“Not specifically, but he said a lot, and too much of it went over my head at the time. So, if I sell Abbey Glen, the new owner would have a twenty percent stake in MacEwen Glass?”
“As it stands, yes.”
“Very interesting. That means Grant has to be worried that a new owner wouldn’t want to keep investing in a dying glass company. They could sell up and look elsewhere for a cheaper bottling contract, leaving MacEwen Glass in the lurch.”
“Anything’s possible, but to his credit, Ben was a shrewd businessman. Investing in MacEwen Glass was a legitimate vertical integration. It’s a well-run company, and the Glen gets favorable bottling rates without having to ship a delicate product to the other side of Europe for packaging and distribution. It was a sound business decision, it just gives Grant more of a stake than you might have initially thought.”
“So both Grant and Maitland have significant motives for getting rid of me.”
“But Grant still hasn’t asked about buying the Glen, has he? It would be tight, but I suspect he could get financing if he wanted to.”
“He says he’s not interested in being a businessman. But he could be hoping to drive the price down before he bids. Create enough negative publicity and he could put a damper on the market.”
“You could be right.”
“What about Cam?”
“He’s been squeaky clean. He’s worked at the distillery for nearly forty years, man and boy. Frugal. No debts until recently. Lately there have been some healthcare bills.”
“I hear his wife has been ill. Money could well be an issue. He might be open to helping secure the right new owner for the Glen, especially if it meant some extra cash.”
“True, and he could fly under the radar. No one would comment on his presence at the Glen anytime, day or night,” Patrick said.
“Exactly. He has to be worried that a new owner, especially someone like Decons, would come in and fire everyone. At his age it would be tough to find another job.” I pulled out my index cards and wrote “Cam” on Grant’s and “Frank” on Maitland’s. The puppet masters had alibis, but I needed to check on the puppets.
“Did you find anything on Campbell and Nakimoto?”
“No priors, no bankruptcies, no scandals for either one of them. Campbell is conservative. Very conservative. He invests carefully and runs a tight ship. His earnings are solid, but minimal, and no significant outstanding debt. Nakimoto was a successful restaurateur in his London days. He’s made a number of investments in the local distilleries. He’s not losing money on his investments, but he’s not making much either. It’s just a hobby for him. Some people take up golf. He took up whisky. I can see the attraction of Abbey Glen for both of them.”
“But I don’t see a strong motive for either of them to try forcing my hand. Not like Maitland or Grant. If we were in the newsroom, we’d be taking bets by now. You know what I think. Who do you fancy?”
“Next to Maitland, I kind of like Nakimoto,” Patrick admitted. “He’s a dark horse. He wants to be a player, not just an investor. So far he’s only been able to get a minority interest in any of the distilleries. He wants his own. He wants to be one of the big boys.”
“You might have something there,” I conceded. “His accent is flawless, but still wrong, if you know what I mean.”
“Come again?”
“It’s like this colleague of Ben’s that used to come to the house for dinner once in a while,” I explained. “Smart man. Self-made, rich as the devil and a sound investor, but he was never accepted by the old-school-tie brigade, and it bothered him deeply. He hadn’t been to the right schools and he didn’t have the right accent or the right connections. For some the money would have been enough, but not for him. He would have traded all the money he had for a chance to be accepted. To be one of them. It was sad. If Nakimoto feels the same way it could be a motive. Not a great one, but a motive.”
“Then, of course, there’s Blaire,” Patrick said.
“Blaire? He hasn’t even expressed an interest in buying the Glen.”
“Just wait. We did a piece on him a few years back. From what you say he was paying you a lot of attention at dinner last night. Trust me, that wasn’t a personal interest. You’re not his type. That was business. He’s a smooth operator. I’ll lay odds he’s biding his time and checking out the competition.”
“Stop. You’re making my head spin. Every time I think I’ve managed to narrow down the list of suspects, you throw in someone new.”
“You’re just tired. You need to get some rest,” Patrick said soothingly. “It’ll all look clearer in the morning.”
I wasn’t convinced, but I promised to get some rest after arranging to meet with Patrick on Saturday afternoon. I was exhausted and past thinking, so I grabbed the bottle of pills Kristen left behind and downed two of them with a glass of wine. If one gave me a good night’s sleep, surely two would manage to quiet the storm in my head.
Chapter 14
Sleep deprivation is an ugly thing. I had no idea how bad things were until I woke up Friday at nearly noon with a feeling that the fog in my brain was starting to lift. I shuffled downstairs with the duvet around my shoulders to check on Liam, and found Hunter creeping around the house trying not to wake me. Hunter had shared a bowl of shepherd’s pie with Liam before taking him out for a ramble. I thanked him and curled up on the couch, still feeling groggy.
The next time I opened my eyes it was nearly dinnertime, and I sat up so quickly I nearly fell over. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d slept for eighteen hours. I was kicking myself for having wasted an entire day, but in my heart of hearts I knew I’d not been functioning at my best for weeks. I needed to rest and recharge.
I looked around and noticed that Liam was nowhere to be seen, which made me nervous. Forcing myself out from my cocoon, I trailed into the kitchen to make sure he wasn’t getting into too much trouble. He greeted me with a needlepoint cushion in his mouth. The pillow had been disemboweled, and its stuffing spread around like a fine dusting of snow. As I cleaned up the mess, I heard a key in the front door and Hunter entered, closely followed by Grant.
“You’re up again,” Hunter said, looking pleased.
“Yeah.” I straightened up, backing toward the wall, hoping that the thin t-shirt I was wearing came far enough down my thighs to camouflage my lack of underwear. “Liam’s getting a bit restless. He’s starting to take the place apart.”
“I’ll sort that out,” Hunter said. He took the remains of the cushion out of my hand. “He’s a wee bit bored, aren’t you, laddie.” Liam followed Hunter outside like a lovesick schoolgirl, leaving me alone with Grant.
“Hunter was worried about you and I was dispatched to bring soup.” He held up a container. “Nell Furguson thought you might be in need of a bit of home cooking. I can warm it up if you like.”
“I’ll manage, thanks,” I replied, taking the offering.
“Are you sure you don’t want some help?”
“No.” I backed away and stumbled over Liam’s discarded chew stick in the process. Grant caught me around the waist and steadied me. The misstep was nothing, but the jolt of electricity that ran through me as I stood wearing next to nothing with his arm around me was enough to take my knees out from under me. Grant pulled me closer and started to help me toward the couch like an invalid. I noticed he smelled like warm bread fresh from the oven, a scent I’d never considered sensual before now.
“I’m capable of taking care of myself.” I stepped away from him and tugged at the hem of my shirt.
“If you say so.” Grant looked unconvinced. He was watching me with an unnerving intensity that made me flush. Hunter rejoined us at that point, oblivious to the tension that filled the space between us.
“Hunter, can you check on Liam for me tomorrow?” I said. “I need to make a quick trip down to Edinburgh.”
“No worries. I’ll make sure he’s a’right.”
Grant frowned. “Should
you be traveling?”
“For God’s sake, I’m not sick, I just needed to catch up on some sleep,” I insisted. “I think I can manage to have lunch with Patrick without exhausting myself.”
“At least let me drive you,” Grant said. “I need to do some shopping anyway. I’ll drop you wherever you want and we can meet up later.”
I had to admit driving down, even with Grant, was more appealing than taking the train, and I accepted with as much good grace as I could muster before shooing the two of them out of the house.
—
Grant was quiet on the drive into the city the next day, and I was able to stay lost in my own thoughts. As lost as I could get with him sitting next to me, exuding that buzz of suppressed energy. It was exactly one week since Duff had been murdered, and one week before I had to return to the real world. Caught between needing to find a suitable buyer for the Glen and wanting to find a killer, I had high hopes today would bring results on both fronts.
I had Grant drop me at the Princes Street Gardens, where I was supposed to be meeting Patrick. I purposely hadn’t told him I was seeing Antonio Bartolli. I felt uncomfortable admitting that I was still looking for a buyer amidst all the madness that was going on in Balfour. But, for now at least, Bartolli was my bird in the hand. His company was financially sound and at one with Ben’s views on distilling, but even more important from my perspective, Bartolli had been out of the country until last night. That made him the only viable suitor I had with a truly airtight alibi.
I walked through the gardens to the Caledonian hotel, where we’d agreed to meet. The Caledonian was one of the grand dames of the European hotel scene. A watering place of the rich and famous. Bartolli’s natural habitat I would guess, but not mine. As I walked up the marble steps I began to regret my hasty decision to try to take on the wealthy and experienced owner of AXB alone. Still, my instincts were sound with Maitland. I had to trust that they would be here as well.
I was ushered inside by a liveried doorman and directed across an ornate lobby to the lounge. To my surprise, Bartolli was early, and I found him already ensconced in the Victorian bar. A charismatic man in his late fifties, he exuded an aura of power and affluence that was almost palpable. He was graying at the temples and fighting a slight paunch, but his darkly tanned olive skin made him look vibrantly alive amid a sea of pasty Celts. He greeted me with a warm smile that only dimmed as he expressed his condolences at Ben’s passing.
“We must have a toast to Ben,” he said. And before I could protest, we were presented with two generous glasses of Abbey Glen.
“Such a delightful whisky, even at so young an age. I have several bottles of it in my collection already.” Bartolli’s Mediterranean-tinged English was excellent, but more precise than a native speaker’s would be.
“Ben was proud of what he’d accomplished with Abbey Glen,” I said. I took a deep breath and swallowed a much-needed shot of confidence. If Bartolli was already collecting Abbey Glen’s whiskies, he probably knew more about my distillery than I did. “Do you have a large collection of vintage whiskies?” I ventured.
“I confess that several rooms in my house in Italy are devoted to nothing else. Much to my wife’s horror.” Bartolli grinned like a naughty child. “But she has more shoes than she could wear in a lifetime, so I am entitled to my own hobbies, am I not?”
“Of course,” I said. I thought of Ben’s personal collection tucked in the corner of the library behind Hunter’s ladder and tools. What on earth would anyone do with two rooms full of whisky? No doubt Patrick would have a thought or two. “Do you drink the whiskies in your collection,” I asked, hoping I wasn’t being rude, “or do you hold them for resale?”
“It depends on the whisky. Unlike wine, whiskies don’t ripen in the bottle. They are what they are, and time and exposure to light can rob them of their exceptional qualities. I admit, I tend to enjoy the whiskies I acquire long before their sell-by dates. Life is short, and it should be enjoyed. Don’t you agree?”
“Seems like an excellent philosophy.” If you have the money, I thought.
“Shall we have some lunch, and perhaps you will tell me of your plans for Abbey Glen?” Bartolli said, and extended a hand to escort me across the hall to the formal dining room. We were seated at a table set for three with a spectacular view of Edinburgh Castle and the Princes Street Gardens spread out below.
“My son, Nick, will join us shortly,” Bartolli said, indicating the empty chair.
“Is your son in the whisky business, too?” I asked, feigning ignorance about the infamous Nick.
“I am afraid the complexity of whisky is somewhat lost on him. His interests, like most young men’s, center around cars and women. The cars he understands, but the women, they are also difficult for him,” he said with a chuckle.
I looked around the lavish dining room while Bartolli conferred at length with the waiter, before settling on the grouse and local scallops. I followed his lead, and he arranged for a bottle of wine to complement the game.
Once he had dispensed with the hovering staff, Bartolli turned back to me. “How is Abbey Glen faring in the wake of this sad turmoil?”
I wondered if Bartolli had heard rumors about Duff and the fire, or if he was simply referring to Ben’s sudden death. “The changeover has been relatively smooth,” I said, crossing my fingers under the table. I wasn’t about to volunteer any information if I could help it. “I’ve been very lucky. The Glen’s manager and the head distiller are both very capable men.”
Bartolli regarded me over the rim of his glass. “I understand there was a small fire at the distillery earlier this week. I hope there wasn’t too much damage?”
“It wasn’t one of the main buildings. Nothing that can’t be easily repaired.”
“Excellent.” Bartolli seemed to accept my assurances without question. “And have you decided who will be stepping into Ben’s shoes?”
“You mean other than me?”
Bartolli smiled. “I presume that a woman of your celebrated talent would not be interested in hiding herself away in the wilds of Scotland, or am I wrong?”
“My career does limit my ability to be involved,” I conceded. My host looked up and extended an arm to indicate the arrival of Bartolli junior.
“Ms. Logan, may I present my son, Nicholas.”
“Nick, please.” He shook my hand and settled into the chair next to me.
There was no denying the relationship between the two men, though junior was by far the better looking of the two. Nick Bartolli had inherited his father’s charm and looked totally at ease in his lush surroundings. He too was tanned to perfection, but unlike his father, he looked as if he spent hours a day in the gym sculpting the musculature that was apparent beneath the silk of his shirt. A sports coat that an entire herd of cashmere goats must have given their all for was draped casually over his shoulders, making him look like every inch the mogul in training.
Bartolli steered me back to the subject at hand while Nick ordered lunch.
“Whisky is a passion for the devoted, Ms. Logan. Not just the drinking, but also the creation. I began my career in the wine business, and I’ve produced some award-winning wines, but my whiskies…it’s hard to describe. They are like my children. I nurture them and watch over them. I love the complexity and the variations that the aging and the woods produce. It’s magical.”
“I’ve heard Ben say the same,” I said.
“He and I are much alike. At AXB we have many exceptional products in our portfolio, and I believe Abbey Glen would be a significant asset to our range of distinctive luxury goods. I can assure you that we would do everything in our power to remain true to Ben’s vision.”
I glanced at Nick. He flashed a set of unnaturally white teeth in my direction, but added nothing to the conversation as he continued working his way through a second bottle of wine. I sensed that in spite of his father’s best efforts, he was more of a decorative accessory than a business asset.
>
“It is my intention that Nick become more involved in this part of our operations,” Bartolli continued. “I expect he will be spending a great deal of his time in Scotland in the future, overseeing our single malt properties.”
Nick didn’t look concerned by his father’s announcement, yet somehow, he didn’t look like the type to relish the rustic charms of the countryside.
“I realize this will be a much-sought-after property, but I trust that the regard we had for Ben and his work will speak in our favor,” Bartolli continued.
His smile was warm and encouraging, but I was under no illusions. A ruthless businessman lurked beneath the surface of those calm waters. Suave, obsessive, and uncompromising sprang easily to mind. His would be the portrait of an emperor surveying his kingdom.
“I look forward to seeing your formal offer,” I stalled, “but I’m sure you understand that I’ll need to discuss this with my financial advisors.” Listen to me, financial advisors, for God’s sake. I was officially in over my head, and I’d never been so relieved to see food arriving.
Over lunch, Bartolli proceeded to regale me with engaging stories about his first forays into the whisky business. The lovely Nick joined in from time to time, now that the serious business had come to an end. My snapshot of him also came easily. Sybaritic, vacuous, and ornamental. A gorgeous picture, but nothing more than a cardboard stand-up, no man of substance behind the flawless smile.
I escaped from the Caledonian as soon as I could, promising the Bartollis that I would stay in touch. I was glad to be finished with estate matters for the time being, but as I hailed a taxi to take me across town to the Whisky Society, I reflected on the passions that drove the men in this crazy business. Bartolli was an extreme collector—obsessive, exacting, and driven. Maitland was a collector too, though on a smaller scale, but his personal identity was inexorably intertwined with his role as a distiller, and then there was Ben and, for that matter, Grant and Martin Furguson too, their passion was the art of creation. They were a unique breed of men—consumed, and intent on consuming. I tried to picture the Bartollis as the new owners of Abbey Glen. From what I’d seen and heard, I felt they would respect Ben’s creation, but the real question was how would Grant get on with slick Nick in charge?
Single Malt Murder Page 16
