Deadly Dram

by Melinda Mullet

  “I’m sorry to wake you, Ms. Logan. I didnae know what else to do. Can you come?”

  I could feel the fear prickling at the top of my head, and my knees threatened to give out under me. I dreaded the answer, but I had to ask, “What’s happened now?”

  “Another guest,” she whispered, “dead. And in one of my rooms again.” She wrapped her arms around her thin frame to still the shaking that wracked her body. “The police are going to be sure I’ve got something to do with it,” she moaned softly. “I’m so scared.”

  “Who is it this time?” I asked, digging through the clothes on the back of the chair for something suitable to throw on.

  “Mr. MacInnes.”

  “Archie?” I straightened up in shock and looked over at Patrick. He was still snoring softly.

  “Aye.”

  “Good God. Have you told anyone else?”

  “Not yet. I was too frightened.”

  “You better call the doctor,” I said. My head was spinning. Had the stress of the past twenty-four hours been too much for Archie, or was there a more sinister explanation. “Where’s Mr. MacInnes’s room?”

  “Just one floor down,” Sophie said, pointing at the floor.

  The room right below us. The room I’d been standing outside of not six hours before. I shuddered. If he’d been murdered, was his killer standing on the other side of the door last night as I stood there cursing my own stupidity? I stepped into the bathroom, threw on jeans and a sweater, and put in a call to Michaelson. According to the desk sergeant, the inspector had headed to the Lodge an hour ago to meet with the hotel’s night manager as he came off duty. I left a message at the front desk and went to find Sophie.

  She’d made her call from the phone in the hall and came back to my door. Liam had left the bed and was doing his best to be comforting, diligently licking the back of Sophie’s knees.

  “You only just found him?”

  “Yes, miss. He put in an order for kippers and eggs for six o’clock. I knocked and there was no answer. He hadnae put the DO NOT DISTURB on the handle, so I poked my head in and called out, but he didn’t answer.”

  “He could just be a heavy sleeper,” I said hopefully.

  “No, I…No,” she said decisively.

  “Right.” I grabbed my camera gear and left Patrick to enjoy a few more minutes of blissful ignorance. Liam, Sophie, and I retraced my steps from last night, moving silently down the hall to the back stairs.

  We arrived at MacInnes’s door at the same instant as Mrs. Easton. She looked ashen.

  “Are you sure, girl?” she said to Sophie.

  Sophie nodded miserably.

  “Did you call the doctor?”

  “Right before I called you,” Sophie said. All the color had left her cheeks, and tears filled her eyes.

  Mrs. Easton put a maternal arm around her shoulder and patted her arm. But catching sight of the camera in my hand, she frowned. “Is that necessary?”

  “For the moment, I’m the police photographer,” I explained. “If the inspector wants photos, I’m the one who takes them. The fewer outsiders involved, the better,” I pointed out.

  “I suppose,” Mrs. Easton said grimly. I could sense the anger building up in her. “I’ll tell you this, I’ve never seen the like at the Lodge before and hope never to see it again. All this drinking and arguing,” Mrs. E continued. “It’s a fatal combination if you ask me.”

  “Arguing?” The word grabbed my full attention. Even without Michaelson on hand, I couldn’t pass up the chance to follow up on a statement like that. “Who was arguing with Mr. MacInnes?”

  “Not my place to say,” she sniffed. “But I came to deliver some papers to Mr. MacInnes from the business center and I heard raised voices.”

  “Could you tell who it was?”

  “I do not make a habit of eavesdropping,” she said firmly. “I went straight back down the hall to the house phone. I didn’t want to intrude, so I went to call the room to announce that I was on my way along. Before I had the chance, I saw the door open and young Mr. Simpson marched off down the hall to the stairs.”

  “Trevor?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you couldn’t hear what they were arguing about?”

  “Our doors are very thick,” Mrs. Easton said with pride, “but if you must know what was going on, your friend was there when I went to deliver the papers. He could probably tell you.” Patrick was developing a bad habit of being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

  Sophie made a snuffling noise and I realized she was leaning against the wall looking miserable, trying to blot away the tears that were running down her cheeks. Mrs. Easton handed her a tissue. “Chin up, duck. We’ll get this sorted. Now pull yourself together. You’ve got other guests to attend to.”

  “The police will want to talk to her,” I pointed out.

  “No doubt,” Mrs. Easton replied, “and they can call for her when they’re ready.” She turned to Sophie. “In the meantime, Mrs. Westmoreland was asking for a heating pad. Run one up to her now, lass. Our ladies and gentlemen shouldn’t have to wait because we have some that don’t know how to behave properly.”

  The old-fashioned adherence to a code of service was almost unheard-of now, but I sensed it was what gave Mrs. Easton’s life direction and kept her from falling apart in moments of crisis such as this. As Sophie disappeared down the hall, Mrs. Easton bent to pat Liam and he began to lick at the pocket of her navy jacket. “Here you are, boy; you’re in luck. I only have one left.” She pulled a bone-shaped dog biscuit from her pocket and gave it to Liam, who lay at her feet happily munching.

  “Sophie’s a good girl,” she said, straightening up, “very distressed by all this madness, but keeping busy is the best thing. For all of us.”

  The lift bell chimed at the end of the hall and Michaelson stepped off, striding down toward us and looking out of place amid the lush surroundings in his faded jeans and rough wool coat. His head was down and he looked like he was carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders.

  “Who is it this time?” he asked, looking at me.

  “Archie MacInnes.”

  “Sir Richard’s mate?”

  I nodded silently. “He’s also one of the contest judges.” But which was the crucial link? My theory that Richard’s killing could’ve been accidental seemed naïve in the wake of this second death. Once is an accident; twice is a plan.

  But was someone killing off judges, or was the relevant connection between the two victims something altogether different? It still seemed absurd to me that two men could be killed over a whisky competition, rigged or otherwise, but I’d learned the hard way that the whisky business inspires violent passions in its devotees. Especially when hundreds of thousands in publicity and exposure are at stake, along with the reputation of the entire domestic industry.

  “Have you been inside?” Michaelson demanded.

  I resisted rolling my eyes. “Of course not. I waited for you.”

  “What time did you find the body?” he demanded, turning to Mrs. Easton.

  “It wasn’t me, sir, it was the floor maid, Sophie.”

  “Same girl as last time?”

  “Yes, but I can assure you Sophie had nothing to do with this,” Mrs. Easton said emphatically. “She’s simply assigned to all the rooms on these two floors.”

  “Where is she?”

  Mrs. Easton squared her shoulders and looked defiantly back at Michaelson.

  “I sent her back to work.”

  “Go and get her,” he said impatiently. “I need to talk to her. Meanwhile, no access to the room. Except you,” he said, gesturing to me, “but leave Liam out here.”

  I followed him inside the room, leaving Liam in the hallway scratching the last crumbs of his treat out of the plush carpet.


  Archie’s room was slightly larger than ours, or maybe it simply looked that way because there was only one king-sized bed instead of two queens. Sophie had abandoned the breakfast tray on the hall table and the smell of kippers had begun to permeate the air.

  It was the room of a man who was clearly used to being picked up after. There were several towels strewn about the floor in the bathroom, and his clothes from the evening before had been discarded over the back of a chair. The contents of his pockets lay on the coffee table—cellphone, several pound coins, a pocketknife, and half a dozen business cards. I took a shot of the collection.

  MacInnes was lying on his back on the bed, his lifeless eyes staring up at the ornate light fixture above his head. There were no signs of a struggle and no visible wounds.

  Michaelson pointed to an open box of chocolates on the bedside table. A gilt box of six truffles, three of them eaten.

  I swore softly as I recognized the box.

  “Another gift to attendees?” Michaelson asked.

  “Yeah, whisky truffles,” I paused, “courtesy of the Whisky Journal.”

  “Patrick’s magazine?”

  I nodded, groaning inwardly as Patrick slipped farther into the hole I was working so hard to pull him out of.

  Michaelson put on a pair of plastic gloves and picked up the box of candy. He cautiously sniffed the chocolates within before holding the box out to me. There was a smell of cocoa and whisky, to be sure, but a faint musty note lingered at the edges as well. Please God, not poison again. And not with Patrick’s chocolates.

  “When were the chocolates delivered?” Michaelson asked, carefully placing the box back where he found it.

  “Yesterday afternoon. I heard Patrick making arrangements with the hotel staff at lunchtime.”

  “Where were they before that?”

  “You’ll have to ask Patrick. I wasn’t paying attention.”

  “Who delivered them?”

  “I believe it was Sophie.” I hated to say it, but Michaelson would find out soon enough. Had Sophie put two and two together? Was that why she came to me this morning? Did she know things would look bad for her? I pointed to the glass on the bedside table. “Could there be something in there?” I said hopefully.

  “Won’t know till it’s tested.”

  I took a deep breath. “Mabel Easton told me she overheard an argument yesterday between Archie MacInnes and Trevor Simpson.” I hated to do it, but Michaelson had to be told.

  “What about?” Michaelson asked, turning his full attention back to me.

  “She claims she couldn’t hear the particulars. The curse of quality construction. But she says Patrick was in the room, so he might be able to shed some light.” I hoped I was helping Patrick’s cause, not hurting it.

  A discreet knock at the door announced the arrival of the hotel’s night manager, Mr. Asher.

  Asher’s professional veneer couldn’t quite hide his lack of enthusiasm at seeing Michaelson again so soon, and in his professional capacity. He strode into the room head held high, but stopped short at the sight of the body. His face flushed slightly and he stepped back, putting the settee between himself and the bed. “Inspector, please tell me that this is death from natural causes.”

  “Until we have the results of an autopsy I can’t say for certain, but under the circumstances we’ll be treating this as a suspicious death.”

  “We have never experienced such a thing at the Lodge,” Asher said, fingering his collar, “and now twice in one week. I beg of you, sort this out as quickly and discreetly as possible.”

  “That’s generally our aim,” Michaelson said drily.

  “Is there anything that I can do to expedite matters?” Asher asked.

  “I need a space to work here at the hotel. A quiet place where I can interview staff and guests.”

  “I can make the library available to you. No one seems to read anymore anyway,” he said nervously. “Is there anything else?”

  “Yes, I need you to have all of these boxes of chocolate removed from the guest rooms. Please note the room number on each box and then have them brought to me.”

  “The chocolates?” Asher’s gaze rested on the open box next to the body, and his jaw tightened. “I’ll have our chief of security get on it immediately, but what excuse do I give?”

  I snapped a picture of the box where it lay so that Michaelson could bag it as evidence. “Tell them it’s a recall from the manufacturer,” I suggested.

  “That hardly seems plausible.” Asher snapped his gaze, drawn to the camera around my neck.

  “Then go with the truth,” I offered.

  He scowled. “I trust that your photos will not be finding their way into the press, Ms. Logan.”

  “Of course not,” I said. “My presence here is solely at the request of the police. The photos are for their use only.”

  Asher still didn’t look happy, but he hastened away to coordinate the removal of the chocolates.

  “Do you know everyone in the hotel?” Michaelson sighed.

  “No, but they know me,” I replied. “It’s protocol. In fact, the staff’s required to know all the guests by name and face. Sophie told me there’s a book that’s updated daily. The staff has to study it so they can greet people by name. It also lets them know who’s stayed at the hotel before and if they have any specific likes and dislikes.”

  “Interesting.” Michaelson made a note of that bit of information.

  I returned to photographing the scene. Archie was wearing the white terry bathrobe provided by the hotel. From the state of the bathroom, it looked like he’d taken a shower before going to bed. The robe was struggling to contain his girth; his legs, protruding from the hem, were stiff and pale. His hands grasped the bedsheets and there was a smear of chocolate near his right hand.

  Michaelson walked over to look at the body. I pointed to the sheet. “Must have had chocolate on his fingers from the truffles.” The sheets were in disarray adjacent to the body. “Any chance this one was a heart attack?”

  “It’d make a nice change of pace, but I don’t think so.”

  A faint movement of the curtain behind us drew my attention. I walked over to the window, which faced out onto a wooded area at the back of the property. The window was unlatched and the fractional opening was bringing a chill draft through that stirred the curtains. There was a drop-off of about a floor and a half from the ledge to the ground, but there were shrubs along the wall that could be used to boost a climber. I pointed this out to Michaelson and took a couple more photos.

  “I’ll dust the latch and the frame for fingerprints. This could be the way the killer left the room.”

  “It could be the way they entered as well,” I pointed out.

  “Possibly.”

  I stepped back into the middle of the room and looked around.

  “Quite a portrait.” Although I was used to doing live portraits, there was something to be said for the encapsulating capacity of a person’s living space, even if it was a temporary one.

  “What have you got?”

  “Careless,” I said, pointing to the clothing strewn on the floor of the closet and the three room keys on the dresser by the TV. “With things and with people, I’d say.” I indicated the note on the back of one of the business cards left on the coffee table. I read the assessment of its owner that was scrawled on the back: Poseur. Wouldn’t know an Islay from an ice tea.

  “He’s thrifty by nature. I’d guess not used to this type of accommodation until more recently.” I poked at his suitcase with my toe. A collection of unused shampoos and body lotions were stuffed in the side. Several bottles of liquor were stacked in the corner of the room, including the gift bottle of Takai that was meant to have been confiscated. He’d obviously hidden it rather than given it up.

  Michaelson exami
ned the bottle and bagged it. It was still unopened.

  I was photographing the remaining bits and pieces on Archie’s bedside table when there was a soft knock on the door. Sophie entered, looking like a frightened child. I smiled encouragingly. Michaelson beckoned her in, but she recoiled.

  “Can’t we do this elsewhere?” I said, gesturing toward the body on the bed. Michaelson steered Sophie into the bathroom and motioned for me to accompany them. I suspected that he really didn’t want me there, but I guessed it would go against protocol for Sophie and him to be alone in a guest room. Fortunately, the bathroom was massive, with a claw-foot tub large enough to do the backstroke in and plenty of floor space. I helped Sophie perch on the edge of the tub and sat down next to her. She looked terrified.

  “Sophie, DI Michaelson just needs to ask you a few routine questions,” I said as gently as possible.

  Michaelson cocked an eyebrow in my direction as if to say Stop coddling my witness, before turning to address Sophie directly. “What time did you find the body?”

  “Just after six, sir. I was bringing Mr. MacInnes his breakfast.”

  “Do you normally enter the room of a sleeping guest without being invited in?”

  “There was no DO NOT DISTURB sign, and some of our guests prefer being woken by a person instead of an alarm,” she explained. “I just popped my head in the door and called out, but he didn’t answer.”

  “So you went in.”

  “Yes, sir,” Sophie said quietly.

  “Why?”

  “I don’t really know. Something just didn’t seem right to me.”

  “In what way?”

  “It was just so quiet. Unnaturally quiet. Maybe I’m just jumpy after Sir Richard.”

  “Were you responsible for the turndown service in Mr. MacInnes’s room last night?”

  “Yes. I came in around seven thirty, tidied up, and folded back the sheets.”

  “Did you notice anything odd or out of place at that time?”