The Whisky Affair (Raymond Armstrong Series) (9 page)

In fact, Raymond had noticed the entire staff seemed to be trying to focus on their work, perhaps to alleviate all thoughts that Gordon, the distillery’s icon, was gone forever.

Raymond knew that before he could put all this to rest, he had to stay focused and work out exactly what happened in Gordon’s office. If that meant talking about whisky with Gordon’s employees, so be it.

Raymond and Willy arrived at the warehouse that was full of casks maturing the Bute whisky. They casks were in neat rows, piled three high, unlike the large whisky companies that stacked them floor to ceiling.

Willy found the bottle at the back of a collection of samples, next to his log book.

“Here it is but there isn’t much left.” He shook the bottle in his hand, looking at the contents – only a quarter left in the bottle. Willy took out two single malt whisky nosing glasses and poured two generous servings.

“When it’s gone, I will have to wait a few years for my next one,” he said, looking at the casks quietly maturing.

A remarkable process that takes ten years, or more, and every year the distillery will lose two or three percent through evaporation to thin air. The angel’s share, some called that.

Raymond put the glass to his nose and quickly backed off.

“Wow. Smoke with a big dose of something that reminds me of being in a hospital. This tastes like licking a freshly surfaced road – like tar… Not that I have tasted tar, but you know what I mean.”

“Keep tasting her, it will turn to ripe bananas.”

“I can’t wait!”

“Great thing about single malt whisky. There is always one to suit your mood,” Willy said, raising his glass to his nose.

This whole situation had Raymond in a bad mood.
There was no way Gordon would have liked this whisky. No way
…

“Well, thank you, Willy. I think a trip around the Island is in order.”

“You are very welcome. I will see you tomorrow at the funeral.” They both nodded solemnly.

“Gordon thought of you like a brother,” said Willy as they walked back into the distillery.

Gordon had trouble swallowing around the lump in his throat as he climbed in his car. He didn’t want to forget his dear friend. Would that happen over time?

At times, Raymond had taken Gordon’s friendship for granted. Coming to terms with Gordon’t death had given him a greater appreciation of friends and family. He knew how important it was to stay in touch...

Raymond drove out of the distillery, heading south through Rothesay, and away from most of the traffic. The ocean to his left was reasonably calm on that warm and sunny day. The palm trees had not the faintest breeze to disturb them. People walked their dogs on the promenade, soaking up the sun. To his right were the splendid large Victorian houses – bought for a song by people from England looking for a quiet life. Bute was paradise, compared to all the hustle and bustle they had left behind, especially south of the border.

He headed for Gordon’s favourite spot, where Gordon would go to contemplate a problem or to simply relax and think. Raymond would follow suit. He had to make sense of what was going on here on this apparently peaceful island. And he had a clear feeling whatever was ‘off’ had something to do with Gordon’s distillery.

The road began to narrow as he approached the spit. He took a side road close by to park the car. He found a convenient spot and walked over to the bay. It was a beautiful day for this part of Scotland in April with the temperature far higher than normal. The west coast of Scotland was more temperate than the rest of the country, however they had far more rain. You could have as little as fifty inches per year on the east coast while well over a hundred on the west.

He took off his jacket and folded it carefully over his left arm. He could see for miles. The mountains to the north still had traces of snow on their caps. Straight across to the east was the Scottish mainland.

Raymond walked along the beach toward the old church. He reached the grassy knoll where he found the bench placed there by Gordon and the people of Bute, in memory of Gordon’s father. It was secluded with trees behind him, and the remains of a Knights Templar chapel – built in the mediaeval times – next to the ocean. This small piece of land had been in the Reid family for centuries. In recent years Gordon had made an effort to clean up the area and said he often went there to think. It was rarely a sight-see for anybody outside the family. The only bit of ruins left was a small wall about two feet high.

Gordon took Raymond there once, after his wife passed away. For years thereafter Gordon had been lost in a haze of alcohol. Then, a few years ago he decided enough was enough and got his act together – said he had a distillery to run and a son and daughter to take care of.

Gordon told him once, how special this place had been to his father, Billy Reid. Billy had been a World War II hero, a prominent businessman in London, and the most well-known Freemason and Knights Templar on the west coast of Scotland. Even after building a successful company in London, he would return to Bute every chance he had. Gordon’s father donated an enormous amount of money and resources to the Island when its popularity as a tourist attraction declined. He brought Gordon there many times and chatted about the Templars and their history.

Raymond recalled a conversation with Gordon on their trip here. Gordon told him his father’s favourite story of the Templars:

‘Do you know lad, the fiction writers today, speak with authority about the Holy Grail and such like – and readers lap it up.’

Gordon once made Raymond swear to keep a secret his father told him. ‘The grail is in one of three places,’ he’d said confidently to him. ‘Nova Scotia, Canada, the Orkneys, or here on Bute.

It doesn’t need to be found. Look at Oak Island in Nova Scotia. Each time a party went on the island looking for the elusive grail, or other treasure, the holes they dug filled with water and sometimes killed them, as if they were swallowed up by the island.’

Billy wanted his son, Gordon, to scatter his ashes in this one spot, right there among the ruins. The Templars were always quoted as saying ‘So long as there is more positive energy on earth than negative, God will not intervene.’ Later in life, Gordon’s father often said, ‘Put me here with the spirit of the knights.’

Raymond assumed the chapel site would also be the final resting place for his old friend, Gordon. He would be honored to help Louisa and James perform that task, if asked.

He stood and walked around to the back of the old church that had fallen into disrepair. No longer used. Behind the church stood the Templar’s ruins, overlooking the ocean. One could just imagine what it must have looked like centuries before – a beacon to travelers or as a defence against the English or French. Knights in their armour would have stood on the castle’s buttress watching the horizon for ships – friend or foe.

The sky was a pale blue with just a few clouds and the color reminded Raymond of the forget-me-nots growing in a shady spot in his garden in Stamford.

“Okay Templars, keep your secrets. Just give me some inspiration here.” He thought about the loss of his best friend. “What the hell is going on?” he asked. Inspiration came in many shapes and sizes and he would take any help he could get at that point.

He cleared his mind of all thoughts, and his current surroundings, and simply zoned out.

Inspiration to him was not like in the Stephen Spielberg movie
Always
, where a guardian angel handed out advice.

No, for Raymond, he had to be still and quiet and think it through. He decided, after ten minutes, Gordon’s untimely death had something to do with James and he would have to talk to Gordon’s son. Louisa was too emotional and had told him she didn’t know why her father was under so much stress.

After figuring out what he needed to do, Raymond headed back to the car. He walked on the grassy area, admiring Gordon’s recent handiwork with plantings of bushes and flowers. Much to Raymond’s surprise he noted the addition of a cast iron chimenea. Raymond checked it out, finally, opening the front to have a peek inside. Seemed like someone had a fire recently, he concluded. Something caught his eye. There, among the cinders was a small piece of paper that had not burned through. He plucked it gently from the ashes. The piece, untouched by the fire, was the top left-hand corner of a letter, with half the letterhead showing McKay & Mitchell. Underneath, he found – ‘Dear Mr. Reid…’ The letter was dated the week before Gordon’s death.

Raymond found a stick and gently moved the ashes around, looking for any other scraps – but there was nothing.

He got back to the car, opened up his phone and typed the company name into the browser. McKay & Mitchell were solicitors in Glasgow. He clicked on the company name and found their website. Solicitors. Founded in 1971. Specialists in commercial law.

“I wonder what that’s all about,” he muttered.

By the time he parked the car in the only available space near the hotel, he was in need of a drink. His gut feel was that his friend had been murdered and it had something to do with the burned letter. But how was he to find out how and by whom?

The logical place to start was with James.

Heading toward the hotel, he noticed a Porsche parked just outside the entrance, in the spot he had conveniently parked in yesterday. The sports car was white, the same color and make that James owned. He looked through the large front bay window of Gilles Bar, which was part of the hotel and open to the public. There was James sitting on a stool talking with the tattooed and nose-ringed girl tending bar.

He walked in and, before he could say a word, James noticed him.

“Uncle Raymond, it’s about time I got to see you. What can I get you? Would you like a cocktail or gin and tonic?”

“A large G & T,” said Raymond. “I’d like to talk to you. Let’s go sit down somewhere more private.” Raymond was already turning toward the rear of the room.

“Well, no need for that. Fiona and I go way back; she’s heard it all.” Fiona looked at Raymond, without a smile. Her eyes were black from all the heavy makeup she wore.

“Amuse me,” Raymond said, walking to a table in the corner.

James brought the drinks and joined Raymond at the table.

“So how are you handling the loss of your dad, James?”

“I am just carrying on. I will lose it after the funeral, no doubt.”

“It’s fine to grieve; we all do it. Some sooner than others. What about plans for the distillery?”

“I am going back to the States after the funeral to keep building the market over there.”

“You seem to prefer the USA over Asia. I thought there was more business out east?”

“It’s more established and the distributors are loyal in Asia. The US can be a fickle market and I like to keep our whiskies in the minds of our distributor reps at all times.”

“What are your best cities? Las Vegas, I imagine?” Raymond asked.

“No, n-no not really,” he said, stammering. “All the west is good, you know – California and Texas.”

“I thought you spent a lot of time in Vegas. Wasn’t your dad planning a trip with you?” He watched for a reaction. James lost color in his cheeks.

“No. Dad hardly came anywhere with me. Bangkok last year. What made you ask?”

“Me and my geography,” he said casually. “I must have got it wrong last time I spoke with your dad on the phone. He probably said Thailand.”

“Well, have to go,” James said, almost leaping up from the chair. “So much to do before the funeral tomorrow.”

Raymond stayed to finish off his drink and heard the screech of tires outside – no doubt from the Porsche.
James is definitely rattled
.

James was involved in something…

Raymond parked the car at the bottom of the steep driveway that led to the Reid house. Gordon’s home was typical of older homes in Rothesay, with its Victorian elegance and large palm trees that bordered the property. He remembered the many times he had looked through the large bay window at the magnificent, wide view of the ocean.

He rang the doorbell and was greeted a few seconds later by a tall good-looking lady he guessed to be in her late fifties.

“What can I do for you?” she asked.

“Would it be possible to speak with Louisa Reid?”

“Not right now dear. Perhaps you could check back in a few days.”

At that moment they both realized who the other was.

“You are Gordon’s sister, Nancy. I remember you from my childhood.”

“Hope I’ve changed a bit since then, but nice to see you Raymond, even under these sad circumstances. It’s been such a long time. I moved to the south of England years ago.”

“Aunty, who is it?” came a quiet, shaky voice from inside the house.

She shouted over her shoulder, “It’s your Uncle Raymond.”

“Please let him in. I asked him to come, Nancy.”

He walked into an open plan living room with the kitchen and dining area off to one side. Louisa sat on a large sofa, her legs stretched out across the coffee table. She wore a white dressing gown and fisherman socks on her feet. She looked weak with no colour to her face and yet, from his appreciative male perspective, she was still quite beautiful.

“Take a seat,” she said quietly.

“Louisa, I need to ask you some questions. I have been in your dad’s office today. Louisa looked puzzled. When did he start drinking hard again?” Raymond asked.

“He wasn’t.”

“My point, precisely. And when did he start liking a peaty whisky?”

“Never!”

“Okay, let’s say, for just a second, that he
was
drunk when he died. Why would he drink almost a bottle of the 12-year-old and then enjoy a dram or two of your special edition big peaty whisky? The one you produced for the royal wedding.”

“He would not have touched a drop of whisky so peaty, plus we only had one bottle each for a keepsake. He wouldn’t have opened it. Why are you asking me these questions?”