Page 11
Well, that wasn’t promising.
Rain misted across the yard, fine enough that she could feel it gathering on her hair and hitting her face like one of those spray mists people bought to refresh their faces, which Olivia had always thought was ridiculous. Just fill a spray bottle with some tap water and be done with it.
Glenbrae sat low against the surrounding hills, a collection of whitewashed stone buildings and dark green doors, with warehouses stretching farther back from the road. Beyond them up on the hill, partly veiled by the mist, stood the ruins of Dunarraidh Castle.
From the photos she’d looked at before coming, Olivia had expected the place to be more picturesque, more filtered and ready for social media posts.
A stack of wood pallets sat outside one warehouse beneath a blue tarp, someone had left a wheelbarrow beside the office steps, and a dog was splashing in a mud puddle and shaking mud all over the white building.
It looked real, like a working distillery instead of a photo op, which made her like the place immediately.
Dr. Price shifted the suitcases, pulling her attention back to him.
“I’d explain everything, but my car is running and petrol is ghastly expensive.”
Olivia glanced toward the vehicle parked near the end of the drive.
It was indeed running and its driver’s door was open as was the trunk.
“That seems environmentally irresponsible.”
He stared at her for a moment, then, unexpectedly, he laughed as some of the tension left his face, though not enough for him to put down the suitcases.
“They’ll tell you the place is perfectly ordinary.”
Curious, Olivia looked around. “It’s a distillery.”
He shook his head. “They’ll tell you old buildings make noises and that doors open because the latches are old.”
“Old buildings sometimes do that.”
Dr. Price moved closer, a sheen of sweat above his lip. “I heard footsteps in the old warehouse three nights ago.”
Olivia waited to see if there was more.
“There was nobody there.” He looked around as if expecting someone to jump out and yell, boo!
She tucked her hands into the pockets of her field jacket.
“Old warehouses make excellent echo chambers. Pipes move. Wood contracts. Birds get into roofs, and so do mice, rats, squirrels, and occasionally people who shouldn’t be there.”
“The door to my room opened by itself last night.”
“It’s windy, it was probably a draft”
“It was latched.”
She shrugged. “Maybe a bad latch?”
He stared at her as if she wasn’t particularly bright, and now she was beginning to understand why Fiona MacRae had sounded so tired on the phone.
“There are noises in the tunnel,” he said looking over his shoulder
That caught her attention. “What kind of noises? Running water?”
His shoulders hunched. “No.”
“Maybe the stone settling?”
