A Turn for the Bad (20 page)

“You know a lot of local fishermen kind of play loose with the law, don't you? They're having a hard time, what with regulations and fewer and fewer fish to be had. So it's not likely that they'd be overeager to help the authorities. If it's to rescue a local man, they might step up.”

“All right, then—we pitch the idea as a dramatic rescue of one of their own. Who has the boat?”

“Many may. Or not. But . . .”

“What?” Maura demanded.

“Harry has a boat.”

“Harry? Why? What? He doesn't even spend time around here.”

“It's an old one, but it was fast in its day. Tom O'Brien keeps it up, takes it out now and then to make sure it's in good order.”

“Does Harry know how to run the thing?”

Gillian nodded.

Maura thought for a moment. “Does Harry have any friends who are fishermen? I mean, he's kind of the local aristocracy—does he play well with the others?”

“He's not a snob, but I can't speak to how the others will see him. But if he has a boat that fits the need, they'll listen. I think.”

Harry was not a perfect choice, Maura thought, but they didn't have the chance to recruit others and explain the whole mess to them—time was short. She took a deep breath. “So I'll be talking to the fishermen within the hour. Can you talk to Harry? Because if either one doesn't pan out, we're back where we started. Shoot, we'd better get that lunch—it's going to be a busy afternoon.”

They returned to Sullivan's with sandwiches, and Maura handed one to Mick. Then she went over to Billy. “I brought you a sandwich, Billy—I thought you wouldn't want to go out in this rain.”

“Ah, that's kind of yeh, Maura. The two of yehs were gone awhile.”

“I was talking to Gillian about John Tully and . . . what was happening,” Maura said cautiously. “Conor's gone?”

“He is. He'd said what he had to say. So you'll be goin' over to the distillery now?”

“I am.” Maura leaned closer. “Billy, can I trust Brendan? He's not from around here, and I don't know him.” Mick had said Brendan was okay, but it never hurt to double-check.

“He's always been a fair man, and he's been callin' here
fer years. I've never heard a word against him. What is it yer askin'?”

“We need to find one particular boat. Brendan's taking me to meet the distillery guys, and I wondered if I could ask them to ask their friends if they've seen anything out of the ordinary lately. Brendan seems to know them, and if we trust Brendan, can we trust them too?”

“They're good lads, and they're trying to make a go of the business. Which does not mean that they wouldn't be lookin' fer a little extra cash, since they've just started up and they don't have a lot of whiskey to sell yet. But I'm guessing you've little time?”

“I'm afraid so. Can I ask them to help to find the boat? Because I can't exactly go out roaming around on a boat looking for something I probably wouldn't recognize anyway.”

Billy sat back and studied Maura's face. “Look at it like this. Say you ask fer their help, and they know the boat, and they sound the warnin'. The boat hightails it off fer now, and John Tully is gone.”

“Yes, but—” Maura protested.

Billy held up a hand to stop her. “And if you do nothin', John's gone, most likely, soon as the stuff's come ashore or been grabbed up by the gardaí. But if you ask the lads fer their help, there's a chance you can make this right. Figger the odds yerself.”

Maura shut her eyes for a moment. Talk about a rock and a hard place! Two of the choices could spell disaster, and the third had a slim chance of working out. But with the information she had, she had to do something. She opened
her eyes again and looked at Billy. “Thank you. That helps a bit. And wish me luck.”

Mick glanced at her when she came back to the bar and grabbed her sandwich, but he didn't ask anything, and she didn't volunteer.

Brendan arrived shortly before one, shaking the rain off his slicker. “Still bucketing rain out there. Do you still want to visit the place, Maura?”

“I'm looking forward to it,” Maura told him. “We're not exactly busy right now, as you can see, so this'd be a good time.”

“Then shall we be on our way? I'll take you in my car.”

“Great, thanks.” Maura retrieved her still-wet coat. She glanced at Billy on the way out the door, and he nodded. So Brendan was on his approved list. Now, how to find out more about Brendan's distillery friends?

Once they were settled in the car, Maura turned to him. “Brendan, before we start, there's something I want to ask you.”

“And what would that be? Are you blowing off the tour just to spend some time with the likes of me?” His grin held a hint of sarcasm.

“Not exactly—no offense intended. You know about John Tully, right?”

“That I do. A sad thing. No word about his whereabouts?”

“No. Well, maybe. I've been told that he might be alive and held against his will.”

“Ah,” Brendan said, then stopped to consider. “And where would that be?”

“On a boat, somewhere around here. I don't know the location. But the boat may be mixed up in something else,
and John just happened to stumble in the middle of something he shouldn't have.”

“Could you be any less clear if you tried, Maura Donovan?” When Maura started to protest, he stopped her. “Don't trouble yourself—I think I've an idea what's going on. Somebody wanted to bring something ashore and didn't want to be seen. John Tully saw. Why do you believe he's still alive, if it's what I'm thinking it is?”

Because I want to. Because his brother wants to.
“I don't have a reason, but someone has some information that might make the people who have John think twice before harming him. But once this . . . something comes ashore, that doesn't matter anymore. And that's going to happen soon.”

“And what is it you're asking of me?”

“I, we, need help to find the boat. That's all. Your pals, the ones who are making the whiskey, they used to be fishermen, right?”

“Two of 'em. So?”

“They must know other local fishermen who they can ask about a boat that's appeared lately and is hanging around, maybe where it shouldn't be.”

“Ah, I think I see. And what of this can I tell my young friends? Is this maybe a bit outside the law? Would they be put in any danger?”

“Brendan, I really don't know. I hope not. All I want is to know where the boat is, if anyone can say. They don't have to do anything else.”

Brendan started up the car, and the windshield wipers began flinging water to each side. “How much do you know about docking facilities around here?” he asked as he pulled away from the curb and made a quick and efficient U-turn.

“Boats tie up at buoys near the shore. Big boats have little boats to get to the dock and back again. And that's all I know.”

“You're right so far as it goes. Union Hall, where we're going now, is a fishing village, and the fishing fleet ties up there when the weather's bad or the fish aren't running. Which means most of them are at home now, and the men would be sittin' in the local pubs and waiting. Now, the big fancy boats—the ones that cost a lot of money and do no work to speak of—they tie up at Glandore, across the harbor. Do you know it?”

“I've been through it, and that's about it. The road pretty much runs high above the water there, right?” When Brendan nodded, Maura said, “So I haven't seen much of the boats at all. What do the guys on them do when they tie up?”

“Restock. Get some real meals where the floor isn't moving. Go sightseeing. And now and again they engage in a bit of commerce. The kind they wouldn't care for the gardaí to see.”

“Got it. Is there much of that here?”

“Enough. You read about such things in the papers, when they get caught, but most of them slip in and out without notice, and they're a bit lighter on the outbound leg, if you get my meaning.”

“I do. Do the fishermen know what's going on?”

“They'd be fools to miss it, but in most cases they go their own way—neither side interferes with the other.”

“I've heard that fishing is kind of drying up around here. Oops, that's not a good way to put it, is it?”

“There's fewer fish than there once were, and they're farther out. Just look at the labels in the fish store—they'll
tell you if the fish came from the North Sea, rather than close to our shores here. Sad to say, sons can't follow their father's trade, and too many have gone away to find work. Do you not have that problem in the States?”

“We do. Fishing, yes. Other jobs too—industries keep changing, and the older guys can't find work if they're laid off because nobody wants their skills. The younger ones are learning different things. But hasn't it always been that way?”

“No doubt, but as you might have noticed, things move more slowly here in Ireland. Ah, here we are.” Brendan pulled into a narrow drive and stopped in front of a building that appeared to be a large metal warehouse.

“This is it? I was expecting something, I don't know—more welcoming, maybe.”

“It's not a showroom or a store, it's a business, making whiskey. It involves large quantities of the raw products, and large tanks and a lot of pipes. They don't sell direct from here, but distribute to people like me and to local pubs and restaurants—like yourself, I'm hoping.”

“Brendan, if they can help with this other thing, I promise I'll buy their whiskey.”
And more than a bottle or two
, Maura thought. Certainly John Tully's life was worth at least a case of whiskey.

“Fair enough.”

They climbed out of the car, and Brendan led the way to a plain door in the center of the short end of the building. He pressed a buzzer and spoke into an intercom when someone answered. A minute later a man who looked to be about thirty, with dark hair and an open expression, appeared in the small vestibule and let them in.

“Welcome! Brendan, it's always good to see you, and now you've brought a friend. You must be Maura, the new owner of Sullivan's.”

Maura offered her hand to shake. “I am, since the spring. And you are?”

“Denis, and pleased to meet you. We had few dealin's with Mick Sullivan. He was a grand old man, but set in his ways. I'm hoping we can work with you to bring about a few changes.”

“I'm happy to listen, but I don't know much about whiskey.”

“And you a publican! Well, we're a small start-up here, but not the newest in the country—there's a newer one in Dingle. Do you know it takes several years to produce a product that can be sold as Irish whiskey? We've been makin' liquors for other labels, but we're just now releasin' our own brands. I thought we might show you the operations of the place, and then you might like to sample a few?”

“Sounds good to me,” Maura said.

“Follow me,” Denis said, and set off down a hallway toward the back of the building. They quickly reached one large, undivided room, the roof an easy twenty feet high, with gleaming stainless steel vats and pipes and dials and who knew what clustered at the nearer end. “This is where it happens,” Denis said proudly.

Maura was impressed by the cleanliness of the place but totally bewildered about whatever was going on. “You're going to have to explain what I'm looking at.”

“Happy to,” Denis said promptly, and launched into a description of the process for making Irish whiskey, and what ingredients went into it, and how it was aged in oak
barrels, and what they did with the residues (Maura wondered if she'd heard right when he said something about feeding the used mash to local cows—she'd have to watch and see if any of them were reeling just a bit), and the bottling and labeling that went on at the far end. And then without taking a breath Denis started describing the philosophy/business plan that led them to target a new and different segment of drinkers, mostly nearer their age, and how they were marketing their products.

Maura wished that her enjoyment of the tour hadn't been clouded by worry over John Tully and how she was going to try to explain the situation to these guys. She had to admit she was impressed by the operation they'd set up. Young and inexperienced these whiskey makers might be, but they'd clearly given this some serious thought, and it looked to her like they'd bought high-end equipment. This wasn't a fly-by-night operation. “Do any of you have any training for this? Or did you just wake up one day and say,
I want to make whiskey
?”

“I've got a uni degree in food science, but Gerard and Jack were fishermen. We all grew up together.”

“Are they around?” Maura asked. “I'd love to ask about how and why they got into this. Apart from friendship, of course.”

“Gerard's in today. Jack's covering the night shift. This place runs twenty-four hours a day. Why don't I see if we can track Gerard down, and then you can taste a few of our whiskeys.”

“Sounds good to me,” Maura said. Brendan had provided her with a few hints about what to look for in a whiskey, although she'd have to rely on him to tell her what other
people might actually want to drink at the pub. And she wanted Denis and Gerard to give her a spiel to use if she was supposed to convince someone why they should try a whiskey from an unknown local maker rather than one of the Big Name brands that even she recognized.

Denis led them back the way they came, but instead of heading for the door, he detoured and took them into a square, windowed room with a small bar set up at one end: clearly this was the tasting room. “Let me go find Gerard—I know he's in the building.” He disappeared back the way they had come.

Maura and Brendan leaned against the bar. “Well?” Brendan asked.

“It sounds like Denis knows his stuff. Of course, if it tastes like antifreeze, talk won't be enough,” Maura told him.

“It's better than that,” Brendan assured her. “Still a bit rough around the edges, but they're making good progress. With a bit of help, I think they'll do well.”

Maura glanced down the corridor: no sign of Denis. “About the other things—it sounds like Gerard is the one to talk to, right?”

“He is that,” Brendan said. “But you'll have to sample their wares and win them over first.”