Single Malt Murder

by Melinda Mullet

  Grant stopped the car at a traffic light and turned to face me. “Look, I understand the attraction of an unknown villain from the city, but what are the odds of that person killing Duff on the same night the saboteur rigged the vat, and then knowing enough to try to use it to frame Duff? It seems like too much of a coincidence to me.”

  “You’re right.” I sighed. With one quick stroke Grant had brought us back to a killer in our midst. Why would he do that if he had any connection to the crime? Could it hurt to at least appear to accept Grant’s help? I met his eyes, searching in vain for a word, some meaningful insight, but all I saw was my own uncertainty reflected back at me.

  Grant turned his gaze back to the road as the light changed, and I stared out the window, watching the suburban sprawl give way to fields and neat hedgerows. So we were back to Duff facing off against our saboteur. If nothing else, the visit to the Whisky Society had given me more insight into Duff. He wasn’t as naïve as I’d first thought. “Duff was a bright kid,” I said, thinking aloud. “What if he figured out who was to blame for what was happening at the Glen? He could have decided to try to make a little money on the deal?”

  “Blackmail?”

  “Maybe he wasn’t there to stop the saboteur, maybe he was hoping to confront him and get paid for his silence.”

  Grant nodded. “Certainly worth looking into.”

  In the space of the ride home, my investigation had moved from me to we. I wasn’t sure it was a wise liaison, but as Grant dropped me back at the Haven I couldn’t help thinking of the old adage “Keep your friends close and your enemies closer.” I hoped for my sake that I wasn’t getting too close.

  —

  Liam went wild when I walked in. While I was gone this time, he’d shredded the newspaper and chewed the mail that came through the front door. Not that there was much mail. Most of it was junk. But one addressed simply to “The Haven” caught my eye and I opened it carefully.

  Ask them what happened to Rachel.

  I glanced at the envelope. It had been hand delivered. No postmark. Typed this time, but was this a helpful warning, or a veiled threat?

  Whistling for Liam, I set off for the village on foot. I tied him to the front gate of the police station and went in search of Rothes. He was in his office looking rather harried—Michaelson appeared to have appropriated his desk.

  “I was hoping to come out and speak with you again later today,” Michaelson said.

  “Then I saved you a trip,” I replied. “But first, this came through the mail slot while I was away.” I handed the note to Rothes, who scanned it and placed it in a plastic evidence bag before handing it to Michaelson.

  “Begs the question, who’s Rachel?” Michaelson said.

  Rothes frowned. “The only Rachel I know of was Grant MacEwen’s fiancée. She died a number of years ago.”

  I tried to look as if this wasn’t news to me. “How did she die?” I asked.

  “Fell down a flight of stairs.”

  Michaelson raised an eyebrow. “Accidentally?”

  “We had no reason to suspect otherwise at the time,” Rothes replied. “Old Doc Ramsey was in charge in those days. He ruled it an accident.”

  “You said this came through the mail slot,” Michaelson noted. “Does this mean you changed the locks on the house?”

  “Right after the flower incident.”

  “And no sign of a break-in?”

  “Not that I could see. Hunter and I have been doing our best to keep the place locked up when we aren’t around.”

  “Hunter still has a key?” Rothes asked.

  I nodded.

  “And where was he today?”

  “At the Glen helping to clean up after the fire.”

  Michaelson was studying me from across the room. “Did your uncle keep an extra set of keys to the distillery somewhere in the house?”

  “I would imagine he did. Why?”

  “I want to know where the set of distillery keys we found in Duff’s pocket came from.”

  “You think they’re Ben’s? I’m in the process of sorting through his things now,” I said. “I’ll let you know if I find them.” Could Duff have borrowed Ben’s keys, or had the killer planted them on the body when he dumped it in the vat?

  Michaelson consulted a file on the desk. “Richard Thomas provided us with a list of the individuals and entities that have shown an interest in Abbey Glen. Decons, AXB, a Japanese group called Makison, Graeme Campbell, Oliver Blaire, and Ken Nakimoto,” he read. “Is there anyone else?”

  “No.”

  “Not Grant MacEwen?”

  “No.”

  “Does this strike you as odd?”

  “Grant says he’s happy with his current job description.”

  Michaelson looked dubious. “But is he happy with the provisions of your uncle’s will?”

  “He hasn’t said he’s unhappy.” Great. I’d just convinced myself that it would be okay to work with Grant and now Michaelson’s questions were giving new credibility to the doubts I’d been attempting to quash from day one.

  “Let me know if he makes a bid.”

  “In the meantime, we’ll check this for fingerprints,” Rothes said, holding up the bag with the note. “Though I don’t expect much, the other items were clean.”

  “The whisky too?”

  “No trace of chemicals or poisons.”

  “Did you get anything back on the fire at the Malt Barn?”

  “Arson. Rags soaked in gasoline and set alight. I’ll send you a copy of the report for your insurance company.”

  “Did the fire investigation turn up anything on the missing hinge pins?”

  “Nothing definitive. There were traces of metal all over, but most of it had melted in the heat. There was no way to tell if the pieces were a part of the Malt Barn structure or something that didn’t belong there.”

  “So that’s a dead end. What about anything on the weapon used to kill Duff?”

  “They’re testing traces of blood found in the Still House,” Rothes volunteered.

  “On a weapon?”

  Michaelson scowled at Rothes and then at me. “This is an ongoing investigation, Ms. Logan. You know better than to ask that kind of question.”

  “Can I at least ask if Patrick and I are still suspects?”

  “No one’s immune from consideration, Ms. Logan.” Michaelson came around the desk. “But I wouldn’t put money on you if this was a horse race,” he added, escorting me to the door.

  —

  Back at the Haven, I retrieved the cell number Kristen Ramsey left me on her last visit and settled in my favorite spot in front of the library fire.

  “Kristen? It’s Abi.”

  “Hi there. Everything okay?”

  “Yeah, no new crisis. But I have a question. What can you tell me about Grant’s former fiancée, Rachel?”

  “Been hearing stories down the pub, have you?”

  “Sort of.”

  “It was tragic, but no one really talks about Rachel anymore. At least no one did until Keith Maitland started stirring the water again,” she said in disgust.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’ve met Maitland. He’s a nasty piece of work. I wouldn’t dignify his trash by repeating it.”

  “I could ask Maitland. He’d be glad to share,” I countered. “But I’d rather hear it from you.”

  “Alright.” Kristen sighed. “Let’s just say the circumstances surrounding Grant’s fiancée’s death were not as clear-cut as one might have liked.”

  “What happened?”

  “It was almost twelve years ago. Grant must have been all of twenty-seven. He’d been working with Ben for three years or so at that point and they were deep in the trenches, breathing life back into the Glen. The night she died, Grant and Rachel were having dinner at the Larches. According to the cook, they’d had a big row earlier in the day. Next thing we knew, my dad was being called in. She’d fallen from the top of the long s
tairs and hit her head as she fell. It was over in the blink of an eye.”

  “Did your father think there was anything suspicious about the accident?”

  “He never said so to me. The injuries were pretty straightforward, and Grant was devastated.”

  “But people speculated anyway?”

  “It’s a small village. And you wouldn’t know it to look at him now, but Grant was quite passionate about things in his younger days.”

  There was that word again. “What were they arguing about?”

  “Don’t know, but most often it was the distillery. She wasn’t a big fan. I think she was jealous that it took so much of Grant’s time and attention.”

  “So what’s Maitland on about?” I asked, heading to the kitchen to pour myself a drink.

  “He’s been hinting that this isn’t the first time someone’s gotten in the way of Grant’s plans for Abbey Glen and paid the price.”

  I stopped in my tracks. “Does Grant know?”

  “I suspect he does, but it would take a braver man than me to ask him.”

  “Any idea why Maitland would want to resuscitate this now?”

  “If I had to guess, I’d say he feels Grant’s exerting too much influence on you and your decision to stay or go. He could be trying to discredit him in your eyes. As far as Maitland’s concerned, all women are easy marks, and you are rather vulnerable right now. On the other hand, he could just be taking advantage of the situations with Duff to try and force you to sell to Decons for less. Either way, I wouldn’t trust him.”

  “Not as far as I could throw him.”

  —

  Saturday’s activity had exhausted me again. I took one of Kristen’s little magic pills and I slept until almost noon on Sunday. When I finally came to, Liam and I took off on a long hike around the valley, Liam looking for rabbits, and me looking for some perspective on the information I’d accumulated so far. Needless to say, Liam had more luck than I did.

  I walked back to the Haven in the waning afternoon light, feeling deflated. Without hard physical evidence it would be nearly impossible to link a saboteur or a poison pen to the events at the Glen, but for that we were dependent on the boys from Stirling. And I hated to admit it, but Grant was right—my stranger theory didn’t hold up well under scrutiny. Too much was dependent on coincidence and chance. For the moment things seemed to be out of my hands. All I could do was hope that Duff’s girlfriend, Claire Jones, would put in an appearance at the memorial service tomorrow. Somehow, I was sure that she was holding the puzzle piece we needed.

  Chapter 17

  The damp, dreary Monday morning suited the mood of the crowd heading to St. Jude’s for Duff’s memorial service. The police couldn’t release the body for a proper funeral until the investigation was complete, but the town was in mourning and the vicar had convinced Siobhán to hold a memorial service to celebrate Duff’s too-short life.

  Once again the sanctuary was standing room only, though there were many more young people this time. I saw Grant near the front with Siobhán, while Hunter and Cam had settled into a pew near the side door, looking like they were angling for a quick escape to the pub. I saw Oliver Blaire join them, chatting amiably. Floss Robinson waved from across the aisle and Furgie arrived leaning on Kristen’s arm.

  The vicar comforted his flock as best he could and as the last plaintive strains of the bagpipe faded away, I shuffled out with the rest of the crowd. I stopped briefly to chat with Kristen and Furgie. On the far side of the nave, I caught sight of a shock of white-blond hair peeping out from beneath a large hat. If Claire was trying to be unobtrusive, the purple hat, even with the veil, had been a serious miscalculation. I excused myself, and followed the hat at a discreet distance as it bobbed through the crowd and around the back of the church. Most people were heading for the reception in the village hall, and the veiled woman and I were soon alone in the street behind the vicarage.

  “Claire?” I said, trotting to catch up.

  She turned with a start, her eyes narrowing. “Who’re you?”

  “A friend of Duff’s, the one that left the note for you at your work. I wanted to say hi.”

  Claire looked around nervously. “I just came to pay my respects. I don’t want no trouble.”

  “Of course not,” I said in a soothing voice. “But I’d like to talk to you for a moment.”

  “You and everyone else.” She sighed.

  “Sorry?” I fell into step beside her as she tottered along on a pair of ludicrously high heels.

  “The police have been in twice a’ready. I wish they’d just bugger off. I’m going to get sacked if they come to work again.” Claire’s eyes filled with tears.

  “They’re trying to find out why Duff was killed. Surely your boss can understand that.”

  “Aye,” she whispered, the tears now rolling silently down her cheeks. “It’s all so horrid.”

  “Shocking,” I agreed. “We’re all still struggling to understand exactly what happened.” I waited while Claire dug a tissue from her purse and wiped her nose. “This must be rough for you, too. What with the police and all. Why do they keep coming back?”

  Claire sniffled and moved on more slowly, struggling to keep her heels from sinking into the mud. “They’re lookin’ for someone that mighta had a grudge against Duff.”

  “Did anyone?”

  “I told the cops, I don’t know nothin’,” Claire muttered, her eyes fixed on the uneven ground beneath her.

  “When was the last time you saw him?”

  “It’s been a few weeks, but he’s been comin’ and goin’ for the past two months. He was plannin’ to move back to the city, you know.”

  “Really? I hadn’t heard.”

  “Last time he was in town he told me he was talkin’ to this bloke about some fancy job. He was always lookin’ for ways to make extra money to help his mum with that pub of hers. No money in country pubs these days, he says.”

  I nodded sympathetically. “Any idea who he was meeting?”

  “He dinnae say.”

  “Was it someone he knew from the Whisky Society?”

  “I said, I don’t know.” Claire frowned. “You sound like the police.”

  “I’m not police, I promise.” I hesitated, then decided to take the straightforward approach. “My name’s Abi, and I inherited the Glen from my uncle about a week before Duff died, so I guess you could say he worked for me. I’m trying to find out why he was killed and left at my distillery.”

  Claire stopped as she reached a beat-up, silver Ford Fiesta and collapsed against the door, the tears sliding down her cheeks in black rivulets. “So you’re Ben’s niece.” She sounded relieved. “Duff talked about Ben all the time.”

  “Ben was very fond of Duff. That’s why I want to find out why he was killed. You must know something about all this?”

  “No, I don’t,” Claire whispered, looking genuinely distraught. “He was always on about the next big deal. The one that would make him rich…”

  “Do you think he was killed by the person he’d made a deal with?”

  “Could be…I don’t know.”

  “Did Duff ever mention a guy by the name of Keith Maitland?”

  “No.”

  “Are you sure? He’s a distiller. He would have known him from the Whisky Society.”

  “Never heard of him,” Claire insisted.

  “Did you hear Duff talking about any of the other distillers? Anyone he mentioned more often than the others?”

  “We didn’t talk about work stuff when we were together.”

  Claire kept fidgeting, twisting the damp tissue in her hands. I could tell there was something she wasn’t saying. She looked like a guilty child. The words naïve, lonely, and exploited floated into my mind.

  “But you know something you’re not telling,” I cajoled. “I sense it, and the police must too. That’s why they keep coming back to you. Why don’t you tell them? It’ll help everyone come to terms with what’s
happened.”

  Claire scowled, stuffing the strip of purple hair back under her hat. “Won’t bring him back, will it?”

  “It may not bring him back, but his mum won’t find peace until she knows why he was killed. For her sake you should tell the police.”

  “I can’t,” Claire said, mopping at her face with the backs of her hands. “I don’t want him to get hurt.”

  “You can’t hurt Duff now.”

  “Not Duff,” Claire whispered, “my brother.”

  “Your brother was involved with Duff?”

  “He didn’t do nothin’ wrong,” Claire said in an anguished tone.

  “Then why not tell the police?”

  “They might not see it that way. He’s not a bad bloke, he’s…” Claire trailed off.

  “If he didn’t do anything wrong, he won’t get into trouble,” I prompted, trying to keep the edge of frustration out of my voice.

  “It never works that way.”

  “If you won’t tell the police what you know, will you tell me?”

  Claire continued to stare at the ground. “Why should I trust you?”

  “It sounds like you need to trust someone, and I could use your help. I’m new to this part of the world and I know nothing about distilling. What I do know is how to be a good journalist. I find out things that other people can’t, and the only way I can do that is by protecting my sources. People talk to me because they know I won’t let them down. I won’t give you away, Claire. I promise.”

  “If I tell you, you’ll tell the police. It’s the same thing in the end.” Claire looked defeated.

  “Look,” I said, “if this is all about Duff and something that happened in Edinburgh, then his death may be the end of it. But if it’s not, if it’s about the distillery and Duff’s life here, then it’s not over. Other people may be in danger, too. Even me. Duff wouldn’t want to see anyone else hurt, and I don’t think you would either.”

  “I’m scared,” Claire whispered.

  I laid my hand on Claire’s arm. “I am, too. But I can see how much you cared about Duff. Don’t you want to find his killer? If the information you have is vital to the investigation, I’m sure the police will make a deal with you. If it isn’t relevant, they need never know. Think about it. Can you live with letting Duff’s killer get away?”