“Is he up there?” I asked.
“Probably. I haven’t been checking. I’m fed up. Anna said I could come stay with her. Problem is, he might be right. Singing isn’t much of a living, but what if I’m one of the lucky ones?”
Gilroy was right to be concerned. Yarey wasn’t even the lead singer at a local concert last night, so how the hell was she going to make it in an ocean of talent like New York or L.A.?
Gilroy didn’t look pleased to see me when he opened the door. He reluctantly waved me in.
Sitting down, he slid a book that had been open on his desk to the side along with a small length of rope tied in a knot.
“What you want?”
“Your daughter is talented.”
He remained impassive at this comment. After a time, he said, “She’s throwing her life away.”
“It’s hers to throw away, don’t you think?”
“If you came here to lecture me on the importance of letting children experiment and follow their dreams, you can save your breath. Here,” he held his arms wide, “we live in reality. We need money. We need to build something. That takes time and at my age you become aware how little time there is. If she goes off ... ” He banged a fist on his orderly desk. “What do you want? I have work to do.” He pondered his watch. “We have a tasting in twenty minutes.”
“Then I’ll keep it short,” I shot back. “Were you promised something by Dominic before Francine took over the business?”
Having worked for lawyers in Los Angeles, I’d picked up a couple of interrogation techniques. Most of the time, the attorneys I worked for asked questions in their own clients’ offices or the opposition’s office or at home where the person being deposed felt most at ease. A less formal atmosphere resulted in fewer guardrails or preparation. If you could show up unannounced and get answers, all the better. Divorce cases, my firm’s bread-and-butter, involved a ton of lying.
The best way to spot a liar, contrary to popular belief, was not knowing the tells. Tells were nice, but could be misinterpreted. A common tell is when the person won’t make eye contact, then most times there’s a lie or half-truth going on, but on the other hand, some people are exceedingly shy and hated making eye contact, even when being truthful.
The ideal scenario was to know the answer to the question you were asking. In the courtroom, this rule supplanted all others on cross-examination. “Don’t know answer, don’t ask question.”
I waited for him to answer the question, but Junior had already called me with the answer. Junior had done his own snooping and he had a lot more access to his grandparent’s inner workings than I did.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“So, Dominic Bacon, the owner of this business, made no promises to you prior to his demise that weren’t fulfilled by Francine Bacon?”
“No. Francine has been fair and generous. She’s giving me half-a-million dollars and doing the same for my daughter.”
He picked up the bit of rope that looked like it was tied in a slipknot and dropped it into a drawer, then stood up formally. He didn’t look at me, which reinforced what I already knew. The man was lying, but why?
Once outside, I called Junior.
“Are you sure Harold knows what he’s talking about?”
“Yes, Harold’s sure.”
From a stump in the shade I watched a butterfly flit about in the hazy heat. The grassy area behind the distillery was littered with hedges that hadn’t been cut for too long. The areas in front and on the sides were properly mown and trimmed, probably because of the tours. No one came back here except workers, as evidenced by a bucket of sand with dozens of cigarette butts protruding from it.
Who kept an eye on Gilroy Antsy now that Francine Bacon was out of the picture? Was there a new CEO who took over upon her demise? There must be some kind of contingency in the case of illness or death, although this was a closely-held company, so they could presumably do whatever they wanted. And there was nothing like the Securities and Exchange Commission to hold them accountable. On top of it all, we were on an island notorious for poor governmental oversight.
If there was no one new in charge, that left Gilroy to his own devices. He would manage things until someone else was brought in. Francine must have trusted this man to leave him in charge of the rum operation, although that was small molasses compared to the sugar. Then again, if the whole thing was now for the reparations, what did it matter? Would it be dismantled? There were a lot of moving parts in Francine’s life, a lot of people with things to gain and things to lose upon her death.
Movement on the side of the building. Gilroy came out and moved into a corner of the property where a pair of saw horses stood at the ready. A board was propped against the wall along with a hand saw. His back was to me.
Sneaking closer, I positioned myself behind a pillar with hunks of brick protruding from ancient, powdery plaster. He pulled out a measuring tape, consulted a slip of paper from his pocket, then marked a length of the board and proceeded to cut. Once the cut was complete, he measured the board again and sanded the rough edge for a couple minutes.
He walked back to the parking lot and dumped the wood into the back of his sedan before re-entering the building. Less than two minutes later he exited again, hopped into his sedan and raced off.
Sprinting out to the main road, I hailed a cab that had just dropped off a group of gawking tourists. He sure had an odd way of preparing for a tasting.
“Follow that pearl Mercedes,” I yelled.
“Hold on, da man,” the cabbie said casually.
I blew out an annoyed stream of air
