Page 1 of Bourbon Girl, Part 3

distillation the process of heating the fermented mash to separate alcohol from water and solids

THE WASHING machine's agitated churning provided a steady soundtrack as I sat on the laundry room's linoleum floor, my phone pressed against my ear.

The scents of bleach and fabric softener hung in the air.

The building's overtaxed air conditioner struggled against another scorching Kentucky afternoon.

"Sam Church," I repeated into the phone. "Does that ring any bells, Suzy?"

There was a long pause, filled with the crackle of our bad connection and what sounded like traffic noise on her end. I could picture her standing somewhere—maybe outside another airport terminal or in a hotel parking lot—trying to excavate thirty-year-old memories.

"Sam... Sam..." she murmured. "God, Bernadette, I wish I could say yes with certainty. There were so many guys hanging around the bar back then, and honestly, after a while they all started blending together. Young and dumb, you know?"

"But it's possible? The name doesn't sound completely wrong?"

"It doesn't sound wrong," she agreed. "But honey, I don't want to give you false hope. You've been through enough disappointment already."

"I know. I just... this feels different somehow."

"Well, for what it's worth, I'm rooting for you. I really hope this Sam Church turns out to be the guy you're looking for."

After we ended the call, I stared at my phone screen where I'd typed "Sam Church" into my notes app and the scant information I'd been able to find online—one reference in a local newspaper that a building permit had been filed to extend the cooperage.

And the address for the cooperage on Versailles Road, a few miles outside Lexington.

It had taken a great amount of restraint not to drive by there, but I'd learned my lesson with Keith Banyon.

An hour later, I pushed through the glass door of the Two Guys Detective Agency. A chime announced my arrival over what sounded like a full-scale war erupting from the back office.

"—absolutely insane, Octavia! Breaking into someone's house is not 'creative investigation techniques,' it's a felony!"

"I didn't break in, Linda. The sliding door was unlocked, which legally constitutes an invitation."

"An invitation? Are you completely delusional?"

I cleared my throat loudly, but the sisters were too engrossed in their battle to notice my presence.

Through the open doorway, I could see Linda pacing behind her desk like a caged lioness.

Octavia sat sprawled in a chair with the defiant posture of someone who believed the rules simply didn't apply to her.

"The client specifically asked us to find evidence of his wife's affair," Octavia continued with maddening calm. "I found it. Mission accomplished."

"By committing a crime that could get our licenses revoked!"

"Hello?" I called out.

Both heads swiveled toward me with expressions of surprise and mild embarrassment.

"Bernadette!" Octavia's face immediately brightened as she spotted a distraction. "Perfect timing. Let's go to my office."

I followed her as Linda stared after her sister, shaking her head.

Octavia's sanctuary remained as opulent as ever, a stark contrast to the minimalist reception area. I settled into the plush visitor's chair while she positioned herself behind her impressive desk with the air of someone preparing to receive important intelligence.

"Sam Church," I said without preamble, pulling out my phone. "He's a cooper—makes barrels for bourbon aging. Lives on Versailles Road, mid-fifties, which would put him in the right age range to have known my mother."

Octavia's pen moved swiftly across her legal pad. "Sounds promising. How did you find him?"

"A friend had employee directories for most of the distilleries. I contacted everyone with the last name Church and told them I was looking for a friend of my mother's. A woman at Angel's Envy told me about Sam, who's her uncle."

"Good work." She looked up from her notes with the kind of intense focus I'd come to associate with her professional mode. "Give me a few days to do some background work—financial records, property ownership, maybe talk to some neighbors."

"Okay." I stood to go.

"And Bernadette," she continued, her voice taking on a warning tone, "let me handle the reconnaissance this time."

"I learned my lesson."

"Good. Because if Sam Church is your father, you only get one chance to make that first impression."

I nodded and thanked her for her time. As I left the agency, the September heat pressed down like a heavy blanket. I wanted to feel hopeful, but instead my heart was filled with dread. Because I'd learned that hope could be dangerous.