I showed Michaelson where we found Grant. There was still a smear of blood on the floor from the cut on his head. “He must have been brushing his teeth when he fell. When the paramedics moved him, there was a large gash on the side of his head from hitting the edge of the tub. Thank God he has a hard head or the fall alone would likely have killed him outright.” My voice started to quiver.
“If it wasn’t for the incidents of the past two nights, I’d insist on waiting for a medical report before proceeding,” Michaelson said. “But given that Grant had shown no prior signs of illness, I’m inclined to agree that this should be treated as a suspicious incident until we can prove otherwise.” Michaelson examined Grant’s toothbrush and the tube of toothpaste before bagging them.
“I need to tell you, the toothpaste is actually mine,” I said.
Michaelson turned to me in surprise. “Yours?”
“Grant ran out and came to borrow some while I was in the shower. Patrick handed him my tube from the bathroom.”
“Yours, not Patrick’s?”
“Just to be on the safe side, Patrick’s been buying single-use packs from the gift shop ever since the episode with Archie,” I explained. “Patrick can be a bit paranoid.” It never occurred to me that toothpaste or mouthwash could be an issue, and suddenly I was worried about what we might have overlooked in Hugh’s room.
“I’ll get it off for testing right away.”
“But why would someone want to poison my toothpaste—or Patrick’s?” I said as an afterthought. After all, an intruder in our bathroom would have no way of knowing whose was whose.
“Patrick, I don’t know,” Michaelson said, regarding me over the top of his glasses. “But you? Let’s see. Perhaps the killer thought you were sticking your nose in where it didn’t belong. Or maybe someone figured out that you were involved in putting a stop to the cheating scandal.”
“I never said I was involved.”
“You aren’t the only one I get news from. I have my own connections at the Society. They said it was Oliver Blaire who reported the scam, but it wasn’t lost on them that you and Oliver had your heads together quite a bit over the past few days. There was already speculation that you were involved.”
“You think that the toothpaste could be retribution for exposing the cheating scam?”
“As you’ve said so many times, the whisky fraternity is a tight-knit group. The scandal will have been the subject of much discussion and speculation, as have the deaths of Sir Richard and MacInnes. I think it’s possible that poisoning the toothpaste, if it was poisoned, could be a copycat crime. One designed not to kill but to injure and intimidate.”
“If that’s the case, shouldn’t we be worried for Oliver, too?”
Michaelson frowned. “Yes, we should.”
I reached for the phone and dialed Oliver’s room. It was the middle of the night, but I had to be sure he was okay. I held my breath until he answered the phone, groggy from sleep.
Oliver assured me that he was well. I gave him a thumbnail sketch of the situation before putting the phone into Michaelson’s outstretched hand.
Now I was stuck hearing only his half of the conversation.
“No, there’s no way to know for sure at this point.”
“Yes, I am keeping an eye on Ms. Logan.”
“Just precautionary for now. Keep your safety latch on while you’re in the room and please don’t eat or drink anything until you hear back from me. I’ll be by to speak with you first thing in the morning.”
Michaelson rang off and turned back to me. “Retribution is one option,” he said, “but we can’t ignore the fact that this might have happened because the killer thought you were getting too close to the truth with respect to the murders of Sir Richard and MacInnes.”
I felt my stomach flip as I thought about the amount of time we’d spent trailing Hugh Ashworth-Jones last night. Maybe we hadn’t been as subtle as I thought we had. Had Keenan noticed us?
My alarm must have been written all over my face, because Michaelson looked at me and said, “What have you done?”
“I was going to talk to you tomorrow—I mean today. I’ve been looking for someone with a motive other than Trevor Simpson. Just like you said I should,” I added hastily.
Michaelson sighed heavily but didn’t interrupt. “There’s this bloke named Bruce Keenan who worked for Archie MacInnes seven or eight years ago when MacInnes still owned the Edenburn distillery. Archie’s buddy Richard Simpson was the one who brokered the deal selling Edenburn to Central Spirits.”
“I looked at the transaction,” Michaelson said, “and I saw Keenan’s lawsuit, but he’s not a guest at the hotel.”
“He may not be staying at the hotel, but he’s been here,” I said. “Keenan was here yesterday and the day before, at least.”
Michaelson ran his hand through his hair again, and it stood on end like a porcupine. “I take it you’ve spoken to him.”
“We were introduced last night at dinner.”
“And?”
“He certainly has motive, and he’s a charmer. At least by some women’s standards.”
“Did you ask him a lot of questions?”
“Some,” I admitted. “A social amount,” I clarified, seeing where Michaelson was going with this. “Not anything unusual.”
“A social amount for a reporter, or a social amount for a normal person?”
I shrugged. I had tried to keep a low profile, but I wasn’t always as subtle as I should be.
“Could someone have told him you’d been seen with me?” Michaelson asked.
“You mean, did Keenan have a reason to try to shut me up?”
Michaelson regarded me expectantly.
“I suppose Cam could’ve said something,” I admitted, “but Keenan would’ve had to move pretty sharpish to get into our room without his absence being noticed.”
“Where was he after dinner? Did he join you in the bar?”
“Yes, he was there with Cam. He could give you a better account of Keenan’s movements. He…oh, damn.”
“Now what?” Michaelson’s frustration was clear.
“Cam. We left him on guard outside Hugh’s room. He was supposed to be relieved at midnight.” When Grant was injured I completely forgot about Cam. I looked at my watch. It was gone two.
“Logan, why is Cam guarding a guest’s door?”
It was time to come clean to Michaelson about what we’d been up to last night. “In addition to Richard and Archie, there’s a third judge at the competition with a connection to the sale of the Edenburn distillery. Hugh Ashworth-Jones represented Central Spirits in connection with the purchase.”
“And you think that Ashworth-Jones could also be at risk?”
“If this is what the killing is about, then yes, I think it’s highly likely. In fact, we were keeping an eye on him tonight just to be on the safe side.”
“Who’s we?”
“Grant, Cam, Patrick, and me. We didn’t think we had enough evidence yet to convince you that Bruce Keenan was a viable suspect, so we decided to take turns keeping watch on Hugh’s room.” I hurried on as Michaelson’s face grew more and more grim. “What if the toothpaste was nothing more than a diversion?” I said nervously. “What if Hugh was the real target?”
“Take me there.”
Cam was sitting down the hall from Hugh’s room in a straight-backed chair with a sour look on his face. “ ’Bout time,” he growled when he saw me emerge from the stairwell, but at the sight of Michaelson he got to his feet.
“What’s going on?”
“We had another incident,” I said. “It’s Grant.”
Cam blanched. “He’s not—”
“No, no,” I said hastily. “We’re not sure what happened, but he managed to fall and hit his head on th
e side of the tub. They’ve taken him to the hospital.” I didn’t want to panic Cam at this point. There’d be time enough later if worse came to worst.
“I should go,” Cam insisted.
“Patrick and Brenna are with him,” I said as calmly as I could, though the tears threatened to well up again. I pushed them down angrily. I had to focus.
Michaelson gestured to Hugh’s door. “Is he in his room?”
“Aye. Has been since about quarter to eleven,” Cam said, “but he’s not alone.”
“Who’s with him?” Michaelson asked.
“That lass from the bar.”
“The one he was priming?” I asked.
“Aye, that’s the one.”
I turned back to Michaelson. “He was liquoring up some young woman in the bar earlier.”
“You’re sure she’s still there?” Michaelson asked.
“ ’Less she left by the window,” Cam said.
I looked at the door to Hugh’s room, then back to Michaelson. “You’re the professional. What do we do now?”
“Not much we can do. We have no real evidence that Ashworth-Jones is in danger.”
I put my ear to the door and listened. “I can’t hear anything. What if he’s been poisoned already? What if they’ve both been poisoned?”
“What if they haven’t,” Michaelson countered.
“We have to do something.” I pulled out my phone and searched for a sound effect app.
“What are you doing?” Cam asked.
“Hide round the corner,” I said.
Cam looked confused. “What’s that?”
“Hide round the corner,” I said, pushing Cam toward the stairwell.
I cranked up the volume on my phone and let loose with a more than passable imitation of a fire alarm.
Michaelson’s lips compressed into a thin line and he attempted to grab the phone from my hand, but it was too late. Doors were starting to open down the hallway, and sleepy guests emerged into the light, looking bemused.
“Turn that off,” he snapped.
He pulled out his badge and flashed it around the hall. “It’s alright, folks, just a false alarm. Please go back to bed.”
The guests retreated to their rooms, grumbling and clucking as they went, but my eyes were fixed on Hugh’s door. I backed down the hall and hid next to Cam, peering around the doorframe of the stairwell.
The door finally opened and the man himself stepped into the hall, wearing a purple brocade robe with a black collar. “What the blazes is going on?” he demanded.
“My apologies, sir,” Michaelson said. “It appears to be a fault in the alarm system.”
I could see Michaelson doing his best to get a look inside the room. “Would you like us to inspect your room now to ensure you aren’t disturbed again?”
“I most certainly would not.” Hugh shut the door sharply in his face.
Cam and I reemerged from our hiding place in the stairwell.
“He seems to be fine,” Michaelson observed. “I’ll arrange for someone from the security staff to keep an eye on the room.” He looked at Cam. “You can stand down now.”
“But what about Grant?”
“He’s in good hands,” I said. “Get some rest. Someone needs to be fresh for tomorrow.”
Michaelson and I walked back up to Grant’s room. He held the door open while I retrieved my camera gear. “Let’s move back to your room,” he said. “Since this was clearly aimed at you, there’s no point looking for clues in here.”
I trailed behind Michaelson, feeling foolish. I should have thought of that myself. I still wasn’t thinking clearly. Now I was taking photos of our messy room and looking for signs of an intrusion.
Michaelson dusted for fingerprints on the bathroom shelf and all around where the toothpaste had been. He was quiet, and I sensed I was still in the doghouse for overstepping the mark by tailing Hugh Ashworth-Jones.
“We should’ve let you know about Hugh sooner,” I said.
“Yes, you should have. You can’t keep going off half-cocked. You’re going to get into real trouble one of these days.”
“At least we know who it wasn’t,” I said, trying to find a positive spin to all that had happened. “Trevor’s been your guest since late morning yesterday.”
“He could’ve easily planted the poison before we took him in,” Michaelson said dismissively.
“Yes, but I used that tube of toothpaste late this afternoon,” I said, “before I headed down to dinner, and it didn’t bother me.”
“Trevor may not have dealt with the toothpaste himself, but he could still have someone helping him,” Michaelson pointed out. “I’m not ready to cut Trevor from the list of potential suspects yet, but you’ll be glad to know that I am willing to scratch Patrick.”
“Thank God.” That was some good news, at least. “Why? I mean I agree wholeheartedly, but what convinced you?”
“Hard evidence,” Michaelson stressed. “We got the prints back on the glass in Sir Richard’s room, and the only prints were Richard’s and Sophie’s. Not only that, the time lag between Richard’s key entry and Patrick’s key entry on your door was less than a minute. Not enough time to poison a bottle and a glass and dispose of four others.”
“What about the truffles? Poisoned?”
“Yes, but just the one box, and the lad from the mailroom confirmed that he and Sophie were the only ones who handled the boxes of chocolate once they were unpacked. They didn’t get to the deliveries on the fifth floor until gone five o’clock, and Patrick has an alibi for all the time after that. Mostly with his fellow judge Hugh Ashworth-Jones.”
I hated to say it, but the logical side of my brain couldn’t ignore the fact that Sophie’s prints were on the glass that poisoned Richard and on the boxes of chocolate. “So you think Sophie may be helping Trevor.”
“Certainly can’t rule it out.”
“By the same token, she could be helping Keenan,” I insisted.
“I’ll be looking into that as well.”
I jumped as my cellphone vibrated in my back pocket. It was Patrick.
“How’s Grant?” I asked before he could even speak.
“Alive.”
“Thank God.” My distress was palpable.
Michaelson crossed the room to my side and patted my arm in an awkward gesture of support. I put the phone on speaker. “Michaelson’s here.”
“Have the doctors given a cause yet?” he asked.
“Not specifically. They did ask a lot of questions about whether he was a heavy drinker or a heavy smoker, but the main thing seems to be the blow to the head when he fell. He’s heavily sedated at the moment. They’re going to do an MRI later to check for any hemorrhaging.”
“Then no one’s specifically said nicotine poisoning?” I asked.
“Not as such,” Patrick said, stifling a yawn, “but then, they aren’t telling us much of anything.”
“Who’s the doctor?” Michaelson interjected.
“Bartlett. Gregory Bartlett.”
Michaelson nodded. “I’ve worked with him before. I’ll see what I can find out.”
He retreated to the bathroom to make a call, and I switched off the speakerphone.
“Are you going to stay?” I asked Patrick.
“At least until he’s been stabilized,” he replied wearily.
“Thank you.” I could feel the tears welling up, but I forced them down. “Where’s Brenna?”
“She’s with me in the waiting room. We won’t leave him alone. Don’t worry.”
I struggled to keep my voice steady. “I know. Just keep me posted,” I concluded as Patrick rang off.
Michaelson emerged from the bathroom. “According to Bartlett, it was a toxin.”
“Nicotine?”
“They aren’t sure, but they’ll be looking for it now.”
If Keenan was getting annoyed by the attention we were giving to Hugh Ashworth-Jones, he could’ve decided to take action. Had he asked Sophie to help by tampering with my toothpaste when she came in to do the turndown service? She’d been taking care of our room for three days now. She could well have known which was my toothpaste. Or had he enlisted Joey? If Joey entered with a brass key, he would have to have gone in while we were at dinner and returned the key to the manager’s office before I got there at nine fifteen. “If Keenan was feeling nervous tonight, it would certainly make more sense for him to have enlisted an accomplice to tamper with the toothpaste rather than trying to do it himself.” I went to the desk drawer and pulled out the necklace Liam had found. “You may want to consider the gundog trainer Joey as well. We found this under the bed earlier today.”
Michaelson examined the necklace and handed it back. “That kind of thing is common enough in the country set. Probably left over from an earlier guest. You’re in a dog-friendly room, after all. I’ll try to catch up with Joey later today, but for the moment I’m focusing on Trevor’s potential accomplices.”
I was getting frustrated with Michaelson’s insistence on clinging to Trevor as a suspect. “How?” I demanded. “How would Trevor get a message to an accomplice after you took him into custody? Did he make any calls?”
“Just to his solicitor,” Michaelson conceded gruffly. “But he could’ve given the instructions earlier in the day, before we pulled him in.”
“But Keenan was here on hand tonight. Much easier for him to give instructions to an accomplice. What exactly do you have against him as a suspect?”
“Nothing. I just think a grudge from seven years ago has less present urgency than Trevor’s immediate financial need.”
“Not for Keenan. Beside, he’s…” I wanted to say sleazy, but I knew Michaelson was less than enamored of my reliance on personal instinct. “He’s just more logical.”
“I get that you feel Keenan’s motive is strong, but you can’t keep ignoring Trevor, because he’s a friend and your gut reaction tells you it isn’t him.”
Deadly Dram Page 20
