“Just as background,” Michaelson agreed.
“When Patrick came out after college, his father went nuts. He was a conservative local politician. Very old school. Just couldn’t deal with having an openly gay son. He disowned Patrick and cut him off from the family purse. In fact, it’s only since his father died that he’s been able to see his mum at all. A lot of his father’s peers and family friends followed suit and ostracized Patrick.”
“And Trevor?”
“Trevor and Richard were the sons of an MP from Manchester. They ran in the same circles as Patrick and his family. Trev stood by Patrick publicly as well as privately. It meant a lot to Patrick. In turn, Patrick was there for Trevor when Simpson senior was arrested and sent to jail a few years back.”
“So they had a close relationship.”
I could hear the faint scratch of pen on paper from the other end of the phone.
“They were old friends,” I agreed.
“MacInnes and Harukawa both agreed that Trevor was the last to leave the room as they all headed down for dinner. It wouldn’t have been that difficult for him to slip something into the bottle,” Michaelson said.
I contemplated that piece of information as I popped soap bubbles on the top of the water with my finger. I hadn’t thought much about it till now, but my sense of Trevor was chronically melancholy, speculative, and dependent, but murderous? He seemed genuinely distraught by his brother’s passing, and although he could be putting on a good act, my instinct said he wasn’t.
“How do you figure he lifted the glasses?” I challenged. “He couldn’t have just carried them out as they were heading to dinner. MacInnes or Hinatu would have said something.”
“He could’ve paid Sophie to do it for him, or someone could have come by to collect the glasses after Sir Richard returned to the room.”
“Like who?”
“Trevor himself or another accomplice.”
“What other accomplice?” I said warily.
“There is one other person who admits to being in Richard’s room before he went to bed that night who could’ve left a tainted glass on the bedside table and removed the others.”
My stomach lurched. Surely Michaelson wasn’t going to go there. I knew Patrick wasn’t involved, but from the police perspective he was potentially the last person to be in Richard’s room and the last one to see him alive. “Then Patrick’s actually a suspect?” I said quietly.
“You’ve just established that he and Trevor are close friends,” Michaelson observed. “He’ll be a suspect till he’s eliminated.”
“Then we’ll eliminate him,” I responded immediately.
“We means me, not us,” Michaelson insisted. “I’m willing to listen to your input, and anything you can find out about the judging situation is great, but you’re too close to Patrick to be involved in the inquiries around him or Trevor. Steer clear.”
I felt like Michaelson had just set me up. And I was tempted to tell him to go get stuffed, but I knew I needed him to share information, and burning my bridges wouldn’t facilitate that. “I’ll try to steer clear of the Trevor situation,” I said reluctantly.
“Don’t try, Logan, do.”
Michaelson rang off, and I sat in the bath fretting about Patrick. He and Trevor had been friends for years, they’d been there for each other in dark times before, but no matter what Michaelson thought, I could see no scenario where Patrick would help Trevor commit murder. Michaelson was setting off down the wrong path. I was sure of it. I’d been happy enough to help him solve this puzzle before out of my own innate curiosity, but this was no game. I would do whatever it took to prove that Patrick was not a part of this nightmarish scenario.
Chapter 9
By the time I climbed out of the tub I had decided that my priority should be finding out who wanted to silence Richard—either temporarily or permanently. If it was one of the Barley Boys, then Trevor would be off the hook and so would Patrick. Luckily there was no better place to pursue this question than the Chairman’s Award event scheduled for tonight.
I chose a dress from the closet that Katherine had insisted I buy. A pale pink sleeveless sheath that showed off my lingering tan and accentuated the curves that had reemerged after I abandoned my work diet of vodka and army rations. I smoothed the fabric over my hips. Next to Brenna I felt like a bloated Amazon, too tall and too wide, not that I was in competition with Brenna, I reminded myself. Not much I wasn’t. I stood tall and looked fiercely back at my own reflection. Brenna might know more about whisky than I did, but she didn’t know more about death. We were on my turf now.
Par for the course, Liam had become more the face of the Glen since we arrived than I had, so I put him in his tartan bow tie and brought him down to the ballroom with me. I could only hope that he would behave himself. Lord knows we didn’t need another falconry incident. Liam seemed to know he was working. He had an extra swagger to his walk as he followed along beside me in his formal attire. I gave him a quick pat on the head. He was handsome and affectionate. He seldom complained and he was a world-class listener. All things considered, the perfect date.
Tonight’s event was less of a sit-down dinner and more of a chance to circulate and chat. All nine of the whiskies up for the Chairman’s Award had been allowed to set up stations around the room and offer tastings of their nominated expressions. Cam and Grant had a table set up for Abbey Glen. They were best at answering the technical questions about the product. Liam and I were the charm and schmooze department. Although I had to admit, Liam was better at charming than I was.
Cam was offering tastings of our fifteen-year-old port wood finish to an appreciative group, including Oliver and Archie MacInnes. Archie still had a gloomy look, which clashed dramatically with the lurid yellow waistcoat he was sporting. I watched him carefully. His demeanor was subdued, but he continued to discuss the merits of the Abbey Glen in his hand with passionate intensity. Archie folded me into the conversation without hesitation.
“The port wood cask adds a significant depth to the whisky that belies its mere fifteen years. The subtlety of the wood notes makes it a perfect after-dinner dram. I shouldn’t say this, but I will. The judges are excited about this entry in particular. You can taste the singular care and craftsmanship in the presentation.”
“So the judges do discuss the whiskies in advance of the formal tastings,” I remarked. “Does that mean you can tell which whisky you’re drinking when it comes to the blind tastings?”
“Sometimes,” Archie admitted ruefully. “We try our best to be fully impartial, but if there’s a flavor profile you’re particularly fond of, you usually recognize it even in a blind tasting.”
“Doesn’t that kind of negate the value of a blind tasting?” I asked.
Grant stepped toward us to catch Archie’s response.
“Not really. We sample so many drams both before and after the competition, it really does come down to one’s impressions on the actual day of the judging.”
“Has anyone ever tried to fix the results?” I did my best to make the question sound frivolous and unpremeditated while watching Archie’s face for any flicker of discomfort.
“Not since the 1960s,” he said seriously. “It was a nasty scandal and one we wouldn’t care to see repeated. Changes were made in the process at that point. Turns out just covering the labels wasn’t enough. Now all the whiskies are removed from their bottles and put into identical clear carafes.”
“Could judges really tell what they were drinking based on the shape and color of the bottle?” Grant asked.
“When you combine that with the specific nuances of taste, it was certainly possible. Mind you, it’s harder now that there are so many more whiskies, unless you have a highly refined palate like Richard’s.” Archie’s voice cracked slightly, and he turned back to his drink.
“A toast
to Richard,” Oliver chimed in. “A man of exceptional taste. May he rest in peace.”
We all raised a glass in silence. “Is there any word on the funeral arrangements?” Grant asked as Patrick joined the group.
Archie cleared his throat. “Trevor’s not going to do anything till after the competition is over,” he said. “We all know Richard would’ve wanted it that way.”
“And he would have wanted us to focus on happier times,” Patrick said.
“That he would,” Archie agreed. “And there were plenty of those. Did you know that Richard and I had been friends since university days? Richard was the master of ceremonies even then. Always knew where the best parties were and the prettiest birds. Never a dull moment when he was around.”
“Did Trevor go to Oxford, too?” I asked.
“Yes, but he was a year behind us, of course.” Archie paused as a waiter passed by with hors d’oeuvres and snagged two meatballs on sticks, popping both of them into his mouth at one time. The unhappiness of the situation didn’t seem to have checked his appetite.
“Number of Oxford alum in this group.” He nodded at Oliver. “You were a Balliol man, I believe, and Hinatu was at Christ Church. Lord Battlebury over there was a few years ahead of us.”
I watched him glancing around at the neckwear on display, looking for the Oxford blue. The old school tie, a mysterious semaphore that I’d never had time for. I wished now I’d paid a bit more attention. On reflection, it was a subtle yet useful way to spot potential interrelationships between apparent strangers.
“Did you know Hinatu at uni?” I asked.
“Our paths crossed a few times, but we weren’t close. Different college. Different friends. Though we all loved a good dram even then.”
“You must have had a lusher university experience than I did.” I laughed. “We were generally stuck with cheap wine and beer.”
Archie smiled. “We developed a real appreciation for whisky we couldn’t afford at the time. Richard used to make a game of nicking the good stuff from the master’s study.”
“He didn’t get caught?” Patrick asked.
Archie smiled sadly. “Eventually, but he managed to talk his way out of it by replacing most of the bottles with bottles he swiped out of his father’s cellars. Speaking of nicking whisky, any idea why the local constabulary has seen fit to confiscate everyone’s lovely free Takai?”
I caught Grant’s eye but didn’t quite know what to say.
Grant responded quietly. “I’m sure they’re simply exercising an abundance of caution, checking into everything Richard ate or drank last night.”
“Hogwash. We all ate and drank the same thing. Hell, I drank a goodly portion of that bottle of Takai with him myself and I’m no worse for the wear. Mark my words, it’ll be a dicky ticker that did him in. Richard was a strong man, but like me he had no love for exercise. My doc tells me all the time it’ll be the death of me.” Archie took another deep swallow from his glass. “Still, never expected he’d go first.”
Archie looked gutted. Without ceremony the words obsessive, indulgent, and muted came to mind. Whether his toned-down demeanor stemmed from fear or grief or simply as a result of always being overshadowed by his talkative friend, it was hard to say. He disapproved of the past judging improprieties, and I had to believe Archie would’ve supported Richard wholeheartedly in any effort to expose dishonesty. I could only assume he didn’t know.
Oliver picked up the conversational thread and, in deference to MacInnes, turned the discussion back to business matters. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Trevor slip into the back of the room, his face like thunder. I’d have given a bottle of our best to know what had upset him.
* * *
—
After the tastings were finished, Patrick and I went into the lobby bar for a coffee. We needed to sober up and I needed to get Liam away from his fan club. A whisky-drinking dog is a novelty, even in Scotland, and he’d been treated to more than a few discreet tastes of some very fine Islays. One of the Islay distilleries expressed interest in hiring him as a symbol for their advertising campaign. I flatly refused. If he was representing anyone’s distillery, it was going to be mine.
Patrick and I settled in the back of the room away from the main flow of traffic. His new role as judge had moved him from being one of the boys to being one of the men of the hour, and it was hard now to hold a private conversation outside the four walls of our room.
We weren’t going to get the chance here, either. The Laurel and Hardy of the judging circuit, Gordon Craig and Mark Findley, stopped by to chat.
“There’s the Islay lover,” Findley said, bending down to scratch behind Liam’s ears.
Liam sat up and began sniffing Mark’s glass with interest.
“Has a good nose, he does.”
Before I could stop him, Findley poured the dregs of his glass into an empty nut bowl and offered it to Liam, who downed it in seconds.
I worried when people did this. It couldn’t be good for him, but he gave a contented sigh and curled up on the carpet at my feet.
Findley turned to me and asked, “Are you enjoying the competition?”
“Very much, but so many whiskies to try. It’s overwhelming. I thought I was doing well working my way through the Scottish catalogue, and now there are whiskies from all over the world to try as well.”
Patrick nodded in agreement, stirring cream and sugar into his coffee.
“Well now, you focus your attention on the Scottish whiskies first,” Craig insisted. “The rest are interesting, but really they’re all just a flash in the pan.”
“Then you don’t think any of them will take prizes at the competition this year,” I said.
“Well, ye cannae say for sure they won’t, but I think it’s unlikely,” Findley said. “The flavors just aren’t what we’re used to.”
“Sometimes different’s good, isn’t it?” I prompted. Patrick smiled behind his coffee. He knew I was baiting these two.
“Change can be overrated,” Craig said. “Don’t want to go throwing the old ways out just because someone’s decided curry flavor is the next big thing. It’s like crisps. We don’t need teriyaki crisps. What’s wrong with plain old salt and vinegar?”
Laurel and Hardy drifted off to the bar to get another drink. They seemed pretty confident that the foreign whiskies wouldn’t be winning this year. Did they know something the rest of us didn’t? I could hardly believe that Craig’s references to curry and teriyaki were mere coincidence.
“Keep an eye on those two if you can,” I said quietly. I was about to elaborate when Archie entered the bar and made his way over, closely followed by Trevor, who dragged along behind looking like a wet cat.
“Bloody policeman tells me I can’t go home,” Trevor snarled. “Cheeky bugger. Says Richard’s death was ‘unnatural.’ Instead of trying to find out who did it, he’s asking me all sorts of daft questions.”
“He’s questioned all of us, mate,” Patrick said soothingly. “I don’t think it’s anything personal. Did they tell you how he died?”
“Poisoned,” Trevor said bitterly. “Poisoned by that whisky Hinatu gave us.”
“But everyone got bottles of that whisky,” Archie said, wiping his forehead with an old-fashioned pocket handkerchief. “Is that why they were grabbing up all the bottles?” He paused for a moment. “They must think there could be others that are poisoned.” Archie looked completely unnerved. He’d been doing the rounds of the tasting tables and was now quite a bit the worse for the wear.
“Look, you all drank from the bottle before dinner,” I said, setting an example by lowering my voice. “The rest of you were fine.” We were starting to draw attention to ourselves, and the last thing this already delicate situation needed was an all-out panic. “We don’t even know that someone was actually trying to kill
Richard. It could just as easily have been an accident. Maybe someone just wanted to make him a bit ill to put him off the Takai and things went badly.”
“Well, that’d make more sense,” Trevor conceded, “but I didn’t hear your version from that policeman. He seemed sure Richard had been murdered.”
“Why would someone want to poison Richard?” Archie whispered.
“That’s the question, isn’t it?” Patrick said.
“Well, it wasn’t me,” Trevor insisted.
“Course it wasn’t you, lad,” Archie said, draping an arm across his shoulder. “You’ve had your ups and downs like all brothers do, but you wouldn’t want him gone. That’s just mad.”
At least now that the cat was out of the bag, it would be easier to pose direct questions. “Do either of you think Sir Richard had any enemies? Anyone who might wish him harm?”
“He was a wealthy man,” Trevor said. “There was always someone who had some imagined beef or other.”
“Anyone in particular?”
“Not here,” Archie said emphatically. “These were his people.”
“Arch’s right. He was well loved here,” Trevor insisted.
“People murder people they profess to love every day,” I murmured.
Patrick shot me a dirty look. “Not helpful,” he mouthed.
The whisky was settling in, and Archie looked like he could burst into tears at any moment. “Richard was my best mate. He took care of me. Through whisky business and wicked women he stood by me,” Archie said in a maudlin voice.
Trevor just looked miserable. “What about me. Our last conversation was an argument.”
“Brothers have spats,” Archie insisted, somewhat unsteadily. “He wouldn’t hold a grudge. You know that.”
“But it was no way to say goodbye.”
Patrick addressed his friends in a low voice. “I’m sure the police will sort all of this out. Michaelson may not have the best bedside manner, but he’s sound. He’ll find out why Richard died one way or another.”
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