Death in the Distillery Read Online Free PDF Page B

word. "Mrs.
Morrison said you were coming. I'm anxious to help in any
way I can." He dragged the tip of his tongue over his lips.
"Like everyone else, I want to see this tragedy behind us,
and, if you'll pardon my saying it, forgotten about. Scandal
plays havoc with stock prices." A sheepish grin replaced
his warm smile.
    "Seems like I've heard that before."
    His cheeks colored. Quickly, he apologized. "I'm not a
cold person, Mr. Boudreaux. Believe me. But, I've been
here over thirty years. Chalk Hills Distillery is my life, my
child you might say ... at least, that's what my wife and
daughters claim at times." He grinned shyly and added,
"Every new batch I bring out is an attempt to create a sour
mash bourbon superior to that of the previous run."
    "I understand, Mr. Jackson." I threw out a piece of sardonic humor. "After all. Money makes the world go
round."
    He took me seriously. "Absolutely, Mr. Boudreaux. Absolutely."
    I hesitated, my gaze flicking momentarily to the Band
Aid on his cheek.
    He caught my look. "Excuse the dressing. Cut myself
shaving this morning."
    I chuckled. "I've been there." It must have been some
cut to warrant a Band Aid. I usually just stuck a piece of
tissue paper on one, but then, I don't have emeritus printed
after my name. Maybe you bleed more with such a title.
    I glanced about the office. The second-floor window was shaded from the morning sun by the ancient oak under
which Emmett had been found.

    "Now, what can I do for you, Mr. Boudreaux?"
    "All I'd like to do is ask a few questions, and then I'll
get out of your hair, Mr. Jackson."
    "Go right ahead. I'll tell you whatever I can about Emmett or the distillery." He paused. "Have you ever toured
our facility, Mr. Boudreaux?"
    'No.
    His eyes lit with an excited glitter. "You've missed quite
a treat then."
    With a shrug, I replied, "Every man to his own poison.
I prefer drinking bourbon than watching it boil and bubble."
    He wagged his finger at me. "Not bourbon, Mr. Boudreaux. Sour mash bourbon."
    "There's a difference?" I frowned. "I thought bourbon
was bourbon, like vodka is vodka."
    "Oh, no. Bourbon comes from Bourbon County, Kentucky. All the other bourbons must be called sour mash.
By law. Just like champagne comes from the province of
Champagne in France. Elsewhere, it is considered sparkling
water, although that propriety is not observed in America
with the same fastidiousness as bourbon."
    I gave him a wry grin. "Live and learn."
    "Yes. And now, come with me." With a surprisingly
powerful grip, he took my elbow and turned me around.
His entire personality became electric, intense, a diametric
switch from his earlier reserve. "I'll answer all your questions, Mr. Boudreaux, all of them, but you must permit me
to show you through our plant and then join me in the
visitors' lounge. I'm quite proud of the operation. And I
think after you see it, you will enjoy your libation even
more."
    Before I could say no, hold on, or maybe next time, he
had me downstairs in front of a display case containing
hundreds of empty whiskey bottles of every size and color.
"I always start here, with my collection. And this one, I think you'll appreciate. Circa, 1840. I like to show this one
to all our guests," he said, pointing to a brown bottle shaped
like an eighteenth century cabin with a door, windows, and
chimney. The brand on the bottle was EG BOOZ'S OLD
CABIN WHISKEY. "If the occasion should ever arise, Mr.
Boudreaux, there is the origin of the word `booze'."

    I chuckled. "So EG Booz was the real McCoy, huh?"
    He laughed. "Another whiskey first, Mr. Boudreaux."
    "Huh?" I frowned.
    "Real McCoy, Mr. Boudreaux. Real McCoy. The expression came from Captain Bill McCoy, who quite skillfully and successfully smuggled whiskey into the USA
during Prohibition."
    "No kidding?" Trivia fascinated me.
    He gave me a condescending grin. "No kidding. That is
the origin of that expression, Real McCoy. During Prohibition,