Single Malt Murder

by Melinda Mullet

  As I was reading, Patrick sent his first wave of information via email. Maitland was listed as Decons’ acquisition rep for the Lowland region. A more lucrative position than I would have thought. I didn’t want to know how Patrick got hold of Maitland’s bank records, but from what I could see a significant portion of his salary came in the form of bonuses. Large payments that were easily linked to the closing of distillery sales in the area. Hunter said Maitland was known for doing Decons’ dirty work. Was that what he was doing on Saturday night? I pulled out his card and noted a significant financial incentive for wanting to expedite a sale to Decons. His card was filling up fast. I added, “Alibi for Saturday night?” And Decons’ “London presence—thistles and notes.”

  By late afternoon I’d moved on to typing up some of Hunter’s stories with the idea of working them into the text of the book. The locksmith had come and changed all the external locks. I felt safer, but still restless. I left a message for Patrick on his phone, thanking him and letting him know I was still in one piece, before pouring myself a stiff drink and pacing through the house like a caged animal.

  I felt exposed again now that the sun was starting to set. Blinds at the windows would be a must if I planned to stay much longer. It was like being in a fishbowl. I almost jumped out of my skin when the doorbell chimed. I hesitated for a second before forcing myself to acknowledge that an intruder wouldn’t announce himself by ringing. I tiptoed behind Liam to the front hall to peer out and was surprised to see MacEwen standing on the doorstep. I couldn’t read the color of those haunting eyes through the peephole, but I’d bet the mood wasn’t good. I opened the door and stood my ground in the entrance.

  “I need to apologize for yesterday at the distillery,” he said, struggling with Liam’s attempts to jump at his face. “I was out of line.”

  The apology took me by surprise. I’d expected confrontation, not contrition. “I suppose I owe you an apology as well,” I admitted. “I should’ve asked before I moved in and started taking pictures.”

  He held out a paper-wrapped bottle. “I brought a peace offering…if it’s not too late?”

  This time he looked at me with no trace of rancor, and yet I hesitated, waging a fierce internal debate. By all accounts this man was Ben’s friend and trusted partner, yet he owed no loyalty to me. I couldn’t pretend I wasn’t apprehensive, but even more than that I was curious, intrigued and captivated by those eyes. In the end I listened to my gut saying take the risk. I could only hope it was my well-honed instinct for survival that was guiding me at this point, and not some more primal instinct. Either way, I knew I couldn’t pass up the chance to find out more about Ben’s right-hand man.

  “Come in,” I said, stepping aside. “We should start from scratch. You could begin by calling me Abi.”

  “Grant,” he countered.

  “And this is Liam,” I said, pointing Grant toward the library. For what it was worth, Liam was greeting MacEwen like a long-lost relative. I went to the kitchen to get some glasses. By the time I returned, Grant had stoked the fire and relocated Hunter’s scattered handiwork to a corner well away from the flames.

  We sat self-consciously in the two leather chairs near the hearth, and Grant handed me a double shot of Abbey Glen from the bottle he’d unwrapped.

  “To Ben,” he said.

  “To Ben,” I echoed.

  I held my glass up to the fire and watched the light playing off the surface. It was like watching liquid flame. Taking a tentative sip, I felt the warmth flood through me in a wave. It evoked Ben’s comforting presence, temporarily blotting out my lingering sense of unease.

  “Do you like it?”

  I hesitated for a split second but found I could truthfully answer yes.

  “What do you taste?” Grant prompted.

  “Butterscotch.” I took another sip. “And vanilla, and a little fruitcake, but with an edge.”

  “Well done.”

  I could see that Grant was making a concerted effort to be pleasant. Given his recent hostility it couldn’t be easy, so I made an effort to reciprocate. Although it seemed strange to be having a serious conversation about whisky after the events of the past few days, it was neutral ground and, all in all, not a bad place to start.

  “Why does this taste so different from the stuff I’m usually given?” I asked.

  “Abbey Glen’s taste comes from many things: the water, the malting process, the copper pipes in the Still Room, the barrels we use for aging. In the end, it all comes together to create the unique taste.”

  “I can see why Ben loved it. It really is gorgeous. Most of the time, whiskies are too harsh for me. Too much sea salt and smoke.”

  “That aspect’s an acquired taste,” Grant conceded, “but there are many whiskies with a less harsh, less peaty taste.”

  I took another sip. “I wish I knew more about the business. I regret not paying more attention when Ben tried to explain.”

  “He would’ve liked to share it with you.” Grant regarded me intensely, making me want to squirm. I felt transparent when he looked at me like that, as if he could see inside of me.

  “If you’re interested, I could teach you,” he said.

  “Why now?”

  It was Grant’s turn to look uncomfortable. “You were special to Ben,” he said softly. “He made you a part of Abbey Glen. Who am I to argue?”

  That’s the question, I thought, taking another drink. Who are you, Grant MacEwen? For the first time ever, I couldn’t grasp a clear snapshot, no matter how hard I tried. He was complex, and the words kept eluding me.

  Aloud I said, “Okay, I’m game. If I’m going to finish this book for Ben, I’ll need the Whisky 101.”

  Grant rose and went to the glass cabinet, selecting three bottles along with three small tasting glasses. He poured. “Try this,” he said, handing me the first glass. “It’s a classic malt from the Speyside region. Just a touch of water opens up the tastes of vanilla and apple and spice.”

  “This has a bit more of a burnt taste to it than Abbey Glen,” I commented.

  “That’s the peating. Most Scottish distilleries dry their grain over a peat fire, which gives it that smoky flavor. The amount of peating will dictate how smoky the end product is.”

  “It tastes more earthy,” I volunteered.

  “Exactly. You’re a fast learner. The other thing that significantly affects the taste is the barrel used for aging. Distillers are always experimenting with different kinds of barrels and different combinations, trying to tweak the flavor.”

  “Are the Glen’s barrels oak like the winemakers use?” I poured myself another glass of the Abbey Glen.

  “Most people use either oak casks or old bourbon or sherry casks. As you’d imagine, traces of the bourbon or the fortified wine flavor linger in the wood and they impart a unique taste in the whisky. With sherry casks it’s a sweetness. That’s the taste of currant and sultana you sometimes get. At the Glen we use both.” He poured out a measure of ruby-colored liquid. “Now, try this.”

  “Mmm, I like that.” I downed the rest without hesitation. A warm fuzzy feeling spread through me, releasing some of the tension in my shoulders.

  “I thought you might. That was aged in an old port cask. From that, you get an interesting color, as well as the rich, fruity taste. It’s a great after-dinner dram. Last one.” He poured out a final shot that was the pale yellow of straw. I could tell as soon as it came near my nose that it was full of brine and seaweed.

  I took a tentative sip and grimaced. “Nope. That’s why I don’t drink whisky. It tastes like cough syrup to me.” I shuddered. “Actually, worse.”

  For the first time I saw the hint of a smile play around his lips. “That’s probably the peatiest malt made in Scotland today. Not everyone’s taste. You can often tell what you’re getting from the trade descriptions.” Grant pulled a binder off the shelf. “It says…‘complex nose with citrus and pepper. Add water and you get linseed oil on a cricket bat, a
faint, smoky edge and a hint of vanilla and sweat socks.’ ”

  “And that description would be a selling point?”

  “For many, yes.”

  “Okay, so that I don’t get at all. Is this peat monster made near here?”

  “No, it comes from Islay. You may not like it, but you should taste it. It’s a great example of how much the environment has to do with the flavor. The water used in the distillation process, the sea mist that lingers in the air during the aging, everything combines in a complex alchemy to create a malt that is so evocative of the sea that you can almost hear the gulls.”

  I watched his face as he talked about the nuances of the whisky and saw the same passion and commitment that I’d seen in Ben’s face. This was one way to forge a connection with Grant, as well as a way for me to reconnect with Ben. Listening to him, I was also convinced that Grant hadn’t been around at the time of Duff’s death. If he had been, Duff would never have been left at the distillery. Grant wouldn’t sully his beloved malt with the body, nor would he willingly taint the reputation of the distillery.

  I went back to the Abbey Glen and had another thoughtful swallow. “I may not know much about alchemy, but I know what I like. This is good. It’s subtle, but rich. It calms you and invigorates you at the same time. It’s hard to put into words.”

  “You’re doing a good job of it. I think you have more of a feel for this than you’re given credit for.”

  I found myself focusing on Grant’s mouth as he spoke. He had beautifully shaped lips. I shook my head, realizing that I was losing track of the conversation. I needed to reengage.

  “How long do you age Abbey Glen?” I asked. The bottles on the table in front of us ranged anywhere from ten to twenty years.

  “Right now, we’re producing a ten-year-old, but as a distillery we’re young. Here…” Grant retrieved a tall green bottle with a hand-scripted label and poured out a measure. “This is much older. Twenty-five years, in fact. Left over from the Fletcher’s days. It’s a stunning drink.”

  I had to agree. “Almost like a brandy,” I said. I was beginning to feel more confident about the drinks, if not my drinking buddy.

  “It was Ben’s favorite. Collectors call it the Rose Reserve.”

  “I can see why Ben liked it.”

  “Ben was a big fan of Martin Furguson, the man who distilled the Rose. His bottlings are as rare as hen’s teeth now. The only reason we have these is that Duff found some in the cellar at the Glen when he was doing some cleaning out for Ben—he gave them to Ben as a present. I think it was the best gift Ben ever had.”

  At last the opening I’d been waiting for. “Ben took a real shine to Duff, didn’t he?”

  A shadow passed over Grant’s face. “They were very close, and not just because of Siobhán. Ben cared about Duff in his own right, and Duff knew that.”

  “You were close to him too, weren’t you?”

  “I did my best to keep an eye on him when Ben wasn’t around. He was a bright lad, brighter than many gave him credit for. Such a waste.” Grant poured himself another drink and sighed heavily. “Ben was trying to help him get set for the future. He even arranged for Duff to go and work in Edinburgh last year.”

  “When was that?”

  “Let’s see. He left right after Ben’s birthday. Must have been the first week in May.”

  “I’m a little surprised Duff would want to leave the Glen to work in the city.”

  “Ben convinced him it was a good idea. Thought it would expand his horizons. Help him make some contacts, conceivably get him interested in trying for uni.”

  “Where was he working?” I asked.

  “The Whisky Society. Working the bar and helping with the tasting programs. He was doing well from what I hear, but he was back in Balfour by early February this year.”

  “Did he say why?”

  “Never wanted to talk about it, but if you ask me, he missed Ben. Of course, Ben welcomed him back, found work for him at the Glen again. Gave him some flexibility, so he was free to give his mum a hand at the pub.”

  Grant poured me another drink of the Rose Reserve and I extended my hand for the bottle.

  “I love the label.”

  “Martin Furguson was a Renaissance man. A gifted distiller and an artist as well. The watercolor image on the front of the bottle is from one of Martin’s own paintings.”

  “It’s gorgeous. Is it the first Fletcher’s distillery?”

  Grant nodded.

  “Hunter mentioned it. I love the lavender-tinged hills with the stone croft and all those red and pink rosebushes.” I studied the distinctive label as I drained my glass again. “Twenty-five years…so the older the better?”

  “Not always, but whiskies older than twenty years are much less common. Too much aging can ruin a cask, or it can produce an incredible taste. It’s a crapshoot at best. If it works out well, it’s very rewarding.”

  I realized I was staring at Grant and he was beginning to look blurry around the edges. I couldn’t let my guard down. If I was going to get any more information from him I’d need to sober up. I stood up unsteadily and said, “Have you eaten?”

  “No, sorry. I’ll get going and leave you in peace….”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. I’ll fix us something.” It was surreal to see him looking so relaxed in my home. Yesterday I couldn’t imagine it, yet here we were. I took a deep breath and tried to conjure up the words to personify him. Still nothing.

  Grant had left his wet shoes in the hall to dry, and he padded after me in his socks. I rummaged around in the fridge and came up with smoked salmon, a baguette, some cheese, and two pints of raspberries. As I finished putting a tray together, I could tell something wasn’t right. It took me a minute to realize Liam wasn’t in the kitchen. He was always in the kitchen if I was. I wandered back into the library to see him sniffing at the whisky glasses we’d abandoned on the low table.

  “You won’t like that much,” I said with a laugh. He was, however, giving each glass a thoughtful and thorough sniffing, as if he was about to provide his own critique. Dried cereal with a hint of aged rodent and chewed shoe.

  I returned to the kitchen and told Grant he might well have competition for the job of “nose” at the distillery. We carried our makeshift supper back to the library, where we found Liam struggling to get the last drops from the bottom of one of the glasses with a look of rapture on his face. He glanced up as we came in, gave a quick hiccup, and settled on the hearth rug with a contented sigh.

  Grant began to laugh, collapsing into the nearest chair. The sound was warm and vibrant and unexpected. It completely threw me off guard.

  “Sorry.” He mopped his eyes with the back of his hand. “He’s quite a dog. Apparently, he has an affinity for the highly peated malts. He’s ignored the others and gone straight for the Islay.”

  “I hope it won’t make him sick.” I peered into Liam’s eyes with concern. Grant leaned forward and gave him a scratch. Liam obligingly rolled over on his back, splayed out in a position of absolute trust. I could only hope he was justified in his faith, and not just plastered.

  “I suspect he’ll be fine,” Grant said, “as long as he doesn’t do it too often. My father had a spaniel once with a taste for brandy. Used to get into the stirrup cups on a regular basis. He’d spend the rest of the afternoon sleeping it off under a tree. Come to think of it, he lived an unusually long time for a dog.”

  Grant seemed to be softening under the influence of the whisky. “Hunting dogs and country houses,” I ventured, “your family must have been here for a long time?”

  “Since the mid-1300s, give or take. First as farmers, then landowners.”

  “And now distillers.”

  “For the moment, at least,” Grant said, a shadow passing over his features.

  “You could make it permanent,” I suggested. “Why not buy the Glen yourself?”

  Grant rolled his eyes. “You sound like Inspector Michaelson. I’ll
tell you the same thing I told him. I’m a distiller, Abi, not a businessman. If I wanted to be in business I’d have gone to work at MacEwen Glass.”

  “So Michaelson’s been to see you too.”

  “He and Bill Rothes were at the Glen again this morning with the forensics crew. Bill mentioned your intruder and the threats you’ve received. Michaelson asked me a load of questions about my movements and my motives. I think he fancies me as your poison pen.”

  “You’re better off than me, then; he’s trying to peg me as a murderer.”

  I watched Grant’s expression carefully and saw his eyes become that flinty shade of gray-green I saw when we first met. “A murderer?”

  “Yeah, did he and Rothes not mention that Duff was murdered?”

  Grant looked stunned and angry. If he was faking it, he was doing a flawless job. My sense was he was telling the truth, and yet I was conscious of a lingering chill along my spine that made me shiver in spite of the warmth of the fire.

  “But Bill indicated it was an accident on Saturday night. What happened?”

  “Seems the body was moved after death. I’m not surprised, I could tell at the time the wound was wrong.”

  “And you didn’t say anything?”

  “They’ve made it clear they don’t want any interference from the gutter press.”

  “But why do they suspect you?”

  “Patrick and I were first on the scene, always suspicious, according to Michaelson. Not to mention Duff and Siobhán inherited money under Ben’s will. I guess he thinks I might be trying to reclaim part of my inheritance.”