Deadly Dram

by Melinda Mullet

  “Did Archie have any insight into who might have been particularly angry about Richard’s diatribes?”

  “I fished around a bit, but I didn’t want to look too obvious,” Grant admitted. “Archie really wasn’t keen to talk about anything but the good times they’d shared.”

  “What about the contest? Did Archie have anything to say about the judging here?”

  Grant looked at me, his head tilted to one side. “In what way?”

  “Any indication that he or Richard was concerned that things weren’t quite on the up-and-up?”

  Grant contemplated the question for a moment. “No. Nothing specific.” He looked at me, puzzled. “Do you think Richard’s death has something to do with his being a judge? I thought you believed someone was simply trying to get him to stop giving such vocal support to the foreign contestants.”

  “I did—I mean I do—but it made me wonder what else someone willing to poison a judge might do in support of our domestic industry. Maybe rig the competition?” I didn’t want to raise the specter of murder in this context, but I should have known Grant was keeping pace with me.

  “If the contest is being fixed and Richard found out…”

  I sighed heavily. “I know. Let’s just hope we’re being overly suspicious, but in the meantime, can I ask you to keep your ears open and listen for anything that suggests a judge might be being pressured or encouraged to vote in a certain way? It would also help to find out who can tell me about the actual procedure for the competition. Like who will set up the competition space and put out the bottles? And who has the judging bottles now?”

  “Wouldn’t Patrick be in a better position to get this kind of information?”

  “Patrick’s digging around, but I don’t know that people will be willing to talk around him, given his friendship with Richard and Trevor.”

  Grant stopped and turned to face me. “I’m happy to help out, but maybe you should insist that Patrick back off. If there’s something dishonest going on and it got Richard killed, you could be putting Patrick in grave danger, too.”

  Chapter 8

  “Patrick can take care of himself,” I said, “but I will warn him to be careful. You should be as well. I don’t want to put either of you at risk.”

  We emerged from a grove of trees into a large clearing. The clouds that had come with the earlier snow had retreated, and the sky was now streaked with darker lavender and pink hues as the winter sun dropped behind the hills. The shadows were closing in. A lighted wooden sign at the head of the path indicated that this was the Lodge’s Gundog Training Academy. I’d never been much for hunting, but hunting dogs I loved. We made our way toward a long, low wooden building painted a deep shade of forest green that ran along the far side of the clearing.

  As we walked into the yard I saw Liam running circles around a young man in a waxed barn coat and a bright orange hunting cap. A strapping lad, as my gran would’ve said, with an air of authority in spite of his youth. Liam caught sight of Grant and me and ran over to give us a couple of exuberant jumps before turning and sprinting off in the other direction. He was clearly overjoyed to be outdoors and running with the pack.

  “You must be Joey,” I said, introducing myself to the master of the hounds.

  Joey was out with two sleek black Labs who stood motionless at his side as Liam attempted to distract them by pouncing and leaping around in front of them. It was like watching a tourist trying to distract a palace guard. Their eyes followed the motion, but neither one moved until Joey pulled out a small whistle and dismissed them. A stunning display of discipline that I could only ever dream of mastering with Liam. We watched as the three dogs rolled and jumped through the snow, alternately pursuing and being pursued.

  “How do you get them to be so responsive?” I marveled.

  “We start them as puppies. They want to please and they work well as pack animals.”

  “I can only apologize for my juvenile delinquent,” I said. “I have no excuse beyond perpetual absence and overindulgence.”

  “He’s nae so bad. A bright, good-tempered dog,” Joey said. “Hard to train at this point, but sound. No neurosis there.”

  A charitable description, but I’d take it.

  “He just needs a bit more exercise and some more discipline,” Joey continued.

  “I recently got him some sheep to play with,” I offered. “Maybe it’ll bring out his herding skills.”

  “He’d be a natural. Did you want to take him back or is Sophie coming to get him later?” There was something in Joey’s eyes that made me think he was slightly disappointed to see Grant and me coming for Liam. No doubt Sophie was younger and prettier than we were.

  “We’ll take him back, thanks. Do you handle all of the guests’ dogs?”

  “No. Just the ones that need some serious exercise.”

  I dipped my head in mock shame. “You heard about the rabbit.”

  Joey chuckled. “I’ll bet it was a sight to see.”

  “One I’d just as soon missed,” I said.

  Grant stood nearby admiring the jumps and training obstacles. “This is a beautiful setup,” he said. “Have you worked here long?”

  Joey joined him and leaned against the fence surrounding the run. “Nearly six years. I started at the hunt club, then I moved over here when they started the gundog program. Guests get to come out and help us put the dogs through their paces.”

  “For a fee,” I noted.

  “Aye,” Joey said, looking a bit embarrassed. “But guests are clamoring to have a go. Mind you, not so much in this chill weather.”

  I watched the Labs running through the slushy snow looking like small panthers as they pounced and ran in the deepening shadows.

  “Want to give it a go?” Joey asked.

  “Sure. What do I do?”

  He handed me a long, thin, plastic whistle. “Give two long blasts on this. Thor and Loki will do the rest.”

  I did as I was told, and the two dogs stopped in their tracks and hastened back to sit in front of Joey and me, looking up expectantly.

  “Okay, now show them a low cutting motion with your right hand.” I mimicked Joey’s gesture and Thor and Loki took off at top speed toward an unseen target at the edge of the clearing. I nearly lost sight of their black forms in the shadows.

  “Now one long blast on the whistle.”

  I whistled, and the two stopped dead in their tracks as if they’d hit a wall, then turned and waited for further instructions, their eyes glinting out of the gloom like wild animals.

  “Now two short pips,” Joey said. Thor and Loki dropped into a low crouch and edged their way around the side of the field and back to our sides. Joey made eye contact with each in turn and made a small motion with his hand that sent them back to play.

  “They’re amazing,” Grant said.

  “I can only hope Liam will pick up a trick or two,” I added, watching my fur child awkwardly slipping and sliding in the snow, “but I doubt it.”

  * * *

  —

  My nose was red and streaming by the time we returned to the hotel, and I had my work cut out for me to make myself presentable before the evening’s event. Liam collapsed in front of the fire with a hearty sigh and was snoring within seconds. The fresh air and exercise had worn him out. I started running a bath in the giant claw-foot tub and picked up the phone to call Michaelson. I couldn’t wait any longer. I had to know whether Richard was poisoned or not before my dark imaginings ran away with me completely.

  He answered his cell on the first ring.

  “Just wanted to check that you got the pictures I sent.”

  “I did.”

  “Were they alright?”

  “Of course they’re alright. You’re a professional. You don’t shoot crap pictures.”

  That could
almost have been a compliment. Almost. But so much for my excuse for calling. I’d have to resort to the direct approach. “Any news from the lab?”

  “Yes.”

  “And?”

  “And what?”

  “Was the whisky poisoned?”

  “We will be pursuing additional inquiries.”

  “So you were right.” I hesitated for a moment, trying to figure out the best way to broach the unpopular subject of my meddling. “I was looking over the pictures from Sir Richard’s room earlier today when Sophie came in to clean.”

  “Simpson’s maid?”

  “Our maid, too,” I pointed out.

  “And you took it upon yourself to interfere, didn’t you?” I could hear a trace of annoyance in Michaelson’s voice.

  “Not intentionally,” I objected. “She saw the pictures on the computer, and well, I thought it was worth asking if she could see anything out of place in the room. I certainly couldn’t tell one way or the other.”

  “As far as we know, she was the last person in the room before the victim,” Michaelson said with great precision. “That makes her a suspect and you’ve just shown her evidence. If she turns out to be guilty, it could compromise the case.”

  I cringed slightly on the other end of the line. Technically, Michaelson was right, but my gut said Sophie wasn’t the one we were looking for. All I got from her was attentive, capable, and dependable. “Come on,” I pressed. “She has no motive, and I know she’s not guilty.”

  “You don’t know, you believe,” Michaelson corrected vehemently. “That’s a different thing. You have no proof.”

  “I know my instinctive emotional response to people isn’t proof, but it’s more than just blind faith,” I insisted. “It’s been honed by years of watching and photographing people. All kinds of people. At their best and their worst. I don’t know how to explain it, but it works.”

  “That’s fine for you, but I need tangible evidence, not supposition.” There was a long pause on the other end of the line, followed by a heavy sigh. “But as long as you’ve already gone down this path, did she have anything useful to say?”

  I told Michaelson about the missing glasses and suggested that the killer had dosed the glass and left it and the bottle next to the bed, figuring Richard couldn’t resist.

  “Interesting theory, but my friend at the lab confirmed that there were traces of nicotine in the bottle of whisky as well as in the residue in the glass.”

  “Any fingerprints on the bedside glass?”

  “Don’t know yet,” Michaelson said absentmindedly. “If you’ll forgive the expression, it seems like a bit of overkill to poison the glass if the bottle was already poisoned.”

  “Maybe the killer wanted to make sure that even if Richard didn’t drink the rest of the whisky, he’d still get the poison. Most people keep a glass of water by their bed at night or use it to brush their teeth, and with just one glass in the room, it’s the one he’d have to use.”

  “Possibly.”

  “Was Simpson a smoker?” I wondered out loud.

  “Not according to his friends,” Michaelson said. “Why?”

  “I guess I was wondering if someone who ingested nicotine regularly would be more or less susceptible to poisoning.”

  “From what we learned the first time through with this, a smoker is no less susceptible, but it might take a bit more to have the same effect. In this case, as in the last one we had, the decisive factor is the health of the victim. A heavy dose of nicotine will accelerate the heart rate. Sir Richard had a heart condition, according to his brother. A rush of nicotine could’ve triggered a physical response that was far more deadly than the chemical itself. We’ll have to have the full medical report before we know for sure.”

  The water was still flowing into the tub, and I added some bath salts that were on the counter by the sink, watching the lemon-scented bubbles rise. “Have you ruled out the possibility that Richard’s death was accidental? Maybe the poisoner didn’t take Sir Richard’s heart condition into account. Could he have thought that tainting the whisky would just make him ill?”

  “Possibly,” Michaelson conceded. “Who’d you have in mind?”

  “Someone who didn’t like Richard’s support for the foreign distillers. After all, poisoning the bottle of Takai would have the added bonus of destroying the reputation of a nominated but controversial Japanese whisky. And certainly all the bottles of Hinatu’s whisky were bound to be confiscated if one was found tainted.”

  “Worth considering,” Michaelson grunted. I could hear him scrawling down notes. I’d decided to wait on the contest-rigging theory till I had more to go on.

  “I need your help confirming a few alibis for last night,” he said. “I spent the day questioning staff and the other guests, confirming their movements between seven o’clock and midnight.”

  “I’ll help if I can.”

  “I pulled together a list of the folks who said they were in the lobby bar and cross-referenced them with the bartender through their tabs. Most of them stayed pretty late. And there was a large number of people from your group attending a tour of the hotel’s cellars. They were checked in by the concierge and were down there till nearly midnight.”

  “That narrows your suspect pool,” I observed. “Was there a Walter Jackson on the tour list?”

  I heard a rustling of papers. “He was signed up for the cellar tour, and he was checked in. Why?”

  “I just wondered. He was one of Richard’s more outspoken critics.”

  “Anyone else?”

  “I’d look at Jude MacNamara, the Malt Whisky Society president.”

  “He was in the group at the Aerie Bar with you.” Michaelson began to read from his list. I recognized a good three-quarters of the names and could confirm that they were where they said they were, at least while I was there.

  “MacNamara and Hugh Ashworth-Jones were both still there when I left and, according to Patrick, when he left.”

  “By the way, you may want to check with security. They had to escort a drunk guest from the bar at one point. Wasn’t anyone I knew, but they’d remember.”

  “Was he a guest at the hotel?”

  “No idea, but the staff would know. Speaking of staff, have you talked to any of the staff other than Sophie?”

  “Luckily, there were only two maids on duty last night, Sophie and a girl named Ethel. The maid’s keys are all individually numbered, which made it easy enough to see which keys accessed Sir Richard’s room. Sophie’s was the last to enter, at eight fifteen.

  “Sophie said there were five glasses in the room when she finished tidying up around eight thirty, so the killer must have arrived after eight thirty and before midnight, when Patrick and Richard came home.”

  “You only have Sophie’s word the glasses were there when she left,” Michaelson pointed out. “Sophie could easily have put the poison in the bottle while she was in the room and removed the other glasses.”

  “But why would she do that?”

  “She could’ve been told it was some kind of practical joke,” Michaelson suggested. “But more likely she was paid. We’re looking into that, too. Or it could be that the bottle was tampered with by one of Richard’s guests as they were leaving for dinner. By the end it was just Archie MacInnes, Hinatu Harukawa, and his brother Trevor.”

  “You think someone from the cocktail group managed to put poison into the bottle on the way out of the room?” I asked. “Then what about the glasses?”

  “I’m working on that,” Michaelson snapped. “Why do I let you drag me into these conversations?”

  “Because I ask the right questions,” I said. “It’s what journalists do. Besides, you’re short-staffed and I’m a reliable sounding board.” I turned off the taps and slipped into the bubbly warmth of the tub. “Who wa
s the last to leave the room before dinner?” I followed up.

  “Trevor Simpson,” Michaelson replied. “What’s your take on him?”

  “I don’t know him all that well, just through Patrick. He seems genuinely upset. He was drowning his sorrows in the bar when I saw him today.”

  “Hm.” Michaelson sounded faintly doubtful. “Any indication that his relationship with his brother had been strained of late?”

  “No. Why?”

  Michaelson ignored the direct question. “Did Patrick ever mention that Trevor had a problem with gambling?”

  “That’s kind of personal. Not the sort of thing Patrick would mention without a reason.”

  “One of the attendees mentioned that Trevor was a compulsive gambler and had a substantial amount of outstanding debt. I did some follow-up and found that just before Christmas the whole lot was suddenly paid off. I’m not a betting man myself, but I’ll wager the money didn’t come from Santa.”

  “And who gets Richard’s money now that he’s dead?”

  “According to Trevor, Sir Richard made a few bequests to charity, but he gets the rest.”

  “He admitted that?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you think he’s trying to speed the inheritance process along?”

  “Wouldn’t surprise me,” Michaelson admitted. “What else can you tell me about Patrick and Trevor?”

  “They’ve been friends for years. Trevor’s a well-known whisky blogger, and I believe he and Patrick used to collaborate in the days when Patrick was with Wine and Spirits. They’re drinking buddies and they’ve been there for each other during some tough times.”

  “Can you elaborate?”

  Patrick’s troubles were well known to me, but he was generally a private person and didn’t share much. I didn’t like to violate his confidence, but I wanted to give Michaelson a good sense of what Trevor was like and I trusted him not to betray me. “Off the record,” I insisted.