Fiona chuckled and said, “It’s had quite a lot of practice. The farm’s about a hundred and six years old. It’s had some modernizing. My dad put in the electric.” She read over a recipe, added some mystery spice, covered the pot, and turned down the temp. “I can show you the rest after we eat.”
Bryce liked Fiona’s casual appearance with a pair of worn jeans, a soft cotton shirt untucked, and some short brown boots. Her auburn hair was tied back at her neck and her face flushed from the cook stove. She had trouble seeing her as a teacher.
“Tea, coffee, or water?”
“Water is fine.”
“Dad is still resting. I thought I’d let him.” She set down two glasses and took a seat across from Bryce. “I’m so happy you could come over.”
“I’m glad you asked. I really feel bad about just popping in without an invitation.”
“Please don’t worry, I’m just surprised Murray didn’t come out to greet you. It’s not like folks wander around here all the time.” She shook her head. “And then when he was here yesterday, I completely forgot to ask him. I’m just sorry you made the trip for nothing.”
Bryce set her glass down. “Well, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about.” She swallowed hard. “I was walking around hollering hello, then I saw the loading dock door open back there.” She pointed to the last building. “I thought someone might be in there.”
Fiona chuckled. “No one’s been in there for ages—no real need.”
Bryce leaned forward. “Really? Huh. The warehouse did look empty, but there was a dim light coming from a corridor…so I went to check…and the metal door was cracked open, but no one around.”
Fiona’s face tightened and got serious.
“When I peeked in, there were rows of barrels and the stamp on one said it was Highland Dew.”
Her breath caught. “Well, yes…but I’m sure they must have been empty barrels.”
“So, MacDougall is the maker of Highland Dew?” She tried to be calm, but her mouth had dried up.
Fiona slowly shook her head back and forth. “That was our signature brand, but I’m sure there’s some mistake…”
From the parlor just past the door came the sound of a walking stick and, “Time to eat, lass?”
“It is.” Fiona stood and pulled out a chair with a covered cushion at the end of the table. “Dad, this is Bryce Andrews, my American friend. You remember, I told you about her job with the distributor?”
He stared. Then there was a brief flash of recognition. “Oh, aye, lookin’ at small distillers.”
Fiona looked over with raised eyebrows. “Yes, that’s right.”
He was tall and unsteady. But beneath his bushy eyebrows, his eyes twinkled just like Fiona’s. Thick mussed up grey hair came almost to his collar and matched a well-loved grey cardigan sweater.
“Pleased to meet you, Mr. MacDougall.” Bryce extended her hand when he got settled.
“Mister was me dad. I’m just Gavin.” He shook her hand with a strong grip and looked at his daughter. “I smelt that stew in my sleep. Woke my hunger.”
“Coming right up.” Fiona pushed back from the table. “Bryce was just asking about our whisky. Maybe you could tell her.” She put down napkins and spoons, then started filling bowls.
“Ah yes, the Dew.” His eyes looked hazy and unfocused. “The MacDougall family legacy for over three generations, until…” He looked at Fiona as she put his bowl in front of him. “Until when, Fi?”
“Just a few years ago. Let’s eat now.” She stroked his hair.
Bryce saw the pain change Fiona’s expression.
“This stew is delicious,” Bryce said. She buttered a thick piece of bread. “You teach and cook?”
Fiona smiled. “True modern-day woman. I can do it all.”
I wouldn’t be a bit surprised.
After dinner, Bryce dried while Fiona rinsed the dishes. Gavin faced the fire and lit his pipe. It smelled good, but it was an unusual tobacco.
“I’m thinking you’ll want to go explore the warehouse,” Fiona said. She glanced over at her father. “I wonder if it might be good to take Dad. He seems pretty sharp today, and I’d love to get some answers. Murray seems to have forgotten quite a lot.”
“It would be great if he could solve the mystery.” Fingers crossed. This could be the hidden treasure she sought.
Chapter Sixteen
The rain let up and the sun tried to peek through the grey clouds. Fiona held her dad’s elbow as the three of them slogged across the yard to the warehouse. Curiosity chewed at her ever since Bryce had told her what she found. Any other time she would have felt annoyed with the typical American cheekiness. In this case, she might never have known.
“Watch your step, Dad.” The muddy ramp looked slippery.
“I’m fine. You worry too much.”
Bryce pushed the rolling door up higher, which allowed more light.
“Where’s the switch?” Fiona asked.
“There, to the left.” He pointed with his walking stick.
“I’ll get it.” Bryce walked a few steps and hit the switch, which lit four industrial fixtures hanging from the tall ceiling.
The large gymnasium-sized room was indeed empty. Peeling paint, cobwebs, and a few dusty pieces of equipment perfectly depicted the status of MacDougall & Son Distillers. She was heartbroken when she glanced at her dad’s face. He was stunned. His dream lay in ruins.
Bryce spoke up. “Over there is where I saw the light.” She pointed to the far end.
They walked down the ramp to the metal door, which was still ajar. “Do you remember what’s in here, Dad?”
He shook his head. The expression was unreadable. “Why is the door unlocked?”
“Do you know where the light is?”
He pointed to the wall behind Fiona. It looked like a fuse box.
“This?” She opened the door and saw several switches. They had tags that read: Fan, Cooler, Row 1 lights, Row 2 lights. She looked at Bryce, who shrugged. She flipped the Row 1 light and Bryce pushed open the door. The back half of the room glowed with the light from half the overhead fixtures.
Dust and shadows obscured their view, but Fiona saw three tiered rows on both sides of the aisle holding the large casks. The front panel paint was faded and hard to read.
“Dad, what is this? Are these full?”
He took a few steps to the nearest row and touched the plug. His eyes widened. “1989.”
“Turn on the other row,” Bryce said.
The lights above went on.
“Unbelievable. Dad…?”
He turned and smiled. “I think this might be the Distiller’s Edition. It was to have been bottled a couple of years ago…”
Fiona reached for the nearest wood rail to steady herself. She looked around and saw several racks full, but not all. “How many are there?”
Bryce walked down the row counting.
“Dad, why is this still here?”
“I…I don’t remember. Murray said two fellas quit.” His face clouded over.
“Oh, Dad.” Fiona felt her knees weaken. What had happened after her mom died and why hadn’t she paid closer attention?
Bryce grabbed her arm when she stumbled back. “You okay?”
“I don’t understand what’s happened.”
“Let’s go back to the house. I think your dad is done for today.”
Fiona looked up to see her dad walking along the row staring at the casks. “Oh, Dad… Come on, let’s go.” She took his arm and steered him toward the door.
“I’ll get the lights. Go on,” Bryce said.
“Thanks.” She shrugged and guided her dad toward the door.
****
Bryce sagged against the nearest cask. “Whoa.” Her head spun as the ramifications of this discovery unfolded like petals. The casks filled several racks and counted at least one hundred thirty. If they were all full, that would be…Hell, she couldn’t do the math. It was astonishing.
As she walked through the empty warehouse, she imagined a hive of activity with forklifts moving barrels to trucks. It was easy to imagine the next stage with those casks going to the U.S. and elsewhere. This could be a huge success. Or not.
Grey clouds swirled above, and the wind picked up. More rain blew toward her. She picked her way across the yard to the house, holding her jacket closed. And what about Fiona?
She knocked. “Hello?”
Fiona opened the door. “Come in. My gosh, you’re soaked.” Fiona took Bryce’s jacket. “Come sit in the parlor. I’ve lit a fire and I’ll bring some tea.”
Like the kitchen, the living area was long and narrow. A stone fireplace covered the wall joining the kitchen. The wood floor had two large area rugs, and near the fireplace was a comfortable old couch and two overstuffed armchairs. Everything had patterned slipcovers.
Wood smoke and pipe tobacco filled the air, and the soft aroma of the stew hung with it.
Bryce took a seat in an armchair. Her pant legs were damp and the fire felt good. She noticed family photos on the mantle next to two award plaques.
“Do you take lemon, or milk and sugar?” Fiona asked from the kitchen.
“Milk and sugar.”
Fiona set a tray on the coffee table and retrieved a whisky bottle from the sideboard behind the couch. “I think a wee dram might help with the chill.”
Bryce took the teacup and sipped. “This is good.”
Fiona sat with her cup and didn’t look up.
“Are you okay?”
“No!” Her voice cracked. “I don’t know what in the hell is going on here.” She took a swallow and put the cup down. “You must think we’re all daft, or liars. Evidently, I’ve been so absent that I have no idea what’s going on around here. I called and left a message for Murray but he hasn’t called back.”
“I can sure understand why you’re confused. There’s certainly enough whisky that the bills could have been paid, unless your dad wanted to keep the stuff longer.” It was a treasure trove of fine whisky.
“He doesn’t know. By the time we got back here, there was no talking to him. He’s napping now.” She sipped from her cup.
“It looked like he was pretty lucid for a while.” And very proud.
“Yes, I’m glad he went with us. Just being there must have been familiar. It was probably a mistake to keep him close to the house.” She poured a little more whisky into her cup. “I wanted to keep him safe. Damn.”
“Maybe I should go.” She put her empty cup on the table.
“Oh no, that’s not necessary. I’m sorry I feel so confused. I just need to figure out what to do now.”
“I do know a little about the business, if I could assist?” She wasn’t sure how that sounded, but she truly wanted to help. “Not to intrude.”
Fiona looked up. “You know it might help to have someone to talk to who’s not addled.”
“I don’t have any magic power, but I do sell a fair amount of whisky.”
“Right.” Fiona stood and walked out to the kitchen. She returned with a tablet of paper and a pen. She flipped a few pages. “I’ve been writing down questions and problems and…oh, damn.”
“What?”
“I should’ve counted how many casks there were.”
“I did.” She pulled an envelope from her pocket. “There were one hundred thirty barrels, and three larger barrels. I’m pretty sure they were all full, but I didn’t check closely.”
Fiona squinted. “That might be two hundred plus bottles per barrel. That would really help us out. Of course, we’d have the added expense of hiring the men back, bottling, shipping…”
“May I ask a question?”
“Of course.”
“Do you want to reopen the distillery, or just sell the stock on hand?”
The second hand on the wooden clock behind her clicked rhythmically while sheets of rain whooshed against the windows.
Fiona shook her head. “What would you do if you were in my place?
That caught her off guard. “I really don’t know how to answer that. If it was hypothetical…I’d quit my job, take out a loan, and reinvent the brand.” Bryce laughed, knowing she hadn’t the first clue about running a business—in Scotland. “Like I said, fantasy.”
Fiona smiled again. “You make it sound like fun.”
“But I don’t know the reality. I’m sure there’s more involved.”
“Suppose I would just sell the whisky we have. Do you think anyone would buy the distillery?”
Bryce felt her business brain bristle with possibility, but resisted. “I could make some phone calls.”
“Of course, nothing has to be done today. I still need to see how much Murray knows about this. And I still haven’t sorted out the papers.” She put her cup on the tray.
“I really should go. But, I will make the calls and will help any way I can.” The flutter in her chest started.
Fiona took the tray to the kitchen table and handed Bryce her jacket. “I’m so glad you happened by and found the whisky. I think that wasn’t a coincidence. You’ve been wonderfully supportive.” She placed her hand on Bryce’s arm and pulled her into a quick hug.
“I’m glad, too.” Leave before you say any more.
“Drive safely, and…” She waved.
Bryce backed the car up and waved through the foggy windshield. The tingling continued on her arm and throughout her body as if she’d gotten an electric shock. Only this was more pleasant. Much more pleasant.
The wet, slippery drive back to the Highlander Inn went quickly, and Bryce found herself in the parking lot staring at the sign. She needed to get it together. Still, the day’s events blurred together like an old black-and-white movie. Fiona and Gavin, whisky barrels and cobwebs, warm fire and beef stew.
She hurried in and up to her room. It took two attempts to get the door open and she dropped her bag. “Okay, settle down.”
The room felt cool so she adjusted the thermostat, then chose a pair of sweats and thick wool socks that provided instant comfort. With the teakettle hissing, she dumped her bag on the bed and gathered the notes and cards together in piles. That calmed her and provided a nice grounding activity.
“Okay. Plug in the phone and fix some tea.” Talking to herself out loud became more frequent whenever she felt overwhelmed. And trying to focus on business while thinking about Fiona defined stress. It was so hard to avoid those gorgeous green eyes.
It was five-thirty in the evening, so it must have been around 11:30 a.m. in Chicago. She punched Leo’s name on her cell phone and waited. When it went to voicemail, she called the office number. What she wanted right now was Leo’s sage counsel.
“Mr. Edelman’s office, how may I help you?”
“Hi Margaret, it’s Bryce. Can I talk to Leo?”
“Oh, Bryce, I’m glad you called. I have a message for you.”
Her heart began to pound. “What do you mean a message?”
“Mr. Edelman had a possible stroke and was admitted to the hospital last night. He’s having tests this morning, but gave me instructions to send you a message.”
“You’re scaring me. Is he all right?” Her throat tightened.
“He was quite alert, but had some weakness in his left side. He was insistent that you be told that the project in Scotland was now yours. Whatever you decide will be approved from this office.”
Bryce fell back on the bed struggling for a deep breath. I can’t do this. I need Leo. “Margaret…I’m not sure I’m up to this.”
She chuckled. “He told me you’d say that, but he was confident in your judgment. He trusts you, Bryce.”
“Will you call me with any news, please?”
“Of course
. Don’t worry so, you’ll be fine.”
“Thanks.” She hung up. The chilly room was suddenly stifling and airless prompting her to get up and open a window. The window seat gave her a cozy perch as the cool rainy air blew in.
“God, please watch over Leo. I need him.” Tears filled her eyes, and for the first time in ages, she felt very alone.
Chapter Seventeen
“Murray, it’s Fiona. Please call me, I need your help.” She hung up and watched the morning sun creep over the peaked roof on the malt shed. The pages from the ancient ledger and stacks of invoices were strewn across the desk. The past years were thoroughly documented right up to three years ago, when things became spottier. Her dad’s neat script deteriorated, and entries were more sporadic. It was clear that the actual distilling business slowed and there were no new orders for barley. The last shipments went out almost a year ago.
She cradled her head. Accounting was not one of her strengths. David Bascomb used to handle the monthly billings. When did David leave? Or did he? She remembered him as an attractive young man with a ready smile, boyish charm, and quick sense of humor. Had she shown the slightest interest, she’d likely be Mrs. Bascomb today. Alas, she’d followed her heart to her university roommate instead. It lasted until shortly after graduation when Magritte returned to Heidelberg. Alone.
“Dad,” she called from the kitchen. “Where’s David Bascomb?”
The newspaper rustled. “Huh, what’s that?”
She pushed her chair back and walked to the parlor. “I’m trying hard to sort out the books, but I need some help.” She sat on the other end of the couch. “Didn’t David used to do the books?”
He pushed his glasses up on top of his head and scratched his whiskered cheek. “David, aye, fine lad. Haven’t seen him for a bit. Hope he’s not ill.”
“Do we have a phone number for him?”
“Course. The list’d be under the blotter.” He smiled and returned to the paper.
Fiona sighed. “Thanks, Dad.” She patted his arm. His curly hair and ruddy skin reminded her of the man who bragged about his beautiful daughter. It seemed so long ago.
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