Софи Райан - A Whisker Оf Trouble

I didn’t think he was looking for an answer. His gaze came back to me again. “You didn’t recognize the . . . you don’t know who it is, do you?”

“No,” I said. But I described the body, including the expensive clothes.

“Wait, was it a dark brown wool jacket?” he said slowly. “Three-quarter length?” He made a chopping motion just below his hip.

“Yes,” I said.

“Do you know who that is?” Mac asked, lines tightening around his mouth and eyes.

Ethan swallowed hard and swiped a hand across his chin. “Maybe . . . yes. I’m not sure.”

Before I could say anything Michelle came out the front door. She looked around and started over toward us.

“I’ll be right back,” I said to Mac. I intercepted Michelle on the worn brick walkway.

“What is it?” she asked. She must have seen something in my expression.

I gestured over my shoulder. “That’s Ethan Hall,” I said. “I don’t know if you know him. This is—was—his father’s house.” I cleared my throat. “I think he might know who . . . the body is.” I made a motion in the general direction of the house behind her.

Her gaze never left my face. “Why do you say that?” she asked.

“He asked about the dead man. When I mentioned the jacket he wanted to know if it was dark brown and hip length.”

“Okay,” she said. “Thanks.” She walked over to Ethan and I followed. “Mr. Hall, I’m Detective Michelle Andrews.” She kept both hands in her pockets. “Sarah says you may know who our victim is.”

Ethan shrugged. “I’m not certain, but it’s possible it’s a man named Ronan Quinn.”

“Can you describe him to me?” she asked.

“He’s, um . . . maybe a couple of inches shorter than me and his hair’s dark with some gray in the front.” He made a sweeping gesture in the air with one hand. “Like I told Sarah, the last time I saw Ronan he was wearing a dark brown jacket.”

Michelle nodded. “And when was that?”

“Here. Yesterday afternoon.”

“What kind of business did you have with Mr. Quinn?”

Ethan shifted from one foot to the other. He seemed a little uncomfortable. “He’s a wine expert I hired to value my father’s collection of wine so it could be sold. There were a couple of bottles he wanted to take another look at. That’s why we were here yesterday.”

“Would you be willing to come take a look at the body and see if it is Mr. Quinn?” Michelle asked.

Ethan hesitated, closed his eyes for a second and then nodded without speaking.

Michelle looked at Mac and me. “You can come, too.”

We followed her back into the house. Nick was in the kitchen taking photographs. I saw a flash of surprise in his eyes when he caught sight of us, but he didn’t say anything.

Michelle stuck out her hand, stopping us in the doorway to the kitchen.

Ronan Quinn—if that was who the dead man was—was lying half on his side, half on his back as though his legs had just collapsed underneath him. I kept my eyes on the bottom half of his body. I’d seen the battered back of his head once, and that was enough.

Ethan swallowed and turned away. “That’s him,” he said. His face was pale. “That’s Ronan.”

Nick looked up from his camera. “Wait a minute. The guy you hired to appraise the wine collection?”

Ethan nodded. “From Boston, yes.”

“Did Mr. Quinn stay behind yesterday?” Michelle asked.

Ethan shook his head. “No. We left together, maybe three thirty, quarter to four. Ronan said he had some calls to make.”

“Do you remember if he had a cell phone with him?”

“Yes. An iPhone. And he had a briefcase. The old-fashioned kind with a flap and buckles.” He looked around. “I don’t see it.”

“We’ll look for it,” Michelle said. “Thank you.”

Mac and Ethan were already on their way back outside. Michelle and I followed them. Ethan stood at the bottom of the steps. He had one arm crossed over his midsection and he was running the edge of his thumb repeatedly over the ends of his fingers.

“This is my fault,” he said. “It’s my fault Quinn is dead.”

“What do you mean?” Michelle asked.

“I told you my father had a wine collection.” He pressed his lips together for a moment before he continued. “He had a lot of collections. You’ve seen the house. But he told me the wine was worth a lot of money. He spent a lot of money on it—more than I realized. It turns out the whole collection is fake—cheap wine in bottles with fake labels and fake provenance.”

“You think these fakes had something to do with Mr. Quinn’s death?” Michelle asked.

Ethan nodded. “I . . . I pushed him to find as much evidence as he could about the phony bottles so we could go after the people who conned my father. When Quinn asked me to meet him here yesterday, he said he was onto something, but he wouldn’t say what.” He let out a breath. “I should have let it go.”

Nick had come out onto the front steps. “This isn’t your fault,” he said.

Ethan looked up at him. “I set it in motion, Nick,” he said. “I was so damn mad when I found out the whole thing—those bottles of wine—was a con job. You know the old man was no wine connoisseur. He was a couple-of-beers-on-a-Saturday-night type of guy. Quinn said he’d seen this kind of thing before. He’d been involved in several other cases just in the past year and a half. He told me that we might be able to sue in civil court if we could find who sold all the fakes to my father. He said even if the law can’t get them, then at least we can hit them in their wallets.”

He smoothed one hand down over the back of his head. “The worst part is the whole wine collection thing? It was for me and Ellie and the kids. He wanted to leave something to us. How many times did I tell him it didn’t matter? You know what he was like. When he got his mind set on something, there was no point talking to him.”

Nick nodded. “I know. And if you had screwed up, he would have been the first person to tell you to man up and take responsibility, but this isn’t your fault.”

Ethan just shook his head.

“How did you come to hire Mr. Quinn?” Michelle asked.

Ethan laughed, but there was no humor in the sound. “There was an article in the Boston Globe about the trend in buying wine as an investment—and, ironically, about the dangers of getting scammed. Ronan Quinn was quoted as an expert. I got in touch with him. He’s . . .” He paused for a moment. “He was one of just three people in New England qualified to properly appraise a collection.”

“How did he know the bottles were fake?” Nick asked.

“Inconsistencies in the documentation, problems with the labels. In the case of one of the bottles that was opened, the quality of the wine made it pretty clear.” He shook his head again. “I can’t believe this is happening to me.”

“Mr. Hall, could you come down to the station?” Michelle pulled her cell phone out of her pocket, glanced at it and then looked at Ethan. “Anything you can tell us about Mr. Quinn could help.”

“I want to help,” Ethan said, “but could it wait? My wife is having a very small procedure at the hospital. I’ve been there since”—he glanced at his watch—“quarter to six. I just came over for a moment because I forgot to give Sarah the key for the garage.” He slid a hand back over his hair. “I really need to get back. I’ve been gone for way too long already.”

“All right,” Michelle said. “Go back to your wife.” She handed him her card. “Once you get home, please call me.”

“Thank you,” Ethan said. “I will.” He turned to me. “I’m sorry, Sarah. I should have done a better job of keeping you in the loop as far as the wine and everything was concerned.” He made a helpless gesture with one hand.