Dressed to Kilt (4 page)

“What
is
this haggis I keep hearing reference to?” Janet Dougal said to anyone who was willing to respond. “Is it some sort of Highland animal like the Loch Ness Monster?”

Leith, slightly behind me, gave a snort of derision that only I was close enough to catch. I felt exactly the same way.

Bridie had given me a little background on her other guests in advance, laying the groundwork. “Seven o' us in total,” she'd said, surprising me by the intimacy of the tasting. For some reason, I'd automatically assumed twice that many, or more. Seven expected guests turned into eight with the appearance of Janet Dougal.

She introduced herself as a widowed American who'd recently arrived from the States and checked into the Whistling Inn in the center of the village. Although she had taken Bridie's last name, she was not a close relative (as distant as they come, according to a whispered explanation by Bridie), and every time she opened her mouth, she proved exactly how far removed she was from this Scottish clan. Or any
Scottish ties whatsoever. Somehow, though, she'd wormed her way in at the last minute.

Heavily made up and with a pointed chin, she had managed to insult most of the guests in some way or another in the short time we'd been gathered in the tasting room. This I ascertained by the tight smiles whenever she opened her mouth. For starters, she'd referred to the men's kilts as skirts and to the men in the room as Englishmen. The current question drew several smirks along with Leith's muffled snort.

“Haggis is a national culinary dish,” I told her. “You should try it while you're here.”

I would have enjoyed mentioning that one traditional ingredient that went into the dish was sheep's organs, but I turned away from Janet to take in the visual delights of the room—rich wood, a solid oak bar, granite walls, low lighting that brought out the deep grains of wood.

Tonight's whisky was being served with a variety of breads, antipastos, dips, smoked meat, smoked vegetables, feta, sundried tomatoes, and one thing that I'd been eyeing up—caramelized chocolate brownies with sticky sauce.

I adjusted my black dress, pleased that I'd chosen appropriately. At the last minute, Vicki had produced a sash of gold and blue. “It's called Monarch of the Glen. It's a universal sash. Anyone can wear it,” she'd told me as she fashioned part of it into a rosette and pinned it to my shoulder, allowing the long ends to fall down my back.

Most of the other woman also wore cocktail dresses, except for Bridie, who, as fit her station as head of a clan branch, had chosen a full-length soft olive-colored tartan
skirt and silk blouse with a matching tartan sash over one shoulder and an elegant walking stick that matched her skirt. Bridie had also had her hair done. It was swept up in a formal do. She'd exchanged the Cossack hat she'd worn earlier in the day for a bow that matched her sash. The men all wore kilts.

My eyes traveled to my escort. Leith wore a red and gray kilt, red tie, white oxford shirt, and a gray kilt jacket left open. He was a man comfortable in his own skin, exuding warmth and self-confidence.

He caught me sneaking a peek and winked.

I smiled before looking off toward Patricia Martin. We'd been formally introduced, but I'd already known of her from Bridie's description. Patricia had to be at least six feet tall, carried herself like a queen, and was Henrietta McCloud's older sister by five years. Unlike Henrietta, who lived modestly as a personal assistant, Patricia had married into the political life. Connor Martin was well known as a member of the Scottish Parliament in Edinburgh, the main reason he couldn't leave the city to attend the tasting.

I'd expected Henrietta to make an appearance after all the work she'd put into arranging the tasting, but so far she hadn't shown up.

“Cup yer hands around the glass.” Archie Dougal, Bridie's son, demonstrated while servers presented each of us with our first taste. His wife, Florence, stood beside him. She was short and chunky, with furrowed lines in her face. “Holding the glass in that manner will warm the whisky and change the nose slightly,” Archie explained, looking distinguished with a touch of gray at the temples. “As ye
will discover, some whiskies will be smoky, some spicy, some fruity. It all depends on the cask, the amount of smoke used in malting, the shape of the still, and”—here he raised his glass to Leith—“to the most favorably grown barley.”

“And don't forget the water source,” Bridie added. “Our River Spey flows fast and true when not frozen over, and is as important an ingredient as anything else.”

Archie smiled at his mother. “Yes, we can't forget tae mention that.” Then to us, he said, “Go ahead and try it. This one is an everyday dram.”

I eagerly raised my glass and took a sip, tasting vanilla and a light hint of oak.

Moments later, when we'd hardly begun exploring the world of whiskies, Bridie said, “If ye will excuse me. I find I tire more easily the older I get.” Then to her son, with an implication that only the family and I were aware of, she said, “If ye'll fetch me, Archie, shortly after the tasting.” And to me, “Would ye be so kind as tae see me tae the outer door, Eden.”

“Do ye need a ride round back tae yer home?” Leith asked.

“Thank ye, lad, but my trusted driver has the automobile toasty warm.” She chuckled as the two of us walked out of the tasting room. “In my younger days, I would have gone after that handsome man myself. He'll be a fine catch for some smart young woman.”

“He's a winner,” I agreed before saying, “It feels strange letting you go off alone.”

“Nothing's goin' tae happen tae me, at least tonight. If the warning was fer real, it would be a fool that would try
anything tonight with me fair warned. Henrietta will see me in, and we have solid locks and a security system ready fer action. Ye keep yer eyes and ears open, and we'll speak tomorrow.”

As I helped her slip into her coat that had been hanging on a rack with the rest of ours, she said, “Henrietta would like tae have a private word with ye after the tasting.”

“I thought she might have attended after all the work she put into it and with her sister visiting.”

“Henrietta was not feeling quite up tae snuff and decided tae stay in her room. She isn't much fer socializing. Even so, after ye left earlier today, she asked me tae relay her wish of a wee chat with ye.”

“Did she say why?”

“No, she was mysterious, I have tae say. Will ye come round tae the house directly after?”

“I'll do that,” I said, a bit flummoxed as I watched Bridie exit the distillery and watched her driver help her inside. What could the housekeeper want with me?

When I returned, Leith handed me another whisky sample.

“This one is a cracker,” Henrietta's nephew and Patricia's son, Gordon Martin, announced. Gordon, fortyish, had wide-placed eyes, a broad forehead, and a strong nose. What “cracker” meant was beyond me, but taken in context, I assumed Gordon was pleased with the results.

Bridie had told me that Gordon, along with her son, Archie, oversaw operation of the distillery. “Distillation in its simplest form,” she'd told me after I'd expressed interest, “involves heating the liquid until it boils, capturing and
cooling the vapors, and then collecting the resulting condensed alcohol.”

We continued to sample single-grain whiskies with each one more aged than the last as Bridie's son described the complex flavors. Archie Dougal sure knew how to wax poetic when it came to romanticizing whisky. “Lovely fresh banana flavors,” “a smokey nose that doesn't mask the citrusy notes but rather complements them,” “creamy and sweet with hints of coastal salt,” “heathery,” “chestnutty,” and my favorite of all his descriptions, “creamy body like sweet caramel pudding on a cold winter's day.”

As to my own personal imbibing: I tried to take it easy, sipping each sample and then depositing the glass on a server's tray. But somehow I must have lost track, because the world was beginning to tilt a bit. To counter the effect of the alcohol, I wandered over and helped myself to a piece of the caramelized chocolate brownie with sticky sauce. It was as wonderful as I'd imagined it would be. And if it soaked up some of the alcohol, that would be an added bonus.

“Did you make these?” I asked the young woman standing nearby. She'd been in the background since the beginning, dressed more for catering than partaking. She was slight, had medium-length dark brown hair with bangs, and couldn't have been more than twenty-five years old.

“Aye,” she said, beaming.

“What's your name?”

“Katie Taylor.”

I remembered reading somewhere that many of the oldest surnames in Scotland came from the trades or
occupations. Katie's ancestors most likely had been tailors. The same was true of other surnames affiliated with family occupation. Mason and Shepherd were two examples I'd encountered.

“And what's that ye're eating?” Leith asked, stopping beside me, with a slightly crooked grin.

“Something wonderful,” I said.

Katie offered him one and he accepted with enthusiasm.

“Where did you learn to bake like this?” he asked her after sampling the brownie, appropriately impressed as I'd been.

“From me mum and hers before her.”

While we chatted about baking and family recipes, I remembered to keep an eye on the others in the tasting room. Nothing seemed out of place. Archie was playing the perfect host. His wife, Florence, and Janet seemed to be getting on well, in spite of the visitor's brashness and my aversion to her, which really surprised me. Gordon and his mother, Patricia, were engaged in light conversation. Nothing amiss that I could discern.

A few minutes later, Patricia Martin made her way toward us while Leith worked on getting the basic ingredients for the brownies from Katie.

“Are you enjoying yourself?” Patricia asked me, and like her son, Gordon, her features were strong. In fact, so were Henrietta's. It was easy to see the resemblance between the three of them. Patricia's accent, though, wasn't as thick as her sister's or son's.

“Immensely,” I replied. “The food is delicious, the whisky is the best I've ever had the pleasure to drink, and everybody has been warm and delightful.”

“I agree with you. A perfect evening.”

“It's too bad your sister couldn't be here to see the results of her efforts.”

Patricia knitted her brows in concern. “Henrietta has been quite ill,” she said.

“I'm sorry to hear that. She seemed well enough earlier today, although she did have a serious cough.”

“She puts on a good face, she does. But the truth is that she's far from healthy. I wish Bridie would quit making so many demands on her. Henrietta has done enough for the Dougal family. It should be her turn for a bit of pampering and care.”

A moment passed when I thought Patricia might elaborate on her sister's health, but the topic seemed to be closed, so I asked, “Where were the two of you from originally? Glenkillen or elsewhere?”

“A small village on the northern side of Loch Ness called Tainwick. Have you heard of it?”

Had I? It sounded familiar, but I wasn't sure. “No,” I decided. “I don't think so.”

“Henrietta left Tainwick and came here to the distillery when she was quite young. I was twenty-four, so she would have been nineteen.”

Her recollection amazed me. I could barely remember the most significant of dates, or ages when events occurred, so I was always fascinated by those who could dredge up less memorable happenings. Although some were wedged in my head for eternity—my mother's date of death, for example.

“And you stayed on in Tainwick?” I asked.

“No, I'd gone to Edinburgh to university, and shortly after finishing I met Connor.” Her gaze shifted to the few
morsels still on the dessert plate in my hand. “What's that you're eating?”

“You have to try one of Katie's brownies,” I took her then to Katie, who stood alone once more, Leith having moved off to circulate. “If you don't do this for a living, you should.”

“It's more o' a hobby than anything,” she said. “My real interest is in Highlands history and local families. I'm hopin' tae write a book one day on mysterious happenings in the area.”

That was impressive. If she lived in the village, I would enjoy talking with her about her aspirations. “I'd like to continue this conversation later,” I told her.

“You won't find much mysterious in these parts,” Patricia said. “You need a larger population base for that—Edinburgh or Glasgow.”

Gordon joined us as I relinquished my plate to a tray, and he handed me another small glass of whisky that I vowed not to touch to my lips. I said to him, “I'd like to see the distillery. Can that be arranged?”

“This tasting room is attached tae the warehouse where we store the oak casks until they're ready to be bottled. Right through those doors.” Gordon gestured to a heavy set of doors to the right of the bar. “The still house where fermentation takes place is much more complex and worth a more lengthy private tour at another time, but I'd be happy to show ye the warehouse.”