I went to retrieve my laptop from the library, downloaded the pictures from my phone, and pulled them up on the big screen.
“Abi! That’s disgusting.”
“I know, but try not to think of the person for a moment, just the injury. Look at the back of the neck.” I circled the spot with my index finger. “That’s a deep puncture wound. Something sharp penetrated the skin in a confined area. Not the kind of wound you get from being hit by a large flat wooden lid. In fact, nothing on that lid would make a mark like that. I’ll stake my reputation Duff was killed elsewhere and then moved to the vat.”
Patrick was looking green again. “But why?”
“Why was he killed? I don’t know. Why was he dumped in a vat at the Glen? My guess is the killer was trying to make it look like an accident. Look at these pictures of the vats. The one nearest the door has thick metal pins in the lid hinges, but not the one Duff was found in. They must have been removed by whoever tried to frame Duff.” I shivered again in spite of the warmth of the fire, and Liam came and lay across my lap, sensing my unhappiness.
“That’s a hell of an accusation.”
“I know.”
“And if someone killed Duff intentionally…”
“…then the threats against me are likely to be more than idle words.”
“You have to tell Rothes.”
“He’d go ballistic if he knew I’d been taking pictures of the body. He already seems to think we’re some kind of paparazzi. If I’m right, the postmortem will back me up soon enough, and I’m guessing the investigators from the district office will have more experience with this kind of thing.”
“But how long will that take, and what happens to you in the meantime?”
I went to the kitchen and grabbed a couple of open bottles of wine left over from the memorial. Hard to believe the last guests left only a few hours ago. I could feel a hangover coming on, and the stress of my predicament was making my stomach churn. The wine wouldn’t make it better, but it couldn’t make it worse. I offered Patrick the red and sat in front of the fire drinking the white straight from the bottle. “Can’t imagine the medical examiner’s report will take long. That’s a pretty big discrepancy. If I can see it, they will right away.” I tried to sound more confident than I felt.
“But you can’t just sit back and wait,” Patrick insisted. “The killer could just disappear, or at least have more time to cover his tracks. You need to find out who killed Duff, and quickly. Let’s face it, you’ve probably had more experience than Rothes dealing with unnatural death.”
“I suppose.”
“Of course you have. Not only that, you have instinct. It’s what makes you so incredible at what you do.”
“An instinct for self-preservation…,” I quipped.
“No, Abi. False modesty doesn’t suit you. You have an uncanny ability to see people as if they’re transparent. You see who and what they really are. Weak or strong, wicked or kind, and when you take photographs you capture it all. Every last nuance. I could snap the same people, the same places, and never manage to capture their fundamental essence the way you do. Every photo is a work of art, an exposé.”
I could feel my face turning red. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
“I’m not being ridiculous. Five Photographer of the Year Awards don’t lie. You have a gift for seeing people. Use it.”
“Murder is complex. I wouldn’t even know where to start.”
“Murder is relationships, and motives. It’s all about people, and you, my friend, are good at people. Come on, humor me. Let’s play three words.”
I shuddered slightly. “Duff’s words came through loud and clear when we first met,” I admitted. “Clever, defensive, immersed.”
“That’s awful.”
“Not that kind of immersed, at least I didn’t think so when it came to me. I was thinking immersed in the whisky business, its lore and its creation.”
“I guess I can see that, and clever too, but defensive? He didn’t seem overly sensitive to me.”
“Not sensitive, more protective. Did you know his real name was Liam? He told me it means ‘unwavering protector’ in Gaelic. He’s been very solicitous of his mum since his father passed away.”
“Okay, but nothing strikingly negative, right? That’s a good sign. Now, what does your gut tell you, victim or vandal?”
I closed my eyes and tried to quiet the clamor of thoughts in my head. “Victim,” I said finally.
“There you go. Now prove it.”
“Easier said than done.” I already felt frayed around the edges. Was I really in a strong enough frame of mind to do this? I looked across at Patrick. “I’ll need your help if I’m going to try.”
“Whatever you need,” Patrick agreed. “You have two weeks before you have to go back to the real world. Find out who did this. Ben would’ve wanted you to.”
“Don’t play the guilt card,” I growled.
Patrick studied me with his head tilted to one side. “I don’t have to. You’re already holding it.”
I lingered by the fire as Patrick headed up to bed. He was right. I needed to do this. For Ben, for Duff, and for me. I’ve never been a big believer in coincidences. I had no doubt in my mind that what happened to Duff was connected to the distillery changing hands, and that made Ben and me responsible. Either this poor kid walked in, caught our vandal red-handed, and confronted him, or he was doing his best to protect the distillery and was nailed by a saboteur’s trap. Whether it was a spontaneous action or a premeditated one, whoever was there that night killed Duff.
If we could flush him out I was sure we’d find the answer to more than one mystery.
—
A couple of hours of restless sleep was nowhere near enough to fortify me for an early-morning visit from Richard Thomas, especially nursing a hangover of epic proportions. Mercifully, our meeting was brief. By the time I saw Thomas out, my head was reeling, and I went upstairs in a daze and threw myself across the bed in the master suite hoping to snatch a couple more hours of sleep. I’d barely dozed off when I was roused by the sounds of banging and scraping emanating from the living room below. Who on earth would be making that kind of racket on a Sunday? I stumbled back downstairs and was startled to see a thin, gray-haired man in a threadbare sweater and paint-spattered jeans sanding away at the fireplace mantel.
“Mornin’, miss.” I had to check my watch, but unbelievably it wasn’t yet noon. The face that greeted me looked familiar from the memorial service, but I was drawing a blank on the name.
“Morning,” I echoed as a fine silt of dust settled on the ground at my feet. “I’m sorry, you are?”
“Hunter, miss. Hunter Mann,” he answered.
It took me a moment to realize that “Hoonter” was actually “Hunter.” His accent was so heavy I’d have to concentrate. “Right…but, what are you doing exactly?”
“Mantel’s not right. Sommit’s out of whack.”
“Yes, well…that wasn’t quite where I was going…I mean, why are you here…now?”
“Wife’s got her sister visitin’ this weekend,” he replied, “and I’ve got a slew of awd birds sittin’ in my kitchen talkin’ about this terrible business with Duff. Couldnae stand listenin’ to the hens cluck. Had to get out and do sommit with my hands.”
“And…Mr. Cooke let you in?” I asked, looking around for Patrick.
“Ach, no. Dinnae want to disturb you two. You must be knackered,” Hunter said. “It was no bother lettin’ myself in. Now, you go on about your business. You willnae be in my way, lass.”
I opened my mouth and shut it again, at a loss for an adequate response.
“The wife says she hopes you liked the bread.”
“It was wonderful,” I said. “Tell her thanks for us.” That was two mysteries solved already, our baker and the holder of the key to the Haven.
“And now don’t you worry none,” my visitor continued reassuringly. “Ben’s long since settled with me f
or this here woodwork. Now it’s just a matter of finishin’ up, and finish I will. Nae worries.”
Hunter looked pleasant enough, but he was clearly used to letting himself into my house with his own key on his own schedule. How many other people out there had the same privilege?
Hunter shot me a curious look out of the corner of his eye. I could tell he was itching to ask something. “Is it true Duff was found in the wash?”
I nodded.
“Drowned?”
“They seem to think so,” I evaded.
Hunter shook his head sadly. “I’ll be damned. First Ben, now this.”
I was exhausted and running on autopilot, but I knew better than to pass up the chance to ask questions of a talker, and Hunter was a talker.
“I hardly had a chance to get to know him at all, but Duff seemed like a sweet young man. Folks must be devastated,” I prompted.
“Aye, talkin’ about nowt else in the village.”
“Sounds like Ben spent a fair amount of time with him.”
Hunter gave a sad smile. “Treated him like a son, he did. Duff was a good lad at heart, but he went off the rails a bit after his da died. Always runnin’ off and roamin’ all over the valley. Worried years off of Siobhán, he did, but Ben set him back on track. Spent time with him when he was here and gave him some odd jobs to do around the Glen till the lad was old enough to be real help to them.”
“And Duff liked working at the Glen?”
“Loved it, but then, he’d’a done anythin’ for Ben.”
“Did Duff often work late at the distillery?”
“Nae, most nights he was behind the bar in the Stag, but with what they’re saying now about these bloody brutes and such, it makes sense. He must’ve stopped by to check on things at the Glen, since the pub was closed.”
So news of the sabotage had spread to the village along with the news of Duff’s death. “Do you think he might’ve had a hand in vandalizing the Glen?”
Hunter straightened up and looked me in the eye, his faded blue eyes watering behind his steel-rimmed spectacles. “Duff loved the Glen every bit as much as Ben did,” he said adamantly. “He’d no’ do anythin’ to harm her.”
“Even if he was angry that a woman had been left in charge?” I couldn’t help challenging.
“Made no difference to him. Duff was raised by his mum, and she’s one tough cookie. He had no problem with a woman boss. Nae more than me. God knows the wife’s been in charge since the day I said ‘I do.’ ”
Hunter turned to his work with a stiff back. I hoped I hadn’t offended him with my questions. I agreed with his assessment of Duff, but I wanted to hear it from someone that knew him better than I did. In the silence that followed, I watched in fascination as Hunter wielded the tiny chisel along the surface of a leaf emerging from the wood grain on the mantel’s edge. “Did you carve all the wood in here?” I asked.
“That I did,” he said. “The railin’, the shelves, the crown moldin’, everythin’. Ben had a soft spot for a bit of carvin’.”
“He had a good eye, that’s for sure.” In the full light of day I could see the detail for the first time. “It’s gorgeous, but it must have taken ages.”
“Five years, give or take, but we’re closin’ in on it.”
“Five years.” I tried not to sound incredulous. “And how much longer to finish up?”
“Might be done by the end of the year…might not.”
“Ah…”
On that articulate note, I headed for the kitchen. I couldn’t stop myself from registering a gut reaction to Hunter. Meticulous, artistic, artless. Nothing hidden, nothing fake. Given that he had a key to my house, that was comforting.
—
I found Patrick in the kitchen nursing a double espresso and making his famous hangover fry-up.
“You’ve met Hunter?” he asked, adding tomatoes to the pan.
I nodded gingerly, afraid my skull might crack open if I moved my neck too vigorously.
“Nice chap, and quite the artisan,” Patrick noted.
“Yes, but he’s in my house, and he has his own key,” I whispered.
“He’s seventy-five if he’s a day, and hardly what you’d call robust. I’m sure he’s harmless,” Patrick said.
“I’m sure you’re right, but so much for privacy.”
“He waltzed in here out of the blue about an hour ago. Scared the living daylights out of me, then talked my ear off for a good forty-five minutes,” Patrick grumbled, attempting to divert my attention from the fact that he was sneaking bits of bacon to Liam. Eighteen months of discipline wiped out with a single piece of pork fat. I gave the two of them a disgusted look and poured myself a coffee.
“Did you learn anything from him?”
Patrick handed me a plate piled high with sausage, eggs, and toast. “I learned that his wife comes from a large family, most of whom are in some way involved in animal husbandry. Did you know the average sheep only lives eleven years?”
“Fascinating, but unless they can sabotage a distillery with their wee hooves, not helpful.”
“What did Richard Thomas have to say?”
“Mainly checking up on me after last night.”
Patrick lowered his voice to a whisper. “Did you tell him you think it was murder?”
“No. I don’t think he’d want me getting involved. I suspect that Thomas’s main concern is when this business with Duff leaks out it will impede the sale of Abbey Glen.”
“Wait till he finds out it wasn’t an accident. On the other hand, that might attract a certain morbid interest in the property.”
“Don’t be crass. Anyway, Thomas came over to give me the details of Siobhán Morgan’s bequest. According to Thomas, Ben paid off some of her debts and then left her and Duff a lump sum of money. Thomas wanted to know if I would contest it.”
“What’d you say?”
I shrugged. “It’s not my business who Ben leaves his money to.” It wasn’t my business. It really wasn’t, but I still felt hurt that Ben hadn’t mentioned that he was involved with a woman up here. Involved enough to make a healthy allowance for her and her son in his will.
“Ben and Siobhán, eh. I could see those two together.” Patrick smiled. “She’s a spirited woman, and attractive, too. And you didn’t know?”
“He mentioned a lady friend a while ago, but I didn’t take it seriously. Some woman or other was always throwing herself his way. I encouraged him to just focus on his health issues.”
“What did Thomas say about it all?”
“Just that Siobhán and Ben were ‘very close friends.’ He was too polite to elaborate, but I got the sense it was a serious relationship. According to Thomas, she’s struggled to keep the pub going for years. Ben tried to help her out, advising her and such, even offered her money, but she refused. She took out a loan to buy the Stag after Duff’s father died. She’s managed the payments down the years, but she still owes more on the place than it’s worth.”
“That means the property’s underwater…,” Patrick mused.
“There you go—immersed.” I felt oddly reassured. “I didn’t think I was wrong about Duff. The pub is obviously a stressful financial burden. Something he’d be very worried about. Must be why it came through in my mental snapshot of him. He was out of his depth. I certainly don’t begrudge his mother the money, especially now.” I only wished I’d paid more attention to Ben’s confidences at the time.
“Did Thomas have any other news?”
“We’ve had one person make an offer for the Glen, but that was before last night’s debacle.”
“Who?”
“Some bloke named Keith Maitland. I’m supposed to meet with him tomorrow.” I grabbed my meeting notes from where I’d left them on the kitchen table and read. “He was a distiller in his own right, but he sold out to a spirits conglomerate called Decons, and now he’s representing them.”
“Decons,” Patrick said with a grimace. “Just what you need.�
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“What’s wrong with them?”
“Nothing per se, but for the most part they do blends.”
“And from the look on your face, that’s bad….”
“Purists tend to be disdainful,” Patrick said with a shrug. “Blends are a mix of whiskies from a number of different distilleries. They’re made in mass quantities and designed to always taste the same. Predictable; some would say soulless. As opposed to single malts that are prized for their unique characters and flavors.”
“Then selling to Decons wouldn’t bode well for Abbey Glen.”
“Not at all.”
“So explain this one to me. If we’re supposed to be making this incredible single malt, why does everyone keep telling me what a brilliant master blender Grant MacEwen is? We’re paying him a small fortune, and it makes no sense to me,” I grumbled.
“It does, really. Grant’s job is highly specialized. One you can’t teach. He’s your head distiller and he’s a master blender. In the business he’s called the ‘nose.’ It’s a skill you either have or you don’t. Ben was lucky to get him in the early days. You make a single malt because one hundred percent of the whisky comes from the Glen, but that doesn’t mean each bottle comes straight out of one cask. Each cask tastes a little different, so the master blends different casks together to balance out the flavors. A ten-year-old whisky means that none of the whiskies in it are less than ten years old. Some may be much older, if necessary, to mellow out the overall flavor. Grant’s job is to ensure that the balance is perfect in the final mix.”
“Then that makes him responsible for Abbey Glen’s distinctive taste.”
“Right.”
“A vital employee I can’t get rid of.”
“Right again. At least you’ve learned enough to recognize that.”
“I suppose, but I’ve got a lot more to learn if I’m going to figure out what happened to Duff. I need a better understanding of the players and the game.”
Single Malt Murder Page 7
