Patrick ran his hands through his hair, a grim look on his face. “He must be shattered.”
I nodded silently.
“What can we do to help?” Patrick asked.
“Try to keep him calm,” I said. “Patience is not his strong suit, as we all know.”
“He needs to be busy, not just putterin’ ’round at the house all day,” Cam fretted. “I ken he’s supposed to rest, but that woman’s keepin’ him on a mighty short leash.”
“He’s not the type to just stay away,” Patrick pointed out. “I’d guess he’s been avoiding the Glen hoping things would improve.”
“I suspect you’re right, but there’s more to whisky making than just blending. The doctors said he shouldn’t make any significant business decisions, but that doesn’t mean he can’t do other things,” I said. “We need to find a project for him. Something to keep him busy and buy him some time.”
“We’ll be closed for maintenance for a few weeks this summer, as usual,” Cam offered. “Patrick and I were discussing scheduling some additional Masterclasses. Maybe he could help with those.”
I nodded. “If you can get Grant to agree to give a talk or two, that might be good, but he’s not exactly his most engaging self at the moment. And all those bright young things coming here to learn the art of distilling from us may just serve to remind him of what he could lose.”
“I suppose that’s true,” Patrick conceded.
“I have another idea I wanted to float,” I offered. My personal confidence with respect to the business was shaky and I braced myself for possible rejection. “What if Abbey Glen bottles a single cask expression? No blending required, right? Straight from cask to bottle. It’s something we’ve never done before and I hear they’re very popular these days. I think serious collectors would love it, and, best of all, it would let Grant have a little time to regroup before he needed to start the complex process of blending again.”
I watched a smile cross Cam’s face that went all the way to his eyes. “You’ve come a long way, lass,” he said. “A year ago you didn’t know an Islay from an ice cream and now look at you.”
Patrick shifted forward in his seat, his eyes shining. “That’s not a bad idea at all. Abbey Glen has never put out a single cask before. I think it would be well received and it would be a draw to the cask-strength purists.”
“Not to mention we can charge a premium,” I added, leaning back in my chair feeling ridiculously triumphant.
Patrick chuckled softly. “You really are getting good at this. To think I was worried that you’d never take to it.”
“Aye, you have your uncle’s marketin’ savvy, there’s no doubt,” Cam agreed.
“I’m trying,” I admitted. Emboldened by my initial success, I reached into my bag and pulled out a ceramic spirit bottle, one of several that I’d found in Uncle Ben’s collection. “What can you tell me about this?”
Cam took the bottle from me and turned it over in his hands. “From the late eighteen hundreds. There were no glass bottles back then,” Cam explained. “Better-quality whisky was stored in jugs like this and sold on to pubs and wealthy customers. They were used on and off up until the time that glass bottles became the norm.”
I nodded thoughtfully. “I’ve seen distilleries bottling in fancy crystal and charging an absolute fortune. How do you think collectors would respond to a ceramic bottle?”
“Interesting balance of old and new,” Patrick said slowly. “Did you have something specific in mind?”
As long as I was on a roll, I’d toss out the second plan that had been percolating in my head. “What if we commissioned some special bottles from Rory?” Rory Hendricks was our resident celebrity recluse. Former hard-rocking, hard-drinking front man for an eighties band called the Rebels, he’d retired to a farm at the north end of the valley and started a hobby business as a potter.
“He’s certainly swilled his share of whisky down the years,” I pointed out, “and he loves our product in particular. I suspect anything with his name on it would be snatched up by fans and whisky connoisseurs alike.”
Cam set the bottle down, rose, and poured himself another cup of coffee from the pot by the wall, raising an empty cup in my direction. I shook my head no.
“Think you might be on to somethin’ there, too,” he said finally. “Even an aging geezer like me knows the Rebels, and Rory’s pottery’s distinctive. In a good way. Think Grant would go for it?”
“Worth asking.” I turned back to Patrick. “What do you think?”
“I try to stay out of your business decisions,” he said, lifting his hands in the air. “Not my distillery, and I’m only really involved with the Masterclasses, but as a whisky lover and a publisher, I think it’s a brilliant idea.”
“Should I talk to Grant when I see him this afternoon?” Cam asked.
“He’s a bit on the touchy side at the moment,” I said. “Maybe let me have a shot at it first.”
“Right.” Cam looked relieved. “I’ll leave it to you then.”
“In fact, I think I’ll try to convince Grant to go over and meet with Rory. Get him out of the house for a bit.”
“If she’ll let him,” Cam muttered. “You should know that Brenna was over here yesterday.”
“What did she want?” I asked.
“Offering to help out in Grant’s absence.”
I could feel the heat rising inside of me. “Because the rest of us are incompetent?” I growled. “She’s got a lot of nerve.”
“Don’t think she meant to be rude,” Cam observed. He’d been a fan of Brenna’s in the past, but I sensed his enthusiasm was waning of late. “I imagine Grant can only suffer so much of her fussin’ around before he sends her off. Leaves her with some time on her hands.”
“She has her own business to worry about. If she’s got time on her hands, she should be focusing on that,” I groused. “What did you tell her?”
“Told her we could manage.”
More than bloody manage, I thought. I’d had two solid ideas today. Viable ideas. Potentially extremely lucrative ideas. With Patrick and Cam’s help we’d make plans that would be good for the Glen and good for Grant. We certainly didn’t need Brenna.
I left the office feeling smug, but I should’ve known better. Life never goes that smoothly, not my life at least. I was about to find my way into a dark place again. A place of despair and destruction and, as always, it seemed with me, death.
Chapter 2
I left Cam and Patrick to their planning and wandered through the courtyard of the distillery, across the footbridge, and over to the wooden fence surrounding my newly acquired field. Somehow over the past few months, I’d gone from a half-dozen sheep to nineteen—an actual flock, and I needed the extra space. All of my charges had been saved from the slaughterhouse and essentially retired to my home for aging wool-bearers. Ridiculous, I know, but there’s something about their calm, ruminative faces and their plump little bodies that brings me joy. Everyone finds their own Zen. Mine walked on four hooves and bleated.
And God knows I was in need of a little Zen at the moment. The frenetic adrenaline rush of being a war correspondent had worn my nerves to shreds, but my long-overdue change of lifestyle, though welcome, was admittedly risky. I was well aware that sitting and doing nothing in rural Scotland would be fatal for me, so I’d purposely kept myself busy by helping to run the Glen, managing the charitable trust I’d established in Uncle Ben’s name, dabbling in some casual ovine husbandry, and sneaking off to the university four mornings a week for my whisky class. Busy is good, but once in a while it was nice to just stop and admire the flock.
I turned at the sound of an approaching vehicle and saw Katherine McRae pulling alongside in her veterinary van. I was surprised to see the local vicar, Craig Anderson, perched beside her on the front seat.
“We were just heading up to the house to see you,” Katherine said as she approached.
Katherine was a good friend and, as the local vet, she was a frequent visitor at my house and an absolute lifesaver in all things sheep- and dog-related, but she didn’t usually arrive with clergy in tow.
“What’s going on? Wedding issues?” Our new young vicar, known to all as Reverend Craig, was engaged to the local librarian, Fiona Harper, and they were now two weeks away from the big day, the celebration of which had the entire village in a frenzy worthy of a royal wedding. Katherine was one of the bridesmaids. I, mercifully, was not.
Reverend Craig smiled. “We’re here about your flock today, not mine.”
“Look at those poor wee souls,” Katherine said, gesturing to the paddock. “Have you made arrangements to have them shorn yet?”
“I’m working on it,” I said guiltily.
“It’s well past time. They’re uncomfortable and it’s unkind,” Katherine scolded.
Katherine was right. The sheep stood out vividly against the green grass like huge balls of candy floss. “I know it needs to be done,” I replied, “but I just hate the thought of dumping the fleeces. It seems such a waste.”
“That’s why we’re here. We’ve found a solution,” Katherine said triumphantly. “Reverend Craig knows a place where you can donate them.”
“You can donate fleece?”
“There’s a woman, Amanda Forrester,” Reverend Craig said. “She crafts gorgeous hand-woven knitwear from locally sourced wool, and sells them at her shop in the city. Half of the boutique’s profits go to support a shelter for battered women in Edinburgh. She buys wool when she has to, but loves donations.”
“Sounds perfect,” I said. “How did you find this place?”
“The Shepherd’s Rest was founded by a former parishioner of mine, and I’m the unofficial ministerial support for the ladies who take refuge there. Amanda tends to the day-to-day operations of the shelter, as well as running her own business. I think the two of you’d get on well. You have a lot in common.”
“You mean I have money and she needs it,” I quipped.
“Yes, but more than that, you both have a soft spot for the downtrodden and abused. I’ve been worried about Amanda and the ladies at the Rest for some time,” Reverend Craig admitted. “Amanda’s really struggling to care for this group of women who’ve been abused by the men in their lives. On top of everything else, they’re now getting bullied by their landlord. I think you could be a big help to them. You’ve spent your professional life speaking up for the underdogs. This is a chance to do what you do so well, only closer to home.”
I had been looking for ways to make use of the funds I’d allocated to the Bennett Logan Memorial Trust, and this certainly sounded like a worthy cause. Reverend Craig pulled out his phone and flipped through his list of contacts. “I’ll forward her particulars and you can reach out to her yourself.”
“Good, that’s settled then,” Katherine said. “Call her tomorrow and no messing around.”
“Aye, aye,” I said with a brisk salute. “Thanks for the tip.” I took a deep breath and turned back to Reverend Craig. Weddings weren’t my thing but I felt compelled to offer to help. “What do you still need for the wedding? Maybe some special whisky for the reception and the passing of the quaich?”
“That would be wonderful, and I don’t want to seem pushy, but Fiona has tasked me with asking you a specific favor. We thought since you are a dog person”—Craig hesitated—“well, Fiona wants Sampson to take part in the wedding. Do you think you could take charge of him?”
I gave a huge smile of relief. “I would be delighted to be his escort for the evening.” God knows I wouldn’t have another date. Sampson was Fiona’s German shorthaired pointer. A lovely old soul who’d been her companion for many years before Craig came on the scene. Finally, a wedding assignment that was right up my alley. “Leave it to me,” I said. “He’ll be there and looking his best.”
* * *
—
As soon as Katherine and the vicar left, I returned to the car and boosted my overexcited canine companion into the front, arguing briefly with him over possession of the driver’s seat. Once we’d put the top down and sorted the chauffeuring arrangements, we set off for the Larches again. I could still count on one hand the number of days the top had been off my Mini Cooper since I’d purchased it nine months ago. I’d dubbed her Hope when she arrived with the unrequested open top feature, knowing we hardly had a hope of being able to use it in this part of the world, but Liam loved it when we opened the top. He’d ride with his ears streaming back in the wind, the picture of happiness.
Louisa had texted me to say that Brenna had gone out, so this time when we arrived at the Larches I went to the front door, which was answered by the master of the house himself. He drew the heavy oak door back and gestured us inside. Liam streaked past, heading for the kitchen and his buddy, Louisa. I followed Grant across the stone floor past the portraits of assorted dour-looking ancestors and into the library. This was traditionally Grant’s private domain, but he gestured to a seat in front of the fire and returned moments later with a bottle of Abbey Glen and a second glass. I noticed he’d already been enjoying a whisky, despite the hour, but the bottle he charged his own glass with was a blended whisky. Not that there’s anything wrong with a blended whisky, but it was definitely not Grant’s usual tipple.
“What’s with that?” I asked, raising my glass in a silent salute.
“Can’t taste what I’m drinking, can’t smell it. Why bother to waste a first-class malt.”
“Then you’re just drinking to drink,” I noted.
Grant scowled, his green eyes the color of the nearby loch on a stormy day. “Don’t you start,” he snapped.
Others were obviously taking it upon themselves to point out the error of his ways. Far be it for me to join a Greek chorus that was presumably being led by Brenna. I simply shrugged. “Suit yourself. You’re a big boy.” I took a drink from my own glass and relished the smooth, warming sensation that spread outward from my core. “Met the new doctor today,” I said, changing the subject. “Seems nice.”
“I’m sure he’s fine for colds and flus, but all he can say to me is, ‘It should get better soon,’ ” Grant mimicked in a singsong voice. “Not much bloody use.”
“Well, he’s right. It’ll either get better or it won’t,” I said briskly. “Don’t see you as the sort to mope around feeling sorry for yourself for long. You may not be cleared for complex multitasking yet, but there’s plenty you can do until you are, and Cam could use the help.”
“What do you suggest? Should I start blending the next bottling round? I could play a little blindman’s bluff with the recipe we’ve worked so hard to craft.”
“That would seem foolish,” I said with deliberate calm. I looked Grant in the eye until he dropped his gaze. “I would think something a bit more creative would be in order.”
Grant leaned back in his chair and took another deep drink from his glass. “In your expert opinion,” he said, raising an eyebrow.
I ignored the slight. My mission here was to drag Grant back into the real world and Louisa would be glad to see me providing a vivid counterpoint to Brenna’s constant fussing while doing it. “I was thinking that we’ve never offered a single cask version of the Abbey Glen. Maybe it’s time to try one out.”
Grant looked slightly taken back. “Who’s idea was that? Cam’s?”
I bit my tongue. “It was my idea. Single casks are popular these days and I think we should give it a try. We have a beautiful whisky. Certainly high-enough quality to take to market at full strength, and the price point will be higher than the regular fifteen-year-old.” I didn’t focus on the fact that it would also mean Grant could avoid using his olfactory skills for a few more months.
Grant star
ed into the fire, silent and morose. “I suppose,” he said, grudgingly downing the rest of his drink. “But we can’t keep that up forever.”
“We won’t have to,” I said firmly. “Cam’ll be glad of the help to get this under way if you can haul your butt down to the Glen tomorrow.”
“You donnae need me if you’re bottling straight from the cask,” Grant pointed out. “In fact, the way you’re going you won’t need me around at all. You seem to have all the answers.”
Grant was being annoyingly petulant. He was never ebullient by nature, but always pragmatic, and he had a deep and abiding passion for his work and for those who were important to him. That passion gave him a vibrancy that was electric. That current was missing at the moment, and he seemed hollow without it.
“I don’t have all the answers,” I insisted, “but at least I’m floating ideas.” I walked over to a shelf in the corner and pulled down a ceramic bottle with the Glenfiddich stag on the front. “You collect these?” I asked.
“It’s just an old bottle of my father’s,” Grant replied.
“Must have some historic value or you wouldn’t have kept it,” I pointed out. We were on thin ice when the subject of Grant’s father came up. Their relationship had been fraught at best. Grant had been a disappointment when he refused to take over the family bottling business in favor of becoming a blender for the local distillery. MacEwen Sr. made his displeasure known in death when he left the profitable glass company in Edinburgh to Grant’s younger brother, while leaving the estate and its massive debts to Grant.
Grant shrugged. “My father was sentimental about things, but never people. He kept some of the older bottles from the days of the bootleggers. Doubt they’re worth much.”
I ignored the churlish comment, instead turning the bottle in my hands and watching the fire’s light playing on the blue glaze. “With the right bottle I think collectors would pay an even prettier penny for the Glen’s new madeira cask finish.”
Died in the Wool Page 2