Page 41 of The Highland Heist
The Lucky Coin sat nestled between a well-worn tailor shop and a bustling bakery, the brass sign by its entrance gleaming in the midmorning sunlight and ushering welcome to passersby. Frederick stepped through the thick wooden door, the walls instantly muting outside sounds and dousing any sunlight.
Stale smoke lingered in the air, mixing with the aroma of beer and aged leather. The walls were paneled with dark mahogany, adorned with portraits of long-forgotten patrons who had once dominated these very halls, and now gathered dust. This place must have been quite exclusive in its better days.
The clink of glasses and clatter of dice blended in with murmurs of people making low-stakes wagers and high-stakes conversations. It was difficult to make out some of the figures in the room, as the lighting waxed and waned from shadow to light depending on location, but it appeared to be an eclectic lot of laymen, businessmen, and even one or two gentleman possibly slumming it for a thrill.
Behind the counter, a young attendant with slicked-back hair and a crisp, though worn waistcoat, gave Frederick a view from head to toe tip … and then stood a little taller. “Can I help you, sir?”
“Good afternoon. My name is Lord Astley, and I need a word with Mr. Hargrove, the owner of this fine establishment.” Frederick hoped the information he’d learned outside the building proved true. “It concerns a mutual acquaintance.”
“Lord?” The young man blinked, his professionalism flickering with faint curiosity. “Of course, sir … um … my lord. One moment.”
Within minutes, an older man appeared. His hair swept back in a salt-and-pepper wave, and his sharp eyes assessed Frederick in one swift glance. He was as tall as Frederick but broader, with the kind of confidence that suggested he’d won more than a few high-stakes games himself.
“It’s not every day we entertain such esteemed company,” Hargrove said, a cautious smile lurking beneath a close-trimmed beard. He gestured to the room with a flourish, the tone of a practiced showman. “How can I assist, my lord?”
Frederick offered his hand in an attempt to breach any awkwardness from the man. “Thank you, sir. I appreciate any help you can give.”
The man’s brows rose as he took Frederick’s hand. “You’ve come a far piece, haven’t you?” His gaze moved down Frederick again, lips crooked into a knowing smile. “And I’d bet my cash purse, you’re not here for gambling.”
Astute man. Likely a requirement for his line of work.
“I’m visiting my wife’s family in Harrington, and I’ve come to inquire about a frequent visitor of your establishment. Mr. Anthony Dixon?”
Hargrove’s expression barely flickered, but Frederick noted the tightening of his mouth. “He’s not been welcome here since his last visit due to his behavior.”
“I’m aware,” Frederick replied, inclining his head. “But I understand an unfortunate event occurred involving Mr. Dixon, and it’s important I learn what transpired the night he was … asked to leave.”
Hargrove’s smile thinned as he folded his arms across his chest. “How does a man like you know someone like Tony Dixon?”
“I’m his brother-in-law.”
The man’s brows shot up. “Is that so? Funny, he never acted as if he had family with means.”
Frederick allowed himself a wry smile. “He doesn’t.”
Hargrove’s laughter rumbled. “I’ll wager you he has more than he thought.”
“Had, Mr. Hargrove.” Frederick corrected, holding the man’s gaze.
Frederick’s distinct switch to past tense wiped all humor from Mr. Hargrove’s expression. The man hesitated, then inclined his head. “Let’s discuss this in my office.”
Hargrove led him to a tidy office tucked behind the main lounge. It smelled faintly of pipe smoke and polish, the desk perfectly aligned with a window that likely gave a discreet view of the front entrance. When Hargrove gestured to a decanter, Frederick shook his head.
“Thank you, no.”
Pouring a drink for himself, Hargrove settled into his chair. “What happened?”
“I’m surprised the police haven’t already visited you, Mr. Hargrove.”
“In connection with Mr. Dixon?” He raised a brow. “No. Though I can’t say the same for some of my other patrons.”
Frederick waited for Mr. Hargrove to place his glass back on the desk and then continued the discussion. “Tony Dixon was found dead in his home yesterday morning.” Frederick studied Hargrove, whose slight lift of his brows was his only response.
“And I’m assuming it wasn’t from natural causes.” Hargrove stated, taking a drink from his glass.
“Which is why any information about his altercation here would help us find answers.”
Hargrove rubbed his jaw, then called out through the door. Moments later, a wiry young man with a shock of blond curls entered, looking as though he’d just been told he owed the house more than he had in his pocket.
