by Hannah Reed
“After the stunt she pulled to get me to come to her event, she could be making the entire thing up, might have created the note herself. The woman seems to be trying to get close to me.”
“And that would be a horrible thing because . . . ?”
I busied myself with buttering a thick slice of brown bread since I didn’t have an easy answer to his question. It had to do with my privacy, with this person knowing more about me than she should. And with my resolve to ignore the Elliott side of the family. It would feel like a betrayal after all the grief my mother went through because of my father. I’d intentionally left Bridie’s connection with one of my relatives out of the conversation we were having at the moment.
The inspector went on. “Bridie’s reason fer the game she played with ye was most likely just as she admitted. Tae have ye nearby in case o’ trouble. She’s a tough old girl, loyal tae her friends and always one tae stay two steps ahead o’ everybody else. I can’t imagine why she didn’t come directly tae me, though, if she was in real danger. What else did ye chat aboot?”
I went on to relate the story. “According to Bridie, she’s been dropping hints to her son, Archie, about selling the distillery. Bridie says she’s tried to groom her son to take over, but he doesn’t seem to have the ambition or the passion, and she’s worried that he’ll run it into the ground once she’s gone. She told him she’d rather sell to an outsider now than have it lying in ruins later . . .”
“. . . without a pound tae show fer years o’ hard work,” the inspector finished for me. “Archie’s in his fifties. You’d think he’d have his nose tae the grindstone tae put aside a tidy nest egg. It’s a shame in family businesses when the children don’t care aboot what their parents have built.”
“Well, Bridie made up the entire thing as a ruse to spark a flame under him,” I said. “She reasoned that if he thought he could lose the family business, he might shape up and take his position as head of the distillery more seriously. She believes that the warning was in regard to an announcement she said she was going to make in private with the family after the tasting.”
“So she thinks this warning was penned by her own son?”
“She refuses to accept that, saying there are others who are more likely suspects. Although she wouldn’t mention names, only insisting that I shouldn’t be prejudiced before forming my own opinion.”
“Has she been bandying her thoughts tae sell all aboot the place?”
“Only to her son and his wife, Florence. But she believes they could have been overheard, or passed on to the wrong individual. I’m thinking any of the distillery workers could be worried about a potential sale and their own futures. Anyway, after the note appeared, she didn’t know what to do, if anything. For a day or two, she ignored it. Then she thought of me.”
“Rather than coming tae me?”
I shrugged. “Unofficial, she said. And a perfect excuse to drag me into her net.”
“She’s quite the plotter. Are ye sure the two o’ ye aren’t related?”
I smiled. “Positive,” I said.
“Ye could collaborate together,” the inspector suggested. “Co-author a novel.”
“You aren’t taking her seriously, are you?”
“Bridie Dougal always enjoyed a wee bit o’ drama in her life. She has some jinxter in her, and it must be gettin’ dreary up there, since the snow started flying aboot. What’s this big announcement o’ hers fer tonight?”
“Actually, she claims her ploy worked. Archie has been much more focused on the business. She plans to announce that the distillery will remain in family hands. But of course, the implication was that she’d announce a sale.”
“So why doesn’t she make the announcement right now and save herself all this grief?”
“I asked her that. She refuses to change her plan because of a threat.”
“More like she’s enjoying the excitement. Archie and Florence have a son studying business and marketing. I expect he’ll take over at some point in the future.”
“That’s Bridie’s most fervent wish.”
“Well, we can’t be discounting the possibility that someone actually did threaten her.”
“So you think I should go?”
“It wouldn’t hurt tae have ye there. Ye’ve a fine eye fer seeing things in a different light than others do. Go and decide fer yerself if there’s truth tae her tale. But she wants unofficial and that’s what she’ll get. Fit in, as I’m sure ye will, have a fine time, and don’t think ye have tae play the part o’ her security team.”
“I shouldn’t drink tonight.”
“Wha’? And how are ye tae pull that off at a whisky tasting without making yerself the center o’ attention?”
“Good point.”
“Go and have a swell time. I could make ye redundant fer a day or two if that’s what ye need tae feel better aboot sampling the whisky.”
“You’d fire me!”
The inspector chuckled.
My thoughts flashed to the dress I had chosen for tonight. And to Leith Cameron and the kilt he most certainly would wear. If nothing else, it would be a new experience for me, hobnobbing with a clan chieftain while sipping fine aged Scottish whisky.
I came back from my daydream, to the table and the inspector sitting across from me, watchful as ever but with an amused expression on his face when he said, “Fer all I know, ye concocted the whole thing yerself tae get out o’ wearing yer uniform.”
“Don’t worry,” I said with a grin. “I’ll be prepared for anything. I’ll have my trusty pepper spray along in case anyone acts up.”
“Heaven help the lot o’ us,” was his parting shot.
After that, I dug my laptop out of my tote with the intention of writing for part of the afternoon before I went off to get ready for the tasting. Hooked on You was coming along well ever since the weather had turned cold, and I was certain to have the first draft finished by the end of the year, as I’d promised my publishing house editor. Hunkering down inside the pub, feeling the warmth of the fireplace, hearing the murmur of voices in the background, a cup of hot tea beside me—all these things are usually conducive to my creativity.
The setting for my Scottish Highlands Desire series is a small village called Rosehearty, a harbor town much like Glenkillen. Where the hero (Daniel Ross) is rugged, gorgeous, and sexy. And the heroine (Jessica Bailey) is beautiful and strong-willed and doesn’t need a man complicating her life.
I really intended to write for at least a short while.
But how does that saying go?
The road to hell is paved with good intentions.
Because instead of creating a whole lot of conflict, setting those two characters at cross-purposes, and watching the sparks fly, I couldn’t help it—my mind wandered here, there, and everywhere.
And as much as I tried to rein it in, it refused to cooperate.
Instead of taking an imaginary trip to Rosehearty where I could control every character’s destiny, I found myself firmly entrenched in Glenkillen, where I was powerless to change the future.
Instead of writing about sweet promises, I sat at the pub table worrying about my own future, about my remaining days here, and how I should be making the most of the time I had left.
Another saying came to mind, one that the inspector had used a few months back when reassuring an anxious woman whose baby was threatening to enter the world in the back of his police car.
It had applied then and it arrived now just in time to save me from a funk hovering over my head. A Scottish saying this time, one having nothing to do with pavement and hell.
Whit’s fur ye’ll no go past ye.
Later, Inspector Jamieson had translated it for me in two other languages.
In French: Que sera sera.
And in English: Whatever will be, will be.
“What is this haggis I keep hearing reference to?” Janet Dougal said to anyone who was willing to respond. “Is it some sort of Highland animal like the Loch Ness Monster?”
Leith, slightly behind me, gave a snort of derision that only I was close enough to catch. I felt exactly the same way.
Bridie had given me a little background on her other guests in advance, laying the groundwork. “Seven o’ us in total,” she’d said, surprising me by the intimacy of the tasting. For some reason, I’d automatically assumed twice that many, or more. Seven expected guests turned into eight with the appearance of Janet Dougal.
She introduced herself as a widowed American who’d recently arrived from the States and checked into the Whistling Inn in the center of the village. Although she had taken Bridie’s last name, she was not a close relative (as distant as they come, according to a whispered explanation by Bridie), and every time she opened her mouth, she proved exactly how far removed she was from this Scottish clan. Or any Scottish ties whatsoever. Somehow, though, she’d wormed her way in at the last minute.
Heavily made up and with a pointed chin, she had managed to insult most of the guests in some way or another in the short time we’d been gathered in the tasting room. This I ascertained by the tight smiles whenever she opened her mouth. For starters, she’d referred to the men’s kilts as skirts and to the men in the room as Englishmen. The current question drew several smirks along with Leith’s muffled snort.
“Haggis is a national culinary dish,” I told her. “You should try it while you’re here.”
I would have enjoyed mentioning that one traditional ingredient that went into the dish was sheep’s organs, but I turned away from Janet to take in the visual delights of the room—rich wood, a solid oak bar, granite walls, low lighting that brought out the deep grains of wood.
Tonight’s whisky was being served with a variety of breads, antipastos, dips, smoked meat, smoked vegetables, feta, sundried tomatoes, and one thing that I’d been eyeing up—caramelized chocolate brownies with sticky sauce.
I adjusted my black dress, pleased that I’d chosen appropriately. At the last minute, Vicki had produced a sash of gold and blue. “It’s called Monarch of the Glen. It’s a universal sash. Anyone can wear it,” she’d told me as she fashioned part of it into a rosette and pinned it to my shoulder, allowing the long ends to fall down my back.
Most of the other woman also wore cocktail dresses, except for Bridie, who, as fit her station as head of a clan branch, had chosen a full-length soft olive-colored tartan skirt and silk blouse with a matching tartan sash over one shoulder and an elegant walking stick that matched her skirt. Bridie had also had her hair done. It was swept up in a formal do. She’d exchanged the Cossack hat she’d worn earlier in the day for a bow that matched her sash. The men all wore kilts.
My eyes traveled to my escort. Leith wore a red and gray kilt, red tie, white oxford shirt, and a gray kilt jacket left open. He was a man comfortable in his own skin, exuding warmth and self-confidence.
He caught me sneaking a peek and winked.
I smiled before looking off toward Patricia Martin. We’d been formally introduced, but I’d already known of her from Bridie’s description. Patricia had to be at least six feet tall, carried herself like a queen, and was Henrietta McCloud’s older sister by five years. Unlike Henrietta, who lived modestly as a personal assistant, Patricia had married into the political life. Connor Martin was well known as a member of the Scottish Parliament in Edinburgh, the main reason he couldn’t leave the city to attend the tasting.
I’d expected Henrietta to make an appearance after all the work she’d put into arranging the tasting, but so far she hadn’t shown up.
“Cup yer hands around the glass.” Archie Dougal, Bridie’s son, demonstrated while servers presented each of us with our first taste. His wife, Florence, stood beside him. She was short and chunky, with furrowed lines in her face. “Holding the glass in that manner will warm the whisky and change the nose slightly,” Archie explained, looking distinguished with a touch of gray at the temples. “As ye will discover, some whiskies will be smoky, some spicy, some fruity. It all depends on the cask, the amount of smoke used in malting, the shape of the still, and”—here he raised his glass to Leith—“to the most favorably grown barley.”
“And don’t forget the water source,” Bridie added. “Our River Spey flows fast and true when not frozen over, and is as important an ingredient as anything else.”
Archie smiled at his mother. “Yes, we can’t forget tae mention that.” Then to us, he said, “Go ahead and try it. This one is an everyday dram.”
I eagerly raised my glass and took a sip, tasting vanilla and a light hint of oak.
Moments later, when we’d hardly begun exploring the world of whiskies, Bridie said, “If ye will excuse me. I find I tire more easily the older I get.” Then to her son, with an implication that only the family and I were aware of, she said, “If ye’ll fetch me, Archie, shortly after the tasting.” And to me, “Would ye be so kind as tae see me tae the outer door, Eden.”
“Do ye need a ride round back tae yer home?” Leith asked.
“Thank ye, lad, but my trusted driver has the automobile toasty warm.” She chuckled as the two of us walked out of the tasting room. “In my younger days, I would have gone after that handsome man myself. He’ll be a fine catch for some smart young woman.”
“He’s a winner,” I agreed before saying, “It feels strange letting you go off alone.”
“Nothing’s goin’ tae happen tae me, at least tonight. If the warning was fer real, it would be a fool that would try anything tonight with me fair warned. Henrietta will see me in, and we have solid locks and a security system ready fer action. Ye keep yer eyes and ears open, and we’ll speak tomorrow.”
As I helped her slip into her coat that had been hanging on a rack with the rest of ours, she said, “Henrietta would like tae have a private word with ye after the tasting.”
“I thought she might have attended after all the work she put into it and with her sister visiting.”
“Henrietta was not feeling quite up tae snuff and decided tae stay in her room. She isn’t much fer socializing. Even so, after ye left earlier today, she asked me tae relay her wish of a wee chat with ye.”
“Did she say why?”
“No, she was mysterious, I have tae say. Will ye come round tae the house directly after?”
“I’ll do that,” I said, a bit flummoxed as I watched Bridie exit the distillery and watched her driver help her inside. What could the housekeeper want with me?
When I returned, Leith handed me another whisky sample.
“This one is a cracker,” Henrietta’s nephew and Patricia’s son, Gordon Martin, announced. Gordon, fortyish, had wide-placed eyes, a broad forehead, and a strong nose. What “cracker” meant was beyond me, but taken in context, I assumed Gordon was pleased with the results.
Bridie had told me that Gordon, along with her son, Archie, oversaw operation of the distillery. “Distillation in its simplest form,” she’d told me after I’d expressed interest, “involves heating the liquid until it boils, capturing and cooling the vapors, and then collecting the resulting condensed alcohol.”
We continued to sample single-grain whiskies with each one more aged than the last as Bridie’s son described the complex flavors. Archie Dougal sure knew how to wax poetic when it came to romanticizing whisky. “Lovely fresh banana flavors,” “a smokey nose that doesn’t mask the citrusy notes but rather complements them,” “creamy and sweet with hints of coastal salt,” “heathery,” “chestnutty,” and my favorite of all his descriptions, “creamy body like sweet caramel pudding on a cold winter’s day.”
As to my own personal imbibing: I tried to take it easy, sipping each sample and then depositing the glass on a server’s tray. But somehow I must ha
ve lost track, because the world was beginning to tilt a bit. To counter the effect of the alcohol, I wandered over and helped myself to a piece of the caramelized chocolate brownie with sticky sauce. It was as wonderful as I’d imagined it would be. And if it soaked up some of the alcohol, that would be an added bonus.
“Did you make these?” I asked the young woman standing nearby. She’d been in the background since the beginning, dressed more for catering than partaking. She was slight, had medium-length dark brown hair with bangs, and couldn’t have been more than twenty-five years old.
“Aye,” she said, beaming.
“What’s your name?”
“Katie Taylor.”
I remembered reading somewhere that many of the oldest surnames in Scotland came from the trades or occupations. Katie’s ancestors most likely had been tailors. The same was true of other surnames affiliated with family occupation. Mason and Shepherd were two examples I’d encountered.
“And what’s that ye’re eating?” Leith asked, stopping beside me, with a slightly crooked grin.
“Something wonderful,” I said.
Katie offered him one and he accepted with enthusiasm.
“Where did you learn to bake like this?” he asked her after sampling the brownie, appropriately impressed as I’d been.
“From me mum and hers before her.”
While we chatted about baking and family recipes, I remembered to keep an eye on the others in the tasting room. Nothing seemed out of place. Archie was playing the perfect host. His wife, Florence, and Janet seemed to be getting on well, in spite of the visitor’s brashness and my aversion to her, which really surprised me. Gordon and his mother, Patricia, were engaged in light conversation. Nothing amiss that I could discern.
A few minutes later, Patricia Martin made her way toward us while Leith worked on getting the basic ingredients for the brownies from Katie.
“Are you enjoying yourself?” Patricia asked me, and like her son, Gordon, her features were strong. In fact, so were Henrietta’s. It was easy to see the resemblance between the three of them. Patricia’s accent, though, wasn’t as thick as her sister’s or son’s.