Single Malt Murder

by Melinda Mullet

  I looked out across the sea of people and saw Richard Thomas bearing down on us with the vicar in tow, like a dinghy bobbing along in the wake of a battleship. They steered us into the cool, dim interior of the church along with the rest of the crowd, and seated us in the front row. I could feel the eyes boring into the back of my head, and I gripped Patrick’s hand and looked straight ahead.

  The service was simple, heartfelt, and refreshingly brief. With Ben’s guidance his friends had pulled together a fitting tribute. For a minute I thought I might be able to escape with a minimum of fuss, but the vicar commandeered me to shake hands with the departing hordes, and I was stuck facing a dizzying array of strangers. My usually sound people-sense was drowning in what felt like a sea of quiet animosity bubbling under the hats and the perfunctory condolences. Patrick was too busy chatting up one of the distillery reps from Edinburgh to be of any help, so I forced myself to focus on each face that passed by, hoping in vain to pick up some reflection of guilt in the eyes of a stranger. It was impossible, but at least it distracted me from my present circumstances. The local residents were polite but distant, and the gentlemen Patrick flagged as representatives from the other distilleries came through in a herd, making it difficult to distinguish one middle-aged man from another.

  I was so relieved to see the end of the line, I didn’t even care that it was Richard Thomas bringing up the rear, deep in conversation with a tall, sandy-haired man in a dark gray kilt. In truth, Thomas’s companion was the only man I’d ever seen who could carry off knee-high socks and a skirt without making me want to cringe. I was clearly losing my mind, as my initial impression was that he had very attractive knees. My gaze traveled northward, and I registered a trim waistline and a pair of broad shoulders complemented by a well-tailored jacket. Patrick would be drooling. For the first time I found myself with a more than passing curiosity about the undergarment issue, but fortunately Thomas intervened before I had the chance to embarrass myself by starting to blush.

  “Abigail, I don’t believe you’ve met Grant MacEwen, a dear friend of your uncle’s, and Abbey Glen’s renowned head distiller.”

  So this was the famous Grant. As I shook hands with MacEwen, I found myself in the unusual position of having to look up a fair way before meeting a pair of remarkably green eyes. At the moment they were a dark gray-green, the color of a storm at sea—a very angry sea. Hardly the quirky misogynist I’d envisioned. However, he was clearly not pleased to see me. The tension in the air was almost palpable, and if I had to lay odds on the source of my hate mail at this precise moment, MacEwen would win hands down.

  I did my best to regain my composure, saying, “Ben spoke of you often. I…I know he valued your help with the distillery.”

  “Ben was a good man. He’ll be missed.” MacEwen’s voice was tinged with a soft brogue that had been mellowed by a stint in one of England’s upper-crust universities.

  Thomas was watching both of us closely. “Grant, I’m meeting with Abigail again tomorrow, before you and I get together. I was hoping you could find some time in the early morning to give her a quick tour of the Glen.”

  “As the new owner, she’s free to visit anytime,” MacEwen replied without enthusiasm.

  “I don’t want to get in the way,” I said, shifting on my feet, my toes numb from standing too long in the unaccustomed heels. I must have shifted too far, and I found myself listing to one side like a drunk. MacEwen grabbed my elbow and steadied me before I could fall to the ground, releasing me as soon as I’d regained my balance. I shivered as a chill ran up my spine that had nothing to do with the weather. There was no warmth in those eyes, but his touch was electric. “I’m not here for long, but I was hoping to get some photographs to use for Ben’s book before I leave,” I went on, forcing myself to meet his gaze.

  MacEwen was unfazed. “As you wish. Meet me at the distillery first thing in the morning. I’ll make sure you’re given access to whatever you need.” He excused himself to speak with one of the other guests, and I watched him move away through the crowd, stopping to casually exchange greetings with the other mourners as he went.

  “I am so delighted that you have taken on Ben’s book,” Thomas said with something approaching warmth. I accepted the hand he offered to help me descend the stone steps of the church. “It will be a fitting tribute to Ben and his legacy here.”

  “I hope so,” I murmured, trying to disguise the fact that I was still feeling somewhat shaky from my encounter with Grant MacEwen.

  Thomas was watching me with curious intensity. “If you let him, Grant can be a tremendous resource, Abigail. Officially he’s your distiller, but as a practical matter he and Ben have been partners in this venture since the beginning. He should be able to answer any questions you might have about the Glen or its history.”

  I nodded silently, wondering if MacEwen was the answer to the question “Who fancied seeing me with a knife through my heart?”

  —

  The teatime gathering at the Haven following the service had been limited to a small number of people, most of whom I’d already met. Richard Thomas arrived with Rev. and Mrs. Wharton. Cam and his wife followed close behind with MacEwen. Duff and Siobhán Morgan set up the food and drink without any help from me, before joining the group. It was obvious that they’d both been regular guests at the house, and the others treated them more like family than they did me. I did my best to keep smiling, but it was hard not to feel left out.

  Even Patrick had deserted me and was at the heart of an animated exchange at the drinks table involving numerous bottles and a growing line of tasting glasses. The men were attacking the bar with a vengeance, and the ladies had shooed me away when I offered to help clean up. I was stuck making small talk with Richard Thomas until Grant MacEwen finally moved to the center of the room to make a formal toast. The group drifted closer and fell silent.

  I found myself studying MacEwen’s face with a professional eye. I knew he was slightly older than me, but by how much was hard to tell. There was a restless energy about him that suggested he would be more comfortable outdoors, almost as if the indoors couldn’t quite contain him. His sandy blond hair was as well cut as the jacket and slacks that had replaced his kilt, and an expensive watch peeped out from underneath a starched shirt cuff. The stormy eyes that had stared me down on the church steps were gone now, replaced by two tranquil pools of deep forest green tinged with a genuine sadness.

  MacEwen draped one arm around Siobhán’s shoulders before raising his glass. “In his lifetime, Ben was many things: an extraordinary businessman, a generous philanthropist, an incomparable friend, and a much-loved companion. A man of substance and integrity. But those who knew him best knew he was happiest being known simply as a whisky maker. In the blending of grain and water he found his calling in life, and we were proud to welcome him into the distilling family. He departed this life too soon, but his spirit will remain with us always. Please raise a glass to Ben and his beloved Abbey Glen.”

  “To Ben and Abbey Glen,” came the echoed reply.

  I downed my drink in a single shot. “Those who knew him best.” No one knew Ben better than I did. At least, no one used to. I headed for the kitchen, poured myself another large glass of whisky, tucked the bottle under my arm, and stalked outside with Liam trotting happily behind.

  In the garden I found a large high-backed wooden chair positioned to look out over the hills. I flopped down and curled my legs up underneath me, watching the sun drop down in the sky as I worked my way through the bottle in my lap. Halfway through, I found myself wondering why I hadn’t been more of a whisky drinker down the years. It was a vastly underrated hobby.

  I drank myself into a warm cocoon of semi-oblivion, reluctant to stir until I heard voices coming toward me. I recognized MacEwen’s voice first, and as he and his companion moved closer I realized he was speaking to Richard Thomas. Curled up in the oversized chair I knew I couldn’t be seen from behind, and Liam wouldn’t give me away
as he was off chasing rabbits. I debated whether I should make my presence known, but decided that standing up was more of an effort than I could muster. If I was discovered it would be easier to feign sleep.

  “…no, not at all what I thought she’d be,” MacEwen was saying. “The way Ben went on, I guess I expected someone larger than life. A woman of great passion, a real firebrand.”

  Thomas chuckled. “You haven’t been on the receiving end of that tongue yet. Just wait. I suspect you’ll see her passionate side before all is said and done.”

  “I’d just as soon give it a miss, if it’s all the same to you. I’ve got enough on my plate as it is.”

  “Any more problems at the Glen today?”

  “No. Nothing for the past forty-eight hours.”

  “The calm before the storm?”

  “Aye, that’s what worries me.”

  “Have you given any more thought to installing surveillance cameras?”

  “It’s a waste of money,” MacEwen insisted. “Mark my words, things will get back to normal as soon as Ms. Logan makes up her mind about who she’s selling to.”

  “Abigail will do what Abigail wants to, and on her own timetable, not yours,” Thomas observed.

  MacEwen grunted. “I’m betting she can’t get out of here fast enough once the funeral’s done. Back to her high life in the city. Let’s face it, she’s never taken an interest in the business before.”

  “I know, but she wasn’t pleased when she heard about the problems at the Glen yesterday. If the look on her face was anything to go by, she won’t be letting this alone until she sorts out whoever is behind it.”

  “Her professional curiosity may be piqued for the moment, but when the next glamorous assignment comes along she’ll be off.”

  It was all I could do to keep from launching myself out of my chair to face MacEwen. Cheeky bugger. First he knows Ben best, and now he thinks he knows me. He has no clue. If he thinks his threats are going to send me running, he’s in for a surprise. I sat seething in silence, forcing myself to remain hidden, sacrificing my pride for the possibility of learning something from the exchange taking place behind me.

  “You might be wise to take Abigail into your confidence,” Thomas said. “She has quite the reputation for exposing people’s secrets, in print as well as in pictures. She sees things other people don’t.”

  “Or she’s luckier than most,” Grant speculated. “Either way, I’m not soliciting help from Ms. Logan.”

  “Just remember, Ben knew what he was doing. You just need to be patient.”

  Grant sighed, and I heard him turn back toward the house. “Easier said than done…”

  —

  “Have another coffee,” Patrick ordered.

  I held out my empty glass. “I’d rather have another drink.”

  “You’ve had more than enough already. Where did you go?”

  I filled Patrick in on what I’d overheard in the garden.

  Patrick smiled and poured me a second cup of coffee. “It’s naughty to eavesdrop.”

  “Well, you never hear good things about yourself, that’s for sure.” I took a sip of the coffee and burned my tongue. “Anyway, MacEwen’s on the top of my suspect list for the moment.”

  “Just because you don’t like MacEwen doesn’t mean he’s guilty.”

  “I may not like him, but I don’t dislike him either. I’m…indifferent.”

  “If you say so, but I think he’s delicious. Handsome and mysterious. I suspect you’re just annoyed because he hasn’t fallen prey to your charms.”

  Patrick ducked as I sent an empty biscuit tin winging toward his head. “Hey! Watch it. I’m on your side and you need me in one piece. Remember, you promised we’d go see the police about the threats you’ve received first thing tomorrow.”

  “And I will—tomorrow. But till then, everyone’s been so absorbed by the funeral today, no one’s been watching over the Glen…”

  “I know where this is heading,” Patrick groaned, “but I need my beauty sleep.”

  “Suit yourself. I’m going to have another look around the Glen and make sure everything’s okay.” I knew I wouldn’t sleep even if I went to bed. I’d put my investigation on hold for the funeral, and now that it was over I was ready to get moving. My mind was in overdrive and I was desperate to do something, anything, to help push the guilt and grief from the forefront of my mind.

  “I don’t fancy running into Cam and his shotgun again.”

  “You saw how much whisky they put down today,” I said. “Cam’ll be out like a light tonight.”

  “I suppose.”

  I could see Patrick weakening. “Come on. It’s not even eleven yet. Go with me,” I coaxed. “After all the coffee you’ve been pouring into us, we’ll be up half the night anyway.”

  “Alright, alright,” Patrick conceded. “But let’s not stay too long. I was really looking forward to my bed.”

  Liam was on his paws as soon as we opened the front door. I let him run ahead, reveling in the chill night air, following the scent of some nocturnal creature, as we lagged behind listening to the unfamiliar night sounds of the countryside. No hum of traffic, no car alarms, not even the night screeching of the animals on the savannah. The clouds had rolled in after the sun set and there wasn’t much light to guide our unsteady progress. Liam came back to check on us every few minutes, and we eventually found ourselves in the deserted courtyard once more.

  There were no lights on inside any of the buildings, and the barrel I stood on the night we arrived had been moved from beneath the window. Not that it mattered—Thomas had given me a set of keys at the meeting on Friday. I went to unlock the back door, but it was already ajar.

  We entered cautiously fearing that whoever left the door unlocked might still be around, but the Still House was dark and quiet. We wandered aimlessly around the lower level for some time, looking for any sign of new damage or destruction. Not that I would have recognized a problem if it jumped up and bit me, but Patrick would’ve, even drunk. When we’d exhausted the options on the ground floor, we headed up to the mezzanine level for a bird’s-eye view. Liam hesitated at the bottom of the metal stairway, sniffing cautiously before gingerly making his way up to join us.

  Patrick beckoned me along the red metal catwalk to a side room that housed two massive, twelve-foot-high oak casks. A quarter of the casks jutted up into the room where we stood like the tip of an iceberg, while the rest was visible through the metal mesh of the flooring stretching down to the ground level below.

  “These are the washbacks.”

  “You wash my back, I’ll wash yours,” I said with a giggle.

  Patrick gave me a disgusted look, which only made me giggle more. “The sugar water from the great big tank out there gets funneled into these special vats,” Patrick said with an impossibly straight face. “Then a special brewer’s yeast is added to kick-start the fermenting process.”

  “Why the warning?” I asked, pointing to a danger sign by the door.

  “As the wash ferments, it gives off a lot of carbon monoxide. The gas can linger in this small space and even in the washbacks themselves after they’re empty. Carbon monoxide poisoning’s a real risk.” Patrick was feeling around the sidewall for a light switch.

  “How long does it ferment?” I was doing my best to focus.

  “Two or three days, then it heads to the stills,” Patrick answered, locating the lever and flipping it upward.

  Even with the light on, the room was dim, and the low ceiling concentrated the overpowering smell of rising bread that hung in the air. Patrick slid back a small viewing hatch in the lid of the first vat and I peered down into the murky liquid.

  “Yuck,” I said, wrinkling my nose in disgust. “It smells foul. Even the dog can’t stand it.” I turned and followed Liam, who’d retreated behind the second washback, whining in distress.

  “It’s supposed to smell that way,” Patrick assured me. “No need to panic.”

&nbs
p; “No…I think we need to panic.” I hauled Liam away from the second tank, breaking out in a cold sweat in spite of the heat. I hadn’t thought things could get worse, but I was wrong.

  Protruding from beneath the heavy, semicircular wooden lid of the cask were the legs of a man, his head and chest submerged in the liquid wash within.

  Chapter 6

  My hands shook violently as I clipped the leash onto Liam’s collar and pulled him away from the scene, staggering into Patrick in my haste to retreat.

  “Is he…?” Patrick began, wide-eyed with horror.

  “I should think so,” I whispered. “Here, hold Liam.”

  I handed Patrick the leash and moved cautiously toward the body. On closer inspection I saw that one arm was hanging outside of the vat as well, and I steeled myself to lift the limp wrist searching in vain for a pulse. Not the slightest flutter. I looked up and shook my head in response to Patrick’s mute inquiry.

  “Shite.” Patrick spewed forth a string of frantic obscenities pacing back and forth in agitation, his face as white as chalk.

  My panic-stricken mind kept pace with Patrick’s barrage. How could this have happened? A chill ran down my spine as I thought of the sketch of the woman impaled on the barrel. I couldn’t help glancing over my shoulder, half expecting to see an attacker lurking in one of the dim recesses of the room.

  Liam was whining softly, but not in the way he would if there were a stranger nearby. At least that was a good sign. I forced myself to take several deep breaths, trying to bring my heart rate back under control. An accident. It had to have been an accident. Possibly even something to do with the carbon monoxide Patrick talked about.

  “Why didn’t you call the police? I begged you.” Patrick’s shrill voice caught me like a slap. “You ignored the threats, and now look.”