I had to say his response came as a surprise. I was expecting him to fall into the narrow-minded nationalist camp.
“I haven’t sampled any of the Indian whiskies yet,” I confessed, “but some of the Japanese stuff is excellent. I tried the Takai earlier this evening. It was brilliant.”
“Hinatu has a beautiful dram there,” Sir Richard agreed. “One of my favorites so far. Lots of nice ripe melon and anise flavors. He should be proud.”
He flagged down a waiter and ordered two whiskies.
“And do your fellow judges share your views about these new whiskies?” I asked.
“Some are harder to convince than others, but it’s a blind tasting so we’ll soon see what’s what. Can’t really bugger things up even if they try. The best will out.”
“So, in theory, you could have a foreign sweep?” I said.
“Good God, that really would set the cat amongst the pigeons. They’d never recover.” Richard chuckled to himself at the thought, his eyebrows wriggling like furry caterpillars. “No, not a foreign sweep, ma dear, but we’ll have a good one or two, I’ll wager.”
The waiter returned with the drinks and Sir Richard handed me a glass of flame-colored whisky. A rich dram with hints of orange and spice.
He smiled at the look of pleasure on my face. “Indian,” he said with satisfaction. “I told you they were good. This is a brand-new product. They use old sherry casks that have had wine and orange peels stored in them for three years. Gives it that orange finish that’s so delightful. Bit like a Grand Marnier.”
“It’s gorgeous,” I agreed.
“It’ll be whisky coolers next,” a gentleman across the other side of the fire from us said with a disdainful sniff.
Sir Richard nudged me in the ribs. “Jude MacNamara is our new president at the Malt Whisky Society. You’d think he’d have a broader palate, wouldn’t you?” He waved a finger at MacNamara. “I’ll lay odds you’ve never even tasted this.”
“Don’t need to taste a chocolate haggis to know it’s just plain wrong,” MacNamara said. “There’s a world of grain and water out there used to make whisky, but it doesn’t mean it’s good and it certainly doesn’t make it Scotch.”
“These old goats just don’t want to see anyone else dabbling in the art of whisky,” Richard said in a commanding voice. “We marauded in, colonizing all over the place, dragging along our culture and all our odd quirks. Introduced our friends in the subcontinent to our fine whiskies. Why wouldn’t they try distilling themselves? Bloody cheek to begrudge them.”
I could see Archie, Richard’s laconic buddy from the falconry, nodding slightly to his right, but there were several more seated in the glow of the fire’s light who clearly did not agree. Patrick slipped in next to me, and Brenna and Grant took up the remainder of the curved couch. I watched Brenna watching Grant. He was not looking at her. It was hard to tell if he was actively distancing himself or whether he was simply engrossed in the conversations around him.
“Here we go,” Patrick said softly in my ear. “Richard’s on his soapbox. Up till now it’s just been the odd foreigner that’s been nominated. They’ve been treated with amused tolerance, but this year we’ve had nominees from Japan, India, Taiwan, and even Texas, of all things. Some first-rate whiskies.”
Grant must have been tuned in, because he turned and chimed in across Brenna. “The foreigners were tolerated when the nominations were seen as polite but empty gestures. Now that these entrants are actually competitive, it’s hit a raw nerve.”
“Haven’t there always been other whisky makers, the Americans and the Canadians?” I said, nodding toward Brenna.
“Absolutely,” Brenna agreed, “but the Canadians use corn and rye to make their whisky and the Americans have traditionally used corn, wheat, and rye. Hence the names Bourbon and Rye. This year’s nominees from outside of Scotland are making pure barley spirits. Some malted, some plain. Just the way the Scottish do. The only difference now is the terroir.”
Patrick nodded. “Getting hard to distinguish the various producers.”
“So they’re out-scotching the Scots,” I said.
“Exactly,” Brenna said with a smile. “Grant’s right. You have a good instinct for the business.”
I tried to like her. I honestly tried, but I didn’t. I turned back to Sir Richard to hide the emotions on my face. He was still blasting his fellow whisky lovers with a diatribe on the evils of being an insular “nationalist” and not a progressive “globalist.” I thought the analogy to post–World War I Britain was a bit heavy-handed, but Sir Richard seemed to be enjoying the rumpus. He continued to drink at a serious pace, the gleam in his eye increased as the debate grew more intense, but his arguments, if anything, became more eloquent.
Hugh Ashworth-Jones, our sporting friend from the falcons, had joined the Society president and chief nationalist Jude MacNamara. While we were playing with the birds earlier, I’d learned that Ashworth-Jones had been on the board of directors at the Scottish conglomerate Central Spirits for many years. I would’ve thought he would be a strong nationalist himself, but he simply watched with amusement as Richard pontificated, not chiming in either pro or con. No doubt wise, as he was supposed to be an impartial judge.
The debate showed no signs of letting up, with fervent supporters on both sides, until the group’s attention was diverted by the antics of a drunk guest who was having trouble staying atop his bar stool. He attempted to order another drink but was gently, yet firmly, escorted from the club.
I watched Richard and Archie shake their heads, turning their backs to the unfolding scene, their faces reflecting anger—the old-school judgment against a gentleman who can’t hold his liquor. I was feeling a bit overdone and tired myself. It had been a long day. Finally, Brenna rose to go and asked Grant to walk her back to the hotel. Grant looked at me and asked if I wanted to go as well. I was sure Brenna was looking for a chance to be alone with Grant. Out of a combination of spite and exhaustion, I tagged along. Trevor came over and took my place next to Patrick as I slid out of the circle of the fire pit. I stole the blanket and wrapped it around my shoulders as we walked back to the main building. Brenna made a brief attempt at conversation that fell flat, and we all drifted into silence.
I found myself idly thinking about the rabble-rousing Sir Richard, and the words self-important, clever, and blunt materialized. A wealthy man, not stupid by any means, but opinionated and inclined to view the world as rightfully his for the taking. I’d double-check with Patrick, who’d known him longer, but my initial instincts about people were usually sound. Whenever I met someone new, I’d developed a habit of creating a verbal sketch in three words. The first three words that pop into my head. I don’t always understand the significance of the words when they come, but the picture usually comes into focus in the end. Call it instinct or insight, it hadn’t failed me yet, and the best of my photographic portraits always captured the essence of the crucial three words.
Back in the room, Liam and I curled up under the lush feather duvet. I barely noticed when Patrick staggered in around midnight and hit the bed next to mine. We slept the sleep of the dead for the next seven hours until a piercing shriek from the room next door shot us all out of bed.
Chapter 5
Liam began barking and Patrick jumped to his feet, swaying on the spot. He looked as if he wasn’t quite sure how he’d landed where he was, and the lavender floral boxer shorts did little to inspire confidence in his ability to fight off a malevolent intruder. I grabbed a sweater from the bottom of my bed and slipped it on over my pajamas. Patrick grabbed a hotel robe and followed me out the door. Our maid, Sophie, was standing in the hallway outside the room to the right of ours. Her face was ashen and she was trembling all over. Several sleepy faces peered from other doors down the corridor. I was surprised to see Grant emerge from the room on the other side of ours looking
like he’d not slept much.
“What’s wrong?” I asked, rushing to Sophie’s side.
“It’s Sir Richard, he’s…he’s not well.” She trailed off.
Patrick pushed his way through the open door and quickly reemerged looking shaken. He pulled me to one side and whispered, “Not well! He’s dead.”
I felt a chill run up my spine. Not another death. I didn’t mean to be selfish, but I couldn’t help wondering why death was always dogging my heels. “Are you sure? Maybe he just passed out,” I whispered hopefully.
“Of course I’m sure,” he sputtered through clenched teeth, a mixture of indignation and alarm on his face.
I turned back to Sophie. “Is there a doctor on call?”
“Aye. I’ll ring downstairs,” she said. “But I donnae think it’ll help.” She made a small hiccupping sound and started to cry.
“Come in and sit down,” I said, gesturing to our room. Grant put a hand under her elbow and helped her to the settee. I brought the phone over and poured a dash of whisky from the bottle on the table.
She looked at the glass wistfully before saying, “No, miss. I couldn’t.” She picked up the phone instead and put a call in to the front desk. I removed the whisky, downed it myself, and returned with a glass of water.
Sophie took a grateful sip. “Poor man. He was so full of life yesterday.”
“When did you last see him?” I asked instinctively.
“As he was heading down to dinner.” Sophie blew her nose on a tissue from the pocket of her uniform. “He was with Mr. MacInnes and his brother and Mr. Harukawa. They were laughing as they left.”
I heard the ping of the lift echoing down the hallway. Sophie jumped to her feet and smoothed down the skirt of her uniform.
A stray curl had escaped from the neat chignon at her neck. I tucked it behind her ear and patted her on the arm. “It’ll be alright,” I whispered.
I followed Sophie and Grant into the hall in time to see the hotel manager, Larson, hurrying toward the guests lingering in the hallway. “I can’t apologize enough for the disturbance, ladies and gentlemen,” Larson said. “Everything is in hand now. Please, please feel free to return to your rooms.” On that subtle note he proceeded to shepherd the guests back into their respective rooms, including Grant and ourselves, steering Sophie away from us.
I reluctantly closed the door and rejoined Patrick, who was now sitting in the middle of the bed looking glum.
“Poor old sod was in fine fettle all evening,” Patrick said.
“He’d been drinking a lot,” I pointed out.
Patrick rolled his eyes. “He always drank a lot. Even I couldn’t keep up. But he was a happy drunk. High spirited, convivial.”
“Maybe he just overdid it,” I suggested gently. “A lifetime of good living coming home to roost.” I didn’t want to belabor the point, but Richard Simpson was a middle-aged man. Fond of his food and drink and clearly not given to excessive bouts of physical activity. A heart attack or a stroke would certainly be a reasonable possibility, but I couldn’t help feeling unsettled. Maybe it was simply the proximity of yet another death.
Patrick poured himself a drink and dragged Liam up on the bed next to him, unconsciously seeking the silent and absolute comfort that only a good dog can provide.
I left them in peace and went to take a long, hot shower and wash away the night’s overindulgence. While I was gone a large pot of tea and a plate of freshly made miniature croissants had arrived compliments of the hotel. Patrick had wisely traded his whisky for a cup of strong, sweet tea. But he still sat cross-legged in the middle of the bed, with Liam’s head resting in his lap.
“I wonder if they’ll suspend the competition,” Patrick murmured.
“I don’t think Richard would’ve wanted that.” I pulled on a pair of jeans and a clean shirt. “I didn’t know much about him, but from what I could see he was all about the whisky.”
“True.” Patrick sighed. “I know he wasn’t in the best shape, but still. This was too soon.” Liam sat up and licked Patrick on the nose.
He pulled a face, but I noticed he landed a kiss in the soft fur on the top of Liam’s head. “I guess I’d better pull myself together and get downstairs.”
I grabbed one of the buttery rolls from the tray and dragged Liam out for his morning constitutional. The hallway was quiet and the door to Simpson’s room was closed and silent. We slipped down the back stairs and out the rear door into the morning chill.
A light snow had fallen overnight, leaving the grounds looking even more magical under a soft cloak of white. But beautiful as it was, no one was foolhardy enough to be out in the icy wind when there was a lush heated oasis nearby overflowing with gorgeous food and drink. Even Liam made a hasty job of his business. The door we came out of had locked behind us, and we were forced to walk around the hotel and reenter through the lobby.
The main dining room was filled with guests, and I did my best to avoid eye contact as I snuck past the doorway. I was in no mood for conversation at the moment, but stepping off the lift on the third floor, I ran smack into Detective Inspector Ian Michaelson. He and I had crossed paths on two prior occasions, both involving murder. Michaelson was everything a policeman should be. Steely, tenacious, scrupulous. When we first met, I thought he looked too young to be a DI, but I noticed that traces of gray had appeared at his temples since then. Probably a testament to stress more than years, but it made him look older. After a wary start, we’d managed to build a fitful rapport based on a slowly growing mutual respect.
“What brings you here?” I asked.
“The Lodge is within my jurisdiction,” he replied. “More to the point, what’re you doing here?”
“I’m representing the Glen. We were nominated for a couple of Quaich Awards,” I said, moving toward the door of our room.
Michaelson rolled his eyes. “And, of course, you’re next door to the victim.”
I spread my hands wide. “I had nothing to do with this one,” I protested. “I was asleep and minding my own business.” I registered belatedly that Michaelson had used the word victim rather than referring to Sir Richard by the more conventional term deceased.
Before I could raise the issue, Michaelson said, “What can you tell me about Sir Richard Simpson?”
“I took photos of him once many years ago, but we really only met socially yesterday. Patrick knows him, though. Come on in and talk to him.”
Patrick was in the process of choosing an uncharacteristically somber tie from the collection on the bed as we entered. “Look who I found loitering outside.”
Patrick extended a hand. “Have you been called in about Richard?” he asked, surprised.
“Precautionary matter in this sort of unexplained death,” Michaelson replied shortly.
By “this sort of death” he means a peer of the realm, I thought. The average Joe wouldn’t get this kind of attention.
“Abi tells me you knew Simpson?” Michaelson probed.
“Yeah. His younger brother Trevor and I have been friends for years,” Patrick said. “Sir Richard’s a big whisky collector, and he’s on the judges’ panel this year.”
“Did you see him yesterday?”
“Of course. He joined us for a falconry program in the afternoon, then Trev and I stopped by his room for a chat before dinner. He was having a drink with Archie MacInnes and Hinata Harukawa.”
Michaelson looked up from his notes. “What were they drinking?”
“Whisky. Hinata had given bottles of his newest distillation to all the attendees. Archie and Richard were working their way through it at a good clip.”
“Did you have a drink?”
“Just a quick one.”
“What time did you leave?”
“Got back to the room here about six thirty and met up with Abi.”
/>
“Did you see Simpson at dinner?”
“Yes. We were at the same table.”
“And he seemed well? Not complaining of any pains or illness?”
“No, he was fine. Nothing bothered him. He could drink us all under the table.”
“What time did he leave the event last night?”
“He left when we did,” I chimed in. “We all went to the bar at the golf club after the opening dinner. Must’ve been about nine. A group of us came back around ten thirty. Patrick and the others came back later.”
Michaelson turned back to Patrick and raised an eyebrow.
“We were there till half past eleven before walking back to the main hotel,” Patrick elaborated. “It was probably close to midnight when we said good night.”
“Just you and Sir Richard? No one else was with you?”
“By the time we got to the third floor it was just the two of us.” Patrick looked vaguely uncomfortable under Michaelson’s intense scrutiny.
“Did you go into the victim’s room at all?”
“Just for a moment. He wanted to give me the name of a chap in France who was doing some interesting things with casks. He thought it might make a good story for the Whisky Journal.” Patrick picked up a slip of paper from the nightstand and handed it to Michaelson.
“How long did you stay?”
“Less than a minute,” Patrick insisted.
Michaelson looked back at me. “Can you confirm what time Patrick came in?”
“Yea, it was right around twelve.”
I frowned slightly. Michaelson was focusing on Patrick’s whereabouts rather intently, and there was that word victim again. Before I could speculate further, Michaelson gestured toward the hallway.
“Can I have a word, Logan?”
I followed him outside, leaving Liam with Patrick.
“Do you have cameras in tow for this event?”
“Always. Why?”
“Don’t read too much into this, but I need someone to take photos of the room next door. Half the bloody precinct’s down with the flu and I’m trying to do five things at once. I need someone who’s not squeamish.” He hesitated for a moment. “And I need someone I can rely on.”
Deadly Dram Page 5