Single Malt Murder

by Melinda Mullet

  Even as the words came out of my mouth I realized what I’d been missing. Ben was a shrewd businessman. As much as he loved me, he wouldn’t have put me in charge just because I shared a name with the distillery. There must have been another reason. Was he expecting problems after he was gone? Was that why I was here?

  Siobhán’s rant continued pulling me back from my own thoughts. “That’s as may be, but he didn’t expect all this, did he? Ben knew my Duff could be a bit daft at times, but he’d never have harmed the Glen. Never. Ben wouldn’t have let the police say otherwise. He’d have stood up for him. Fought for him.”

  “He’s not the only one that believed in Duff. There are plenty of others that think he’s innocent. And for the record,” I went on before Siobhán could interrupt, “I’m one of them.”

  “The police are goin’ to make him a scapegoat. You mark my words,” Siobhán shot back. “Framing a dead boy is more than good enough for the likes of Rothes and company.”

  “Well, it’s not good enough for me, and I don’t intend to let it go.”

  Siobhán didn’t look impressed. “We’ve managed all these years without you, my girl, and we’ll do bloody well without you now. Get on back to your precious career and leave us alone. There’s no place for you here…not anymore.” Siobhán turned and stalked away.

  “Ouch,” Kristen murmured, accepting her takeaway bag from the cowering barmaid. “I’m sorry you had to face that. Try not to take it to heart. Siobhán always had a temper.”

  “I understand.” Liam continued to growl softly by my side.

  “Unfortunately, I have to get back to work,” Kristen sighed, “but at least let me run you home. There’s a storm brewing outside, as well as in here.”

  I had to admit I was shaken in spite of my show of false bravado, and retreating to the Haven seemed like a good plan. Liam and I managed to squeeze into the front seat of Kristen’s Mini Cooper for the short ride home.

  “Siobhán loved Ben, and she’ll grow to like you,” Kristen said as she turned in to the lane that led to the Glen. “Be patient and she’ll come around in time.”

  “Wouldn’t count on it,” I said. “There’s a lot of anger there.”

  “On both sides,” Kristen pointed out.

  I shrugged. “I don’t blame her.” I watched the rain sliding down the passenger window like tears. “She’s not going to be able to get on with her life until we get some answers. When do you think the autopsy report will be back?”

  “The preliminary report will be out soon. They put a rush on it, but I really can’t discuss it with you. I promised Rothes that I’d let him be the source of all information.” Kristen looked uncomfortable. “For some reason he seems to think that you and Patrick might leak the story to some kind of rag paper.”

  “Is there a story?”

  “Don’t play reporter with me,” Kristen warned. “Rothes will be in touch soon. Then we can talk.”

  We crawled down the dirt road through howling wind and rain, Liam alternating between growling and trembling on my lap in the front seat. So much for my unwavering protector. I thanked Kristen and made a mad dash for the house, grabbing fresh logs for the fire from the woodpile by the door. The house was cold, and I fed the fire before heading to the kitchen to put the kettle on. The kitchen was just as I’d left it after meeting with Maitland that morning, except for the large bunch of thistles tied with a black ribbon lying in the middle of the kitchen table. They were identical to the bouquet I’d received in London—same ribbon, same flowers. Just in case there was any misunderstanding about my earlier floral tribute. A terrifying reminder that whoever was threatening me was here now and able to get into my house at will.

  I looked over my shoulder in a blind panic, then spun around to look at Liam. He was sniffing the floor, following the path of the stranger, but he wasn’t growling. That meant that whoever had been here was gone now. I took a deep breath and exhaled slowly and deliberately, trying to calm my racing heart. The only thing I knew for certain was it wasn’t Duff, not unless he was operating from beyond the grave.

  —

  If you called the police in the city you’d be lucky to get your call answered by a live person, let alone have two show up on the doorstep within fifteen minutes. Rothes arrived in the company of a tall, lanky man in jeans and a dark gray shirt.

  “Ms. Logan, this is Inspector Michaelson. He’s with our regional office in Stirling.”

  Michaelson was younger than I would have expected for an inspector. He had a slight Glasgow accent and a brusque, no-nonsense attitude. I ushered the two men into the kitchen and showed them the flowers.

  Rothes adjusted his glasses and peered at the thistles, a frown digging trenches in his forehead. “Have you touched them?”

  “No. I left them right where I found them.” I looked down at the scratches that still lingered on my fingertips. “This is the second bouquet I’ve received. The first came to my flat in London.”

  “You didn’t mention them when you dropped off the notes.”

  “Wasn’t sure it was important,” I muttered. I wasn’t sure why I hadn’t said anything except it seemed a bit melodramatic after the fact.

  “Is anything damaged or missing?” Michaelson asked.

  “Not that I’ve seen.”

  “And the house was locked while you were out?”

  “I think so, but I’m not completely sure. Hunter tells me no one locks doors in Balfour. ‘You’re no’ in the big city now, lass,’ ” I mimicked.

  “True enough for most, but you should be locking your doors,” Rothes said.

  “Duly noted.”

  “Does anyone else have a key?” Michaelson demanded.

  “Other than Hunter, I have no idea. But I would presume only people Ben trusted.”

  “I’ll check with Hunter and Grant,” Rothes said. “In the meantime, you should think about getting the locks changed.”

  I hadn’t considered that Grant might have a key to the house, but on reflection it wasn’t an unreasonable assumption. I needed to take control of the situation. It was definitely time to change the locks.

  “Where’s Hunter today?” Rothes asked.

  “Last I saw he was working at the Glen.”

  Michaelson put on a pair of gloves, picked up the flowers, and sealed them in a plastic bag. “I’ll get my lads in Stirling to try to pull prints, but I’m not hopeful. Do you still have the gift box of whisky you received with the second note? It should be tested, as well.”

  I nodded and retrieved the bottle from the counter in the kitchen. Michaelson seemed to be more on the ball than the local crew.

  He studied me for a moment with a commendable poker face. “Have there been other incidents since you arrived? Things you neglected to tell us about?”

  “There was a dead duck….” The joke I was about to make died on my lips. Instead I kept the description short and clinical. “At least we know this wasn’t Duff,” I remarked.

  “So it would seem,” Michaelson agreed. “Does it seem strange to you that anyone would go to such lengths to oppose the simple inheritance of a local business?”

  “The whisky fraternity doesn’t take kindly to women invading their ranks,” I said.

  Michaelson was studying me the way I usually study my own subjects. “Misogynists are not by definition murderers,” he noted. “I’m told you had guests here at the house the night Duff died.”

  “Yes, after the funeral.”

  “What time did they leave?”

  “Everyone was gone by seven o’clock, except for Siobhán and Duff. They stayed longer to clean up. She left about eight, he left around eight-thirty.”

  “Did Duff say where he was going?”

  “He didn’t.”

  Michaelson made a note of the times. “Then you and Mr. Cooke were here alone from eight-thirty until ten-thirty, when you walked over to the distillery.”

  “That’s right.”

  “I understand that
Duff had a significant bequest in your uncle’s will.”

  Michaelson’s change of direction took me by surprise. “Duff and his mother inherited,” I replied.

  “Did this surprise you?”

  “A little, I suppose.” Where was this going?

  “And now that Duff is dead, what happens to his share?”

  “It would go to his mother—not to me,” I added pointedly.

  “And if something happened to his mother?” Michaelson raised an eyebrow.

  “I have no idea, and I hope to never find out.” I glared at Michaelson. “Why am I getting the third degree?”

  “We always look closely at the first ones on the scene of a crime.”

  “But I did not kill Duff Morgan,” I protested.

  “I didn’t say you did.”

  “Well, someone killed him.” The words popped out before I could stop myself.

  Michaelson’s eyes narrowed. “What makes you say that?”

  “Nothing.” Damn, Michaelson’s questions had flustered me. “It just…well, it didn’t look like an accident to me.”

  Rothes and Michaelson exchanged glances. “As it happens, you’re right,” Rothes said after a lengthy pause. “It wasn’t an accident.”

  I wasn’t surprised, but I didn’t like the look in Michaelson’s eye.

  “I understand your friend Patrick Cooke has left town already,” he said.

  “He’s in Edinburgh on business.”

  “I’ll need an address. We want to ask him a few more questions. In the meantime, I hope you’re not planning to leave Balfour.”

  “I’m here till the end of next week. Then I have to get back to work.”

  “You aren’t considering settling here permanently?”

  “No,” I replied more vehemently than I intended. “What about the threats I’ve received?”

  “We’ll be looking into them. In the meantime, my men will be running forensics on the rest of the Still House.” He turned to address Rothes. “Bit late now, but make sure there’s no further access to the building until the forensics team is finished.”

  “I already sent Williams over to secure the premises.” Rothes didn’t look pleased to be treated like a lackey by this man a good twenty years his junior. He looked over at Liam sprawled on the rug in front of the fire. “Does he make a decent watchdog?” he asked.

  “Appearances to the contrary, I expect he’d rise to the occasion if necessary.”

  “Good. Keep him close by, and keep the chains on until you can get the locks changed,” Rothes said.

  On that comforting note, they departed, leaving me to call Patrick and break the news that we were now both suspects in a murder case.

  “That’s mad. I knew I should’ve stayed.”

  “Don’t be silly. Besides, my gut tells me Michaelson is just throwing his weight around a bit, trying to impress Rothes and intimidate me. The important thing is we now know that they’re treating Duff’s death as a murder. I’m not shocked that they’d look to us as outsiders before one of their own. In fact, they might never look at the respected and upstanding Grant MacEwen. That’s going to fall to us. How soon can you get those financials?”

  “I’m on it.”

  —

  I’d barely hung up with Patrick when there was a knock at the front door. I was sorely tempted not to answer, but when I peered out I saw Kristen Ramsey was on the front step.

  “May I come in?” she said.

  I opened the door wider, and she followed me inside.

  “I was worried about you when I dropped you off earlier. You really looked like you were reaching the end of your rope. I would’ve stayed if I could, but I had a patient waiting, so I thought I’d swing by and check on you now.”

  “Thanks. It’s been a hell of a day all round, and I’ve just had a visit from the local plod and his high-octane sidekick letting me know I’m a suspect in the murder at my own distillery….” My voice was starting to sound shrill in my own ears and Liam was pacing back and forth, his ears and his hackles raised, mirroring my own agitation.

  “So they told you already.” Kristen sighed. “You should sit down and rest for a minute.” She grabbed a blanket from the back of one of the chairs and wrapped it around my shoulders before disappearing into the kitchen. She reemerged a short time later with a pot of tea and a plate of sandwiches.

  “I’m absolute rubbish in the kitchen, but you need to eat something. Doctor’s orders.”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “You’re exhausted and you’re in shock, Abi. You need to eat and drink. Come on. See what you can do with this.”

  Kristen sat on the couch beside me, but didn’t speak until I had managed half a sandwich and two cups of sugary tea. Liam didn’t come to beg for food. Instead he lay by the window poised and alert.

  “Better?” Kristen said.

  I nodded. “Can’t really say the news surprised me. I could tell from the look of that wound that Duff hadn’t been killed by the washback lid.”

  “I thought you were suspicious, and of course Rothes caught on right away, but you understand I couldn’t say anything before now.” Kristen studied me from the other end of the sofa before continuing. “Even if you were expecting this, violent death is never easy to deal with. I spent five years in the medical examiner’s office in Glasgow. You’d think I’d have got used to it. But it’s overwhelming.” Kristen poured another cup of tea and watched in silence as I sat staring into the fire.

  “Being a journalist’s a bit like that, too,” I admitted. “Intellectually, you know you have to distance yourself from your subject. You can’t get involved with the victims or you’ll go mad. For me, I have to keep looking through the lens. Not let it become personal.”

  “Does that work?” Kristen asked.

  I sipped my tea and considered the question. “No. I suppose it doesn’t. It’s always personal. It…it becomes a part of you.” I couldn’t meet Kristen’s eyes, but continued to stare into the hypnotic flames, comforted by the presence of a kindred spirit. “So Rothes was the one that noticed the wound. I’m a little surprised.”

  Kristen frowned, a small crease appearing between her finely arched brows. “Don’t underestimate Bill. He’s refused a number of promotions because he doesn’t want to leave Balfour, but he’s not stupid. If he were in Glasgow he’d be a chief inspector by now.”

  “You must have known, too.”

  “Of course. It’s clear Duff took a severe blow to the lower part of the skull with a sharp, metal object. Death would have been instant.”

  “That’s something, at least. Can you tell where he was killed?”

  “That’s more Rothes’s purview than mine, but there was no wash in the lungs, so he wasn’t placed in there while he was still alive.”

  “And it happened between eight-thirty, when he left the Haven, and ten forty-five, when Patrick and I arrived on the scene.”

  Kristen nodded.

  “He could have been killed anywhere, but someone purposely chose to dump him in a vat of my whisky,” I said. “You have to admit, that’s a good way to taint the reputation of Abbey Glen and terrify the owner.”

  “It terrifies me,” Kristen said. “If your saboteur was willing to kill Duff they might not stop there. If you’re going to insist on sticking this out, please promise me you’ll be careful.”

  “Of course.”

  “When was the last time you slept properly?”

  “I grab a couple of hours here and there.”

  “I mean a good solid eight or nine hours.”

  “I dunno. Before Ben died, I guess. Maybe even longer.”

  “Good Lord, it’s a wonder you’re functioning at all.” Kristen began rummaging in her bag. “I’m going to leave you some heavy-duty sleeping pills. Use them and get some real sleep. Things will look better when you do.”

  “Can’t look much worse.”

  I showed Kristen out with a promise to rest. I hadn’t had a female co
nfidante in years. It was a strange sensation, but not an unpleasant one.

  Liam had been restless all evening. Now he was standing at attention in the sitting room window again, staring at the faint outline of the hills beyond the garden. I followed his gaze but couldn’t make anything out in the dim light. A soft rumbling growl percolated in the back of his throat, and he refused to come away even when I offered a treat. I turned the kitchen light off and turned to call him one more time. Was it my imagination, or was there a tiny flash of light from the hillside? I stared intently at the spot and it came again. The flare of a match touching the tip of a cigarette.

  Someone was out there. I shivered and wished there were curtains at the windows—I knew they could see me more than I could see them, and it made me feel defenseless. I hurriedly turned out the lights on the main floor and checked all the doors. Tomorrow I would see about changing the locks. Till then, all I could do was barricade myself in the bedroom and try to get a little sleep.

  Chapter 10

  Tuesday brought more torrential downpours, and Liam lay sighing at my feet looking as deflated as I felt. I was stuck inside waiting for the locksmith to come, but it was good to get a bit of alone time after yesterday’s chaos. I was hoping that Patrick would come through with something for me today, but in the meantime I decided to try looking into Decons. I retrieved my computer from the desk in the library, spread my cards and files across the kitchen table, and fortified myself with a loaf of Mrs. Mann’s raisin bread and a large pot of tea.

  My rudimentary searches showed that the controlling interest in the company was held by the London-based Decon brothers, who managed the global whisky and vodka wholesaling operation. Over the past thirty years the company had taken aggressive steps to vertically integrate their operations by buying more than two dozen independent distilleries whose output was the primary component of their large-scale blending operations. The annual revenue from their blended whiskies dwarfed anything Abbey Glen could generate in ten years or more. Why would they pursue a distillery as small as the Glen so aggressively? One small independent would surely be much the same as another to them. Why mine?