“But he didn’t have it, right? He would need some time to set up the scam?”
“Right,” I said. “Something that should be said here is that there is a very real possibility that Trevor was fooled, too, that he was the victim of the scam and not its perpetrator.”
“I don’t think so,” Chan said.
“Why not? You don’t know that,” I protested. “Have a look around. The furniture in this place is good quality. It’s genuine. It’s not overpriced. It’s not inexpensive, but it’s worth what you pay for it.”
“I wouldn’t know,” she said.
“I would. There is nothing I can see here that indicates Trevor was a crook.”
“Except the Mackintosh,” she said.
I was trying to think of a suitable retort when Chan’s cell phone rang. After a word or two, she told me that my statement was ready, and that Singh was wondering if I’d mind stopping by the station to sign it. “I will later,” I replied. “A bunch of us are getting together at Trevor’s favorite bar, The Dwarfie Stane, for a bit of a wake. I’ll stop by after that.” Chan relayed the message.
“You haven’t told me why you’re sure Trevor wasn’t fooled along with me,” I said.
“No,” she said, and that was it.
The gang was already at the Stane when I got there. McClintoch Swain was well represented, as we had a part-time employee, a student, to close up the shop. Clive came, as did Alex Stewart, our part-time employee and friend. Moira, who owns the Meller Spa came, too, looking perfect as usual. She was sporting a very chic haircut, very short all over. It suited her, even if the circumstances weren’t the greatest. Moira’s had some health problems, chemotherapy, in fact. Elena, the craft store owner was there, as was Kayleigh, who’d bought the linens shop a year earlier. A local restauranteur by the name of Kostas dropped by, as did several others I didn’t know very well. Even Dan, who had once owned an independent bookstore in the area, showed up, back from his new home in Florida. I was very happy to see them all, particularly because not one person mentioned the affair of the fake Mackintosh, at least not at first.
The first round was on the house. We all had Highland Park Single Malt, Trevor’s favorite. “Here’s to Trevor Wylie,” Rendall Sinclair, the publican said. “He had his faults, but his choice of whisky wasn’t one of them.” It was a good toast, and kept the event from being too maudlin, and soon everyone was sharing their favorite story about Trevor. I decided that, under the circumstances, I wasn’t about to contribute to this, but the tales, tall some of them, were funny, and I found myself warming to Trevor a little once again.
When I thought about it, though, all the stories had one thing in common. Elena was telling a story about how she’d been bested by Trevor in some business dealing or other. “I could have killed him,” she concluded. “Oops! I didn’t mean that.” Everyone assured her they knew that, that it was just an expression.
“Why would anyone want to murder Trevor?” Dan said.
Clive opened his mouth to speak, but I gave him a look that should have turned him to stone. Moira added a jab in the ribs.
“Were you going to say something, Clive?” Dan asked.
“I was just going to suggest we order some snacks,” Clive said. Moira smiled at me.
But that had been the nub of it, surely. Trevor, for all his charm, was always getting the better of people, always taking shortcuts of some kind at other people’s expense, but doing it in such a way we all forgave him. Except for one person, whoever that might be. Trevor had taken his little escapades just one step too far, with someone who was not only immune to his charm, but had a short fuse. Someone like Blair Bazillionaire.
As I listened in a rather subdued fashion to the conversations around me, I thought about Anna Chan’s conviction that Trevor knew what he had, and her comment about his needing time to set up the scam. It occurred to me that I’d been seeing rather more of Trevor in the last couple of months than at any time previously. He’d regularly made dates at the bar for the shopkeeper’s association we’d set up in the neighborhood, and in fact had to all intents and purposes become the leader of the group, which was fine with the rest of us. Dan the bookseller had done it for a while, but he’d closed up shop when one of the big chains had opened up nearby and retired to Florida. After that the group had languished until Trevor had taken an interest. Was there, I wondered, something more to Trevor’s enthusiasm than met the eye? In other words, had he been setting me up for the two months since the second cabinet had arrived? I was losing my edge, charmed by a guy who looked like Sean Connery. Any warm feelings engendered by the wake evaporated. I should sell my half of the business to Clive, I thought. I should follow Dan to Florida.
The Dwarfie Stane was a very pleasant place, rather modern in design despite being named after some ancient tomb, with lots of comfortable chairs and alcoves, and a beautiful granite-topped bar with lots of mirror and chrome to show off the single malts, of which there were many. I had a sense that someone was watching me, and sure enough, sitting facing the bar but watching in the mirror was Detective Singh. I’d heard about police attending the funeral of a murder victim, but not the wake. This did not improve my mood any. This seemed rather tasteless of him to me, but then everything was making me crabby these days, something Clive and Rob had both pointed out to me. I walked right up to the bar, told Rendall I’d like to buy the next round, and then said, “Hello, Detective Singh. Off-duty are we?” He had a glass of something in front of him, but it might well have been soda and a folded newspaper.
“Seen the late edition of the paper?” Singh said. I could tell that Rendall had not only heard, but was interested in the conversation.
“Not yet,” I replied. He unfolded the newspaper to the top of the front page and slid it along the counter toward me. “Axe Murderer at Large,” the headline screamed.
“Only one person other than our small team at the station knew about the axe,” he said.
“Two, including Percy,” I said. “I have told no one.”
“The elusive Percy,” he snorted. “Well, it doesn’t matter now. If it did, you wouldn’t be sitting here swigging single malt. You’d be down at the station with me.”
At this point I just wanted to go home, but I went back to the group, not wanting to seem rude. As I sat there, who should come in but Percy himself. “Percy,” I said, standing up. He turned at the sound of my voice, then sprinted back out the door. It took me a minute to climb over everybody, wedged as I was in the middle of a large sofa, and behind a long table, but as soon as I was able, I, too, was out the door and running down the street in the direction I thought he’d gone. I caught sight of his head a couple of times, but it was soon pretty clear I’d lost him. I made my way back slowly, peering into the shops that were still open, of which there were not many, and going into my own to say good night to Ben, our student. Detective Singh was standing at the door of the Stane when I got back.
“Lose somebody?” he said.
“Percy,” I replied. “The guy who doesn’t exist?”
“Really,” Singh said. It wasn’t a question. He didn’t believe me.
“Yes, really,” I replied.
“How convenient,” he said. “Just when I’m in the neighborhood.”
“Come on! You can’t help but have noticed he ran away when I called his name.”
“Not that I saw,” he said, returning to his seat at the bar. I decided it was time to go home and went to the bar to pay my tab.