Last of the Vintage Read online

  “Huh?” Johnson was confused.

  “Weather forecaster. And yes, she did,” he said quietly. “Yes she did,” he added without realizing that he was still speaking out loud.

  #

  Brendan MacArthur paced. He was not a pacer, typically. But now he found himself walking up and down the length of his hotel room. He growled softly.

  Everything had been going so well, then Dulcie had to ruin it. It just figured that her damned boyfriend was a police detective. That’s the last thing Brendan needed.

  He had wanted to use her, or more to the point, her connections, to drum up interest in the wine. Free marketing. He didn’t want anything to be high profile. He’d told everyone that he was going to auction the rest of the bottles, but had never registered them with an auction house. He had no intention of doing that – it would have brought everything to the attention of the authorities and he wanted this to be a nice, relatively quiet underground transaction. Most of the buyers would have wanted that too, he knew from experience.

  He’d had a few calls from people interested, but they had all led to the inevitable question: which auction house was handling the sale? If Brendan had managed to keep everything low-profile, that question would never have been asked. They would have suggested an “arrangement” on the spot. He knew his clientele.

  Fortunately, Brendan had never said how many bottles he had. He doubted the others on the dive team knew. Brendan had made sure to keep the crates closed.

  Maybe he could still sell some on the side to a few brave souls who dared? He thought about the tasting in the boardroom. Who was there? Brendan was annoyed that Dulcie hadn’t given him the guest list. Still, he did remember a few names. He hadn’t been as drunk as others may have thought. It was part of the act, something that he’d learned long ago. Pretend you’re a bit drunk and not only can you get away with asking things that you couldn’t otherwise, but you can also get others to talk more too. Most people want to tell their secrets, and they’re far more willing if they don’t think you’ll remember them the next morning.

  Brendan went over to the desk and opened his laptop. He tapped in the few names that he remembered. Then a thought occurred to him: the big donors would probably be on the board of directors, too. With any luck, there would be pictures of each one.

  Brendan went to the museum’s web site and quickly found the board list. He grinned. There they were. Quite a few familiar faces. He quickly started taking notes.

  An hour later, Brendan sat back and closed the computer. The next step was crucial. He couldn’t exactly call each person and ask if they wanted to buy the wine. He’d have to figure out a way to rub shoulders with them. This was the tricky bit and now, with recent events, time was of the essence. He stood and started pacing around the room again.

  #

  Dulcie was already aggravated, and now this. She whirled around, her eyes piercing through Rachel. “You mean to tell me that we have to close the exhibit until we get a motion sensor installed?”

  Rachel stood very calmly in front of her boss. “I don’t mean to tell you. I am telling you,” she said calmly. “And don’t shoot the messenger!” she added.

  Dulcie collapsed into her chair. “Why didn’t we know about this before?”

  Rachel sat down in the chair beside Dulcie’s desk. “As you know, we’re the first ones for this exhibit. Somebody screwed up and forgot to mention it. But it’s only one painting that requires it – the museum that loaned it made the stipulation for extra security which was evidently left out of the paperwork. Until now.”

  “And do they have any idea what this will cost?” Dulcie exclaimed.

  “One of the exhibit’s national sponsors already said that they’d ‘absorb’ the cost. Don’t you love that word? I wish someone would ‘absorb’ the cost of my rent,” Rachel mused. She smirked, then refocused. “Anyway, cost isn’t an issue right now, but time is.”

  Dulcie sat up straight. “Absolutely, yes it is.” Her mind was whirring already. “All right, we have two options. Take down the painting until we can get a crew in here to install the system which means we can leave the rest of the exhibit open, or close the exhibit entirely and disappoint a number of people planning to see it …”

  “Until we can get a crew in here to install the system,” Rachel finished for her.

  “Right,” Dulcie agreed. She glanced up at her assistant. “Do you think this whole thing is cursed? First the insanity of last night, then a body on the ice, and now this?”

  “WHAT?!” Rachel gasped.

  “Oh, that’s right. You probably don’t know yet. Remember our sommelier from last night? He appeared this morning out on the ice under that dock over there.” She motioned with her head out the window.

  Rachel squinted, stretching her neck around to look out the window. “Seriously?” was all she could say.

  Dulcie nodded. “The police are keeping it quiet at the moment. It might be ‘foul play’ as they so quaintly call it.”

  “Why would someone want that guy dead? Oh, wait a minute… didn’t he and his wife, that weather girl…”

  “Forecaster,” Dulcie interjected.

  “What?” Rachel stopped.

  “Nothing. Long story. Keep going,” Dulcie replied.

  Rachel continued. “He and his wife got in a big argument and he sent her home early. I saw the cab pull up. Do you think she could have…”

  Dulcie shrugged her shoulders. “I don’t know. It’s pretty awful, but I don’t really know any of them. All I do know is that whenever Brendan MacArthur is around, things somehow seem to get out of control. And this,” she waved her hand in front of the paperwork that Rachel had put on the desk, “This is no exception.”

  “You can’t blame Brendan for this,” Rachel interjected.

  “Maybe not,” said Dulcie. “But it’s just his aura or something. Chaos follows him like a lonely puppy.”

  Rachel burst out laughing. Dulcie was silent, shaking her head.

  “Wait, wasn’t your boyfriend in here earlier? Is that what you were talking about? The wine guy getting murdered?”

  Dulcie had momentarily forgotten about Nick. Now their argument came flooding back. “Slow down. No one said anyone was murdered. But yes, Nick was in here,” she replied quickly.

  Rachel was about to quip about Nick’s frequent visits, but one look at Dulcie made her think twice.

  Dulcie quickly changed the subject. “Let’s take down the painting for now and lock it up. I’ll take care of that. Can you call around to see if any of the security companies can get in here pronto to set up the motion system?”

  “Already done. There’s one in Boston that just had a cancellation in their schedule. I asked them to tentatively hold the spot open until I’d talked with you,” Rachel replied.

  “Rachel, as always, you are a gem. A peach. And I can’t thank you enough,” Dulcie sighed with some relief. At least something was going right.

  “Sure you can!” Rachel exclaimed, now standing. “In my next paycheck!” She heard Dulcie snort from behind her as she left the room.

  #

  Patrick Spratt sat in his uncle’s chilly West End mansion rubbing his hands briskly in front of an ineffectual fire. Uncle Geoffrey shuffled in. “Don’t you heat this place?” asked Patrick without turning around.

  “Course I do. One room at a time. Usually it’s just me, so why the hell would I heat the whole house? Just warm up the room I’m in.”

  “Well you’re in this room now,” Patrick said.

  Geoffrey went back out then came back with an electric space heater. He plugged it in to the wall outlet and turned it on. Patrick noticed that the dial was only on the medium setting.

  “Uncle, you have the money to heat the entire house. Why don’t you?” Patrick protested. He reached over and switched the heater to the highest setting.

  Geoffrey switched it back. “I’m in charge of the family wealth, and I intend to keep us in that state. Wealt
hy, I mean.”

  “Isn’t the whole point of being wealthy being comfortable?” Patrick grumbled.

  Geoffrey went over to a side cupboard and pulled out a bottle of Glenmorangie. He sloshed a generous amount into two glasses. “There, that make you feel better?” he asked handing one to his nephew. Geoffrey shook his head thinking how soft the boy had become.

  Patrick sat down in a leather chair near the fire. He tipped the glass back, sipping the scotch. “Ahh, thanks Uncle. This is the good stuff!”

  They were silent for several minutes.

  “So you’ve heard,” Patrick said.

  “Yes, I have,” his uncle replied slowly.

  “Do you think this changes anything?” asked Patrick.

  Geoffrey gazed at his nephew. How could he be so thick sometimes? “Uh, yes my boy. This changes everything.”

  Patrick nodded. “She hates me. That hasn’t changed.”

  “It can though,” Geoffrey countered. “There was a time when she didn’t hate you. Sometimes hate and love can flip back and forth pretty fast.”

  “Do you think she’s worth it?” Patrick asked, peering into his glass.

  “Do you?” Geoffrey knew the answer as well as Patrick did. Without Samantha as the rock in his life, Patrick drifted around pointlessly.

  “What do the police know? Do they know?” Geoffrey asked rhetorically. He was referring to Patrick’s evening wanderings. It was the more important question at the moment than whether or not Samantha could fall in love with Patrick again.

  Patrick looked up at his uncle. “How would I know? Do you think it’s a problem?”

  Geoffrey closed his eyes in an effort to keep himself from saying out loud what he was thinking. The fact that you’re essentially stalking a married ex-girlfriend at night, then her husband is found dead could be considered problematic… Patrick had never been known to be clever.

  Instead, Geoffrey said, “After hearing that girl screeching last night, they’re going to start asking you questions soon enough. You’ve got the perfect motive for wanting him dead.” It was the first time either of them had said the word out loud.

  Patrick had an idea. “Wouldn’t that make me the least likely choice, though? I mean, on TV it’s never the obvious one.”

  Geoffrey shook his head. “This is decidedly not TV. And you have decidedly screwed up with your actions in front of everyone last night. The police will be getting in touch with you pronto. They’re probably at your apartment right now.”

  Patrick’s hand began to shake. “Look, they can’t possibly think that I did it!”

  “Sure they can,” Geoffrey muttered. He had to make a plan. Otherwise dear Patrick would screw up everything. Again. Geoffrey downed the rest of his scotch and set the heavy leaded crystal glass down on the coffee table in front of him with a firm thunk.

  Patrick jumped. His head snapped around to look intently at his uncle. “What should I do?” he whispered.

  Uncle Geoffrey stood up to locate the scotch bottle again. He brought it over to the table and refilled his glass. He didn’t bother with Patrick’s. He could get his own this time. Geoffrey eased back into his chair and let his gaze rest on the flames in front of him. “The first thing you’ll do,” he said, still watching the fire, “Is you’ll move in with me. If anyone asks, you did a couple of days ago because you were worried about my health. It was before the art museum thing.” He glanced up at Patrick, half expecting him to have lost focus already and start complaining about the heating situation again. To Geoffrey’s surprise, Patrick was nodding, intent on every word.

  “Secondly,” Geoffrey continued, “You’ll give me your phone. If anyone asks, you lost it someplace. I’ll let the battery run out and just put it somewhere in the house. It will seem as though you dropped it when you came here and couldn’t find it again. Then, if the damned police start searching places and they find it, we’ve got a good explanation.”

  “Why do we need to get rid of my phone?” asked Patrick.

  “Because they’re going to call you, and I don’t want them to get through. We need a good reason for that. Losing your phone won’t work forever, but it’ll buy us an extra day or two. They’ll figure out that you’re staying here and get in touch through me. But then we can meet with them together and it’ll be easier.”

  Patrick nodded. The weight of the situation was already beginning to bear down on him. He was actually glad that he would be at his uncle’s house, even if it was freezing. “Okay,” he said. “But then what?” Patrick asked.

  “Then, we wait. And see what they know or don’t know. We’ll improvise from there.”

  It was a plan that neither Geoffrey nor his nephew liked, but for different reasons. Geoffrey did not enjoy improvisation. Patrick did not enjoy the cold.

  Colour is my day-long

  obsession, joy and torment.

  ― Claude Monet

  CHAPTER 9

  Nick woke the next morning with a staggering headache. “Please tell me I’m not coming down with something,” he muttered. Easing himself out of bed he went into the kitchen and made a pot of very strong coffee. While it was finishing he took a hot shower. That seemed to help. He wrapped his thick terrycloth robe around himself tightly and went back to the kitchen.

  It was then that he realized that he could not actually smell the coffee. In fact, he could barely breathe through his nose. He was, most assuredly, in the early stages of a cold. The first few sips of coffee confirmed that his throat was raw. “No!” he whimpered. “I do not have time to be sick right now!”

  He never got sick when he and Johnson were between cases and had plenty of time. It always happened at the worst possible moment, right when he was busy with something important. He silently cursed the weather for keeping him mostly within the germ-packed indoors, and the stress level that he had imposed upon himself with his stupid assumptions about Dulcie.

  His cell phone buzzed on the kitchen counter. He glanced at it. Dulcie. As though she had heard him thinking.

  He picked it up and answered. “Hey Dulcie.”

  “Nick? You sound awful” she said.

  “I do? I think I’m coming down with a cold,” he answered. The last word came out sounding like ‘code.’

  “Sounds like you’ve come down with it already. Are you staying put today?”

  “Can’t,” Nick replied, wincing as he swallowed a large gulp of coffee. “Have to go talk with people. Johnson and I have to start asking questions.”

  “That’s too bad,” Dulcie answered. “I just called to see if I could help with anything. And to thank you for the beautiful flowers!”

  Nick had nearly forgotten his apology gift. “Glad you like ‘em,” he said. “I’ve been kind of a dork lately. Not the gentleman I should be.”

  “Nick, you’re always a gentleman. But sometimes you might jump to the wrong conclusion. Odd behavior for someone in your line of work, I might add.”

  She was right. Nick had to laugh, although it was actually more of a squawk.

  “I’m sorry too, Nick,” Dulcie continued. “Having a certain person appear again has just put me on edge. I’ll be glad when he’s gone. Speaking of that, do you need to keep him here because of the investigation, or can he clear out soon? I’m hoping for the latter.”

  “Yeah, me too. But at this point he has to stay. I need to talk with everyone that was at the museum the other night. I can probably rule out people who weren’t in the boardroom although I’ll have to clear that with Johnson too. I’ll see what he’s been able to find out.”

  “All right. Let me know if I can help,” Dulcie replied.

  “I will. Thanks,” Nick said. It came out sounding like ‘danks.’

  Nick poured another coffee as he pressed Johnson’s name on the phone. It barely even rang.

  “Yeah?” he answered.

  “I’m up,” Nick said. “Barely. Whaddya got?”

  “Man, you sound terrible!” Johnson said, ignoring his partn
er’s question.

  “I know. Have to get some aspirin or something. I don’t even know what I’ve got here.”

  “Hey, don’t take anything yet! Last time I got sick I got this stuff that was like a miracle!”

  Nick rolled his eyes. “Should I remind you that we’re police officers and that swapping prescription medication is kind of illegal?”

  “It’s over-the-counter stuff,” Johnson huffed. “And it worked great for me. Got rid of the headache, opened the sinuses. I was a little light-headed, but still…”

  “Okay, okay I’ll try it,” Nick said. He was feeling worse by the second.

  “You can’t drive though,” Johnson added. “I’ll be over in ten minutes.” He hung up the phone.

  Nick made toast then went back in his room to put on the multiple layers of clothing that had become the wardrobe staple of late. He heard a tap on the door.

  Johnson scurried in quickly with a small container of multi-colored capsules.

  “How many?” Nick asked.

  “Start with two. We’ll go from there,” Johnson replied. Nick didn’t argue. His head had begun to pound again. He gestured toward the coffee pot. Johnson rattled through the cupboard, located a mug, and helped himself. He leaned against the counter. “So once you can actually breathe again, which will take about half an hour I’d estimate, where should we start?”

  Nick poured out the rest of the coffee into his cup. “Gotta talk to everyone. Find out who did what, and when. Here’s the list,” he croaked, sliding his notepad over to his partner.

  Johnson leaned over to read it without touching it. He glanced up at his partner who was shaking his head. “Hey, can’t be too careful. Don’t want both of us sick.”

  “You’re standing in my kitchen drinking coffee that I just made which you poured from a pot that I already touched,” Nick reminded him.

  Johnson looked alarmed and instantly began washing his hands with a liberal amount of dish soap. He dried them on his pants while looking back at the list. “Half these people we can rule out. I did some digging last night and most of them probably have no idea who Jeremy Plunkett was. They didn’t exactly travel in the same circles.”