“I’ve only seen it from the outside, but it’s got a cool vibe. Lots of brick.”
“Yeah, it’s an unusual building for Bohemia in that regard,” he said. “I’m the fourth generation in our family to run a business there. Unfortunately, we’re not the only ones who think it’s cool. I’ve had a developer on my ass since I started renovating, wanting to turn it into condos. We’ve been in business for nine years, and I’m still getting letters asking if I’ll sell.”
“Who’s bugging you?”
“Oh, a big corporation,” he said. “Tocks Development Group.”
“Tocks … why is that name familiar?”
“Because Raquel Tocks was at our dinner last night?”
“Oh, yeah! She’s a sponsor. And I’ve seen that name around Bohemia, too. They’ve built some new apartments out on the north end of town. I guess they’re trying to get into the old industrial district, since it’s not really industrial anymore. A couple of my friends live in another building kind of like yours that another developer remodeled, the old ice plant.”
Dash nodded. “That’s a gorgeous building. It would have been fantastic for us. We could have even made our own ice, like that distillery up in St. Augustine. But the factory building was what we had to work with. My dad closed the paint business a few years after his brother died, but he wanted the building to stay in the family, since their grandfather started the paint factory there. My mom had passed by then—”
“Oh, I’m sorry.”
“Thanks. It’s OK. Basically, the only family my dad had left was me and my cousin, so he set up a family trust to help me start the distillery.”
“You and Travis?”
“Travis didn’t come on board until about a year into it, around the time my dad passed. The story we tell everyone is that we started it together, but the truth is, Travis just wasn’t interested at first. He’s moved around a lot. Always had something more glamorous cooking, though he never seemed to settle anywhere. I made him some promises to get him on board.”
“That’s interesting.” With Travis’s charm, I figured he could walk into any business and be owner of it before long. “So he’s your partner?”
“He will be soon,” Dash said. “My lawyer is drawing up the papers. I think he really likes the job now, even if he wants to turn it into a vodka factory.” Dash rolled his eyes.
“Nooo!” I said, and we both laughed.
“I could have started with vodka, but I started with gin while we got the whiskey going. He thinks we can make big money if we make vodka, and he’s probably right. He was always the practical one.”
“Why is that?”
“He’s a survivor. Travis had a tough time as a kid. His dad—my uncle—was an ass, frankly. Always cutting Travis down. And his mom kind of withdrew into herself, didn’t intervene, and she and Travis were estranged until she died last year. He was strong, though. He protected me from bullies, and I did everything I could to get him away from a bad crowd. Both of our families lived up the road in Cocoa Beach, even though our dads’ paint business was in Bohemia.”
“Turn left here,” I said, and we shifted direction. “I wondered why I hadn’t seen you in school.”
“I’m also a few years older than you, I think, but that’s why.” He smiled. “I would’ve remembered you.”
Now Dash was being dashing. “So you and Travis were friends as well as cousins.”
Dash looked thoughtful. “Almost like brothers. When we were kids, we did everything together. We loved adventure stories, not just Star Wars, but the classics from my dad’s library—C.S. Forester, Lord of the Rings, Howard Pyle, that sort of thing. Especially that medieval stuff by Pyle. Great illustrations. And any old movie with swashbuckling, swordplay, you know, and we were always acting them out. My dad even paid for us to take fencing lessons together. For me, it was plain old fun. For Travis, those stories were an escape.”
“I loved those kinds of stories, too. Lots of fantasy. I still wish I had a dragon of my own.”
Dash chuckled. “We kind of grew out of them. We didn’t hang out as much when we got older, especially because he was a few years older than me. He was a junior in high school when his dad died. It was hard on him, even if the old bastard wasn’t much of a loss.”
“I get it, believe me.” My remark sounded more bitter than I’d intended.
Dash looked at me with sympathy. “When I started the distillery, I wanted to get Travis involved. He’s not only the brother I never had; he’s a charming guy and perfect for marketing, a total extrovert, the yin to my yang. Everybody loves him. We wouldn’t have come this far without him.”
We approached a doorway where a guy played a melancholy jazz tune on tenor sax. We listened for a couple of minutes, then Dash produced five bucks and tossed the bill into the instrument case before we moved on.
“It’s so nice to hear jazz on every street corner,” he said. “Music seems like the perfect life to me.”
I chuckled. “Sure, playing for a few bucks at a time, playing at all hours …”
Dash’s smile was fleeting. “It just seems like an easygoing kind of existence. The distillery—it’s a lot of pressure. There were days when I thought I didn’t want to go on.”
His comment surprised me. “And now?”
“It’s been kind of a struggle to get going, but we’re just hitting what I think of as the second level. Our gin held us over while we developed the whiskey, but it’s all taken a ton of time and effort and investment. Now we’re getting good press and better distribution. I even got an offer from a British distiller who’s looking to partner with an American firm, but after all of our hard work, I’d like to keep the business in the family and reap the success we’ve earned. I figured it was time to make a splash here, which is why I talked to Neil about you guys helping us. I was pretty excited about it until we almost poisoned the convention. Do you know how hard it was to dump out all that whiskey we brought? It was like watching my dreams go down the drain. I know that was only one batch, but—I don’t know if I can take another setback like that.”
My blood still ran cold thinking about it. “That was scary.”
“It still is. And now I’m worried about you, too.”
Damn. “Neil told you about the note, didn’t he?”
Dash nodded. “He’s concerned. Someone is messing with us. I can’t imagine what’s going to happen next, but I don’t think it’s going to be good.” He turned to me and offered a strained smile. “But I know we can figure it out. We’ll look out for each other, OK?”
“OK. Honestly, Dash, I’m more worried about you than me. I think someone is harassing me because they don’t want me helping you. Here, give me that hat.” I paused on the sidewalk, and he handed me his hat. I examined the inside, then stuck it on my head for a moment as I rummaged in my bag. I extracted a slim object sheathed in leather and a mini roll of pink duct tape and secured the sheath into the sweatband inside the hat.
“What’s that?” he asked.
“Cocktail knife.”
“In case I have a lime emergency?” Dash grinned.
“No, silly. In case you need a weapon. It’s sharp as hell.”
He put the hat back on his head, wiggling it into place. “Seems like overkill. You have a whole cocktail kit in that bag? And duct tape? Rope, too? Should I be worried?”
I laughed, a little embarrassed. “I like to carry a few things, just in case. A small shaker. Et cetera. But no rope. Usually. Does it feel OK?”
“Just fine,” he said, patting his head as we continued walking. “You sure you don’t want to hang on to it?”
“The knife? Are you kidding? If I did need it, it would take me ten minutes to find it and dig it out. You can give it back to me later.” I glanced at my phone. “We’re here. Maybe we’ll find out what we want to know from the Chapeau Brothers.”
14
The “brothers” might have been a fanciful branding invention, but there was
no doubt this store had an impressive assortment of hats: luxurious felt, smoothly woven straw and saucy cloth, mostly for men but a few for women that ranged from broad-brimmed sun blockers to elaborate going-to-church-on-Sunday confections. They were displayed on tall, dark wooden shelves and central tables, beautifully arrayed, hinting of luxury, their invisible tentacles reaching out to nearby pockets for a wallet they could pluck.
“That’s a nice sipping-mint-julep-on-the-porch kind of hat,” an elegant young man said to Dash in a studied Southern accent. Or maybe he wasn’t so young, but he had a youthful appearance that I suspected was enhanced by makeup. The accent might not have been all that authentic, either, but the slim-fitting pants, crisp shirt and suspenders made his attire perfect for the shop. “Have you tried something in blue? It would match those pretty eyes.”
I sighed. It figured that of the two of us, Dash was the prettier one.
“I had a nicer hat, but it suffered an accident,” Dash replied. “I could probably use another one.”
“What are you looking for? Another straw hat? This one has a robin’s-egg-blue band and sharper lines. I think it would set off your eyes and your nice square jaw.”
I struggled not to roll my eyes and tapped my phone to pull up a photo of the hat we’d found in the Charity Hospital Cemetery. I showed it to the salesman. “What about something like this?”
He glanced at the phone and turned his attention back to Dash. “Oh, we do carry that one, but we only have a couple left. I sold one just a few days ago, in fact.”
“Really?” Tamp it down, Pepper. “I mean, do you remember what the person looked like who bought it?”
“Well, that’s an unusual question.” Our salesman finally tore his gaze away from Dash and raised an eyebrow at me.
“I wouldn’t want to commit a fashion faux pas by having the exact same hat as someone else at Cocktailia,” Dash said, drawing the guy’s eyes again. “He might’ve been from the convention. Do you remember what he looked like?”
“Oh, I see. As a matter of fact, I believe this young man was wearing several buttons from Cocktailia on his jacket. Paid cash. Told me he’d been saving his tips for this hat. He looked like a bartender. Big beard. Might’ve been squirrels nesting in it. You definitely don’t want to dress like him. I can help you find another style you’ll love.”
“That is disappointing,” Dash said, getting into his role, “but nothing else here is getting me excited.”
“Well,” our salesman said, sotto voce, “excitement isn’t really our job here. We’re more into elegance. But if you want some real excitement and entertainment, you should come see me in my other job.” He slipped us a card.
Dash glanced at the card, swallowed and handed it to me. It advertised a drag show on Bourbon Street.
“I bet you’re fantastic,” I said to our sales guy and meant it.
“You’ve got to see my new gown for this show, which we’re calling ‘Wham Bam Thank You Glam.’ I’ve got big sequins. Big sequins. Silver, silver, silver. It practically blinds people when I come on stage.”
“My brother here is a huge fan of female impersonators!” I squeezed Dash’s arm and tried not to grin at his glazed expression. “When do you perform?”
“Friday and Saturday night. The midnight show is the best. I hope I see you, sugar,” he said to Dash. “Let me know if you need a new hat for a night out you won’t forget.” He winked and walked away, and Dash grabbed my elbow and practically pushed me out of the store.
“What was that about? I’ve never seen a drag show in my life,” he said as I shook him off and took the lead, steering us toward La Bonne Vie.
“You should. They’re fantastic here. Anyway, I just wanted to make his day. He was flirting with you so hard I thought his mascara would flake off.”
“Mascara?” Dash said with a squeak.
I laughed. “Does your masculinity feel threatened?”
“Absolutely not.” He straightened his hat and slipped his arm in mine. “I have a beautiful woman with me, after all.”
It took me a moment to de-fluster. Dash’s flirting was way more obvious than Neil’s, which was kind of a relief. At least I didn’t need psychoanalysis to figure out what it was. I let myself enjoy the feeling of his warm body brushing against mine as we walked briskly toward our destination.
“So someone actually bought a hat there that looks like the one we found,” I said. “Sound like anybody you know? Buttons? Beard?”
“Half of Cocktailia? But no, no one I know personally.”
“Fake beard, perhaps?” I asked.
“That seems far-fetched. It’s not like the guy anticipated losing his hat in the cemetery, if it was even the same hat or the same guy.”
I frowned. “I don’t know what I expected from the shop. We could’ve asked for a name, maybe.”
“He paid cash. Tips, the guy said.”
“But they have a mailing list. I saw the register on one of the tables, like a guest book. Very old-school.”
“I saw that, too,” Dash said, “but there’s no way to match the hat with a name. I didn’t see dates in it.”
I frowned. “Damn it. OK, we’re here. Let’s hope Nicki is working today.”
La Bonne Vie had light traffic mid-morning on a Friday. A few people sipped eye-openers at the bar. I went up to the seasoned barman and asked for Nicki.
“She should be here in a couple of minutes. Y’all want anything?”
I looked at Dash, and we each took a stool. It was early for me, especially since I had to work, but hey, it was New Orleans.
“Bourbon milk punch,” I ordered.
“Bourbon. A girl after my own heart,” Dash said. “I’ll have the same, with Bohemia Beachside Bourbon, if you have it.”
“We do,” the barman said. “Had a great event with those folks just last night, one of those Distiller Dinners. Super bartender team. They sent a couple of each drink around to us here at the bar, so I had a taste. Good choice. I’ll have these right up for you.”
“There you go. Right from the expert’s mouth,” I said after he’d walked away.
“I didn’t know Neil did that,” Dash said.
“Honestly, I didn’t either. But it was a brilliant marketing move. Now these bartenders know your whiskey, know the kinds of drinks they can make with it, and are talking about it to their customers.”
“And that may explain why Nicki sent the boomerangs.”
“Good point. Oh, look, here comes a woman who might just be who we’re looking for.”
A female bartender had entered from the restaurant side of the house and slid behind the bar. She was pretty, with pinned-up reddish-blond hair and freckles, and she wore a tight, short black skirt and a silky green blouse.
“Y’all being taken care of?” she asked us.
“He’s got it.” I nodded to our guy down the bar. “Hey, are you Nicki?”
“Yeah.” There was hesitance in her voice.
Dash rushed to reassure her. “We just wanted to thank you for the boomerangs. I’m Dash Reynolds from Bohemia Distillery.”
Her face lit up. “Oh, you’re Dash? Nice stuff. I was only too glad to send over those drinks for you. Only I wish I’d thought of it.”
“You—you didn’t?” I asked.
“Another guy asked me to send them. He said he enjoyed the dinner so much, he wanted to say ‘thank you.’ He said he heard you were headed to Snaiquiri and marked them so they’d go to the right people.”
“That’s really nice,” I said, though that’s not what I was thinking. Who the hell sent the drinks? “Did you read the notes after he marked them?”
“No need. Alastair Markham was in the bar, so I asked him to take them over.”
“So Alastair didn’t send them?” I asked.
She laughed. “Uh, no. Not his style to compliment another bartender.” She looked down, picked up a bar spoon and began rearranging the garnishes. Almost like she didn’t want to say anythin
g else.
“What did the man look like?” Dash said. “I’d like to thank him.”
“Oh, not remarkable,” she said. “I don’t even really remember. We’d had a few ourselves that night. Excuse me.” She moved down the bar as our bartender brought over our lovely white cocktails and set them down. He produced a UFO-shaped gadget and turned its crank over each drink, generating a sprinkling of aromatic nutmeg that fell prettily on each foamy white surface.
“Enjoy,” he said before going to check on another customer.
“Do you think Nicki is hiding something?” I whispered to Dash after a moment.
“Maybe she just didn’t want us to know how drunk she was, especially since I have a professional relationship with her place of employment.” Dash took a sip. “Wow, my whiskey is delicious.”
I couldn’t help but smile as I tasted mine. “I detest false humility. It’s true. It is delicious.” I took a deeper sip, savoring the cold, smooth texture of the cocktail. It was like a boozy vanilla shake, only not as thick. “Maybe you’re right. But it’s frustrating she couldn’t tell us anything else about the guy who wrote the message.”
“A random diner from the dinner? I mean, that could’ve been any one of sixty or so soused people, talking to a tipsy bartender. Somebody who overheard us saying we were going to Snaiquiri. I don’t think we’re any closer to finding out who he is.”
“Say he’s the one who bought the hat, and he’s from Cocktailia. And maybe he’s the same guy who did the dinner. We can look at the guest list and try to narrow it down.”
“I have a thought. Nicki?” Dash called out. She came over to us, but this time, her face was more guarded. “Did the man who asked you to send the boomerangs have a beard?”
Her eyes widened and shifted to the door as someone came into the bar, and then she looked back at us. “You know, I think he might’ve had a beard. But it was dark. I really don’t remember. I’m sorry.”
“What about a hat?” I asked.
“Oh, yes, he had a hat.”
“What did it look like?” I pressed.
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