Deadly Dram

by Melinda Mullet

  “The buyers nearly lost it, but they came through with the deposit just in time. You have to move quickly these days,” she hinted.

  “If I was interested in one of the properties you have listed, what kind of down payment are we looking at?”

  “Twenty percent is standard. Would you like to browse through the listing books?”

  “Perhaps another day,” I said, allowing Liam to pull me toward the door. The agent looked like she would’ve physically restrained me if she could’ve. She was letting a live one get away. In spite of her bravado, I sensed that business was slow.

  As I hustled away on the end of Liam’s leash, I took a quick look at the newly sold croft in the window. The list price was fifty thousand pounds. For that Sophie would have had to put down ten thousand pounds. She was young and working as a maid. Even though her job was at a ritzy hotel, how would she have saved that kind of money? A thought leapt to mind, but it wasn’t a happy one.

  Chapter 14

  I took Liam back to our room and collapsed on the bed, staring at the ceiling. Soon I’d have to start getting ready for dinner, but I just felt the need to rest. After a few minutes I rolled over and pulled the white board out from under the bed. Now that I had the information on the lawsuit from Patrick, I added the name Bruce Keenan to the business connection. He was certainly someone injured by the Edenburn transaction. I reluctantly wrote Sophie/£ next to his name and next to Trevor’s. In theory, either one could be bribing Sophie to help them. I still struggled to see her knowingly poisoning a guest, but she might be willing to retrieve brass keys from the manager’s office, though as I saw today, it wasn’t hard to get access to a key even if you weren’t staff.

  A knock at the door made me jump, and I hastily stuffed the board under the bed before going to the door. Oliver Blaire stood outside, and I could tell from his face that all was not well. I invited him in and flipped on the fireplace.

  “I did as you asked and spoke to MacNamara,” Oliver said. “You were right. There is a kind of informal rigging going on.”

  “How do you ‘informally’ rig a contest?”

  “It seems that they’ve arranged for all of the ‘less desirable whiskies’ to be given odd numbers and the favored Scottish brands to be given even numbers. This enables judges who are so inclined to favor the even-numbered bottles by giving them an exceptionally high rating and giving the odd-numbered bottles an inordinately low rating.”

  I felt vindicated and deflated at the same time. “Were all the judges told?”

  “MacNamara made a few broad hints to most of the judges, but if you didn’t pick up on it, he wasn’t pursuing the matter. I think they were doing their best to fly under the radar. I have to say I wasn’t pressured into complying, but it was made clear that it was an option for judges concerned by the number of foreign entries.”

  “What about Sir Richard and Archie?”

  “I asked how MacNamara had managed to convince them, but he was adamant that neither of them was even approached because, as he said, ‘we knew they would disapprove.’ ”

  “Who’s we?”

  “He didn’t say.” Oliver thought for a moment. “I suspect they were hiding behind Richard’s vocal opposition to the nationalists. Who would accuse them of being antiforeign with Richard on the panel?”

  “Richard was astute. Could he have figured it out somehow?”

  “I have to think that if he had, he’d have blown the whistle immediately. No messing about.”

  I had to agree. Richard would never have sat on something that incendiary. “Did MacNamara say who else had joined Team Scotland?” I asked.

  “Not specifically, but he said I certainly wasn’t ‘alone in my concerns.’ He seemed quite pleased that I’d expressed an interest.”

  “So what will you do now?” I asked Oliver.

  “I intend to have a discussion with the cellar master and the head of the Order of the Golden Quaich, and I expect he will appoint a new representative from the Society.”

  “I’m sorry to have involved you in this, Oliver.”

  Oliver shrugged his elegant shoulders. “It had to be done. Better now than after the awards have been given out.”

  I showed Oliver out and went back to the drawing board, as they say. I pulled out my white board and crossed out the word competition. It was a relief to have at least one category eliminated. Richard and Archie hadn’t been told, and if they’d somehow found out, they would’ve immediately created a big stink. That meant the rigging of the competition hadn’t been the motive for murder.

  What remained was Trevor, along with Richard and Archie’s business endeavors—namely, the Edenburn distillery. My focus would be on their business misdeeds, but first I needed to call Michaelson. MacNamara and his mates were about to cause a scandal and he should be warned. At least they weren’t murderers. Someone else had that dubious distinction.

  * * *

  —

  Evening was closing in and the gathering dark made me feel anxious. Two nights; two murders. What would tonight bring? I couldn’t help feeling unnerved, anxious, and unprepared. Poison was a subtle weapon, not like facing a killer with a knife or a gun. It could sneak up on you from anywhere.

  All three key players in the Edenburn deal were on the judging panel together for the first time. Was this chance occurrence, the crucial twist of fate that had inspired a bitter vengeance? If it was, it didn’t bode well for Hugh Ashworth-Jones. He was arguably the one directly responsible for sacking the original employees, and possibly for coercing Bruce Keenan into dropping his lawsuit. If the killer was in fact picking off those concerned with the distillery’s sale, Ashworth-Jones was the last of the judges still standing and the logical next victim. I sensed that he was in danger, but without proof that Bruce Keenan was even in attendance, what could I do? Warn Hugh? And if I did, what would I say? Your past may be coming back to haunt you—but I’m not sure. He’d think I was nuts.

  Patrick came through the door at that moment, looking knackered. He collapsed across the bed with a grunt. “Never thought I’d say it, but I’m in no hurry to taste another whisky.”

  “Buck up, my friend. You have a long night ahead of you. Have you spoken to Oliver?”

  “Just now. He told me what he found out. Well done. But where does that leave us?”

  “Neither Richard nor Archie was told about the scam, so there would’ve been no need to kill them. In fact, Oliver thinks MacNamara may have been using Richard’s vocal opposition to the nationalists as a smoke screen. So that leaves us still looking for a killer,” I said.

  Patrick rolled over to his side and looked at me across the divide. “Tell me you’ve found something to help Trevor and me.”

  “I wish I could say yes, but it seems to be getting more complex, not less,” I lamented. I gave Patrick a brief rundown of my afternoon in town.

  “There could’ve been any number of people shopping at the tobacconist,” Patrick pointed out hastily. “And just because Sophie seems to have money, it doesn’t mean she’s up to no good, and it certainly doesn’t mean she’s in league with Trev.”

  “I agree, but I’m not sure Michaelson will. He likes his evidence, not my intuition.”

  “Are we even sure the truffles were poisoned?”

  “Haven’t had confirmation yet, but I know the police are operating on the assumption that they were.”

  “To think I’ve been looking forward to this week for months. What a nightmare.” Patrick lay back and pinched the bridge of his nose. I could tell he had a headache. “Did you get the court document I sent?” he asked.

  “Yes. Now that’s actually promising. Archie, Richard, and Hugh Ashworth-Jones were all knee-deep in the deal. I don’t suppose you know the plaintiff, Bruce Keenan?”

  “Not personally,” Patrick said, “but someone here should. Is he
a guest at the Lodge?”

  “No. At least he’s not in the guest book.”

  “That doesn’t mean he isn’t attending.” Patrick continued to stare up at the ceiling.

  “Right,” I said. “Then the first priority is to find Bruce Keenan. If he is here, I should be able to convince Michaelson to consider him as a suspect. In the meantime, I think we should do our best to keep an eye on Hugh. I’m concerned that people will be letting their guard down now that they think the police have arrested the killer. For most that’s probably fine, but for Hugh it could be fatal. Do you think between you and Grant, you could manage to stay close to him all evening?”

  “We can try to tag-team it, but it probably wouldn’t hurt to search Hugh’s room in case the killer’s already been there and left a tainted offering,” Patrick pointed out.

  “Leave that to me.”

  “I don’t like the way your mind is working. I can see the wheels turning from here.”

  “You worry about you, and let me worry about me.” I scuttled off to the bathroom to get ready for dinner, but also to avoid more questions from Patrick. I had an idea that might kill two birds with one stone. I stood reveling in the warmth of the heated floor as I puttered around putting on makeup and doing something with my hair. I had no idea what to wear tonight. I hadn’t really planned on a different outfit for each event, but I wanted to make a good showing. For the Glen, of course, but just as much to avoid being shown up by Brenna the Welsh witch.

  When I emerged from the bathroom, Patrick had already laid out an ensemble on the bed.

  “Sorry,” he said, “I’m restless.”

  I pulled on the black pencil skirt Patrick had chosen and picked up the extremely low-cut black cashmere sweater he’d placed beside it. “I look like I’m going to a funeral.”

  “A sexy funeral,” he said, “and what could be more appropriate than all black for a spot of clandestine snooping?”

  I couldn’t help thinking of Grant looking at me, his eyes that deep shade of forest green. But I shook my head and said, “I’m not your personal Barbie doll.”

  “Then choose something else.”

  I didn’t really have much else that I hadn’t already worn. Maybe Patrick was right. Maybe I needed to up my game. I went to my suitcase and pulled out a triple-strand pearl choker that had been a gift from Ben years ago. I’d thrown it into my suitcase at the last minute, wanting to feel that he was somehow with me in this place. I clasped it around my neck and studied the effect. The outfit as a whole was quite dramatic, and even Patrick admitted the pearls were the right touch of elegance to balance the erotic appeal of the rest of the ensemble.

  Liam appeared quite happy to stay sprawled in front of the fire. He was getting room service. Mrs. Easton had promised to have Sophie bring a plate up from the kitchen for him. As I shut the door, I once again found myself envying the life of a dog.

  * * *

  —

  Patrick hastened away to join his fellow judges as soon as we walked through the door, stationing himself as instructed right next to Hugh Ashworth-Jones. Left alone, I headed to the bar to order a drink. When I turned back to survey the room, I found that Grant had suddenly appeared at my elbow.

  His gaze traveled from my eyes to my waist and back again. “I appreciate your efforts to garner additional attention for the Glen, but I’d rather our whisky stood on its own merits and not yours.”

  I sensed Grant was trying to be funny, but there was a tinge of ice in his tone that suggested he was more serious than not. I stepped back half a pace, subconsciously putting additional space between the two of us. “You’re a half owner of the distillery, not of me,” I snapped. I took a deep breath, not perhaps the best move for minimizing the focus on my assets, but I needed to regain a sense of calm. “You said earlier you were willing to help.” I continued softly. “Are you still game?”

  Grant inclined his head slightly. “Yes. What did you have in mind?”

  “Can you help Patrick keep an eye on Hugh Ashworth-Jones tonight? Patrick will stick by him at all the judging functions. We need you to rotate in at other times so he doesn’t get suspicious.”

  “And what will you be doing?”

  “Trying to find a man named Bruce Keenan.”

  “He’ll find you unless he’s blind.” Grant swallowed the rest of his drink and ordered another. “Not sure Hugh will appreciate being stalked by me, but I’ll do my best.” He paused and seemed to be considering the matter further. “If Hugh’s a target, and the killer is following his prior pattern, surely he’ll be trying to access his victim’s room. Should we post a watch there?”

  I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. “I’m working on it,” I said impatiently.

  “Here comes Patrick,” Grant observed. “I guess that means I’m up.”

  I turned as Patrick grabbed my arm and whispered in my ear, “I’ve found someone who knows Bruce Keenan.”

  “Great, but who’s with Hugh?” I said.

  “He’s talking to Brenna.”

  I glared at Patrick. “You didn’t rope her into this?”

  “No. But he’s fine with her for a minute. Believe me, he’s enraptured.”

  “I’ll go,” Grant said, hastening away. I wondered if he was rushing off so quickly to keep an eye on Brenna, or Hugh.

  I shook the thought away and turned back to Patrick. “Who knows Keenan?”

  “Cam.” Patrick pushed me in the direction of our distillery manager. “Go talk to him. I’ve been called in to meet with the Quaich representatives. Seems they need to meet with each of the judges individually about ‘something important,’ and we all know what that is.”

  I made my way over to Cam, who was making the rounds of the canapés set out along the back wall. He saw me and raised a glass. As I approached, he gave me the once-over but tactfully refrained from commenting.

  “I hear they’ve taken Trevor Simpson in,” he said. “Think they’ve got the right man?”

  “I couldn’t say.”

  “Couldnae or shouldnae?”

  “Bit of both, to be honest,” I replied. “Patrick’s convinced he’s innocent.”

  “If police’ve got it wrong, you’ll set ’em straight, lass.”

  I wished I could be as sure as Cam was. “I’ll do my best,” I said. “Maybe you can help. Patrick says you know Bruce Keenan. Is he here?”

  “Saw him earlier today but haven’t seen him so far tonight.”

  “So he’s not staying at the hotel, but he has been coming to the competition?”

  “Aye. Why the interest?”

  “Not so much in him as in his time at Edenburn distillery,” I said tactfully.

  “Aye.” Cam chewed on another egg roll. “That was a rough go-round. Bruce was let go after Edenburn was sold to Central.”

  “What did Bruce do for Edenburn?”

  “He was their distillery manager, and a damn good one. It was a raw deal, and he was right raging about it at the time.”

  “He sued, didn’t he?”

  “You seem to know plenty about this already,” Cam chuckled. “Why you askin’ me?”

  “Just hoping to find out a bit more about the man.”

  “Men who’ve worked for distilleries all their days become a part of the fabric of the place.”

  Cam had obviously had enough whisky to start philosophizing.

  “It’s a big part of who they are, their identity. Bein’ dumped like that for no reason was soul destroyin’ for Bruce. Would be for any man. Got nowhere with the lawsuit, then ’is wife up and left ’im. It was a bleak time.”

  “What’s he doing now?”

  “Had a tough time getting a job. He was older and there were rumors floating around about his suitability after he was let go. The stories came from Edenburn’s, I’ve nae doubt.
”

  “Any specifics?”

  “Not really, but he’d always had a bad temper. Eventually he was hired by Marchbanks.”

  That came as a surprise. “Oliver Blaire’s family distillery?”

  “Aye. He handles distribution for them.”

  I made a note to talk to Oliver later. “Isn’t that a comedown from being a distillery manager?”

  “That it is, but it’s a job, and Blaire’s are good people to work for. Generous and honest.”

  “Do you think Bruce blamed Archie MacInnes for losing him his job?”

  “Bruce and I’ve been friends for twenty years or more, but it’s not really the sort o’ thing he’d share with me. But if I had to guess, I’d say he was blamin’ most everyone at the time.”

  “If he shows up tonight, I’d like to meet him.”

  “Will do, but watch yourself,” Cam said with a frown. “Bruce ’as always fancied himself a bit of a ladies’ man, and there’s an awful lot of your ladyness on display tonight.”

  * * *

  —

  Brenna of course chose tonight to wear a dress of great simplicity and class. A soft winter white wool, high-necked and long-sleeved, it fit her like it had been tailored expressly for her. Perhaps it had been. She didn’t seem to be short of money. I saw her in the corner talking to Hugh and Grant. Grant’s head bent down to hers, and her hair fell like satin on the arm of his coat. She nestled a hand inside his jacket, where it rested on his waist as they stood talking to Hugh. There was no mistaking the intimacy of the gesture. But there was no point being jealous. I’d chased Grant off at every turn. I couldn’t expect him to put his life on hold because of me.

  There might be no point being jealous, but I couldn’t help it. I turned away, feeling grumpy and out of sorts. Not the best mood for chatting with Cam’s friend, Keenan, who arrived on the scene shortly before dinner. Cam steered him my way and made his introductions before disappearing tactfully to get us all another drink.