Chapter 16

“Moonshine is a brighter thing than fog.”

-Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, The Boscombe Valley Mystery

I stopped for a few groceries and went straight home. Right now I felt exactly like the weather - miserable. After I touched base with Debra to find out how Tom was doing, I planned to jump into bed for some needed sleep before tonight’s adventure.

I opened my door and looked around. No note. Nothing seemed suspicious. Then I ran into Aunt Elizabeth coming out of the kitchen with Cavalier at her heels.

“Auntie, how’d you get in?” I gave her the requisite cheek peck.

“You should be greeting me an’ not bequizzing me. I used Glendy’s key so as to fill up your pantry with some guid auld Scottish food. Come and see.”

She yanked me into the kitchen and opened the freezer door.

“Here, take a keek.” She pointed to half a dozen Scotch Pies and as many Bridies.

Then we had to “take a keek” in the fridge too, where she’d stashed a hunk of Galloway Cheddar and some Scottish salmon.

I was glad for the food, but even happier to see the bottle of Macallan 12 Single Malt Whisky she’d also brought. Mine was getting low thanks to this lengthy Romani surveillance. I thanked her profusely.

“’Twas the least we could do. George and I took a tour o’ their grand Highland distillery on our honeymoon. We ken you needed more Uisge-Beatha. You do know what that means, Daffy.”

“Don’t call me Daffy, Auntie. And of course I know it means Water of Life. I know a little Gaelic. Exactly how many Highland distilleries did you and George visit on your honeymoon?”

“I dinnae ken, but we were so happy we even imbibed the Angel’s Share.”

I smiled. Long ago my father had explained the Angel’s Share to me. Over time, when whisky is stored in oak barrels, some of the alcohol seeps through and evaporates into the air. The evaporating alcohol is called the Angel’s Share. Scots believe that guardian angels watch over the whisky as it ages. I always think of that magical term and of my father whenever I open a bottle.

“I’ve brought some Bannocks to eat with the cheddar,” she pointed to some scones on the table, “an’ some Black Buns too. You appear to need some guid auld food. It’s a dreich day here in Chicago.”

I wasn’t going to burst her bubble by telling her that this was Scotland Weather. Scotland has a lot of “dreich” days, too. In fact, it’s damp and miserable more often there than it is here. Instead I asked, “Did you bring all this stuff over from Edinburgh with you?”

“Only the Macallan is straight from the Highlands. An’ for all the rest, ‘twas from Shirley at Scottish Corner here in Chicago. Shirley kens my needs.”

“Plus she gives you the deep discount, Auntie.”

“Aye, ‘tis true, Lass,” George Murray said as he entered the kitchen. “‘Tis good to know some things dinnae change, and good to see you too.”

It was evident by their body language that they were a happy couple. Of course the Macallan got uncorked for a wee dram all round while they caught me up on everything Scots, including family, political, social and Robert Burns events. I let them finish all their news before I told them what happened to Tom.

“Whit’s fur ye’ll no go by ye!” George uttered the old Scots superstition that if the fates target you for something, you can’t dodge it. I try hard not to use these ancient sayings, but the damn things always pop into my head. You can’t escape a lot of things, especially your family and the distant past if you’re Scots.

The color drained from Auntie’s face. Her whole body shuddered. “Oops,” she exclaimed. “The Uisge-Beatha slithered down my dress. But nay ta worry. I had one o’ my wee flashes that tells me Tom’ll be right again as rain.”

Auntie’s a terror, but when the chips are down she can be a treasure, too. Today she was being a treasure, asking what she and George could do and not even mentioning the Tartan Day ceremonies. When I explained how tired I was, a subdued Auntie kissed me softly before they left to visit Glendy and Lucille next door.