CHAPTER 4

Inspector Jamieson sat across the table from me inside the Kilt & Thistle Pub. We’d greeted the pub owners, Dale Barrett and his wife, Marg, and put in our order. From my position, I could see the local drunk, Bill Morris, slouched at a table close enough to the bar to eavesdrop, yet tucked in a corner far enough away to remain out of sight. I always wondered how much information managed to seep into his sodden brain.

“Blutered again,” the inspector observed when he followed my gaze over to Bill.

The Scots have a bottomless pit of synonyms for drunkenness. I’ve heard “hammered” here, which is used stateside, and “guttered.” I’d also heard it referred to as “legless,” and now “blutered.”

“Bridie wants to keep the investigation unofficial, at least for the moment,” I told him while we lunched on brown bread and cock-a-leekie soup, a combination of chicken, leeks, carrots, and rice that warmed up my insides on this nippy winter day. “In fact, Bridie was adamant. She doesn’t want you involved, didn’t want you to know. She tried to swear me to secrecy.”

The inspector humphed as I continued, “I refused. If anything were to actually happen to her, and I’d kept information from you . . . well, you see that I couldn’t in good conscience. I told her in no uncertain terms that the only way I’d agree to attend is with your full approval. She argued, but finally acquiesced when she realized I wasn’t going to change my mind.”

“Ye did the proper thing,” he assured me, finishing his soup and leaning back to study me with sharp eyes, a habit of his that still makes me uncomfortable. “Does she have any idea who might be behind this threatening message?”

“After the stunt she pulled to get me to come to her event, she could be making the entire thing up, might have created the note herself. The woman seems to be trying to get close to me.”

“And that would be a horrible thing because . . . ?”

I busied myself with buttering a thick slice of brown bread since I didn’t have an easy answer to his question. It had to do with my privacy, with this person knowing more about me than she should. And with my resolve to ignore the Elliott side of the family. It would feel like a betrayal after all the grief my mother went through because of my father. I’d intentionally left Bridie’s connection with one of my relatives out of the conversation we were having at the moment.

The inspector went on. “Bridie’s reason fer the game she played with ye was most likely just as she admitted. Tae have ye nearby in case o’ trouble. She’s a tough old girl, loyal tae her friends and always one tae stay two steps ahead o’ everybody else. I can’t imagine why she didn’t come directly tae me, though, if she was in real danger. What else did ye chat aboot?”

I went on to relate the story. “According to Bridie, she’s been dropping hints to her son, Archie, about selling the distillery. Bridie says she’s tried to groom her son to take over, but he doesn’t seem to have the ambition or the passion, and she’s worried that he’ll run it into the ground once she’s gone. She told him she’d rather sell to an outsider now than have it lying in ruins later . . .”

“. . . without a pound tae show fer years o’ hard work,” the inspector finished for me. “Archie’s in his fifties. You’d think he’d have his nose tae the grindstone tae put aside a tidy nest egg. It’s a shame in family businesses when the children don’t care aboot what their parents have built.”

“Well, Bridie made up the entire thing as a ruse to spark a flame under him,” I said. “She reasoned that if he thought he could lose the family business, he might shape up and take his position as head of the distillery more seriously. She believes that the warning was in regard to an announcement she said she was going to make in private with the family after the tasting.”

“So she thinks this warning was penned by her own son?”

“She refuses to accept that, saying there are others who are more likely suspects. Although she wouldn’t mention names, only insisting that I shouldn’t be prejudiced before forming my own opinion.”

“Has she been bandying her thoughts tae sell all aboot the place?”

“Only to her son and his wife, Florence. But she believes they could have been overheard, or passed on to the wrong individual. I’m thinking any of the distillery workers could be worried about a potential sale and their own futures. Anyway, after the note appeared, she didn’t know what to do, if anything. For a day or two, she ignored it. Then she thought of me.”

“Rather than coming tae me?”

I shrugged. “Unofficial, she said. And a perfect excuse to drag me into her net.”

“She’s quite the plotter. Are ye sure the two o’ ye aren’t related?”

I smiled. “Positive,” I said.

“Ye could collaborate together,” the inspector suggested. “Co-author a novel.”

“You aren’t taking her seriously, are you?”

“Bridie Dougal always enjoyed a wee bit o’ drama in her life. She has some jinxter in her, and it must be gettin’ dreary up there, since the snow started flying aboot. What’s this big announcement o’ hers fer tonight?”

“Actually, she claims her ploy worked. Archie has been much more focused on the business. She plans to announce that the distillery will remain in family hands. But of course, the implication was that she’d announce a sale.”

“So why doesn’t she make the announcement right now and save herself all this grief?”

“I asked her that. She refuses to change her plan because of a threat.”

“More like she’s enjoying the excitement. Archie and Florence have a son studying business and marketing. I expect he’ll take over at some point in the future.”

“That’s Bridie’s most fervent wish.”

“Well, we can’t be discounting the possibility that someone actually did threaten her.”

“So you think I should go?”

“It wouldn’t hurt tae have ye there. Ye’ve a fine eye fer seeing things in a different light than others do. Go and decide fer yerself if there’s truth tae her tale. But she wants unofficial and that’s what she’ll get. Fit in, as I’m sure ye will, have a fine time, and don’t think ye have tae play the part o’ her security team.”

“I shouldn’t drink tonight.”

“Wha’? And how are ye tae pull that off at a whisky tasting without making yerself the center o’ attention?”

“Good point.”

“Go and have a swell time. I could make ye redundant fer a day or two if that’s what ye need tae feel better aboot sampling the whisky.”

“You’d fire me!”

The inspector chuckled.

My thoughts flashed to the dress I had chosen for tonight. And to Leith Cameron and the kilt he most certainly would wear. If nothing else, it would be a new experience for me, hobnobbing with a clan chieftain while sipping fine aged Scottish whisky.

I came back from my daydream, to the table and the inspector sitting across from me, watchful as ever but with an amused expression on his face when he said, “Fer all I know, ye concocted the whole thing yerself tae get out o’ wearing yer uniform.”

“Don’t worry,” I said with a grin. “I’ll be prepared for anything. I’ll have my trusty pepper spray along in case anyone acts up.”

“Heaven help the lot o’ us,” was his parting shot.

After that, I dug my laptop out of my tote with the intention of writing for part of the afternoon before I went off to get ready for the tasting. Hooked on You was coming along well ever since the weather had turned cold, and I was certain to have the first draft finished by the end of the year, as I’d promised my publishing house editor. Hunkering down inside the pub, feeling the warmth of the fireplace, hearing the murmur of voices in the background, a cup of hot tea beside me—all these things are usually conducive to my creativity.

The setting for my Scottish Highlands Desire series is a small village called Rosehearty, a harbor town much like Glenkillen. Where the hero (Daniel Ross) is rugged, gorgeous, and sexy. And the heroine (Jessica Bailey) is beautiful and strong-willed and doesn’t need a man complicating her life.

I really intended to write for at least a short while.

But how does that saying go?

The road to hell is paved with good intentions.

Because instead of creating a whole lot of conflict, setting those two characters at cross-purposes, and watching the sparks fly, I couldn’t help it—my mind wandered here, there, and everywhere.

And as much as I tried to rein it in, it refused to cooperate.

Instead of taking an imaginary trip to Rosehearty where I could control every character’s destiny, I found myself firmly entrenched in Glenkillen, where I was powerless to change the future.

Instead of writing about sweet promises, I sat at the pub table worrying about my own future, about my remaining days here, and how I should be making the most of the time I had left.

Another saying came to mind, one that the inspector had used a few months back when reassuring an anxious woman whose baby was threatening to enter the world in the back of his police car.

It had applied then and it arrived now just in time to save me from a funk hovering over my head. A Scottish saying this time, one having nothing to do with pavement and hell.

Whit’s fur ye’ll no go past ye.

Later, Inspector Jamieson had translated it for me in two other languages.

In French: Que sera sera.

And in English: Whatever will be, will be.