Last of the Vintage Read online

  Dulcie couldn’t help but notice. “No, I didn’t make it!” she said with mock indignation. “It’s Hot & Sour soup from the Jade Palace! Now shut up and eat.” She plunked it down in front of it.

  “Have I told you you’re an angel lately?” Nick gurgled as he inhaled the steam from the bowl.

  “You can show your appreciation later,” she chided.

  “You just missed Johnson,” Nick said between large spoonfuls. “He’ll be back though. Just went to get me meds.”

  “You have a posse of people doing your bidding,” Dulcie commented.

  Johnson barged in the door and stopped when he saw Dulcie. “Ah, attending to the sick and needy as well, I see. Aren’t we just the altruistic pair tonight?”

  Dulcie sniggered.

  Johnson handed the bottle of pills to Nick. “That should hold ya for a while,” Johnson said

  “And this,” Nick added, gesturing at the half-empty bowl with his spoon. He quickly put it down and grabbed a handful of tissues as an enormous sneeze erupted from him. Dulcie and Johnson both ducked for cover.

  “Sorry, you guys. I’m a mess,” Nick said into the tissues.

  “No worries. We’ve all been there,” Dulcie said.

  Nick pulled himself together and continued eating. Dulcie got up to make herself some tea.

  “So Dulcie, to get you up to speed,” Johnson said. “Patrick Spratt was just arrested for the murder of Jeremy Plunkett.” He and Nick exchanged glances as they heard a crash from the kitchen.

  “What?” she said, poking her head around the corner. “I mean, I heard you, but why?”

  “Because we’ve had an eyewitness come forward,” Johnson answered.

  “Wait a minute. Let me get back in there,” Dulcie called out from the kitchen. “Adam, do you want some tea?”

  Johnson chuckled. His mother, his wife, and Dulcie were the only ones who called him Adam. “All set, but thanks for the offer.”

  Dulcie joined them carrying her mug carefully. “Okay, tell me what happened,” she said.

  “This afternoon I was in the station. Just after lunch. Reception called me out front, and I found Samantha Sanders and Brendan MacArthur standing there.”

  Dulcie coughed on the last sip of tea she’d just taken. “Wait, who?” she demanded.

  “Yup, you heard me right. Seemed pretty odd to me, too. Anyway, I brought them back in to a conference room. They told me that they’d been talking and Brendan had remembered hearing Jeremy’s voice outside the museum late on the night of the party, and when he looked over he’d seen someone with him who was tall, thin, and blond. He said it looked just like Patrick Spratt who he’d seen in the boardroom earlier that night.”

  “He was drunk!” Dulcie exclaimed. “How could he know for sure? That seems pretty flimsy.”

  “True, but there’s more,” Johnson continued. “Samantha said that Patrick had been stalking her. He was an ex-boyfriend evidently. And she had a note of condolence from Patrick’s uncle that confirmed Patrick had discussed her on a regular basis.”

  Dulcie blew on the top of her tea. Nick wrestled with the medicine container, trying to open it. “Give me that,” Dulcie said. She put down her tea and, with a quick turn of the wrist, pulled off the cap. She handed it back to Nick.

  Johnson shook his head in dismay. “You guys are like an old married couple already.”

  “Shut up,” Dulcie and Nick said in unison.

  “Adam, that doesn’t make sense. I mean, maybe Jeremy and Patrick were arguing, but neither of them seems like the type to get overly heated up. And Patrick really doesn’t seem like the type to kill someone, especially over an old girlfriend. I don’t believe it.”

  “Yeah, I don’t either,” Johnson said.

  “Me neither,” Nick added. His head was tipped back on the chair and his eyes were closed. Dulcie and Johnson looked at each other silently. “I’m not asleep,” Nick said. “My eyes just hurt.” Dulcie tried not to laugh.

  “Hey, I just thought of something,” Nick continued without opening his eyes. “What happened to the bottle?”

  “What bottle?” Dulcie asked.

  “The one that the old wine came out of. Where’d that end up?” Nick replied.

  Dulcie thought back. “You know, I’m not sure. I can ask around. Rachel cleaned things up. It was just the glasses so we didn’t have the catering staff do it. It would have cost more for the museum.”

  “Very frugal of you,” Johnson chimed in. “Using donors’ dollars wisely.”

  “You have no idea,” Dulcie replied ruefully.

  “Was the bottle there when everyone left?” Nick asked.

  “I’m pretty sure that it was. Wait, I remember Jeremy went over and looked at it. He picked it up and tried to pour out anything that was left, but it was just some sediment,” Dulcie said.

  “Was he the last one in the room?” Nick asked.

  “Aside from Rachel and me, I’m pretty sure that he was,” Dulcie replied.

  “Interesting,” Nick said. “Johnson, did we ever have that piece of glass tested?”

  Johnson’s eyes lit up. “No, we did not. Just bagged it. But I know where you’re going. If it’s 19th century glass, we know what hit Jeremy on the head.”

  “Right. And then we might be one step closer to knowing who,” Nick added. He picked up his head and opened his eyes, looking back and forth between the two of them. “See what I can do just from this very chair? I’m like Yoda, I tell you.”

  “You sound like Yoda,” Johnson said. “I think those happy meds have hit you again my friend. I’m clearing out.”

  “Me too,” Dulcie added. She took the dishes and put them in the sink. “You’ll be all right here?” she called to Nick from the kitchen.

  “Mmmm hmmm,” Nick affirmed. His head was against the back of the chair again. “You two just run along.”

  “Call me when you’re awake?” Dulcie asked.

  “Of course. You’re my angel,” he mumbled, his eyes closed again.

  Dulcie and Johnson tiptoed out. “What the heck did you give him?” Dulcie asked when they were outside.

  “Same stuff as before except this was the nighttime version. He needs to sleep.”

  “He won’t try to drive when he wakes up, will he? He’ll still be goofy, for sure.” Dulcie worried.

  “Not while I have these,” Johnson held up Nick’s car keys.

  Dulcie laughed. “You’re awful!”

  “I know my partner,” Johnson replied simply. “Need a lift home?” he asked. The wind wasn’t howling as badly as it had been, but it was still bitterly cold.

  “That’d be great,” Dulcie said. They scuttled along the icy sidewalk and Johnson opened the car door.

  “Oh wait a second here,” he said. The clutter in Johnson’s car was perpetually monumental. Dulcie had heard Nick talk about it – he always hated riding in Johnson’s car – but Dulcie had never actually seen it. It was a mass of shoes, notebooks, various papers, and at the moment an empty donut box. Dulcie slid in, moving the box to the floor.

  Johnson eased his large bulk behind the steering wheel. The engine cranked unhappily a few times before turning over. “This weather’s been awful on ol’ Betty here,” he complained.

  “I gave up on mine,” Dulcie agreed.

  Johnson pulled out onto the street. “You know, that was a good question about the bottle,” he said.

  “I agree. I’m going to call Rachel when I get home. I don’t usually bother her after hours, but this seems important.”

  “Yeah. I think we have the wrong guy locked up,” Johnson added.

  “Me too,” Dulcie said.

  Johnson pulled up in front of Dulcie’s doorstep. As she unbuckled herself he said, “Hey, can you let Nick know he took the nighttime stuff? I left the daytime one on the kitchen counter. Don’t want to be accused of drugging him against his will.”

  Dulcie nodded, smiling. “If you are accused, though, it’s in his best interest,
even if he disagrees.” She opened the door and hopped out, slamming it shut again quickly. “Thanks, Adam!” she shouted through the closed window and waved.

  He waved back, waited to make sure she was safely inside, then rumbled away.

  They always say time changes things,

  but you actually have to

  change them yourself.

  ― Andy Warhol

  CHAPTER 11

  Geoffrey had slept very little. In fact, he had not even gone to bed. After hearing, several times, the evidence that the police had against Patrick, he had driven home. His glass of scotch had still been sitting in the library. He drank it along with a couple more. When he woke up in the early hours of daylight, he was still sitting in his comfortable leather chair in the library.

  The plan was not working. He hadn’t accounted for the damned fool getting himself arrested. Geoffrey needed to sort this mess out and quickly.

  He reached over for the empty glass beside him and began toying with it, spinning it around on the small tabletop. Maybe most of the plan wasn’t working, but one part still would. He had nearly forgotten about it with the other events taking precedence.

  Geoffrey stood, groaning softly. He was stiff and sore from sleeping in a chair all night. The room was cold. He checked his watch. Too early to call anyone and get things rolling. Besides, he needed to think a little more and do a bit of research. He lumbered into the kitchen and started a pot of coffee brewing, then went upstairs to take a hot bath.

  When he deemed it to be a relatively reasonable hour of the morning, Geoffrey Spratt called the Regency Hotel. He was put through immediately to Brendan MacArthur’s room. Geoffrey had taken the liberty of discretely finding out where Brendan was staying as soon as he had learned about the wine tasting. He knew people like Brendan MacArthur. He was one of them. They were never philanthropic without an opportunity for profit.

  Brendan answered tentatively. The episode with Samantha and the police had unnerved him, which was not any easy task to accomplish. He wanted the whole situation to be well behind him. He wanted to be gone.

  “Geoffrey Spratt,” Geoffrey barked by way of a greeting. “Mr. MacArthur, I’ll get straight to the point. I understand you have additional bottles of 1869 Château Lafite Rothschild. How many?”

  Brendan wasn’t prepared for such a direct question. “I beg your pardon, sir?” he replied.

  “How many?” Geoffrey repeated bluntly. He liked wasting neither time nor words.

  Brendan’s mind begin to lurch into gear. Geoffrey Spratt. Patrick Spratt’s uncle. Patrick Spratt’s wealthy uncle. Patrick Spratt’s wealthy uncle who had been at the wine tasting. Now things were getting interesting!

  Then the realization dawned on him. What if Geoffrey knew that Brendan had been the eyewitness that effectively locked up Patrick? Would the police have told him? Brendan doubted it, but he wasn’t completely sure.

  “Perhaps we could meet somewhere to discuss this? It would be easier than over the phone,” Brendan said. He needed time to think.

  Geoffrey was ready. He knew Brendan would stall. It was a classic negotiation tactic, like the used car salesman ‘checking with the manager.’ He cleared his throat. “I’ll meet you in the lobby of your hotel in one hour.” He hung up the phone.

  Brendan sat back, staring at the phone for a moment. His heart was pounding. Now what? He had to think. He began pacing the room. He wasn’t happy with this newly formed habit. It meant he wasn’t in control.

  This whole situation had become very sticky, very fast. He needed to leave. He needed to get out of the country. First he needed money, however, and this was the source. Geoffrey Spratt. The difficulty would be the price.

  Brendan had nine bottles remaining. The vintage had previously sold at auction for over $200,000 each. He knew he couldn’t get that amount if he wanted to move quickly but he needed as much as possible.

  An hour later, Brendan MacArthur sat in a quiet corner of the hotel lobby in an uncomfortable armchair. He saw Geoffrey Spratt come in and look around the room squinting. He spotted Brendan and came over. Brendan rose, shook his hand, then sat again.

  Geoffrey sat opposite him, hunched forward. “How many bottles do you have?” he said, continuing exactly from where they had left off on the phone.

  “How many do you need?” Brendan countered.

  “Don’t get cagey with me. We both know how this goes. You sell, I buy, no one is the wiser.”

  “Are you adding to your collection?” Brendan side-stepped the statement.

  “I’m investing,” Geoffrey replied. “Don’t be an idiot.”

  Brendan had to laugh. Few people were as straightforward as Geoffrey Spratt. It was actually refreshing. “I have nine bottles,” he said.

  “I’ll give you half a million for them all,” Geoffrey responded quickly.

  Brendan smiled and sat back. “That’s quite low. They’ve gone at auction for…”

  “I know what they’ve gone for at auction. This isn’t an auction. You need to sell and keep it quiet. I want to buy. I don’t need to buy, mind you. I can certainly find investments elsewhere,” he began to stand.

  “No, no! I was simply saying that their value is quite high. I’m sure we can come to an agreement,” Brendan implored.

  Geoffrey sat back down but said nothing.

  Brendan thought for a moment. “All right,” he said at last. “But I do have one condition for such a low price. I would like the money wired to my account in the Cayman Islands by five o’clock tomorrow. As soon as I see the funds, I’ll be at your doorstep with the wine.”

  Geoffrey wasn’t sure about this deal. Brendan had accepted far too quickly. Perhaps Geoffrey wasn’t actually going to get the wine and Brendan was just planning to skip town with the money? No, there had been a very public show of this Château Lafite Rothschild and Brendan had said he wanted to auction it off. Geoffrey knew people like Brendan MacArthur. They liked to maintain their connections with those who had money for when there were more things to sell. And the Brendan MacArthurs of the world always had more to sell.

  For whatever reason, Brendan needed money quickly which was why he was accepting this ridiculously low offer. Geoffrey left it at that. He stuck out his hand and shook Brendan’s. “You have yourself a deal. Get me the account information and I’ll wire the funds. I’ll expect nine bottles on my doorstep by five o’clock sharp tomorrow.”

  Geoffrey went back out into the icy afternoon with a much warmer feeling inside. He’d just made an excellent investment.

  Brendan sat back in the chair and looked broodingly across the room. Half a million dollars. It wasn’t even close to what he’d wanted. In a better situation he could have easily pulled in 1.5 million. But he had to take it. What else could he do?

  He should pack. Assuming this transaction went through, and there was no reason why it wouldn’t, he would be checking out of the hotel in the morning. He needed to make arrangements. His crew had to be paid, just enough to keep them happy. As always, they didn’t need to know how much he was making.

  He thought about the murder investigation. Standing in the police station, giving his statement, signing it… he had wanted to bolt and run. The whole thing made him uneasy, and it was not a feeling with which he was overly familiar. But now it was nearly over. Just one more day.

  #

  Adam Johnson sat in the cabin of Dan Chambers yacht wondering how it was possible to live in such a small space. By boat standards the room was actually quite large, but Johnson couldn’t think of even one apartment he’d lived in during his single days that wasn’t at least twice the size. Plus, this particular home bobbed up and down gently as the tide came in. Most would have found it soothing. It was making Johnson increasingly ill.

  Dan sat opposite him, legs stretched out in front of him. He was recounting his recent trip to Miami, telling Johnson about the yachts he had coveted the most. When he paused for breath, Johnson finally interrupted him. “Sounds g
reat, Dan. Excellent to get away and not freeze your arse off like the rest of us poor slobs up here,” he said.

  Dan grinned. “Want a beer?” he asked.

  Johnson was on duty, but thought it might settle his stomach. “Got anything light?” he asked.

  “Never thought I’d hear those words from you!” Dan joked. “But you are watching your weight these days, I’ve heard, and I must say it shows!” He handed Johnson a bottle.

  Johnson twisted off the cap, took a deep swig, then slowly exhaled. He looked over at Dan. “So we have ourselves a bit of a situation here,” he said.

  “What’s my sister done now?” Dan laughed.

  “Nope, not her. But this murder, and we do know that it’s murder at this point, kind of has us baffled.”

  “How so?” Dan asked.

  “We’ve had an eyewitness come forward who says a struggle took place,” Johnson stopped Dan as he was about to speak. “Nope, can’t tell you who the eyewitness was. But I can say that it seems odd nothing was said until now. It also seems odd who’s saying it.”

  “That does sound like a pickle,” Dan replied. “But I don’t see how I can help.”

  “We’re hoping that you might have seen something. Anything. Or heard something that night. It’s pretty dark here, I know, but you’re right on the dock here where the guy was killed. You’re kind of our only hope at this point.”

  Dan took a long drink, then sat back. He closed his eyes for a moment. “Let me think. I’d just come back from Miami that morning. I went to the party at the museum. Trailed our friend MacArthur at Dulcie’s request. He was getting a bit loaded and she wasn’t sure what he’d say or do. To tell you the truth, I was kind of surprised he’d get drunk at something that was pretty important to him. But then again, he’s Brendan MacArthur. He never plays by the rules. Part of his charm.” Dan smirked.

  “Do you remember when he left? Was it before you?” Johnson asked.