Single Malt Murder

by Melinda Mullet

  The house was a solid, brooding presence that oozed old money and ancient lineage. I approached the front door feeling more than a little unnerved. An enormous pair of bronze lion-head knockers had been functionally superseded by a modern bell, and Grant himself opened the front door when I rang, wearing a kilt and a traditional jacket.

  “No butler?” I teased.

  “No servants,” he replied stiffly. “Just a cook, because I can’t, and a lady that comes from the village to clean, because I don’t.”

  Grant escorted me into a sitting room off the main hallway that was dominated by a large Adam fireplace, its carved oak surround glowing in the soft light. Hunter’s handiwork, I would guess, or perhaps his father’s. I was wearing the same black dress I’d worn to the funeral, but I wished I’d opted for pants instead. The fire looked lovely, but was fighting a losing battle against the chill that seeped up from the floors.

  I stopped for a moment by a long thin table behind the settee that was covered with framed family photos. I recognized Grant as a young man posing with a black Lab on the rock-strewn shore of a Highland loch. Another showed a younger boy in a school uniform holding a sport trophy, presumably Grant’s brother, and several handsome formal portraits of what must be the boys’ parents. Separate photos, though, no happy family groups.

  “What can I get you to drink?” Grant asked from the bar at the far end of the room.

  “I figured whisky was the only option, so I brought something special from home.” I pulled a bottle of the Rose Reserve from behind my back. “I found this in the wine cellar. It was my favorite from your tutorial the other night, and you said it was Ben’s. I thought we could have a special toast.”

  “I’m sure I have other whiskies that would be suitable,” Grant said, taking the bottle with a look of amazement.

  “I wanted to make a good impression, and I remembered what you said about this being a connoisseur’s drink.”

  “That’s for sure.” He held the bottle reverently. “Abi, this is too generous. Are you sure you don’t want to keep it for yourself?”

  “No, it’s fine. There’s another unopened one at the Haven, and I can always buy more.”

  “I doubt you can. The half-dozen bottles Duff found in the cellar were the first we’d seen in years. Ben was savoring them slowly, but I suppose it doesn’t matter now.” The sadness crept back into Grant’s eyes and he faltered slightly before continuing. “It’s quite a collector’s piece. Sure you don’t want to change your mind?”

  “It may as well be drunk by people who will appreciate it,” I said. “Besides, I could use some high-quality Dutch courage. Pour me a drink and tell me about the others.”

  “It’s mainly a group of distillery owners with the odd hands-on laborer like myself thrown in. A number of them were at the memorial service, so you’ve technically already met. Keith Maitland will be here, of course, and Graeme Campbell of Glen Norton and Ken Nakimoto should be here, too.”

  “Nakimoto was the Asian gentleman in the full kilt regalia at the funeral?”

  Grant chuckled. “That would be Ken. He’s quite an enthusiastic convert. Had a chain of restaurants in London, but he came for a visit and fell in love with Scotland. Sold up, moved to Balfour, and invested a small amount in the sushi place in town. The rest, and it was quite a bit, he’s been investing in small local distilleries.”

  “Now he’s looking for a piece of the Glen,” I mused. “Wouldn’t think he’d have been warmly received around here.”

  “Times are changing,” Grant replied. “He wasn’t welcome at first, but his money was, and the lads have gradually come to accept him and even respect him in their own way.”

  “You mean they no longer threaten him with bodily harm because he’s an outsider?”

  “Touché,” Grant conceded with a slight inclination of the head.

  I was doing my best to ignore the fact that we were alone, and was relieved to have the perpetual undercurrent of tension interrupted by the arrival of the first guests.

  Maitland looked surprised to see me in attendance, and from the glint in his eye I expected he’d be trying to take advantage of the situation. I was reintroduced to several others who’d attended the memorial service and whose names I recognized from the list of attendees at the Maitland’s event, along with three gentlemen I’d not seen before.

  Ken Nakimoto arrived late, in his kilt, and was soon deep in conversation with the dapper gentleman in the expensive-looking suit. Together we made ten. The men were polite enough, but I sensed they were uncomfortable with me in their midst.

  “Grant, how about a toast to Ben?” I suggested. When Grant had poured a glass for each of his guests, I raised mine in salute.

  “To Ben. The proud father of Abbey Glen, may he rest in peace.”

  “To Ben,” came the response.

  Several toasts followed, becoming more gracious as the spirits settled in. I could feel Grant watching me from across the room, and I fought to keep the color from flooding my face. His presence made me self-conscious, but in spite of his watchfulness, Grant left me to my own devices as the group began to mingle.

  “This is an exceptional malt,” said Graeme Campbell, maneuvering his way across the room to my side, closely followed by Ken Nakimoto. “Where on earth did you find it?”

  “It’s a bottle of the Rose Reserve from the late ’70s,” I said. “From Ben’s private collection. His favorite, I understand.”

  “So intricate and delightful,” Nakimoto murmured in his practiced English accent.

  “It’s extraordinary. I’ve had the Rose before, of course, but I didn’t remember that it was so exquisite. This has a complexity that belies its age,” Campbell remarked. “I would’ve said it was much older. The texture’s smooth and subtle, and the aftertaste’s remarkably multidimensional.”

  “I’m glad everyone’s enjoying it.” I tried not to smile. Singular, substantial, sedate. I pictured Graeme Campbell as the lonely soul penning the fruity whisky notes Grant was quoting the other night. Campbell was a robust, if not somewhat portly, man in his late fifties, and he was dead serious about his whisky. I wondered if he was also dead serious about getting his hands on the Glen. Not that he’d be physically capable of doing it himself, but could he have recruited Frank or one of the Glen’s other hired hands?

  “Sounds like you had a tough morning,” Campbell said. “Is the Malt Barn a total write-off?”

  “I’m afraid so,” I said. “We were just lucky no one was hurt.”

  “Will you be rebuilding, or is Grant planning to outsource the malting now…now that things have changed?”

  “You’ll have to ask him,” I replied. I should have known that news of the fire would have spread through the distilling community, but I noticed Campbell wasn’t asking what I planned to do about it.

  “Will the damage from the fire dampen your interest in buying Abbey Glen?” I challenged.

  Campbell flushed slightly at the directness of the question. “No…no, not at all. Anyway, it’s just a thought,” he said. “Early days yet. Ken and I were knocking around the idea of getting a few of the smaller producers to go in together and bid, when it goes on the market, of course.”

  I presented them with my best innocent look and said, “Ben wanted me to have the Glen, didn’t he? What makes you think I would sell?”

  “I…well…I presumed,” Graeme stammered. “I mean, this is no business for a pretty young woman like yourself.”

  “So I hear.” I wondered what he would think if he could see me covered in mud and crawling through a bombed-out village carrying forty pounds of camera gear.

  “We did not intend to cause offense, Miss Logan,” Nakimoto said with a slight bow of the head. “But as they say, ‘nothing ventured, nothing gained.’ We only wish to be under consideration if you do decide to part with the Glen.”

  I nodded. Nakimoto came through clearly as enterprising, shrewd, and measured. A man capable of many things. Not a
cruel man, but impulsive. His retreat to Scotland was evidence of that.

  “Come on, boys, don’t monopolize our guest of honor,” came a mellifluous voice from behind me. “Oliver Blaire,” he said. Like Grant, his natural brogue was subdued by the vestiges of an English public school education. “My family owns the Marchbanks’ distillery.”

  “Of course,” I said, grateful for the reminder. Blaire was the gentleman Nakimoto had been speaking to earlier, but he and Campbell excused themselves with a faint whiff of displeasure and went off to freshen their drinks from the bar.

  “Sound man, old Graeme, but he can be a bit heavy-going for the uninitiated,” Blaire murmured, his eyes sparkling mischievously.

  “Then I thank you for the rescue.”

  “Anytime,” Blaire replied. He must have been close to Ben’s age, but it was hard to pinpoint. His hairline was receding and there was a touch of gray at the temples, but he was trim and well preserved. Immaculately groomed, wrapped in exquisite tweeds, and smelling faintly of pipe smoke and sandalwood, he was the epitome of a true country gentleman. Refined, witty, and diplomatic. A man who could sell wool to a shepherd.

  “I miss Ben,” said Blaire. “He was a real breath of fresh air around these fusty old birds. Before he came along, most of them weren’t even on speaking terms.”

  “Really? Why’s that?”

  Blaire shrugged. “It’s a competitive business. Doesn’t usually make for close friendships.”

  “Things are obviously better these days,” I noted. “Campbell just told me that he and Nakimoto and some of the others are considering taking a whip round to try and buy Abbey Glen themselves.”

  Blaire arched an eyebrow. “You don’t say. They never approached me. Anyway, I wasn’t aware you’d actually decided to sell. Being a bit presumptuous, aren’t they?”

  “Well, I think so, but not many others do. It seems to be taken as read that the wee lass will be selling up.”

  “Oh, dear. Sorry. They aren’t the most tactful bunch.”

  “I’m used to it. I know I’m an outsider, but so was Ben fifteen years ago.”

  “True,” Blaire said. “But then again, Ben was a marketing genius. Fletcher’s was run-down and in debt to the rafters with a storehouse full of whisky when he took over. Most would have dumped the whisky on the blenders, but not Ben. He hired Grant and bottled what was left as a ‘limited-edition single malt,’ then sold it to collectors at a whopping premium. It was a brilliant marketing ploy.”

  “Maitland seems to have learned from Ben,” I ventured. “I hear he’s running his own whisky-tasting events. Had a big one the night of Ben’s funeral apparently.” I knew Oliver Blaire was on Patrick’s list, and I was hoping he might have something to say about the event if prompted.

  Blaire colored slightly. “So you heard about Keith’s little get-together Saturday night. Please be assured it was in no way intended to be disrespectful. In fact, it turned into quite a celebration of Ben’s life. Many fond remembrances, a late night and some thick heads in the morning, from what I hear.”

  “You weren’t there?”

  “Oh yes, I was there. The police questioned me along with all the rest, but I left earlier than most, as I had to drive all the way back to Stirling. Lord knows I can’t afford another drunk-driving stop.”

  “The police questioned you?”

  “Yes, they followed up with everyone that was there that night. Maitland pitched a bit of a fit about the whole thing, but he was the only one that really minded. Just doing their job, aren’t they? ‘Where were you at the time of the crime?’ and all that, but we were all together till at least ten when I left, so it was a moot point.”

  “Did anyone else leave early?” I asked.

  “I didn’t notice anyone. Should I have?” Blaire sounded intrigued.

  “No, of course not. I was just curious, that’s all.”

  “A journalist’s prerogative, but how are you getting on in your new role as distillery owner?”

  “I’ve had my share of challenges, as you’ve probably heard.”

  “Nasty business with that fire. Grant tells me no one was hurt. That’s something at least. You can always rebuild brick and mortar.”

  “We were lucky this time.”

  “You’ve had a literal baptism by fire, but things are bound to get better. You’ve a first-rate staff and Grant’s got your back.”

  I brushed aside a momentary vision of Grant putting a knife in my back. “We do have a great team,” I agreed.

  “Grant’s one of the most talented distillers in the business. He’s got a deft touch and a good nose, and I’ve known Cam since I was a lad. He’s a good man. Struggling with his wife’s illness these days, but you’ll not go wrong with him in charge.”

  “I didn’t realize his wife was ill.” I thought back to the reception at the Haven and realized the other ladies had been fussing over her and she did spend most of the evening sitting down.

  “She’s got heart issues,” Blaire was saying, “and the medical expenses have been crippling, but she seems to be doing better now. Never thought for one minute we’d lose young Duff first. So tragic.”

  “Yes, it is,” I murmured.

  “A terrible waste,” Blaire went on. “He was a bit cocky, but weren’t we all at that age. Everyone here’s too uncomfortable to say anything, but they were all shocked and very distressed by what’s happened.”

  Someone here isn’t shocked, I thought. My eyes traveled around the room looking at the collection of middle-aged men nursing their whiskies and their egos. One of them knew something about a murder, and vandalism and now arson, but which one? I dragged my attention back to Blaire. “I didn’t get much time to get to know Duff, but he seemed like a charming young man.”

  “Hard not to like Duff,” Blaire agreed. “He was outgoing, and there wasn’t much he didn’t know about whisky even as young as he was. Most kids know footballers and music, but Duff knew distilleries. He was ambitious and he was doing well at the Whisky Society. On the odd occasions when I saw him working the members’ bar and the private tastings, he seemed to be thriving.”

  “You visited Duff in Edinburgh?”

  “Not specifically, but I’m a member of the Society. I’m often down for meetings and such. The club in Edinburgh has an amazing cellar.”

  “So I’ve heard. My friend’s there now, doing some research.”

  “Nice work if you can get it. The club’s comfortable, and the whisky vault’s unequaled.”

  “Why did Duff leave his job?” I asked, steering the conversation back to the dead young man.

  “No idea. Restless, or perhaps some female or other. You never know. Kids bounce in and out of jobs on a whim these days.”

  Blaire was right, but I wondered if there might be another reason why Duff left Edinburgh so suddenly. Had he got himself into some kind of trouble? Could it possibly have followed him home and been responsible for his death? For the first time in days I felt slightly hopeful. Maybe there wasn’t a killer in our midst. Could it be that the problems at the Glen had no connection at all to Duff’s death? That would mean that Ben and I weren’t to blame for what happened to him. That would be the first bit of good news I’d had in weeks.

  Oliver Blaire had been a wealth of information, and I’d’ve liked to have asked more questions about Duff’s time in Edinburgh, but further conversation was cut short as we were herded in to dinner. I found myself seated at Grant’s right. Graeme Campbell was next to me, with Blaire and Maitland across the table.

  A couple of generous glasses of the Rose Reserve followed by a nice Bordeaux had done much to soften Maitland’s mood, but not his tongue. “Any more news on Duff’s untimely demise?” he asked in a loud voice. The other conversations at the table fizzled out as Grant’s guests tuned in to the Keith Maitland show. “Such a nasty business. It must’ve had a devastating impact on your production, not to mention raising some rather delicate sanitary issues.”

 
; “The situation has been most unpleasant for everyone…particularly Duff’s family,” I said through clenched teeth.

  “Always distressing to find that one of your own is up to no good,” Maitland said.

  “Why would you think Duff was up to no good?” I challenged.

  “Well, everyone knows the Glen has been plagued by a series of unfortunate accidents since Ben’s passing. Your man was found at the scene of the crime. Don’t have to be a genius to work that one out.”

  “That may qualify you to consider the matter, but it doesn’t make you right.” I took a deep breath and tried to keep my temper in check by reminding myself that Maitland was only trying to get a rise out of me. I wouldn’t give him the pleasure.

  I could see the suppressed anger in Grant’s eyes, but he didn’t intervene. He let me respond to Maitland’s barbs in my own way. He hadn’t taken his eyes off me all evening. Passionate. Finally, something, albeit vague. I closed my eyes for a moment and waited, but no more words came. I’d never taken this long to form a picture before. It was unsettling.

  Graeme Campbell was kind enough to jump in before I was forced to answer any more rude questions from Maitland, redirecting the conversation to more mundane industry issues. The rest of the company looked relieved to turn to a less unpleasant subject, and a lengthy conversation ensued about equipment maintenance and the rising cost of labor. I let the discussion wash over me as I ate, content to melt into the background and observe the interplay of the various personalities. Those who viewed whisky making as a matter of pounds and pence versus those with a more artistic sensibility.

  Oliver Blaire and Grant were clearly the quality-over-quantity contingent. They were the only ones who remained above the fray. Blaire was really rather charming, and I could see him watching the discussions ebb and flow around him with a detached amusement.

  By the end of the evening, I could at least put the names and faces together from the various distilleries. I might be clutching at straws, but the idea of Duff having brought trouble back from Edinburgh was very appealing to me. It would mean that, with respect to my inheritance, I was looking for a business rival who’d recruited a saboteur and an arsonist, but not a murderer. That would make my job easier. Maitland, Campbell, Nakimoto, even Grant. I’d lay odds one of them had recruited a member of the Glen’s staff to help.