The ordeal was a baptism by fire, and in the end my perseverance won over the bulk of the local population. A few were harder to convert, but most were willing to accept me as owner of fifty-one percent of Abbey Glen, as long as the chief distiller, Grant MacEwen, controlled production and the other forty-nine percent.
I freely admit that I know nothing about making whisky, and at first I was only too happy to leave the day-to-day operations to Grant and return to my job as a photojournalist. But after a few months of sweltering in the dry desert heat of Nigeria, watching the unending parade of death and destruction, I had to admit the job was wearing on me. I found myself dreaming of the cool misty glens and lavender-tinged hills of my new Scottish home, and for the first time in my gypsy life I’d felt the stirrings of homesickness. Dead body at my feet notwithstanding, it was good to be back.
“Don’t tell me this has already spread through the village grapevine,” Bill growled. “I only just got here.”
“Wouldn’t be surprised if it had, but I haven’t seen a soul all morning,” I replied. “I was just out wandering. Liam led us here.”
“It’s an evil omen, that’s what it is.” Siobhán Morgan, owner of the Stag, crossed herself as she picked her way through the debris to confront Bill, a fierce light burning in her jade-green eyes. She barely came up to his shoulder, but the intensity of her Irish temper could rip through you like a gale-force wind. Bill and I had no clear path of escape, so we braced ourselves for the storm to come.
“A simple expansion,” Siobhán fumed. “All I asked was dig one bloody hole in the ground and fill it with concrete. But no, they have to upturn some poor sod’s final restin’ place and bring the whole damn thing to a crashin’ halt.” She turned on Bill, a frown creasing her brow. “Shouldn’t you be doing somethin’ about this, not standin’ round gossipin’ like an awd hen?”
“We’re just waiting for the bloke from the coroner’s office to turn up,” Bill said. “Once he’s had a look we should be able to set things to rights. Unless, of course—” Bill paused, looking uncomfortable.
“Unless what?”
“Well, the bones do look rather old,” he said. “If they’ve any potential historical value, we might have to call in someone from the university in Edinburgh to have a look.”
Siobhán rolled her eyes. “Saints preserve us. I’m not hosting an archaeological dig in my garden. I need this lot back to work as soon as possible.” She gestured to the construction workers leaning on the digger and eating sandwiches out of a paper bag. “I’m paying them to work, not eat.”
“For what it’s worth,” I said, peering at the bones from our elevated vantage point, “that skull looks like it has a pretty nasty divot on the side. I’m guessing whoever it was didn’t die of old age. I’ll lay odds this is one for the coroner.”
Siobhán narrowed her eyes and looked at me intently. “Unnatural death shadows you, doesn’t it, my girl.”
I’d like to have taken issue with that remark, but I really couldn’t. Siobhán and I met for the first time at my uncle’s funeral, though the two of them had been an item for some time. Her reaction to me was lukewarm at best. Discovering her son, Duff, dead at my distillery later that same night did nothing to improve relations. I could only thank God I had nothing to do with her problems this time.
Siobhán surveyed the mess and shook her head. “More fool me, I suppose, for letting him talk me into this. Innkeeping at my age, I ask you.”
“Who talked you into this?” I prompted.
“That slick mate of yours, Patrick Cooke.”
“Patrick?” Patrick was my oldest and dearest friend. London journalist, creative hacker, faithful drinking buddy, and a man of infinite machinations. He was certainly well known for dragging others into his elaborate moneymaking schemes. Suddenly I began to worry that I might have some connection to this whole debacle after all. Somewhat reluctantly I asked, “What’s Patrick got to do with all this?”
“Ask him yourself,” Siobhán snapped, gesturing to the tall, slim figure making his way from the far side of the village green, his well-tailored suit pants tucked into a pair of Dubarry all-weather boots. “I have to get ready for the lunch rush. The whole village’ll be over by noon, nosing around.” She fixed Bill with a final withering glare. “Tick tock, Bill, time is money, and I don’t have much of either.”
Bill took off his hat and wiped the sweat from his forehead with a handkerchief as he watched Siobhán make her way back into the pub. “God help us all if the powers that be decide these bones have any historical significance. She’ll eat us alive, the lot of us.” Bill ambled off to supervise the placement of the police tape being strung around the hole. I couldn’t help thinking that the last thing we needed was another murder inquiry in Balfour, but all I could do was offer up a silent prayer that we were looking at a nice, simple contemporary accident victim.
I turned from the scene and headed toward Patrick, who was holding his cellphone in the air, trying in vain to snag some sort of signal on the wind.
“This is a disaster.”
“Lovely to see you, too,” I said.
Patrick gave me a perfunctory kiss on both cheeks. “Sorry. Welcome home. I wasn’t expecting you yet.” He gave my ripped jeans and old sweatshirt a sour look but wisely decided restraint was the better part of valor on the sartorial front.
“I didn’t tell anyone when I was due back. It was meant to be a surprise. How’d you know I was here?” I demanded.
“I didn’t. I’m just in town on a little business,” he replied vaguely.
“Would that business have anything to do with Siobhán’s sudden interest in running a B and B?” I prompted.
Patrick frowned. “I simply suggested it might be a good investment for her. Expand the Stag and give visitors a place to stay when they come to town. Not to mention giving her something to focus on other than mourning her son.”
“And how do you think that’s working now they’ve found a body in her side garden?”
“Bones, not a body, according to Siobhán’s message,” Patrick corrected hastily. “I’m sure they’ve been there for ages and ages. You know, this part of the world has a rich history of rebels and pirates and smugglers. It’d be more surprising if you didn’t find a secret or two buried in the village.”
Patrick was probably right, and it was too perfect a morning to be contemplating the dark secrets Balfour might be hiding. I untied Liam from the railing, giving the muddy hole a wide berth. Liam looked crushed that I was keeping him from exercising his canine instincts. He insisted on sighing dramatically and giving me indignant looks from beneath his overgrown eyebrows. I grabbed Patrick’s elbow as we passed and steered him away from the scene as well, heading purposely toward the high street and a much-needed coffee.
The sky was unusually blue and cloudless, and the village was showing off the full glory of its summer colors. A mass of sweet peas climbed the wall separating the churchyard from the village green looking like a woven tapestry with exuberant splashes of lilac, pink, indigo, and white all jumbled together. I had to stop for a brief moment to inhale the heady scent. In an instant I was a child again, back in Ben’s garden in Chelsea.
Patrick continued to fiddle with his cellphone, oblivious to the spectacle around him. “You still haven’t told me what you’re doing here,” I said finally.
“I’ve switched jobs,” he announced.
“But you loved your job.” Patrick had been the associate editor at Wine and Spirits Monthly for more than five years. He was a respected expert on all things booze related and relished his frequent tasting trips to exotic locations. “Why would you quit?”
“Not so much quit as had a parting of the ways. It all came to a head while you were gone.”
“I had no idea. What happened?”
“We were bought out by an American publishing group. The new owners rolled in and dispensed with all of us quill-and-ink types and replaced us with a bunch of millennia
ls. The plan, I believe, is to convert to a pure digital format,” he said bitterly.
“Ouch.” I gave Patrick’s hand a sympathetic squeeze. He was seldom serious about anything, but clearly this had been a blow. “So what are you doing now?”
“I’ve accepted a job with the Whisky Journal in Edinburgh. They offered me the chance to be editor-in-chief.”
“A promotion. That’s great. But I can’t believe you’d abandon London after all these years. And what about Nigel? What did he have to say about the big move?”
Patrick kicked a stone along the street with an unnecessary degree of force. “Things between us came to a rather messy end recently,” he confessed. “After that I just couldn’t seem to get away from him. Every time I turned around, he was there. When the purge came at W and S it seemed like the right time for a change.”
I felt sorry for Patrick, but something in his demeanor made me uneasy. After all these years I knew when I wasn’t getting the whole story. “Fair enough,” I acknowledged, “but that still doesn’t explain what you’re doing in Balfour.”
Patrick continued to fidget with his phone, avoiding eye contact. “The Whisky Journal is cosponsoring a series of master classes with the Whisky Society.”
“What the hell is a master class?”
“A special program for whisky aficionados and new distillers. For a price they can come and learn the tricks of the trade from the brightest and most innovative men in the business.”
Now we were getting somewhere. “A steep price, if I know you,” I said. “Wait a minute.” I stopped dead in my tracks as the penny finally dropped. “Tell me you’re not trying to drag Grant into this somehow.”
“You have to admit the idea’s inspired,” Patrick enthused, finally meeting my gaze. “Let’s face it, who’s more innovative than Abbey Glen? You’re the poster child for high-end craft distilling.”
“And Grant’s agreed to this?” I sputtered.
“Not exactly,” Patrick admitted. “He wants to talk to you, but how can he say no?”
“How can he say no? What makes you think you could ever convince him to say yes?”
Patrick put an arm around my shoulder and looked at me with the big brown puppy eyes.
“Oh, no you don’t,” I said, twisting away from his embrace and walking briskly past the last of the cottages, watching for the telltale twitch of a curtain. “You’re not seriously expecting me to sweet-talk him into this. No way.” Patrick was like a brother to me, but in spite of that, or maybe because of it, I could wring his neck sometimes. He came up with crazy schemes, many of them brilliant, but somehow I always got dumped in the middle of the shite. The more I thought about trying to cajole Grant into hosting a whisky extravaganza at his beloved distillery, the more horrified I became. I turned and looked back at him defiantly. “You’ll just have to tell the Whisky Society to find a different distillery.”
Patrick caught up with me at the top of the high street with a pained look on his face. “Therein lies the problem. I have to admit my friends at the Whisky Society were a bit cool about the idea at first. Somehow they just didn’t see the brilliance of the plan. But they warmed up no end when I told them that Abbey Glen would be delighted to host the inaugural event.”
“You committed Abbey Glen without asking?”
“You weren’t here and I needed a quick answer.” Patrick dodged my fist as it moved toward his arm. “Besides, I’m not asking you to seduce Grant, just talk to him. Convince him this is the right thing to do.”
“Lower your voice,” I hissed as I unclenched my fist and raised a hand in greeting to the postmistress watching us curiously from across the street. I found myself momentarily distracted by the thought of trying to seduce Grant, but it wouldn’t do to dwell on that here and now. “I’m not at all convinced this is the right thing to do,” I said firmly. “Maybe eventually, but not right now.”
“It has to be now,” Patrick insisted. “The Whisky Society has a group of high-profile Japanese distillers coming for an official visit in just two weeks. I need to get in good with them. These chaps are very well regarded in the industry, but most important they’re ridiculously flush with cash. The Society’s very keen to get them to part with some of their spare yen to help fund emergency repairs to a nasty case of rising damp in the club’s cellars, and I need them to take notice of my magazine.”
“Great, so you raise the profile of the Journal and the Society gets to patch up the rising damp. What’s in it for the Glen?”
“You’re hands down Scotland’s finest boutique distillery, and they specifically asked to visit. It’ll be great advertising for you and a prime opportunity to enhance the Glen’s reputation.”
“We don’t need to enhance our reputation,” I retorted. “We already have a great reputation.”
Patrick looked uncomfortable. “Okay, the Glen does, but the owner’s reputation could use a bit of a face-lift.”
“I thought we were past all that nonsense.”
“Not entirely. People are willing to concede that the trouble at the distillery since you took over was beyond your control, but finding a dead body in a vat of Abbey Glen’s finest was not exactly the kind of publicity you needed, and now some of your less enthusiastic fans have started asking questions about the young woman who’s making obscene profits selling off the cache of forty-year-old whisky that was discovered on her property.”
I could feel the warmth rising in my cheeks. Admittedly, the vintage whisky was worth millions, but it was mine and I could do with it as I liked. “Every single one of our competitors would do the same thing if they could,” I argued. “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. Others who may not have your best interests at heart.”
“I’ll bet my life Maitland and his bigoted bunch are behind this,” I said bitterly. Many in the tight-knit whisky fraternity were vehemently opposed to my taking over the Glen, not only because I was inexperienced but because I was a woman. Former distillery owner Keith Maitland was chief among them.
“Maitland could well be the source,” Patrick conceded, “but others are listening. You need a chance to show the world what you’re really all about, and this event would be a great platform. Let people see that things at the Glen haven’t changed from a production standpoint and let them know what the Bennet Logan Memorial Trust is planning to do with the money raised from the whisky sales.”
“I suppose,” I said reluctantly. “I might be able to convince Grant to host this inaugural event, but I’m not sure how he’ll feel about being involved long-term. Does he know you’ve conned Siobhán into adding guest rooms to the Stag to accommodate your plans?” I asked.
“Conned is a strong word.”
“Convinced, then.”
“It’s only five measly guest rooms. We’re not opening a Hilton.”
We came to a halt in front of the Chocolate Bar, the smell of coffee and chocolate wafting out to the sidewalk in intoxicating waves. “Even so,” I said, “it’ll mean big changes. This scheme of yours 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 tended them.
“I won’t let this get out of hand,” Patrick 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.
In any given situation Patrick inevitably had several ulterior motives, but to his cred
it, after all these years, one of them usually involved looking out for me. In deference to our long years of friendship, I found myself weakening. “Alright, I’ll talk to Grant, but I’m making no promises.”
Patrick looked relieved. Good thing one of us was. I hadn’t seen Grant in three long months. Part of me couldn’t wait. The other part dreaded the encounter. I was hoping that somehow he’d grown less appealing in the time that I’d been away, but I wasn’t counting on it. I didn’t relish the thought of inspiring anger in those mercurial green eyes that has so expertly upended my world, but if sparks had to fly I was counting on being emotionally tougher than I’d been on my last visit. The intense emotions surrounding Ben’s death combined with the presence of a killer stalking the Glen had left me vulnerable and weak. This time I would be stronger, more confident, and able to face Grant with equanimity. If I repeated that mantra enough times, maybe I’d convince myself.
Floss Robinson looked up from the till as Patrick and I entered the Chocolate Bar and flashed a warm smile.
“So you found your way ’ome, then.”
“Just yesterday.”
“Big doings in your absence,” Floss said as she bent down to pat Liam. “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 will have one of those ginger lemon scones, if you have any left.”
Floss bustled off to the kitchen to fill our order. She’d run the local tea shop for years before marrying Harold Robinson. Harold had suffered through a deprived childhood nursing an unfulfilled love for 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 Willie 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 regal air.
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