Deadly Dram

by Melinda Mullet

  Hugh Ashworth-Jones was also a regular guest. On a prior visit his wife had ordered the staff to fill the tub with single malt whisky for bathing purposes. Intriguing. I could only guess that she was trying to get her husband’s attention.

  As Michaelson said, not much use. Neurosis and overindulgence alone do not a killer make. I sent him a brief text and went to grab my computer again. As I turned toward the desk, I was distracted by the sight of half of Liam protruding from under the bed. He’d wormed his way under trying to get at something that had attracted his interest and was having trouble reversing out. I went over and grabbed the back paws and pulled. As he emerged, he gave me the guilty eyes and tried to slink away. A sure sign that he was up to something.

  “What did you find, boy-o?” I crooned to no avail. He wasn’t sharing. I had to go over and pry his mouth open to relieve him of his prize. It turned out to be a silver chain and pendant. Not a pendant, I realized on closer inspection, but a small silver dog whistle. Similar to the plastic one Joey gave me to use with the gundogs, and even more like the one Joey wore around his own neck. Was it Joey’s? And if so, how on earth had it wound up here?

  “Good boy,” I said, patting Liam on the head. “I think you found a clue. I have no idea what it means, but it has to mean something.”

  I carefully wrapped the necklace in a tissue and placed it in the desk drawer before returning to my search of the Gazette’s archives. This time I was looking for information on Hugh Ashworth-Jones, the third link to the Edenburn sale. Hugh Jones, as he was originally, was Glasgow born and bred. A former footballer, he’d made his name as a striker for the Rangers. A fairly successful career had been tainted by unsubstantiated allegations of match fixing, but Hugh went on to re-create himself in retirement as the face of the world-renowned Harris distillery. He joined the board of Central as a token celebrity initially, but his considerable personal charm and his knack for deal making had resulted in his becoming a crucial part of the company’s expansion team and a key figure in the effort to take over Edenburn.

  Hugh was now on his fifth wife. The whisky stunt apparently hadn’t served wife number four very well. Number five was a member of the Ashworth family. Daughter of the late Earl of Denby, Hugh had appropriated the Ashworth name and hyphenated it to his own. On the surface a perfect match. She had the breeding; he had the money.

  I’d watched him the first night in the bar. Hugh and MacNamara had their heads together most of the evening. I’d presumed they were simply old friends, but with MacNamara in charge of the competition whiskies, maybe there was something more there. Hugh had smiled indulgently at Richard’s diatribe but hadn’t supported or opposed him. Hugh had also been seen at lunch with Findley and Craig. Not unusual—all three were judges—but it was interesting that they were the three judges with a decided nationalist bent.

  Hugh seemed to be a key piece in this puzzle, but was he a villain or a victim? Or possibly both? I wouldn’t be at all surprised to find out that Hugh was involved in a cheating scandal, but would he be willing to kill to keep his secret? If the connection was the Edenburn sale, could Hugh be the killer’s third and final victim?

  A knock at the door disturbed my train of thought. I went to answer and found Grant standing outside with a plate of sandwiches in his hand.

  “Thought you might like a bite of lunch,” he said.

  Liam escorted our guest to the settee, watching the sandwiches with single-minded devotion to purpose.

  I grabbed a couple of napkins and some mineral waters from the top of the minibar and joined Grant by the fire.

  “Everyone’s talking about Trevor’s arrest,” Grant said. “I just had to escape from downstairs for a few minutes. Word’s going around that you’ve been seen with the police, and they all seem to think that because you’re my partner I have some kind of inside track on what’s happening.”

  “I don’t even have an inside track on what’s happening.” I sighed. “Though I do know that Trevor wasn’t ‘technically’ arrested.”

  Grant shook his head sadly. “He might as well have been with this crowd. The rumors are flying everywhere.”

  “Has anyone said anything about Patrick?”

  Grant frowned and shook his head. “No. Why?”

  “Michaelson’s trying to paint Patrick as an accomplice because he and Trev are old friends.”

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  “I know, but until the real killer is identified, Patrick’s still a suspect as far as the police are concerned. The stress of that isn’t helping me to think straight.” Grant held out the plate of sandwiches and I took one, munching mindlessly even though I wasn’t really hungry. “I’m still trying to untangle the threads of this story, and at the moment I’m struggling with Hugh Ashworth-Jones. I’m not sure if he’s a villain or a victim.”

  “Can I help?”

  “You have already. The information on the cellar master was great, thanks. I talked to him this morning. There’s certainly room for some sleight of hand in the judging process.” I gave Liam the rest of the ham from my sandwich and sat peeling the crusts off the remaining bread and eating them separately. “I found plenty online about Hugh’s career, but maybe you can tell me about Hugh as a person.”

  Grant shrugged. “I know him through the Society, that’s all. He was active in getting MacNamara nominated as the new president. I believe MacNamara worked at Central back when Hugh was there. Why?”

  “From what I’ve been able to figure out, there are three judges here that were all involved in the sale of the Edenburn distillery a few years back. Two of them are now dead. Hugh was the third. I’m worried he could be in danger.”

  “What’s Michaelson have to say?”

  “He’s convinced he’s already got the killer in custody, and I don’t have sufficient evidence to change his mind. My instincts aren’t enough for the police.”

  “Surely he’d at least want to keep an eye on Hugh.”

  “He’s short on resources at the moment. Hence my involvement.”

  “Hm.” Grant offered another sandwich and I declined. “And why villain?”

  “If this competition is being rigged, there’s a puppet master behind the scenes somewhere. MacNamara’s a pawn, but not as a leader. He’s pliable, shortsighted, and impressionable. Someone else is pulling the strings.”

  “Hugh’s a good bet,” Grant acknowledged, “but good luck proving it. He’s a slick bugger.”

  Liam had given up on me and was now watching Grant eat. He got a bite of turkey for his efforts.

  “I have a mole on the inside,” I confided. “Oliver. With any luck he’ll turn up some hard evidence. In the meantime, I’m worried there might be another victim by tonight.”

  Grant slid off the couch and onto the floor, where he sat rubbing Liam’s upturned tummy. It was a hard thing to resist.

  “How are the Barley Boys holding up?” I asked.

  “In a word, tense,” he admitted. “The attendees are on edge. They’ve started to figure out that something’s very wrong, and they’re hoping this arrest brings an end to the matter. Michaelson’s been everywhere and questioning everyone. I know it’s his job and I’m sure he’s getting a lot of pressure from the Lodge to sort this out. Still, it won’t be good for the hotel or the awards if this hits the press.”

  “Not likely to go unreported with a member of the press on the judging panel,” I noted.

  “So far Gordon Craig has kept a lid on things, in his own best interest, but I don’t know how much longer he can keep that up.”

  I looked down at Grant. He looked weary, and I was tempted to reach out and try to massage the tension from his shoulders. “How are you holding up?” I asked instead.

  Grant hesitated, looking up at me from under his ridiculously dense lashes. “Things are tense with me as well.”

 
“Is Brenna still history?” I hated myself for asking, but I couldn’t resist.

  “I’m not sure. I know what she wants, but things have changed. In some ways completely and in others hardly at all.” He sighed and looked away. “It’s beyond me at the moment. There’s just too much going on to think clearly.”

  I couldn’t help wondering if Brenna was hoping to take advantage of all the upheaval to influence Grant’s decision. She’d left him hanging and now wanted to come back and have him do what? Take a chance again, start fresh?

  “I’m not the one to offer relationship advice,” I said. “I’m hopeless. ’Fraid you’re on your own with this one.”

  “On my own may be the best place for me to be,” Grant said with a faint trace of irritation. “Or maybe I should just get a dog. They’re more reliable.”

  * * *

  —

  Before long Grant was heading back down to the conference and I suddenly felt the need to get away. Away from Grant and Brenna, away from death, and away from the cloistered confines of this gilded cage. What had initially seemed like a luxurious cocoon now felt like a straitjacket—claustrophobic and panic inducing. It was time to do some off-site research. I stood in the lobby waiting for the valet to bring my car around, watching Larson greet a new round of guests before ushering them to the lifts. I noticed that when he departed there was no one behind the desk. On a whim, I walked over and stepped behind the counter to look in the office. Just inside the door to the left was a collection of old-fashioned cubbyholes that took up most of the wall from floor to ceiling. A room number was stenciled in gold underneath each cubby. Some contained message slips and most contained brass keys. The slots were just inside the doorway. Easily accessible. I could take a key now and no one would know. Was that the killer’s secret? Timing.

  Liam was pulling on the leash, trying to get me to move back toward the lobby. I couldn’t for the life of me figure out why, but I followed, not wanting to be caught in Larson’s office. As we came near the front door I saw Joey standing in an alcove next to the concierge desk, deep in conversation with a man in green plaid breeks who was punctuating his emphatic remarks by poking Joey in the chest. Joey was doing his best to keep a neutral expression on his face, but his eyes betrayed a certain discomfort.

  Our car arrived at that moment and, much as I wanted to go and eavesdrop, it would be too obvious. I had to leave, and I dragged Liam along with me. We drove the five kilometers into the village to pay a visit to the local tobacconist. I knew nothing about liquid nicotine and vaping, and it was time I did.

  The aged tobacco shop was nestled in the High Street between the butcher and the post office, looking like something out of a 1940s advert. If the proprietor was anything like his place of business, I had to wonder if he’d know anything at all about the modern vaping trend. The tinkling of a bell announced my arrival to an empty shop. I looked around the dim, narrow space. The wooden cases at child level were filled with sweets and chocolate bars, and a small slide-top fridge in the corner offered ice creams, but it was empty and unplugged at the moment. Behind the counter, four tiers of shelves ran around the walls of the shop, displaying cigars, cigarettes, rolling papers, and other smoking supplies. Liam sniffed around the floor before giving three loud sneezes. I was starting to think he was allergic.

  An elderly gentleman with a pair of half-moon specs perched on the top of his head emerged from the rear of the shop in belated response to the bell. He could best be described as wrinkled. His face was wrinkled, his hands were wrinkled, even his clothes were wrinkled.

  “Can I help you?” His voice had the gravelly tone of a lifelong smoker.

  “I was looking for some vaping supplies. Would you carry something like that?”

  “Aye, we have a few bits an’ bobs. Mostly for the weekend folks.”

  He led me to the back of the store, and I touted out the best explanation I could think of. “My brother took this up recently. Trying to wean himself off cigarettes. I wanted to get something to encourage him.”

  Wrinkles pulled two bottles of brightly colored liquid from the display and placed them on the counter. The brand was the same as the one Michaelson had just shown me from Trevor’s room. “These two are fairly popular, unless of course he’s making his own.”

  “You can do that?”

  “Aye, buy the liquid nicotine and then add your own flavors.”

  “Is that all it takes? Nicotine and flavors?”

  “Nay. You ’ave to dilute the nicotine or you’ll be in a right mess. Raw liquid nic’s strong stuff.”

  “Stronger than this?” I asked, pointing to the bottles on the counter.

  “Much.”

  “Sounds deadly.”

  “Average person’d have to swallow a whole lot. Make you sick before it’d kill you.”

  The average person, I thought. Not an out-of-shape middle-aged man with a heart condition. “Do you sell liquid nicotine?”

  “Not much call for it ’round here. Most folks just orders it online and ’as it shipped.”

  I picked up one of the bottles on the counter labeled Caramel Apple. “Have you sold any of this lately?”

  “Sold some couple of days ago to a bloke from up at the Lodge.”

  “Do you remember what he looked like?”

  He pulled his specs down from his head and studied me through them. “What does that have to do with the price of tea in China?”

  “Just wanted to make sure it wasn’t my brother. Don’t want to get the same flavor,” I finished lamely.

  “Hmph. Not much to remember. Average-looking bloke, well-fed, shiny boots, and a posh hunting jacket that looked like it’d never seen the outdoors before.”

  That could have described half the men in the resort, including probably Trevor.

  I picked up the red bottle from the counter and examined it. “Does it taste good?”

  “Too sweet for my liking, but there’s some as think it’s great.”

  I purchased a bottle of the caramel apple liquid and left the store, taking the long way back to the car. Purchasing a bottle of the sweet-tasting syrup was easy enough. Apparently just as easy to get raw liquid nicotine sent to your door. If someone mixed the higher-strength nicotine with a small amount of the flavoring, then placed it in a drink, it would be harder to detect. Though not for Sir Richard, I would think. His palate was unusually sensitive by all accounts. Surprising he’d missed something off with his drink, but maybe he’d just downed it too quickly.

  * * *

  —

  I wandered down the street to the local café and ducked in for a coffee. The wind was now howling, and the thought of a warm drink was irresistible. I checked my emails and saw that Patrick had sent me a short note. Only one transaction involving both Archie and Richard—the sale of Edenburn. Here’s a copy of the lawsuit filed against Central Spirits by the distillery’s former manager, Bruce Keenan. Interesting reading. P.

  I scanned the attachment. Keenan claimed wrongful termination, among other things, and the named plaintiffs were Archie MacInnes, Richard Simpson, and Central Spirits. With respect to Central, Hugh Ashworth-Jones’s name came up over and over as the one who had negotiated the deal with Archie and Richard. Keenan claimed provisions should have been made to retain or compensate long-term employees under the terms of the deal.

  The case was withdrawn before it went to trial. Pressure from the company? A payoff perhaps? I searched Keenan’s name on my phone and he showed up on a list of guests at a recent Malt Whisky Society do. He must still be in the trade. Hopefully he was here. Maybe Cam or Grant could help identify him. Only one transaction to look at. The first spot of good news we’d had in days. Fewer people to track down, but if Edenburn proved to be a dead end, it would land Trevor and Patrick in the spotlight again.

  I stared out the window, finishing the la
st of my coffee, as I watched a young woman hurry down the street huddled against the cold. As she passed, I realized with a start that it was Sophie. She stopped in front of the real estate agent’s office across the street and looked both ways before stepping inside. I continued to watch for another twenty minutes until she reemerged and started back up the High Street at a trot.

  That couldn’t go unchecked. “What do you think, Liam? Time to inquire about a wee vacation cottage?”

  The local real estate agent’s window had dozens of cards on display showing properties from modest semidetached jobs to fabulous country retreats. The moment I stepped across the threshold, a perky young woman rose from her desk and bounced over to me.

  “How can I help you, madam?”

  Funny how quickly you become madam when people think you might want to spend some serious money. “I’m staying up at the Lodge this week, and I must say we’ve just fallen in love with the area,” I oozed. “It’s so beautifully quaint. I was curious to see what you might have in the way of vacation cottages.”

  “We have some lovely properties that are part of the Lodge’s golf community. Gives you access to the course and the hotel’s spa. An utterly charming little enclave. Townhouses and detached properties as well.”

  “How much do the townhouses run?”

  The agent continued to smile, though less warmly. “We have a range of models from five hundred thousand to two million pounds.”

  Apparently if you have to ask, you can’t afford. “So not the kind of thing the locals are buying,” I commented.

  “Bless me, no. The locals tend to go for more rural properties.” The agent changed tack, obviously thinking I might be the more rustic type. “I just now sold a lovely property with a small croft on it to one of the local lasses. That kind of thing can make a lovely weekend retreat if you’re willing to renovate.” The agent went to the front window and removed one of the cards to apply a red sold flag to the corner. “Better get this flagged. Someone else was very interested in this property.” She returned the card to the front window to tout the firm’s success at shifting properties in what I suspected was a tough market.