Single Malt Murder

by Melinda Mullet

  “Where do we start?”

  “We’re going to start by profiling this cast of characters.” I dug through my purse sitting on the chair next to me and pulled out a stack of index cards. “Just like we do at the paper when we’re trying to piece together a story.” I pulled a card off the top and wrote “Keith Maitland/Decons.” “I figure the Glen’s first suitors should be high on the suspect list for our saboteur. I mean, the place isn’t even on the market yet and they’re already sniffing around. Indicates a certain overaggressiveness, don’t you think? Who are they and why the rush?”

  “Agreed. Anyone else?”

  “Grant MacEwen,” I said, pulling out another card.

  “Can’t see him as a murderer,” Patrick interjected.

  “You should know by now good looks don’t necessarily equate to a good person. In fact, it’s often the opposite. MacEwen certainly has an interest in the distillery changing hands. More than most, in fact. I want to know if he was expecting to be the new owner. And if he wasn’t, is he planning to bid on the Glen? I’d like to get a look at his financials.” I pulled out a half dozen more cards.

  “Cam’s next. He came across as stalwart and dependable, but let’s face it, his loyalty is to Grant and the Glen. Not to me. What might he be willing to do to help Grant get rid of me?”

  “You think murder?” Patrick looked incredulous.

  “I don’t know yet. I have to admit Duff’s death is a discordant note in all of this. Sabotage and threatening an outsider is one thing, but it’s quite a jump to murder. If I had to guess, I’d say that murder wasn’t part of the original plan.”

  “That would make more sense,” Patrick agreed.

  “Duff could have walked in on his killer and challenged him. The saboteur lashes out with whatever comes to hand. Maybe the tool he was using to pry out the hinge pins. He panics and dumps the body in the washback to make it look like an accident.”

  “How do we prove that?”

  “Step by step. To start, I need to know who we’re dealing with. Who has the biggest stake in the distillery changing hands—financial or otherwise—and see if anyone has a past we should know about.”

  “Right,” Patrick said, jotting down the names on a scrap of paper.

  Ever since our days at the Gazette, Patrick had prided himself on being able to find out anything about anyone with little more than a few keystrokes. His ferreting skills could more accurately be described as hacking, but his data was the foundation of many of the paper’s best exposés. Down the years the paper’s editors tried their best to screen him from the unwanted attention of the authorities, but it didn’t always work. Patrick wouldn’t admit it, but I was suspicious that his recent move to the less controversial pages of Wine and Spirits Monthly had been the direct result of the increasingly frequent visits from EU security officials.

  “I’ll see what I can find out.” I could see a gleam in Patrick’s eye. Whatever he said, I knew he missed the challenge of investigative journalism. “What else can I do?”

  “There’s a lot of technical stuff in Ben’s notes you might like to see, and some personal journals covering the early days when he was running the Glen from London, but not much on the recent history. I need more on the last year or so, and on the distillery before Ben took over.”

  “I suspect you won’t have to go further than the library to get that kind of info,” Patrick said, pouring more coffee.

  “You found a good book?”

  “Better than that,” Patrick said with a smug grin. “I found Hunter. The man has an eye for detail and relatives in every corner of the valley. From what he said already this morning, there’s not much he can’t tell you about this place.”

  “Who’s a clever boy, then. Old Hunter might just be useful to have around after all.” Liam had moved back to Patrick’s side and was watching every mouthful of food he ate. Patrick attempted to ignore him without much success and ended up splitting the last sausage with him.

  “I thought I’d take a tour of Keith Maitland’s old place this afternoon,” he said, clearing the plates away. “You should come with me. Check out the competition before you have to meet with him tomorrow.”

  “I’m really not in the mood after last night.”

  “Come on, Abi. You promised to take your poison-pen notes into Sergeant Rothes. We could stop there first, and then it’s a short drive to Maitland’s. You can see how it’s faring now that Decons has bought them out. Think of it as background research. Besides, a bit of sunshine and fresh air would do you good. You need to get away from here for a bit. The whole atmosphere is oppressive.”

  “You’re not fooling me, I know you’re only wanting a designated driver.”

  “Come on,” Patrick wheedled. “If you don’t go, you’ll just sit around here and obsess.”

  “I suppose.” I sighed, resigning myself to an afternoon of chauffeuring.

  Patrick disappeared upstairs to fortify himself for a day of whisky tasting. I turned Liam outside for a run, then went in search of Hunter.

  I found him sitting on the floor in the library, staring intently at the carved trim running up the side of the bookcase. “Am I interrupting?”

  “Nae, lass,” he said, switching his focus. “Just readin’ the wood.”

  “Sorry?”

  “There’s more in there, but I’m no’ sure what yet.”

  The length of wood already sported a lavish vine of oak leaves and acorns winding their way up to the ceiling. “I don’t know what else it could need, it looks perfect to me,” I said, tracing the graceful leaves with the tip of my finger. “You do exquisite work.”

  “It’s in the details, as me dad would say.”

  “Your father worked with wood as well?”

  “Aye, and his father, and his father before him.”

  “A real family business, then.”

  “That’s the way of things round here.”

  “Brought you a coffee,” I said, extending the mug in my hand.

  “Thank you, miss.”

  “Call me Abi.”

  “Right you are, Miss Abi.”

  “I…never mind. Did Ben ever tell you he was writing a book about the distillery?” I asked, settling into the armchair by the fire.

  “Mentioned it once or twice.”

  “I want to finish it.”

  “Makes sense. You’ll be takin’ photos of the old girl, I suppose.”

  “That’s the plan, but I need to write a history as well. Ben left me a few notes, but I was hoping you could tell me a bit more about the founding of the distillery.”

  Hunter picked up a strip of wood and began sanding it gently. “Well, ye ken that Ben bought the distillery from Central Spirits fifteen years ago.”

  “Right, but they owned a number of distilleries, not just Abbey Glen.”

  “Aye, but when Central was in charge the distillery was called Fletcher’s, not Abbey Glen. Ben changed the name when he took over. He needed a fresh start ’cause the place was in a right mess at the time. No one had really had control of the distillery for more’n three years. Not since Martin Furguson passed.”

  “Martin Furguson?”

  “Jock and Nell’s boy. He had the helm at Fletcher’s for over thirty years. Nell could tell you all about that. She still lives in a cottage on the far side of Balfour. Ninety-some-odd if she’s a day, but sharp as a tack.”

  I made a mental note for later. Nell Furguson might be able to fill in some of the gaps about Ben’s early visits to Balfour. She might even know who might have been resentful of his presence here, and who might still be holding a grudge. In the meantime, I couldn’t waste the opportunity to pry more out of Hunter.

  “Why was the distillery called Fletcher’s?”

  “Named for the Fletcher brothers,” Hunter said, twirling a small chisel between his thumb and forefinger. “They were the first family of whisky round these parts. Famous back in the days when most stills were operatin’ without the ble
ssin’ of His Majesty’s government.”

  “When was that?”

  “Late 1700s, give or take. If you produced more’n forty gallons in those days you had to have a license. Smaller stills weren’t technically allowed, but where’s the fun in that?” Hunter flashed a quick grin. “After the horror at Culloden, the crown tried to rip the beatin’ heart out of the Scots. Outlawed all the symbols of the Scottish way of life. Nae clans, nae weapons, nae kilts, and stranglin’ taxes on our whisky. For a true Scot, the best revenge was a good still.”

  I had to smile at Hunter’s intensity of feeling at the ills inflicted more than two hundred and fifty years ago. “I’m guessing there were a lot of bootleg stills?”

  “In 1780 there were eight legal distilleries in all of Scotland, but more’n four hundred illegal ones. Farmers ran stills on the sly and sold their whisky under the table at local inns. Some of the brews were grand, others could strip the varnish off wood. The Fletcher boys were special. Folks say they had real talent. Made a first-class dram. Good enough to kill for,” Hunter said.

  I suppressed a shudder as I thought of Duff. “Now you’re pulling my leg.”

  “Nae. It’s our village legend,” Hunter said earnestly. “Angus and Brodie Fletcher were brothers. Their father fought at Culloden and lived. In the years after, he became an infamous distiller and smuggler. Taught the boys the art of distillin’, but like most brothers the boys were a mite competitive. They each built their own still. Brodie kept his in a barn near the river and Angus had a place up on Drumlinn in one of the caves.”

  “Drumlinn?”

  “Drumlinn’s the hill that rises up behind the Glen.”

  Duff’s childhood retreat, I thought sadly.

  “It was named for the waterfall that comes down from the ridge. Anyway, according to the tales, the barn where Brodie hid his still went up in flames one night, in 1814, along with every one of the barrels he was agin’. These things happen, mind. It’s a risk you take when you’re dealin’ with alcohol.”

  “But people were suspicious?”

  “Right you are, Brodie told everyone who’d listen that it was Angus. Accordin’ to the old stories, he followed Angus up into the hills one night lookin’ to have it out. Brodie came back, but Angus was never seen again.” Hunter began to carve a small oval in the wood in front of him. “Brodie denied he had anythin’ to do with Angus’s disappearance, but rumors ran wild. No body was ever found, but Angus’s wife, Rose, accused Brodie of killin’ her husband until the day she died.”

  “He killed his own brother over a competing whisky?”

  “It’s been known to happen for less.”

  That meant Duff’s death wasn’t without precedence in the annals of local history. “Rose Fletcher never found any proof?” I asked.

  “Nae.”

  “And what happened to Brodie?”

  “Kept on makin’ a first-class whisky. Took over Angus’s still after he was gone, and kept on workin’ the place for years.”

  “No one else thought he was guilty?”

  “Lots of folks were sure he was, but whisky’s whisky. No one would’ve argued with him takin’ over the family business in those days. Especially as the whisky was so good. That was the way of it.”

  “Why didn’t Rose take it on?” I demanded.

  “Distillin’s nae business for a lady.”

  “So I’ve heard.” I scowled at Hunter. Deep breath. Don’t alienate a good source. “How’d we get from the Fletcher boys to a legitimate distillery?”

  “By the time Angus’s son Cooper was old enough to take the place on, times had changed. Wearin’ the tartan was legal again, and more and more distilleries were followin’ suit. Crown was taxin’ ’em, but folks were demandin’ more’n more whisky. You could pay the tax and still make good money if you played your cards right. Cooper set up legally in the old croft at the bottom of the hill in 1825 and called the place Fletcher’s. Surrounded the distillery with rosebushes in honor of his mum. It was a bonny wee place.”

  “That would be a great story for Ben’s book.”

  “If you want more stories about Fletcher’s, go see Nell Furguson. She’ll see you right,” Hunter said as he put the finishing touches on a tiny bumblebee.

  I left him to his work and wandered back to the kitchen to wait for Patrick. The fact that Balfour’s residents would allow a man suspected of fratricide to run the local distillery before they’d allow a woman to take over was bizarre to say the least. The fact that I continued to be harassed and unwelcome two centuries later was downright disturbing. I could only hope I’d have better luck sorting out our present-day mystery than they’d had in Angus’s day.

  Chapter 8

  The weekend had flown by, in spite of spending a huge chunk of Sunday trailing around after Patrick as he toured not one, but five different distilleries. Maitland’s was the first, and the worst. Patrick was bitterly disappointed. Under Decons’ control the place was very clinical. Stainless steel and chrome and men in matching polo shirts. None of the warmth or charm of Abbey Glen. We didn’t see Maitland in person, but the tasting room was lined with pictures of him shaking hands with an endless parade of minor political types and sports figures. A man clearly trying to convince the world of his own importance.

  By nightfall I was exhausted, and I was sure I’d pass out cold, but once more sleep proved elusive. I spent much of the night sorting through the papers in Ben’s desk, and as Monday morning dawned, I shuffled out looking like death warmed over to watch the rats deserting my sinking ship. Richard Thomas dropped by to say a quick farewell on his way to catch the early-morning flight back to London, leaving me to deal with the Glen’s first prospective buyer by myself. Meanwhile, Patrick was packing up the car to start the first leg of his trip south. At least he was only going as far as Edinburgh. His boss insisted he return to work, but somehow Patrick convinced him to approve a side trip to the Whisky Society headquarters to do some research for a story.

  “I could fake a dire illness and stay on here for a few days more if you’d like,” he offered as he crammed the last of his bags into the boot of the car.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” I said. “You have work to do drinking your way through the Society’s cellars.”

  “The Society is an historic and venerable institution, and if the accounting department is willing to classify this excursion as research, who am I to disagree?” Patrick insisted. “But mainly, I’m worried about you. And this’s my excuse for staying as near as I can for as long as I can.”

  “I appreciate the gesture, but I’ll be fine. Just see what you can find out about for me.” Liam came to lie at my feet with his head on his paws, giving Patrick the wounded eyes. “Don’t you be so melodramatic,” I said, giving him a poke with my toe.

  “Never thought I’d say it, but I’m going to miss the wee beastie,” Patrick said. He scratched Liam on the head before giving me a hug. “At least you’ll have him to protect you.”

  “That was the most comforting thing you could come up with?”

  “Be serious. Promise you’ll touch base every day. I want you to check in and let me know you’re alright.”

  “I promise, Mum. I will report in every day. Now, get going.”

  I watched the car disappear down the lane before turning to follow Liam into the house.

  Breathe, I told myself. Breathe. I could feel the panic starting to rise. God knows what I was thinking. I’m a photojournalist, not a businesswoman. What made me think I could negotiate a deal for the Glen without help? I thought about calling Patrick and asking him to turn around and come back, but I resisted the urge. I needed to stand on my own two feet, or I’d never win the respect of the whisky fraternity.

  —

  The Glen’s first suitor was dispatched before lunchtime. I may not have a clear picture of what I should do with the Glen, but I was very clear about who would not be getting near the place.

  Keith Maitland arrived at my door loo
king exactly as he did in the photos at the distillery. Heavyset and florid, his nose a vigorous shade of crimson lined with a road map of tiny purple veins. A few thin strands of hair were being encouraged to stretch themselves over a vast expanse of balding head and were losing the battle. Patronizing and overbearing, he was laboring under the impression that he only had to ask and I would hand the business over to his employers. Especially after the “unfortunate occurrence,” as he insisted on calling Duff’s death. I poked around as subtly as I could, but Maitland was vague about his whereabouts the night Duff died. I would’ve liked to press harder, but couldn’t think of any way to do it without making him suspicious. After firmly, but politely, declining the offer from Decons, I hustled him out of the house as fast as I could.

  Maitland was an unpleasant man. He immediately conjured up greedy, hollow, and aggrieved. There was a piggy, grasping look in his eyes and he held himself as if he was perpetually spoiling for a fight. If I had any doubts about my mental snapshot they were quickly dispelled by Liam’s reaction. The hairs on the back of his neck rose as soon as Maitland stepped in the door, and he voiced a low ominous rumble throughout our meeting. Maitland professed to be a great friend of my uncle, but I knew Ben would loathe him, though he’d be too polite to show it. I added his three words, and “alibi?” to my index card. He would be well worth watching. I texted Patrick and asked him to make Decons and Maitland a priority.

  Liam needed to get out for a run, and I decided it was time to take advantage of the momentarily balmy weather to get some pictures of the distillery for the book. We strolled leisurely down the lane to the Glen, where we found Hunter in the yard stacking barrels outside the Still House.

  “A full-service cooper, I see.”

  “Been charrin’ the barrels and keepin’ them in good nick since I was a kid,” he said. “Keeps me outta trouble.”

  I followed Hunter as he headed into the Still House. Cam was on the mezzanine level tinkering with one of the copper stills. We’d hardly spoken since the night of Duff’s death, and I wasn’t surprised that he ignored my presence and continued working.