Risky Whiskey

by Lucy Lakestone

  “I’ve got it,” Millie said. “I’ll charge it to Neil. And he’ll charge it to Dash.”

  “If he has any money left,” I muttered under my breath, leaping out of my seat.

  “I’ll go too!” Bennett said, glee in his voice, following me as I ran out of the restaurant and across the lobby, bumping into people as I headed for the stairs. “What are we looking for?”

  “A guy with a hat. I mean, hang on—” My phone was still in my hand, so I zoomed through galleries, retrieving the photos as I ran. And tripped on the stairs.

  Bennett caught my elbow before I face-planted. “Easy there.”

  I found the photo of the hat and showed it to him. “Stop anybody who’s wearing this hat. Probably a guy with a beard, but it might be someone else. A guy picked it up. That’s all I know.”

  “And this guy is?”

  “There’s a small chance he tried to kill Dash and me and Neil the other night.”

  “Good to know,” Bennett said, deadpan, as we got to the second-floor lobby with its handful of ballrooms and a huge crowd of people waiting to get into them.

  “Yeah. Be careful. I hate being short. I can’t see a damn thing.” I jumped up, scanning the crowd with each hop.

  “Is that it?” Bennett asked, pointing to a far corner.

  I jumped once, twice, and got a good look. “Looks like it. Let’s get him!”

  We started pushing our way through the noisy crowd, to grumblings and occasional elbows in our bellies. And then the double doors of the biggest ballroom opened, and the crowd starting pouring out.

  All wearing hats. Straw hats with patterned gray and white bands.

  “What the—?” I choked out as I tried to get through the crowd to the guy we’d targeted. But it was hopeless. We were adrift in a sea of hats, people trying to get to their next seminar or lunch. The hats might not have been the fancy product of Chapeau Brothers, but they were awfully similar.

  “Is this a joke?” Bennett asked with a breath of laughter. At least he appreciated the absurdity of the situation.

  “Look closely. See? The band has a logo on it. They’re vodka swag.”

  “I’d rather have vodka,” he said.

  “I’d rather have whiskey, but we can talk about that later. Maybe we can still get our guy if we can tell them apart.”

  “Let’s split up,” Bennett said. “I’ll move toward the elevators, see if I can intercept him. You keep headed in the direction we first saw him.”

  “OK. Text me or shout if you get him.”

  “Ditto,” he said, and we split up.

  Now I was barely moving through the crush as the seminars switched out. Every once in a while I hopped up to get a better view, but I still couldn’t see the bearded guy with the original hat. At least I didn’t know if I was seeing him or not.

  Another ballroom began disgorging its guests as some of the folks who’d been hanging out in the lobby moved into the room. And everywhere were the damn gray-and-white-banded straw hats. Actually, faux straw, I was pretty sure. But it’s not like I had the time to check the weave and the stitching. I glanced at each hatted head. Beard? No. Logo? Yes. Move on. Move on. Move on.

  As I was looking in one direction, I ran into yet another cursed mixologist. “Sorry,” I said, looking up to find myself face-to-face with Neil. “Oh.”

  “Yeah, oh.” He had his stoic face on, with maybe just a microscopic spark of humor in those gray eyes. I could not deal with thinking about last night right now. “Millie said you spotted the hat guy and that you were heading up to the ballrooms.”

  “I saw him in that direction, and then Jesus multiplied the mixologists and that ballroom barfed out a hundred people wearing hats.”

  He laughed and looked around. “So now what?”

  “The pretenders have logos on their hatbands. And I think our guy went that way.” I pointed to one end of the lobby, where there was another ballroom entrance and a corridor that curved around toward guest rooms and the back stairs.

  In the minute we’d been talking, the crowd had thinned, and we were able to move more quickly, but the One True Hat failed to make an appearance by the time we reached the other end of the second-floor lobby.

  “Back stairs?” Neil asked.

  “Maybe, but he came up the stairs to here, so I don’t know why he’d do that. Unless his room is on this floor.”

  Bennett jogged up to us. “The hats are pretty much gone, and I didn’t see the guy come to the elevator.”

  “I have a thought before we go banging on every door on the second floor,” Neil said, glancing at the ballroom door.

  “That’s a good thought,” I said. He might be in the seminar.

  We approached the door—now closed after its exchange of prisoners—and I gingerly opened it. A New York cocktail columnist was on stage, waxing rhapsodic about seventeenth-century punches. And there were about eight people in the room wearing hats.

  “I’ll wait here in case he does a runner,” Bennett whispered.

  Neil and I nodded and moved up the center aisle between the rows of tables and chairs, each of us checking the hatted ones. Until I saw a hat that stood out from the vodka crowd. I waved at Neil, and he waved at me as if to say, “Go ahead.”

  Thanks for nothing. I grimaced. Of course the guy was in the middle of the row. Instead of squeezing behind the chairs at the tables, I waved at him, smiling, gesturing that he come out.

  He did have a huge beard, just as the hat-store clerk had suggested. He also had flushed cheeks that indicated he’d already been enjoying all that Cocktailia had to offer this morning. He smiled at me, glanced at my boobs (at least they worked on some men), and worked his way out to the aisle.

  “What is it?” he whispered as the presenter shot us a dirty look.

  “Come outside.” I grabbed the guy by the arm and pulled him toward the door. I wasn’t getting a murderer vibe off of him. More of an inebriated bearded cherub vibe.

  “But I don’t want to miss the first drink.”

  “Shhh.” Bennett opened the door, and Neil followed us out to the lobby. I waited until the door closed. “Where were you Thursday night?”

  “What the hell is this?” the guy asked, starting to look annoyed.

  “Just answer the question,” Neil said.

  “I was at a Distiller Dinner at La Bonne Vie.”

  We exchanged glances. “What about after that?” I asked.

  “I went drinking with friends.”

  “Where?” Neil asked.

  “Does it matter? Look, I need to get back in there.” He blinked. “Hey, aren’t you that guy who wrote the cocktail book that won the award? Way to go, man.”

  “Thanks,” Neil said.

  I tried a sweeter tone. “Tell me about your hat. It’s really nice.”

  “Isn’t it great?” Now he smiled, his lips pink through his Santa-quality brown beard, the dewiness of his buzz shining in his eyes. “I just got it back today. I left it at that damn dinner, but when I went back, they said someone had taken it. I never thought to look in the hotel lost and found before today. Cost me a fortune at Chapeau Brothers.”

  I nodded and inwardly screamed. This guy was a dead end. Probably.

  “Thanks,” Neil said. “I’m sorry we disrupted your seminar. Look, if you give me your name and address, I’ll send you a copy of my book.”

  “Really?” The guy fished in his pockets and pulled out a business card. “That’s awesome. You can send it here. Great to meet you guys. What are you looking for, anyway?”

  “Hats,” Bennett said. “Really nice hats.”

  “Right,” the guy said, nodding in that way drunk people do, as if Bennett’s statement totally made sense. “Right on.”

  He slipped back into the ballroom, letting the door shut behind him.

  “What do you think?” I asked.

  “I think somebody borrowed his hat,” Neil said in exasperation, “maybe accidentally leaving it at the cemetery, maybe o
n purpose.”

  “Well, I’d better get back to Millie,” Bennett said, looking between us, reading the unspoken words. “Call me if you need anything.”

  “Thanks, man,” Neil said. And then, after he left: “We need to talk.”

  22

  “Really, Neil? Do we really have to talk? Because I don’t want to talk about last night. If any occasion called for not talking, it was last night.”

  He shook his head. “I—I’m not ready to talk about last night.”

  “Why not?”

  He quirked up a corner of his mouth. “I thought you didn’t want to talk about it?”

  I rolled my eyes and let out an overly dramatic sigh. “Fine. Then what?”

  “Will you come with me to my book signing? Then we can run errands afterward. I’ve got the others setting up our station at the Lakefront Airport.”

  “What?” Errands? This man confused the hell out of me. But I couldn’t help melting just a little in his confounding presence. “OK.”

  Ten minutes later, we’d retrieved the rental SUV from the parking garage and were on our way to the bookstore. And I couldn’t help poking Neil about our almost-hookup, even if I didn’t want to talk about it. The truth was, I didn’t want to be rejected again, or worse, told in great detail about why he’d turned me down.

  “Tell me again why you turned me down last night.” Yeah, I know. Glutton for punishment.

  Neil, both hands on the wheel, kept his eyes aimed straight ahead. “I didn’t turn you down. Not exactly. You were drunk, and it wouldn’t have been right.”

  “I was sober this morning.”

  “You were sleeping.” He paused. “And if you must know, leaving you this morning was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done.”

  “You didn’t have to leave me.”

  He shot me an exasperated expression. “I think I did. Getting attached to me is a bad idea, Pepper.”

  “That’s pretty presumptuous. Why do you think I plan on getting attached to you? And what does that have to do with you leaving me alone in bed?”

  “Are you saying you need me as just another mark on your bedpost?” he asked in that wry tone that was becoming so familiar.

  I rolled my eyes. “Sure, if I can find any more room to make a scratch.”

  Now he looked a little shocked.

  I laughed. “Just kidding, dude.”

  “Hmph. Well, even if you don’t plan on getting attached to me, I’m worried about getting attached to you.”

  I was stunned into silence. And I wasn’t so sure that I wasn’t getting attached to him, either. I just didn’t want to admit it. I needed to save face somehow after my little performance last night.

  I cleared my throat. “Would it be so bad getting attached to someone?” Not me, of course.

  “People who are close to me don’t end up in happy places.”

  “That’s the vaguest and most melodramatic thing I’ve ever heard.”

  He laughed. “You’re probably right. I’m just no good at taking care of people.”

  “Presumptuous again and wildly inaccurate. You’re always taking care of everyone and everything.”

  For once, his voice lacked the assurance I’d grown used to. “I try.”

  So Neil had problems. We all had problems. And I couldn’t help liking him even more.

  “Listen,” I said. “You don’t have to take care of me. I’ve been taking care of myself for a long time. But if you happen to see a homicidal maniac chasing me, I won’t argue if you clunk him over the head with the nearest bottle of booze, OK?”

  “Not good booze.”

  “That goes without saying.” And I grinned at his joke and maybe, possibly, fell a tiny bit in—

  No. Down, girl.

  We drove in silence for a couple of minutes, heading through the business district.

  I couldn’t keep my mouth shut for that long. “So did you see my tattoo?”

  He guffawed, and the smile stuck on his face. “Did you see mine?”

  “What?” I sat up straight. “You have one?”

  He glanced at me, the twinkle back in his eyes, then focused on the road. “A man has to have a little mystery.”

  I huffed, sat back and crossed my arms. “Says the man in the iron mask over here.”

  Neil laughed again before responding in a low, rough voice that shot right to my lady parts. “I liked the fire.”

  I started to feel a little warm. “I thought you’d like the cocktail shaker part.”

  “That’s cool, especially how you have it launching like a rocket into the stars—”

  “The bartender-astronomer would notice the stars.”

  “Yeah,” he said even more softly, “but the fire from the rocket is lowest on your back. It disappeared into your underwear.”

  “And?” I was imagining him watching me as I slept, his eyes scanning my body with impunity, and the idea had all of me on fire, not just the tattoo.

  He stole a glance at me, then riveted his gaze on the road before replying gruffly, “It gave me ideas.”

  Oh, my. I already had a lot of ideas about Neil. “You’re a tease,” I declared.

  “Me?” Now he really was shocked.

  “Well, it certainly isn’t me.” It was kinda fun keeping Neil off-kilter. My phone started ringing in my purse with my “Rum and Coca-Cola” ringtone. I dug it out and answered. “Millie?”

  “Yeah. I did some quick web research on Tocks. Have a second?”

  Damn, she was fast. “Hang on. I’m putting you on speaker so Neil can hear.” I hit the button. “OK, you’re on.”

  “Tocks Development Corporation has been around since 1964. Raquel Tocks expanded it considerably from where her father left it when he died. He had, shall we say, a lot of other interests. Served some time for wire fraud, bank fraud and conspiracy in a fake mortgage scheme. He was often under investigation or rumored to be involved in more serious stuff, but none of it ever amounted to anything legally.”

  “Like what serious stuff?” Neil asked.

  “Like Miami mob stuff. Like sometimes he’d lose a crony on a permanent vacation, or he’d hook up shady characters in real estate deals.”

  “What about Raquel?” I asked. “Is she clean?”

  “Her record is clean, but it’s hard to say if that reflects the whole reality,” Millie said. “The business looks pretty legit, but her firm is constantly getting slapped with fines and lawsuits for violating environmental laws and stuff like that. And a couple of the guys following her around have records. Her lawyer has some unsavory clients.”

  “How’d you get that?” I asked in wonder.

  “She appeared in photos I found online with one or more of them at society events, and their names were listed in the captions. It was easy to look them up from there. By the way, she had another piece of interesting eye candy at a few galas.”

  “Who?” Neil asked.

  “Travis Reynolds.”

  “Huh. Well, he is pretty hot,” I said for Neil’s benefit.

  “What?” Neil exclaimed, just as Millie started laughing.

  “So are they seriously dating?” I asked Millie as I enjoyed Neil’s reaction.

  “Does Travis do anything seriously? I don’t know their level of involvement. I just found a few photos, a couple in Miami and one from an event in Bohemia Beach.”

  “Maybe she’s courting him to try to buy the distillery building for condos since Dash isn’t all that enthused,” I mused. “Get to Dash through his cousin.”

  “That’s beyond the range of my crystal ball,” she said. “I can let you know if I find out anything else.”

  “Excellent,” Neil said. “Great work, Millie.”

  “Catch you later, girl,” I added, disconnecting.

  Neil looked at me. “Did you ask her to do that?”

  “Yes. Do you mind?”

  He shook his head. “Not at all. It was kind of brilliant. I guess the next question is, do you really thin
k Raquel Tocks would go so far to get her hands on Dash’s building?”

  “If they thought there was enough money in it, sure. Especially if they don’t mind getting their hands dirty, which may very well be the case. And if they anticipated the bad whiskey would be discovered, maybe they’re just trying to scare Dash, not kill people. Get him to walk away and sell.”

  “The flying arrows in the cemetery seemed like a legit way to kill people. And there was the guy who attacked you.”

  Cold zipped through me. “I’ll grant you, both of those instances scared the shit out of me, but maybe that’s what they were intended to do.”

  He reached over and grasped my hand briefly, then gripped the wheel again as he found parking on the street. “We’re here.”

  23

  The bookstore was nestled in a mini-mall in a funky two-story building in the Garden District. Inside, the store was as strangely constructed as outside, with multiple levels exploding with tables and shelves stuffed with colorful old and new books basking in the light of tall, street-facing windows. I was itching to check out the mystery and romance, but first I wanted to make sure Neil had what he needed. With the help of an annoyingly adorable clerk who kept fluttering her eyelashes in Neil’s direction, he was fully supplied with books, Sharpies and water.

  A modest crowd had shown up to see him. He talked for a few minutes about his book and the pleasures of well-made cocktails, and then he sat at a table decked out in a red tablecloth and piles of his books and started signing and chatting with fans.

  Wait. I knew one of those guys. Oh, hell. He was an ex-boyfriend from my more naive days who’d gone from flunky Bohemia barback to Los Angeles online celebrity mixologist Mr. Mixy. And boy, had he changed. He used to be kind of cute back in the day. I liked him clean-shaven. Now his beard was so big he looked like a Chia Pet. I did not want to see him, but I guessed at Cocktailia, I had to see everybody.

  That didn’t mean he had to see me. I ducked into the stacks and started browsing. No titles jumped out at me in my usual niches, so I moved on to the case that held the cocktail books.

  Ah, The Savoy Cocktail Book by Harry Craddock. I needed to replace mine, an old clothbound edition that had been the victim of a devastating Hanky Panky accident at home—a spilled cocktail, not actual hanky panky, unfortunately. The book had been soaked, prompting me to leave it out to dry on the back patio I shared with my aunt at our duplex.