“Come on,” he urged. “Give me your three words on Cam. Don’t think, just feel.”
I closed my eyes and tried to clear my mind, waiting for the words to come.
Stalwart, pragmatic, and imperturbable leapt to mind. “Not bad for an employee,” I pointed out. “Loyal and dependable, he’d photograph as solid as the hills around us, but his loyalties are to the Glen, not me.”
“What about Grant?”
“I won’t know till I meet him, but I would expect him to be as loyal to the distillery as Cam. That doesn’t mean they might not have a go at a little sabotage. I mean, so far it doesn’t sound like any of the damage has been irreparable, and if it got rid of me in a hurry, I’m guessing they would think it was well worth it. They may even have someone in mind to take my place.”
“God help them.”
God help them is right. If the whisky fraternity thought for one minute that I could be pushed aside or bullied into doing what they wanted, then they had another think coming. The Glen was Ben’s passion in life and he’d left her in my care. I’d be damned if I would stand back and let some lunatic destroy all he’d worked so hard to achieve. I should have been here sooner, and I’d live with that guilt for the rest of my life, but I was here now and I wouldn’t let him down.
It was time to start poking around this tiny town. Places like Balfour are a journalist’s dream—nothing here would go unnoticed or unremarked upon. I wanted to find out what Ben’s friends and neighbors had to say about the goings-on at the Glen, and I knew just where to start.
I linked my arm in Patrick’s and led him across the village green. “Come on. We’re going to the pub.”
Chapter 4
The village of Balfour proved to be insanely picturesque. The clear, fast-moving River Alyn wound through the heart of the town separating the main street shops and businesses from the bulk of the houses, with their neat front lawns and riotous floral displays. On the residential side, the riverbank was wide and flat and covered with a fine soft grass that had been manicured to make room for several benches and a children’s playground complete with a wooden fort, swings, and a roundabout. On the opposite bank, the Golden Stag boasted an idyllic view across the water from a stone terrace framed by a walled garden. It would be heaven on a summer evening.
How Balfour had escaped an onslaught of tourists I couldn’t imagine. Probably because there were no visible signs of the usual tourist amenities—no bed-and-breakfasts, no country inns, no overdone tearooms serving haggis, no tartan shops selling the best that China has to offer. Thank God. It would be a travesty to ruin this little gem.
Patrick took to our mission with great zeal, approaching the pub with the reverence of the faithful descending on Mecca, determined to pursue some hands-on investigation into the local whiskies. He settled Liam and me at a table near the fire and ostensibly went to find us a restorative dram, but he was soon deep in conversation with the young bartender and some of the locals. At least I knew I could trust him to tune in to the village gossip while he was drinking.
Like the Haven, the Stag looked as if it had been renovated in the last few years, and the intricate carving on the bar front suggested that the same artisan had been involved in both projects. Around the walls antique horse brass, vintage hunting rifles, and a collection of etched mirrors gleamed in the soft light from a fire blazing away in an enormous open stone hearth. The giant flat-screen TV in the adjoining room would have looked at home in an upscale London sports bar, and the glass shelves behind the counter displayed a staggering array of whiskies, as well as some high-end brandies and Armagnacs. Extricating Patrick would be tricky.
“There’s nothing sadder than a beautiful woman without a drink.”
The voice crooning in my ear made me jump, and I realized the young man Patrick had been monopolizing behind the bar had come to offer his services to me. Up close he looked even younger than he did from a distance. His face was made up of a series of sharp angles; cheekbones and chin, with a pair of deep blue eyes peeking out from behind a curtain of straight black hair that refused to stay pushed back. But it was the timbre of his voice that blew me away—warm, mellow, hypnotic, and tinged with a seductive Irish lilt.
“I suppose I should have a whisky,” I said, “but you’d better choose something for me.”
“What do you like?” he asked, putting a bowl of water down for Liam. “Lots of peat? Sherry tones? Oak?”
He might as well have been speaking another language, for all the guidance that gave me. “I have no idea, surprise me.”
He flashed a smile that would melt butter on a cold day before heading back to the bar to confer with Patrick. He returned shortly with a glass, which he placed on the table next to me. “Patrick says to give you this. It was Ben’s favorite, a vintage classic from the Abbey Glen vaults.”
I eyed the glass skeptically. “Thanks. What’s your name?”
“Duff. Duff Morgan.”
“Your mum’s Siobhán Morgan, right?”
“Aye,” Duff replied sheepishly.
Ben had left a sizable bequest to Siobhán in his will. It had taken me by surprise. Ben was always a hit with the ladies. He was tall and trim, with a wicked sense of humor and eyes that sparkled when he laughed. The fact that he was an extremely successful financial analyst didn’t hurt either, but he never allowed any woman other than me into his life for long. I was curious to see what she was like, this woman who’d clearly found her way into his heart. I wasn’t sure I liked having competition…even now.
“…when I’m not helping Mum here at the pub, I work at the Glen,” Duff was saying.
It had only been this morning, but there was so much information. I couldn’t for the life of me remember what Duff did for us. “Tell me about what you do at the Glen,” I prompted, turning my attention back to the young man.
“Mostly the hand malting, but Ben recruited me to set up the Glen’s website, too.”
“So you’re helping to bring the business into the twenty-first century.”
“I suppose. Ben taught me everything I know about making whisky, but I taught him a few things about leveraging the Internet.”
“That’s usually the way with young people these days,” I said with a smile.
“Lovely wheaten terrier,” Duff said, scratching Liam’s ears. “What’s his name?”
“Liam.”
“That’s my given name. I was named after me da. Do you know what Liam means in Gaelic?”
I shook my head.
“Unwavering protector.”
I felt a chill run down my spine. Ben was a stickler for details. My juvenile obsession with Liam Neeson wasn’t the only reason he’d chosen the dog’s name. As always, he’d been looking out for me. Ensuring there would be someone there for me when he was gone. I suppose he had little faith in my ability to abandon work long enough to find a member of my own species to share my life with. I hastily brushed away a tear.
“Not that my father was much of a protector,” Duff was saying with a trace of bitterness. “Killed in a drunken fight after a darts tournament in Inverness.”
“I’m sorry. How old were you?”
“Seven.” Duff perched on the arm of my chair and continued to pet Liam.
“I was eight when my folks died,” I confided. “Car crash. Ben was my father’s brother. Don’t think he ever expected to have kids. Not sure he even wanted to be a parent, but he was great at it. Just the perfect balance of eccentricity, wisdom, and kindness.”
“Ben started comin’ here when I was just a kid. I used to run away to the hills behind the distillery all the time just to escape. Somehow my feet always led me back to the Glen. Ben would welcome me like he’d been waitin’ all day just to see me. Taught me everythin’ I wanted to know about whisky, and even had Cam hire me on at the Glen. He believed I was fit for more than just pullin’ pints in a pub all day.”
“I’m glad he was there for you when you needed him,” I said softly.<
br />
Duff stared into the fire and sighed. “I still need him.”
So do I. The thought brought a lump to my throat. I took a large swig of the amber liquid in my glass. Fully prepared to hide a grimace, I was surprised to find that, even at full strength, it tasted more like a vintage brandy than the whiskies I knew. Not just good, but really good. Redolent of figs and caramel and Christmas pudding. A gentle touch of comfort and warmth, which made me think of Ben. I continued to sip from the glass, allowing the glow to spread through me like a ghostly caress.
“This is lovely,” I said, watching the light play on the surface of the liquid.
“You sound surprised,” Duff said, his focus returning to me.
“This place is full of surprises.”
“Now, that I find hard to believe,” Duff said, shaking off the melancholy mood. “Not much to get excited about in this backwater.”
“Nothing to get excited about? The hills, the heather, the picture-perfect country village. It’s so gorgeous it’s almost too good to be true.”
He leaned in closer and gazed at me intently. “Aye, the hills are beautiful,” he said, his voice rising and falling like a lullaby. “And very ancient. In the old days, they were full of water, massive underground aquifers that fed the lakes and streams for miles around. So much hidden water, legend had it water spirits inhabited the valley and blessed the streams with magical powers. Some folks even believed it was the enchanted waters that made our whisky so good.”
“And do we use this ‘enchanted water’ to make whisky at the Glen?”
“Not enough of it now. Most of the underground streams dried up years ago. Left the hills around here honeycombed with hidden caves and passages. Local bootleggers used to love them. I could show you around if you like, Abi. I know the place inside and out. Plenty of great places to get lost for a while if you feel like it.”
From the look in Duff’s eyes it was far from the first time he’d been up to those hills getting lost with some girl. “You certainly have a way with words,” I said.
“Comes from me mum’s side of the family,” Duff said with a grin. “She’s a fiery Irish lass from way back.”
“You don’t say.” I repressed a smile and steered the conversation back to the Glen. “Tell me about the new Web presence?”
Duff took the hint. “The geriatric set don’t get it, but Ben liked the idea. We use the site to explain Ben’s philosophy and show how we make whisky at the Glen. We’re pretty unusual, because we do things the old-fashioned way. That’s the thing I love most about workin’ at the Glen, it’s a unique experience—like steppin’ back in time. For whisky lovers, at least, it’s interestin’ stuff. It’ll be good background for anyone lookin’ to buy the place.”
I smiled wryly. “Everyone’s so sure I’ll be selling.”
“Can’t think of any reason you’d be interested in keepin’ the old girl,” Duff said without hesitation.
“You mean what’s left of her after the place has been decimated.”
Duff raised an eyebrow. “They didn’t waste any time throwin’ you into the deep end, did they?”
I studied Duff’s face closely. He was a handsome young man. Superficially cocky, but underneath I sensed a strong current of insecurity. He reminded me of the rising young tennis player I’d been sent to photograph last year at the French Open. He was all mouth and trousers, as Ben used to say, but it never seemed more than skin-deep to me. It was like a candy shell he hid behind. Underneath he was a damaged child. There was something of the same wistful quality about Duff that made me feel he was more vulnerable than one might think. Clever, defensive, and immersed in his whisky and its lore. I made a mental note of the three words.
“Cam thinks someone’s trying to bully me into selling out,” I said, taking the direct approach. “Any thoughts on who it might be?”
Duff’s face hardened. “No idea, but whoever it is, I’d love to get my hands on them.”
“You must have some idea, however far-fetched,” I coaxed. “You’re a bartender. Bartenders hear things. I’ll bet you know more than you think.”
“I suppose.” Duff sounded doubtful. “I mean, there’s plenty of folks who’d like to get their hands on the Glen, and some as wouldnae be above breakin’ the law to do it.”
“Anyone particular in mind?”
Duff hesitated. “I won’t point fingers, but there’s a lot of rivalry and petty jealousy between the local distillers. It’s a tough business when you are runnin’ on tight margins.” Duff lowered his voice. “Ben did really well, but a lot of others weren’t so lucky.”
“Were the other distillers jealous of Ben’s success?”
“Some, I suppose, but even the ones that were still respected him.”
“On vacation, are we?” A petite woman with delicate features and a mane of auburn hair streaked with gray entered from the back room, her dark eyes flashing. Duff must have been absorbed in his conversation with me, because she managed to approach and flick him sharply on the backside with a rolled-up dish towel before he could react.
“Sorry, Mam.”
“Go on, then. This place needs tidyin’ up before the teatime rush.”
Duff hustled back to the bar, giving me a wink behind his mother’s back. I stood up and held out a hand, receiving a limp greeting in return. “Mrs. Morgan, I’m Ben’s niece, Abi. I understand you’re catering the luncheon at the Haven tomorrow after the memorial service.”
“I know who you are.”
The coolness of the greeting threw me off. “Right, then. Well, please let me know if there is anything I can do to help.”
“I’m quite sure I can manage,” she replied stiffly. “I know my way around the Haven well enough. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to be gettin’ on.”
She hurried away, leaving a distinct chill in her wake in spite of the warmth of the fire. She was a lovely woman. Passionate, no-nonsense, and independent. She’d certainly have given Ben a run for his money. In light of the bequest, I suppose I should have led with something other than catering. I looked around the room and saw that the place was emptying out. I rousted Liam and caught Patrick’s eye, nodding toward the door.
Walking back to the Haven, Patrick rambled on about the whisky. His tasting buddies had nothing to contribute except that it was a “right shame about Ben.” News of the damage to the distillery was being heralded as everything from potential corporate espionage to a curse, but no one was pointing fingers, at least in front of the outsiders. Patrick droned on, and I allowed my mind to drift back to my conversation with Duff. He spoke of rivalry and petty jealousies amongst the distillers, but insisted that Ben was universally respected. The more I thought about it, the more that seemed unlikely, and I couldn’t help wondering if Duff was merely being polite. Ben came here as a stranger from the South, taking over a local cottage industry and beating the locals at their own game. It can’t have sat well. Maybe the threats I’d received were only a smoke screen to hide a deep-seated grudge against Ben?
As we made our way through the front gate and up the walk at the Haven, I could see a stack of boxes was waiting for us on the front porch. On the top was a rectangular wooden box bearing the insignia of Abbey Glen. Patrick promptly claimed it and left me to stagger inside with the rest of the delivery. I peeked inside the top box and saw Ben’s journals and his notes on the Glen that Richard Thomas had promised to find for me. I deposited the boxes on the floor in the corner of the library and went to find Patrick, who was standing at the counter in the kitchen looking at the note that accompanied the whisky.
“One of your new admirers?” I teased.
“No. And not one of yours, either.” Patrick handed me the note. There were no words. None were necessary. The lurid sketch of a naked woman chained to a whisky barrel with a knife protruding from her chest was more than enough to send chills down my spine.
Chapter 5
Okay, so maybe it was about me. My detractors had made thei
r point. Vividly. But over Patrick’s fervent and vocal objections, I refused to call the police until Ben’s funeral was over. Another twenty-four hours more or less wouldn’t make a difference, and I was determined that tomorrow’s tribute to Ben would be unsullied by this madness.
Mercifully, Saturday dawned without a cloud in the sky. Brilliant sunshine bathed the valley in a warm glow, and a soft breeze whispered of the approach of balmier days. The service was being held at St. Jude’s, the graceful old Norman church on the far edge of Balfour’s village green, comforting in its bulk without being overwhelming in proportion. Standing in the shadow of an edifice erected to the patron saint of lost causes, I had to think the village elders were either extreme realists or blessed with a quirky sense of humor. Either way, they were my kind of people.
Lovely as it was, it couldn’t distract me from the fact that the entire village, and half of the next, had turned out for the occasion. The churchyard was a seething mass of somber Scots converging to pay their respects. I should have been gratified, but this was not the way I wanted to say goodbye to Ben. I wanted to be alone. I wanted to grieve in my own way, far from the prying eyes of all these strangers. I froze as we stepped through the gate, overwhelmed by the urge to turn and run.
Patrick sensed my panic and reached for my hand, giving it a squeeze. “Breathe. You’ll get through this. Just relax and try to see the humorous side. You know Ben would’ve.” He nodded in the direction of two elderly ladies sporting wildly inappropriate floral headgear atop their blue rinsed hair. Traditional suits and jackets predominated among the men, but there were also a significant number of kilts. The most striking was a gentleman, clearly of Japanese descent, in full Highland regalia, who stood chatting amiably with a group of men that Patrick identified as representatives from some of the larger and better-known distilleries in the area. Patrick was right. Ben would’ve loved the spectacle of it all.
Single Malt Murder Page 4
