by F J messina
Sonia checked herself in the full-length mirror Jet had recently installed on the side of the ancient armoire she used for closet space in her office. “Oh, I guess so. I hadn’t noticed,” she said coyly. She turned back to Jet. “And what about you? You’re looking a bit more dressed down than usual.”
Jet was in jeans and a loose-fitting chambray shirt, a phony gas company logo colorfully embroidered on the front. Her long blonde hair, in its perpetual ponytail, hung over her shoulder. Her lean, five-foot-six-inch body was slouched in her chair. “Yeah. Well, I’m still not sure I’ve recovered from everything that happened on Monday.” Though her attitude was breezy, the unusually heavy makeup she was wearing was barely able to camouflage the large, hand-shaped bruise on her face.
“Right.” It saddened Sonia to see Jet’s bruise, but she picked up her coffee, moving on. “So, what’s on our agenda for the day?”
Jet reached out and pushed around some of the clutter on her desk. Lifting up a yellow legal pad, she flicked it with her fingernail. “Well, it looks like being major players in the solving of a local crime has once again brought out a number of folks who simply cannot,” she shook her head, “and I mean cannot, live without our services in the immediate future.”
Sonia put the coffee down on Jet’s desk without having taken a sip. “Serious cases?”
“Sure. He’s cheating on her. She’s cheating on him. The neighbors must be stealing our newspaper every Sunday morning while we’re at church.” She looked at Sonia over the glasses she wasn’t wearing. “Real J. Edgar Hoover stuff to be sure.”
Shifting her attention to the white bag Sonia had brought into the office with her coffee and newspaper, Jet became suddenly indignant. “Well, are you just going to let that pastry die a slow death in that bag, or are you going to give it its freedom, thereby allowing me to help a small piece of it complete its mission in life?”
Sonia unrolled the top of the white bag. She pulled out an almond croissant, tore off a large piece and held it, looking for a clean place on Jet’s desk to put it down.
“Oh, give it here.” Jet reached out, grabbing the morsel, and popping a good-sized portion of it into her mouth. “Now wasn’t that easier?” she said out of the side of her mouth while she brushed crumbs off her fingertips.
Sonia slid a much more ladylike piece of croissant into her own mouth, then chewed and swallowed. “So, have you prioritized any of those clients for us? Do we know who public enemy number one is?”
Jet pulled her ponytail through her hand, her beautiful blue eyes shining in her very attractive face. “Not yet, but I can tell you we’re going to be one extremely busy private investigation firm for the next few weeks.”
Sonia was just about to say, “Well, isn’t that what folks in the PI business are hoping for?” She never got the chance.
3
Without a knock, the old door at the back of the room opened. A man walked in. Though he couldn’t have known quite where he was going, he moved with confidence, the confidence of a man who always felt like he was in charge.
“Good morning. The ladies of Bluegrass Confidential Investigations I assume?” His black hair, clipped short, gray at the temples, were accented by his pale blue eyes and tanned skin. His voice was quiet, gentler than one might have expected given his stature. At six foot or more, easily two hundred pounds, his polite manner seemed a contradiction to the confidence Sonia had sensed as he’d entered the room. His clothing, on the other hand, fit the image. Dark blue slacks, light blue polo shirt, embroidered belt, brown tasseled loafers. He carried a soft-sided, zippered briefcase at his side─weathered brown leather. Clearly, he was a large, confident man, but one with a sense of southern culture. A gentleman.
“Can I help you?” Sonia was the first to rise, Jet following suit.
“Well, I certainly hope so.” He moved quickly across the room and was in Jet’s office before Sonia had really adjusted to his presence.
His hand reached out to Sonia, “Mason Holiday.” He shook hers firmly. Then he turned to Jet, reaching across her desk. He shook Jet’s hand as well but said nothing.
Jet looked around her office, suddenly seeming aware of the clutter on top of her desk. Sonia stepped to her rescue. “Sonia Vitale, Mr. Holiday. This is my partner, Jet.” She waited for the customary look of surprise, ready to say, “That’s what everyone calls her.”
The look and the question never came. “Nice to meet you, ladies. Is this a good place to talk?”
Sonia decided to remain on point. “Well, Mr. Holiday─”
“Mason.” He gave them each a quick smile.
“Mason.” Sonia smiled. “Listen, we’ve been plowing through a pile of notes this morning. Why don’t we move to my office where we can spread out a bit? It’s right through there.” She pointed through the glass wall to her office, the one with the “neat-as-a-pin” desk.
“Sure.” Holiday motioned to the ladies to lead the way─as if the offices were his domain and not theirs.
A moment later they were all seated in Sonia’s office, Sonia behind her desk. Jet had headed toward the wooden chair in the corner of the office, leaving the red, padded one for the client. But Holiday had deftly motioned her into that seat, taking the wooden chair for himself and sliding it to the side of the desk, between Sonia and Jet. A gentleman to be sure, but used to being in charge. He placed his briefcase on the floor next to him.
Sonia sat tall, crossing her hands on her desk. “Well, Mason,” her voice was firm, professional. “How can we help you?”
Mason Holiday gave them each a serious look, then he began. “Ladies, I’ve heard on the news, and of course in today’s paper, that you two were recently instrumental in bringing a somewhat well-known person to justice.” He didn’t wait for them to respond. “I must say that I was very impressed, not only with your ability to bring that case to a satisfactory conclusion but also with how you handled yourself in the aftermath. No grandstanding. No publicity seeking. No unnecessary besmirching of people or factions on the periphery of the proceedings.”
He stopped, pausing. Sonia acknowledged his comments with a quiet, “Thank you.”
After a beat, he began again. “It turns out that I am currently in need of some professional help, help that will be both that effective,” he looked intently at Sonia, then at Jet, “and that discreet.”
Jet gave Holiday a cordial smile. “That’s what we are, Mason. Effective and discreet.”
Seated too far away from the desk to lean on it, Holiday simply sat tall, his hands pressed on his thighs, the effect of which was to enhance his already significant presence. He took a quick breath. “Alright then. But before I begin, I must ask for your cooperation in one small matter.”
Without waiting for a response, Holiday bent over and retrieved his briefcase. He unzipped it and pulled out a two-page document which he handed to Sonia. “This, ladies, is a non-disclosure agreement that I will need you to sign before I go on. It states that anything I say to you is in the strictest confidence. It also indicates that whether we continue to move forward with a business relationship or not, you will, under penalty, have to refrain from disclosing the contents and the spirit of our conversation without the express permission of myself or the others I represent.”
Sonia looked briefly at Jet and sensed an emotional response on the way, one that might or might not be appropriate. She turned back to Holiday. “Listen, Mr.─ah, Mason. We at BCI are used to maintaining client confidentiality when appropriate, but I’m not certain we would commit ourselves to that agreement without a pretty clear understanding of what we were getting involved with."
Mason Holiday smiled, his voice reserved, controlled. “Very wise. And I do understand. However,” he looked at them, his tanned face crinkling just the tiniest bit, “my colleagues and I are in grave need of your assistance in a matter that is, well, very delicate.” He leaned in. “I’m hopeful that when you hear what I’m about to tell you and realize who and what it
is that we are attempting to protect, you will be willing, as citizens of our community, of our commonwealth, to abide by this agreement.”
Sonia was really at a loss about what to say. She looked at Jet, who nodded, indicating Sonia should read the document. Several minutes of silence went by, Sonia moving her fingers slowly over each word, making certain to grasp their import. Mason Holiday waited patiently. Finally, taking a deep breath, Sonia looked back to Jet and shrugged. “I think we should take the chance.” She got the silent response she expected from Jet.
Sonia pulled a pen out of the black, wire basket on her desk and signed the second page of the document. She slid it toward her partner. Jet leaned over the desk and signed it as well. Then she turned to Holiday, holding the document out to him. “Okay, Mr. Holiday, sir,” her tone was a bit surly, “what’s the big deal?”
4
Mason Holiday took the form and slipped it into his briefcase. He seemed to relax a bit. Sitting farther back in his chair and placing the case and its contents on the floor, he let out a deep breath. Before starting, however, he sat up tall in his chair again. Sonia felt her own body tense in anticipation.
“Okay, then. The group I represent has no particular name. It’s not an official group of any sort. Really,” he shrugged gently, “we’re just a bunch of men with a common interest.” He paused again and looked downward as if he were reflecting on the nature of the group or thinking through the ramifications of what he was about to say.
Sonia nudged. “And what is that common interest?”
Mason Holiday looked directly at Sonia. “Bourbon. We all make bourbon.”
Sonia turned to Jet, then back to Holiday. “And?”
Holiday shook his head. “We all make bourbon and something has happened that could really disrupt things for us.” He stopped again.
Jet was clearly getting antsy. “Come on Mason. Get it out there. We certainly can’t help you if we don’t know what the heck you’re talking about.”
Holiday leaned forward, his hands turning upward as if in supplication. “Look, I know everyone here in Kentucky has always been all about bourbon, but it’s no longer a local phenomenon. Now, I’m not here to talk about bourbon sales, but ladies, all you have to do is look around you. Bourbon is hot, really hot. There are bourbon bars, bourbon recipes of all kinds, ales aged in bourbon barrels. It’s crazy. And we don’t want anything to get in the way of that going on for a very, very long time.”
There was a moment of silence as Holiday became reflective again. Sonia glanced at Jet and then cleared her throat. “And, Mason, what would that ‘anything’ be?”
Holiday reached down and picked up his briefcase again. He rifled through a page or two then pulled out an eight-by-ten glossy photograph. “Do you all know who this is?”
Sonia took the photo out of Holiday’s hand and quickly showed it to Jet. It was a photo of a man in his early fifties, broad-faced, blonde, with one green eye and one blue. He was smiling his professional smile, but there was no warmth in it. She shook her head. “No. I don’t believe I do.” A quick glance at Jet told Sonia her partner didn’t recognize him either. She held the picture out to Holiday.
Holiday waved her off, indicating she should keep the photo. “His name is Victor Rasmussen. He’s a local businessman turned racehorse owner. Not a guy who many people like, but lucky, damn lucky. He’s got this horse named Sultan Aly Khan. Won some big races, and now he’s kind of rolling in money.”
Jet leaned forward in the red chair, putting her forearm on the desk, turning a bit sideways to address Holiday. “And the reason you’re showing us this guy’s picture is?”
Holiday let out a breath. It was obvious to Sonia that he was struggling to get his story out. He sat up taller and continued. “A couple of months ago, Victor Rasmussen held a press conference on his farm.” He pursed his lips. “I don’t know the name of the farm. It’s small, no big deal.” He continued. “Anyway, he holds this press conference and announces that’s he going to be bringing a new bourbon into the marketplace. Called it Sultan’s Choice, like with that racehorse. Said it was going to be super high-end.”
Sonia looked at him. “How high end are we talking here?”
Holiday rocked back just a bit, his eyebrows lifted. “Well, I don’t know how high he was talking. A bottle of twenty-two-year-old Woodland Acres Reserve sells for a hundred and fifty bucks. James Bennington’s Double Black goes for a hundred and ninety-five dollars a bottle, not to mention Pappy VanWinkle’s twenty-three-year-old stuff. Its suggested retail price is fourteen hundred and fifty dollars a bottle, but there are guys paying upwards of two thousand dollars to get their hands on one.” He grinned at Jet. “Ma’am, bourbon may be a beautiful amber liquid, but there’s gold in those bottles.”
“So,” Sonia squinted just a bit, “this Rasmussen is going to bring out a new bourbon and you and your friends are upset because of the competition?”
Holiday let out a soft chuckle. “No, that’s not it. There’s lots of competition already and, honestly, there seems to be plenty of money to go around. Bourbon is the new ‘in thing.’ Instead of flashy bottles of wine, the big hitters are now serving rare bottles of bourbon. And it just seems that whoever spends the most money on it wins. No, competition is not the big deal. But there are two significantly big deals.”
Sonia watched him run his hand through his short, black hair. She could almost feel the soft bristliness of it in her own fingertips as he spoke. “First, think about it. All those prices I just quoted, they weren’t for four-year-old bourbon. They were for bourbons that had spent years and years aging in charred oak barrels. Let me ask you. How’s this guy who hasn’t been in the business two lousy months going to bring out a high-end bourbon?” His voice grew sardonic. “His grandmother been distilling it and aging it in her basement? Listen, none of the distillers I know would sell him their best stuff and let him put his name on it. And I know everybody.”
Jet jumped in. “Well, what is he talking about?”
Holiday’s voice fell away. “Honestly, we don’t know. But it’s got to be at least twenty years old.”
“And second?” Sonia’s middle finger was tapping quickly and quietly on the desktop.
Holiday swallowed. “And second, we just found Victor Rasmussen floating in a sealed barrel of Horatio Blevins’ finest bourbon.”
5
“Dead?” Sonia’s eyes opened wide.
“Dead.” Holiday’s voice had become almost a whisper.
A long moment went by as Sonia and Jet tried to digest what had just been said. Finally, Sonia asked. “What do you mean, ‘floating in a barrel of Horatio Blevins’ finest?’ ”
Once again, Holiday sat up taller, bracing himself. “Okay. Let me explain. I think that by the time I’m done, you’ll understand why we needed to do the NDA.” He swallowed and huffed out a short breath. “Do either of you know what the Angel’s Share is?”
Jet jumped right in. “Listen. You’re talking to two women who know their bourbon. We know all about the Angel’s Share.”
“Good.” Holiday went on to explain about Earl and James’ experience in the Horatio Blevins rackhouse and how Victor Rasmussen had been found dead and submerged in bourbon. “You can imagine how shocked John O’Neal and Bobby Ray were.”
Sonia watched Holiday take another breath before continuing. Clearly, there was something more coming.
“So, I can assume that what you’re imagining is that the first thing they did was call 911, call the police.” He hitched, then went on. “But think about it. The world of bourbon is exploding. Business simply couldn’t be better. There seems to be no limit as to how good things could become for all the different people involved─distillers, workers, drivers, retailers, advertisers, even the state’s revenue flow. It’s a big, big deal.”
“Then this guy comes along,” Holiday twisted his lips again, “a guy nobody really cares for, a guy who hasn’t gone through all the low times of the past twe
nty or thirty years, and says he’s bringing out this high-end bourbon. What’s he mean by that? Where the heck is he going to get it? Next thing you know he’s dead.” Another quick breath. “Not only dead but dead in a barrel of bourbon.” Holiday’s pale eyes searched first Sonia’s face then Jet’s for a reaction.
Sonia stirred in her chair. “So,” she paused, “what you’re saying is that you and your colleagues are afraid that this might cause a scandal that could upset the applecart for the whole bourbon industry. Is that it, Mason?”
Again, Holiday’s hands opened as if in supplication. “Of course. You’ve got to understand. Bourbon is more than just a drink. It’s a tradition. It’s history. It’s a way of life, an attitude. When people drink bourbon, they’re wrapping themselves up in all of that for the moment. It’s all part of the experience. Do we want that tainted by some scandal?” His eyes locked in on Sonia’s. “And think about this. Do we want rumors and urban myths flying around about some decomposing body floating around in a barrel of bourbon, bourbon that people wind up drinking? That could ruin us.” His last words were strong, animated, almost fervent.
Sonia leaned forward, her elbows on her desk, her palms together in front of her face as if she were in prayer. “So, tell me, Mason. What did John O’Neal do?”
Mason Holiday sat back in his chair, his eyes going to the ceiling for a moment. “Listen, John O’Neal is a good man. Good family man. Good Christian man. Kind of guy who would give you the shirt off his back before you asked for it. But he’s a good businessman, too. Been in the bourbon business all his life. Understands everything we just spoke about.” Another deep breath in. “So, once he realized exactly what it was that he’d discovered, he told Bobby Ray to close the barrel back up, nail a second lid on it. Told him to use the forklift and put it on the back of John’s own pick-up. Then he made Bobby Ray swear that he would keep all of this to himself, at least until they’d figured everything out.”
