Page 49 of Dreadful

If the vibe in the room was awkward before, it’s icy now. The tension weighs heavy on my back, and I swear even the maid’s hands are shaking. She returns them to her pockets and stands stock-still.

“Yes,” Claudio answers for him. “I’d say it’s hard to find good help these days, but I’m afraid there’s more to it. I can’t get a hold of my capo to save his life, and I’ve had to resort to getting things done myself. Then my driver was murdered last night, and the gardener died so brutally. That ‘accident?’ Ha. Thebastardohad shears embedded in his chest up to the hilt.”

“Dear God,” Dickie gasps. “Did you call the police? That’s no clumsyaccident, Claudio.”

“No cops. You know that. Although I thought the same. My wife seems to believe otherwise, but she’s always been naive. A botany degree doesn’t mean a damn thing when it comes to good sense, apparently.”

My mother’s eyes narrow, but no one other than me seems to notice.

“It’s a terrible way to go, that’s for sure,” Dickie agrees around another sip of wine. “Excellent vintage, by the way, Claudio. They just don’t make it like this back in Nevada.”

And just like that, we’ve moved on. What’s a casual dinner conversation without a dash of murder?

“It’s actually not vintage, but it tastes even better. This particular bottle comes from my own vineyard. We’ve had a little trouble with the acidity of this batch, but it’s nothing a little blending and calcium carbonate won’t fix.”

“You’ll find nothing quite like it on the market,” I add. “That’s what I hear anyway.”

Claudio huffs. “And yet you won’t drink a drop.”

I shrug. “What can I say? I’m a liquor drinker if anything.”

My mother frowns. She knows I have the same affinity for wine my father did. I’ve suspected that was his downfall, so I have my reasons for not drinking Claudio’s. She’s safe from the same outcome, but with the way she’s behaved since my father’s death, I don’t mind her drinking from Claudio’s vineyard. Her fate is her own.

“You’ve never had a taste?” Dickie asks.

“No, but I did bring something back from my trip a few weeks ago. I think you’ll like it, Claudio.”

I pick up the package I kept beside my cane and fish out the straight razor from my pocket to cut the taped seam. Inside, a canvas bag encases a wooden box, so I pull it out and set it on the table.

It’s a little theatrical to unwrap it here, but there was no way I was going to bring just the bottle since it has no protective seal around the cork. Doing it this way, plus the lengths it takes to open the container, makes me feel like the contents are safe.

The Irishmen back in Vegas swear by the brand, so it’s unfortunate that it’ll go to waste here. After I open it, I won’t have more than a sip, and I won’t take it home with me. But it’ll all be worth the look on my uncle’s face once he realizes where I got it from.

As I open the light oak case to reveal the whiskey, the butler I’ve never met suddenly appears and tries to take it from me. I grab the bottle by the neck and glare at him as I pop the cork from the top. He tries to take it yet again, but I huff at him.

“Just bring me a glass.”

He nods quickly and goes to fetch a rocks glass from the bar.

“Sorry, dear.” My mother’s tone sounds more frustrated than apologetic. “He’s still relatively new and doesn’t know all of your…um, your particularities.”

“My apologies, sir,” the man whispers before handing me the glass.

“No problem. As Gertrude said, I have ‘particularities.’” I inspect the glass and sniff it for good measure.

“Dear God, Severino, the glass is clean,” Claudio snaps.

“So it is.” I pour two fingers of whiskey and finally hand the bottle over. “Please share with the rest of the table.”

My mother waves him off and sticks with her wine. Once the men have been served, I raise my glass.

“To knowledge and truth.Salute!”

Claudio studies me, but he and the judge still repeat my toast.

I swirl the drink around, whiffing the delicious vanilla, oak, and spice aroma before taking a sip.

The judge seems to like it, but my uncle makes a face.