Death in the Distillery (23 page)

Seemed like Jackson should have more assets after three
decades at an above-average salary. I shrugged, remembering the two girls in the white Mercedes. With a wife and
two daughters like those two, the lifespan of a dollar in the Jackson family probably ran a close race with that of the
male Black Widow.

And then William Cleyhorn. Like most attorneys, he had
a fat bank account and a portfolio of stocks, blue chips and
to my surprise, option trading, a record of calls on Chalk
Hills. I grinned. At least, he was loyal while he made
money.

Then I caught my breath. Only two weeks earlier, he had
purchased contracts of July 100 puts for two hundred thousand on Chalk Hills. Why puts? Another puzzle. Another
round hole for a square block. Puts were negative investments, a bet that the value of a particular stock would fall.

I studied the financial report. Why would Cleyhorn work
to increase the value of the stock and then turn around and
spend two hundred grand on a gamble that the stock would
drop? I studied the report. I couldn't tell if he'd bought one
or two contracts.

There was something rotten somewhere. And Denmark
was a heck of a long ways from Austin, Texas.

From what little experience I had with the market, I
knew players of the options, calls and puts, were gambling
big time with God, but there were many investors who did
have a portfolio of stocks on which they bought options as
a hedge against rising and falling values.

While the printer spit out a hard copy of the attachment,
I studied the screen. I couldn't help admiring Eddie Dyson's speed and thoroughness. A true entrepreneur. Find a
marketing niche and fill it. In his case, however, I didn't
want to know how he managed to gather his data.

My next step was to revisit Thomas Seldes. I was curious
as to his explanation of the snapshots, even though his financial assets did not indicate blackmail payments, certainly not at the rate of $240,000 over three years. Still,
considering the pictures, he was my first choice.

And if I wasn't satisfied with him, Beatrice Morrison
would be next.

On the way back to the distillery, I pulled in at a Stop
N' Go and placed the pictures side-by-side on a copier,
printing them onto a single page. Then I placed the originals in a self-addressed envelope and dropped it in the mail
to me.

During the thirty-minute drive to the distillery, I toyed
with Emmett Patterson's new puzzle, 2-91-147878969632.
After the initial shock of a new puzzle, I immediately recognized the first three digits, the rackhouse and the year
the bourbon was put up to age. And if he followed suit,
then the key to the remainder of the riddle was in his apartment. After solving his last puzzle, I believed I knew where
to look.

I slowed at the crest of the hill overlooking the distillery.
I had the distinct feeling that the entire case was coming
to a head, and yet, if I had to place a bet on the nose of
the killer, I couldn't do it. Seldes seemed the logical one,
but there was no evidence he had paid any blackmail. There
was no evidence anyone paid blackmail. Yet, what was
Emmett Patterson doing with the pictures?

He was blackmailing someone. His lifestyle and his income didn't match. He had to have another source of income.

I stopped at Patterson's cabin first. Leaving my pickup
running, I ducked inside and checked his telephone. It was
pushbutton as I expected. That was the key. I couldn't resist
a smug grin as I returned to my truck. Eat your heart out,
Sherlock Holmes.

It was a slow day in the rackhouse. The heat rose from
the ground in debilitating waves, thick enough to suck the
breath from your lungs.

Initially, I'd wondered why the rackhouses weren't air
conditioned, but Seldes had explained that the heating and
cooling process forced the aging alcohol in and out of the
charred wood inside the barrel, imparting a delicate, subtle
flavor.

From the rear of the huge barn came the whine of the
forklift. Seldes was talking on the telephone when I entered
the double doors. He glanced at me and nodded.

I studied him while I waited. He wore his usual khaki
attire. If I hadn't seen the pictures, no amount of arguing
could have convinced me that he and Beatrice Morrison
had a fling. Beauty and the beast all over again.

With a jerk of his head, he spoke sharply into the receiver, then put it down with a bang. He grinned sheepishly
at me when he realized I witnessed his behavior. "Sorry. Those guys at the Round Rock rackhouse. If you're not
there to hold their hands, they can't get nothing done." He
continued in his high-pitched voice. "Now, what can I do
for you, Mr. Boudreaux. You oughtta about be finished
with your investigation. It's been almost a week."

Arching an eyebrow, I shrugged. "I think I am about
finished. Just a couple more questions. Some that I figure
you'll have the answer for." I watched him carefully, but
he gave no indication of any alarm or concern.

He chuckled. "Well, I'll do my best. But the truth is, I
can't tell you anything more than I did the other day. I
wish I could."

"Oh, I think you can this time, Mr. Seldes." I glanced
around the rackhouse. We were by ourselves. I decided to
push him hard. "Emmett Patterson was blackmailing someone. I couldn't figure out who, and then I found some pictures he kept in a safe."

He frowned, obviously puzzled. "Pictures?"

I unfolded the sheet of paper on which I had copied the
pictures and handed it to him. I took a step back, and
waited, wondering if he was going to bolt.

His jaw dropped, his eyes grew wide. He tried to speak,
but the words clogged in his throat. He staggered back. His
knees seemed to wobble, and he leaned against the wall to
keep from falling. "My God," he mumbled. "My God." He
looked at me in disbelief. "W ... where ... where ..."

I answered his question tersely. "Patterson."

He shook his head, trying to clear the confusion. "But ...
but how did ..." His words died in his throat.

"This is you and Mrs. Morrison, isn't it?" Without giving
him time to reply, I continued. "That's about the best blackmail material I've seen in a good while. Now, what about
it?"

He removed his hat. Sweat beaded on his pale forehead
and ran down his face. "Do ... do you mind if we go up
to my office? It's ... it's cooler up there. I ... I'm feeling
kind of funny."

I eyed him warily. "After you." I followed him up the stairs, his broad shoulders slumped forward, his bowed legs
moving slowly. I remained a few steps behind, just in case
he decided to make a break. I might not be able to stop
him, but I could sure slow him down.

In his office, he sagged into the chair behind his desk
and stared at the sheet of pictures. He shook his head. "I
can't believe it."

I closed the door behind me and remained standing. "Tell
me about the pictures."

The older man looked up at me, his eyes filled with pain,
his face twisted with anguish. "What's to tell? You've seen
them."

"How much did you pay Patterson to keep quiet?"

"Pay?" He knit his brows, as if uncertain of my meaning.
"Emmett? Pay Emmett Patterson?" Then he nodded slowly
when he understood my question. "Nothing. Why, I never
knew he even had these pictures."

It was my jaw that dropped open then. "You mean, he
never approached you with these pictures?" I found that
response difficult to believe. Difficult? How about impossible?

Seldes' face grew firm with resolve. "I can't ... deny the
pictures, but no, Emmett Patterson never approached me
about them. I never paid him a cent in blackmail money.
Or any other way," he added steadfastly, resting his elbows
on his desk and leaning toward me.

"Why should I believe you?"

He eyed me. I figured he was weighing just how much
he should say. "Look, I've worked for Chalk Hills fifty
years. Joe Morrison hired me when I was a kid. I've never
made more than forty thousand a year, and that much only
in the last eight or ten. I started out at thirty a week. I've
got no family except the people out here. I have about
twenty thousand in the bank and close to four hundred
thousand in mutuals and stocks. There ain't no way I could
have accumulated that much and paid a jerk like Emmett
Patterson blackmail." He held the sheet of pictures up. "Especially if these was what he was using on me. The truth of the matter is, if he was using these, he could have got
a lot more from Beatrice than me. But he didn't. It's the
God's truth. I didn't know the slimy creep had these pictures."

"Maybe she was the one he was blackmailing."

Seldes eyed me a moment. He shook his head. "No. I
would have known."

It was my turn to arch an eyebrow. "Oh?"

"Yeah."

A pathological liar can easily tell any story with enough
conviction and sincerity to convince even the most skeptical. Either Tom Seldes was a master of body language,
or he was telling the truth. There were none of the signs
of lying, or nervousness; no looking away, no fidgeting.

He didn't strike me as a liar. And he was right. Chalk
Hills was his life. I had the feeling he never went anywhere,
did anything, and purchased any item unless it had to do
with the distillery. Probably his biggest expense was a few
sets of khaki suits each year. What did he have to lie about?
The number of khaki suits he bought? His accumulation of
assets despite a not-too-impressive salary was testimony
enough that he did no excessive spending.

"What about the pictures?"

He knit his eyebrows in pain. With a sigh, he shook his
head and began in a soft, thin voice. "Years ago, almost
thirty-five, Beatrice and me had a few dates, halfway serious, but when she met Joe Morrison, that was it. He was
twenty years older than her, and he was rich."

I grunted. "Sounds familiar."

"Oh, no. She was a good girl. Her family was dirt poor,
and she didn't have much education. So naturally, when
someone like Joe showed interest ..."

"She dropped you."

He grinned feebly. "Suppose you could say that. Anyway, about ten years ago, Beatrice came to my cabin one
Sunday when everyone was away. Joe had been dead several years, and she was just lonely, so ... well, you got the
pictures. But, that was the only time. And that's the truth. And that's why I would know if she was being blackmailed. She would have told me."

I pushed away from the door and sat in the chair across
the desk from him. "How do you figure Emmett got the
pictures?"

He grew thoughtful. "You know, thinking back that Sunday in my cabin, I had the feeling someone was watching.
I never saw anyone or anything. But, I had a feeling. I just
marked it off as being nervous about what we were doing."

And I had a feeling, one that was shouting at me that
Thomas Seldes had nothing at all to do with the murder of
Emmett Patterson. "If you're telling me the truth, then who
was he blackmailing?"

Seldes studied me several seconds. "You remember earlier in the week when you first talked to me. You mentioned
the fancy clothes, the car."

"Yeah. So?"

"So, that got my attention. I'd kinda wondered about that
too. I'd never paid a whole lot of attention, but when you
mentioned it, it hit home with me. Made me start wondering if he was dealing in drugs or had something on someone?"

"And? You come up with anything?"

He grinned sheepishly. "No. I wish I could help you out,
but I got no idea. No one around here has mentioned nothing about Emmett putting any kind of pressure on them."

I sighed. I believed the man.

That left Cleyhorn and Jackson, the lawyer and the Master Distiller, Emeritus. A well known, highly respected lawyer and a renowned brewer in the World of Whiskey.

Finding a connection was going to be much easier said
than done.

Seldes leaned forward. "Do you really believe someone
killed Emmett? That it wasn't an accident?"