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By the time the last bell rang telling the patrons they had one remaining chance to order from the bar before they shut up shop, Agnes was dead on her feet. All she wanted to do was crawl into bed, but as this was the hotel and bar’s biggest weekend of the year, she knew she had to help clean up.
As customers drifted out, she settled up with the band and helped the waitstaff clear the tables. By just after midnight, they’d tallied the cash, cleaned and shut down the kitchen for the night, and the waitstaff were finishing up the vacuuming.
“Can you lock up?” Dougal asked, cradling his dog in his arms. “Arnold’s exhausted, and I want to get him home to bed.”
Agnes stared at him for a moment, waiting to see if he’d notice his hotel manager was exhausted too. He didn’t. “Absolutely, Dougal. Take the dog home. We wouldn’t want him overtired.”
The sarcasm was lost on him. “True,” he said. And with that, he was gone.
A few minutes later, the rest of the staff followed him, and Agnes was left alone. She locked the pub doors, turned out the lights, and sat in one of the booths, staring out over the black waters of the loch.
This had to end. Betty had been right—she was letting Dougal walk all over her. Partly because she knew he didn’t mean to. He was still struggling with giving up any responsibility for his business, and it took time to settle into a new working relationship. And partly because this job was her only chance at having the career she wanted.
Only, she wasn’t sure she wanted it anymore.
A noise attracted her attention, and she glanced over to the bar. As though her thoughts had conjured the woman, Betty walked out of the back of the pub and rounded the bar. She pulled over the small stepladder they kept for the staff to reach the liquor on the higher shelf, climbed up, and helped herself to a bottle of Glenfiddich.
Well, that solved the mystery of the missing whisky.
“Just what do you think you’re doing?” Agnes snapped.
The old woman didn’t even startle. She shielded her eyes and peered into the shadows. “I’m getting some whisky.”
“Please tell me you aren’t secretly paying for it, and Dougal’s just forgotten all about it.”
“No.” She cackled. “I’m stealing it. Do you want some?” She grabbed two glasses and tottered over to join Agnes.
Betty seemed so blasé about the whole thing that, for once, Agnes found herself at a loss for words. In the end, she settled on, “Stealing is wrong.” It lacked conviction.
“Aye, but it’s fun. And that old bastard deserves it. He gets on my last nerve.” She plonked the glasses on the table, unscrewed the bottle cap, and poured them each a drink.
Agnes considered it for a second before shrugging. What the hell.
She reached for the glass. “First thing in the morning, I’m telling Dougal you’re the thief, which means he’ll make you pay for this. You sure you want to spend the money?”
“I’m older than dirt. What the hell am I going to do with it? Save it for my retirement? Drink up, pansy arse, and tell me why you’re still in this crappy job.”
Tossing back the whisky, Agnes savored the burn as it slid down. She put her glass in front of Betty, who’d climbed into the seat opposite her, and without another word, Betty refilled it.
“I’m not spilling my guts to you,” she told the town’s resident evil genius. “Where were you hiding?”
Betty tossed back her own drink and refilled her glass. “There’s a wee cupboard under the stairs. The lock doesn’t work. When the last bell rings, I go in there and have a nap until everybody leaves, then I help myself and go home.”
“What about the alarm?” There was no way Betty had the code.
“I switch it off.”
Well, hell. “And nobody notices it isn’t on when they come in the next morning?”
“Dougal doesn’t always remember to set it.” Betty’s grin was a terrifying thing.
“I don’t get it. You obviously have money. The way I hear it, you own half the town, so why don’t you buy your own whisky?”
“Now where’s the fun in that?” Betty finished her second glass and refilled it. “Hurry up, I’m drinking you under the table here.”
Agnes refused to be outdrunk by a feral-looking cube of a woman. Although, in the back of her mind, a little voice wondered if she was thinking straight. It questioned whether her lack of sleep and intake of alcohol were impairing her judgment. She ignored the voice and emptied her glass.
“We need crisps,” she told Betty and headed behind the bar to help herself to several packets of salt and vinegar crisps. Unlike Betty, she left money beside the till to cover her pilfering.
