Deadly Dram

by Melinda Mullet

  I followed his paw prints around the back of the hotel. Liam was sniffing at the ground like a bloodhound. Suddenly he bolted on ahead and I saw him enthusiastically jumping up to greet a young man in a dark coat and a gray stocking cap. I didn’t recognize him at first without the signature orange cap. It was Joey, the master of the hounds.

  “Sorry, I told you his manners were appalling,” I said, doing my best to get Liam to keep all four paws on the ground. Joey wouldn’t have this problem with his charges, I was sure.

  “Where’s your crew?” I asked, looking around for the usual collection of eager black Lab faces looking adoringly at their alpha.

  “Back at the kennels. I was out looking for one of the dogs.” Joey glanced halfheartedly around the woods behind us. “Freya’s wandered off.”

  “Would she come up to the hotel?”

  “Never know. I was just looking for tracks here by the bushes.” Joey gestured to the row of evergreen shrubs that ran along the back of the hotel. Something in the way his eyes darted back and forth told me he wasn’t telling the whole truth. As much as anything, I couldn’t see any of his dogs wandering from the pack. They were too disciplined.

  He turned away from the building and shoved his hands in his pockets. I could see the brim of his orange cap stuffed inside his pocket. A cap designed to ensure hunters are visible in the woods. Was it absent now in hopes of making his presence less obvious?

  “I hear there’s been some excitement up at the hotel again,” he said.

  Apparently Joey not only hunted but fished as well.

  “News travels fast,” I countered.

  “We’re a pretty isolated crew here. Gossip is currency.”

  “Must make it tricky to date at the office,” I joked.

  “Staff fraternizing is strictly forbidden at the Lodge.”

  I gave Joey a sideways look. “They can do that?”

  “It’s a firing offense, so yeah, they can do that.” Joey shuffled his feet restlessly. “You donnae think they’re out to blame the staff for the killings, do you?”

  “Is there any reason they should?”

  “No, none at all. But I’m sure they’d rather lay this on a member of staff than one of the guests.” Joey placed a hand on Liam’s head and he dropped into a respectful sit without words and without hesitation. Joey was definitely the dog whisperer, or perhaps Liam just sensed a primal authority in him that he didn’t find in me. It was odd because Joey seemed rather anxious and unfocused at the moment, but still he had control of Liam.

  “Do you get a lot of interaction with the guests?” I asked.

  “I take out shooting parties most mornings.”

  “Ever take out Archie MacInnes or Richard Simpson?”

  “Took MacInnes and some others out the day before the competition began. They checked in early to do a bit of shooting. Getting near the end of pheasant season, but there’s still some good birds to be bagged.”

  “What was MacInnes like?”

  “Like most of ’em. Treated me ’bout the same as he treated the dogs.”

  “Don’t suppose you remember what they were talking about?”

  “Not really, though one of ’em kept banging on about being sued by some former employee. I remember thinking he probably richly deserved it, but he seemed to think MacInnes had some experience with that sort o’ thing.”

  “Do you remember what MacInnes said?”

  “Basically, ‘Shut up. You’re scaring the birds off.’ ”

  “Nothing else?”

  “Nothing I was paying attention to.” Joey glanced at his watch. “Look, I’d best be getting back.”

  “What about Freya?”

  “She’ll make her own way home when she gets hungry.”

  I watched Joey fade off into the woods. What are you really doing loitering around the back of the hotel trying not to be noticed? I wondered. Were you waiting for someone? He certainly seemed anxious that the staff might be in the spotlight. Did he have something to hide? I took a deep breath and cleared my head, replacing the chaotic thoughts with an image of Joey’s face. He was well-built, muscular, and dark-haired, a serious young man with intense brown eyes. He looked like he could hold his own in a barroom brawl. Intense, calculating, and sturdy. But definitely a bit cagey about why he was here.

  I looked up at the hotel’s grand stone walls and realized we were standing roughly underneath the window of our room. That meant I was also underneath Archie MacInnes’s room one floor below. Why would Joey be here?

  The ground was slightly higher than I’d thought looking out from the room this morning. It would’ve been quite easy for someone to leave Archie’s room by the window and jump to the ground.

  Unfortunately, there seemed to be quite a number of footprints in the slushy snow already. I began to poke around beneath the window and Liam joined in the game, even though he had no idea what we were looking for. Neither did I. As I backed away from the bushes I heard a cracking noise and looked under the heel of my boot. I’d stepped on a small glass vial. There was a pinkish residue in the bottom, but I couldn’t smell anything. Had the killer escaped through the window when he saw me in the hall? Had he dropped the vial as he jumped down? Or had he merely thrown the vial away? I took a picture of the location with my phone before pulling a clean tissue from my coat pocket, carefully picking up the fragments of the container, and stuffing them in my pocket. Liam tried to sniff the tissue and sneezed loudly. Hopefully he hadn’t just contaminated evidence again.

  We walked back around to the front of the hotel and I saw that the inspector’s car was still parked along the front drive. I texted him to let him know I needed to see him before steering Liam toward the dining room to find some breakfast. It was late morning by now and the breakfast rush had died away. Liam and I pretty much had the ornate wood-paneled room to ourselves.

  The Lodge took the first meal of the day seriously. There was a carving trolley with four different types of smoked salmon, a station with six different porridges, an endless variety of egg dishes, and pastries that would make a Parisian weep. Liam and I were led to a table by the window looking out over the wide expanse of snow-dusted lawn that melted into the golf course beyond. I felt isolated and miles from the rest of the world, and yet here we were in an oasis of luxury and calm. It was lovely to feel spoiled without pretension, and if murder hadn’t reared its ugly head once again, I could have enjoyed myself.

  I ordered a full English breakfast with a side order of sausage for Liam. He settled down at my feet with a look of eager anticipation on his face. His bout of vomiting didn’t seem to have harmed his appetite. Our food had just arrived when Michaelson strode into the dining room and made his way across to our table. He ordered a coffee and made himself at home. I reached into my pocket and pulled out the tissue with the broken vial and laid it on the table in front of him.

  “Found this on the ground under Archie’s window,” I said through a mouthful of egg and bacon.

  “What were you doing poking around under MacInnes’s window?”

  “Walking Liam.” At Michaelson’s skeptical look I added, “I could see that the ground there’s quite high. I wanted to see if the killer could have left the room that way.”

  “I’ve already searched the area.”

  “Not very well,” I remarked.

  Michaelson ignored the jab and proceeded to add an obscene amount of sugar to his coffee before downing it in one go. The waitress hurried over to refill his cup. He picked the bottom fragment of the vial up in the tissue and sniffed it before bagging it. “I can top that.”

  Michaelson removed an evidence bag from his coat pocket and plopped it on the table between us.

  “The other maid, Ethel, claims she found an empty vial of vaping liquid under the bed in Trevor Simpson’s room.”

  �
��When?” I asked, peering through the dense plastic of the evidence bag. The vial had a bright red and orange label and was nearly empty.

  “When she went in to clean this morning.”

  “What did Trevor have to say?”

  “Denied it was his, of course.”

  “Did you believe him?”

  “Not for a minute. He’s already told me he doesn’t vape, doesn’t smoke. No reason to have this in his room, and certainly not hidden under the bed. Why else would it be there?”

  I could think of several reasons. If the killer was trying to frame Trevor, it would be the perfect way to do it. But that was supposition and Michaelson wanted facts. Moreover, he didn’t want me getting too involved with the case against Trevor. I had to tread carefully. “Would the amount of liquid in that bottle have been enough to kill two people?”

  “Perhaps not alone, but he may have already disposed of the rest.”

  I had to think that that much lurid-colored syrup would have dramatically impacted the color and the taste of the whisky Richard drank unless the alcohol somehow neutralized the taste. I made a mental note to find out more about liquid nicotine.

  Michaelson was now on his third cup of coffee. He’d be vibrating from the caffeine soon. “Are you arresting Trevor?” I asked.

  “I’m not formally charging him yet, but I’ve sent him to the station with a couple of uniformed officers. He can cool his heels there till I’m ready to question him.”

  I buttered a slice of homemade bread and topped it with a dollop of marmalade. “Seems too obvious to me,” I said.

  Michaelson rolled his eyes. “In your professional opinion, you mean.”

  I leaned across the table and challenged Michaelson point-blank. “Alright, say it was Trevor. Why on earth would he hide evidence in his own room? He’s not stupid.”

  “I know he’s a good friend of Patrick’s and you don’t want this to be true, but it doesn’t change the facts. The vial was found in his room.”

  “Any fingerprints?”

  “Don’t know yet.”

  “Have you considered the possibility that he’s being framed?”

  “If I can find someone with a motive, I’ll consider it.”

  “Challenge accepted,” I said.

  Michaelson leaned forward, looking exasperated. “That was not a challenge. I don’t need you doing anything rash with this Trevor business. I’ve got enough on my plate as it is.”

  “I’m not being rash. Just rational. If you’re so sure it’s him, then how did he get into Archie’s room? I can’t picture him scrambling in and out of an open window on the second floor. He’s too big, for starters.”

  “I suspect he lifted a spare key from Archie’s room when he was there earlier in the day. According to the key log, one of Archie’s keys went in and out several times during the afternoon and there’s no guarantee he was the one using it.” Michaelson repeated the sugar overload in his coffee. “And if he didn’t steal a key, he could’ve had help.”

  I hated to do it, but I wanted to shift Michaelson’s thoughts from Patrick at all costs. “Sophie?” I offered.

  “That’s one possibility,” Michaelson said. “Even at a swank resort like this, staff isn’t paid lavishly. For the right price, she might have been willing to help him.”

  I shook my head. “Maybe, and only maybe, I could see her putting something in a bottle to make someone sick but not to kill them.”

  Trevor and Sophie. I considered the two from various angles. No. I didn’t buy it. Neither one rang true to me. Sophie was mature for her age. Capable and very dependable. She wouldn’t risk her job by getting involved in a dispute between guests.

  “Did anyone enter MacInnes’s room just before midnight?”

  “No one.”

  “Someone got in without using a key card, then.”

  “Or you imagined seeing the door open.”

  “I saw the door open,” I insisted. “That means the intruder either used one of the old-fashioned keys or came in through the window. Anyone with access to the manager’s office could’ve borrowed a key and gone in and out at any time they wanted without it ever being recorded on the digital entry log. That would mean the killer could’ve entered Sir Richard’s room, too, any time after Sophie left and before Richard came home.”

  “Logan, I know you don’t want this to be Trevor Simpson, and I appreciate your concern for Patrick, but don’t overcomplicate things to fit your square theory in a round crime.”

  “I’m not overcomplicating things.” I put my fork down and glared at Michaelson. “I’m considering all the possibilities, not just going for the easy answer.” Michaelson’s lips compressed into a thin line. I’d gone too far, and I wanted to bite the words back the moment they left my lips.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that,” I said hastily. “It’s the journalist in me. I challenge assumptions instinctively. And I have a big mouth.” Michaelson looked as if he’d like to agree. “I trust you, and I know you’ll be fair with Patrick.”

  Before he could respond, Michaelson’s phone buzzed on the table between us. I saw the name Grace pop up. He picked up the phone and absented himself from the table to take the call. I heard “not the best time” as he went.

  When Michaelson returned he looked distracted. In all our interactions I’d never really thought much about him as a person, but he was struggling with something. Something outside the work arena, I would guess.

  “Look,” he said. “I’m not pushing for the easy answer. The answers are never easy, trust me. All I want is the right answer, and I will get there.”

  I nodded.

  Michaelson sat back in his chair and studied me across the table, tapping his spoon on the tablecloth. “I’ve only got one officer left standing at the moment, and he’s in a cough-suppressant fog,” he admitted finally. “I could use some more help, but not with the Trevor angle. And I need you to do what I ask you to do, not what you think needs to be done.”

  “Fair enough,” I said. “What do you need me to do?”

  He pulled out a dozen sheets of paper from the folder in his lap. “Start with these. Larson gave me copies of the guest book profiles for all of the people on the three floors that Sophie takes care of. Photos, notes, likes, dislikes, the whole thing.” He handed the sheets across the table. “Take a look and let me know if anything strikes you as relevant.”

  I stuck the sheaf of papers into the inside pocket of my coat. “I’ll text you if I see anything.”

  Michaelson fixed me with a hard stare. “Remember—only do what you’re asked to do.”

  “Only what I’m asked,” I echoed back.

  He departed to take our latest finds to be examined by forensics. Later today he’d question Trevor. I didn’t give much for Trevor’s chances of talking his way out of this mess. I could only hope he wouldn’t drag Patrick down with him.

  Chapter 13

  I was anxious to spend some more time looking into the sale of Edenburn, but before I went off on my own tangent, I pulled out the pages Michaelson had given me. The notes were surprisingly comprehensive. Then again, not surprising, I suppose. Attention to detail was the hallmark of a five-star hotel. Each entry gave room number, name, frequency of visits, and preferences. The hotel was less than half full at the moment, but the wedding party was beginning to arrive today, according to Sophie. Thank God they hadn’t been here the last two nights. Body bags coming and going—hardly the most romantic ambience.

  Sophie had floors two, three, and four. The fifth and sixth floors were assigned to Ethel, the maid who had discovered the vaping liquid in Trevor’s room. There were two dozen guests who were new to the hotel, including Patrick, Hinatu, Richard, and myself, and eighteen hadn’t been there in more than ten years. The rest were more frequent visitors. Some had a laundry list of requirements,
from the type of feathers in the pillows to the brand of bottled water and the number of hangers. Things I never would have thought twice about, let alone made demands over.

  Trevor Simpson liked all the local papers and all the betting sheets delivered daily. The notes covered everything from his favorite tipple, Glenmorangie with spring water, to the way he liked his steak, rare.

  Richard Simpson was slightly more entertaining. A new guest at the Lodge, he was, however, a frequent guest at the hotel’s sister property in London. Apparently he had a habit of walking away with hotel hangers, ashtrays, desk accessories, and robes. Staff was instructed to send a list of missing items to the front desk before checkout so the gentleman’s bill could be adjusted accordingly. Funny that a man who could afford to buy a dozen expensive robes would take them from a hotel. Not only that: Richard came from a well-to-do family. He could easily have bought his own whisky at school and yet he preferred the challenge of pilfering the headmaster’s. Was it boredom, an innate sense of entitlement, or simply arrogance?

  Archie MacInnes was a new guest as well, but he’d already generated a decent set of notes, from late-night requests for port and Neapolitan ice cream, to demands for gun cleaning and alteration of hunting breeks. Clearly he was paying for the services and intended to make the most of them.

  Grant was a surprisingly frequent guest, having stayed at least once a year for the past decade. He liked black coffee first thing in the morning and a copy of the London Gazette with breakfast. No other odd quirks. Oliver Blaire’s notes made me chuckle. He required fresh sheets every day and insisted that they be ironed. That I could see.

  Jude MacNamara was a first-time guest up on the fifth floor. The sole note was “maid service declined.” I was curious to know why. What was he hiding?