Single Malt Murder

by Melinda Mullet

  No matter how I tried to picture it, the answer was not well.

  Chapter 15

  I was surprised to learn that the Whisky Society was located at the docks, but as the taxi turned onto the narrow streets leading to the waterfront, it was clear that efforts to gentrify the place were well under way. Galleries and high-security lofts had taken over most of the old buildings. Along the front street, numerous chic bars and restaurants sporting decks and umbrellas faced out to the water, where a collection of expensive watercraft lay peacefully at anchor.

  The driver let me out in front of a two-level, stone building that must have once served as a goods warehouse. To the right of the steps leading up to the front door, a brass plaque announced: THE WHISKY SOCIETY—MEMBERS AND GUESTS ONLY.

  The interior was dimly lit, and a lingering smell of pipe and cigar smoke oozed from every fabric surface. The main-floor lounge consisted of a large number of overstuffed, mismatched chairs and settees grouped around a half-dozen low tables. The entire back wall was dominated by a solid-looking mahogany bar front, whose glass shelves showcased row upon row of whisky bottles in a variety of shapes, sizes, and hues. The place was congenial, relaxed, and well appointed.

  Patrick hailed me from the dim recesses of the room. He was juggling two cellphones and balancing a large coffee and a computer on his lap.

  “You don’t need to drag out the hardware to convince me you’re working,” I said with a laugh.

  “I am working,” he grumbled. “In fact, I’ve almost wrapped this month’s issue.”

  “Glad someone’s making progress. I feel like I’m stuck in the mud.”

  “How did it go with Bartolli?”

  “Fine, I guess. I didn’t commit to anything, but so far he looks like my best option.”

  “I’m sure there will be plenty more offers once the Glen is officially on the market.”

  I didn’t even want to think that far ahead yet. “Did you manage to find out anything from the staff here about Duff?”

  “A few interesting bits and pieces.” Patrick glanced around the empty bar and then lowered his voice. “Your friend Michaelson came by to see me.”

  “What did he want?”

  “He asked me about my movements on the day of the funeral. Fairly routine stuff. Then he started on the staff, asking about Duff’s friends and any enemies he might have had.”

  “And what did his coworkers think of Duff?”

  “He was the blue-eyed boy from the day he arrived. Came highly recommended from Ben, as you know, and the bar manager had him running the tastings and helping out at private parties right from the start. Everyone I talked to admitted he knew his whisky, and he had a real knack for dealing with customers. He was charming—a born entertainer. The visiting members loved him, and the ladies, of course.”

  “I wouldn’t think there’d be too many women in the Society bar.”

  “You’d be surprised,” Patrick said. “Anyone can join if they’re nominated by a member, and it’s a good place to meet men. Trust me. Anyway, over the summer, Duff got on the wrong side of the head chef here by getting on the right side of Chef’s girlfriend. After that it seems there was a lot of bad blood between Duff and the blokes in the kitchen.”

  “Was that why he left?”

  “No, there was some kind of problem in the fall that no one I spoke to seemed very clear on, but things came to a head at a Burns Night party back in late January. The bar manager, Joe, would normally have been overseeing the event, but he was sick and he left Duff in charge. It was a large group; most of the guests were in from out of town. They were pretty wasted, things deteriorated, and some guy threw a punch. Duff wound up in the middle of the melee. It came to be known as the Burns Night Brawl. Joe was furious, and Duff left in disgrace.”

  “That explains why he came home, but I can’t imagine anyone following him back to the Glen over a bar fight, or a girl for that matter.” Damn. I’d hoped it would be something more definitive.

  Patrick called over a waitress and ordered a pot of tea and some biscuits. “I must say, you look better than when I left. More like your old self. You do thrive on trouble, don’t you? Speaking of trouble, how’s our dour-but-oh-so-delectable distiller?”

  “He’s fine, but you’re not his type.”

  Patrick gave me an amused look. “More’s the pity, but what about you? Are you his type?”

  Was I? I hadn’t really considered the question before now. Perhaps that was why he was watching me so closely the other night. Don’t go there, Abi. That’s the last thing you need right now.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” I said hastily. “We’re barely approaching civil.”

  “Then why are you blushing?”

  “I am not.”

  “You are, you know. What gives?”

  “Alright. I’ll admit, he’s good-looking, and every time he looks at me with those eyes I’m tempted to shed my clothes, but I’m not getting involved.”

  “Good luck fighting that.” Patrick chuckled.

  “New subject, please. Can you pull background on one more suitor? Turns out you were right, we’ve had a bid from Oliver Blaire.”

  “Told you so,” Patrick said with a childlike smirk. “I’ll see what I can find.”

  “Thanks.”

  Patrick’s phone buzzed. “Sorry,” he mouthed with a grimace before wandering outside to take the call.

  Taking advantage of the few minutes alone, I strolled up to the empty bar counter and began examining the bottles on display. A ledger sat open on the counter, and I scanned the page as best I could upside down. It looked like a handwritten record of the members’ bar tabs. I flipped back several pages to the months of December and January, then quickly took a photograph. I could enlarge it later and see who’d been frequenting the Society’s bar when Duff was last here. Oliver Blaire admitted to being here. It would be interesting to see who else Duff might have spent time with. I slipped my phone into my pocket before the young barman reemerged from the back room.

  “Can I get you something?”

  “No thanks, I was just admiring the selection. Is Duff around?”

  “Who?”

  “Duff Morgan. He was the bartender the last time I passed through. Nice young man. Really knew his whiskies.”

  “He’s not here now, but I’ve only been here for a few weeks. I suppose he could be the one they were asking about the other day.”

  “Who’s they?”

  “Some official-looking blokes, badges and all,” he said, lowering his voice. “Came in to talk to the bar manager.”

  I feigned surprise. “Any idea what they were on about?”

  “Don’t know. I was sent off to the cellar to do some inventory, so I didn’t hear.”

  “And that’s why we cannae rely on you for any good gossip,” said a voice from behind me. “You’ve got to learn to do a better job of hangin’ about.”

  “Leave off, Ellie,” he said with a chuckle. “You don’t need me. There’s nothing going on round here you don’t already know about.”

  Jackpot. I turned to see a plump girl with chemical red hair carrying our tea tray. “Don’t mind me,” she said with a grin. “I’m only teasin’ the lad. Where do you want this?”

  “Over here, thanks.” I led her to the corner table and relocated Patrick’s computer. “I’m sorry to hear Duff’s gone,” I said.

  “Not just gone, but really gone,” Ellie said with a gleam in her eye. “Right shocker, that one.”

  “What happened?” I asked.

  Ellie glanced around the deserted bar before replying. “He’s only gone and got himself killed…and you’ll never guess how.” She waited for this news to sink in.

  “How?” I prompted.

  “Drowned in a vat of whisky. Can you imagine such a thing?”

  “That’s horrible.”

  “Aye.” Ellie shuddered. “Think of all that whisky they’ll have to throw out…”

  “Yes…,” I tried
not to sound impatient, “but what a terrible accident.”

  Ellie lowered her voice. “Wasn’t an accident, as I hear it. More like murder.”

  “Murder?”

  “Looks that way. Some fancy detectives came in yesterday askin’ a lot of questions about anyone as might have had a grudge against him.”

  “Was there anyone?”

  “Not that I knew. Everybody liked Duff. He was the life of the party, that one. Although, come to think of it, management did have a fit a while back over some kind of shenanigans he got mixed up in.”

  “Any idea what he was up to?”

  “Always going on about some deal or other that would make him lots of money. Next thing you know, there was a bunch of rumors floatin’ around.”

  “What kind of rumors?”

  “Rumors about the kind of deals Duff was gettin’ involved with. Rumors about drugs,” Ellie whispered. “There wasn’t any real proof, but a couple of lads from the kitchen staff swore they saw him exchange a small package for cash, and they made a big show of tellin’ the bar manager, Joe.”

  “You’re sure they had no proof?”

  “Nothin’ I ever saw.”

  “What did Duff have to say?”

  “Kept sayin’ he dinnae do nothin’ wrong.”

  “Did you believe him?”

  “Not my place to believe or not, but no smoke without fire, eh? Who knows,” Ellie said with a shrug. “Claire always swore he was a good lad.”

  “Claire?”

  “Worked in housekeepin’. They were pretty tight for a while.”

  “Poor girl. She must be heartbroken.”

  “Lots of sad women when he left, if you know what I mean.”

  “But Claire was special?” I asked, trying to ignore Ellie’s leer.

  “Suppose so.” Ellie’s eyes narrowed.

  “Do you think she’d know about the funeral arrangements?” I asked. “I’d like to send flowers, or a contribution or something.”

  “They might know at the front desk, but don’t tell ’em you heard none of this from me.” Ellie gathered up her tray.

  “Course not,” I said, “but it might be less obvious if I ask one of his friends…like Claire.”

  “She doesnae work here now.” Ellie gave me an odd look. “You’re no’ with the police, are you?”

  “Nothing like that. Duff and I…well, we had a nice chat the last time I was here. He was sweet.”

  “Another one, eh?” Ellie looked relieved.

  As she turned to go, I put a hand on her arm. “Are you sure you can’t tell me where Claire works now?”

  “Maybe I heard sommit about where she was workin’, but my memory’s none too good.”

  I dug in my pocket and pulled out a twenty-pound note. “Think hard,” I said, as I handed it to Ellie. “I’d really like to know.”

  She hesitated for a split second, then pocketed the note. “I have to get back to work, but you could get yourself a coffee at the Starbucks in Castle Lane. I hear the staff there’s pretty good.”

  “Sorry that took so long,” Patrick said, eyeing Ellie’s rapid retreat with amusement. “What was that about?”

  “Got a lead on Duff’s old girlfriend here in town.”

  Patrick looked surprised. “In the ten minutes I was gone?”

  I couldn’t help grinning. “You do your voodoo with a computer keyboard, I do mine with people.”

  —

  Patrick was uncharacteristically somber as we parted. I could tell he was worried about heading back to London and leaving me here alone. His concern did little to boost my own confidence, but I left him with a show of false bravado and headed for the Starbucks in Castle Lane. I ordered a cappuccino at the counter and studied the board behind the counter that introduced the Castle Lane baristas: Ian, Juan, Dorothy, Trevor, and Claire.

  Claire’s photo showed a young woman with elfin features and a mass of white-blond hair with a two-inch purple strip down the left side. Annoyingly, she was off duty, but I left a note with the manager giving the details on the memorial service scheduled for Monday. Hopefully, that would lure her up to Balfour. If she came, she’d be easy enough to spot.

  Chapter 16

  Somehow with his hands on the wheel and his eyes on the road I found it easier to have a conversation with Grant than when we were sitting face-to-face.

  “You’re not tempted to return to London with Patrick?” Grant asked.

  “I still have estate business to attend to.”

  “You can do most of that from London, can’t you? You know Cam and I will look after the Glen.”

  “Trying to get rid of me?”

  “Of course not.”

  “I’m still on leave till the end of next week. That gives me at least five more days here to finish researching the book and taking photos. Besides, Michaelson and Rothes told me to stick around. They’ve been down bothering Patrick again and they’ve been asking the staff at the Whisky Society about Duff.”

  “I’m not surprised. And what about you? Any luck with your inquiries?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  Grant gave me an amused look out of the corner of his eye. “You’re a journalist, Abi. You’re curious, and from what Ben’s told me about you down the years, I can’t see you letting the police have all the fun.”

  “It’s not about fun,” I said, crossing my arms angrily. The idea of Ben discussing me with Grant annoyed me to no end.

  “But did you learn anything?” he said, ignoring me.

  “If you mean did I find out how Duff came to be floating facedown in a vat of our finest? No, I didn’t.”

  Grant shrugged. “At least you tried. Let’s face it, it was a long shot at best.”

  Condescending git. Did he think I was some kind of amateur? “I didn’t come up empty,” I retorted. “One of the girls from the kitchen was surprisingly loquacious.”

  “I won’t even ask how you managed to ingratiate yourself with the kitchen staff.”

  “Very funny.”

  Grant shook his head and attempted to maintain a dour face, but I could see a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “And? What did you find out?”

  I hesitated, trying to decide whether it was wise to share what I’d learned with Grant. I didn’t like to think of Duff being involved with drugs, but he was an immature kid, alone in the city for the first time. He might have made a mistake, a mistake that followed him back to Balfour. Grant might not be above reproach when it came to trying to get me away from the Glen, but my instinct said he wasn’t involved in Duff’s murder. If I was going to figure out who was, I’d need all the help I could get.

  “Duff was well liked by the Society’s members,” I offered. “He worked with many of them on tastings and events, but he alienated more than a few members of the staff by poaching their lady friends.”

  “That sounds like Duff,” Grant admitted.

  “After a while rumors started circulating around the Society that he was involved in some kind of shady dealings. Possibly drugs. The speculation was that it came from some of the lads he’d ticked off. Duff denied any wrongdoing, but the management weren’t completely convinced and they told him they’d be keeping a close eye on him.”

  “Drug dealing? Now, that doesn’t sound like Duff,” Grant said with a frown. “Was that why he was fired?”

  “No.” I filled Grant in on the Burns Night Brawl.

  “I see why he didn’t want to talk about it when he came back to Balfour. We all just figured it was a problem with some woman…or some woman’s husband.”

  Grant was silent for a time, his eyes fixed on the road ahead. “Did anyone you talked to think the drug angle was plausible?”

  “The people I spoke to said no, but personally, I’m inclined to go with the staff at the Society, no smoke without fire. He was up to something, and even if it wasn’t drugs, I’d guess it wasn’t completely aboveboard, either.”

  “But was it enough to follow him back
home and get him killed?”

  “That’s the question, isn’t it?” I watched Grant out of the corner of my eye.

  “It looks like the police are on top of the Whisky Society angle. If there’s a drug connection, they’ll find it. I think our time would be better spent finding out who’s threatening you and the distillery. At least that’s something we can do, and if it turns out Duff was killed because he walked in on someone tampering with the equipment, then identifying the saboteur will tell us who the murderer is as well.”

  The proposed alliance took me by surprise. Was Grant trying to deflect attention from himself by joining forces? “We?” I prompted.

  “Yes, we,” Grant said firmly. “You’re not the only one capable of showing some initiative. Charming as your company is, I did have an ulterior motive for inviting you to the distillers’ dinner the other night. Whoever’s trying to run you off must think they have some stake in the future ownership of Abbey Glen. One of our competitors who has bid already, or intends to. Either way, any of the men in that room could fit the bill. I wanted to see what would happen if I put the cat among the pigeons.”

  “That could’ve been risky.”

  “For the cat, or the pigeons? I’m sure you’ve faced worse, and I know you have the claws to defend yourself.”

  That explained why Grant couldn’t take his eyes off me the other night. I wasn’t sure if I was disappointed or impressed. He’d have made a good reporter and, if he wasn’t guilty, a good ally.

  “Did anyone look suspicious to you?” I ventured.

  Grant shook his head. “Let’s face it, they’re all a bit odd, so it’s hard to say. There isn’t a one of them that wouldn’t be thrilled to get their hands on the Glen if they could. Maitland obviously, as the front man for Decons. Campbell was unusually keen. He latched onto you right away, and Nakimoto was watching you all night.”