Single Malt Murder

by Melinda Mullet

  Fortunately, the man in my life didn’t mind, but as I’d been gone longer than I expected, it was a good bet he was killing time ingesting something around the house not traditionally meant for canine consumption. I could hear him scratching at the door as I turned the key in the lock, and as soon as I cleared the threshold, I was assaulted by a wriggling mass of cream and brown fur. A shag carpet jacked up on espresso. As a puppy he’d made use of his terrier heritage to execute an almost vertical leap at my face every time I came home. Now that he was carrying close to fifty pounds, his vertical leaps had lost some of their height, but none of their enthusiasm.

  I sank to the floor and allowed the warmth of Liam’s greeting to soothe me. It had been several days since the news came about Ben, but I still had a dull ache in my chest, and no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t breathe deeply enough to expel the pain. Liam’s boundless and unconditional affection was a much-needed balm to my wounded heart.

  It hadn’t always been that way. In fact, I was furious when Ben first presented me with the tiny ball of brown Irish fluff, decked out in a big blue bow. He’d tried to get around me by naming the dog Liam. I’d always had a thing for Liam Neeson—that voice. We’d argued at length over the wisdom of leaving me in charge of another sentient being given my travel schedule, but in the end Ben prevailed. Now I couldn’t imagine my life without Liam in it.

  A sharp knock on the door made me jump and set Liam barking. I scrambled to my feet and opened the door a crack to see my neighbor Sally standing at the door in a dingy fleece bathrobe and a pair of pink rain boots.

  “These came for you today,” she said, holding out a white flower box. “Looks like a bunch o’weeds, if ya ask me. Got yourself a right tight bloke there.”

  Nothing was sacred to Sally, even the Royal Mail, but I was wet and in no mood for her venom, so I relieved her of her burden and firmly shut the door. I hadn’t expected anyone to send flowers here. I laid the box on the counter in the kitchen, lifted the lid, and pushed back the tissue. Nestled inside was a huge bouquet of thistles tied with a funereal black grosgrain ribbon. I dug through the paper, but there was no card, no receipt, and no florist’s name. If it hadn’t been for the threatening message on the mat this morning, I would have dismissed it as a somewhat bizarre gesture of condolence, but this was no act of sympathy. This was a calculated move designed to unnerve me. I hated to admit it, but it was working.

  I gingerly lifted the spiky blooms from the tissue, hesitating for a moment over the trash bin before shoving them into the empty wine cooler on the counter. It was a simple gesture, but I still managed to prick my fingers with the thorns. I reached out to touch the delicate lavender frill atop the spiky green bulb, but the blood on my fingertips left an angry crimson streak across the flower. I couldn’t help but feel that this was a bad omen for the weekend to come.

  Chapter 2

  “Explain to me again why we are breaking into your distillery?”

  “Because it’s gone five and I don’t have a key.”

  Patrick rolled his eyes as I climbed atop an empty barrel and pushed open a small pivot window about six feet off the ground.

  “Can’t this wait till tomorrow morning when the front door might be open?”

  “In the morning I’ll have Ben’s lawyer and the distillery crew in tow,” I explained. “I don’t want to look like a complete idiot in front of them. Besides, Liam needs to burn off some steam. He’s been trapped in the backseat of your car all day.”

  “Hm. I’m more worried about the backseat of my new car at this point than the hound of the Baskervilles. I swear he’s doubled in size since I last saw him.”

  “Dogs are like kids, you feed them, they grow,” I observed.

  “Apparently. But what are you feeding him? Steroids?”

  Liam had eyebrows that express a surprising array of emotions for a dog, and he was following this exchange with a decided frown on his face. He knows when he’s being praised, and he knows when things aren’t going his way. Patrick was treated to a hard stare and a disdainful growl.

  I threw a leg over the windowsill and looked down at Patrick. “You’re the one who’s been dying to see the place. So, are you in, or out?”

  “Oh, alright. In,” Patrick grumbled, as I disappeared feetfirst through the window. “But go open the back door. I’m not ruining a good pair of slacks climbing through that filthy window.”

  I dropped to the floor and went to let the boys in, flipping the lights on as I made my way through the vast, echoing space. Patrick might be one of London’s foremost experts on wines and spirits, but I wasn’t convinced he was right about Ben’s little business venture. My first sight of Abbey Glen in the waning light was somewhat anticlimactic, and no matter what Patrick said, it didn’t look like the kind of place that was producing a legendary whisky coveted by connoisseurs the world over.

  The brick-paved courtyard where we’d left the car was surrounded by five solid-looking stone farm buildings converted for use by the distillery. From a distance it was quaint, but up close they looked austere and a bit shabby. A carved, gilded plaque with the Abbey Glen logo hung over the door of the largest building, but if it wasn’t for the stacks of empty wooden barrels and the traditional pagoda-shaped vent on the top of the barn, the place could easily have been mistaken for a deserted farmyard.

  “If there’s anyone out there they’ll see us,” Patrick complained, scrambling across the threshold and shutting the door behind him.

  “Who cares? Like you said, I own the place. I have every right to be here.”

  Patrick led the way into the main part of the building, where we found ourselves in a cavernous space more than two stories high and some sixty feet wide. Not only was this the largest of the buildings, I saw now that it was the newest. The freshly whitewashed walls were crisscrossed by dozens of polished metal pipes connecting different parts of the operation. To the untrained eye it looked like a maze crafted with Tinkertoys. A raised metal catwalk created a mezzanine level about ten feet off the ground, and a vibrant red railing running along its length added a splash of bright color to the otherwise muted interior.

  “It’s gorgeous.” Patrick breathed, his reticence gone, replaced by his kid-in-a-candy-store face.

  “What exactly am I looking at?” I asked.

  “This is the Still House,” Patrick said in a low voice.

  “Okay. I’m going to need a bit more than that,” I replied, clueless about the machinery around me.

  “You know whisky’s made from barley, right?”

  “If you say so.”

  “Well, before you can use raw barley it has to be dried. That happens in the Malt Barn on the far side of the yard.”

  “The one with the vent on the roof?”

  “Right. Once the grain’s dried, it gets ground up next door in the Mill Room, and then it’ll come in here through that tube.” He pointed to a large stainless-steel pipe cutting through the sidewall. “The ground-up grain is washed and soaked in warm water in here.” Patrick caressed the large metal tank next to him like it was a prize racehorse. “It’s empty at the moment, but normally the washing would be extracting all the sugars from the grain, and then that sugary water would be separated out and sent on to be fermented.”

  I could tell Patrick was dumbing down his spiel for my benefit, but I was too tired to care.

  “After it ferments, the whisky ends up in these pot stills.” Patrick stood back to admire the two massive copper containers gracing the far wall.

  The stills sat heavily atop red brick supports, looking like oversized ship’s decanters. I climbed the stairs to the platform level to admire them up close. Liam followed behind, looking less than thrilled to be on the suspended metal walkway. The stills were beautifully constructed, polished until they gleamed even in the cool light of the fluorescent fixtures. It was clear they were the beating heart of the room, and the heart of the operation as well. I could picture Ben standing here, the captain of
his ship, watching over his domain with pride.

  “The pot stills are heated by a steam system that’ll be located under here.” Patrick examined the brick supporting structures with interest. “None of the systems are running,” he said. “Not sure why, but it could be in deference to the funeral on Saturday.”

  After a couple of minutes he joined me on the platform. “As the stills are heated, the liquid inside is allowed to evaporate and recondense twice. The best of the liquid that remains is transferred into casks for aging, then bottling. One distillery. One whisky. That’s why Abbey Glen’s a single malt whisky and not a blend.”

  “Makes sense, I guess, but it seems very labor intensive,” I said, shaking my head.

  “That’s why it’s so expensive when it’s done right. Think of it like making wine. A thousand different things combine together to make the end product a winner or a dud. It’s the same with whisky. The grain, the water, the casks, the timing and the skill of the people that run the distilling operation; it’s an inexplicable chemistry that produces a fine wine or spirit. Sometimes you can have all the right components and it still ends up tasting lousy.”

  I nodded, marveling at the complexity of the process.

  “But when it works, it’s magic,” Patrick said with a sigh.

  It was strangely quiet in the distillery. Warm and waiting, as if everything had gone to sleep till morning. I pulled out my camera and took a couple of shots from our elevated position.

  “It’s getting late,” I said. “I suppose we’d better get on to the house. I’ll need better light to get any really decent shots.”

  “Wouldn’t have thought you’d be bothered.”

  “I wouldn’t normally, but Ben had his heart set on putting together a book on the history of the distillery. He hadn’t got very far with it, but it was really important to him. I’ve decided I’m going to take it on. It may end up being mostly pictures, but I want to be able to dedicate it to him.”

  “I can help if you want,” Patrick volunteered.

  “I might just take you up on that offer if I get too overwhelmed.”

  I called to Liam and we headed out the way we came in. He couldn’t get to the ground floor fast enough, but once on solid ground he seemed happy exploring the strange new place until we approached the back door. Suddenly the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end and he began to growl softly. We’d almost reached the exit when it slowly opened inward, a shotgun barrel poking through ahead of its owner.

  “Who’s there?” barked a voice from outside.

  This was no time to be timid. “Abigail Logan. I’m the new owner,” I said with as much bravado as I could muster.

  “You’re lucky you’re no’ the dead new owner.”

  A wiry middle-aged man in a gray wool jumper and a pair of old jeans stepped into the room, lowering the barrel of his rifle. His voice had the rolling cadence of a thick Scottish brogue tinged with the huskiness of a lifelong smoker. It suited his rugged face and the sharp, attentive eyes that were assessing his quarry. I could picture him standing in an icy stream fishing for salmon, or hunting deer up on the hills. The quintessential ghillie. No doubt good with a rifle, but I’d be happier if I wasn’t on the business end of it.

  “Is there something I can help you with?”

  “We just arrived and wanted to take a quick look around, Mr….?”

  “Lewis. Camron Lewis. I’m the manager here.”

  “We didn’t mean to intrude. I didn’t think anyone would be around at this hour.”

  “There’s always someone around these days,” Lewis replied. “But as you’re the new owner…I suppose you can do what you like.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Lewis, I should have called first,” I said, attempting to strike a conciliatory note.

  Lewis made no attempt to hide his appraisal of me, nodding finally, though whether in acceptance or resignation I couldn’t tell, before replying, “Lewis was my father. Around here they call me Cam.”

  Patrick extended a hand in greeting. “The distillery is spectacular,” he gushed. “It’s like stepping back in time…in the best possible way, of course. This vintage equipment is fascinating.”

  “Aye, when it’s workin’,” Cam muttered.

  “I couldn’t help noticing you’re not in production at the moment,” Patrick ventured.

  “We put production on hold yesterday, and won’t be doin’ another run till things get sorted out,” Cam said.

  “You’re stopping production until the estate’s settled?”

  Cam hesitated. “It’s complicated. It’d be best if you come back in the mornin’ and talk to Mr. MacEwen. He can answer all your questions.” He gestured toward the door with the rifle, indicating the conversation was at an end, before ushering us out and carefully locking the door behind him. He watched us pull out of the yard and start down the road to Ben’s place before heading back into one of the side buildings.

  After seeing the distillery, I wasn’t expecting much from the old estate worker’s croft that Ben had renovated into his base in Balfour. This house was Ben’s, not mine. I hadn’t had anything that felt like home since Ben sold the house in Chelsea. I loved that place. He’d named it the Haven, and it had always been a haven to me. A refuge from my loneliness and grief, and the only childhood home I remembered with any clarity. It had a walled garden in the back that Ben convinced me was home to a variety of mischievous faeries living beneath the foxgloves, and under the gabled eaves, the attic was filled to overflowing with the flotsam and jetsam of my grandparents’ years traveling through India and Africa. It was a treasure trove of vintage clothing, old books, maps, telescopes, brass sculptures, and, for some reason, a life-sized stuffed crocodile that figured prominently in an impromptu production of Peter Pan one Christmas break. It was a kid’s rainy-day paradise.

  I could barely admit it to myself, let alone to Patrick, but the real reason I never came to see Ben here was that I was angry. Buying the distillery was one thing. He was entitled to a hobby. When he retired and decamped to Scotland without even consulting me, I was devastated. I was on the road so much I don’t think it even occurred to him that I might mind. But when he sold the Haven, and downsized his London presence to a flat in Knightsbridge, I couldn’t help feeling abandoned and betrayed. Homeless. I made excuses when he asked me to visit, and insisted he come to London. I knew I was being childish, but I couldn’t stop myself. Not until two years ago when Ben was diagnosed with lung cancer. At that point I would have done anything for him. Even traipsed up to Scotland, but he started coming to London every three weeks for treatments, so the point was moot. I scheduled my assignments so I could be in town when Ben was. I nursed him through the worst of the chemo and really thought that we’d reached a stable place. Maybe not improving, but not deteriorating either. How could it all have ended so fast?

  As we rounded the last bend in the road, I was convinced we’d managed to make a wrong turn somewhere. This couldn’t be the croft, and yet the sign on the gate said THE HAVEN.

  It brought a lump to my throat.

  Ben’s new Haven was a rambling two-story stone house that looked like a spread from Country Living magazine. The lights were ablaze inside and out, spreading a warm welcoming glow into the gathering dusk. Large bay windows with mullioned glass graced either side of a solid oak front door, and trellises heavy with sweet peas rambled up the outside walls. It was enchanting.

  “Now, that’s what I call a cottage.” Patrick gave a satisfied sigh. “I should have known you were kidding about the running water.”

  “I didn’t think I was,” I replied. “I knew he’d renovated, but I never expected this.”

  The dog launched himself from the car as soon as I opened the door, and immediately began a thorough inspection of each plant and rock in the garden. Patrick and I grabbed the bags from the trunk and trailed along behind Liam, who’d taken a sudden rabid interest in something at the front door. As we drew closer, I put the cases down
again and moved forward cautiously.

  The house was truly beautiful, but I had to admit that the charm of the place was being significantly diminished by the pool of congealed blood that had spread across the front steps and into the grass at our feet.

  Chapter 3

  On closer inspection I could see a large clump of feathers hanging from the door knocker by a string. Liam was throwing himself at the door and barking like a mad thing. Pushing him aside, I disengaged the makeshift door decoration and found that the feathers were attached to a large and decidedly dead duck.

  “Perhaps it’s a traditional welcome gift in this part of the world,” Patrick volunteered, attempting to keep a straight face.

  “Sure it is,” I retorted, trying to get my heart rate back under control. The omens were getting darker and bloodier. The bird had been killed fairly recently and hung by the neck from the door knocker before being stabbed several times, leaving the blood to trickle down the once-glossy feathers and spill across the front stoop. I untied the string and held the end of the cord at arm’s length.

  Liam, who’s usually rather timid with dead things, grabbed the manky bird from my hand and took off running with it. I tried to get him to drop it, but he looked at me out of the top of his eyes and began shaking the living daylights out of his prize. Instinct is an amazing thing.

  I made several failed attempts to get him to let go as he pranced around just out of reach. Patrick helped by leaning on the doorframe, laughing at our antics.

  “Just leave him, Abi,” he said, tears running down his cheeks.