The Angels' Share (The Bourbon Kings Book 2) (14 page)

He looked down at the résumé she’d given him. “Yeah. Of course.”

“Wait, that sounds like I’m trying to talk you out of it—but I am
so
excited. Thank you. I won’t let you down.”

As she got to her feet, he did the same, and he forced his eyes to stay on hers—because left to their own devices, they were liable to go on a walkabout heading south. Man, she was tall—and that was very attractive. And so was that long hair. And those eyes that were—

Crap. He probably liked too much about her to hire her. She was, however, very qualified.

Extending his hand across his desk, he said, “Welcome to the party.”

She held on to his palm. “Thank you,” she breathed. “You will not regret it.”

God, he hoped that was true. He was single, she might be single, they were both adults … but yeah, it was probably not a great idea to add “employer/employee sexual relationship” to that mix.

“I’ll walk you out.” Leading the way over to his office’s door and then across the reception area, he opened the exit wide for her. “Can you start—”

“Tomorrow? Yes, I can.”

“Good.”

The car she’d parked in the little gravel side lot was a Kia that was several years old, but as he escorted her to it, he saw that it was neat inside, clean on the outside, and with no dings or scratches on its silver body.

Just before Beth got behind the wheel, she looked up at him. “Why is it so quiet today? I mean, I’ve been here as a tourist—last year, in fact. There were so many people walking around even on the weekdays.”

“We’re
in mourning. I’m sure you’ve heard.”

“About?” She shook herself. “Oh, wait, yes, I’m embarrassed. Of course. William Baldwine’s death. I’m so sorry.”

“As am I. I’ll see you tomorrow morning at nine?”

“At nine. And thanks again.”

Mack wanted to watch her drive off, but that was a date move, not an I-just-hired-you-and-I’m-not-a-creeper one. Heading back around, he was halfway to goal when he decided more desk time was not what he needed.

Changing direction, he proceeded to an outbuilding that had a high hedge around it, no windows, and siding that was modern steel paneling, not logs and mortar. Taking out a pass card, he swiped the thing in a reader and heard the vapor lock release. Inside, there was an anteroom with some protective gear, but he didn’t bother with it. Never had, even though everyone else did.

For godsakes, he’d always thought. When the first Bradfords had been making their bourbon, they hadn’t needed “gear.” They’d done it in the woods, and everything had worked out just fine.

A second glass door also let out a hiss, and the shallow room beyond was a laboratory like something you’d find at the Centers for Disease Control. But they weren’t tracking or trying to cure diseases here.

He was growing things, though. Secret things that no one else could know about.

The crux of the issue was, all ingredients in bourbon were necessary and important, but there was only one element that wasn’t truly fungible. Assuming you kept the percentages in the mash the same, corn was corn, barley was barley, and rye was rye. The special limestone-fed water source they used was unique to this part of Kentucky, but its yield remained the same year in and year out, the subterranean rock not changing at all. Even the barrels, made from separate trees, were still constructed out of the same species of oak.

Yeast, however, was a different story.

Although all distillers’ yeast came from a species called
Saccharomyces cerevisiae
, there were many different strains in that family, and depending
on which one you used to ferment your mash, the flavor of your bourbon could vary tremendously. Yes, ethanol was always a by-product of the metabolic process, but there were countless other compounds released as the sugars in the mash were consumed by the yeast. Call it alchemy, call it magic, call it the touch of angels; depending on what strain you used, your product could range from the good to the spectacular … to the downright epic.

The BBC had been using the same strains in its No. Fifteen, Family Reserve, Black Mountain, and Bradford I brands forever.

But sometimes change wasn’t a bad thing.

Back when his father had died, Mack had been working on new strains of yeast, peeling molds from nuts and bark and soils from all over the South, growing the precious organisms in this lab, and analyzing their DNA among other things. Isolating the proper species, he had then toyed with small-batch fermentations to test all kinds of end results.

There had been a protracted delay in the project when he’d taken on the Master Distiller’s job, but over the last three months, he’d had a breakthrough—finally, after all this time, he had become satisfied with one of the results.

As he looked at all the glass containers with their tinfoil tops, the Petri dishes, the samples, the microscopes and computers, he found it hard to imagine that such beauty could come out of so stark a place. Then again, it was kind of like an IVF lab, where human miracles got a little help from science.

Mack went over to the counter and stood in front of his baby, the one bottle with the first new strain that was going to be introduced into a Bradford bourbon fermentation process in two hundred years. It was that good, that special, yielding an unparalleled smoothness with absolutely no sulfur overtones to the taste. And no one else, no other maker of bourbon, had claimed it yet.

He was going to patent the stuff.

This was the other reason the BBC couldn’t fail now.

The
damn company had to stay alive long enough to get this on the market.

His little yeast discovery was going to change everything.

“Y
ou need to eat.”

It was past five o’clock by the time the police left, and Lane’s first thought, as he walked into Easterly’s kitchen, was more that he needed a drink. Miss Aurora, however, had other ideas.

As she set her strong body in his path and her black eyes glared up at him, he regressed in an instant back to being five years old. And it was funny—she looked exactly the same as she always had, her hair braided tight to her head, her U of C red apron tied at the waist around her loose chef’s whites, her take charge attitude nothing to trifle with.

Given her illness, the immortality was an illusion, but at the moment, he clung to the fiction.

And when she routed him into the staff hallway, he didn’t fight her. Not because he was tired, although he was, and not because he wanted to eat anything, because he didn’t, but because he had never been able to deny her anything. She was a law of physics in the world, as undeniable as the gravity that had pulled him off that bridge.

It was hard to believe she was dying.

Unlike the formal family dining and breakfast rooms, the staff break room was nothing but white walls, a pine table that sat twelve, and a wooden floor. It did have a couple of windows that looked out over a dark corner of the garden, although those glass panes were more to preserve the symmetry of the mansion’s rear exterior than out of any concern for the viewing pleasure of the people who ate there.

“I’m not really hungry,” he said to her back as she left him to seat himself.

A minute later, the plate that landed in front of him had about two thousand calories of soul food on it. And as he breathed deep, he thought … huh. Miss Aurora might be right.

Lizzie
sat down next to him with her own plate. “This looks amazing, Miss Aurora.”

His momma took her place at the head of the table. “There’s seconds on my stove.”

Fried chicken done in an iron skillet. Collard greens. Real corn bread. Hoppin’ John. Okra.

And what do you know. After the first bite, he was starving, and then there was a long period of silence as he hoovered forkloads of the food he’d been raised on into his mouth.

When his phone rang, it was like an electric shock nailing him in the ass. Then again, lately that ringing sound was like a tornado siren going off: nothing but bad news, with the only question being what was in the path of destruction.

As he answered, Deputy Ramsey’s ocean-deep drawl came over the connection. “You should have the remains in about forty-eight hours at the latest. Even with what was found, the medical examiner has done what she needs to.”

“Thank you. Anything surprising in the preliminary report?”

“They were going to sneak me a copy. As soon as I know anything I’ll be in touch.”

“Homicide left about a half hour ago. They think someone murdered my father, don’t they? The detectives wouldn’t give me anything to go on, but I mean, it was my father’s fucking ring—”

As Miss Aurora cleared her throat sharply, he winced. “Sorry, ma’am.”

“What?” Ramsey said.

“My momma’s here.” Ramsey let out an “uh-huh,” as if he knew exactly what was up with dropping an f-bomb in front of Miss Aurora Toms. “I mean, Detective Merrimack said he was going to be interviewing people. How long until they have an idea of what happened?”

“No telling.” There was a pause. “Do you know of anyone who might have killed him?”

Yes. “No.”

“Not even any suspicions?”

“You sound like that detective.”

“Sorry,
occupational hazard. So are you aware of anybody who had a motive?”

“You know what my father was like. He had enemies everywhere.”

“It’s pretty personal, though, cutting off that ring. Burying it in front of the house.”

Under his mother’s bedroom window, no less. But Lane wasn’t going to go into that.

“There were plenty of businesspeople who hated him, too.” God, that sounded defensive. “And he owed people money, Mitch. Big money.”

“So why didn’t they keep the ring and hock it? Lot of gold.”

Lane opened his mouth. Then shut it. “I think we’re getting off track.”

“I’m not so sure about that.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Let’s just say that I’ve protected members of your family before. And nothing is going to change that.”

Lane closed his eyes, thinking about Edward. “How am I ever going to repay you?”

“I’m the one paying a debt back. But now’s not the time for that. And there’s another reason I called. Rosalinda Freeland’s remains were picked up today.”

Lane pushed his plate away. “By her mother?”

“By her son. He just turned eighteen so it was legal.”

“And?”

There was another pause, longer this time. “I was there when he came in. Have you seen him?”

“I’m not sure I was even aware she had a kid.”

“His photograph is going to be on the front page tomorrow.”

“Why? I mean, other than the fact that his mother committed suicide right before my father’s body was found.”

“Yeah, I’m going to send you a picture after we hang up. I’ll call you later.”

As Lane ended the connection, he looked across at Miss Aurora. “You know Mitch Ramsey, don’t you?”

“I do, yes. All his life. And if he wants to tell you why, he will. That’s his business, not mine.”

Lane
put the cell phone down on the table and dropped the subject—because like there was another option? Glancing at Lizzie, he said, “Do you think there’s any way we can do the visitation here on Thursday?”

“Absolutely.” Lizzie nodded. “The gardens and grounds are in great shape from the Derby Brunch. Everything else is easy to do on a short turnaround. What are you thinking?”

“Four to seven p.m. on Thursday night. We can keep the burial private and do it on Friday or Saturday. But I want to get that visitation out of the way.”

Miss Aurora leaned across and pushed his plate back in front of him. “Eat.”

He didn’t get a chance to. Before he could start arguing, Mr. Harris, the butler, opened the door. “Mr. Baldwine, you have a guest in the front parlor. I gather he is not expected, but he is refusing to leave.”

“Who is it?”

“Mr. Monteverdi of the Prospect Trust Company.”

Lane got to his feet and took his cell phone and his plate with him. “I’m coming right now.”

Miss Aurora scooped the plate out of his hands. “And this will be waiting for you when you’re finished. You don’t eat in that part of the house.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Dropping a kiss on Lizzie’s mouth, Lane headed out, striding through the stark hallway that led past Mr. Harris’s suite of rooms, Rosalinda Freeland’s office—where she had killed herself—and one of the mansion’s three laundry rooms. He was pushing his way out into the formal public rooms when his phone went off with a text.

As he continued across the black-and-white marble floor of the foyer, he put his password in and was just at the archway into the parlor when the image Mitch Ramsey had sent him came up.

Lane stopped dead.

He couldn’t believe what he was looking at.

The son who had claimed Rosalinda’s body … could have been his own twin.

P
rinted
spreadsheets everywhere. Multiple laptops with Excel files around him in a semi-circle. Yellow legal pads covered with black chicken scratchings.

For Jeff Stern, all this was business as usual. As a Wall Street investment banker, he made his bread and butter crunching numbers and finding patterns and holes in corporate financial disclosure documents. He was a master at precisely the kind of obsessive, detail-orientated, mind-numbing work required to create sense and concrete out of the oft-times deliberate obstruction and oily, creative accounting techniques used to value large multi-national companies.