Risky Whiskey

by Lucy Lakestone

  “Kind of like yours,” she said to Dash. “I don’t really notice things like that. Excuse me.” And then she was off to attend to the new customer.

  “Well, that narrows it down,” I joked.

  “Look at it this way,” Dash said. “At least we got a killer drink out of it.”

  I shot him a look.

  “Maybe not the best choice of words,” he said, downing the rest of his. He plunked down the glass and felt around in his jacket pockets, pulling out his buzzing phone. “Give me a minute. I’ll be right back. Hello?”

  He went out the door, and I waved at our original bartender, miming the writing of a check. I was only halfway through my drink, but that was plenty. I had way too much to do today, and it was already warm and humid outside. “Could I have a glass of water, too?” I asked when he dropped off the bill. I left cash inside the billfold, drank down half the glass of water he brought, and headed out to see if Dash had abandoned me.

  He was standing outside the restaurant like one of those performance artists who pretends to be a marble statue, and was almost as pale.

  “Dash?”

  “It’s all gone.”

  “What?”

  “Our checking. The Bohemia Distillery account. It’s been cleared out. All the money is gone.”

  15

  I flagged down a cab to carry Dash and me back to the hotel. He was about as responsive as a marble column and in no condition for another stroll through the Quarter, though he did tap on his phone as we rolled through the sunny streets. I wanted to get him somewhere relatively safe. And find out what the hell happened.

  I texted Millie on the short ride back. “Still in town?”

  “We just had brunch. About to see if Neil needs anything. What’s up?”

  “Meet me in the lobby in 5.”

  She and Bennett met us just inside the doors, and I asked Bennett if he would show Dash to his room and stay with him for a minute while I talked things over with Millie.

  Dash looked at me. “I need to talk to Travis.” It was the first thing he’d said since he’d lapsed into shock outside La Bonne Vie.

  “Good idea,” I said. “Did you text him?”

  “He’s not answering.”

  I touched Dash’s shoulder lightly. “Why don’t I find him and send him to your room?”

  “OK.” Sounding defeated, he let Bennett lead him off through the busy lobby.

  “What happened?” asked Millie, looking cute in a short dress. Her bobbed hair, a few shades darker than mine, was as smooth and efficient as she was.

  “Dash got a phone call and said that someone cleaned out the Bohemia Distillery checking account.”

  Millie’s eyebrows rose, and she blinked a couple of times. “Forgive me if my first reaction is to say, thank goodness they paid us for most of the work already. And my second reaction is, this sounds bad.”

  “Really bad.”

  “Like ‘someone is out to get them’ bad. After the toxic batch of whiskey—Neil told me about that—”

  “And the cemetery,” I said.

  “What cemetery?”

  Crap. I lowered my voice and filled Millie in on the attack, leaving out the note I found on my door.

  “Damn. OK. What can I do?”

  “Get as many details as you can from Dash about what happened and his theories on what might have happened. I have to help Neil and the others with the workshop cocktails, and I don’t want to get Neil upset before his presentation.”

  “Does anything get Neil upset?” Millie asked wryly.

  I snickered. “You have a point. But I don’t want to test his limits right now. Talk to Dash, and I’ll find Travis and send him up. See if he has anything interesting to say.”

  “You got it. Let me know when you’re out of the seminar.”

  “Cool.” I gave her a quick hug, watched her go and thought about where I might find Travis. If he was schmoozing with press or distributors, the bar seemed like a good choice. I headed that way.

  The Hotel Lebeau’s bar was less traditional than its restaurant and more twenty-first century bordello. Mirrors alternated with tall windows in the lounge area, where overstuffed couches and chairs in black and taupe and stripes fought for space with low tables. The bar itself was curvy and luscious in dark wood and onyx, the stone’s creamy veins lit from beneath. Generous shelves of liquor lined the wall behind it, and velvety taupe barstools with high backs invited customers to linger. Clusters of different-size Edison bulbs, the filamented things that everyone seemed to have now, hung overhead like hipster chandeliers.

  Travis was ensconced in a corner with a couple of guys who seemed a lot like him, all of them relaxing on the plush furniture and sipping whiskey. Bohemia whiskey, I figured.

  “Pepper!” Travis called out as soon as he saw me. Lightly soused, I was pretty sure. “Come on over and meet my friends.”

  “Hey, Travis.” I shook hands with the men as he introduced them, but I was too distracted to process their names. Distributor types. “Have you seen Dash this morning?”

  “I was letting him sleep in. I should get him down here, though.”

  “Actually, he asked if you wouldn’t mind stopping by his room.” I didn’t want to say more in front of these guys.

  “OK, sure. I’ll check in with him later. We’re getting along too well to stop now!” He wiggled his eyebrows, clinked glasses with the other guys and waved at the bartender to bring more.

  “He’s a little under the weather this morning,” I said, trying to insert some emphasis so Travis would get my hint. “He really needs to talk to you.”

  “No problem,” he said blithely. “Why don’t you sit down and have a drink with us? Tell us about your favorite whiskey cocktails.”

  Any other time his merry drunkenness would’ve been kind of cute, but Dash was hurting, his company was in trouble, Travis was oblivious, and I was annoyed. “I have a workshop I have to get to. Please check on Dash, OK?”

  “He’ll be fine. But sure, I’ll go. One more drink, OK?” Travis’s gaze focused on mine, he gave me a small nod, and I finally got a sense that he saw more than he was saying. Like he’d finally picked up on my urgency and didn’t want to clue in the dudes.

  “Thanks.” I waved awkwardly and beat it out of there.

  Several minutes later, after a leery visit to my room (where there were no more nasty notes, to my relief) to dump my bag and pick up the hat we’d found, I made a stop by the front desk to leave it at the Lost and Found and have a word with the clerk.

  Finally, I got to the massive kitchens that adjoined the second-floor ballrooms. It took me a minute to find the remote corner where Melody, Luke, Barclay and Neil were huddled. Neil was reminding everyone how to make one of the cocktails he was featuring in his seminar, and he nodded at me when I came in. Luke and Barclay both shot me quizzical looks, and Melody elbowed me in greeting. Nearby, convention interns were setting out hundreds of small cups on trays and prepping blood-orange slices to garnish the first drink.

  “This is going to be great, but I can’t wait until this is over,” Neil finally said to our surprised laughter. I was relieved to see he’d left printouts of the recipes, since my brain had apparently stepped out for a smoke. “Pepper, have a minute?”

  “Oooo, you’re in trouble,” Luke said, and Barclay smacked him upside the head. Melody just grinned.

  Neil led me out of earshot, not far from where another team was prepping a variety of tiny, fancy gin and tonics for another seminar. Not just any team. Alastair was directing them with curt, loud commands.

  Neil shot a disapproving side-eye in their direction, then turned to me. “What did you learn?”

  “Not much from the hat store, except that someone from Cocktailia bought a hat like the one we found. I dropped it at Lost and Found and tipped the desk to let me know if someone picks it up.”

  “Good idea. And the boomerangs?”

  “Someone asked Nicki to send the boomerangs and
wrote on the plastic. She was low on detail, maybe deliberately so. But I didn’t get a sense there was malice in her. More like she was worried about her job or something. And she said the guy who suggested it wore a hat and maybe had a beard, though she wasn’t sure.”

  Neil searched my eyes. “There’s something else.”

  “I don’t want to distract you. Let’s talk after the seminar.”

  “Well, now you have to tell me. I won’t be able to do a damn thing if I don’t know what you’re hiding.”

  I allowed him a brief smile. “Dash said someone drained the distillery’s checking account. He just found out. I asked Millie to talk to him and Travis and see what she can find out, and we’ll catch up with them afterward. I hope that’s OK.”

  “Damn it.” He shut his eyes and rubbed his temples before looking at me again. “Having Millie talk to them is brilliant. She’s methodical and smart. But that’s not the best news, is it?”

  “And it raises a lot more questions. Who did it? Was it just a theft? Coincidence?”

  Neil let out an exasperated sigh. “Coincidence? It’s hard to believe, given everything that’s happened. They’ll have to get the police involved now, at least with the money missing.”

  He checked his watch. Yes, an old-fashioned watch with moving hands and everything, drawing my eyes to his forearms, dusted with rusty hair and wiry with muscle visible where his shirtsleeves were rolled up. My attention wandered to the rest of him, still sharp in the vest and tie, the trim beard, the thick hair.

  I stopped at his gray eyes. He was looking at me funny. I cleared my throat and tried to appear focused and efficient and not curious and horny.

  “I’ve got to get in there and make sure the multimedia is ready,” Neil said. “You OK?”

  “OK and ready to work,” I said with authority.

  “See you after?”

  “Smelling of whiskey and citrus, no doubt.”

  He grinned. “My favorite perfume.”

  Neil’s seminar was packed, and it was all we could do to keep up with the cocktails. Trays of petite drinks were brought out for each talking point as he shared the history of classic cocktails and ways to give them modern twists, along with tips on how to experiment and create them from scratch. We only got to watch the last ten minutes or so, after the last trays of cocktails were delivered, but he didn’t seem nervous at all. It was love I saw up there on the dais as he went through the slides of his presentation—love of the craft, the history, the flavors.

  The convention interns cleaned up while a dozen guests lingered to chat with Neil and get him to sign books.

  “We’re going to a new bar down the street,” Melody said to me. “Want to join us?”

  Barclay and Luke watched me expectantly. This was a chance to get to know them better, and I really wanted to go. But I shook my head. “I think I have to see what’s going on with Dash and Travis.”

  “Oh, no. What now?” Luke asked.

  I gave them the highlights version of the morning’s events and the bank account. “I feel like I’m in the middle of this, and I know Neil will want to find out what’s going on.”

  Melody elbowed me. Ooops. I’d been staring at Neil. “Groupie,” she said. The guys laughed, and my face heated.

  “Am not! That’s a groupie.” I nodded toward the svelte blonde in the tiny dress gushing over Neil as he signed her book.

  OK, maybe I was a groupie, too. But they didn’t need to know that. “How about I text you and catch up with you when we’re done? I think I’m going to need a drink after this afternoon.”

  “We’re all going to need a drink, and I’m buying,” came a voice at my elbow. Neil. He’d finally shed his last fan and looked happy with himself. “But not until after the awards. They go from seven to nine, which means we can actually go out and have fun. It’s about time we had a night off.”

  “Now you’re talking,” Barclay said. “I want to go to Latitude 29 tonight.”

  “Done.” Neil nodded. “You know I dig tiki.”

  “Well, we’re going to get a head start. We’ll see you at the ceremony,” Luke said to Neil.

  “I need a quick break, too,” Neil said as the others scattered. We picked up his bag of bar tools and his laptop, and we headed through the busy corridor toward the stairs. My tummy fluttered. Maybe I was too clingy. A groupie?

  I looked up at Neil. “Would you rather go see Dash and Millie alone?”

  His eyebrows rose, and a hint of a frown played around his lips. “Why? If you’d like to go out with the others, that’s fine.”

  “Oh, no, that’s not it. I mean, that would be fun. But I don’t want you to feel like I’m—I mean, I’m new to the Bartenders, and I—”

  “No, no. I absolutely need you to be there. You were there when Dash got the news this morning. You’ve been there all along during this mess. But I don’t want you to feel like you’re in danger. If you’re worried, I’ll be happy to do it myself. Well, not happy. But I feel like our fate is entwined with Dash’s, not to be melodramatic or anything—”

  “So do I! I want to be there. I want to help sort this out.”

  “And I want to make sure you’re safe.” He laid a hand on my arm, lightly, but I warmed through at his touch. What was it about this guy? “Speaking of which, no more threats?”

  We’d reached our rooms, and I glanced at my door. “Not yet.”

  “Good. Five minutes, OK?”

  I nodded. “OK.”

  In the calm of my room—and yeah, I checked all the corners to be sure no arrow-wielding poisoners were lurking—the bellowing tones of Tuba Guy and the racket of traffic reassured me that mercurial New Orleans had my back.

  I met Neil in the hallway, and we headed toward Dash’s room.

  16

  As it happened, Neil and I ran into Millie, Bennett and Travis in the hall outside Dash’s room.

  Travis looked grim. “I gave him one of my sleeping pills. He’ll be out for a while. He’s shaken up.”

  “I can see why,” Neil said. “Have you found out any more about what happened?”

  “The bank says it’s some kind of check scam. I talked to our accountant. One of our vendors didn’t get paid. Probably someone stole a check we’d written to them, forged a new one with a new payee and a much bigger amount, then deposited it into their own account.”

  “Then you can find out who has that account, right?” I asked.

  “It was a fake account,” Millie said, “and they emptied it right away. This probably happened two or three days ago.”

  “While we were here,” Travis added. “No one had really been looking at the account until this morning, when the automatic payment for the power bill didn’t go through.”

  “Do you have any idea who could be doing this?” I asked Travis.

  He ran a hand through his unruly hair and stared at the crazy corridor carpet as he replied, his voice edgy. “No idea. Listen, I’ve got to think. I’ve been on the phone for the past two hours. I’m going to take a walk.” He looked up at me. His normally mischievous eyes were dark. “I’ll check on Dash when I get back and make sure he’s OK for the awards tonight. He’s been so stressed about the business, maybe this is a sign he needs to get out. But I can’t be the one to tell him to forget his dream.”

  He walked away toward the elevator. None of us said anything until after it dinged and we heard the doors close, and then we all looked at each other, questions hanging in the air.

  “I think this calls for a meeting over booze,” Bennett said.

  “I have no idea where you’d get booze around here,” I replied.

  The others laughed. I knew just the right spot to get a drink and a snack, too.

  Ten minutes later, the four of us were seated at a table in a dark oyster bar that smelled faintly of dank whiskey barrels and crustaceans. This wasn’t the kind of place where Cocktailia folks would hang out, and that’s why it was perfect. The tables were topped with chipped, dark gr
een laminate, the floors were scuffed black-and-white checkerboard, the ceiling fans bore dust chunks that clung to the twirling blades like cliffhanging mice, and the walls were crowded with photos and memorabilia with about as much aesthetic sense as a hoarder house.

  Millie eyed the decor dubiously as she ordered a club soda from our tired-looking waitress.

  “Aw, come on,” said Bennett, who ordered a beer.

  “Not until later,” she said, winking at him.

  “Should I get a cocktail?” Neil asked me. I knew what he meant—not whether he should drink but if it was likely he would drink well.

  “They’re good here if you stick to the classics,” I said, then told the server, “Pimm’s Cup, please.”

  “I’ll have the same,” Neil said. “And an oysters Rockefeller for the table.”

  “Not the raw stuff?” Bennett asked.

  “It’s not a month that ends in ‘R,’ ” Neil pointed out.

  “Too snotty for me no matter what month it is,” I said to Millie’s “Eww.”

  “I like all the snot. All that delicious, tasty oyster snot,” Bennett said.

  Neil snorted. We perused the menu and ordered more snacks when the server returned with our drinks and the oysters Rockefeller.

  I sipped my Pimm’s Cup. “Ahh.” Gently tart lemon and herbal gin flavors embraced my taste buds.

  “Good choice,” Neil agreed after a long sip of his. “Now that we have alcohol, I have to ask: What do you think is happening here? Someone’s out to get Dash, it looks like, but was the theft the same person?”

  “We had the police on speaker phone while we were in the room,” Millie said. “The chances of them figuring out who had the account, the one where they deposited the check, aren’t great. It was established almost a year ago, and the security footage doesn’t go back that far. And the money was transferred out electronically.”

  “So someone was planning this for a year? That doesn’t seem random,” I said.

  “The victim could’ve been random,” Millie said. “The cops said this is standard practice—set up the account, find a victim or victims, close the account once the bank gets wise. Though a year is a long game.”