I could feel the warmth rising in my cheeks. Admittedly, the whisky we unearthed was worth millions, but it was mine and I could do what I liked with it. “Every single one of our competitors would do the same thing if they could,” I argued, trying to keep my voice low. “Besides, the lion’s share of the proceeds are going to charity.”
“You know that, and I know that, but others don’t. If you won’t speak up, you open the door for others to speak for you. What you need is a chance to show the world what you’re really all about and this event would be perfect. Let people see that the Glen is still being run the same way and let them know what the Bennett Logan Memorial Trust is going to do with the money raised from the whisky sales.”
“Why can’t people just mind their own business?” What was I saying—in a business as incestuous as this, it was impossible. “Does Grant know you’ve conned Siobhán into adding guest rooms to the Stag to accommodate your long-range plans?”
“It’s only five measly guest rooms. We’re not opening a Hilton.”
We came to a halt in front of the café, the smell of coffee and cocoa wafting out to the sidewalk in intoxicating waves. “Even so,” I said softly, “it’ll mean big changes. Your scheme could ruin this perfect little corner of the world. I don’t want to see Balfour turned into a tacky tourist center full of cheap Chinese trinkets and twee woolen shops.” I looked fondly along the length of the lane, struck as always by the overflowing window boxes and the lovingly maintained local businesses. Each shop as unique as the men and women who owned them.
Patrick put his hands on my elbows and turned me to face him. “I won’t let this get out of hand,” he promised. “The people we invite up wouldn’t be your average tourists. They’ll be here for the whisky.”
“Maybe so,” I said. “But once the word is out, I don’t see how you stop this from degenerating into bus tours and Starbucks franchises.”
“We can keep it small and we will…please?” Patrick pleaded.
Clearly Patrick needed to make this new job work and he was doing his best to win friends at the Whisky Society. I had no doubt he had a few other ulterior motives, but to his credit, looking out for me was usually one of them. In deference to our long years of friendship I found myself weakening. “Alright, I’ll talk to Grant, but I’m making no promises.”
—
Floss Robinson looked up from the till as Patrick and I entered the Chocolate Bar. A tiny rotund woman in a floral apron, she clearly enjoyed sampling her own wares.
“So you’ve found your way ’ome, then,” she said with a warm smile.
“Just last night,” I said.
“Big doings in your absence,” Floss said, bending over as best she could to pat Liam on the head. “Your Patrick’s become quite the regular; ’e can manage our chocolate martinis better than anyone else in the village.”
“Oh, I’ll bet he can,” I said, settling at a table near the counter and ordering a coffee.
“Bit too early in the day for a martini, even for me,” Patrick said with a grin. “But I’ll have one of those ginger lemon scones, if you have any left, Mrs. R.”
Floss bustled off to the kitchen to fill our order. She’d run the local tea shop for years before marrying her childhood sweetheart, Harold Robinson. Harold had suffered through a deprived childhood, nursing an unfulfilled love of all things chocolate. After the wedding, Harold convinced Floss to begin stocking a few chocolate confections, and his obsession had grown into what Floss affectionately referred to as Willy Wonka’s bloody larder. The glass jars, filled with chocolates of every description, took up an entire wall and the selection of individual chocolate bars rivaled anything I’d seen in London. The natural-wood furnishings and the Cadbury purple upholstery gave the place a cozy yet regal air.
Floss returned with a plate of warm scones and homemade jam and set them on the table in front of us. Harold gave us both a cheerful nod as he followed along behind and began stocking the already overflowing shelves.
I settled in for an hour of good gossip. “So, what’ve I missed?”
“Well now,” Floss said with a gleam in her eyes. “We’ve got ourselves a local mystery man. Came all the way from South America to rent Fell Farm up on the north side of town. Can you imagine?” Floss moved closer and lowered her voice conspiratorially. “They say ’e’s some kind of artist. Turned the barn into a studio, from what I hear. ’Spect we’ll have a bunch of naked models runnin’ round before long.”
“He may not be that kind of artist,” Patrick interjected with a shadow of a smile.
“I suppose.” Floss looked faintly disappointed, but not as disappointed as Harold.
“He came all the way from South America to rent a house here?” I asked. “Why?”
“No one knows. ’E’s a real loner. Hardly shows ’is face in the village at all.”
“Does he have family here?” Patrick asked.
“None that we know of,” Harold contributed from the corner. “But he ’as got a fancy American car with the roof that peels off. Frank at the DIY’s sure he’s one of them drug lords you hear about on the tellie. Thinks he’s hidin’ ’ere to get away from the mob.”
“You don’t say.” If I looked at Patrick I knew I’d lose my struggle to keep a straight face.
Floss waved her tea towel in our general direction, clearly anxious to continue her part of the narrative. “Like I said, ’e almost never comes to the village, but guess what?” She paused briefly for effect. “He popped in here for a coffee t’other day, and was asking after you,” she finished with a flourish.
“Me?” I said, nearly choking on my scone.
“Aye. Said you two ’ad a mutual friend.”
I did a quick inventory of my questionable acquaintances, but none were based in South America. “I can’t imagine who it could be,” I said, frowning, “or what he’d want with me.”
“I tried to get ’im to leave a message, but ’e wouldn’t. Told me ’e’d be in touch with you direct like,” Floss said. “You must go and meet ’im. I mean, it’d be rude not to go, wouldn’ it?” After a moment’s thought she added, “Do be careful, mind. Better take Liam along just in case.”
Floss was apparently happy to send me off to see a drug lord in order to satisfy the local gossips, as long as I took the dog—the dog that was currently snoring at my feet and drooling on my shoe. Luckily for Floss, my journalistic curiosity had been piqued.
“I’ll see what I can find out,” I promised.
Once again my tranquil backwater was not as tranquil as it would seem. A mysterious skeleton at the pub, a drug dealer on the hill, and an impending onslaught of Japanese competitors. If I could sort things out, maybe I’d get a few moments to relax.
Then again, maybe not.
Chapter 2
I’d promised Patrick I’d talk to Grant as soon as possible, but I wasn’t looking forward to it. I dragged my feet as I walked back across the village green, peaceful except for the gaping wound in the soil adjacent to the pub. I could see Bill Rothes conferring with a stout, balding man in a pair of mud-caked wellies and a pale blue lab jacket. He was gesturing to the bones at their feet with plastic-gloved hands.
I was so busy straining to hear what they were saying, I neglected to hold on to Liam. Next thing I knew, he’d pulled the lead from my hand and bolted in Bill’s direction, the strip of leather trailing behind him like a streamer. Even Bill’s bellowing didn’t slow Liam’s pace, and I was forced to slither down into the hole and grab him by the collar. True to his stubborn Irish breed, a simple request wasn’t enough—I had to forcibly drag him from the grave. In minutes we were both filthy from scrabbling around in the mud.
I climbed out of the hole and considered going home to change before stopping at the Glen, but it would mean doubling back and all I wanted to do was get this unpleasant conversation with Grant over with before I lost my nerve. It would be a quick stop, and after all, it wasn’t as if I was trying to impress anyone. I
set off down the path by the river, dragging Liam behind me and doing my best to scrape the mud off my jeans as it dried. Liam’s soft cream-colored fur was a challenge at the best of times, and he now had four black paws and a dark ring around his nose where he’d stuck his head into a hole in the dirt. I sent him to wash his paws off in the river and he came out shaking. He looked better, but my face and sweatshirt were now splattered with wet mud droplets. Great timing.
I hadn’t seen Grant in three months. Part of me couldn’t wait. The other part dreaded the encounter. Patrick’s scheme was going to be a tough sell, and I didn’t relish the thought of inspiring anger in those mercurial green eyes that had so expertly upended my world. Still, if sparks had to fly, I was counting on being emotionally tougher than I’d been on my last visit. This time I’d be stronger, more confident, and able to face Grant with equanimity. I kept repeating that mantra as we walked, hoping if I said it enough times I’d manage to convince myself.
As we neared the distillery I could hear the distant sound of the waterfall cascading down the face of the craggy rise behind the newly renovated Malting Barn. The clear, cold water formed itself into a pond at the base of the hill that in turn became a brook that raced its way across stones worn smooth down the years, following the course of the main road into town before eventually joining the River Alyn on its journey to the sea. Crossing the wooden bridge that led into the distillery yard, I was struck by how picturesque it all looked.
The old farm buildings that had been converted for use by the distillery had received a fresh coat of whitewash since I’d left, and a dozen decommissioned whisky barrels had been cut in half and scattered around the courtyard, brimming with bright red miniature rosebushes. The sudden saturation of pure color provided a charming punctuation to the sharp clean lines of the buildings. Brass nameplates on each of the buildings had been polished until they flashed blindingly in the sunlight, as did the brass points on the new pagoda roof vent.
I considered continuing on home, but as I edged my way past the open door of the Still House, Camron Lewis, the distillery’s manager, called out a greeting. It was too late to slip past now. Cam smiled down at us from the raised metal walkway that circled the room.
“ ’Bout time you came to check on the awd girl.”
“I’ve been trying to get over all morning, but if it’s not one thing it’s another.” I smiled fondly at the wiry gentleman with the rugged face and the close-cropped salt-and-pepper hair. Cam had been a mentor to me since I arrived. His knowledge of the whisky business was encyclopedic, and his patience with my ignorance astounding.
“Looks like you’ve bin pokin’ round at the Stag,” he said in his gravelly brogue.
Now Balfour’s grapevine was in full swing. Barely two hours had passed and the news had found its way as far as the Glen. “Not me mucking about as much as Liam,” I said.
“Any idea who the poor sod is?”
“I couldn’t begin to guess.” I sighed. Why did people ask me these questions? It wasn’t as if I was the resident expert on all things dead. I looked around for Liam and saw he’d settled himself in a warm spot next to the heater under the massive copper pot still. “Any idea where Grant is?”
“In the office,” Cam replied. “He’s got some things he wants to talk to you about.”
“Can Liam stay here with you?”
“Aye. I’ll keep himself out o’ trouble.”
I crossed the cobbled courtyard again and knocked before entering the distillery office. Grant was sitting at the desk going through a pile of spreadsheets. I’d convinced myself that he wouldn’t be as attractive as I remembered. After all, being rescued from near death at the hands of a killer was bound to make a vivid impression on a person. It would naturally cause him to seem larger than life and more dashing than he really was. I was sure that now I’d find myself greeting a dour Scot of unexceptional appearance and limited charisma.
Grant looked up from his paperwork, and I was plunged back into the deep end once more. His eyes were as mesmerizing as I remembered, ranging from a bright emerald green when he was passionate about his subject, to the dark gray green of a stormy sea when he was angry. At the moment they were a soothing sylvan oasis in the midst of the chaos that reigned in the office. He stood, and I reached across the desk to shake his hand. A somewhat inadequate gesture, but a hug seemed awkward, and besides I was a mess.
“Good to have you back,” Grant said.
His comprehensive appraisal took in the stained jeans and the mud-spattered sweatshirt. Sadly, my efforts to remove Liam’s mud bath from my face had simply left me with brown streaks on my forehead and chin.
“What’ve you been up to?” he asked, looking faintly amused.
“I was over at the Stag looking at the new addition. The workmen turned up some human remains. Bill’s trying to sort things out, but for now everything’s come to a standstill.” Grant’s eyebrows shot up. “Looks like they’ve been there for some time, but Liam took a predictable interest in them and I had to extricate him the old-fashioned way.”
“Trouble seems to follow you around, doesn’t it?”
I frowned. “Why does everybody keep saying that? Siobhán looks at me like I’m Typhoid Mary, and Patrick…”
Grant’s eyes darkened. “Patrick’s here again, is he?”
Damn, not the subtle segue I’d hoped for.
“Did you know he wants to turn the Glen into some kind of school for delinquent distillers?” Grant growled, the color of his eyes deepening alarmingly.
“I’ve only just heard,” I replied, flopping into the wooden chair on the far side of the desk. “You know I’ve been out of touch for the past three months. I didn’t even know he’d switched jobs.”
“And what do you think of the idea?” Grant asked, his voice strained.
“I wasn’t keen on it at first.”
“And now?”
“I’m willing to consider it.” I could see Grant’s jaw tense. “We’re not being asked to get involved in the master class at this stage. It’s just a group of highly respected Japanese distillers that want a VIP tour of the Glen. It’s really quite flattering when you think about it,” I pointed out.
“You’re telling me I’m supposed to invite a group of men who are on their way to being my biggest competitors into the Glen and show them how we do what we do,” Grant growled. “That’s rich.”
“Put that way, yes it is, but you’ve said yourself, there’s a mysterious alchemy that comes from the grain and the water and the unique gifts of the blender and distiller that make a whisky what it is. They can look all they like, but they couldn’t re-create what you do. Your work is art, not science.” I figured that flattery might not help, but echoing Grant’s own words back to him certainly couldn’t hurt.
“He’s nobbled you,” Grant scowled. “I suppose there’s no point arguing with the owner, then.”
“Part owner,” I corrected. “And we’re not adversaries in this relationship. We both want what’s best for the Glen.”
“You really think this is what’s best for the Glen?” Grant demanded, rising to his feet and striding over to the window.
The conversation was veering badly off course. “I don’t necessarily know what’s best for the Glen, but I’m trying to do the best by everyone. Me included.”
Grant continued to look out at his domain. “What makes you think this is good for any of us?”
“Plans for the sale of Martin Furguson’s vintage Reserve going well, are they?” I asked.
Grant turned back to me, looking confused at the abrupt change of subject. “Yes. They expect we’ll clear eight thousand a bottle at auction, but what does that have to do with anything?”
“According to Patrick, the rumor round the Society is that I’m bleeding the Glen dry. Just in it to milk the most out of the antique whisky and then take off again.”
“That’s ridiculous.” Grant shook his head. “You know better than to listen to cheap sh
ots like that.”
“I do.” I didn’t want to listen to the trash talk, but I had to admit that it made me angry, and deep down under all my layers of journalistic thick skin, it hurt. I didn’t know much about the business when I started, but I was learning. Moreover, to my surprise, I wanted to learn. It was a precious connection to Ben and the parts of his life I hadn’t been able to share and it was the sense of belonging to something bigger than myself that helped to ground me in the midst of the chaos that envelops my professional life. To say I was just in it for the cash or for the short term was unfair, and I couldn’t let it stand. “It may be ridiculous,” I said softly, “but it stings. When they cast aspersions at me, they cast aspersions at the Glen.”
“Most of the proceeds are going to charity,” Grant argued. “They can’t find fault with you for that.”
“No, but they’ll find a way.” I could feel the tears welling up inside, but I forced them down. Grant was studying me in that unnervingly intense way of his.
“And you think hosting this VIP tour will help?”
“I can’t be sure, but it would be a good opportunity to show that things haven’t changed here and a chance for me to profile the work I’m doing with the Bennett Logan Memorial Trust. Put everything on record, so to speak.” I took a deep breath. “Besides, Patrick has kind of committed us to this already.”
Grant began pacing around the office, clearly trying to rein in his temper. “You and I are running this business, not Patrick. He needs to learn his place.”
“It was cheeky by any measure, I’ll give you that,” I said, “but he’s my best friend and he’s struggling to make a new life up here. I know he’ll benefit from this, but he is thinking of my best interests as well. He always has.”
Grant looked as if he was wrestling with the whole situation. “How’re you going to show what you’re doing with the trust? It isn’t even up and running, is it?”
Death Distilled Page 2