Single Malt Murder

by Melinda Mullet

  “Poor Claire. So busy trying to protect her brother, and she was the one that needed protection. I should have done a better job.”

  “It’s not your fault.” Grant sighed. “It’s hard for me to get my head around the idea of Kristen as a murderer. I’ve known her all my life. She’s one of us.”

  “Being one of ‘you’ isn’t the only measure of respectability, you know.”

  “No, no of course not,” he said, flushing. “That’s not what I meant. I just don’t understand why Kristen would do this.”

  “Kristen had more going on in her life than we appreciated. Michaelson came to see me yesterday and told me what they found out since she went into custody. Kristen has a serious gambling problem. She owed money to some pretty rough characters in Glasgow. She’d taken out two mortgages on the family house here in Balfour and she’d maxed out every credit card she had. She was getting desperate for money. Duff’s discovery must have been the answer to her prayers. When she thought Duff was cutting her out of his deal with Bartolli she became desperate. Even now she’s trying to cut a deal with the police, turning on Nick and telling them everything.”

  “It makes you wonder if you ever really know anyone,” Grant said, shaking his head. “Look at Duff. He loved Abbey Glen, but he threw everything away for money.”

  “He made a mistake, a big one, but it was a great deal of money by his standards, and his only real motive was providing for Siobhán and making life better for her. He wanted to be able to buy the pub and chase the creditors away from the door for good.”

  “Ben offered to pay off the mortgage at one point, but she wouldn’t have it. She’s a proud woman,” Grant said.

  “Ben got his way in the end. He paid off the mortgage under the terms of his will, but it looks like Siobhán didn’t tell Duff. He never knew. Clearly he was guilty of poor judgment, but at heart I think he was a good kid.”

  “He was responsible for the initial sabotage at the Glen—”

  “True, but none of the damage done before Duff died was significant—the severed valve, the dead duck. Annoying, but easily repaired. Kristen kept the severed valve with Duff’s fingerprints on it and planted it in the Still House after he died to make sure the focus stayed on Duff.”

  “What about the fire?”

  “That was Kristen’s idea. Nick forgot about the hinge pins when he dumped Duff in the vat. He still had them in his pocket when he left. He just wanted to be rid of them, so he threw them in the window of the Malt Barn as he passed. When he mentioned it to Kristen, she decided they needed to destroy the evidence and give me something else to focus on. She set the blaze, hiked back to her car, then drove back to the Glen to be on the spot in case no one saw the flames immediately. She couldn’t let the whole place burn. Bartolli would’ve been livid. In all the chaos, no one noticed how quickly she arrived on the scene.”

  “Who was responsible for your threatening notes?”

  “Nick had one of the AXB security guards tailing me in London. He delivered the first note and the flowers. After I got here, Kristen would try something new every time she sensed I was asking too many questions.” I didn’t mention that Kristen had resuscitated the rumors about Rachel to try to make me suspicious of Grant. He didn’t need to know. “Kristen knew I was already taking Bartolli seriously, so all she had to do was make the rest of the suitors look bad. As she said, it wasn’t too difficult, especially when I was looking at everything they did with a jaundiced eye. Toward the end Kristen started to get nervous that we might get suspicious about the bottles of Rose Reserve lying around at the Haven, so she sent Nick in to get rid of them. She didn’t know I’d already taken one to your place.”

  “Did the police ever figure out how they got into the Glen?”

  “Ben’s trusted physician. Ben gave Kristen a key to the Haven so she could let herself in when he was ill. No one thought twice about her coming and going. Not even Hunter. Kristen borrowed the distillery keys from Ben’s desk while he was confined to bed in his final days, and had copies made.”

  “And no one ever questioned the good doctor.”

  “Why would they?”

  “Are the police accepting Kristen’s version of the events surrounding Duff’s death?”

  “They have little choice. Nick isn’t able to tell them his version, and Kristen’s assessment does fit with the evidence from the medical examiner’s report. The cause of death was a blow to the back of the head, and the forensic team found traces of Duff’s blood on the metal corner of the spirit safe. No one knows whether he fell down the stairs or was pushed. Personally I’d go with pushed, but we may never know. If Nick had left him where he lay, the conclusion would have been death by misadventure. But Nick made the mistake of putting the body in the washback and running to Kristen for help. At that point he set a chain of events in motion he couldn’t have foreseen.” Not that Nick was innocent, but he paid the price in the end.

  “Kristen certainly made the most of the situation, but Antonio Bartolli’s no fool. Wasn’t he suspicious about Duff’s death?”

  “Kristen told Bartolli that Duff had a history of drug dealing, and she convinced him that the police would blame his death on one of his former associates. Bartolli may have been skeptical, but Michaelson thinks he lost interest in Duff as soon as Kristen told him she knew where the casks were stashed. That put her in the driver’s seat, and to make sure she stayed there, she blackmailed Nick into proposing.”

  “Wouldn’t think she was quite the wife he had in mind for his son.”

  “She sold the arrangement to Papa Bartolli on the grounds that it would convince me to sell to AXB. What could tie them to the community more effectively than marrying one of your lot?”

  “Touché, but talk about strange bedfellows…”

  “Relationships are complex things,” I said.

  “No kidding,” Grant said with a grimace. There was a long pause. “Look, I should apologize again for the other day. I shouldn’t have taken advantage of the situation.”

  I shook my head. “Forget it. You didn’t take advantage.” I avoided looking at him. The last thing I wanted at this point was to try to analyze that encounter. I didn’t need to unpack the emotional baggage I was accumulating; I needed to take care of business. That was my priority for now. “We need to move forward and make some decisions about Abbey Glen,” I said.

  “That decision is yours, not mine,” Grant replied.

  “I know, but it’s important to me to get this right.”

  “Have you found a buyer you like now that Bartolli is out of the running?”

  “I’m not sure.” Saying this to Grant wasn’t easy. It was tantamount to admitting I’d been wrong from the start. But he deserved my honesty after all we’d been through. I took a deep breath. “Abbey Glen’s a part of me. A special link to Ben and everything we shared together. I just don’t think I can bear to get rid of her.”

  “So you’ve decided not to sell?” Grant said, looking up in surprise.

  “Yes and no.” It turned out I could afford to keep the old girl if I wanted to. Ben was always a shrewd investor, but I never realized quite how good he was. When Richard finally explained a bit more about the trust fund Ben left behind for me, I found I’d underestimated the size of the estate by a good deal, even after the other bequests Ben made.

  I looked Grant straight in the eye, ignoring the fluttering in my stomach as best I could.

  “I could stay here and hire a manager to take care of the place without any financial worries, but I’ve learned it takes more than money to run this kind of business. It takes talent and commitment. So I’ve decided to sell a half interest in the property and retain the remaining interest myself. As a silent partner.”

  “No offense, but I can’t see you as a silent partner.”

  “Perhaps not, but I’ll try my level best.”

  “Who’s buying the half interest?”

  “Well, that’s the tricky part. I need someon
e who’s an expert in running a distillery of this size. An expert with an intrinsic knowledge of the industry and a feel for the production of the whisky. One who’s willing to take this on with passion and drive to ensure that things continue to run as Ben would have wanted.”

  “And?”

  “And there’s only one person it could be.” I looked at Grant pointedly. “Look, I may not be the ideal silent partner, but I won’t be here very often, and I promise that you’d have absolute control over the production of the whisky itself….What do you think? Would you be interested?”

  “Are you sure about this?”

  “More sure than I’ve been about anything in years.”

  “Then I guess I’d be a fool to say no.”

  I felt a flood of relief, as if I’d been holding my breath and suddenly remembered to exhale. “Thank you,” I said. “With you here I know I’ll leave Abbey Glen in good hands.”

  “Then you’ll be going back to the front lines?”

  “Of course. I’m an adrenaline junkie, I’d fade away here,” I replied.

  “I guess that’s the difference between you and us. Most of us would be glad of a bit less excitement,” Grant said. “But I suppose you would find it boring here.”

  I couldn’t bring myself to admit how good boring sounded at the moment. “I’ll visit often,” I said. “I’m keeping the Haven.”

  Richard staggered in, balancing a large tray of cakes and scones, courtesy of the local ladies. He looked at me expectantly and I nodded, gesturing to the chair next to mine. I turned back to Grant. “I asked you before, but I had a feeling you didn’t tell me the whole truth. What was the real reason you didn’t bid on Abbey Glen?”

  “Ben asked me not to.”

  “What?” I said, stunned.

  “He said you’d come around to this on your own. I had my doubts, but it wasn’t my place to argue. It was Ben’s decision. I wanted to buy him out months ago, when he was trying to decide what to do, but he said no.”

  I looked at Richard. “And you knew this?”

  Richard had the grace to look embarrassed. “I’m afraid so. It was all part of Ben’s plan. He knew what he wanted with respect to the estate, but he knew better than to try to force it on you. He told you about his dreams for a book because he knew you’d take on the project out of guilt after he was gone. He hoped it would open your eyes to the magic of Abbey Glen and your place in its history. He couldn’t have foreseen the situation with Duff and Kristen, and it would have devastated him, but in the end it did force you and Grant to get to know each other better.”

  “Is that why you didn’t make the financial situation clearer up front?”

  “He wanted you to follow your heart, not make a decision based on financial considerations alone.”

  “What if he’d been wrong about me?” I shook my head. “What if I’d ignored the book and decided to sell to one of the other bidders?”

  “Ben made provisions for that eventuality, too. If you’d decided to take an offer from one of the outside bidders, Grant was to be given right of first refusal.”

  “So you’d have wound up with the place no matter what,” I said, looking to Grant.

  “Seems that way.”

  “Then a half interest might not be what you really want?”

  “Like you, a month ago I would’ve said it would never work…but now I think it might,” said Grant. “At least I’m willing to give it a try.” Grant’s smile reached his eyes in a way that made me feel that for one moment at least, all was right with the world. “You’re a lot like him, you know, and with a little practice we might make a pretty good team.”

  “I couldn’t agree more,” said Richard. “Ben would have been thrilled. The two of you were the most important things in his life. Yes, even more important than Abbey Glen,” he continued, seeing my skeptical look. “More than anything, he wanted the two of you to be involved in this project together, but he wanted you to come to this place on your own.”

  Ben knew me better than I knew myself. He’d seen the stress fractures in my life. He wanted me to have a place to call home, a place to belong. But he also knew me well enough to know I’d have to make the discovery on my own, or not at all.

  “Will you be heading back to London with Patrick?” Grant asked.

  “Not immediately. Thanks to my adventures with Kristen and Nick, the paper has put me on sick leave. I can focus on finishing Ben’s book and getting some rest.”

  “Excellent,” said Richard.

  Patrick appeared at that moment, clutching a bottle of Martin’s whisky and four glasses.

  “To new beginnings.” He raised a glass in my direction. “What will happen to the rest of this exquisite malt once it’s released from the police lockdown?”

  “Of course, it’s part of the estate,” Richard said, “so it belongs to Abigail.”

  “Which means I can do what I like with it. Grant, you’ll have to see to bottling it. I’ll keep some for my own collection. I have to start one, now that I’m in the business. Some will be given as gifts to friends,” I said, smiling at the three men sitting around me. “And then, I thought we could auction the rest off to support a charity that Richard and I have been discussing. The Bennett Logan Memorial Trust. I’d like to be able to do more than simply take pictures of those in misery. I’d like to be able to have the resources to help in other ways.”

  “I think Ben would love that,” Grant said.

  We sipped in silence for a moment. It felt good to have a home again. To finally feel safe and surrounded by friends old and new.

  “You’re going to have to get busy taking some new pictures for the walls here,” Patrick said, indicating the bare patches.

  “I’ve started already,” I said, pulling a picture out from behind the couch. It was an image of Liam sleeping in a patch of sunlight at the base of Abbey Glen’s gleaming copper stills. It was hard to believe that two and a half weeks ago I didn’t know one end of a whisky still from the other. Now the scene embodied the warmth and contentment I’d come to feel in this place, safe in the lingering presence of Ben’s spirit.

  “I thought it kind of summed up my future here. I was thinking of calling it Still Life with a Dog.”

  To my husband, Mark, who makes every day magical

  Acknowledgments

  Happiness is having a rare steak,

  a bottle of whisky

  and a dog to eat the rare steak.

  —Johnny Carson

  Writing a first book is a painstaking and time-consuming endeavor, one I could never have undertaken without the support of my amazing family. With much love and appreciation to my husband, Mark, for underwriting this mad venture along with many, many bottles of whisky. Thanks also to Mac, for always eating the steak and for keeping my feet warm as I type; to Katherine and Amanda, for being an inspiration to me every single day; and to Dorothy, for supporting and encouraging me as only a mother can.

  Family aside, no book is launched without the support of a vast number of professionals with a passion for the written word. My heartfelt thanks to Caroline Tolley and Lisa Dinackus, who read this long before anyone should’ve had to.

  My gratitude to my agent, Abby Saul, for her enthusiasm for this project from day one and for the endless hours of editing she’s contributed since. Abby, you are a master at taking spectacular leaps of faith. May the Lark Group take flight beyond your wildest dreams.

  Thanks to Julia Maguire and the good folks at Alibi for welcoming me into the Penguin Random House family. I also thank the copy editors, cover artists, promotional staff, and all who helped launch Single Malt Murder—you have been spectacular.

  If you enjoyed Single Malt Murder

  by Melinda Mullet

  Read on for a sneak peek of

  Death Distilled

  Chapter 1

  It wasn’t easy, but I was doing my level best to restrain fifty pounds of exuberant wheaten terrier dead set on dashing headlong into the trenc
h at our feet to retrieve the tantalizing collection of bones protruding from the newly turned earth.

  “Off, Liam,” I growled, dragging him away from the edge and tying him firmly to the wrought-iron railing that separated the garden of our local pub, the Golden Stag, from the River Alyn ambling along beside it.

  “Why is it that you arrive back in town and in less than twenty-four hours I’m looking at a dead body again?” a voice demanded from behind me. I turned to see Balfour’s chief of police, Bill Rothes, approaching. He was scowling at me from underneath a battered green hunting cap. His well-worn navy Barbour jacket and the jowly face that reminded me of a melancholy hound hadn’t changed a bit in the three months I’d been gone.

  I picked my way through the mud to his side. “This one’s got nothing to do with me. I flew in from Cairo late last night. Haven’t seen anything but the inside of Glasgow Airport and the back seat of an ancient taxi. Besides, it’s probably just a dead sheep,” I added without conviction.

  “You’re a war correspondent, Abigail Logan. You’ve seen more dead bodies than I’ve had hot dinners. You know that’s no sheep,” Bill snapped.

  He was right, the bones were clearly human, but on the upside they appeared to have been in the ground for some time. At least we weren’t straying back down the path we’d been on when I first arrived in Balfour in the spring. I’d come for a fortnight initially, grieving the loss of my Uncle Ben, who’d raised me and been a father to me all my life. When he passed, he’d made me the unwilling heir to an eponymous single malt whisky distillery in rural Scotland and the focal point of local anger and resentment over the unexpected and inexperienced new owner. Tensions escalated rapidly as the change in ownership became entangled with a broader plot to sell counterfeit whisky on the black market. The final toll was two dead, one in jail, and me buried alive in a cave and left for dead.