“Are you sure it’s not a problem?” I asked. “I can run him out.”
“I’m happy to take him down to the kennel master. Joey’ll give him a run with the gundogs and bring him back when he’s good and tired. Burn off some of his excess energy,” she said diplomatically.
The story of Liam’s antics at the falconry must have spread. I hesitated slightly, thinking of all the things Liam could get into, running with a pack of trained hunting dogs, but I was in no mood to try to walk him in high heels and the dress I was about to squeeze myself into. “That would be lovely,” I acquiesced. “Thank you, Sophie.” I poked Liam with the end of my hairbrush, and he gave me an indignant look. “On your paws. You’re going out, my friend.” Liam stretched and yawned before hopping down from the bed. I clipped his leash on and he trotted out behind Sophie, quite happy when he realized he was going for an outing.
I retreated to the massive closet while Patrick shaved and changed into a dinner jacket. I was working on adjusting the tartan sash when he emerged looking very dapper.
His eyes lit up and he cracked a smile, taking in the formfitting royal-blue gown with the exaggerated side slit and the low draping neckline. “Wow. I can honestly say I didn’t know you had it in you. You look fabulous.”
I continued to fuss with the pin at my hip to cover the embarrassment that compliments always produced.
“Where did you get this little number?” he asked, fingering the fabric with an expert hand. “You’ve been shopping without me, though I must say you did well.”
“Just help me sort this damn sash.”
“Didn’t know you had Scottish blood.”
“I don’t. It’s the Abbey Glen tartan.”
Patrick nodded appreciatively. “Lovely touch.” He reached up underneath the dress and managed to pin the two lengths of sash to the dress without ruining the drape of the fabric. He then handed me a shot of whisky from a bottle on the sideboard. “A welcome gift from our friends at Takai.”
“Harukawa’s here?”
Patrick nodded, still savoring his drink. “The Takai’s been nominated in the best newcomer category and in best overall. It’s an unheard-of achievement.”
I took another sip of whisky before applying my lipstick. “It’ll be good to see him again. Of all the Japanese reps that came to tour the Glen for your VIP gig last year, he was my favorite.” Hinatu Harukawa was the owner of the Takai distillery that produced a Scottish-style whisky just outside Kyoto. He was in his late fifties but certainly didn’t look it. He was charming and dignified, his English was excellent, and we’d enjoyed several in-depth discussions about life and whisky when he last visited.
“He’s a good man, but he’s ruffling some feathers here,” Patrick said. “A lot of the traditionalists aren’t happy about having Japanese whiskies represented at the contest at all, but especially in the best overall category.”
“Afraid of the competition?”
“They’d say no. But in reality, yes. Some of these Japanese whiskies are really quite exceptional.”
I nodded in agreement. “This one’s certainly lovely. How’d we get so lucky?”
“According to Liam’s friend Sophie, she was instructed to put a bottle in the room of each attendee with Hinatu Harukawa’s compliments.”
“Trying to win over the judges?”
“Of course not,” Patrick retorted. “The judges are very carefully chosen. Experts one and all.”
“I’m just teasing. I’m sure they are all beyond reproach. Still, I have to say, it does seem a bit pushy to be giving out whisky when you’re up for an award.”
“The Whisky Journal’s giving out boxes of whisky truffles.”
“That makes sense, hosting events and giving gifts. You’re looking to expand circulation, not plug your whisky. Harukawa’s simply currying favor. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not looking a gift horse in the mouth,” I said, topping up my glass. “I’m just saying, it’s a bit cheeky.”
“Hinatu’s a friend,” Patrick insisted. “He knows there’s a certain amount of prejudice against the Japanese here, and he’s simply trying to make a peace offering. Getting the week started on the right foot.”
“Let’s hope it doesn’t backfire,” I said, straightening Patrick’s tie. “Now come on, let’s go before I change my mind about appearing in public in this getup.”
Chapter 4
The ballroom where the dinner was to take place was nothing short of stunning. Lush wood paneling covered all four walls up to the wainscoting. Above that was a gold-colored watered-silk fabric made to look like wallpaper. Intricately carved medallions were spaced out along the length of the ceiling, showcasing four glittering chandeliers. Parquet floors with an elaborate design reminiscent of a Black Watch tartan ran the length of the room. It was a hall fit for a king. A dozen round tables were grouped in the center of the room, each adorned with a lavish floral arrangement of red roses and white heather—both out of season.
In each of the four corners, long bar tables were set up to offer tastings of the whiskies participating in the competition. The first three tables were devoted to the three main whisky-producing regions of Scotland: the Highlands, the Islands, and the Lowlands. The fourth table lumped whiskies from the rest of the world together in one small space—a visual reminder of the Scottish view of their preeminence in the world of whisky. That having been said, curiosity was clearly winning out. The tasting line was by far the longest at the foreign table.
As we moved into the room, Patrick was waylaid by one of his peers. I paused for a moment, then continued on, catching the eye of Oliver Blaire, who was holding court by the north-side tasting table. Oliver had been a dear friend of Ben’s and now he was a dear friend of mine. His family owned and operated the Marchbanks distillery while Oliver ran a whisky shop in Stirling that specialized in bottling and selling rare and small-batch whiskies. Blaire’s exact age was difficult to pinpoint. His hairline was receding slightly and there was more than a touch of gray at his temples, but he was trim, well preserved, and immaculately groomed. The epitome of a true country gentleman. Refined, witty, and diplomatic. He deposited a kiss on each cheek and whispered in my ear, “You look stunning, my dear. You’re going to give one of these old codgers a heart attack.”
I shook my head with a smile. “Don’t be silly.”
“Not at all. Most of them could use a good poke with a fire iron.”
I quickly changed the subject. “Has Marchbanks been nominated for an award?”
“Sadly, not this year, but this is a wonderful opportunity to showcase some of my rare whisky offerings in the salesrooms. Good for business.”
“Well, I for one am glad you’re here. It’s nice to see a familiar face.”
“Patrick’s here,” Oliver noted.
“Yes, and buttering up Sir Richard Simpson again, I see.”
“Ah, you’ve met Sir Richard, then?”
“His younger brother Trevor is an old friend of Patrick’s. We were all at the falconry school together this afternoon.”
“Ah yes, I heard about that. Your Liam made quite an impression.”
I rolled my eyes. “One I could’ve done without.”
“I’m familiar with Sir Richard’s whisky credentials,” Oliver said, “but I have to admit I don’t know much else about him.”
“I did a profile on him a few years back,” I said, “not that he remembers. He made a small fortune with some kind of low-fee stock-trading company about fifteen years ago,” I said. “Shortly after he was knighted for his work building high-tech youth clubs in the inner cities of Glasgow, Manchester, and Newcastle.”
Oliver frowned slightly. “I must be thinking of someone else. The name just stuck in my mind for some reason, though I didn’t think it was because of anything that philanthropic.”
“Maybe you are
thinking of Sir Richard’s father, Lord Simpson,” I continued more softly. “MP from the North. Went to jail ten years ago on fraud charges. It was quite the scandal at the time. Drained the pension fund right out from under his employees and used it to buy properties all over the world to stash his various mistresses in.”
Oliver did his best to hide the smile that played around the edge of his mouth. “I knew there was something. My memory’s not what it was, but it’s not gone yet.”
“We gave it a fair amount of play in the Gazette at the time, although the family worked hard to minimize the publicity.”
“I’ll bet they did.” Oliver was about to elaborate when he was pulled away by a representative from the Malt Whisky Society. Left on my own once more, I moved across the room to see Hinatu Harukawa. As I closed in, I realized that Grant was heading toward him with two drinks. He caught my eye and I saw the telltale darkening of his. The dress had clearly caught his attention. I was glad, and that made me angry with myself, but it was too late to alter course now.
As I reached the group, Harukawa smiled and gave me a small bow. “Delighted to see you once more, Ms. Logan. We often remember our visit to your beautiful distillery with great fondness.”
A charitable response given that one of the event staff had plummeted to his death from the parapets of the MacEwen family home during the dinner hour. Harukawa graciously did not bring up that aspect of the evening’s spectacle. I smiled in return. “It’s an honor to welcome you to Scotland again, Harukawa-san. I hope you are enjoying your visit.” Grant handed Harukawa a drink and extended the second glass to me. I accepted gratefully.
“It has been most enlightening.” He paused as if about to elaborate, but went on to say, “There are some very fine whiskies here. Including your own Abbey Glen.”
“That’s down to Grant. I have nothing to do with the actual production,” I said. “He’s the one who performs the magic.” I looked at Grant, but he’d clearly lost the thread of the conversation. He was fully focused on something near the door. I continued talking with Harukawa, trying to surreptitiously glance toward whatever it was that had diverted his attention so completely.
Out of the corner of my eye I saw a figure arrive in the gilded doorway. Conversation in the room stilled for a moment and I turned to see a striking woman poised on the threshold. A woman I’d never seen before. She was a petite but commanding presence, perfectly at ease in a pair of five-inch stilettos. Her dress was a vibrant shade of emerald green that left her shoulders exposed. A mane of glossy black hair was twisted up in a loose chignon that enhanced her flawless features. She was attracting her fair share of attention as she made her way slowly into the gathering, but no one looked more stunned than Grant.
Obviously well known to the group, the woman could only manage to get a few steps before being stopped by someone else. Who was she? Surely another female member of the whisky club would’ve come to my attention by now. Grant excused himself abruptly. I thought he was going to head toward the woman, but instead he retreated to the bar at the back of the room and got a drink to replace the one he’d given me. He looked ready to flee but wound up talking to Cam.
I turned back to Harukawa and saw that Oliver had joined us. “For once I’m not the only female in the room. Who’s that?” I asked as casually as possible.
“Brenna Quinn,” Oliver said. “The granddaughter of Silas Quinn.”
“Should I know Silas Quinn?”
“The Quinn family runs one of the best-known distilleries in Ireland. Her father, Niall Quinn, married a Welsh woman and started his own distillery outside Portmeirion. Brenna’s his girl. She spent some time around here about five years ago learning the Scottish side of the business before going off to Canada to work for a top distiller there. I understand her father’s grooming her to take over the operations in Wales.”
“That should ruffle a few feathers,” I said, thinking back to my own arrival in Balfour.
“The Welsh are much more down-to-earth than the Scots,” Oliver observed. “They’re used to being ‘the other whisky producers.’ Don’t mind moving outside the box.”
Further conversation about the mystery woman was cut short as the gong sounded calling us all to dinner. Abbey Glen had its own table. Grant, Cam, myself, and our invited guests. Oliver Blaire had been included, and, at Patrick’s request, Grant had invited Harukawa to join us as well. Patrick was holding court at the adjacent table with Sir Richard Simpson and several of the leading independent distillers.
I sat between Cam and Harukawa and watched as the lady in green approached the table. Grant rose awkwardly, nearly knocking over his glass of wine before giving her an awkward hug. I’d never seen him flustered before. “Abi, this is Brenna Quinn, a colleague of ours just back from a stint in Toronto,” he said. “Brenna, Abi Logan, Ben’s niece and the new owner of the Glen.”
“Part owner,” I corrected, extending a hand across the table in greeting. “Nice to meet you.”
“I was so sorry to hear about Ben,” Brenna said, her voice warm with a soft Welsh lilt. “He was a wonderful man and an incredible mentor.”
“You worked with Ben?”
“He offered me an internship at Abbey Glen and a place to stay. I learned so much from him.” A shadow passed over her face. “They were halcyon days,” she added, softly looking up at Grant.
I opened my mouth to reply but couldn’t think of anything even vaguely polite to say. Here I was trying to embrace my role as a pioneering woman in the profession and it seemed I’d been beaten to the punch. Who was this woman? Ben never mentioned her. Had he given up on me sharing in his love of whisky and turned to her instead? I did my best to be gracious, but I couldn’t help feeling resentful. She seemed to have the relationship with Ben that I’d forgone in the name of my own career, and she had a place in the whisky business before me. Not only that; if the look on Grant’s face was anything to go by, she’d had a relationship with him, too.
Eventually, Brenna excused herself and the table resumed its conversations, Grant discussing a technical issue with Harukawa and Oliver. I turned to Cam and softly asked, “What’s the story with Brenna Quinn? She seems to have rattled Grant.”
“Aye. Well, they were an item for the last year or so she was here. Some as thought they might make a long-term go of it, but then Brenna up and left for Canada. Blindsided Grant, it did, but she’s a very determined woman. She puts what’s best for the whisky and the family business above all else.”
I knew Grant had been involved with a woman who’d passed away, but no one ever mentioned this Welsh woman. Had he opened his heart again, only to have it dashed? I realized that Cam was watching me. “Grant should be able to relate to putting the business first,” I murmured.
“True enough, but he didn’t like it. He was a right bugger to deal with for a good six months after she left.”
“Now she’s back.”
“That she is.” Cam’s face reflected mixed emotions. I waited for more, but nothing came. He turned the conversation back to the competition. Long speeches, excellent food, and lashings of whisky followed on. I tried to focus on the business discussions, but I found my mind turning again and again to a picture of Grant and Brenna as a couple. They must have been a striking pair. Was Brenna hoping to rekindle their relationship here in this romantic retreat?
* * *
—
By ten o’clock I was more than ready for bed, but Patrick and the judges were heading over to the Aerie Bar at the golf club for a nightcap. I knew I should join them to booze and schmooze, as the saying goes, but I wasn’t thrilled. I shuffled along beside Patrick, muttering curses under my breath. The gentlemen were of course perfectly comfortable in the chill night air with their evening jackets. I was wearing a thin fabric with bare arms and my teeth were chattering before we were halfway there, but I was determined not to be left
out.
As our group trudged across the lawn to the golf club, I noticed that Brenna had fallen into step with Grant. They seemed to be having a serious conversation. I wondered if she was attempting to mend fences. I watched Grant remove his jacket and drape it around her shoulders as they walked. A shiver ran up my spine that had little to do with the chill in the air.
My joy at arriving in the warmth of the golf club lobby was short-lived as the group made its way to an outdoor lounge suitable for smoking cigars and indulging in late-night drinks. Fortunately, what I initially mistook for a decorative replica of a brass still was in fact a wood-burning fireplace almost fully surrounded by deep plush couches. Draped at intervals across the backs of the sofas were hunter-green blankets with the Eagle’s Lodge crest embroidered in gold thread. Casting manners to the wind, I pushed in, planted myself as close to the fire as possible, and draped a wool rug across my knees. Above our heads the stars twinkled in and out of the clouds that were streaked low in the sky. On a cloudless night it would be a stunning place for a quiet drink.
Sir Richard Simpson collapsed onto the sofa next to me with a grunt. Extended a hand, grasped my fingers, and raised them to his lips. A ridiculous gesture, inspired more, I suspected, by the whisky he’d consumed than any innate gallantry. I removed my hand from his grasp as tactfully as possible and asked how the competition was shaping up.
“Plenty of first-rate Scottish whiskies here. Some new entries from the Hebrides are delightful, and the Abbey Glen entries are, of course, exceptional.”
I thanked him, but I wasn’t digging for praise. “What about all these foreign entries?” I prompted curiously.
“There are some really excellent contenders there as well,” Sir Richard said enthusiastically. “Especially from India.”
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