Page 25 of Bourbon Girl, part 1 of 6
"What?" Octavia asked. "I'm just saying."
Linda turned back to me. "I'll bet you meet all kinds of interesting people."
"I do. What do you do?"
"We run a private investigation agency," Linda said.
My lips parted in surprise. "Really?"
"Two Guys Detective Agency," Octavia added. "We're based in Lexington."
I squinted. "Two guys?"
"Our last name," Octavia said.
"Ah." Linda was busy unpacking food from a cooler, but Octavia's sharp eyes caught my expression immediately. She leaned forward, her interest clearly piqued.
"Know anyone who might need our services? We're always looking for cases."
My mind raced. The photographs from yesterday were still tucked safely in my purse, along with the tantalizing clues about Church Man, Motorcycle Man, and Bourbon Man. These women might be exactly what I needed to solve the mystery that had haunted me my entire life. But I couldn't afford to hire them.
"I—" I began, then stopped, my throat suddenly dry.
"Aunt Octavia, come look at this butterfly!" Maggie's voice interrupted, high and excited. "It's orange and black and it's huge!"
The moment shattered. I stood abruptly, gathering my book and notes. "I should get going. Nice meeting you all."
As I walked away, I could feel Octavia's curious gaze following me.
July 23, Wednesday
mash cookera specific heated vessel where grains and water are mixed and cooked
THE AFTERNOONsun beat down as I guided my group of twelve toward Goldenrod Distillery. The sweet, yeasty smell of fermenting grain hung heavy around us. My tour group—mostly middle-aged couples—chatted excitedly about the tasting room ahead, their voices mixing with the distant rumble of machinery from the production facility.
"This distillery is family-owned," I explained, pausing at the weathered wooden sign that proclaimed "Goldenrod: Kentucky's Finest Bourbon Since 1934." The paint was peeling slightly at the edges, giving it an authentic rustic charm that tourists loved to photograph.
As we approached the main building, my steps slowed involuntarily. Through the large windows, I could see the familiar interior of the tasting room—exposed brick walls, copper pipes running along the ceiling, and the long oak bar where samples were poured. Behind that bar, unmistakably, was Dylan.
My stomach did a little flip. I'd been hoping he wouldn't be working today, that I could simply shepherd my group through the standard tour without the complication of seeing him again. But there he was, his fair hair catching the light from the overhead fixtures as he polished glasses with practiced efficiency.
"Are we going inside?" asked one of the tourists, fanning herself with a brochure. "I'm about to melt out here."
"Of course," I said, forcing myself forward. "The tasting room is beautifully air-conditioned."
The cool air hit us like a blessing as we entered, and I hung back near the entrance while my group spread out along the bar. The familiar scents enveloped me—aged wood, vanilla from the bourbon barrels, and something indefinably warm that I'd come to associate with these old distilleries.
Dylan's head turned at the sound of our entrance, and when his eyes found mine across the room, his face broke into that easy grin of his. He raised his hand in a wave, beckoning me over.
I approached the bar with what I hoped looked like casual confidence, though I could feel heat rising in my cheeks that had nothing to do with the summer weather outside.
"Bernadette! Good to see you again." He gestured to an attractive woman seated at the bar—probably in her mid-fifties, with white-blonde hair and wearing a crisp white blouse that somehow managed to look fresh despite the heat. "Mom, I'd like you to meet Bernadette. She's the tour guide I told you about. Bernadette, this is my mom, Jessica."
I was instantly anxious, but Jessica offered a welcoming smile that reminded me of her son.
"How nice to meet you," she said, extending her hand.
I put my hand in hers. "Nice to meet you," I murmured. Her grip was firm and confident.
