“Sure. Let me grab my gear.” Patrick gave me a raised eyebrow, but I waved off his unspoken question and grabbed my camera bag from the floor of the closet. Michaelson was waiting outside the room and he held Simpson’s door open for me with a gloved hand.
The room was a mirror image of our own. The same silk duvets and the same rose-and-gray-striped settee. The drapes had been thrown open, but the cool light of the cloudy morning did little to dispel the air of gloom.
“I need pictures of Simpson,” Michaelson said. “Close-ups and shots showing the body’s placement in the room. Plus anything else that strikes you. You have a sharp eye and good instincts. Use them now.”
I walked to the edge of the bed and knelt down. Sir Richard was slumped against the pillows of the bed, his face ashen and his eyes glazed over. There was no sign of trauma that I could see, but the sheets were in disarray and his right arm hung down over the side of the bed. An empty whisky glass had fallen from his fingers to the floor and rolled just under the edge of the bed. I touched the carpet adjacent to the glass, but it was dry. If anything had spilled from the glass, it hadn’t been much. The gift bottle of Takai stood empty on the bedside table.
“Looks like he had a nightcap when he got back to the room,” I said, snapping a close-up of the glass. “On top of everything he drank in the bar. Patrick’s right, he must’ve had a cast-iron stomach to drink all that. Do you think this is alcohol poisoning?”
“A reasonable guess, but Patrick said he was usually a heavy drinker. He probably has more capacity than you might credit.” Michaelson picked up the glass and extended it to me. “What do you smell?”
“Musty?” I offered. “And something sickly sweet, almost like toffee.”
“Not the usual whisky smell,” Michaelson agreed.
I looked up at Michaelson from my position on the floor. “Something other than whisky?” I was usually the one to be suspicious, but from the look on his face I was sure Michaelson had picked up on something. Was that why he’d brought me in for photos?
“Tell me what you see,” Michaelson prompted, pointing to the bed.
I examined the scene dispassionately. “Looks like he thrashed about quite a bit. The sheets are all rumpled. I don’t see any signs of physical trauma, but he was clearly in some discomfort before he died. Yet he didn’t call for help.” I looked around the room. A cellphone lay on the table by the fireplace, and the room phone was on the desk. “Maybe he couldn’t get to his phone.”
Michaelson nodded. “Go on.”
“A massive heart attack or stroke would’ve been sudden. Paralyzing even. Death almost immediate. But with the strange smell in the glass, you have to wonder if it could’ve been a reaction to some kind of external stimulus.” Poison sprang to mind, but I didn’t want to sound melodramatic if that wasn’t where he was going.
“Exactly,” Michaelson said with a heavy sigh. “And at least this time I know what I’m looking for.”
“You’ve seen something like this before?”
“Last summer. A kid murdered his father by lacing his cocktail with a heavy dose of nicotine. Poor sod had a massive heart attack.”
“Nicotine? Like in regular cigarettes?”
“Same idea, but stronger. I recognize the smell. The liquid form can be lethal when concentrated, especially if the victim already has health issues.”
“What if you don’t have health issues?”
“Makes you violently ill.”
I couldn’t help frowning. It seemed like a haphazard way to commit a murder. “Is it easy to get hold of?” I asked.
“Online or in any local vaping shop,” Michaelson said grimly, placing the glass in an evidence bag. “It even comes in flavors.”
“So if that’s what we have here, Sir Richard might not even have tasted it.”
“Not after drinking as much as he had, especially if he downed it quickly.” Michaelson shrugged. “The lab can tell soon enough. I’ll put a rush on it. Bloke over there owes me a favor.” He proceeded to bag the bottle of Japanese whisky as well. “There’s one of these in each room, you say?”
“Yes.”
Michaelson picked up the phone and called downstairs, instructing Larson to arrange to have all the bottles removed from the guests’ rooms.
I wandered around Sir Richard’s room taking photos from different angles, trying to ignore the voice in my head screaming, “Another murder.” I submerged myself in the details of the scene in front of me to still the chatter. I’d never done anything like this before, but instinct told me to capture images of what I’d want to see if I were the one asking questions.
I took snaps of the desk and the coffee table in front of the fireplace. There was a tray in the middle of the table, but it was empty. Nothing else seemed to have been disturbed or left in disarray. The bathroom was tidy except for a hand towel draped over the side of the claw-foot tub. Sophie must have tidied up during the turndown service.
“What’s your impression of Sir Richard Simpson?” Michaelson asked.
“We didn’t really know each other,” I hedged.
Michaelson snorted. “That’s never stopped you before.”
I ignored the jab. “He certainly knew his whiskies, and I’d say he was more open-minded than some of his peers. A vocal supporter of the foreign whiskies, even though it wasn’t a popular opinion. He gave them a right earful last night in the bar.”
“Anyone seem particularly put out?”
“Couple of his fellow judges were defending the locals pretty staunchly along with the president of the Malt Whisky Society, but the rest seemed to be taking it all in stride. The squabbling could’ve simply been brought on by the whisky. All the judges seemed to get along just fine when we were out with the falcons yesterday afternoon.”
Michaelson gave me an odd look. “Falcons?”
I shrugged. “It’s a posh place.”
“What can you tell me about the other judges?”
“Archie MacInnes, seems to be Sir Richard’s closest friend here. Known each other since school. Shared some business interests. Got the sense Richard knew Hugh Ashworth-Jones for some time as well. Not sure about Mark Findley and Gordon Craig. Maybe Trev could tell you.”
“Did you know most of the people in the bar?”
“Recognized most of them, at least. It’s pretty much just the whisky crew here at the moment, according to the hotel’s manager. There were a couple of dozen of the whisky crew in the Aerie Bar last night. Most of the rest of the group went on a private tour of the hotel’s cellars after dinner.”
“What about the victim’s brother, Trevor? Was he with you in the bar?”
I thought for a moment. “I’m not sure. I saw him as I was leaving, but I couldn’t say when he arrived.”
Michaelson made a note. “And what about you? What was your personal feeling about Sir Richard? I know you lay great store by your first impressions.”
I thought back to my own initial response. “In a nutshell self-important, but clever and fatally blunt.” I realized belatedly that was a poor choice of words.
“Fatally something,” Michaelson agreed.
“Forthright might be the better word, but he certainly seemed like a man enjoying himself. The life of the party even.” He certainly didn’t look self-assured now. Just empty and hollow. Was all that joie de vivre hiding a deeper pain?
“Could it have been suicide?” I asked.
“It’s possible, but there’s no note. From what I’ve heard so far, he doesn’t strike me as the type to exit quietly.”
I nodded in agreement. “You can tell he’s meticulous. He would’ve left a note.”
“In what way meticulous?”
“Look at the room. All the papers on the desk are neatly stacked; even the business cards he’s collected are in a neat pile.
In the closet his shoes are lined up like little toy soldiers in the shoe rack. He even hung his tie on a hanger. Everything just so.”
A knock at the door announced the arrival of the men from the coroner’s office. As they loaded the body onto a stretcher, Michaelson escorted me out of the room. “Send me those photos as soon as you can, and I can’t believe I’m saying this, but keep your eyes and ears open.”
“Happy to help.”
“Observe, Logan. Don’t interfere. Do you understand?”
“Of course.”
As I walked back to my room I thought about Richard Simpson. Definitely arrogant, but clever and forthright. Michaelson was trotting off down the murder path and I was certainly in no place to second-guess someone else’s instincts, but to me nicotine poisoning seemed like a dicey way to kill someone. It relied on the victim drinking what was expected and responding as expected. That left a lot of room for something to go wrong. Could the culprit simply have been trying to make Richard ill? Plenty of folks were fed up with his views on foreign whisky. I couldn’t help feeling that Richard becoming ill after drinking the Japanese whisky he loved would seem apropos to his detractors. To me it seemed a more reasonable explanation than Michaelson’s more sinister theory of cold-blooded murder.
* * *
—
Patrick had departed by the time I returned to the room, and Liam greeted me as if I’d been gone for a month. He was ready to go, but first I insisted on changing into something more suitable for a day as one of Abbey Glen’s whisky ambassadors. I donned a pair of soft gray wool slacks and a dusty plum cashmere sweater. Applied some makeup and added a pair of amethyst earrings and a set of silver bangles Katherine insisted I purchase before studying the look in the mirror. It seemed silly to be worrying about my outward appearances considering poor Sir Richard, but the show must go on.
The figure in the mirror was definitely more sophisticated than the usual me. Then again, the usual me was crawling through some war-torn desert in the back of beyond, photographing death and destruction. No reason to dress for the occasion. The businesswoman and philanthropist was a big change for me. I wasn’t comfortable in my new skin yet, but it had started to grow on me just as Brenna arrived on the scene. Now I wasn’t so self-assured. It would help if I knew what my role was at this event. Cam and Grant were the technical guys. The experts. I was just, well, what was I? Decoration? Definitely not.
I was startled from my reflections by a knock at the door. I opened it to find a woman in a navy-blue tartan skirt, crisp white blouse, and a navy blazer with a tastefully wrought gold eagle pin. A froth of graying curls were cemented closely around her head, and she stood tall and straight on my doorstep.
“Good morning, miss. I’m Mabel Easton, head of housekeeping here at the Lodge,” she said, a practiced modulation in her voice. “I wanted to ensure that you were well and not unduly distressed by this morning’s events.”
“We’re fine, thank you.”
Mrs. Easton was a motherly-looking woman with fine, soft wrinkles framing her warm blue eyes. Friendly, but given the standards of the hotel I would guess she ran a tight ship. Precise, proper, and fastidious sprang to mind. Looking over my shoulder, I realized that Liam was once again ensconced on the silk duvet. That would not go down well with the head of housekeeping. I frantically gestured toward the floor behind my back, hoping he would take the hint and jump down before she saw him, but as usual he ignored me. It was too late anyway.
“Is that a wheaten terrier?” Mrs. Easton’s crisp demeanor melted like butter on warm bread. “Cheeky little ones, aren’t they?” The smile in her eyes refuted the shake of her head. “But oh, what charmers.” Liam, sensing a fan, jumped off the bed and came toward us. I opened the door wider and watched Liam work his magic.
“I had one myself for almost twelve years. She had me wrapped round her paw.”
Mrs. Easton bent over and scratched under his chin as he looked up into her face with those beguiling brown eyes. She straightened after a few minutes with a sad look in her eyes and pulled a bone-shaped biscuit from her pocket. She instantly became Liam’s favorite member of the staff.
“My Sally was a grand lass. Stiff and sore in the end, but she came to the door every night to greet me when I came home. Always a wiggle and a wag. I still miss her.” Mrs. Easton was quiet for a moment. “But listen to me being silly. Please let me know if the two of you need anything.”
“I’m sure we’ll be fine,” I said. “Is it alright to leave him here during the day?”
“Certainly. Sophie will be in between eleven and one to make up your room unless you request an earlier cleanup. She does well with dogs.”
“She came by yesterday and offered to take Liam to hang out with the hunting dogs.”
“Aye, you should take advantage of that. It gets him out for a bit of fresh air. I can have her take him over for a few hours again this afternoon if you like.”
“Are you sure it’s alright?”
“Anything at all to make the stay more enjoyable for you and for your young man. I’ll inform Sophie and she’ll take care of it.”
“And when is turndown service?” I asked, thinking of Simpson.
“We come between six and eight, but you may request any time you like.”
“No, that’s great. Thank you.” I did a quick mental calculation. Four hours at least before Richard came back to the room after Sophie cleaned up. Four hours for a poisoner to slip in and taint the bottle.
“How’s Sophie, by the way? It must have been a nasty shock for her,” I said, inclining my head toward the neighboring room.
“She’s fine. Thank you for asking, miss. She’s a tough lass. A bit shaken, but she refused to go home.”
“I should think she’d be more than shaken. Finding a body has to be downright horrifying.”
Mrs. Easton cringed. “We pride ourselves on taking these things in stride at the Lodge.”
My ears perked up. “Do you have many deaths here?” I asked, trying not to sound facetious.
For a minute I thought she wasn’t going to answer. Then she lowered her voice. “Sadly, we’ve had a few. Suicides mainly. A few old dears with no family left. They know the hotel will deal with everything discreetly and tastefully. Some choose to spend their final days here. Good meal and a handful of sleeping pills and it’s all over. Of course, not something one really talks about.”
That’s one I wouldn’t have thought of. “Can’t be easy on the staff,” I remarked.
“I’ve been here for nearly twenty-six years. Seamless service at the highest levels. That’s what the management expects, and that’s what we deliver,” Easton said proudly.
Five-star hotels were known for being endlessly accommodating, but arranging discreet burial service was above and beyond the call of duty in my book. “Had you met Sir Richard?” I asked.
“Only briefly. He called down before dinner for some extra glasses for his guests. Sophie was busy, so I brought them up.”
“And no sign then that he was unhappy or unwell?”
“Not at all. They seemed to be in high spirits, if you know what I mean.”
“And you didn’t see him again?”
Mrs. Easton shook her head. “Such a disturbance for the other guests, and the police still won’t let us in to clean the room. It’s just dreadful.”
If I had to guess, the disturbance and disarray were as unsettling to her as the death of a guest. She certainly embodied the spirit of excellence the hotel demanded. I hoped that Michaelson’s suspicions proved inaccurate. A murder at the Lodge would shake the staff and the management to the core.
Chapter 6
I left Liam waiting for Sophie to escort him to his playdate and made my way down to the main tasting room. All of the large distillers had tables out in the conference room displaying products that were
up for awards being touted by skilled representatives. Even though the voting was done by a select group of industry aficionados and not the entire gathering, it wasn’t stopping the attendees from diligently sampling their competitors’ wares. For market research purposes, I’d been assured.
I ran into Patrick heading out the door as I was heading in. “So much for a respectable period of mourning,” he whispered. “They’ve already asked me to take over from Richard as a judge.”
I reached out and gave his hand a squeeze. “I know it seems a bit hasty, but people have come from all over the world for this competition. They can’t just shut things down, as sad as all this is.”
“I suppose.” Patrick continued to look rather downcast.
“No offense, but why did they pick you to be a judge?” I asked.
“Well, I hope because I’m a well-respected whisky expert,” he replied, looking affronted. “But I’ll concede it’s also because most of the attendees are ineligible because they have whiskies in the competition.”
“Good thing you are here, then,” I remarked, “and probably good PR for the Whisky Journal.”
“True enough,” Patrick said, looking brighter. “I’ll catch up with you later. I have to meet with Jude MacNamara and sign some papers.”
Patrick trotted off, and I continued on into the tasting room and made my way around to the section devoted to boutique distilleries. Grant and Cam were offering tastings of Abbey Glen’s newest expression, a fourteen-year-old port wood cask that had been put up by Ben and Grant as an early experiment. It was one of three of the Glen’s whiskies up for various awards.
Oliver Blaire was deep in conversation with Cam, sniffing and studying the color with great seriousness. They turned to greet me as I approached.
“What news from the trenches?” Oliver asked.
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