down a carpeted hall and behind a set of double doors. The
bedroom, I figured.

Back outside, the sun baked the countryside. The stench
of Emmett Patterson ripened the air. Fat, green flies
swarmed the scene, buzzing frantically. Crazy how the human mind works, but I couldn't help noticing the varying
pitch of their tiny wings, some high and thin, others more
of a growl.

I moved upwind of the shredded body. The mixture of
offal and blood was beginning to fill the air with a sickening piquancy, not conducive to the upcoming buffet being laid out on the grounds.

The coroner and his crime scene boys were taking pictures, measurements, and all the minute but essential bits
and pieces of an investigation that helped determine the
outcome of the case, for good or bad. Ben Howard, the
unlit cigar stub bobbing between his lips, continued talking
to everyone present, taking notes, asking questions, and
muttering under his breath.

I remained in the background, more out of morbid curiosity than for any other reason.

An hour later, Howard closed his notebook, slipped it
back into his pocket, and watched as the meat wagon carried off the remains of Emmett Patterson. I hoped the Medical Examiner was a jigsaw puzzle whiz. He was in for a
world-class challenge when the ME techs dropped the
corpse off at the forensics lab.

After the ambulance disappeared over the hill in a boil
of dust, Howard glanced at me. He shrugged and moved
my way. "Heck of a way to go, huh?" He lit his cigar, took
a deep drag, and blew out a column of blue smoke. "I was
heading back to the station when we got the word." He
shook his head. "I wish the citizens would give us a break."

I grunted, and we both continued staring after the ambulance, which had long since disappeared. A male thing,
I guess, speaking of violent death with the same nonchalance reserved for casual chitchat, and staring into space so
we wouldn't have to look at each other.

I shrugged. "Accidents happen."

He snorted. "So they say."

Something in his tone made me look around. "It was an
accident, wasn't it?" My brain suddenly came alive with
all sorts of insidious scenarios.

"Yeah. Looks that way. We'll let the technicians at the
lab check it out, but that's what I figure. Probably copped
some of the free booze the old broad was going to hand
out. Got himself snockered and decided he was Jeff Gordon
or Mario Andretti doing the Chalk Hills Five Hundred.
There's disc cuts in the ditch. He probably hit the ditch,
lost his balance because of the booze, and fell off the tractor
seat."

"Maybe he hit his head on one of the limbs when he
went under the tree." I indicated the spreading limbs of the
oak.

Howard shrugged. "Maybe. They seem a little high
though. Anyway. We'll see what the ME says." He hitched
up his pants. "Well, see you around, Boudreaux. Keep your
nose clean."

Which meant stay out of his way. "No sweat, Sergeant."

I went back to see about Janice, but the butler stopped
me in the foyer and ushered me into the walnut-paneled
library. When I entered, Beatrice Morrison rose from behind a massive Victorian desk longer than my Chevrolet
pickup, her thin body ramrod straight, her bearing regal.
She would have made a striking Cleopatra. Well, maybe
one gone to seed somewhat, but still, she exuded a majesty,
an intimidating sovereignty that filled the room with a palpable reverence that somehow made me feel like I should
kneel and bow.

She fixed her icy blue eyes on mine and flicked them
toward a paunchy, silver-haired man on the leather couch.
"You know my attorney, William Cleyhorn."

"Mr. Cleyhorn." I gave him a brief nod, noting the expensive suit he wore. Probably either a Givenchy or Charles
Jourdan. Maybe even a Brioni. Me, I'm a Sears man,
though not by choice. I could easily learn to live with a Givenchy or Jourdan. A Brioni, at two to seven thousand
a shot, I don't even dream about.

He arched an eyebrow.

I'd always heard that the rich had subtle means of communication. If a single arched eyebrow meant hello, what
would both of them mean?

She came right to the point. "The police have departed?"

"Yes."

"And? Was it an accident?"

I hesitated, for a moment taken aback by her question. I
never dreamed the Cleopatra of Austin Society would consider Emmett Patterson's death anything other than an accident. And, inexplicably, the very fact she posed the
question made me curious, one of my lesser bad habits.
"Yes. Any reason to think otherwise?"

Her eyes seemed to drill into my own as she mulled my
reply. Finally, she spoke, ignoring my question. "Mr. Boudreaux. You and my grandniece have a relationship."

Somehow, when she said the word relationship, it
sounded unsanitary. "Well, sort of."

"As a result, I feel I can be quite candid with you."

I frowned. Where was this taking us? "Sure, Mrs. Morrison. Be as frank as you want."

She glanced at Cleyhorn, then tilted her chin. Her voice
grew hard. "I want you to gather incontrovertible evidence
that Emmett Patterson's death was an accident. Enough evidence to prove he was not murdered."

Cleyhorn half raised his hand, then dropped it as I stared
at her, unsure of my hearing. The lemony smell of furniture
polish, mixed with the subtle musk of leather, filled the
room. "Not murdered?" Puzzled, I glanced at Cleyhorn,
then cut my eyes back to Beatrice Morrison. "But, I just
told you the police think it was an accident. Besides, how
can I prove someone wasn't murdered?"

She looked at me as if I was a fretful child. "If you can
prove a person was murdered, then surely you can prove
one wasn't murdered."

I had the feeling I had just awakened from a dream, only
to find myself in another dream. What's the old joke, deja
vu all over again? "Isn't the police report enough?"

"My attorney, Mr. Cleyhorn, and I are very concerned
of the impact the accident could have upon company stock.
There are millions at stake." She paused, sighed at my obvious confusion, and explained. "Chalk Hills Distillery is a
high profile corporation. We have reached this point by
always being proactive, not reactive. We cannot afford any
lingering publicity, which might possibly drive stock prices
down. Even a dollar loss per share translates into millions.
Now, do you understand why it is so important that the
matter be handled quickly and efficiently?"

I frowned. Her request didn't make sense, which in turn made me even more curious. "Seems like you need a public
relations firm instead of a private investigator. I can't do
any more than the police. And a good PR firm could handle
the damage control on this without any problem." I
shrugged and added, "Not that there is much damage to the
company at all. At least, the way I see it. Hey, the guy fell
off the tractor and got himself killed."

William Cleyhorn stepped forward, carefully buttoning
his coat over his vest as if he was addressing a jury. His
voice was rich, booming with courtroom resonance, but the
sly look in his eyes still gave the impression of being only
one gene removed from the evolutionary chain of a snake.
"Perhaps I should explain it to the young man, Beatrice."

Her tone grew testy. "Then hurry, William. We must
begin the reception on time. You did say the police have
departed, didn't you, Tony?"

"Yes, ma'am."

She looked at Cleyhorn. "Be sure you instruct our people
to clean up where that horrid body lay. And put out some
sort of spray to kill the odor. I don't want any of our guests
to be offended."

He gave her a nod of deference. "All is well, Beatrice.
They know their job. They'll take care of it." He turned
back to me, continuing in a gentle, condescending tone reserved for idiots and morons. "You see, Tony. Often, the
validity of investigations by the local police is called into
question. By initiating our own thorough, impartial, and
expeditious investigation, we hope to alleviate any fears or
concerns our stockholders might experience regarding the
continued success of the company. In effect, we are proclaiming to the world that we have nothing to hide, nothing
to fear, that indeed this unfortunate incident was simply a
horrible accident. Horrible indeed," he added for effect.

I remembered a line in Hamlet from my days when I
struggled to teach English to high school kids who didn't
want to learn, in schools that didn't want me to teach. The
lady doth protest too much, methinks. Seemed to me, both
were protesting too much. I chided myself for being so cynical, but cynicism and curiosity were two of the several
reasons that drove me from teaching, and then out of the
insurance business. Teaching was frustrating, and insurance, boring. "I see what you're saying, but I'm no public
relations hound, and I can't see how my investigation
would carry any more weight than the opinion of the police.
To be honest, I think it would be a waste of my time and
your money."

Cleyhorn sniffed. "You're right, of course. But it is to
the corporation's advantage to have a supporting report
from an outside party, a ... ah, disinterested party." He
paused to glance at Beatrice, who seemed to be staring right
through me. "You see, Tony, we need documentation from
you, or someone like you, to assuage the apprehension of
the board and the stockholders."

Then he turned into the kindly uncle. His voice grew
syrupy. "If you believe it to be a waste of time, then why
don't you let me help you out by having my secretary type
up a simple, little report stating that after speaking with so
and so, and doing so on and so forth ... you have made
the determination supporting the Medical Examiner's conclusion that . . ." He glanced at Beatrice. "What was the
man's name?"

"Emmett Patterson," she replied tersely.

"Oh, yes. That you have determined Emmett Patterson's
death was an accident. Something like that. That way, we
have the statement we want for the board, and for the press.
On top of that, you are eight hundred dollars ahead." He
hesitated. "I think fifty dollars an hour is the going rate.
That's for two days."

Tempting offer. I considered it. All it really amounted to
was eight hundred bucks for a signature, my signature on
a document stating what I already believed. Of course, I
knew why she wanted me to carry out the investigation.
Janice. What else? And the fact that because of Janice, they
guessed I would probably say exactly what they wanted.

I tried to ignore the curiosity burning a hole in my brain,
but I couldn't shake it. I met Cleyhorn's amused gaze. "Okay. I'll do it, but the way I should. I can't take your
money for just signing my name. Give me those couple
days. Get me a list of everyone who worked with Emmett
Patterson. I'll talk to them, and I'll have my report on your
desk Wednesday morning by eight o'clock."

He nodded and looked at Beatrice. She drew her shoulders back stiffly. "I know I can count on your discretion,
should it become necessary, Tony," she added.

Before I had a chance to wonder about the discretion
angle, she glanced at Cleyhorn, gave her head a regal tilt
and said, "Come, William. We mustn't be late for the reception."

The paneled walnut door opened and Janice stuck her
head inside. She smiled weakly, her face still pale. "Aunt
Beatrice. Are you all right?"

Beatrice Morrison smiled at her grandniece, a smile as
thin as a razor blade. "Yes, dear. Tony and I have been
visiting."