“I don’t want him to eat the damn thing,” I said.
“Fat chance. That dog’s tastes are far too refined. He wouldn’t even deign to touch that questionable roast beef sandwich from the pub at lunchtime. Why would he go for a rancid duck?”
“I suppose.” Against my better judgment, I abandoned Liam to his gruesome plaything. Patrick found the situation more amusing than sinister, but the symbolic nature of the dead duck wasn’t lost on me. My fan club wasn’t wasting any time driving their point home. I shivered involuntarily, fearing Ben’s dream cottage was about to become my nightmare.
I turned back to the house and steeled myself to open the front door with the key Ben’s solicitor had provided. A peat fire had been lit in a large open hearth in the front hallway and the smell of fresh bread permeated the air. I called out, but there was no answer. For now, at least, we were alone, but I couldn’t shake a feeling of unease that some unknown person had a key to Ben’s house. Had they been responsible for adorning the front door on the way out, or did the bird come later?
I turned my attention back to the house. The entryway was paved in natural fieldstone with a few kilim rugs scattered around to absorb the chill. Gifts I’d brought Ben from various trips to the Middle East. A monstrous ceramic umbrella stand that had once graced the front hall of the London house was overflowing with umbrellas and walking sticks, and I wondered if the contents of the attic had made the trip up as well. A set of double doors led from the main hall into a sitting room, where an overstuffed settee and several deep armchairs were grouped around another fireplace, although vents in the ceilings and floors suggested that central heating was an option as well. A gorgeous carved mantelpiece was in the process of being installed and a variety of intricate crown moldings were waiting in the corner of the room, along with a can of varnish and some brushes.
Through a door to the right I discovered a library that instantly became my favorite room in the house. It was also a work in progress, but it held glorious promise. Sections of wood trim lay on the floor, waiting to be hung; lavish works of art carved with leaves and vines. The walls were covered in shelves of burnished cherry and stacked with books of every possible description. I recognized many of them from Ben’s library in the original Haven. He hadn’t got rid of them. I ran my hand along the spines. Alice in Wonderland, The Secret Garden, Treasure Island. It took me back to the nights after my parents’ accident. Sleep was elusive in those days, too. I would creep down to the library where Ben was working, long after I was supposed to be asleep. He would tuck me up in a blanket on the couch in front of the fire and read to me until I fell asleep. Tales of adventure to chase away the demons that lived in my head. I’d often wake in the morning to find him asleep with his head on his desk. I hastily brushed away the tears that welled up in my eyes, and turned back to Patrick.
His attention had been caught by several glass-fronted cabinets at the far end of the room housing Ben’s whisky collection. Patrick drooled over the contents, exclaiming here and there over a particularly rare or exotic item. Knowing better than to leave him alone with temptation, I propelled him back across the sitting room and through to the kitchen on the other side. Ben was a devoted foodie, and I remembered him saying that the kitchen had been his first priority.
A giant black AGA stove occupied one wall of the large open room, and Patrick unearthed a built-in espresso maker and an old root cellar that had been converted to a wine cave. Two loaves of fresh bread sat on the counter wrapped in a tea towel. They smelled fabulous, and Patrick had broken the corner off one before I had a chance to protest.
At least we’d know soon if they were safe to eat. I watched Patrick poke around the kitchen, showing no immediate sign of ill effects.
The few sections of wall not obscured by cabinets or framed prints had been painted a deep shade of claret. Taking a closer look at the matted photographs, I realized they were ones I’d taken. Ben must have had them enlarged and framed. It was a strange sensation seeing my work displayed in this house bearing the same name as my childhood home, yet having no personal connection to the place. It was like recognizing the face of a stranger you’ve never met before.
By the time we unloaded the last of the luggage, Liam had returned. He was wet and covered in mud and leaves, but I was happy to see there was no sign of our feathered friend. I managed to drag him through the massive steam shower in the master bathroom before collapsing on the bed. I should’ve passed out cold, but the events of the day kept replaying on a loop in my head. I’d secured the front and back doors from the inside and stacked several glasses behind each to serve as a warning if the door was opened. At least no one could surprise us tonight, but my anxiety grew as the night dragged on. Fears and dark imaginings danced around my head and kept me awake. I finally drifted off in the wee hours of the morning, only to find my dreams filled with crazed villagers brandishing knives.
—
I woke the next morning with a start. It took me a minute to figure out where I was, and why. It was Friday morning and I was in Ben’s room at the Haven, watching the sun creep over the top of the jagged hills. I crawled out of bed, wrapped the duvet around my shoulders, and padded over to the window seat to look out over the back garden. Banks of deep violet hydrangea surrounded the neat lawn, and the morning sun was turning the dew on the grass to a sparkling carpet of emerald. Beyond the cultivated border, the heather-covered slopes were visible in the distance, creating an Impressionist’s canvas of rose and lavender hues against the backdrop of the limestone hills that framed the valley. Lingering wisps of morning mist gave the whole place an otherworldly look. It felt like waking to find I’d been transported to Middle Earth in the night.
I could have sat there all day reveling in the beauty of the place, but Ben’s solicitor had scheduled a meeting in the distillery office at ten o’clock and I needed to resuscitate myself and clean up the mess on the front porch before I went. It was getting motivated that was the hard part. Exhausted and overwhelmed, I would have dearly loved to pull the duvet over my head and hide, but I couldn’t. At least Ben had spared me the stress of having to arrange tomorrow’s funeral service. His reps were given painfully detailed instructions, and they, in turn, had enlisted the help of Ben’s friends in the village to organize the event. God love him, Ben was still taking care of me, even from beyond the grave. All I had to do was show up.
I stumbled down to the kitchen to find Patrick communing with the espresso machine. In spite of our late night, he was already dressed in his idea of casual country attire: dark jeans, Dubarry boots, and a black polo topped with a conspicuously Burberry all-weather vest.
“I see you’re ready to go.”
“Go where?”
“You don’t think I’m going to confront Richard Thomas and my new ‘employees’ without some knowledgeable backup.”
“Which one’s Richard Thomas?”
“Ben’s solicitor. Fierce-looking old dragon with bushy eyebrows and a nose that looks like it was broken once and never repaired properly. He’s been Ben’s personal rep for as long as I can remember. Absolutely terrifying,” I confessed. “Insists on calling me Abigail. A meeting with him is like being sent to the headmaster’s office in disgrace.”
Patrick laughed at my grumpy face. “You’d know all about that. Get a coffee and we’ll go face the old dragon together.”
Liam accompanied us as far as the distillery yard at the Glen before running off to stalk a rabbit through the adjacent field. Our shotgun-wielding friend from last evening was leaning on the wall outside the office door, smoking a cigarette.
“Thomas isnae here yet,” Cam announced.
“Right,” I said, already feeling uncomfortable. I shot Patrick a pleading look.
“So, Cam, isn’t it, how long have you been with Abbey Glen?” Patrick asked.
Cam took a long drag on his cigarette. “Since I was seventeen.”
“You must have seen a lot of changes,” I remarked. �
�What do you do here these days?”
“I’m a still man like my father,” Cam replied. “Course, I’m doin’ all sorts now Ben’s gone. Someone has to. Least till we get passed on to the highest bidder.”
Patrick caught my eye and silenced me before I could make a sharp retort. “Abbey Glen’s famous for its handcrafted whiskies,” he observed. “With the right buyer things should go on just like always. Why would anyone want to mess with success?”
“Wouldnae bet on that,” Cam said. “Handcraftin’s expensive, and it’s all about pounds and pence these days.”
“Sounds familiar,” I muttered.
Mercifully we were saved from having to make further conversation by the arrival of Richard Thomas. He emerged from the car looking like a fish out of water in his city suit and wingtip shoes. We adjourned to the office, where we spent two solid hours going over the financials for the distillery, much of which went over my head. The business was in the black, but Ben had sunk a small fortune into renovations and repairs, both at the distillery and at the farm. Salaries were more than generous, and he’d donated a ton of money to the village to support the school, the library, the pub, you name it. In short, I’d just inherited a colossal Celtic money pit.
As we moved into the third hour, Thomas must have sensed that my eyes were glazing over. He stopped his monologue and began to collect his files. “You look fatigued, Abigail. We can continue this at a later time, and I will see to it that Grant joins us.”
“Where is the boy wonder, then?” I asked. Grant was the son of Ben’s former client Donald MacEwen and his right-hand man at the distillery. An absolute genius, if Ben could be believed. I’d never met the man, but I could imagine the type—driven, obsessed, humorless, and doubtless not thrilled by my arrival on the scene.
Thomas turned to Cam. “Did he say when he would be back?”
“Later today. He’s in Edinburgh picking up the parts we’ve been waiting for to repair the heating coil.”
Patrick perked up. “Does that mean you’ll be back in production soon?”
“I doubt it,” Cam said, looking uncomfortable. “It’s been a helluva week.”
Now Thomas’s attention had been piqued. “In what way?” he asked.
“We’ve had some complications with the equipment.”
Thomas gave Cam his best fierce-headmaster look. “When you say ‘complications,’ I presume you mean something out of the ordinary.”
“It’s probably best if you ask Grant for the details.”
“I’m not asking Grant, I’m asking you.” Thomas enunciated each word slowly and clearly, addressing Cam like a prisoner in the dock.
Cam caved under Thomas’s icy glare. “There’s been some damage to the equipment…and it looks like it may ha’ been intentional.”
“Intentional?” Thomas and I queried in unison. “Why weren’t we told?” he added.
“Grant wanted to wait and tell you face-to-face,” Cam said. “He figured the two of you had enough on your plate to be gettin’ on with.”
Patrick looked confused. “What makes you think the damage was done on purpose? So much of the equipment here is vintage, breakdowns must be common.”
“Since Ben passed, it’s been one damn thing after another. First, it was valves severed off the steam unit, then the heatin’ coils bein’ tampered with, and yesterday a dozen specially ordered oak barrels ruined. We’ve been strugglin’ since the beginnin’ of the week, and Grant finally decided to shut the whole lot down till we can get things sorted.”
“And none of this was happening before Ben’s death?” I asked.
Cam shook his head. “Started as soon as…as soon as the place changed hands. Costin’ us a bloody fortune, and all.”
“Why would anyone want to vandalize Abbey Glen?”
Cam shrugged but didn’t respond.
“Come on,” I insisted, “you must have some idea, or does this happen every time a woman takes over a distillery in this part of the world?”
“Women don’t just waltz in and take over distilleries in this part of the world,” Cam retorted. “It takes years of trainin’ and experience.”
Thomas interrupted before I could respond. “This is criminal trespass. Have you reported it to the police?”
Cam nodded. “The first time we did think it could’ve been the old gear, but by the second time it was clear it was no accident, so we called the local lads in.”
“And what did the ‘local lads’ have to say?” I asked.
“They’re lookin’ into it,” Cam said, “but as far as they’re concerned there’s no permanent damage and no one’s been hurt. They’ve got higher priorities.”
I couldn’t imagine what higher priorities might be taking the attention of the Balfour police department. Organized crime, gang violence, an outbreak of sheep tipping?
“Are you saying that someone has to get hurt before the police will bother to investigate?” Patrick pressed.
Like me, I thought, and an innocent duck, both of us at the mercy of a knife-wielding sociopath. Cam shuffled the papers in front of him, and I wondered if he would refuse to answer.
After another long pause he went on, choosing his words with care. “I believe the police see this as a business matter; one that’ll settle itself as soon as we know what’s happenin’ to the Glen.”
I wasn’t going to be sidelined by Thomas again. “What you’re saying is the old boys have their noses out of joint because Ben involved me, and now they’re taking it out on the distillery?” Richard Thomas flashed a stern look in my direction. My mouth always ran ahead of my brain when I was indignant. “News may not have reached this far north, but women do a great many things here in the twenty-first century. They run multimillion-dollar corporations, and even whole countries.”
“That’s as may be,” Cam said. “But producin’ a single malt whisky’s no job for the inexperienced. If you ask me, the vandalism at the distillery is designed to get you to see sense and sell up quickly.”
“How do you figure that?” I demanded.
“You had nae interest in the business before. Why would you start now? Create enough problems and you’ll be ready to unload the place on the first buyer that comes along.” Cam met my eyes with a steady gaze. “No offense, Ms. Logan, but the Glen’s like a ship without a proper captain. Folks in the business suspect the old girl’s founderin’ and the sharks are starting to circle.”
“Abbey Glen has a captain whether people approve of her or not, and I have no intention of watching this ship sink.” My anxiety was momentarily swept away by a fresh wave of anger. “Whoever’s playing this game should be very careful. Their plan may just backfire.” I stood up and glared at Cam and Richard. “I might decide to keep the Glen. Take over from Ben and bring a woman’s touch to the place.” It was a struggle not to laugh as the three men gaped at me as if I’d spontaneously grown a second head. Inside, my rational self was screaming, What the hell are you saying?, but the side of me that loved Ben Logan charged ahead with reckless abandon.
“But…but, you have your own life, your own career, you cannae want to get mixed up in this lot?” Cam sputtered, getting to his feet. From the look on his face you’d think I’d suggested leveling the place and turning it into a new age yoga retreat.
“I’m already ‘mixed up’ in this,” I countered. “I’ll admit I don’t know a damn thing about distilling, but I do know people, and I will go after anyone who tries to jeopardize Ben’s business. If you threaten the Glen, you’ll answer to me.”
“This is a very stressful time for everyone,” Thomas said, placing a restraining hand on my arm. “I’d like to confer with Grant before we decide our next move. In the meantime, Cam, thank you for being so forthcoming. You were right to tell us. Ms. Logan needs to know what she’s dealing with. And for the record, I believe you’ll find the new owner to be a very formidable presence. She is Ben’s niece, after all. Underestimate her at your own peril.”
Cam
gave a brusque nod of acknowledgment. “If we’re done here, I have work to do.”
Thomas turned to me. “Let’s meet again on Sunday. I have a few more estate matters to cover before I head back to London. You will be staying on, won’t you?”
“I have two weeks before I have to be back at work, and I want to sort this out for Ben’s sake,” I said. And for mine, I was surprised to find. Ben had clearly given his heart and soul to the Glen and to this community. And look how they were repaying him. Whoever it was wouldn’t get away with it on my watch. “Ben deserves better than this from the people he’s given fifteen years of his life to, and I’ll see he gets it.”
Patrick steered me outside before I could go off on another tirade, and he insisted we walk into the village for lunch rather than allowing me to return to the Haven to stew. By the time we had done the two-and-a-half-mile trek through the fields to the outskirts of Balfour, I’d regained my composure, but I was still in a bad mood.
“You should have told Thomas about the threats you received in London, and our fowl sacrifice on the front porch,” Patrick insisted. “It looks like your malignant missive wasn’t just an isolated incident. It’s part of a concerted campaign to make things difficult for you and the Glen.”
“I’ll lay money it’s one of the good old boys around here. Cam can barely hide his dislike and Grant MacEwen couldn’t even be bothered to stick around to meet me this morning. For all I know, either one of them could be responsible for the thistles and the dead duck. That’s why I didn’t want to raise the issue this morning.”
“What’s your take on Cam?”
I considered the question for a moment. It wasn’t an idle inquiry. Patrick knew the way I worked, the way I’d always worked. Invariably, when I meet a new person I close my eyes and create a verbal sketch in three words. Just the first three words that pop into my head. A mental snapshot. I don’t always understand the significance of the words when they come, but the picture usually comes into focus in the end. Call it instinct or insight, it hadn’t failed me yet and the best of my photographic portraits always captured the essence of the crucial three words. Patrick’s three were simple: loyal, insightful, and hedonistic. Of course, he turned my prescience into a game, making bets in the newsroom on the reprobates, performers, and politicians that came across the radar screen. I was right often enough to keep him in free drinks at the Scrivener’s Arms.
Single Malt Murder Page 3
