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sour mash a method where some of the previous mash is added to maintain pH and consistency

THE RED Hat Society ladies descended on our bus like a scarlet tornado, their crimson headwear ranging from modest berets to elaborate feathered creations.

Ten women in their fifties and sixties, all dressed in purple outfits topped with those signature red hats, chattering with the excitement of schoolgirls on a field trip.

And Naomi was back. She claimed her usual seat behind Jett, and the two were immediately engaged in an intimate conversation. Her notebook lay unopened on her lap.

"Bernadette," called out a woman named Marge, "what are those white flowers blooming along the fence line?

I squinted through the window at the clusters of white blossoms dotting the roadside. "I'm... not sure. Let me check." I moved toward the front. "Jett? The ladies are asking about the white flowers along the fences."

He glanced at me in the rearview mirror with thinly veiled irritation at the interruption. "Dutchman's Breeches," he offered, then immediately resumed his conversation with Naomi.

I covered my own irritation and rejoined the ladies, asking about their organization and where each of them were visiting from.

At Woodford Reserve, while the group embarked on their guided tour, I found myself with an hour to kill.

The visitor center buzzed with activity, tourists sampling bourbon flights and browsing gift shops filled with logo merchandise.

I settled into a corner chair with decent Wi-Fi reception and pulled out my phone.

Searching for " Suzy Klooz" on social media felt like looking for buried treasure.

The unusual spelling worked in my favor—there weren't many results.

I found a Susan Klooz in Portland who sold handmade jewelry, and another in Miami who worked as a dental hygienist. Both looked to be the right age to have been my mother's friend.

I crafted careful messages to each, explaining that I was trying to locate someone who might have known my mother in Kentucky thirty years ago. I hit send on both messages and exhaled. Now I just had to wait and hope one of them would respond with something useful.

"You don't strike me as someone who doom scrolls social media."

Jett's voice made me look up. He stood nearby with a coffee cup in hand. There was no sign of Naomi.

"I'm not doom scrolling," I snapped, more harshly than intended. "I'm researching."

"Researching what?"

"Personal stuff." I locked my phone screen and shoved it into my pocket. "Where's your shadow?"

"My what?"

"Naomi. You two seemed pretty cozy on the bus."

His eyebrows rose. "She's asking questions about local culture for her article. I'm being helpful."

"Right. Helpful." I stood up, smoothing wrinkles from my polo shirt. "Very community-minded of you."

The corners of his mouth twitched like he was fighting a smile. "You sound jealous."

"I'm not jealous. I'm annoyed that you act put out when I ask you legitimate tour-related questions but you're happy to chat with her about… whatever you were chatting about."

"Sorry. Interrupt anytime you or a customer has a question."

"I will."

"Good."

"Good."

The red hat ladies began filtering back into the visitor center.

I plastered on my tour guide smile and gathered my group.

Adrenaline pumped through my chest. Any minute the right Suzy Klooz could reply with details about my father.

And stepping on the heels of my excitement was a wall of dread.

Because I was keenly aware the details might not be to my liking.