by F J messina
“Put it in his pick-up?” Sonia asked, incredulous. “Where is it now?”
“At his place.” Holiday’s voice had become level, matter-of-fact. “He lives on a small farm. Got a good-sized barn, though. Told Bobby Ray to just put it in that barn, near the back. Nobody’s going to find it. Not right away.”
Jet cocked her head. “How did Bobby Ray get it off the truck? It’s like five hundred pounds or something, right?”
“Oh, that’s easy.” Holiday still seemed blasé about it all. “John’s got a forklift on his farm. Bought it used from the distillery, I think. Uses it for putting hay up in the barn.”
Sonia fought to keep her eyebrows from crawling up her face. Here was this nicely dressed, polite gentleman, telling them how his friend had told an underling to simply put a barrel with a dead body in the back of his barn. Try as she might to hide her shock, her eyes were wide as she continued to look at Holiday.
He noticed. “Oh, you’re wondering what John did next. I get that. Well, after he sent Bobby Ray off to deal with the body and the barrel, he got on the phone. Started calling all the key players in the bourbon industry. Not the big corporate guys. He called the guys who make the stuff, the guys whose families have made bourbon for over a hundred years. He called the people in the bourbon brotherhood. Told them all we had to meet at his place the next morning, that there was something urgent and confidential that had to be discussed in private. Told them not to tell anyone where they were going─not anyone─not even their wives.”
Sonia looked over at her partner. Jet, queen of the funny accents and instant quips, was mute, speechless. A moment of silence went by. Sonia nudged. “Mason?”
He plowed on. “So, at that meeting, John tells all of us what’s going on. He asks us all to consider the implications. Then he asks everyone for their opinion, what they think we should do. Well, of course, some of the men thought he was crazy for not just calling the police first thing. Others were quick to see things John’s way and thought that we should avoid being reckless as we moved forward.” His gaze went back and forth between Sonia and Jet. “I won’t bore you with the details. All I can say is that, after a very extensive discussion, we kind of came to an agreement, a sort of consensus.”
Holiday was rocking gently back and forth in the wooden chair, but no words were coming out. Sonia knew she had to push him over the edge. “We’re waiting, Mason.”
“Okay, here it is.” Holiday sat up tall again, his hands back on his thighs, unconsciously making himself as tall as possible. “We agreed that we could try to keep the whole thing secret for one week, seven days. After that, we would have to go to the police and let them know what was going on.”
“Are you kidding?” Jet’s voice rose. “You’re waiting seven days to go to the police?”
Holiday looked at her, somewhat apologetically. “That’s what we decided.” He went on quickly. “But we also decided that in those seven days we would do everything we could to figure out what happened, who killed Victor Rasmussen.”
Jet wasn’t backing down. “You? You were going to solve the murder?”
Holiday didn’t hesitate. “Well, not us, someone we would hire.”
Sonia stated the obvious. “And you want us to figure out who did it, right?”
Holiday smiled. It wasn’t the confident smile he’d brought into the room when he first arrived. It was a lame, apologetic smile. “Makes sense, doesn’t it? You took care of that other culprit. In fact, Ms. Vitale, weren’t you involved in another serious case earlier this year?”
Sonia nodded gently, remembering.
Holiday arched his back, ran his thumbs inside the waist of his pants, and tugged. He seemed to regain his original composure. He was once again a man in charge. “Well, ladies, whether you agree with our decision or not, you now know our situation. The question is whether or not you are willing to help us in our time of need.” He didn’t give them time to respond. “I want to remind you of everything that’s riding on this, for our whole bourbon community, in fact, for the whole Commonwealth of Kentucky. Are you able to put your doubts aside and help us find out what happened to Victor Rasmussen, or do we simply file the NDA and go our separate ways?” He paused for just a moment. “I can assure you that your compensation will be more than considerable, and we’ll cover any expenses you might incur.”
Sonia and Jet had a private, silent consultation, each one searching the other’s face for an indication of their feelings. Eventually, Sonia took a deep breath and turned to Holiday, believing she understood Jet’s position. “It seems we are willing to do our part, to do the best we can to figure this out. Before we agree to move forward on this, however, I have one question.” She looked directly into Mason Holiday’s eyes. “When did all of this happen?”
Holiday gave a quick nod. “Wednesday. You have five days left.”
6
The door at the back of the BCI offices closed. Mason Holiday was gone. Sonia remained seated behind her desk, Jet across from her in the red, padded chair. The only sound in the room was the muted traffic noises from down on East Main. Sonia picked up her coffee, long gone cold after the lengthy meeting with Holiday. She took a tiny sip, shook her head, and put the paper cup back down.
Jet didn’t even bother to try hers. “We going to be okay on this, not reporting a crime?”
Sonia ran her fingers through her hair. “You read the study guide for the licensing test. You passed the exam. According to Kentucky statutes, we are no more responsible to report a crime than the average citizen, and they have no responsibility to do so unless they are actually witnessing a violent crime.”
Jet’s eyes opened wide. “And murdering someone then sticking the body in a barrel of bourbon is not a violent crime?”
Sonia took a deep breath. “Technically,” her voice softened, “we didn’t actually witness the crime.” She thought for a moment. “In fact, even John O’Neal didn’t,” she wiggled her fingers in the air, “witness the crime.”
Jet looked at Sonia, her chin lowered. “So, you think O’Neal and Holiday and all those other guys are in the clear?”
Sonia shrugged. “I guess, but they’re dancing awfully close to the lines of tampering with evidence and obstruction of justice, don’t you think?”
Jet spoke, her voice all down-home country. “Close as a turkey walkin’ past a butcher shop on Thanksgiving morning.”
Sonia chuckled then twisted her lips and closed one eye. “But, now that we’re into it, exactly how do we go about figuring out who plopped this guy into a barrel of bourbon─and do it in five days?”
Jet simply shrugged.
Sonia stood and walked out from behind her desk. “I know one thing. We start with some fresh coffee. I’m going downstairs to get some. You look over that list of names Holiday left us. I’ll be back in a couple of minutes.”
For the ladies of BCI, “downstairs,” meant the bakery over which their offices were located, Magee’s. Opened in 1956, Magee’s had become somewhat of an icon in Lexington. Many a retirement cake, birthday cupcake, and Sunday-morning-family-tradition donut had come out of the place. It had quite an assortment of regulars, and that certainly included Sonia and Jet. For them, one of the few things that offset the heat of the summer and the cold of the winter that plagued their upstairs offices was the sweet and inviting aromas of freshly baked pastries and rich, hot coffees that emanated from Magee’s and wafted into their workspace. The other things, of course, were cheap rent and an opportunity to put their Bluegrass Confidential Investigations sign right over one of the best known and most-often-visited places in town.
Sonia walked to the counter and was greeted by Hildy, the same older woman who greeted her every morning. Hildy’s face was a question mark. “Back again so soon?”
Sonia shrugged. “Just had a heck of a meeting. Never did get a chance to drink the coffee before it went cold.”
“Don’t you worry. You just go get yourself a nice hot cup on the
house.” Hildy gave her a wink. “We guarantee the best hot coffee in town, even if you’re the one who lets it get cold.”
Sonia tipped her head in a “You’re so sweet,” kind of way. “Thanks, Hildy.” She turned and headed for the coffee bar, which had recently been moved to the back wall of the bakery.
Hildy called out after her. “And get a cup for that partner of yours. I’m sure she could use one as well.” Sonia put the lids on two steaming hot cups of Southern Pecan coffee brought in from Lexington Coffee & Tea Company, a popular local institution that actually roasted and ground the beans right in town at the back of the Coffee Times Coffee House.
A warm breeze crossed Sonia’s face when she stepped out of Magee’s and turned left then left again at the bottom of those wooden stairs. She didn’t know if it was the climb in front of her or the weight of having only five days to figure out who had done in Victor Rasmussen that made her feel weary. One way or the other, there was no spring in her step as she began the long climb back to the BCI offices.
When she stepped inside, Sonia saw that Jet was still sitting in the red, padded chair at Sonia’s desk. “Thought I’d stay in here to work. My desk is covered with all kinds of stuff from those other cases.”
Sonia moved to her own desk, chuckling inwardly. Like there’s ever a time your desk isn’t one big pile of other stuff. Fully aware that they were going to have to temporarily set aside all of those new cases, she asked, “So, what’ve we got, partner?”
“Well, here’s the list of people Mason Holiday thought we needed to look into.” Jet tipped her head and twanged. “It ain’t short.” She held a yellow pad out to Sonia.
Sonia put the coffee cups down on her desk, took the list, then plopped into the rolling chair behind her desk. “Whew. You’re not kidding. There must be twenty or twenty-five names here.”
Jet nodded. “Right, but look. Holiday put stars by seven of them. Those are the seven he wants us to talk to first.”
Sonia sat up straighter, “Why these seven? I mean, I recognize most of the distilleries they represent, but . . . .”
“And that’s why. Those seven are the big boys, the ones who would have the most to lose if the murder of Victor Rasmussen managed to screw things up for the bourbon industry.”
Sonia furrowed her brow as she looked at Jet. “And Holiday wants us to talk to these folks? The guys in his own group? Does he think one of his own guys murdered Rasmussen?”
Jet just shrugged.
Sonia tapped on the yellow pad, “I guess he’s thinking that in the best-case scenario these folks can send us in the right direction to find out who killed the guy.”
“And in the worst case?”
Sonia leaned back in her chair, letting out a short breath. “In the worst case, it turns out that it really is one of these guys who did it.” She shook her head slowly. “Tough stuff.” Taking the lid off her coffee, Sonia took a cautious sip. “So, where are we headed?”
Jet took back the pad as Sonia turned on her laptop. A few moments later she was reading from it as Sonia made notes on the computer. “Okay. Looks like we’ll be talking to almost all the folks on the Bourbon Trail. We’ve got the master distillers at Bald Knob Trace, Settler’s Pride, Johnston Srpings, Elk Horn, Woodland Acres, Sandhill Crane, James Bennington─they’re the ones who make Bartholomew Hughes and Kendall Run as well─and of course, Horatio Blevins.”
Sonia shook her head. “Wow. That’s a bunch of folks to talk to, and surreptitiously, at that. Holiday made it clear that we can’t raise a bunch of suspicion by asking the right questions in the wrong places.”
Jet reached out and took the lid off her coffee. “We could do it over the phone.”
Sonia raised her hand, her index and middle fingers pointing upward. “Two things we learned last week. First, if you’re afraid someone might not be completely honest with you, you’ve got to talk to them face to face.”
Jet nodded. “You’re absolutely right. If you hadn’t made us drive down to Danville last week, who knows if we would have been able to get to the bottom of that mess. What’s number two?”
Sonia took a deep breath. “I never told you this, but after we got trapped in that apartment, having left our guns in the car, I made a promise to myself. Never again am I going to get caught working without a weapon on me.” She slowly took a sip of coffee and paused a moment. “Trust me, before we go talking to any of these folks, you and I are going down to see Ray at the gun shop down on Regency. He gave us a good deal on the Glocks we bought, and I’ll bet he’s got something small that can work for us as well. You know, something easily carried, but something with a little punch, if you know what I mean.”
“Alright, Annie Oakley. If that’s how you want to play it, I’m in. Right after lunch you and I are going gun shopping, and God help the man who gets in our way after that.”
7
By three o’clock that afternoon, Sonia and Jet had finished their shopping trip. They had gone to Evans Firearms on Regency Road, local but not small, and had a pretty lengthy conversation with the owner. In the end, Sonia had walked out with a sweet little Smith and Wesson Airweight. It was a five-shot, .38 special snub-nosed revolver. Not as small and hip as the Sig Sauer P938 Jet had purchased, but it had one advantage over any semi-automatic pistol. It never jammed.
Sonia had also chosen a simple holster that allowed her to wear her Smith on her ankle, hidden from view if she was wearing boot-cut jeans. Looks still mattered. If she wore anything tighter, she would have to be content with carrying the gun in her purse or in a small holster she could attach to her belt and would have to cover with a top.
After making their purchases, Sonia and Jet had driven out to an indoor shooting range in Brannon Crossing. They’d each fired twenty-five rounds with their new weapons just to familiarize themselves with the guns and to get some real experience with how they felt in their hands when fired. As Jet drove them back to town, Sonia started a new line of conversation. “You know, I’ve been thinking.”
“Well, there’s a news flash.” Jet turned and smiled. “Honey you’re always thinking.” She looked back at the road. “So, what’ve you been thinking about?”
Sonia kept her eyes forward as well. “Okay. We’ve got five days to try to figure out what happened to Victor Rasmussen. Mason Holiday thinks we should talk to seven different men from distilleries all over the state, men who might have nothing at all to do with this and who may know nothing more about it than Mason Holiday himself.”
“Uh huh.”
“Don’t we also have to talk to other people, his family, other people who knew him?”
“Absolutely.” Jet paused, then went on. “Look, it’s obvious that some people in the bourbon industry are pretty upset about Sultan’s Choice coming out soon. But that doesn’t mean it wasn’t someone else who pickled the poor bastard in bourbon.”
“I know, right?” Sonia brushed a wisp of hair out of her face. “And before we left the office, I did some quick research and dug down into his family background. Guess what that does to the list of people we’ve got to talk to?” She started ticking names off on her fingers. “There’s his father, his mother, his sister, wife number one, wife number two, his son. That’s six. Now we’re up to fourteen and we haven’t even followed any leads, you know, spoken to someone who told us there was a someone else we should talk to.”
Jet checked her rearview mirror. “And what about folks at the Blevins distillery? We should be talking to them, right? I mean, somehow, somebody got onto the property and dropped the fool into that barrel.”
Sonia twisted her lips. “I don’t know. Maybe not at first. Remember, Holiday needs us to be discreet, and I don’t think anyone out there, other than O’Neal and Bobby Ray, knows anything about this. We don’t want to start arousing suspicion, at least not at first.”
Jet was silent for a moment then glanced quickly at Sonia. “Still, that’s an awful lot of folks to get to in five days. What about your
hunky fiancé? Any chance he can help us?”
“I called him while I was downstairs getting coffee. He was blown away by what those guys had gotten themselves into, and he was concerned about us getting caught up in it too. But he said that whatever we get involved with he would always have our backs. I did, however, make it clear that it’s our investigation.” She paused. “Still, this is one hell of a time press.”
“You bet your dang hushpuppies.” There was just a trace of southern belle in her voice. “That’s an awful lot of face to face, and it’s got to be done by someone who knows what they’re doing.”
Jet drove on, and it wasn’t long before she was pulling into the parking lot at Magee’s. As she did, an old, blue Chevy Caprice with Ohio plates and a banged-up front fender caught Sonia’s eye. Hmmm. When they reached the bottom of those steps, Sonia looked up. There, sitting on the top step in the warm, Friday afternoon sun, blue jeans, sandals and a burgundy, flouncy top floating on her body, was her sister. The words “drop-dead gorgeous” ran through Sonia’s mind.
“It’s about time.” The words fell down from above. “I’ve been sitting here for over an hour. Don’t you guys ever work?”
Sonia didn’t say a word as she climbed the stairs, but if the sun hadn’t been out, the smile on her face would have lit up the parking lot nonetheless. Just a touch breathless at the top of the steps, she reached out her arms. “Tee, come here, you. Give me a hug.” There was a special joy that flowed through her body as she held her baby sister, smelled the fragrance of her shampoo, felt the softness of her hair. “What are you doing here?”
“Oh, I don’t know. It’s Friday afternoon. The stock market is closed and I won’t be called on to make any earth-shattering decisions as regards the national debt. I’m letting some of my friends use my yacht for the weekend, and my polo match got canceled because nobody was willing to play my team, which, by the way, never loses. So . . . .”