Died in the Wool Read online

  Died in the Wool is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  An Alibi Ebook Original

  Copyright © 2019 by Melinda Mullet

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Alibi, an imprint of Random House, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.

  ALIBI is a registered trademark and the ALIBI colophon is a trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.

  Ebook ISBN 9781984817174

  Cover design: Tatiana Sayig

  Cover images: Shutterstock

  randomhousebooks.com

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  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  By Melinda Mullet

  About the Author

  Chapter 1

  It was a picture-perfect day for walking, and Liam trotted along happily at my heels as we made our way up the long drive toward the Larches, the MacEwen family estate and home to my business partner, Grant MacEwen. The sun was shining brightly, a rare and welcome sight for the first week of March in Scotland, and the shaggy conifers that gave the house its name were casting sharp shadows along the path in front of us. Once used to make the barrels that aged the family’s whisky, the trees now simply provided a stately gateway to the aging baronial house.

  As we drew nearer, Liam put on a burst of speed and ran ahead to greet our friend Louisa, the Larches’ housekeeper and resident chef. The old food hound had a very clear idea of where his next meal was coming from and he knew it was well worth running for. Louisa stood on the front steps, her long, wavy brown hair caught in a loose bun on the top of her head, a bright yellow apron tied over her jeans and t-shirt. She was talking to a tall, thin Indian gentleman who stood beside her, a large leather bag slung over his shoulder.

  As I approached, Louisa smiled and gestured to her companion.

  “Abi, I don’t think you’ve met our new doc yet. He’s only bin here a week, poor soul, and already we’ve got him runnin’. Dr. Arya, this is Abigail Logan, our local celebrity journalist.”

  Dr. Arya turned and greeted me. His handshake was firm and he regarded me with a frank, penetrating gaze. “It’s a pleasure,” I said. We’d been without a full-time doctor since our last one went to jail nearly a year ago and the village was thrilled to finally have a permanent replacement.

  “How’s the patient?” I asked, nodding toward the house. Through the entryway the sound of raised voices drifted down from the upper floor, punctuated by the slamming of a heavy door.

  “Healing is a process,” Dr. Arya said charitably. “Mr. MacEwen is still journeying along the path.”

  “You mean he’s bein’ a right bugger,” Louisa translated.

  Dr. Arya smiled softly. “Feel free to text me if you have any concerns,” he said as he turned to leave. “Otherwise, I’ll check back in another day or two.”

  We watched as he climbed into his car and drove off down the drive, leaving a small cloud of dust in his wake.

  “Haste ye inside,” Louisa said firmly. “I’m gaspin’ for a coffee.”

  I eagerly followed Louisa downstairs into the massive stone-floored kitchen and settled myself at the scrubbed and polished oak table. Louisa flipped the switch on the coffee machine and came to join me with a plate of shortbread rounds topped with raspberry jelly and a large rawhide chew. Liam sat expectantly at attention until he was rewarded, then retired to the hearthrug to gnaw away at his prize.

  “So what’s going on with the lord and master?” I asked as soon as we were all settled. I was curious. A Sunday morning house call was unusual, even in a village this small.

  Louisa extended the plate of cookies, sighing deeply before answering. “It’s not good, actually. I’m really worried. More complications from the concussion. I knew somethin’ was wrong, but you know himself. He keeps it all inside, as if he thinks it might magically go away. Anyroad, he finally told Dr. Arya that he hasn’t been able to smell or really taste anythin’ since the accident.”

  I stopped eating midbite. “What did the doctor say?”

  “He told us that it wasn’t unheard of for this to be a side effect of a concussion, and he said it ‘should’ go away over time, but he wasn’t able to say when and he wasn’t able to say for sure that it would fix itself.”

  Louisa rose to pour the coffee and I sat transfixed. Losing one’s sense of smell and taste were bad enough for a normal person, but Grant is what is known in our business as a ‘nose.’ At Abbey Glen, the distillery we owned and operated as a team, he was the master blender. The man whose delicate senses crafted and perfected the infinitely nuanced flavor profile that made our craft whisky one of the most sought after in the industry. Losing or even slightly impeding those senses would be professionally devastating. A career-ending disaster.

  “How soon before they can tell?” I asked, still trying to wrap my head around the news.

  “Doc said he’ll have to be patient.”

  Louisa and I rolled our eyes in unison. “Hence the door slamming,” I said. “Is Brenna with him?”

  “Aye, the big B’s taking the brunt of it at the moment. And she’s welcome to it.”

  I hastily took a sip of coffee, burning the tip of my tongue as I did. My relationship with Grant had been a complex one from the start. Thrust together by the untimely death of my uncle Bennett and my subsequent inheritance of his single malt whisky distillery known locally as the Glen, I’d fought against a fierce visceral attraction to the sandy-haired Scot and his lethal green eyes. I knew that getting involved with my business partner would be a serious mistake. Not only would it threaten my newly found peace and security in this idyllic corner of the world, it would also undermine my credibility in an already misogynist and unwelcoming industry. I’d become nothing more than Grant’s “wee gurl” in the eyes of the other distillers.

  Keeping my distance was the logical answer and I was sure I had this nailed, especially when Grant’s old flame Brenna Quinn showed up at the international whisky awards six weeks ago intent on rekindling their former relationship. With Brenna around Grant was off the market, and I’d not be tempted. Problem solved, or at least so I thought, until Grant was attacked, receiving a severe head injury that landed him in the hospital in critical condition.

  Faced with the prospect of losing him, I came to the abrupt realization that I cared for him far more than I’d been willing to admit. Pity I hadn’t managed to figure that out before Brenna came along and staked her claim, but timing was never my strong suit.

  When Grant was allowed to come home we were all under th
e impression that his recovery from the concussion would be gradual, but complete. His doctors recommended at least two months of total rest and, much to everyone’s annoyance, Brenna insisted on taking time off from her own family distillery in Wales to see that Grant did as he was told. Six weeks on, here we were, one surly patient, one hovering girlfriend, and me doing my best to rebalance my life on the sidelines.

  I realized that Louisa was watching me closely. “You goin’ up to see him?” she asked.

  “I was,” I said. “But maybe I’ll leave it for a bit. You know what he’s like when he’s angry, there’s no reasoning with him.”

  Louisa leaned across the table. “Chicken. But I suppose you have a point, for the moment at least, but you can’t keep dragging your feet. When Brenna finagled her way back into Grant’s life, you told me you intended to fight for him,” Louisa said, tilting her chin toward the floors above, “and yet you’ve been scarce on the ground these past few weeks. What gives?”

  I wasn’t quite sure how to proceed. Louisa and I had become quite close in the time I’d been in Scotland. She was fiercely loyal to Grant and vocal in her support of a relationship between her employer and me. I knew I needed to phrase my next words carefully. “First of all, you know I care a great deal for Grant. So much so, that if he’s really in love with Brenna I won’t come between them.”

  Louisa gave a snort of infinite disgust. “No way he’s in love. She’s not right for him at all. Fusses ’round all the time. Tries to do everythin’ for him, I can just see his blood pressure risin’. He’s suffocatin’.”

  I did my best to suppress the smile that crept across my lips at Louisa’s frank assessment. “I’m not surprised she’s smothering him,” I confessed. “She’s the kind of woman who needs to be in charge. But I know Grant—he’s not stupid enough to accept a permanent relationship with someone that drives him mad based on misplaced feelings of gratitude or guilt.”

  “Men have done stupider things,” Louisa noted grimly.

  I conceded the point with a nod of my head. “Fair enough, but there’s more to my absence than that.” I trusted Louisa’s discretion and I valued her forthright advice, so I plowed ahead, willing to give voice to my own doubts. “I tend to be a very competitive person,” I began.

  Louisa sat back in her chair and studied me. “Aye, tell me somethin’ I donnae ken.”

  “Well, I was exhausted and overstressed at the time of Grant’s injury. And Brenna was there all over Grant, and—”

  “Spit it out.”

  “Okay, okay. I’m worried that I’m feeling more of an attraction to Grant now simply because I have competition.”

  “That’s daft.”

  “Is it? I’m not stupid, but I am driven. At work, I’m always wanting to grab the prize. The hot story, the evocative picture, the answer to the question no one’s answering. Am I doing that with Grant, too? Pursuing the man I can’t have?”

  “You’re overthinkin’ this,” Louisa insisted. “Tell me what you feel for Grant. Quick. Off the top of your head. Don’t analyze the thing to death.”

  I shook my head. “I don’t know. I feel friendship, respect, desire. All good, but is that love?”

  “The only kind that lasts,” Louisa insisted. “My husband and me only managed one of the three and it all fell apart when we needed somethin’ more than the physical side. In the end, the only good thing I escaped with was Luke. You and Grant have the whole package. Don’t talk yourself out of this ’cause you’re afraid.”

  “I’m not afraid,” I shot back. I grabbed another shortbread cookie and continued to chew methodically, turning Louisa’s words over in my mind to see how I really felt about her assessment. I wasn’t blind to my own weaknesses. “I’m just realistic,” I offered instead. “Brenna’s beautiful and smart. Not only that, she knows volumes more about the whisky business than I do. She’s even managed to earn the grudging respect of the Barley Boys.”

  “You’re beautiful and smart,” Louisa echoed, “and you’ll catch up with the business stuff soon enough. You’ve only just been thrown in the deep end at the Glen, and you’re doin’ far better than most would.”

  “I’m doing my level best, but sometimes that isn’t enough.” I’d never been afraid of working hard, but it hadn’t taken me long to figure out that being successful in the whisky business took more than hard work. You needed an intimate understanding of the science of the distilling process and an appreciation for the complex art of blending. A little business and marketing savvy didn’t hurt either. Most of my new peers grew up in and around the business. Their understanding was instinctive and from the moment I arrived I was stuck playing catch-up. “I haven’t told anyone else,” I confessed, “but I’m taking a course at Edinburgh University on the science and chemistry of whisky making.”

  Louisa reached for the coffeepot and poured us both another cup. “So that’s why you’ve been runnin’ down to town so often. I know it’s less than an hour’s drive, but four days a week seemed a bit much. I was startin’ to think you had some bloke down there you were meetin’ up with.”

  “I do,” I said, with a grin. “My seventy-four-year-old professor who’s been in the whisky business for nearly sixty years. With his help, I’m gaining confidence and starting to feel that I have my own credibility in the business. Better equipped to keep up with my peers.” And better able to compete with Brenna, the voice in my head insisted in spite of myself.

  “So what are you going to do about Ms. B?”

  “Nothing I can do about Brenna. All I can do is be me.”

  “You don’t fuss over him, you don’t treat him like a child, and you don’t try to run his life. The contrast should be more than enough to show him where his heart belongs, but you can’t count on men to see what’s right in front of them. Think about steppin’ up your game.”

  I finished the rest of my coffee. “Love isn’t a game and for the moment we have bigger problems on our hands. This new development is worrisome. If Grant doesn’t regain full use of his senses, he’ll be devastated and it will mean big changes at the distillery. Changes our competitors may try to take advantage of.”

  “Grant well knows that, but frettin’ about it won’t help him get better any quicker,” Louisa observed.

  “Agreed. He needs to be kept busy.”

  “But not so busy he makes things worse,” Louisa added.

  “Right. It’s a delicate balance. He needs to get back to the Glen, but not in his usual capacity.” I thought for a moment. “I have a couple of ideas, but I’ll need to talk to Cam and Patrick first. Let him calm down a bit and I’ll pop back later.”

  * * *

  —

  Liam and I pulled into the stone courtyard of Abbey Glen, Liam in the front seat as usual, his brown-tipped ears whipping back in the wind, his tongue lolling out in canine ecstasy.

  The whitewashed stone buildings clustered around the old farmyard were comforting and familiar to me now, and with the aid of my whisky guru at the university, the painstaking process we went through to produce our whisky was making sense to me in a way it never had before. I was finally feeling like an integral part of the grain, the water, the copper, and the wood that comprised the heart of my namesake.

  I wandered into the office and found our distillery manager, Cam Lewis, and my best friend, Patrick Cooke, conferring over a schedule of events. The two were an unlikely duo, Patrick young, sophisticated, and urbane; Cam on the downhill side of middle age, rugged, and earthy, and yet they were kindred spirits when it came to the whisky they both loved.

  Cam was a second-generation still man, a trustworthy manager, and a godsend to me in Grant’s absence. What he didn’t know about whisky wasn’t worth knowing, and I suspected that if he were cut, he would bleed a rich-hued single malt.

  “Hardly seen you in days, lass,” he said. “Where’ve yo
u been?”

  “Had some business to attend to in town,” I demurred.

  “And you didn’t come to see me?” Patrick frowned.

  Patrick and I had been best friends since university days. A fellow journalist, he was currently editor in chief of the Whisky Journal, a revered industry publication headquartered in Edinburgh. In the year since I’d found myself immersed in this strange new business, he’d often been a source of emotional support and trusted advice.

  “Sorry. So much going on,” I said, glossing over my reason for being in Edinburgh and moving quickly to the real news. “I was up at the Larches just now.”

  “How’s Grant?” Patrick asked.

  “Well”—I hesitated, causing both men to turn and regard me full on—“don’t let Grant know I told you. Let him tell you himself.”

  Cam’s bright eyes reflected concern. “Tell us what?”

  “Apparently, there are some complications from the concussion. Unexpected ones.” I paused for a moment, but couldn’t come up with a gentler way to break the news. “Grant’s finally admitted to the doctor that he’s lost his sense of smell, and with it much of his sense of taste.”

  The two men stared back at me in stunned silence. The full ramification of this news wasn’t lost on either one of them.

  “Is it permanent?” Patrick asked.

  “Hopefully not.”

  Cam was still looking at me in disbelief. His rugged face looked as if it had aged before my eyes. “Hopefully?” he spat out. “What the hell does that mean? What are the odds in his favor? And if he gets his senses back, will they be the same as they were before?”

  I reached over and put a hand on Cam’s arm. I knew Grant was like a son to him and I could see that the news had shaken him to the core. “The doctor says we need to be patient. It takes time for everything to come back to normal. There’s no reason to think that it won’t, but there’s still a chance. A chance Grant needs to come to terms with just in case.”