Single Malt Murder

by Melinda Mullet

  I gestured to the camera around my neck. “I was hoping to get some pictures for Ben’s book.”

  “No’ much worth shootin’ here,” said Hunter. “At least not your usual sort.”

  “More picturesque than Maitland’s place,” I observed, looking around the sunlit room.

  “Been over there, have you?”

  “Took a quick tour with Patrick yesterday.”

  “What you see’s what you get with that lot,” he observed.

  “That bad, eh? Keith Maitland came to see me this morning,” I said. “Spent an hour trying to convince me that Abbey Glen should be a part of the Decons’ ‘family of brands.’ ”

  Hunter made a snorting noise.

  “That’s what I thought, too.” I looked out over the warm brass and wood of Abbey Glen’s production floor. It was so elegant compared to the hard, impersonal edges of Maitland’s place. Like comparing a vintage sailing yacht to a modern cruise ship. “I may not know much about this business, but I understand Abbey Glen’s special because it’s lovingly handcrafted, not churned out by the gallon on some kind of assembly line. I can’t help but feel Ben would have been horrified to have Decons at the helm.”

  “Cannae say your instinct’s wrong there, lass.” A whisper of a smile tugged at the corner of Hunter’s mouth. “Trust Keith to be nosin’ about where there’s trouble. Ben wouldnae have anything to do with Decons, or Maitland for that matter. Not if he could help it.”

  “Why?” I prodded.

  “Ben never trusted Decons, and that Keith Maitland’s a ripe one. His family owned Maitland’s till they ran into some problems with the law a few years back.”

  My ears pricked up. “What kind of problems?”

  “Tax evasion, fiddlin’ the books, rumors of barrels going missin’ from bond. You name it. Next thing we knew, Decons swanned in and grabbed the place up for a song.”

  “Keith Maitland tells me they offered him a job as part of the deal.”

  “He begged to stay, more like. After a bit Decons relented, and Keith’s made a name for himself doing their dirty work ever since.”

  “Dirty work?”

  “Aye, sniffin’ around for dyin’ distilleries for Decons to buy up. God knows there’s plenty to go round these days.”

  “That doesn’t seem so terrible,” I said. “I mean, if a business is failing, what have they got to lose?”

  “If they are failin’ there’s nowt wrong with it, but sometimes they’re not dead, they’re just sick, till Decons gets involved, that is. Wouldn’t put anything past old Keith if he was gettin’ paid for it.”

  I turned and looked at Hunter in surprise. “Are you saying Decons has had a hand in some of the failures?”

  “Let’s just say Decons has a reputation for gettin’ what they want. Who do you think pointed Inland Revenue toward Maitland before they moved in for the kill?”

  Interesting choice of words. Maybe these guys were playing a rougher game than I initially gave them credit for. “Do you think Decons would be interested enough in the Glen to resort to sabotage?”

  “Could be,” Hunter conceded.

  “Have the police been around again?”

  “The lads from Stirling were here yesterday, dustin’ and sniffin’ round the Yeast Room.”

  “Did they find anything?”

  “Wouldnae tell the likes of me if they did. Just asked a lot of questions about where I was the night Duff passed and if I had a key to the Glen. As if I’d ever be involved with sommit like that.”

  “For what it’s worth, they asked me the same things,” I said. “What else were they after?”

  “Wanted to know if Duff was angry ’bout the changes at the Glen.”

  “And was he?”

  “Nae angry. Worried, more like. Most folks are worried about what’ll happen to the Glen now and what it means for the village.”

  I nodded. Having seen how much money Ben pumped into the local economy, it wasn’t surprising that the villagers were nervous. As if I wasn’t under enough pressure, I’d have to take that into consideration in my negotiations as well. I turned back to Hunter and lowered my voice.

  “Were Cam and Grant here yesterday?”

  “Aye. They had to help drain the washbacks.”

  “Did the police find anything in there?”

  Hunter lowered his voice as well. “Duff had keys to the Still House in his pocket, but from what I overheard, nowt but whisky in the washback.”

  I had to admit I was relieved by that news. If Duff was the saboteur the pins would’ve been in his pocket or in the vat. The fact that they weren’t pointed the finger of blame squarely at someone else, who must have left the keys but taken the hinge pins with them. If they were hoping to frame Duff, that was their first mistake. I hoped there were more.

  “So you’re workin’ on the book, are ye?” Hunter said dramatically. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Cam coming toward us on his way into the yard.

  “I’ve made a start,” I said, taking the hint. “But if I’m going to make it something he’d be proud of, I need to learn more about how things operate around here. Any chance you’d be willing to show me around? MacEwen was meant to, but things kind of fell apart after…after the business with Duff.”

  “Don’t see why not. Grant’s probably the better one for the job, but I can give it a go if ya like. Have you seen where we do the maltin’?”

  I shook my head.

  “Come on, then.” Hunter and I headed out in the opposite direction to Cam, making our way across the courtyard to the barn. As we entered, Hunter flipped the wall switch and we gazed out across a sea of caramel-colored grain spread over the floor.

  “Barley,” he offered.

  “Really? You throw it out on the floor like that?”

  “Aye. Fresh barley’s soaked in water to start it germinatin’, and then it’s spread on the floor in a thin layer to dry. Most places use peat fires, but the Glen doesn’t peat their malt. We use the windows on the side here for ventilation and we let it dry naturally. Not many distilleries dry and malt their own grain these days. Most buy it from a wholesaler ready to go.”

  “I’d think that would be much easier.” I reeled off a series of shots from different vantage points to catch the light playing across the surface of the grain.

  “Easier,” Hunter said, “but you get more control this way. A good malt man can tell how the grain’s getting’ on just from lookin’ at the barley or walkin’ on it and feelin’ how spongy it is. That’s what Duff did, ye ken.”

  “So, not just a pretty face.” I crouched down to get a picture of two broad wooden rakes that had been abandoned against the near wall, along with a pair of bright orange wellies.

  “Nae. Much more than that,” Hunter said with a sigh as he shut the door. Liam caught up with us as we walked back to the Still House.

  “After the grain’s been dried, it’s ground up in the Mill Room next door, then it’s shifted into these big tanks and soaked in warm water to bring out the sugars.” Hunter and I stood on the ground floor next to the enormous stainless-steel tanks, but my eyes were continually drawn toward the second-floor entrance to the crime scene. The police were still restricting access. “You’ve seen the washbacks.” Hunter gestured toward the garish-looking yellow police tape that stretched across the doorway to the Yeast Room. “From there, the fermented wash is transferred to the stills and the real work begins.”

  I climbed halfway up the stairs to get a low angle on the stills rising up from the mezzanine level. The sunlight on the copper glowed like fire. As I lowered the camera I noticed some gray fabric snagged on a screw attaching the metal railing to the corner post. A fine lightweight suiting material in a charcoal color. Not the kind of coarse cloth you’d expect to find here. More like something that Richard Thomas would wear, or someone who’d stopped by dressed for a funeral. Didn’t narrow the field much, but worth keeping in mind. I couldn’t justify removing it, but I took an extreme clo
se-up before turning my attention back to Hunter. He was watching me quizzically.

  “From what I saw the other night, the washbacks hold a lot of liquid,” I observed, hoping to shift his focus. “How many bottles do they get out of each tank?”

  “Not as many as you’d think. Runnin’ it through the still twice you lose a lot, and even then they only use a small part of what they send through. Only the very best—the heart of the run—ends up in barrels to age.” I stopped to change lenses. “You take a lot of pictures,” Hunter commented. “Do ye use all of ’em?”

  “No, I delete most of them. But it can take dozens and dozens of shots to get the one you’re after. The one with the right nuances; the right balance of light and depth and contrast.”

  “Sounds like whisky makin’.”

  “I suppose it is at that,” I said. The idea that Ben’s passion and mine shared a common thread appealed to me. “So then you age the whisky in casks and bottle it. Is that done here?”

  “It’s aged in the old carriage house under lock and key, but the bottling’s done in Edinburgh, of course. At MacEwen Glass.”

  “MacEwen Glass is still in business?”

  “One of the largest bottle-makin’ companies in the EU. Hardly a bottle of whisky, beer or soda in this country that’s put in anythin’ but a MacEwen’s bottle. Abbey Glen’s no exception.”

  “I knew Ben worked with the company when MacEwen senior was alive, but where does Grant MacEwen fit in?” I asked.

  “Grant’s brother, Colin, has run the glass business since their father died. Grant’s happier workin’ the estate.”

  “Speak o’ the devil,” I muttered. Grant had entered the distillery with Cam on his heels. From the look on his face I would say he’d been told I was here. I excused myself to go and speak to him. Even from a distance I could tell he was seething.

  “Do you have to do this now?” MacEwen growled, ignoring Liam’s best efforts to secure his attention. “This isn’t an ideal time for a guided tour.”

  “I need to get photographs for the book while I’m in town.”

  “Can’t you do it when we’re not in here working?”

  “Didn’t think you’d want me wandering around in here after hours,” I countered.

  MacEwen shot me a thunderous look. “Do what you came to do, but see you don’t get in Cam’s way. He’s got enough to deal with as it is.”

  “I have no intention of ‘getting in the way,’ as you put it.” My patience with MacEwen’s attitude was wearing thin. “Like it or not, as the new owner I have every right to be here,” I said. “I ask your permission out of courtesy, not necessity.” MacEwen looked as if he’d like to slap me, but I plowed on without waiting for him to speak. “As it happens, I’ve finished in here for now, and if you’ll tell me where the Abbey is, I’ll get out of your hair.”

  “What Abbey?” he snarled.

  Was he purposely being obtuse? “Abbey Glen…where is the abbey? I want some pictures of the distillery’s namesake for the book.”

  MacEwen looked at me in disgust.

  “There is no church, Ms. Logan…the only ‘Abbey’ here is you.”

  Chapter 9

  MacEwen turned on his heel and strode away, leaving me to stare after him openmouthed.

  Suddenly, the walls were closing in on me. Hunter had returned to his barrels and I needed fresh air. I called to Liam and fled the building, following his lead as he turned for the path behind the Still House that climbed up the face of Drumlinn. It was a sharp, vertical hike, and my breath came in ragged gasps as I scrambled up the rocky path beside the waterfall.

  At the top of the first incline, I flopped down on a stone ledge to catch my breath. Liam came and sat next to me, his chin on my shoulder. I leaned against him, glad of his warm, comforting presence. So that’s why Ben left Abbey Glen to me. All those years the distillery hadn’t been my rival; she’d been my namesake.

  Knowing that shouldn’t change the way I felt about the Glen, but it did. Ben had made me a part of his life here from the beginning, even though I was too self-absorbed to notice. Like it or not, I was a part of Abbey Glen, and she was a part of me. The aging stone buildings clustered around the courtyard, the cobblestones, the brass-topped pagoda vent on the Malt Barn, all of it was a part of a unique heritage that was now mine. Looking down on the Glen from my vantage point on the hill, I felt a visceral connection to Ben’s legacy I could never have imagined before I came. A special bond that I would fight to keep.

  How much I’d have to fight remained to be seen.

  As I went to move, I suddenly realized that Liam and I were in a rather precarious position here above the falls. A spring emerged from the earth a couple of feet below the spot where we sat and slid down the rocky face of the hill, tumbling over huge boulders on its way to join the burn that flowed past Abbey Glen and eventually merged with the River Alyn. The initial drop-off was a good twenty feet, and it made for an impressive cascade on the top half of the falls.

  Engrossed in my own thoughts, I hadn’t noticed that the watery sunshine had given way to a fine drizzle. The rocky path we’d climbed earlier looked treacherous now that it was wet; moreover, I didn’t relish the thought of running into MacEwen again at the bottom. There had to be an alternate way down from here. The hills were full of trails cut by hikers. Duff would’ve known which one to choose, but I had to guess. I ended up following an overgrown path along the ridgeline until it intersected with a more defined trail that led down toward the valley, emerging on the outskirts of the village right next to the Stag. A sign from the gods, Patrick would say, and who was I to ignore the will of the gods?

  It was the middle of the afternoon and the pub was deserted. The young girl behind the bar brought me a glass of brandy by the fireplace and offered me a towel. Liam and I were beginning to dry off when the door opened again and Kristen Ramsey blew in on a gust of wind.

  “Abi, what a nice surprise.” She pulled a chair up in front of the hearth and joined me. “I just stopped by your place to check on you—next time I’ll try here first.”

  Liam insisted on pacing restlessly in front of the fireplace, unnerved by the storm outside. I did my best to get him to settle, but he wouldn’t cooperate.

  “How are you doing?” Kristen asked.

  “I’ve had better weeks.”

  “That I can believe.”

  I studied Kristen over the rim of my glass. If I could see that Duff’s death was no accident, she must have known right away. Had she said anything to the police? I searched for a subtle way to broach the subject.

  “Any news from the authorities in Stirling?” I ventured.

  Kristen frowned and shook her head.

  I flushed, suddenly realizing that Duff’s mother could be within earshot.

  “How much longer are you here for?” Kristen asked, pointedly changing the subject.

  “Till the end of next week. Then I need to get back to work,” I said.

  “It must be tough for you to be away all this time.”

  I shrugged. “In a way, but in some respects it’s a nice break.”

  Kristen’s three words popped into my head unbidden. Astute, determined, isolated. She was a bit of an enigma. She grew up in Balfour, according to Hunter, and was a part of the fabric of the village life, and yet I would have instinctively photographed her in a sophisticated urban setting. Somewhere opulent and dynamic. Here she looked like a lone hothouse flower amidst the rugged heather.

  Kristen flagged down the girl behind the counter and ordered a sandwich to go, before turning back to me. “Lunch gets so late sometimes I don’t know why I bother. Anyway, what about you? What’ll you do next?”

  “I have to decide what I’m going to do about the Glen, but until things with the police are sorted…” I trailed off. “In the meantime, I’m finishing a book Ben started on the history of the distillery.”

  “That’s a lot to deal with in a short time—”

  The rest of K
risten’s comment was cut off by a sudden explosion of sound from the other side of the room.

  “You’ve got some nerve comin’ into my pub.” Siobhán strode from the back room and moved toward us with an icy glare.

  “Easy, Siobhán,” Kristen said in a carefully even tone. “She meant no harm.”

  I put a restraining hand on Liam’s head. He’d moved to my side and was facing Siobhán, issuing a low, threatening growl from deep in his throat.

  “Meant no harm, did she? Then she should’ve stayed away.” Siobhán stared me down, her shoulders back, her green eyes flashing. “The Glen’s had nothin’ but trouble since Ben passed, and now you’ve been up here four days, four days, and my Duff is dead,” she said without taking her eyes from mine.

  Kristen got to her feet, as if afraid she might need to physically intervene. “Siobhán, you can’t possibly blame Abi for what happened to Duff. She’s every bit as much of a victim here as he is.”

  “But she’s not dead, is she?”

  Not yet, I thought, but this was no time to split hairs. “I’m so very sorry for your loss, Mrs. Morgan.” I held her gaze as I stood, trying to keep the tremor from my voice.

  “Sorry? Sorry won’t bring him back, will it?” she said. “Everyone says sorry as if it’s some kind of magic elixir, but it doesn’t make the pain go away.” She clutched the cloth in her hand to her heart. “I’ll live with that for the rest of my days.”

  “Look, I’m not…,” I began, but Siobhán took off again, gesturing animatedly.

  “But I suppose pain is a parent’s lot in life. Look at you, gallivantin’ round the world, every dark corner, but you couldn’t find your way up here, could you? I watched Ben eat his guts out day after day worryin’ about you, but you just kept on throwin’ yourself in harm’s way over and over again. You never cared what it did to him. Now that he’s gone, you waltz in here and take over, and everythin’ he worked so hard for is crumblin’ round our ears.”

  I could feel the anger building up inside me, but I struggled to keep my temper in check, knowing that Siobhán’s vitriolic outburst was born of grief and pain. “I didn’t ask for this inheritance. I didn’t want it, and I’m doing the best I can under very difficult circumstances,” I said as calmly as I could. “I suffered a loss here, too, you know. I may not be any good at running a distillery, but I loved Ben, and I worried about him every bit as much as he worried about me.” I stood there, fists clenched, as Siobhán and I stared each other down. “As for what’s happening at Abbey Glen, I can’t help it that people are unhappy with the new owner, but it was Ben’s decision to leave me in control. You all respected him; you should respect his decision. He always had a good reason for what he did.”