Whatever the reason for starting the fire, I had to admit on reflection it had been well played. The damage was confined to the Malt Barn—the one part of the property that most distillers, including Decons, would consider expendable. Moreover, the blaze was timed perfectly. Early in the day. Enough people to respond to the flames, but still quiet enough that it would be easy to move around undetected.
I stood up and began pacing back and forth, the coffee finally jump-starting my brain. Could it be that our arsonist didn’t need to go undetected? Perhaps it was someone whose presence wouldn’t be questioned. Frank Monroe or even Cam. Either one could have started the blaze before raising the alarm. A good way to ensure the flames didn’t run out of control.
Kristen’s words came back to me. “Cam’s always in the thick of things.” He was first on the scene this morning, and he was in the office when we came to call the police the night Duff died. He said he’d just arrived, but he could have been lying. If it was Cam, who was he answering to? Maitland? One of our other competitors? Or even Grant? Could Grant have sent Cam to light the fire? If he had, he’d created a great alibi for himself. Was that the plan when he arrived at my door last night with the puppy-dog eyes and the bottle of whisky? Had I been played?
I wanted to trust Grant, but no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t silence the nagging whispers in my head. Worse still, no amount of suspicion on my part was capable of dousing a growing physical attraction. Behind the stiff Scottish facade lurked an attractive man, passionate about his work and his community, who was completely unfazed by any charms I might possess. He embodied that compelling cocktail of enigma, potential, and indifference that unfailingly captivates the female of the species, and I was not immune.
I finished breakfast, dug out Liam’s leash, and set off on foot to see what we could find out in Balfour. In a village this size, death and destruction would be the only topics of conversation.
We passed a few scattered farmhouses and cottages on the way to town. Some had thatched roofs, some had shingle, but each had a solid wooden door painted in a unique color ranging from soft mauve to bright chartreuse. In the adjacent fields, sheep grazed peacefully, like cotton balls adhered to a green felt canvas. Liam trudged along at my side, frustrated at being leash-bound, but he was dangerously enthusiastic about the sheep and the last thing I needed was to have him run amok in the middle of one of my neighbor’s prize flocks.
As we neared Balfour proper, the cottages got closer together until they began sharing a common wall. The small garden plot in front of each door competed with its neighbors for the most extravagant show of roses and towering irises, while sweet peas climbed in a perfumed riot of color up every trellis and archway. As we crossed the bridge over the River Alyn the houses gave way to shops and small businesses.
I stopped at the police station first and left Rothes a printout of the photo on my computer. The bolt would be tough to identify now, but if the fire department at least knew what they were looking for they might have better luck. The next stop was the local hardware and sundries store, aptly named DIYer Necessities. It was the kind of place that had one of anything and everything you could possibly want, an Ali Baba’s cave of domestic wonders. I was hoping to catch Frank Monroe at his regular job, and after poking around for a bit I found him sitting on an old ottoman in the back of the store, drinking coffee from a paper cup and regaling a couple of customers with the story of his early-morning heroics.
“Gowon. It can’t’a bin that bad or ye wonae be sittin’ here stuffin’ your face with biscuits,” said a gray-haired farmer in a patched jumper and a pair of scuffed wellies caked in mud.
“Ach aye,” said his companion. “Ye’re havin’ us on.”
“I never,” Frank said, positively bristling with indignation.
Frank was a large man, solidly built with broad hands and equally broad features. He looked like he could throw a barrel over his shoulder with ease, or a man for that matter.
“Ask her. She’ll tell ye,” Frank said, pointing in my direction.
Frank’s audience turned to me expectantly.
“That’s right. Frank was quite the hero today,” I confirmed. “Stopped the fire from spreading and took on a lot of smoke in the process. Glad to see you are feeling better,” I added.
“See,” Frank said, and dissolved into a coughing fit.
The man in the muddy wellies shook his head. “There’ll be nae livin’ with him now, that’s for sure. What with ’is flash car and ’is swollen head.” The two men drifted away as I moved closer.
“You really feeling alright?” I asked.
“No’ bad, just a bit of a cough.”
“Quite the adventure you had. Don’t suppose you saw how it all started?” I asked.
“Dinnae see it, but I smelled it,” Frank said, tapping the side of his nose. “I was helpin’ Cam clear up the Still House. Them blokes from Stirling left all sorts layin’ round. We’d started early, hopin’ to get the place ready for a run later in the day, but then we heard this bang and got a whiff o’ smoke.”
“What caused the noise?”
“No idea, but right away I said, ‘That’s no’ right. Sommit’s gone awry.’ We ran out to the yard an’ saw the flames comin’ out the door of the barn. Cam called the fire station and then we fixed up the hoses as best we could. Don’t mind tellin’ you I was scared there for a bit.”
“Me too,” I said. “And what time was all this?”
“ ’Bout six o’clock, I think.”
Not long before Grant and I arrived, then. Frank came across as credulous, malleable, and voluble. Certainly someone who could be influenced, but not someone I’d want to trust with criminal activity that required finesse or secrecy. I was about to ask for more details when we were interrupted by the arrival of the butcher’s wife, eager to get the story fresh from the horse’s mouth. I left Frank retelling his tale with gusto. I could imagine the embellishments would increase as the day wore on. Before I left the shop I picked up a rubber chew toy for Liam, a tea cozy shaped like a black sheep, and a ten-inch hunting knife that looked as if it could be useful in a tight spot.
Heading off down the street, I passed a new-and-used bookshop with a tempting display of vintage sci-fi books being overseen by a large tabby cat curled up in a sunny corner of the bay window. The sign on the door said CLOSED. Across the street, a restaurant called the Pagoda, boasting world-class sushi, looked incongruous between the butcher and the local veterinarian.
The mixed aromas of espresso and chocolate were wafting into the street in intoxicating waves from a café called the Chocolate Bar. I was intrigued by the extravagant interior and stopped in for a coffee. The floor, the counters, and the shelves of the little café were stained a rich chocolate brown, and a mix-and-match collection of wooden tables had been painted the color of Devon cream. The booths and chairs were upholstered in deep purple velvet. It was like stumbling into a Cadbury-themed wonderland. There were only two other people in the place, a teenaged couple so engrossed in each other they didn’t even look up as I entered.
I chose a table in the opposite corner of the room and studied the menu with interest. There was a full range of tea, coffee, and espresso drinks, along with the usual scones, cakes, and sandwiches. The special of the day was dubbed the “Highland Fling,” a tempting concoction of hot cocoa, whisky, Frangelico, and whipped cream, and the “Five O’Clock Somewhere” special was a chocolate martini with a side of shortbread fingers.
“What can I get you, dearie?” I looked up to see a woman who reminded me so much of Mrs. Tiggy-Winkle I had to struggle to keep from laughing out loud. A mass of short tight curls peeped out from underneath a headscarf knotted at the nape of the neck. Two small bright eyes sparkled behind a pair of pale pink glasses and a white apron was tied securely over a voluminous floral frock whose owner looked as if she tasted the stock regularly.
“Good gracious, it’s you,” she said. “How marvelous. I’d hoped
you’d stop in for a visit. Ben was one of my best customers. He always had such grand stories to tell ’bout you and your adventures. The places you’ve been, I can’t even imagine! But here I am ramblin’ on. I’m Floss. Floss Robinson. Me and my husband, Malcom, own the Chocolate Bar.”
“This shop is brilliant,” I said, looking around in awe. The lavender walls were covered in shelves stacked with every imaginable kind of chocolate. Cadbury’s was the main staple, but there were plenty of Swiss and German and French confections as well. Glass jars filled with malted milk balls and chocolate-covered nuts sat alongside boxes and bars of chocolate of all shapes and sizes. “I can’t imagine how you keep track of it all.”
“Mad, isn’t it?” Floss laughed. She had the warm, husky voice of a lifelong smoker. “When I ran the place on me own it was a perfectly respectable tea shop. Folk came from miles around for my scones and cakes. Then I married Malcom. Trouble always starts when you get a man in the picture, doesn’t it? Ever since he was a kid he’s always wanted to run his own chocolate shop. In the beginning I agreed to let him rename the place and start selling a few chocolates for the wee ones. Now look. It’s like Willy Wonka’s bloody larder.”
“I think it’s fabulous, and I’ll bet Ben did, too.”
“The Chocolate Martini was his idea, God love him. We’d never had the like here before. It’s been a big seller. Want to try one? It’s good for what ails you.”
“Next time,” I hedged. “For now I’ll take a double espresso and one of those small Dairy Milk bars.” That would be enough caffeine to keep me buzzing all afternoon.
Floss brought me my coffee and chocolate, then lingered to straighten the adjacent chairs. “How are you managing over at the Haven? Do you have everythin’ you need? Such a difficult time you’ve had, poor lamb. First, that horrible business with Duff, and now a fire. What must you be thinkin’ of us?”
“Losing Duff was a blow to everyone at the Glen,” I said. “I’d only just met him, of course, but everyone here must have known him all his life.”
“Aye.” Floss dabbed at her eyes with the tea towel in her hands. “He was a lovely lad. I can’t imagine what Siobhán will do without him. He was a bit of a handful sometimes growing up, but he meant the world to her.”
“Did he leave a girlfriend behind in the village?”
“No one special. I see all the youngsters in here, and get to hear most of the tittle-tattle, too. Several of the girls fancied him, mind, but he hadn’t really taken up with anyone since he came back from Edinburgh. I think he may have had a friend or two down in the city, if you know what I mean, but he didn’t bring them up here.”
“Such a loss,” I murmured. “Too many people being hurt.”
“I hear Frank Monroe was in the thick of things this morning, and all,” Floss said with a hint of a smile. “Came in earlier looking for a coffee and tellin’ us all about the fire. It was a bit of luck we’d had all that rain yesterday or it coulda been much worse, but of course Frank put it all down to his own heroics.”
“He may have overdramatized, but we were lucky Frank was around,” I said. “It was all hands on deck there during the heat of the moment. Do you have any idea how long he’s been working at the Glen?”
“Let’s see, now, must be goin’ on six years. He used to work at Maitland’s until they sold the place. New company came in and sacked all the local crew and brought in their own folks. That’s when Frank started at the DIY and Ben hired him to help out at the Glen. Cam wasn’t all that chuffed, I can tell you. Thought Frank wouldn’t do things Ben’s way, but Ben was always willin’ to give folks the benefit of the doubt.”
That sounded like Ben, but I wasn’t quite so charitable. Frank had worked for Maitland before; could he have been persuaded to do so again? Frank was malleable. He’d be a perfect target for the likes of Maitland and the two had a history.
Floss continued chatting about nothing, moving back to the elaborate pyramid of bonbons she was crafting.
“That’s lovely,” I said, admiring the feat of engineering unfolding in front of me. “Is it for a wedding?”
“In a way. It’s for a hen night on Friday in Stirling. I made one for an event at Maitland’s on Saturday night, and it was so popular I’ve had orders for a dozen more already.”
My ears pricked up. “An event at Maitland’s?”
“Aye, Keith Maitland hosts whisky tastings once a month. Always looking for a new gimmick. This time it was after-dinner whiskies and chocolate. Peculiar mix, if you ask me, but it went over well, so I hear.”
“This past Saturday?” That would have been the evening of the memorial service. The night Duff was killed. “What time was that?”
“Not sure exactly when they started, but it was later than usual. We didn’t even deliver the display until gone seven-thirty. The gentlemen went out to dinner first. The staff at Maitland’s were expectin’ a late night. You know what menfolk are like when they start samplin’ the whisky.”
I smiled absentmindedly. So Keith Maitland was hosting an event on Saturday night. Unless he was able to slip away unnoticed he couldn’t have been in the Yeast Room with Duff. I was disappointed, but not altogether surprised. Could he have sent Frank Monroe to sabotage the washback that night? Had Duff confronted him? Frank was big enough, and strong enough, to handle the body, but was he smart enough to think of framing Duff? Leaving the keys but forgetting the pins was an amateur move. Throwing them into the Malt Barn was downright careless.
Maybe Frank was our man.
“Any idea who was at the Maitland event?” I pressed.
“No idea, but most of the nearby distillery owners were in town for the funeral. I’m sure they were all invited. It was such a beautiful service,” Floss went on. “Never seen so many flowers in my whole life. Mrs. Cartwright from the florist’s was all in. Two months’ work in a week’s time, mind you…” I tuned out as Floss droned on about the overwrought florist and the details of the service. I needed to get hold of a list of the attendees from Saturday night. I suddenly realized that Floss was asking me a question.
“Another coffee, dear?”
“Sorry. No, thanks. I need to get home to make a phone call.”
“Right you are. Stop in again soon.”
Chapter 12
Back at the house I put in a call to Patrick.
“Where’ve you been? I got your message from this morning and I’ve been worried sick.”
“I’m fine. The fire’s out and no one’s dead.”
“Don’t joke.”
“Sorry, I’m really okay, but I need a bit more cyber-sleuthing. Can you try to find out something about a whisky-tasting event held at Maitland’s last Saturday night? I want to know who was there and who wasn’t, and any chance you could put a rush on it? Grant’s asked me to a distillers’ dinner tonight and I’d like to see how many of tonight’s guests were at Maitland’s last weekend.”
“Costs more for rush service,” Patrick grumbled. “And what are you doing to help the cause?”
“Checking on a man that works part-time at the Glen. He’s got accomplice written all over him. Meanwhile, I need to pick your brain for a minute. What can you tell me about AXB and the Bartolli family?”
“Why?”
“They’ve expressed an interest in the Glen, and according to Richard Thomas, AXB’s Italian patriarch, Antonio Bartolli, is coming to Edinburgh this weekend to check on his company’s Scottish interests. He’s asked to meet with me in person.”
“I’ve never met Bartolli, but I know him by reputation. He’s a well-known collector, and a real connoisseur. The Glen would be right up his alley. Bartolli’s son, Nick, on the other hand, is one gorgeous Italian playboy. Into wine, women—sadly—and football.”
“Charming.”
“The family owns a controlling interest in the Milan Centrale football club, and Nick’s in the tabloids all the time for his exploits when he’s following the team.”
“Shoul
d be an entertaining lunch, then.”
“When are you meeting him?”
“Saturday. Why?”
“I need to head home at some point on Saturday, but I could try to go with you before I leave.”
“I’ll manage by myself, but I’ll stop by and see you after lunch. You can tell me where I went wrong.”
“You’ll be fine, just be careful. You’re running with the big dogs there. Has anyone else expressed interest in the Glen?”
“Yeah, two more local guys, Campbell and Nakimoto, a distillery from Islay, and some Japanese company. I’m texting you the info now.”
I hung up with Patrick, sent him the promised text, and pulled out my index cards. I made cards for Frank Monroe, Evan Ross, and Walter Bell, plus the two local distillers and, after some hesitation, Rowan Johnson from Islay. The list kept getting longer, not shorter. I didn’t bother with the Japanese group and AXB. Whatever else they were, they weren’t here, and our murderer was.
—
Patrick came through with a basic list of the attendees from Maitland’s event just as Hunter announced he was ready to drive me over to Grant’s place for the distillers’ dinner. According to Patrick, seven of our local competitors were at Maitland’s the night Duff died. Campbell, Nakimoto, and Maitland had all expressed an interest in buying the Glen. Could one of them have paid a visit to the Glen, leaving behind a scrap of wool suiting and a dead boy? Tonight’s dinner was a golden opportunity to assess them all in their natural habitat.
We approached the MacEwen family estate down a long gravel drive, framed by overarching trees, and came to a stop in a parking area the size of a small football pitch. As Hunter helped me from the car I found myself face-to-face with Grant’s privileged upbringing for the first time. Nothing in our time together had prepared me for the Larches. The house was a classic example of early-nineteenth-century Baronial architecture, resplendent with circular towers on either side and a sprinkling of smaller turrets across the intervening roofline. Lancet windows were evenly spaced around the towers, though it was doubtful that the place had ever been under siege, unless an aggressive tax collector had been foolish enough to approach. Finials crowned each of the smaller turrets and crow-stepped gables adorned the roofline at the edges.
Single Malt Murder Page 13
