Died in the Wool

by Melinda Mullet

  Brenna’s dietary restrictions were familiar to me. Most women in London wouldn’t let a carbohydrate past their lips if their lives depended on it, but Louisa held no truck with that kind of nonsense. She was plainspoken, unpretentious, enthusiastic, and kind. A woman who would never be rail thin, but she was healthy, active, and strong. She loved good food, well prepared and served with love. She was a fabulous cook and she could feed me any day.

  “I was starting to think you were avoiding the situation here,” she challenged.

  “Not intentionally,” I replied. “How’s Grant?”

  “Getting out a bit more. He’s overruled Brenna’s insistence that he stay here in the house, but he’s still coming back for a ‘rest’ in the afternoons.” Louisa looked up at the clock. “He should be down nosin’ around for a cuppa soon.”

  “Has Brenna said anything more about the engagement?”

  “Not to me. But I have to say, she doesn’t look like the joyful bride to be, and if you ask me, Grant’s been trying to avoid her. I mean, he’s never been one for a nap before. I suspect it’s just an excuse to lock himself in his room for a couple of hours of peace and quiet.” Louisa looked across at me with a gleam in her eye. “If it was you instead of Brenna, I’d wager he wouldn’t be nappin’ alone.”

  I flushed in spite of myself. “But he hasn’t denied the engagement?”

  “Well, you know me, I’m always shy. I asked him point-blank yesterday if he was planning to marry her.”

  “And?”

  “He said ‘I’ll tell you the same thing I told her, I’m not making any plans for the future until I’m sure I have a future.’ Then he stormed off to the Glen.”

  I allowed myself a quick smile. “Well, doesn’t sound like it’s set in stone, does it?”

  “Very much not, I would say.”

  Grant was obviously bitterly unhappy about the progress of his recovery, but I was sure Brenna was approaching this in the wrong way. Grant was not one to be coddled or wrapped in cotton wool. He was a fighter. The problem here was that he couldn’t fight. He had to just wait it out. For him that was torture. The best way around that was for him to keep busy. At the Glen and around here.

  “Why don’t you take him up a cup of tea and some fresh cake?” Louisa suggested.

  “Where’s Brenna?”

  “In the library taking care of her own business for a change, and mercifully giving the rest of us a bit of a break.”

  “I’ll sneak something up to his lordship in a minute then, but first, I came to talk to you about something. You and then Grant.”

  “Sounds serious.”

  I explained the situation with Sheila and Nora as succinctly as possible. “Now they want to send the child to a foster home somewhere in the city because she has no other family. Sheila would be devastated.”

  “Poor wee thing. Couldn’t we have her up here?” Louisa asked. “She’d have Luke to play with and we could feed her up properly.”

  Louisa had responded just as I expected she would. She was a generous soul and, in spite of her no-nonsense attitude, she had a huge soft spot for kids and dogs. “I think it would be great for her, too, but I need to get Grant’s permission and at this point it could be tricky.”

  “Well, tell him I’m in one hundred percent. I was helping out as a substitute teacher last year at the local school when one of the teachers left to have the baby. I’ve gone through all the background checks and such. Maybe that will help convince the folks at social services.”

  “Wonderful. That might well be the clincher.”

  Louisa smiled. “Meanwhile, let’s send you up with some ammunition other than your own.” Louisa dug out a tin from the larder and placed two generous slices of Dundee cake soaked in whisky onto a plate and poured out a steaming mug of tea. “Brenna doesn’t like him drinking right now, so I’ve been making the whisky cake triple strength. He seems to be enjoying it, taste buds or no.”

  I grinned and picked up the offerings and snuck up the back stairs to the second floor. I’d stayed in the house before when I first came to Balfour. I’d been receiving death threats and the Haven had been broken into. Grant had offered me a place to stay and I’d become familiar with the layout. I passed the room with the lavender silk duvet that had been mine when I visited. It was Grant’s mother’s room from when she was still alive. I noticed it wasn’t the room Brenna was using. Maybe she had chosen a room closer to his, or maybe she was in his room.

  I stood outside the door and took a deep breath before knocking.

  “I’ll be down in a minute.” Grant’s muffled voice came through the thick wooden door.

  “I just brought you some tea,” I said.

  I heard movement in the room and Grant opened the door and peered out. “Sorry, I wasn’t expecting it to be you.” I’d never been in his bedroom before. He opened the door wider and gestured from me to come inside. It suited him. Warm windowpane paneling with a deep forest green carpet. Heavy drapes hung at the window striped in burgundy and green that matched the muted colors in the plaid duvet. The queen-sized bed had a richly carved heavy oak headboard that was stained to match the paneling in the room. An armchair, ottoman, and side table sat in front of a tall fireplace and Grant gestured for me to sit down. I looked around and saw a stack of papers on the padded window seat on the other side of the room. It looked as if Louisa was right; Grant was working, not sleeping.

  “No, you sit,” I said, placing the cup and plate on the table before perching on the edge of the ottoman. Grant had the beginnings of a beard in place. I wasn’t a fan of full beards, but that intermediate scruff was always appealing. I tried to get him to look me in the eyes but he was preoccupying himself with the notes in his hands. “Louisa sent up some cake. You should take a break from working,” I prodded.

  “I’m resting.”

  “Sure you are,” I said, gesturing at the pile of papers. “You’re bringing stuff up from the Glen.” It was more a statement of fact than a question. No judgment. “How are things?”

  Grant finally looked up. His eyes were dull gray-green and the bags beneath them spoke volumes about the way he was spending his nights. He looked at me for a moment before replying. “We’ve put the wheels in motion for the single cask distillation. The new label’s being designed now by our publicity folks in Edinburgh. It’ll be a good chance to incorporate a reference or two to the awards that we received in the new year and some of the praise from the industry.”

  “Great,” I said, genuinely delighted. “Anything yet from Rory?”

  “He sent over a couple of sketches.”

  “Good ones?”

  “Up to you.” Grant rose and went over to the pile in the window seat, drawing out two sketches made on proper heavy artist’s paper and carrying them back to me. The first showed a bell-shaped bottle with a six-inch-long narrow neck. The second was a taller, round bottle with a short, narrow neck. They were both lovely, but I was drawn to the round bottle. Somehow it looked more elegant.

  My eyes followed him as he paced around the room like a caged cat. “What do you think?” I asked.

  “Both seem nice.” Grant’s tone was cool, almost indifferent. Not his usual self at all.

  “I think it’s the colors that will make it,” I offered. “Rory swirls the paint in the ceramics before firing so it creates that almost marbleized look and each will be a little different. Did he send over any color ideas?”

  Grant handed me another sheet of paper with a series of color samples. Swirled shades of peacock green and blue lay next to one that looked like molten lava in shades of red, gold, and orange. There was a scheme of yellows and another with black and gold, but the one that caught my eye was bronze-, brown-, gold-, and caramel-colored with a touch of amber. It was like all the whisky colors in the world swirled into one color cocktail. I ran my fingers o
ver the paint swirl and looked up to see Grant watching me.

  “That’s the one, isn’t it?” he conceded.

  “No doubt,” I agreed. “It’s gorgeous. But which bottle?”

  “Up to you,” he said. “This was your idea. You choose.”

  “Any concerns with shipping or filling?” I asked.

  “Either one should work.”

  “I kind of like the round one,” I said. “I think it would really show off the textures and the colors.”

  “Round one it is, then.” Grant rose from his chair and retrieved a bottle of whisky from the cupboard under the TV. He lifted it slightly in my direction, but I declined. I watched him pour himself a large helping without diluting it. I noticed it was a relatively cheap bottle of blended whisky. “Haven’t seen much of you round the Glen,” Grant said, taking a drink and returning to the cake on his plate.

  “I got caught up in something down in Edinburgh.” He looked at me expectantly and I continued. “The new charity we’re working with, the Shepherd’s Rest. It’s doing great work as a shelter for abused women, but one of the residents was found dead in her room on Tuesday morning.”

  Grant shook his head. “And you’re right in the middle of it, aren’t you? As always, the harbinger of doom.”

  His tone was flat with a faint tinge of nastiness—something I’d never heard from him before. From his perspective I suppose it was true. Every time I undertook something new in the whisky business, something seemed to go drastically wrong. From the sabotage at the distillery when I first arrived, to a string of deaths connected to the whisky fraternity, to Grant’s own injury at the hands of a killer aiming for me. I hadn’t allowed myself to dwell on it, but he had every right to blame me. In fact, I would probably blame me.

  “I never meant for you to get caught in the fallout from my mistakes.”

  “I know you didn’t, but I did.” Grant took another unhealthy swig from the glass in his hand. I realized that the dullness and lack of focus in his eyes was in part the result of a simmering alcohol-induced haze.

  I knew it would be sanctimonious of me to tell him to buck up and get on with it, but the combination of alcohol and self-pity were a recipe for disaster. “I’m sure this is just a temporary setback.”

  “How can you be sure?” Grant snapped. “The doctors aren’t sure. I’m sure as hell not sure. What makes you the oracle?”

  “I’m not,” I said quietly, “but I do know that drinking yourself into a stupor’s not the right answer either.”

  “Everyone needs a hobby,” Grant said grimly.

  “I never would have guessed you’d be the one to sit around and wallow in your misery,” I said.

  “You’ve only known me for a year or so. What do you know?” Grant growled.

  “I know you were there when Ben was dying from cancer and you never let him give up hope. I know that you’re an integral part of the fabric of this village. I know you’re respected not for what you do for a living, but for what you do for others. And I know that it’s too soon for you to be writing off your future, just because you can’t tell which way it’s going to go.” I’d stood up by now and was staring down at Grant, hands on my hips. I wasn’t sure how to exit this stance. Sitting down seemed a bit anticlimactic, and leaving wasn’t going to get me where I was hoping to go with this conversation. Fortunately, the strength of my emotion seemed to have taken some of the steam out of his.

  Grant slumped back in his chair, the momentary flash of fire gone from his eyes. “You’re right. I know I should be more patient. But I can’t seem to chase the ‘what-ifs’ from my head. They just sit there taunting me. And Brenna tries to help but her fear is so unmistakable. It just feeds my own darkest imaginings. I used to know exactly where I belonged in life. I had purpose and meaning. Now, I’m just hanging in this godforsaken limbo, waiting.”

  “Don’t wait,” I retorted. “You need to try to fill your time with other things. Spend time with Rory working on the bottles. Work on the labels. Get more involved with Ben’s trust. Do something. Don’t just sit here.”

  Grant didn’t agree, but he didn’t argue either. I suspected he’d think about it in his own time. In the meantime, he changed tacks abruptly.

  “I shouldn’t have been so rude. Tell me what’s going on in Edinburgh.”

  “Like I said, I accepted a position on the board of trustees of the Shepherd’s Rest, a women’s shelter that Reverend Craig is involved with. He asked me to try to help them out. So far, one of my fellow board members was using the residents as cheap childminders and getting a bit on the side until Tuesday, when one of his usuals turned up dead. The police think he may have drugged her, causing an overdose. On top of that, the Rest’s chef and head housekeeper has gone missing, leaving her eleven-year-old daughter behind, and another board member is trying to get the Rest moved to a ratty old building he owns in a lousy part of town.”

  “Never a dull moment when you’re around, is there? That poor kid; already living in a shelter and now abandoned.”

  I shook my head firmly. “She’s not been abandoned,” I insisted. “I’m sure of it. Something’s happened to her mother and I intend to find out what. These men are taking advantage of their positions and they need to be held accountable for their actions.”

  “Be careful.”

  “Of course.” I looked across at Grant, struggling to find the right segue. “Nora’s a very sweet girl.”

  “Who?”

  “Nora. The missing woman’s daughter.” I hadn’t met her yet, but I was willing to embrace Amanda’s assessment. “She’s a lovely child, bright and mature for her age.”

  “That’s good.” Grant sat back and looked at me, a slight frown creasing his brow. “I’m too tired to play games. Where are you going with this?”

  “The police want to put her in foster care because she has nowhere to go and they say she can’t stay where she is.” I had to take a breath to stop from tripping over my own words. “Louisa and I were talking and we thought that maybe Louisa could foster her until the police sort out what’s happened to her mum. She’ll take great care of her and it wouldn’t be for long….” I trailed off.

  Grant shook his head. “If I felt better, I might say yes, but right now I’ve got enough on my plate.”

  “That’s just it, you need to take your mind off yourself,” I argued. “Helping someone else is a great way to do that.”

  “Why can’t she stay with you?”

  “She needs a proper mum, not a part-time sheep nanny. I have no experience at all with kids. Honestly, they scare me a bit. Louisa’s the best bet and you have so much room here. Besides, Louisa used to work at a school and she still volunteers here in Balfour sometimes. She’s already passed all the background checks they need to make her eligible to be a foster mum. And Michaelson will vouch for her.”

  I could see that Grant was weakening, but he wasn’t there yet. “I’m just really not sure I can handle all the noise and commotion,” he insisted.

  “Then get ye gone oot the hoose, as Louisa would say. You wouldn’t notice the noise if you weren’t here.” I held my trump card for last. “Besides, she’s a very quiet kid. She grew up in a home where any kind of noise would get you a beating from your father. Trust me, she’s quiet, especially around men.”

  Grant’s lips compressed into a thin line. I knew he had a personal abhorrence of violence against children, and the thought of a damaged child in need of help was more than he could stand. “Alright, see if they’ll go for it, but not for too long,” he added. His shoulders slumped and I wanted to reach out and comfort him. To find some way of sharing the burden he was carrying. It felt so unfair to see him struggling alone.

  I leaned forward on the ottoman in front of him and took both of his hands in mine. “Thanks for being willing to help. I know this is a rough time for you,
and having a slew of others around doesn’t help, but I really do appreciate it.”

  Grant sat silently, looking down at our clasped hands, but made no effort to pull away.

  “Things will get better soon,” I said. “I’m sure of it.”

  Grant leaned forward until his forehead lightly touched mine. “How can you be sure?” It wasn’t an angry question; it was a muted plea for reassurance, full of pain and doubt. “I wish I could be sure. What if it doesn’t get any better and I’m stuck this way?”

  I leaned back slightly and dipped my head so I could look him in the eye. “If it doesn’t get better, then you’ll face the situation head-on and find a way to move forward. You couldn’t do anything else.”

  Grant looked back at me, the weight of his uncertainty reflected in his eyes. We held each other’s gaze and I could feel some of the tension leaving his body. We sat there in silence until the door swung open without preamble and Brenna swept in.

  “I see we have company,” she said, her eyes narrowing at our hasty movement away from each other.

  “Abi brought some papers for me to sign,” Grant said with admirable composure.

  “Well, I hope you managed to get some rest,” Brenna chided.

  “No screen time,” Grant assured her as she laid a possessive hand on his shoulder.

  “And how are you, Abi?” she asked.

  “Busy,” I replied, watching Brenna bend down to pick up Rory’s drawing from the floor next to Grant’s chair. “Is this the bottle design you’ve settled on?” Brenna looked at me. “It seems a tad unbalanced. You don’t want these things falling over on the shelf. Can’t afford to have losses at the price point you’re looking at.”

  I couldn’t tell if Brenna was being snippy for the sake of it, or if she really had concerns about the bottle design. Damn her, she knew her stuff and I found myself second-guessing my own choice. Was the taller, thinner bottle more practical? “We’ll address that with the packaging,” I replied, unwilling to show concern in front of my rival. “I’d best get out of your hair.” I turned back to Grant. “I’ll let you know what the verdict is on Nora as soon as I know.” I took the drawing from Brenna’s hand and scooted out the door, but not before hearing Brenna ask “Who’s Nora?” in a tone that didn’t bode well for the ensuing conversation.