Single Malt Murder

by Melinda Mullet

  “Don’t jump to conclusions,” I retorted. “Those death threats were aimed at me. Only at me. This…this must have been an accident.”

  Patrick didn’t look any more convinced than I did, but his stream of invective slowed to a trickle. “I think I’m going to be sick.” He slumped against the doorjamb, his face now an odd shade of green.

  I was tempted to join him, but one of us had to take charge. “Come on,” I said. “Let’s get out of here. You’re right, we have to get the police.” I herded Patrick and Liam from the heat and cloying smell of the Yeast Room. I couldn’t get a cell signal, so we made our way back downstairs and across the courtyard to the distillery office. My fumbling efforts to find the right key summoned Cam, who appeared at the door looking bleary eyed.

  “If you two are goin’ to make a habit of wanderin’ about the place in the middle of the night, I’ll have to put you on sentry duty.”

  “We didn’t expect you to be here tonight…,” I faltered, gripping Liam’s leash tightly and struggling for the right words to explain the situation. “We need to use the phone. Patrick and I found a body in the…the…”

  “…washback,” Patrick finished. “A dead body.”

  Cam stared at the two of us as if we were mad, but the looks on our faces must have convinced him that this wasn’t some kind of bizarre English joke. He raced out the door and over to the Still House, reemerging quickly, his face ashen.

  “Who is it? And how did he get there?” Cam said in a daze. “Should we pull him out?”

  “It’s too late to make any difference.” I forced another deep, steadying breath. “And the police will want to see things as we found them.”

  “They’re on their way,” Patrick said as he emerged from the office.

  The three of us walked back to the Still House and sank down on the metal stairs, keeping vigil in uncomfortable silence.

  “Who would be checking on the vats at this hour?” I asked Cam as the trauma of what had happened began to give way to my natural curiosity for why.

  “That’s just it. No one shouldhae been.” Cam shook his head in bewilderment. “I’d have stopped by again in the mornin’, but no one else shouldhae been here this late. Grant and I have been takin’ turns kippin’ in the office at night to keep an eye on things. Tonight was my go, but I had to take Reverend Wharton and the missus home after the reception. I only just got here.”

  “Should you call MacEwen?” I asked.

  “Aye, I’m not thinkin’ straight.” Cam headed back to the office.

  “Is it hot in here, or is it me?” Patrick said, leaning against the railing and fanning himself. He looked pale and sweaty again.

  “Why don’t you go back outside,” I said. “Tie Liam up in the yard so he doesn’t get in the way, and keep an eye out for the police.”

  Left alone, I allowed my gaze to return to the open door of the Yeast Room. I kept telling myself this was just a tragic accident, but I couldn’t ignore that tingle in the back of my neck that warned me something didn’t add up.

  I hastily crept up the stairs to the mezzanine level and looked back through the door to the yard beyond. There was no sign of activity. This could be the only chance I’d get. I made my way to the dimly lit Yeast Room, using the flashlight on my phone as a guide. The washback lids were a good seven or eight feet across and made of heavy oak. They both flipped open at the halfway point on two large metal hinges that looked to be in good condition from where I was standing. There must be some sort of brace system underneath to hold up the unwieldy lid, otherwise it would be impossible to keep it from crashing down on anyone trying to lean in and tend to the whisky.

  I took a deep breath and moved toward the body, willing my professional instincts to take over. The mesh floor around the second washback was wet, but I couldn’t see any immediate sign of struggle. The dark pants and white shirt could have belonged to anyone, but not the shoes. I hadn’t noticed them in the shock of the initial discovery. Red and black sport shoes.

  I started to shake, and a wave of nausea washed over me as the combined forces of shock and alcohol hit my system with a vengeance. I’d watched Duff change out of his dress shoes and into those red and black trainers before helping out at the reception. Suddenly the figure in the vat was no longer nameless and faceless.

  It was Duff.

  What was he doing here? I thought back to my own hazy recollection of the end of the reception. He was drunk; we were all drunk. The last thing I remember Duff saying to me before he left was something about protecting Ben’s lady and not letting her come to any harm. He was plastered, but sincere. I could hear his warm, vibrant voice echoing in my head. Was he checking on things at the Glen, as we’d been? Did he try to check the wash and lose control of the lid? It would be a tough thing to manage even dead sober. Or did he walk in on someone trying to sabotage the washbacks? He’d have been in no condition to fend off an attacker if they turned on him.

  I tried to distance myself from the horror of the situation by taking some quick pictures with my phone. I couldn’t process all that I was seeing now, but I knew from experience that the images might come in handy later. I heard the sound of a siren in the yard and I quickly slipped back down the stairs in time to see Balfour’s police department arrive in full force. All two of them—a short, balding man with the face of a bulldog, wearing a navy Barbour coat that had seen better days, and a tall, spotty-faced kid that trotted along behind carrying a camera, a clipboard, and a brand-new roll of yellow cordoning tape.

  “This is Sergeant Bill Rothes,” Cam said as they approached.

  Sgt. Rothes nodded in my direction but didn’t break stride. “When did you find him?” he asked over his shoulder.

  “About three-quarters of an hour ago,” I replied. “We didn’t notice him at first. It was Liam that picked up on the smell.”

  “Liam?”

  “My dog.”

  Rothes turned on the stairs and looked me up and down as if sizing up a potential troublemaker. “What were you and the dog doing in here at this hour?”

  “Keeping an eye on my property.”

  Sgt. Rothes raised an eyebrow. “I suppose that’s your prerogative. Wait outside for now, but I’ll need to talk to you again when I’m finished here.” Rothes dismissed me and started barking orders. “Williams, tape this area off, then follow me. Cam, keep an eye out for Kristen. I want to see her as soon as she gets here.”

  —

  I sat with Patrick on a low wall across the yard from the Still House, silently praying that I was wrong about the identity of the victim even though my heart told me I wasn’t. After ten minutes or so, MacEwen skidded into the yard in an old truck and ran straight inside. I’m not sure he even saw us. He was followed shortly after by a dark blue Mini Cooper. The driver was an attractive woman dressed in black jeans and a long gray Aran sweater. She threw a black bag over her shoulder and crossed the yard toward us, gathering a mane of glossy blond hair into a clip at the back of her neck as she came.

  “Abi?”

  “Yes.”

  “Dr. Ramsey,” she said, extending her hand.

  I’d spoken to Kristen Ramsey a number of times during Ben’s illness, but we’d never met. I’d pictured an older woman, more matronly, not a blond bombshell with tawny brown eyes. No wonder Ben insisted on using the local doctor as well as his Harley Street specialists.

  “Nice to finally meet you,” I said.

  “Likewise. Sorry it couldn’t be under better circumstances. Where’s Bill?”

  “Sergeant Rothes? He’s inside,” I said.

  “Right, I’d better see him first. We can catch up a little later.” She shouldered her gear and headed for the Still House door.

  Patrick and I sat there for some time, shivering in the night air, before Cam came out and rejoined us.

  He sank onto the ground by the wall, looking gutted. “It’s Duff,” he said, pulling a flask from his jacket pocket and taking a swig.

&nb
sp; Patrick gave a start. “No…it can’t be.”

  My heart sank as my suspicions were confirmed. “He was just a kid,” I whispered.

  Cam lit a cigarette and stared at the ground. “He has a nasty gash on the back of his head, and Rothes is askin’ if Duff could ha’been trying to sabotage the washback and been nailed by his own trap.”

  “Why would Duff be trying to cause trouble at the Glen?” I asked, perplexed.

  “He wouldn’t. Not the way I see it.” Cam shook his head. “Damn fool kid. Waste of a good vat of malt.” Cam sat silently watching his smoke thin on the breeze and drift away.

  An odd thing to say, but in spite of his cavalier tone, I sensed Cam was deeply shaken. The three of us sat there in silence for the better part of an hour, Cam smoking one cigarette after another, the only outward sign of his distress. Liam leaned on me, watching the comings and goings from the Still House with a wary eye.

  Casting Duff in the role of saboteur seemed like a lazy solution to the sabotage question, not a logical one. What could Duff possibly have to gain from damaging Ben’s distillery? Much more likely, the lid had already been sabotaged and Duff was unlucky enough to be the first one on the scene. In his condition, an accident would’ve been almost inevitable.

  Kristen Ramsey reemerged at last and came toward us.

  “Thanks for hanging about. Bill will be out in a few minutes. He wants to talk to you both. And Grant needs to see you, Cam.” Cam got to his feet stiffly and headed back to the Still House.

  “Can you tell us what happened?” I asked.

  “Nasty blow to the back of the head, but ‘how and why’ is Rothes’s department, not mine.”

  “What happens next?”

  “Under the circumstances, there’ll be a postmortem. Not here, of course, we’re too small for that kind of thing. We use the hospital in Stirling. Don’t worry, I’ll make sure they get this on the fast track.”

  “Any clue what he was doing in there at this hour?” Patrick asked.

  “No idea. Listen, I’m sorry I missed the funeral and the reception,” she said, turning to me. “I’m afraid in a town this size there’s only one doctor, and I’m it. I’ve been at the hospital with a patient since first thing this morning.”

  “Ben would have understood,” I said. “I feel badly, too. I should’ve been in touch sooner, Doctor. I wanted to thank you for everything you did for him…especially at the end.”

  “Please, call me Kristen. Ben was a wonderful man, and a good friend. But things went south rather quickly,” she said with a sigh. “Of course, Ben didn’t want to disturb you, but I was sure you’d want to know. I’m afraid he was rather cross with me for contacting you.”

  “I can imagine,” I said with a sad smile.

  “If it helps, it was very peaceful in the end. Grant and I were both with him when he passed.”

  It didn’t help. I looked down at my hands, trying to hold back the tears that threatened. “Thank you,” I murmured. The knowledge that Grant was there and I wasn’t stirred up the unbearable grief and remorse once more.

  Kristen patted my shoulder. “Looks like they need you now,” she said, moving away. “I’d better get on the phone and make a few arrangements. We can talk again later if you like.”

  Rothes strode across the courtyard, stopping to confer with Kristen, before continuing our way.

  I introduced Patrick, and Rothes made a note of both of our contact information. “I’ll need to clarify a few things before I can let you go, Ms. Logan. You say you arrived at the Still House around ten forty-five?”

  “Give or take,” I said.

  “Breaking and entering again, were you?”

  Cam had obviously ratted us out. “No, we used the back door.”

  “You have your own key now?”

  “Yes, but the door wasn’t locked.”

  Rothes made a note before giving me a hard look. “Did anyone see you enter the premises?”

  “I shouldn’t think so.”

  “Who else had keys to the distillery?”

  “Grant and Cam, I would guess. Beyond that I don’t know. I’ve only been in town for about forty-eight hours.”

  “And yet you already felt the need to check up on your property?”

  “Given the problems of late, yes.”

  “Was anyone else around?”

  “Not that we saw.”

  “Did you touch either of the vats while you were in there?”

  “Only the lid on the one closest to the door. By the time Liam called our attention to the…to Duff, we moved away. We knew better than to disturb anything.”

  “And the lid was down when you found him?”

  “Yes.”

  “Alright, Ms. Logan. We’ll be keeping the Yeast Room locked down. No access for anyone. Our divisional office in Stirling will send a team of forensics experts to examine the vat tomorrow. The senior officer will likely have more questions for the two of you. You weren’t thinking of returning to London immediately?”

  “Not right away.” I hesitated briefly. “Can you tell if the vat lid had been tampered with?”

  Rothes hesitated before answering. “It looks that way. Mind you, it would be a tricky thing to pull off. Could easily backfire.”

  So Cam was right. Rothes was trying to pin this on Duff. Did he know something I didn’t? “Are you telling me that Duff was killed when he lost control of the lid he was sabotaging?” I prodded.

  “It’s early days yet,” Rothes replied, “but someone’s tampered with the lid and Duff was the only one there…other than the two of you.”

  I ignored Rothes’s attempt to bait me. “What motive could Duff possibly have for sabotaging the Glen?” I demanded.

  “That’s one of many things we’ll be looking into.”

  I wasn’t going to be deterred. “Duff was pretty drunk last night. He could have gone to the Glen and tried to catch our intruder,” I suggested. “Perhaps he stumbled on the saboteur and was attacked for his pains.”

  “Or he could have got there too late and been suspicious that the lid had been tampered with. If he tried to lift it and the lid came down on his head, he’d have been out cold,” Patrick added. I could see he was just as uncomfortable with the idea of Duff as a saboteur as I was. “Facedown in the wash he’d drown fast, and if the wash didn’t get him, the carbon monoxide would.”

  Rothes frowned at me. “This is my investigation, Ms. Logan, not yours. If Duff was responsible, we’ll find out; if someone else is to blame, we’ll figure that out, too. We don’t need help from a couple of London hacks.”

  Tenacious, solid, and pedestrian came to mind. Rothes seemed competent enough, and he was Balfour’s most senior officer, yet he was only a sergeant. One of the pitfalls of village life. He would likely find the right answer eventually, but it wouldn’t be anytime soon. We could only hope the divisional staff had more experience.

  Patrick nudged me in the ribs and mumbled, “Tell him.”

  Rothes caught my eye. “Tell me what?”

  “I was going to come and see you tomorrow,” I admitted. “Since Ben died I’ve had a couple of poison-pen notes threatening to kill me if I tried to keep Abbey Glen.”

  “Why didn’t you say something sooner? Those notes could be the hard physical evidence we need to find out who’s doing this. If you’d handed them over right away, maybe we could have avoided this mess,” Rothes scowled, clearly not pleased with me. “I want those notes on my desk as soon as possible, and don’t touch them any more than you have to.”

  Rothes strode away in the direction of Kristen and Grant MacEwen, who were standing in the doorway of the distillery office. I certainly hadn’t made friends with the local police, and I couldn’t expect much information to flow my way.

  If I wanted to find out what had happened, it would be up to me.

  “Wait here for a minute,” I said, handing Liam’s leash to Patrick.

  “Where are you going?”

  “Left
something behind.”

  I ran back inside the Still House. Young Williams was outside, quietly vomiting in the shrubbery. Through the door I could see Rothes still in the courtyard, talking to Kristen and Grant with his back to me. Duff’s body had been removed from the vat and lay on the elevated catwalk, dripping water in small puddles onto the cement floor below. I hesitated for an instant before taking the stairs two at a time to get a closer look at the body. Duff lay on his stomach, covered by a plastic tarp.

  I flipped the covering back long enough to examine the wound on the back of his head. What I saw made me feel sick to my stomach. “Forgive me,” I whispered before taking a quick close-up with my phone and skittering back down the stairs.

  “Ms. Logan? What the hell are you doing?” Rothes barked as he came through the main door.

  Fortunately, I was more than halfway down the steps when he entered. “Left my phone on the landing,” I fibbed, brandishing it in the air.

  “You need to leave immediately.” Rothes grabbed my arm as I slipped past, spinning me around to face him. “There better not be any pictures of this crime scene showing up in the tabloids, or you will answer to me. Do I make myself clear?”

  “I’m not that kind of journalist,” I snapped.

  “Good. Let’s make sure it stays that way.”

  I wrenched my arm from his grasp and went outside to search for Patrick and Liam. “Come on, let’s get out of here.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I’ll tell you when we get home.” I set out at a jog, trying to keep a rising sense of hysteria from overwhelming me. Patrick labored along behind.

  When we reached the Haven, I locked the door securely behind us and threw another log on the fire in the living room to fight the bone-chilling weariness that had overtaken me.

  “What’s going on?”

  “Duff’s death was no accident,” I said. “He was murdered.”

  Chapter 7

  “Murdered?” Patrick leaned forward on the couch, staring at me. “What made Rothes change his mind so fast?”

  “He hasn’t—yet—but I’ll bet my last pound on it. I’ve seen a lot of injuries in my professional life. Enough to help with triage in a pinch. If a wooden lid had crashed down on Duff’s head there would’ve been massive internal bleeding and nasty bruising, but that’s not what I saw.”