Bartolli walked me to my car and offered a nightcap back at his hotel, but I declined. To my surprise, I was anxious to get back to the Larches. I put my phone on hands-free and called Patrick.
“How was your dinner date?” Patrick asked.
“Not a date, but it was interesting.”
“Bartolli’s interested, but I’m not sure it’s the distillery that caught his fancy. I must say, you looked more like your old self.”
“Not so much like something the cat dragged in?”
“More like the cat that got the cream. Have you signed a deal with AXB?”
“No. I’m not signing anything till I figure out what’s happening at the Glen. Besides, something about AXB doesn’t feel right. Bartolli tells me he wants his son to take a more active role in the whisky part of the portfolio, but I would hazard a guess that young Nick would be pretty miserable up here. That wouldn’t bode well for Abbey Glen, or for the current management,” I said.
“I would tend to agree,” Patrick said. “You’re not considering keeping the place, are you?”
“Why does everyone keep asking me that?” I grumbled. “I’m not incompetent, you know.”
“I never said you were, but a few weeks ago you’d have been appalled at the idea. Don’t let the romance of the place…or the people…lull you into a false sense of confidence. This is no game for—”
“Women?”
“—amateurs,” Patrick finished.
I let out a deep breath. “I know you’re right. But so much has happened. I don’t want to make a mistake I’ll regret later. Anyway, why are you here again so soon? You only just made it back to London?”
“Flew up this morning for a last-minute meeting with some trade folks. Advertising accounts and such.”
“Thought you had flunkies for that sort of thing.”
“Times are tough everywhere,” Patrick replied evasively. “Should you be running around the countryside by yourself?”
“I’m fine. I’ll be home soon.” I invited Patrick up for the weekend before ringing off, then turned up the music and sang along with Radio One. I left the motorway at Stirling and headed north. It was late, and dark, and there was little or no traffic. I had to keep fighting the urge to nod off, but fifteen more minutes and I’d be in Balfour. I could see a lone car approaching rapidly from the rear, so I slowed to a crawl, expecting the car to blast past, but it pulled in behind, matching my speed. It was hard to see the car, or the driver, with the vehicle’s brights shining in my eyes. Great, a drunk driver. Although that was probably the pot calling the kettle black, as my grandmother would say.
My turnoff was coming in another four kilometers. I’d have to make do for now. I increased my speed, hoping to get rid of him sooner. To my relief the car continued to drop back, no doubt dozing behind the wheel. I could see the sign marking the turn for Balfour coming up ahead. As I began to slow again, I realized the car behind me had sped up. I tapped the brakes to flash my lights, but the car came on faster.
There was nothing I could do. I braced for the impact and felt the crash, my car propelled forward into the trees on the opposite side of the road. The front end of the car accordioned, the air bag deployed, and everything went black.
Chapter 22
“Abi. Abi, can you hear me?”
I cracked open an eye and saw Kristen’s face.
“Uh. Wha’ happ’d?” I slurred.
“There was an accident. The police found you in the car out on the road from Stirling.”
“Where am I now?”
“The ambulance brought you to emergency care in the next town.”
“We’re lucky Kristen was doing a duty rotation tonight,” came Grant’s voice from the other side of the bed. “She called me as soon as they brought you in. Do you remember anything?”
It was coming back to me through a fog. I remembered the sudden burst of speed and the impact. Then everything went blank. “There was another car,” I said. “Driving erratically. Right before the turn for Balfour he smashed into the back end of the car. He must have misjudged the turn.”
I tried to sit up, but every muscle in my body screamed in protest. At least nothing seemed to be broken. I reached up and felt a bandage on my head. I looked at Kristen questioningly.
“We had to stitch up a cut on your head from where you hit the doorframe. Don’t worry, it’s under the hairline, so you shouldn’t see a scar.”
I nodded, but it made my head throb.
“Did you get a good look at the car?” Kristen asked.
“No, it was too dark.”
“So much for idle threats,” Grant said, looking grim. “How do you feel?”
“I’ve felt better, but I think I’m okay. Aren’t I?” I said, turning toward Kristen.
“You should be fine, although you’ll have an impressive collection of bruises.”
Grant looked at Kristen and murmured, “Michaelson’s outside. He’s asking to see her as soon as possible.”
“Michaelson?” I tried again to sit up, and Kristen pushed me back down.
“Don’t jump around. There’s nothing broken, but you’ve had a nasty bang on the head and we need to make sure there’s no concussion. Go tell him she can see him in another ten minutes or so. I need to examine her. Scoot,” she said, chivying Grant out of the room. “He’s been pacing around like a caged tiger since he got here.” Kristen looked into my eyes with a light.
“Why does Michaelson want to see me?” I asked.
“Standard procedure in a car accident,” Kristen said.
“If they wanted to see if I was sober or not, they would’ve sent Rothes. What’s going on?”
“I think they’re displaying an abundance of caution under the circumstances,” Kristen said, patting my arm. “Try not to worry.”
I was beginning to feel more awake, but my head was hurting like the devil. Kristen finished her poking and prodding, then allowed Michaelson in. It was nearly two in the morning and he looked decidedly worse for wear.
He pulled a stool up to the side of the bed.
“How are you feeling?”
“Headache. But otherwise they tell me I’m in one piece.”
Michaelson looked at me with less impatience than he’d shown so far. “I need to ask a few questions, if you can try to answer,” he said. “Why were you in Edinburgh?”
“Business dinner.”
“I’ll need names.”
“Antonio Bartolli, the managing director of AXB.”
“He’s on the list your solicitor provided.” Michaelson looked up at me. “You’d met with him before?”
My foggy brain wasn’t sure if that was a statement or a question, but I responded anyway. “We had lunch last week. He’s interested in the Glen.”
“And you’re considering selling to him?”
“He’s on the short list.”
“What time did you leave Mr. Bartolli?”
“A little after ten o’clock.”
“And you headed straight home?”
“Yes.”
“Did you meet anyone else while you were in town?”
“I don’t know anyone else there except Patrick.”
“Patrick?”
“My friend from London, Patrick Cooke. Your people have interviewed him a couple of times. He was at the Society on business.”
“Were you aware that he’d be in town?” I wasn’t thinking clearly, but this struck me as a strange line of questioning.
“No, but we don’t keep tabs on one another.”
“Do you remember anything about the car that hit you?”
“Not much. He was driving erratically.”
“He? Did you see the driver?”
“No. I presumed…” I searched my brain trying to picture the driver, but it had been too dark. There was nothing.
“When did you first notice the car behind you?”
“I’m not sure. There wasn’t much traffic at that hour. I think he caught up to me about ten ki
lometers before the turnoff for Balfour.”
“Can you describe the car?”
“No. It was dark and the brights were up. Do you think the accident is connected to what’s happening at the distillery?”
“We can’t overlook the possibility.”
I would have been happier if Michaelson had just said no, but I couldn’t help thinking he was right. I was being followed. I closed my eyes and clutched at the bed rail as the room began to sway.
“Should I call the doctor?” Michaelson asked.
“No. Do you have many more questions?” I forced myself to open my eyes.
“Only one for now. If something happens to you, who would inherit Abbey Glen?”
“Right now, my will leaves everything to Ben,” I replied. I wanted to elaborate, but didn’t have the strength to explain the situation with Grant. I closed my eyes again.
“The other questions can wait till tomorrow. I’ll stop by to see you after you’ve had some rest. In the meantime, if you think of anything else that might be relevant, call me.”
Michaelson left, and Grant and Kristen slipped back into the room.
“When can I get out of here?” I asked.
Kristen regarded me seriously. “You should stay here for the rest of the night, but you need some rest and you won’t get much here. If you’ll agree to go back to the Larches where they can keep an eye on you, I’ll see if we can get you released now. I see no signs of concussion. You were so lucky. If you’d been going any faster, the impact—and your injuries—would’ve been much more severe.”
—
An hour and a half later, I was settled in bed at the Larches. I felt awful for waking the rest of the household in the wee hours of the morning, but Louisa insisted on getting up and making tea. She fussed over me like an old mother hen till I was settled in bed with a hot water bottle and Liam, who refused to move from my side.
When I could get everyone else to leave me, I drifted into a fitful sleep. But soon the dreams came. At first they were dark and unclear, a figure pursuing me through the trees. I couldn’t see the face, but I could feel the presence coming closer and closer. Later I dreamt I was in a car, driving with my parents. Over and over again they were there, and then the scene would go dark and they would be gone.
When I awoke, the sun was streaming in at the window. Liam lay curled in the crook of my knees, but he came to lick my nose as soon as he saw I was awake. I tried to sit up, but my head was fuzzy. After a few minutes, I managed to ease myself off the bed and into the bathroom. Liam jumped down and disappeared out the door, no doubt in search of food now that I was on my feet. I returned to the bed stiffly, and was lying back against the pillows when a knock came at the door. Grant entered, followed by Liam.
“He’s a great nursemaid,” he said with a smile. “Couldn’t get him to move for anything earlier, but he came to get us as soon as you were up and about. Louisa’s on her way with a tray.”
“I don’t want to be any bother, I’m sure everyone’s got other things to be doing.”
Grant waved away my protests. “How’re you feeling?”
“I’ve got a killer headache, but no permanent damage—except to the car. I’m so sorry.”
“The car can be replaced,” Grant said, meeting my eyes with such intensity I was forced to look away. “It’s you we’re worried about.”
“Any news from Michaelson?”
“Nothing about last night. What did he want, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“Asking questions about my dinner in Edinburgh. Who I was meeting and whether they had any connection to the sale of the distillery.”
“He must be suspicious about the accident. I’m afraid you are wrong about your threats not being serious. You were forced off the road last night. A little more speed and you could have been dead.”
“I appreciate that, but Bartolli and Patrick, for goodness’ sake? I think he’s barking up the wrong tree with both of them.”
“Where does Patrick come into this?”
“I ran into him at the Society bar last night.”
Grant frowned. “Did he tell you he was coming to town?”
“You sound like Michaelson. Patrick and I don’t keep tabs on one another.”
Grant looked skeptical. “Any luck finding a Rose Reserve at the Society?”
“They had two left, but they’d been there for years. I’d have to presume they were genuine, unless someone pulled a switch at some point.” I brightened slightly. “I suppose Duff could have. Do you have the bottle I brought over the other night?”
“It’s downstairs, but I’m not sure that’ll be the best thing for your head.”
“Don’t be daft, I’m not looking for a drink,” I said. “I want to look at a bottle we know is an original. See if anything strikes me as different from the one I saw last night.”
“Okay,” Grant replied with a shrug. He headed out into the hall as Louisa came in with a tray of oatmeal, eggs, and tea.
I was hungrier than I thought, and had almost polished off the lot by the time Grant returned. I took a couple of the pain relievers Kristen had prescribed, and allowed Grant to remove the tray from my lap.
Taking the whisky from Grant, I examined the label closely. I could see no difference from the one I’d looked at last night. Same delicate watercolor, same dates, same script. I wasn’t surprised, but it was worth a try. I examined the rest of the bottle as well. The shape was right, the color was right. There was the stylized M on the bottom that graced all of the MacEwen bottles, but as I tipped the glass into the light I caught sight of a second symbol etched into the bottom on the opposite side.
“That’s odd. Take a look at that,” I said, pointing to the bottom.
“What?”
“Look there.”
“A recycling symbol,” said Grant, frowning. “But we only started using a recycling symbol about three years ago.”
“Then this bottle can’t be more than three years old,” I said. “Not likely it was put up in 1978, then, is it?”
Grant shook his head in confusion. “Couldn’t have been.”
How was that possible? “Seems we’ve been looking in the wrong place for the fakes. We’ve had one here all the time.” I leaned back against the pillows to quiet the throbbing in my head. Thinking made my head ache, but I sensed this was important and I was determined to make the effort. “Tell me again about Duff finding the bottles of Rose Reserve he gave to Ben.”
“Duff was home for the holidays and looking for some extra money like always. Ben paid him to clear out the old bondage shed so we could use it for storing empty barrels.”
I sat up quickly. “At the holidays?”
“Yes, right before Christmas.”
“You told me Duff went to work in Edinburgh just after Ben’s birthday in May. You said the Reserve was the best gift Ben ever got. I thought it was a birthday gift.”
“No, Christmas.”
I looked at Grant in stunned amazement. “So Duff found these bottles at Christmas, after he’d had Skiver print the labels? Good God, I’ve been chasing everywhere trying to find a fake Rose Reserve and they were right here under our noses all the time. Why didn’t you say something?”
“What was I supposed to say?” Grant glared at me indignantly. “We drank this, and it was genuine. I would know a fake Rose, and this was no fake. I’ll stake my professional reputation on it.”
I was forced to lie back again. “And yet it’s not what it claims to be,” I countered. “Looks like Duff learned his lessons well. Oliver Blaire told me that Ben always maintained marketing is 90 percent perception, 10 percent reality. If you believe you’re drinking a great whisky, you’re predisposed to find it great.”
Grant stiffened, and I could tell he was struggling to keep the anger from his voice. “I know my whiskies. So did Ben, and so do our peers who were here the other night. None of them expressed any doubt at all. We’re not a bunch of punters that can be fooled by
labels and theatrics. Nothing about that whisky is counterfeit.”
“Except the bottle.” But right or wrong I wasn’t going to be able to convince Grant he’d been fooled by Duff and his partner, so I backed away. “If the whisky is that good, it makes Oliver Blaire look like he might be our man.” Damn, that would make Patrick right. There would be no living with him. “Let’s face it,” I went on, “he has access to all kinds of unique small lots. Maybe one of them truly was exceptional. Good enough to fool the very best,” I soothed, “but they knew that they’d get a higher price if they bottled it under a well-known name. You can’t dispute that a good part of the Rose’s value is its name and its lineage.”
“I suppose,” Grant conceded grudgingly. “But why would Duff risk bringing a counterfeit Rose here, of all places? Why potentially tip Ben off? It makes no sense.”
I resisted the urge to hold on to my aching head. “Perhaps they wanted to see if they could fool real experts,” I said.
“You mean if Ben believed it, then anyone would?”
“You and Ben. And as we said before, provenance. Rumor would leak out that some bottles of the Rose had been found. It would enhance their credibility.” I thought for a moment. “At least this is some tangible proof. With any luck, we’ll get somewhere now.”
“Abi.” Grant put a finger under my chin and forced me to look into his eyes. “It’s time to stop the amateur sleuthing. You have to show Michaelson the bottle now that we have something tangible to go on, then let the police take it from there. It’s time you stepped back. No one wants to see you get hurt.”
“Wrong. Someone does want to see me get hurt. But, you’re right, I do need to share this with Michaelson. Maybe he won’t be too angry if I can manage to look weak and feminine.”
Grant chuckled softly. “Good luck with that.”
Chapter 23
For the record, my feminine wiles are nonexistent. Michaelson turned up early in the day, and as promised, I showed him the bottle of Rose Reserve Duff said he discovered in the cellar at Abbey Glen. I could almost see the little wisps of smoke coming from his ears. He threatened me with a charge of obstruction if I kept trying to investigate on my own, but I didn’t feel guilty. With the bottle I’d given him he should be able to find a solid connection between Duff and his partner. A connection, and a motive for murder.
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