“Not much,” I said evasively.
“I saw Inspector Michaelson here this morning,” Grant prompted.
“Yes.” I took the tasting glass he offered me. “Michaelson said they’ll be doing an autopsy, but I think that’s fairly standard with an unexplained death.”
“Richard wasn’t in the best of shape,” Grant noted, “but his death’s still a shock. It’s left more than a few folks here reassessing their life choices.”
“Is it true he died with a whisky in his hand?” Cam asked.
“I heard something like that,” I hedged.
A sad smile played at the edge of Grant’s mouth. “That’s the way he would have wanted to go,” he said.
Cam looked worried. “Was it the Takai they were drinkin’?” he whispered. “That’s all we need to start a flood of nasty rumors.”
“What makes you think there was anything wrong with the Takai?” I said nervously.
“Doesn’t have to be anything wrong,” Oliver said. “Just a whiff of innuendo and we’d never hear the end of the chatter. Truth is of no interest whatsoever at that point.”
Rumors with no foundation were bad enough. If they turned out to be true, it would be devastating to Harukawa’s reputation.
Cam started to say something, then trailed off, and I followed the direction of his gaze. Brenna Quinn had entered the room again and all eyes shifted her way for a fraction of a second.
She looked annoyingly fresh. No dark circles shadowed her eyes from whisky and lost sleep. She wore a pale-blue wool dress with a double strand of silver-gray pearls at the throat. Her dark hair was loose this time and a filigreed silver clip at the back of her head pulled the heavy tresses away from her face, leaving the rest of the glossy mane hanging over her shoulders. Her makeup was minimal but highlighted her dark eyes. I watched her stop to talk with the Quinn representatives before moving toward us.
She smiled as she approached. “Good morning, all.” She laid a perfectly manicured hand on Grant’s arm. “Grant, I’m having lunch with Archie MacInnes today. I was thinking that you and Cam might want to join me. Chance for the two of you to chat him up a bit before the judging begins in earnest.”
Grant looked uncomfortable, but I noticed he hadn’t pulled away. “If you want to curry favor, I’d take Abi. I’m sure Archie’d rather have lunch with the two of you.”
Brenna turned to me. “What do you think, Abi. You game?”
I had no desire to lunch with Grant’s ex, and especially no desire to be made to look inferior both physically and professionally. “I suspect that would set the feminist cause back more than a few years,” I said firmly. “Wouldn’t want the Barley Boys to accuse us of using our feminine wiles to influence the judges’ decision.”
Brenna gave a throaty laugh. “She’s onto you lot already. I’m sure she’s right. Well, then, it’s back to you boys.”
Cam turned slightly to address Grant discreetly, and I heard him whisper, “Business is business, lad.”
Grant acquiesced, but I sensed he was reluctant. He didn’t seem overly anxious to spend time with Brenna. Had Brenna made it clear last night that she wanted to pick up where they left off? Had Grant refused? I know it shouldn’t have, it was selfish, but the thought that Grant might have turned her down cheered me up.
I wandered over to the bar to get a Perrier, and after a moment Grant came and stood next to me.
“What’s going on with Richard Simpson?” he demanded.
“What do you mean?”
“Come on. You say you’ve been talking to Michaelson, and I can tell from your face that something’s up. What’s he been saying?”
“Not much to me,” I replied honestly. I might know more than most, but I really couldn’t be sure of what had actually caused the man’s death.
“Don’t play games. If I know you, you’re knee-deep in this already.”
I looked around and noted that for the moment there was no one within earshot. I knew I could trust Grant and his input would be useful. I pulled him off to the side. “Okay, but this is just between the two of us,” I whispered. “Michaelson’s convinced that Sir Richard was poisoned. He’s having tests run on the whisky he drank before he turned in last night.”
The color seemed to leave Grant’s face. “I wanted to be wrong, but I could tell something wasn’t right.”
“Far from.”
“Does Michaelson have any idea why someone would want to kill Richard?”
“Not yet, but he’s interviewing folks this morning.”
“Do you think he was murdered?”
I took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Poisoned I might believe, but murdered? I don’t know. Sir Richard was very opinionated and outspoken. We all listened to him at length in the bar last night. He rubbed a lot of people the wrong way.”
“You don’t murder someone because you have different tastes in whisky,” Grant insisted. “That’s madness.”
“I agree, but Michaelson believes it’s nicotine poisoning. The way he explained it to me, it would take a helluva lot to actually kill someone. I think it’s more likely someone was trying to shut Richard up by tainting his whisky and making him ill. I can think of a lot of people who would like to see him confined to bed for the duration. His reaction to the toxin may have been a surprise. At least that would make this an accidental death, not an intentional homicide.”
“That would be a bit better, but still.” Grant shook his head.
“And there’s more. Cam’s right, it looks like he was drinking the whisky Harukawa gifted to all the attendees when he died. Michaelson’s had the staff pull all the bottles to be on the safe side.” I trailed off as another attendee approached the bar for water and left.
Grant waited for him to move out of earshot. “Cam’s right. That kind of notoriety Hinatu could live without,” he said softly.
“I know. I feel terrible for him. But they have to be sure. Richard’s might not have been the only one that was tainted. Until the test results come back, it’s a risk. I’m starting to feel cursed. Every time I come near the Glen, something seems to go terribly wrong.”
“Or terribly right,” Grant said gently. “You’ve saved us more than once.”
The soft warmth of his voice was soothing and unsettling at the same time.
“Is there anything I can do?” he asked.
“Looks like you’ve already got your hands full.”
Grant rubbed the back of his neck as if to relieve the stress crawling up his spine. “This is a great opportunity for the Glen, but all this socializing’s a bit of a strain.”
“I’d think it would be fun seeing all these old friends.” I stressed the word friends and studied Grant over my glass. He scowled, obviously conflicted about Brenna’s presence and his own feelings. “As long as you’re having lunch with Archie MacInnes,” I said tactfully, redirecting the conversation, “see what he has to say. Find out if he has any idea who was particularly angry about Richard’s views. Maybe he witnessed something, or maybe Richard confided in him. I’m sure Archie’ll be more inclined to talk to you than to me or the police.”
Grant looked relieved to have something concrete to pursue. “Right, I’ll see what I can find out.”
* * *
—
After sending Grant off with an assignment, I stood contemplating my own next move. I had no official function at the competition, and until Michaelson confirmed that Richard was actually poisoned, I could be wasting my time poking my nose into other people’s business. But then again, as a journalist, sticking my nose into other people’s business was what I did best. With that in mind, I decided to attend a couple of the industry seminars being held in conjunction with the competition. It was a chance to learn more about my new profession, and I might just be able to glean some useful gossip about Sir Richard while I was
at it.
I chose the casking seminar first. There was an intensive discussion about the decline in the number of little old dears drinking sherry before lunch in recent years. So much so that there was a lack of secondhand oloroso casks for aging whisky. It sounded frivolous, but it was a significant loss from a distiller’s standpoint. It could mean a huge difference in flavor profile for certain distilleries, Abbey Glen included.
The second panel was explaining the latest technology in the detection of fake whisky. A problem I’d become quite familiar with since my arrival in Scotland. The latest scientific tool developed by a company called Clarity used a small device the size of an iPhone to “fingerprint” batches of whisky as they are bottled on the line. Those fingerprints could identify a whisky by name, confirm its age, and determine if it was bottled by the distiller on the label. All without opening the bottle.
It would be a real boon for those buying vintage whiskies, and I could see it might be useful in the criminal investigation business as well. The thought of investigations drew my mind back to this morning’s events. Would Michaelson let me know if the nicotine he suspected was confirmed by the lab, or would I have to pry it out of him?
“Shame Richard won’t see its success,” the wiry, bespectacled man next to me remarked suddenly. My neighbor had been taking copious notes on a notepad with one of the pens clipped to his braces and hadn’t said boo for the last forty-five minutes.
“I beg your pardon?” I said.
“Sir Richard Simpson. He was one of the principal investors in Clarity. He’d been keen to develop this tech ever since he bought that fifty-year-old bottle of Macallan that turned out to be a fake.”
“Ouch. That must’ve been galling,” I said.
The man seated directly in front of us had his arm draped along the back of the chairs, his body partially turned toward us. He must have been eavesdropping, and at that point he turned around the rest of the way and added, “Aye, lost a good twenty-five thousand pounds on the deal. Not that he’s worried about that now, poor soul.”
“Hear he passed with a dram in his hand,” Glasses said. “Hope it was a good one.”
He’s had better, I thought. “Had he been ill?” I asked aloud.
“Not that I’d heard,” Glasses said. “Course, we weren’t all that close, mind you, but he did enjoy life’s pleasures, if you know what I mean. Probably only a matter of time.”
The man in the row in front had now unabashedly joined in. “Comes to us all in the end,” he observed cheerfully. “What I want to know is why they made off with the whisky we’d all been given by that Asian chap.”
Glasses chimed in. “Aye, right odd that was. Maybe they found something in it,” he speculated. “You know, elephant tusk or rhino horn or some such thing they do over there. Whatever it was might’ve disagreed with Richard.”
“I’m sure not,” I said firmly, hoping to quell any suggestion that there might be something wrong with Hinatu’s whisky. “I drank the Takai, and I’m just fine.” I hastily shifted tack. “I really didn’t know Sir Richard, but he seems to have been a popular man.”
Big Ears was warming to the conversation. “He was well known for sharing his opinions round, but for all that he was well-liked,” he agreed, leaning closer.
“He was certainly a huge supporter of the globalization trend,” I observed.
“Jude MacNamara’s head nearly exploded every time Richard got goin’ about the non-Scottish whiskies.” Big Ears chuckled.
“And Walter Jackson from Central Spirits,” Glasses added, “mind you, it’s pounds and pence to Central as a distributor of domestic whiskies. When money’s spent on foreign whisky, it’s not spent supporting Scottish distilleries. It’s simple economics.”
I made a mental note of Walter Jackson. I knew where Jude MacNamara was last night, in the Aerie Bar with us looking none too happy. Jackson was another question. I’d like to know where he was after dinner. My two companions had continued discussing the economic elasticity of the domestic whisky market. I waited for a pause and interjected, “I’d think real whisky lovers would just keep adding to their collection, not substituting one brand for another.”
“Probably true for the big spenders like Sir Richard, but he doesn’t—didn’t always appreciate that those who drink blends are all about taste and price,” Glasses said. “If India can produce a decent blend at a lower price, it’s absolutely going to cut into the domestic market.”
“Did MacNamara or Walter Jackson ever try to take Sir Richard on head-to-head over the economics of it all?”
“Jackson tried, but no one stood a chance,” Big Ears said. “Richard could outlast and out-loud anyone.”
The speaker began again, and our conversation died away. In my mind I could picture the faces of the men around the fire last night who’d been angered by Sir Richard’s betrayal of the domestic industry. Had one of them decided it was time to make the heretic choke on his own words?
Chapter 7
At the tea break I went off in search of Patrick. I found him in the lobby bar talking with Trevor. He beckoned me over to join them.
Trevor registered my presence with a fractional raise of the hand.
I leaned down and gave him a hug. “I’m so sorry about Richard, Trev. What a terrible shock this must be.”
“I just can’t get my head around it.” Trevor looked genuinely distressed, his standard hangdog expression even more morose than usual.
A waiter appeared silently at my side, leaving a fresh glass and a silver dish of nuts. “He was so full of life yesterday,” Patrick said, pouring me a drink from the bottle on the table.
I was embarrassed to admit I really knew nothing personal about Trevor’s big brother. “Does Richard have a family?” I asked.
“No,” Trevor replied. “He divorced about five years ago, and he and Mary never had kids.”
“He seemed fine last night,” I commented. “In rare form, in fact.”
“That’s what I told that bloody policeman,” Trevor insisted. “Richard was healthy as a horse. Might not look it, but he was. Stupid bloke kept going on about what he ate, what he drank, whether he smoked or not. I told him we all drank and ate the same thing. Even Patrick shared the whisky with us before dinner, and we all ate the banquet food before sharing a few more rounds at the club. Why would it bother him and not us?”
“I’m sure the police are just covering all the bases,” Patrick said soothingly. “I can’t imagine that this was anything more than a heart condition that reared its ugly head.” He looked at me pointedly. “Right?”
“That would make sense,” I agreed. “I mean Richard certainly seemed to be the life of the party. I’m sure he hadn’t an enemy in the world.” Patrick glared at me, but Trevor didn’t seem to notice.
“Right you are,” Trevor said. “My brother never met a stranger. Mind you, he called a spade a spade and not everyone agreed with him, but they respected him. Make no mistake, they respected him.” Trevor topped up his glass and Patrick’s.
“Richard made no bones about the fact that Scottish whisky bows to no one when it’s properly done,” Patrick added. “But he always insisted if you can’t compete, it’s not the new guy’s fault. It’s yours.”
“Bet that didn’t sit well with the likes of Central Spirits,” I prompted, thinking of my earlier conversation at the conference. As the owner of a large number of smaller Scottish distilleries, the foreign competition would be a significant threat to Central.
“Too right,” Trevor said. “The problem is that there are a lot of brand identities and long-term reputations at stake. If these new foreign distilleries start taking the awards, what does that say about the uniqueness of Scotch malt whisky?”
“Exactly,” Patrick chimed in. “Scotch is a mystique, a legend. If anyone can do it, where’s the marketing angle? The whole
Scotch whisky system collapses.”
“Out-scotching the Scots,” I murmured again.
Was that what frightened Jude MacNamara and Walter Jackson? Was there a legitimate fear that the whole industry was at risk, not just a few select producers? That might raise the stakes for some. I knew firsthand that whisky provoked passions that could lead to murder, but it seemed too extreme in this case. To kill a judge simply because he welcomed your foreign competitor. My train of thought was disrupted as Trevor hauled himself out of his seat and went to find the gents’.
Patrick rose and moved to the seat next to mine. “What’s going on?” he demanded as soon as his friend was out of earshot.
“What?”
“Why are you questioning Trev?”
I leaned in and whispered, “Michaelson’s concerned that Richard’s death might not have been an accident.”
Patrick’s eyes widened. “Suicide?”
I shook my head no.
“Murder?” Patrick whispered. “Oh no, not again. No way.” Patrick searched my face, looking for some hint that I might be teasing. He groaned softly. “But why?”
“Don’t have any idea yet, but Michaelson’s on the warpath. He’ll be talking to you again, I suspect.”
“Great.” Patrick slumped back in his chair. “Once, just once, I’d like a quiet weekend in the country with you. Since you moved up here it’s been nothing but one disaster after another.”
“You think I don’t know,” I grumbled in return. “I told Grant I feel like I’m cursed.”
Patrick softened slightly. “Not cursed, but God you attract trouble like a dog attracts fleas.”
“Michaelson could be wrong,” I said, trying to sound positive. “For what it’s worth, I’m not convinced it was an intentional murder. Personally, I think it was more likely that someone just wanted to shut Richard up by making him ill, and things went badly wrong. I mean, you know him better than I do. Can you think of any reason why someone would actually want to kill Sir Richard?”
“I could see why someone might want to give him a good swift kick in the backside, but kill him? No. I can’t think of anything.” Patrick studied me over the rim of his glass. “Tell me you’re looking into this, Abi.”
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