Risky Whiskey

by Lucy Lakestone

  “Excellent! Neil’s buying us breakfast!” said Luke, pushing his fingers through that enviable longish hair. His T-shirt said, “VODKA PAYS THE BILLS.”

  “Awesome!” Barclay grinned. His plain rust-colored T-shirt appeared to be painted on his pecs, and I tried not to stare.

  Melody, her long, blond hair in a ponytail, just rolled her eyes and grabbed a chair from a nearby table so we could seat five. Her T-shirt had a small Bohemia Bartenders logo on the front and “Shaken and Stirred” on the back.

  They settled in with greetings and calls for coffee. Our server obliged, filling our cups with a fresh pot, and took the rest of the orders. Barclay just got water, bacon and fruit. There were weirder diets, right?

  “I didn’t expect to see you so early,” Neil said drolly after the waiter left. “And yes, I’ll buy you breakfast.”

  Luke looked around, then leaned in. “We thought maybe we should talk to you early before you heard it from someone else.”

  “Finally,” Neil said. “You lost your virginity.”

  Barclay spewed the water he’d been sipping and Melody burst out laughing.

  “No, I’m saving myself,” Luke said with a sexy grin that suggested that ship had sailed a long time ago.

  Now Barclay lowered his voice. “Word is getting around that somebody might be trying to poison the well.”

  “The liquor,” Melody said. “Like a saboteur.”

  Neil groaned. “That’s probably my fault.”

  “Dash will not be happy,” I said.

  “What did you do?” Luke asked Neil.

  “Only what I had to. I told you we had a problem with the shipment yesterday, but I didn’t tell you what it was.” Neil explained about the bad whiskey and talking to security and the distillers and how Barnie ended up in the hospital.

  “Hell,” Barclay said. “I know that guy. He comes into the club all the time back home.”

  “Is he going to be OK?” Melody asked.

  “I just don’t know,” Neil said. “I didn’t want to bug the Reynoldses this morning. I know they must have had a late night.”

  “I did grab a couple of bottles of each label from their storage suite last night,” I said. “It was eerie in there. I kind of looked around but didn’t see anything that struck me as odd. I left the ‘do not disturb’ on the door so no one is tempted.”

  “Good thinking,” Neil said. “Barclay, can you take these two out after breakfast and pick up our order of fruit and stuff for tonight from the restaurant supply store? I had a rental SUV delivered here this morning to make it easier. And Pepper will give you the names of the liquor stores we need to get cases from. What name are they under?” he asked me.

  “Bohemia Bartenders.”

  “Easy enough,” Luke said. “Can we just take everything to the restaurant?”

  “Yes, they’re expecting us,” Neil said. He and I spent a few minutes giving the other three the information they needed, and Neil handed them a company credit card, all while I wondered what he had in mind for me.

  My curiosity was shunted aside by the arrival of the crab cakes. It had been a long time since last night’s room service, and this was no average hotel breakfast. New Orleans had great cocktails, but its food—it was better than sex. Well, almost, depending on the restaurant. And the sex.

  I’d been thinking about serving more serious food at my bar back home, Nola. I’d already worked up ideas for a menu and was courting a chef who was looking for a change. And my business partner, Jorge, was totally on board. He was ten years older than me, spent his days working at the space center and let me steer the ship most of the time, though he and our staff were covering for me this week. And he loved food, too.

  I just had to get through this weekend first. After I got through this divine dish. A tiny sound of pleasure escaped me as the savory crab and hollandaise sauce mixed in my mouth, and I shut myself up with a sip of coffee.

  I glanced up to see Neil watching me with intense interest. He dropped his gaze when I caught him, picked up a piece of his maple-glazed bacon and glanced out the window, gnawing on it as the others chatted and laughed.

  He’d caught me in a foodgasm. That was awkward.

  I tried not to stare at the way the light outlined his cheekbones and set fire to the red highlights in his chestnut hair. And then it was my turn to drop my eyes and concentrate on my dish when he turned back to the table.

  When I joined the Bohemia Bartenders, I wasn’t counting on this. On him. I was kind of over bartenders. I mean, not as friends or as people who were totally my tribe, because they were. I loved them, the way you love a great movie or a puppy or anyone who geeked out over the same stuff you did. But as romantic interests? Forget it. I loved creating and serving cocktails, but I’d lost interest in the party scene. I was an aberration already, since I only had one tattoo. And that might be one more than Neil had, judging from what I could see, not that I’d ever get to find out for sure.

  Yeah, I’d had some flings. I’d been briefly drawn to shiny objects—a surfer dude or two, a quick wit, a Scottish accent. But I was getting closer to thirty than I was to twenty, and I was tired of the passing fancy. And there was no use in pursuing intimacy with another flaky, cocktail-shaking nomad.

  Then why did this one intrigue me so much? I’d known him for less than a day, but I’d seen his confidence, his cool in a crisis, his sense of humor, and his incredible touch with a cocktail. He had a nerdy, quiet way about him that seemed at odds with being a leader, but there it was. Somehow he was both. Maybe it wasn’t attraction. Hell, I wasn’t sure what it was. Maybe he was just the friend I needed.

  I focused on scraping up the last of the hollandaise sauce with my fork and chalked up my goofiness to sleep deprivation and stress.

  “So when do we meet at the restaurant?” Luke asked.

  “No later than four,” Neil said. “I want to get all the prep done early. The doors open at seven.”

  “No problem,” Barclay said. “That’ll give us time to get the shopping done, and you can even buy us lunch.”

  Neil snorted. “You’re on your own for lunch.”

  “What are you doing, then?” Melody asked.

  “Pepper and I are going to see a mad scientist.”

  Barclay’s pale amber-green eyes popped. “Not Cray?”

  Neil nodded, and the others murmured.

  “Cray?” I asked. “Like cray-cray?”

  Melody laughed. “That, too. But that’s his name. Conan Cray. Chemist. Mixologist.”

  “Nutcase,” Luke said.

  “Bitchin’ rum collection,” Barclay added. “He wrote the definitive book on the evolution of rum.”

  “You would know that.” Luke looked at me to explain. “Barclay has a thing for rum.”

  “Doesn’t everyone?” Barclay asked. “You sure I can’t go?”

  “Another time,” Neil said. “I need Pepper for this one.”

  Barclay shot me a glower. I’d have to do something nice for him later. Maybe in the form of rum. In the meantime, I tried not to think about why Neil needed me.

  “Meet me at eleven in the lobby with one each of the rye and bourbon, OK?” Neil was saying to me.

  Oh, yeah. That’s why. Work.

  That’s all this is, Kayanne Pepper.

  Then why did the room seem so warm all of a sudden?

  6

  I had just enough time for a shower and a proper reboot of the day. This time I donned my black leather zip-up vest over a cleavage-enhancing scoop-neck white T-shirt, along with a swirly above-the-knee gray skirt, mostly hidden pettipants and my trusty short boots. Comfortable with a dose of saucy. A touch of eye makeup behind my hot nerd glasses, complemented by red lipstick, and I was ready to meet Cray Cray. I mean, Conan Cray.

  I put the bottles, a bourbon and a rye, in my messenger bag and took the stairs this time. They were crowded, but nothing like the elevators. The seminars had cranked up in earnest. Neil had one tomorrow that we
were all making drinks for, based on his new cocktail book, Cutting-Edge Classics: Cocktails With a Twist. I’d made a bunch of the recipes in it, and they were great. He paired classics with exotic, delicious updates. It was the perfect book for new home bartenders or more experienced mixologists. I doubted I’d get around to writing my own book, but it was fun to know someone who had.

  There he was, now dressed in a button-down white shirt with red suspenders and retro-looking black pants that emphasized his lean figure. Pretty much standard garb in the midst of the crowded lobby. He was talking to a couple of clean-shaven guys in fedoras and aloha shirts, one elegantly thin, one impressively muscular, both cute. They all laughed and shook hands, and the pair departed as I approached. Neil spotted me, and his eyes went cartoon wide for a second.

  I smiled. “Bartenders?”

  “Enthusiasts. Dick and Dale from Cocoa Beach,” Neil said. I wasn’t sure, but I think he stole a glance at my cleavage. “We’ll be seeing them in Fort Lauderdale in a couple of months.”

  I liked the “we” part of that sentence. Not a “you and I” we but a “you are now in the Bohemia Bartenders” we.

  “Where does Mr. Cray live?”

  “Mr. Cray. He’ll like that.” Neil grinned. “He’s in the Garden District.”

  Fifteen minutes and a cab ride later, we were dropped off in front of a mansion right out of The Munsters. From what I could see through the big oaks dripping Spanish moss in the unkempt front yard, the exterior was gray-green like the moss, with black shutters. It had multiple peaks and gothic spires, a balcony that was more Hamlet than Romeo and Juliet, excessive black, gray and white gingerbread trim, and lots of wrought iron.

  “So this guy is a vampire, right?” I asked.

  “He usually prefers rum to blood.” Neil opened the gate in the black cast-iron fence and led me up the sidewalk and the stairs to the weathered gray wooden porch. It was crowded with terra cotta pots that had all kinds of plants growing out of them. I recognized some of the herbs, but most of them were mysteries to me.

  There was no doorbell in evidence. Neil grabbed the hoop of the iron knocker, held in the teeth of a grumpy gargoyle face affixed to the dark green door, and rapped three times.

  It took a few minutes. A crashing sound came from within, and we exchanged glances. And then the door swept open, revealing a tall older man with flyaway white hair. He wore a tattered sweater over a collared shirt and slouchy khakis that looked a size too big.

  “Neil, my son, come in! I was so intrigued by your call this morning. And this is?” He looked at me.

  “I’m Kayanne Revelle, but they call me Pepper,” I said, reaching out a hand.

  He shook it vigorously and replied in run-on Southern, an accent that indicated he probably wasn’t from New Orleans at all. “Conan Cray, but they call me Cray, so I expect you to do the same. Come in, darlings. Oh, yes. Are you married now, then?” he asked Neil.

  Neil made a sound somewhere between a cough and a laugh as we entered the spacious front hall, dominated by a curving staircase and a terrifyingly large chandelier. “Um, no, Pepper is with the Bohemia Bartenders, my company. We do events like Cocktailia.”

  “Of course! My bad. I should know that, but it’s been so long since I’ve visited your little bar in Bohemia.” Despite his words, Cray had a grin on his face that revealed his delight in stirring trouble. “Do y’all want a drink?”

  I was about to say no, but Neil asked, “What did you have in mind?”

  “Well, it just so happens I have this particular new acquisition that I think you’ll appreciate. And it’s so hard to find an appreciative audience these days, isn’t it?”

  I caught Neil’s look. Apparently this was part of the ritual.

  “Sounds nice,” I replied.

  “Nice. Isn’t that cute. Heh heh. Excellent. Go ahead and sit in the parlor there, and I’ll be right back.”

  The parlor was a room off the central hall that held Victorian furniture, bookcases, a fireplace and an air of musty gloom. One sunbeam from a tall window pierced the dimness, revealing a colony of swirling dust that was just a few motes shy of settling into actual piles of dirt.

  Neil gestured to the settee. Cradling my bag, I eased into the creaky seat with a wince. It was ornately carved with a tall padded back under peachy brocade upholstery, and the cushion was shot. Neil joined me, and we waited amid the distant sounds of clinking glass.

  Finally Cray reappeared with a tray and set it on a side table. It held three round-bottomed glasses with flared rims. Each cradled a fat, square chunk of ice. Next to them was a squat bottle with a picture of a pirate on the label. No, not that pirate. It had already been unsealed, so Cray popped off the top and poured us each a couple of fingers of the dark gold liquid. We stood and took our glasses off the tray.

  Cray held up his. “To pirates and rogues.” He winked at me, and I barely suppressed a smirk. Most of the time, I didn’t mind indulging flirting from crusty old collectors, especially when they were handing out rum that smelled this good. I swirled it around the glass, noting its heavy legs as it dripped down the sides, and took a sip. I held it on my tongue for a moment—vanilla. Banana? It burned gently on the way down.

  Neil looked up with a sigh. “That’ll do.”

  Cray chuckled. “Yes, it’s quite nice, isn’t it?” He threw my word back at me.

  “Very nice, though maybe not the best rum I’ve ever had,” I said.

  “Oh-ho! Peppery response from Pepper. And she’s right, of course,” Cray said. “But it’s been twenty years in the making on a lovely little island in Spain, and I’d say they were well spent. Someday I’ll show you the vault, and we’ll pick out something more to your liking. But for now, I believe you wanted to ask me something?”

  Neil knocked back his rum, lifted the glass in salute and set it back on the tray. “Thank you. And yes, we had an incident yesterday with some bad whiskey, and we’d like you to test it.”

  “You intrigue me!” Cray set down his half-full glass. I drank down the rest of mine as Neil had and returned the glass to the tray. Maybe I’d been a little snooty about the rum, but it was still pretty damn good, and I didn’t want to waste it.

  “Can I be assured of your confidence?” Neil asked Cray.

  “I’m like a priest. A priest of rum.” He made the sign of the cross in the air. “Come with me, darlings.”

  We followed him on a journey up the sweeping staircase and then up another to a third-floor landing with a lone door. Cray withdrew a key from his pocket, unlocked it with a click and pushed it open.

  We followed him into a marvelous chamber of light and modernity. It was a clean, roomy lab, with glass beakers and test tubes and flasks and microscopes arrayed on stainless-steel tabletops. There were bright lights overhead, enhanced by small dormer windows set into the slanted ceilings.

  “Invented anything lately?” Neil asked.

  “No, just playing around a bit with paper cocktails.” He bent down and pulled out a small tray from a short refrigerator. “Try one?”

  Neil picked up a translucent piece of orange paper embedded with darker fragments of color, about the size of a stick of gum. He broke it in half, put half in his mouth, and handed the other half to me.

  Pleased and surprised, I took it and laid it on my tongue just as Neil said, “Scotch?”

  “Very good!” Cray exclaimed. “And?”

  “Orange,” I said, chewing. It had the consistency of dried seaweed and a citrusy bitterness that teased my tongue. “And an amaro of some kind.”

  “Aperol, and a few other things. She’s good,” Cray said to Neil.

  “I know.” Neil nodded at my bag. Enough fun. Time to find out what was really in the Bohemia whiskeys. I extracted the bottles.

  “Oh, my!” Cray said when he saw my elaborate wrapping and skull and crossbones. “That doesn’t look good.”

  Neil looked like he was swallowing a laugh. “It isn’t good.” He explained about Barnie
and the suspected methanol poisoning. “We just want to confirm that’s what it is before we go further.”

  “Then let’s not waste any time.” Cray grabbed a bottle and began unwrapping it. I did the same with the other. Soon, the attractively rotund Bohemia Beachside Bourbon and taller Bohemia Rye bottles were staring at us from the counter. “You haven’t opened these, I see.”

  “One empty bourbon bottle was on the floor next to Barnie,” Neil said. “I pulled another bourbon randomly from a case and opened it. We tasted it and confirmed it was off. Pepper grabbed these from other cases. Right?”

  “Right. I raided four cases in all, two bourbon, two rye. So I guess it’s possible these aren’t contaminated. I would’ve brought the one we opened, but they’d already dumped it.”

  Neil pulled his wine key from his pocket, but Cray held up a hand. “Allow me,” he said. From a drawer, he extracted a razor knife and began cutting delicately through the wax on the bourbon, peeling pieces away with his fingers. Then he eased the stopper out slowly. He brought the whiskey to his nose and sniffed. His eyebrows lifted. He grabbed a beaker and poured an ounce, then lifted it to his lips.

  “But shouldn’t you—” I said, alarmed.

  Cray raised a hand to stop my protest and took a sip. Then he spit it back into the beaker, much as Dash had done. “I’ll be more scientific about it, I promise, but that there is alcohol abuse. I expect it would be quite tasty without that nasty additive.”

  A corner of Neil’s mouth lifted. “Additive?”

  “Oh, well, it might have happened in the distillation, but then it might not be so obvious. The poor man who fell ill must not have much of a palate.”

  “He works for Dash Reynolds,” Neil said, “but he doesn’t have anything to do with distilling. He drank a whole bottle of the stuff, so he must not have much restraint, either, regardless of whether he has taste.”

  The edge of judgment in Neil’s voice surprised me. “Or he was bored to death,” I replied, then bit my lip. “Hopefully not literally.”