Dressed to Kilt by Hannah Reed

reached for a panel of light switches on the wall. “There we go. That’ll make yer viewing a wee bit easier.” And the room came alive with light. My eyes swept along the shelves as I savored the combined aromas of the aging whisky and oak barrels hanging thickly in the air.
    â€œThat door over there,” Gordon said, gesturing, “leads tae the rest o’ the distillery.”
    We walked farther inside. In the farthest corner of the warehouse, I noticed several large wooden vessels of some sort, definitely not casks, because they had a different shape, more like open tubs than closed barrels.
    â€œWhat are those back there in the far corner?” I asked. One of those tubs had been moved directly below the very last cask on that wall.
    â€œDiscarded washbacks. Washbacks are where the fermentation process begins,” he explained after a brief glance in that direction. “With fine barley, pure river water, and yeast. We’ve gone to using stainless steel since. But let me tell ye a little about the casks themselves.”
    Something propelled me away from my tour guide.
    â€œWe get the casks from the States,” Gordon was saying behind me. “Properly seasoned. ’Tis a great secret to fine whisky making and the exact sources are not shared amongst the distilleries here.”
    An object seemed to be protruding from the top of the washback, but I couldn’t be sure. Warily, I walked toward it, no longer listening to Gordon.
    Was that an arm hanging over the top rim?
    I sped up, my heels clicking loudly, the warning Bridie had received burning sharply in my mind.
You only get one warning.
And Bridie’s parting words to her son, spoken aloud so anyone could have overheard.
Fetch me
, she’d told Archie, after the tasting. Implying that she might be following through on her own threat to sell out. If only she’d told them the truth beforehand. What had I been thinking to leave her alone?
    I reached the end of the row, heart hammering in my chest. The whisky glass slipped between my fingers and I heard it shatter on the stone floor.
    My eyes took in the cask, stored above the washback. It had been opened, tapped to allow its contents to stream into the tub below it. I remembered later the intense fragrance of it, how I’d always enjoyed that malty, smoky effervescence. But at that moment, it was overpowering.
    Without hesitating, I grabbed the arm and tried to haul the rest of the body out. But the weight was too much for me. Strong hands joined mine, voices surrounded me, other guests, whisky sloshing everywhere, and before long we had pulled out the drenched form of a woman.
    Leith and several of the other men tried to revive her, taking turns administering CPR while others hurried offto call the police. Finally they realized their efforts were hopeless and gave up.
    Gordon, sitting on the floor of the warehouse, let out a cry of anguish, tears flowing freely down his face.
    Because his aunt and Bridie’s longtime companion, Henrietta McCloud, was lying dead in his arms.

C HAPTER 6

    â€œBut why Henrietta?” Bridie asked with a tremor in her voice. It was the question we all wanted answered. “She never caused a moment’s trouble as long as she lived here, not tae me nor tae any others. If anything she was a wee bit reclusive, never complaining about anything or anybody.”
    It took only a moment or two more for her to remember the threatening note.
    â€œI thought fer certain that the warning was fer me!” Bridie exclaimed, sitting in a chair in the same room where she and I had had tea this morning when her companion had served us. Now Henrietta McCloud was dead. Drowned in a vat of whisky. At the inspector’s request Bridie turned the note over to him. The distraught woman was barely in control of her emotions as he studied it.
    I felt more miserable witnessing Bridie’s anguish than I’d been since finding the dead woman.