When Sloane left the covenstead, a mist had crept in from the northeast, the sky a study in gray. She drove Pearl to Old Main and parked behind the Huxham building. Her gear shifting had not improved. “Sorry about that, old girl,” she said.
She checked her phone. Katie Chen had promised to deliver the suspects’ financials this morning. If money was the motive behind the murders, she had to know who needed it most.
No new messages.
She glanced at her watch. The MCC meeting started in five minutes.
Voices sounded from the second floor and filled the Huxham Law Firm’s lobby. Sloane looked up. The double doors at the top of the stairs were open. She approached a middle-aged woman, perfumed in a concoction of oils. The woman studied her before handing her an agenda. “The meeting starts in five minutes. Please find a seat.” She eyed Sloane into the room.
The conference room was decorated in the same dark traditional décor as the first floor. A substantial conference table was shoved against a fireplace on the back wall, replaced by a long buffet table and five executive chairs. Several rows of folding chairs faced them.
The room dimmed. Through the back windows, Sloane noticed the sky had turned darker. The members of the MCC milled about a sideboard full of pastries, coffee, and tea. The four Musketeer families were there. But only one original—James Reed. Raymond Keane was gone, now living in Scotland. Nathaniel and Harold were dead. Sloane shivered.
A mantle clock chimed. Ten o’clock sharp, and Isobel Gildey had just entered. Heads turned, watching the Gildey matriarch walk to the long table. She smoothed the sides of her tailored suit and rang a tiny brass bell. “We need to begin, please,” she said and sat in one of the five chairs. James Reed, Fiona Keane, Charles Huxham, and another woman Sloane did not recognize joined her.
Sloane headed to the back of the room when an arm slipped around hers. It was Lore Reed. “You’re here. I’m so happy. Natty and Mary would be pleased.” She guided Sloane to the front row. “Come sit with me. Have you met anyone?”
“No. But I recognize a few people.”
They sat, and Lore patted Sloane’s leg. “I’d be happy to introduce you to anyone here.”
Sloane stared at the five people before her and whispered, “Who’s sitting next to Isobel Gildey?”
“That’s Zara Patel. She and her husband own the Fresh Market across the street.” She paused. “When did you meet Isobel?”
“At Harold’s repast.”
“Oh, yes. Of course. How did that go?”
“All right.”
“Well, you did have Dorathea to temper Isobel’s behavior.”
Sloane nodded. Two aging, formidable women, heads of their families. They’d fit right in the Upper East Side.
Isobel rang the bell again, and conversations came to an end. She put on her reading glasses and picked up the agenda. “I call the Main Street Commerce Committee’s special meeting to order.”
“Excuse me, Mrs. Gildey.” The thickly scented woman got to her feet. “Perhaps we need to ensure everyone present represents a business in the MCC before discussing any sensitive information.” She gave a curt nod at Sloane, and whispers in agreement rippled through the room.
“Karen, this is Sloane West, Natty and Mary’s granddaughter,” Lore stated. “Not some New Denwick mole. She’s here representing the gallery.”
Karen’s cheeks flushed, and she held her hand over her ample chest. “I’m terribly sorry, Ms. West. I didn’t know. How thoughtless of me.”
“You’re fine, Karen. Sit down,” Isobel said. “How would you have known? I apologize to everyone and Ms. West. Let me introduce our newest member.” She gave a curt nod in Sloane’s direction. “Ms. West. Would you care to say anything?”
Sloane attempted to meet Isobel’s eyes, but the elderly matriarch refused to look at her. “Thanks, but I’m just here to listen.”
“All right then. Let’s return to the business at hand. The Community has two motions on the agenda. The first is a proposal for the MCC to align against any new development along Denwick’s coast—”
“New Denwick,” James said, interrupting huffily.
“—at the next district meeting,” Isobel finished. “The second is to ask district staff to undergo an impact study of new development on Main Street businesses—”
“Old Main.”
Isobel pulled off her glasses. “Mr. Reed. Will you please refrain from interrupting me?” She turned to the membership. “I’m sure you know I cannot support either of these items. The Gildey family has extensive investment in coastal real estate. It would be against our best interests. Therefore, I must recuse myself from discussion and voting. I hand over the chair to Fiona Keane.”
James’s face reddened. “Yet you’re discussing.” He drummed the tabletop with his fingers.
Lore straightened and whispered to Sloane, “It’s primal, the way that woman perturbs my father.”
Mrs. Gildey got to her feet and gathered her purse. “I haven’t said anything that isn’t obvious to everyone, James.”
Something about Isobel’s presence made those around her acquiesce, and Sloane wanted to know why. “Do she and James have a history?” she asked Lore.
“Oh, heaven’s no. The Gildeys don’t have a history with anyone in the village. They have other ways of getting what they want.”
Sloane nodded and sat back, watching Isobel leave the conference room.
Karen stood again, hands on her hips. “The Gildeys’ development at the coast has caused a steep drop in my customer traffic, even though I’m spending more on marketing.” The other merchants mumbled in agreement. Karen continued, “Two weeks ago, Isobel rented to another gift shop, and it’s undercutting my pure essential oils with cheap, toxic junk. If one more opens, I’ll be out of business.” She pulled a tissue from her bra strap and wiped her eyes. “Our family opened Denwick’s Essentials over thirty years ago.”
“Have you tried running an online store for more sales?” Lore asked.
Karen clicked her tongue at Lore and sat.
Zara Patel threw her hands up. “That’s not the answer for everyone, Lore. What would you expect Raj and I to do, eh? Put our fresh groceries online and ship them here and there?” She shook her head. “No, the only thing we can do is a moratorium on further development until we understand how it’s impacting us. That’s what we need to argue at the district meeting.”
The Community erupted in noisy agreement.
Fiona Keane rang the bell. “Calm down, please. The Gildeys’ continued development of New Denwick has affected all of us. Let’s move on. I propose if no one else wants to speak against the first motion, we vote.”
The room was silent.
Lore shifted in her seat, and Sloane thought for a second Lore was going to stand and voice her dissent, but she didn’t. Was she surprised there were more businesses on Old Main upset with New Denwick development?
“Good. Then we vote. Can I get a second?” Fiona asked.
“Second,” Zara said.
“All in favor of aligning against the development at the shore at the district meeting, say aye.”
“Aye,” the members shouted. Lore remained silent.
“All against?”
No one spoke.
“Motion passes.” Fiona stood. “Now, we will open discussion on our second motion, and I’ll begin. The Spotted Owl has made a profit from the first day it opened. But that’s not so any longer.”
Murmurs spread around the room.
“That’s right, the inn and pub are struggling,” Fiona continued. “But we can’t bring stories of personal loss to the district. We need to argue that the Gildeys, in particular, and big businesses, franchises in general at the shore, have created unfair competition for Old Main shops. We can’t compete with chains. We need equity. We need some rules.” Her voice became more assertive and louder as the Community agreed with her.
Sloane looked around. The other members hung on Fiona’s every word. How deeply in the red had the pub gone for Fiona Keane to mount such a passionate battle cry against Isobel Gildey?
After a second unanimous vote, Fiona closed the discussion. “Charlie, will you please find Isobel and tell her we’re finished?”
“She’s going to be furious,” Zara said.
The rest of the Community sat in their seats with heads down. A few minutes later, Charles returned with Mrs. Gildey.
They sat, and Isobel folded her hands on top of the table. “Well, I am surprised.” Her voice was tight. “If it weren’t for my husband’s family, none of your businesses would have been possible in the first place.”
“Point of order,” Mrs. Patel called out. “Discussion is finished. And you—”
“I’m the Chair, Mrs. Patel,” Isobel said, glaring at her. “If I choose to speak, I will speak.” She stared at the rest of the Community. “Change is an inevitable part of life. Everything grows until it dies, and you can’t stop that no matter how hard you try. You can only hasten it.”
James pounded the table with his fist. “Isobel. I’ve had enough of you coming to these meetings, pretending you care about Old Denwick. Your people haven’t had a business on Old Main for thirty years. And you’ve left 403 Main to rot when you ought to sell it to my son. Hell, you won’t sell any property on your side of the street.”
Lore clutched the scarf around her neck.
“Mr. Reed. What an astonishing thing to say. The Gildeys settled Denwick. Why wouldn’t we want it to thrive?”
“Why the hell would you? Don’t forget, Isobel. The Reeds have been here almost as long as the Gildeys. We know exactly what you did to establish yourselves on Cowichan land—”
“Dad,” Lore called out, horrified. “There’s no need to get personal.”
“This is personal,” James snapped. “Since Sean stepped down, Isobel has run off more fishermen than we lost during all his years in charge. And I want to know why.”
“You’re out of line, Mr. Reed,” Isobel said. “My business operations and my family’s success are not the cause of your struggle.” She stared at the membership coldly.
“The hell they aren’t,” James growled. “As far as I’m concerned, your family doesn’t belong on this board or in our community.”
Lore jumped out of her chair and pulled her father to the back of the room. They stood at the conference table while Lore quietly admonished him.
Isobel rang the bell. “This meeting is adjourned.” She tucked her purse under her arm and headed for the door.
Sloane stayed in her seat as the members gravitated into groups, talking quietly. Lore hurried from the back of the room, catching Isobel by the arm. Isobel pulled back, indignant. They exchanged tense words, neither backing down until Isobel finally left. Lore threw her hands up and walked out of the conference room behind her.
“Ms. West?”
Sloane turned to the voice beside her.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to surprise you.”
It was Charles Huxham, standing like an awkward child. His hands jammed deep in his pockets. “Have you insured the Degas?”
“Yeah, I did. With the same company. They’re emailing the new policy this afternoon.”
“Good. That’s good. Come by my office anytime today and pick it up. I’ll be in until late.”
Sloane glanced around the room. “I know you will. And I know why. Listen, Charles, I think meeting Gannon Ferris alone is a bad idea. Are you sure you don’t want the police involved?”
Charles’s face flushed. He leaned down and spoke in a low voice. “It’s not a problem. My ex-associate won’t be bothering me any longer.” Then he walked away and shook hands with a few members before leaving.
Sloane walked over to the sideboard and threw her coffee cup in the bin. Fiona Keane stood next to the pastries with her back turned to the room, talking on the phone. Sloane poured herself a fresh cup and eavesdropped.
“I did my best. What I have now will have to be enough until I pay the pub’s bills,” Fiona whispered. She glanced at Sloane, and her voice became louder. “I must go, dear. I need to grab a few donuts for Ken and Rose and get back to the pub for the lunch rush. Talk later.”
Sloane followed her out to the parking lot. Experience had taught her when someone was guilty, a certain attraction compelled her attention, and right now, she couldn’t take her eyes off Fiona Keane. Fiona climbed into a Land Rover with black tinted windows, and Sloane ran to Pearl, sliding Pearl’s gears in and out of place effortlessly for the first time.
She tried to stay a good distance behind Fiona. Pearl wasn’t the best car in which to tail anyone. Hardly nondescript. Or fast. She could easily lose Fiona if she allowed too great a distance between them. Fiona drove the Land Rover over serpentine roads and up a mountainside.
“I guess you weren’t going back to the pub,” Sloane said to herself. “Who were you talking to? And what were you talking about?”
The dark-gray sky had opened up, and a steady rain fell. Thankfully, Pearl’s wipers worked. Sloane recognized the drive. They were heading toward Rose’s quiet place. She wondered why Rose hadn’t attended the meeting. Was that why Fiona spoke frankly about the Spotted Owl’s financial problems?
Fiona passed the forest line by the river, leading them farther up the mountain than Rose had. After a few minutes, the road leveled off in an expansive valley. They passed a rustic sign: “Keane’s Distillery. Home of Keane’s Single Malt Whiskey.”
“Ah, we’re going to see Oscar, huh?” Sloane slowed and allowed Fiona to pull farther ahead as they neared the entrance. The welcome center was an A-frame, redwood mountain cabin with floor-to-ceiling windows. The rest of the distillery’s campus spread out on either side. Two copper stills. A mash tun and boiler. And an old rackhouse that still used a cooling pond. Sloane whistled. This was state-of-the-art equipment.
After Fiona disappeared inside, she eased Pearl into a parking space and entered the welcome center. A young man dressed in a black hoodie with a Keane’s Whiskey logo on its front stood behind a U-shaped counter filing paperwork. Sloane glanced at his name badge. “Hi, Michael. Can you point me to Mr. Keane’s office?”
He looked her over. “I’m sorry, we don’t have tours or tastings on Fridays.”
“Yeah, I’m not here for a tour. I’m here on business and need to speak to him.”
“Do you have an appointment?”
“I wasn’t under the impression I needed one.”
Michael looked at his computer screen. “I’m sorry. His schedule is booked today. We can schedule one for next week.”
“Listen, Michael. I know he’s in his office with his mom, eating donuts. If you called him and told him Sloane West is waiting to see him. He’d come to get me.”
“We don’t do that,” Michael replied.
“Well, I could yell for him until he hears me.”
“Rude,” Michael said under his breath. He pointed to the left. “End of the hall. Double doors.”
“That wasn’t so hard now, was it?” Sloane grinned and walked down the hallway, thinking she should talk to Oscar about his shitty security. The shale-tiled floor was unpolished and loud. Sloane lightened her steps as she approached the double doors, pushing them open as she knocked.
“Hello, Mr. Keane. Wow. Nice office.”
Fiona and Oscar Keane stood behind a desk in front of a wall of windows. They turned to her, and Oscar subtly slipped a thick envelope into the desk’s top drawer.
“Please, call me Oscar. And with whom do we have the pleasure?”
“Oscar, this is Sloane West.” Fiona walked around the desk and placed a stone-cold hand on Sloane’s back. “I’m delighted you’ve come to meet my son. I wish I had known you were coming. You could’ve ridden with me.”
“I decided at the last minute.”
“Yes, so did I.” She forced a thin smile.
“I just came to ask Oscar a few questions.” She turned to him. “If you have the time?” Sloane smiled and stared at Oscar and back at Fiona. Mother and son drew her in. They were stunningly beautiful. Like Rose. But Oscar took after Fiona with the same dark hair, golden-brown eyes, and high cheekbones. Their bodies were tall and lithe, and they moved gracefully.
Sloane’s thoughts vanished, and the double doors closed behind her before she could remember what she’d said. She shook a dizzy feeling from her head.
“Are you okay, dear? Would you like something to drink?” Fiona asked. She stood next to a credenza against the wall opposite Oscar’s desk.
Sloane turned to her, confused, and looked at Oscar, now sitting at his desk.
“Yeah. I’ll take a black coffee. But I can get it, thanks.” Sloane walked over to Fiona. “I don’t want to take too much of your time, Oscar.”
“No worries. What would you like to ask me?”
Fiona stepped away from the credenza. “I assume Sloane is here to ask you questions about Harold. Which is why I’d rather not stay. It is so dreadful, and I’ve already had a difficult day. I was up at dawn preparing for the MCC meeting.” She walked back to Oscar. “I’m off to help your father at the pub. Don’t be late for dinner tomorrow.” She bent to kiss him on the cheek. “Have a lovely day, Sloane.”
Sloane poured herself a cup of coffee and wondered what the hell had just happened to her. She remembered being suspicious of something Oscar did, but she couldn’t recall what it was.
“You’re exactly how my dad described you,” Oscar said after his mother left.
“Oh, really? Ken told you about me?”
“Are you kidding? All he’s talked about for weeks is Jane’s daughter. And now that you’re here, well, he’s built you up so much, I couldn’t wait for you to make the trip out here.”
“So you assumed I would pay you a visit?”
“He said you were a whiskey enthusiast.”
“That’s fair.” Sloane looked out the window. “Barley or rye?”
Oscar walked over to her and crossed his arms. “Both, actually. The new crop looks good, doesn’t it?”
“Yeah, it does. You’ve got quite a place here. Was it hard to get started?” She remembered Rose said her brother chose to run a distillery rather than the pub and received his grandfather’s rackhouse. She supposed he got the land that went with it, too.
“I started right out of university, almost seven years now. We’ll release our second three-year batch from the lower racks in June. Our upper racks have four more years. And they’re doing exceptionally well.”
“So your first batch is keeping the lights on?”
“It received great reviews, which helped. I’ll see an even healthier profit when our first ten-year batch releases.”
Sloane noted he didn’t answer her question. “That’s good to hear. It’s a cutthroat industry. Especially here in Canada. Not too many labels around and hardly any of those turn a profit with their first batch. Of course, I’m not looking to be an angel or anything.”
“I don’t need investors. We’re holding our own.” He rapped the windowsill with his knuckles. “I apologize. I got you off track. You came to talk about Mr. Huxham.” He returned to his chair. “Dad said you are investigating his death.”
“His murder,” Sloane said and sat across from him, tossing her tote on the floor.
Oscar was calm and controlled. Maybe too relaxed and too rehearsed, Sloane thought.
“Sorry. Murder. It’s horrible for the village. But I hardly knew Harold. Everything I know about him is hearsay. I’m not sure how I can help you.”
“You might be surprised. I’m sure you hung out in the pub when you were younger. What did you hear about Harold, and James Reed?”
“Uh…supposedly, he and James had a feud. Ended in a friends-to-enemies relationship.”
“Do you know why?”
“I think it was because of Lore and Charlie. Something happened between them.”
“Yeah, I heard that, too,” Sloane said. “Do you know of anyone who might have wanted Harold dead?”
“No, of course not.”
“Have you ever had direct dealings with Charles Huxham?”
“Charlie’s my solicitor.”
“What did you think about Harold and Charles’s relationship?”
“I didn’t, really. They were uncle and nephew. Supposedly, Charlie’s mother, Harold’s sister, and his father were killed in a yachting accident. The grandparents were too old to raise him, so Harold did.” Oscar’s shoulders relaxed. “You don’t think Charlie had anything to do with Harold’s murder?”
“He’s one line of inquiry we’re following.”
“Do you have others?”
“We do.” Sloane sipped her coffee. “Have your parents ever talked about Harold and Charles arguing in the Spotted Owl?”
He leaned back. “We don’t talk about what goes on at the pub.” His voice was less composed. “If you want to talk about the Owl, you’ll need to talk to them or Rose. Big sis is always there. She even lives in the second-story apartment, rent free.”
“Sounds like you’d prefer to live there.”
“Not at all. I just think my sister needs to understand how lucky she is. Life’s easier when you get an established business handed to you.”
Sloane cocked her head in mock concern. “I’m sure you’ve had your share of handouts.”
A red flush crawled up his neck. “I’m sorry. I got us off-track again.”
“No problem. I just have one more question. Do you sell your whiskey in New York?”
His charming smile faded. “No. I haven’t broken into that market yet. But I plan to.”
“Good luck with that.” Sloane stood and pulled her tote’s strap over her head. She stared at his desk, feeling she still had something to ask.
Oscar jumped up, scraping the chair legs against the tile floor. “Do you have time for a tour?” He walked gracefully around his desk.
“I can’t today. Some other time?”
“Sure. Okay. But I’m going to hold you to it.”