Page 83 of Whiskey Kisses

Randall’s bedroom is messy, but not criminally so. His bed is unmade, and clothes lie across an armchair in the corner of the room. A half-full bottle of whiskey and coffee mug sit on the nightstand. “Does he keep an office at home?” I ask. I don’t love snooping, but we’re already here. I might as well make sure he doesn’t have anything pertaining to the distillery, like records or information about the silent distillery.

“There’s a study downstairs,” says Evie. “Next to the family room.”

After looking in on the other rooms upstairs, we return to the first floor and Evie leads me to the study. The small room smells faintly of tobacco, and it manages a similar feel to Randall’s grander office at the distillery. Tiffany lamps adorn the old, wooden desk and a bookshelf overflowswith thick, leather-bound tomes. Framed accolades and news articles about the Doyles and their distillery compete for space on the cream, gold, and green striped wallpaper.

I make a beeline for the file cabinet, pleased to find it unlocked. The top drawer is crammed with family medical records and insurance documents, so I close it and continue to the one beneath it.Doyle Whiskey. Bingo.The first few folders are filled with business reports and ledgers, their dates ranging from the early 1900s to now. Tax returns from years gone by, contracts with suppliers, even handwritten notes from meetings.

“You ever hear anything about a silent distillery?” I ask Evie, on the off chance it’s an open secret in their family.

“No, what’s that?”

“Never mind.” I continue thumbing through the files, coming upon a rubber-band-bound pack of musty, yellowing envelopes inscribed with dates and cryptic annotations.

“What are those?” Evie asks, watching intently as I snap the rubber band and riffle through the envelopes.

“I have no idea, but we’re taking them,” I reply, pulling several folders out of the cabinet. “Can you find something to put these in?”

“He’s going to lose his shit,” she warns, hesitating.

“Then you’d better hurry up so we can get going.”

Evie mumbles somethingin her sleep before turning over, burrowing deeper beneath the blankets. Yawning, I glance at my watch. It’s past midnight—I’ve been reading for hours.Just a little more. Dimming my reading lamp, I return to the letters that were in the old envelopes we found.

I’ve arranged them in order by date in an effort to piece together a narrative, which isn’t easy seeing I have only half of the story. There’s lots of pining and flirting between the writer, a woman who signs her lettersAand the recipient,G,who must be a Doyle, seeing we found the letters in Evie’s family home. They seem to be planning something big, “the ultimate gesture of independence from the influence of our families,” but thelanguage is vague and there’s no follow-up. I get the impression their relationship, or at least their plan, was secret.

Gotta hand it to Evie though, checking up on dear old dad today was a great idea. We may not have found him, but the paperwork we grabbed from his office is a treasure trove of trade secrets, recipes passed down through generations, batch experiments and plans for future endeavors. The type of stuff I’d hoped to find at the distillery’s main office and didn’t … because Randy was hiding it at home.

Setting the envelopes aside, I reach for a folder tabbedLegacy. The papers inside, which I have to pry apart due to mild water damage, seem random at first glance—a sepia-toned photo of a garden, minutes from a meeting dated in 1934, a list of sets of coordinates, and blueprints of the distillery from its earliest days, the paper so old that some of its edges are actually crumbling.

Yawning again, I return to the coordinates, tracing my finger over the numbers. I don’t know what they are, but they feel like clues to something important. My eyes start drifting shut on their own accord.

Except for the lamp’s warm, yellow glow, it’s still dark out when I open my eyes again. I must’ve fallen asleep. Disoriented, I reach over and pull the chain attached to the lamp, shutting it off. But then my phone, which I fell asleep on top of, begins humming rhythmically like I’m getting a call. It’s probably what woke me up to begin with. Rolling out of bed, I snatch it up and walk out into the hallway to answer it.

But I’m too late. I peer down at the screen, realizing there are actually two missed calls from an unknown caller. Rubbing my eyes, I poke at the voicemail button, wondering if whoever it was left a message, but no dice. I’m about to go back to bed when my phone vibrates yet again with a third incoming call. Irritated, I answer on the first ring.

“What?” I snap. Anyone inconsiderate to call at fucking four in the morning deserves an equally inconsiderate greeting.

“Tristan Kelly?” The deep, calm voice on the line wraps around my name with the same slow drawl everybody down here seems to have.

I stiffen. “Speaking.”

“This is Danny Deschamps.” There’s no need for any further introduction. That surname carries enough weight to turn anyone’s insides into lead.

So is the fact he’s gotten my private phone number. My heart thudsa little faster against my ribs as I force myself to respond evenly. “Mr. Deschamps, what can I do for you?”

“A meeting,” he says simply. “Neutral ground. Tomorrow evening.”

“I’d prefer afternoon, if you don’t mind,” I say slowly, my mind already racing to figure out how I can make this happen as safely as possible.

“I do mind,” he replies. “Tomorrow night at eight o’clock, Mr. Kelly. Johnson Square. Be on time.”

He hangs up before I can accept or refuse.

23.Evie

The last real conversation I had with my father was nearly two weeks ago, when he called to tell me I should join the local chamber of commerce “if that husband of yours lets you.” He said he no longer had any need for membership now that he was retiring, but “participation is essential, Evelyn. It can only enhance the distillery’s name and reputation—people like to see commitment to the community.”

I said I’d consider it and that was it.

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