Single Malt Murder

by Melinda Mullet

  “What did he find on Maitland?”

  “He’s being well paid by Decons. Salary plus large cash bonuses for his work in the acquisitions group and other miscellaneous undefined ‘projects.’ ”

  “Like hiring someone to trash the Glen?”

  “Wouldn’t surprise me.” Maitland blackmailing Duff would make sense, but after he was killed, Maitland would’ve had to turn to someone else for help. Was that where Frank Monroe entered the picture? I realized Grant was waiting for me to continue. “It gets weirder,” I said. “About a week ago, Maitland paid nearly one hundred thousand pounds to Rowan Johnson, the owner of the Islay firm that’s bidding on the Glen.”

  Grant’s eyes grew wide. “Why would he do that?”

  “Patrick and I think Maitland is using him as a front to bid on the Glen himself. Gives him much more incentive to push for a fire sale at the Glen.” I hesitated for a moment before going on. If Grant was ever going to tip his hand, he’d have to feel confident that I trusted him. “Would you be willing to scout around and see what you can learn about the folks in Islay?” I asked.

  “Sure, but what exactly am I looking for? Johnson’s not going to walk up to me and say, ‘By the way, I’m fronting for Keith Maitland in a shady deal.’ ”

  “Just try and open a dialogue and see what emerges. See if Rowan Johnson seems to have any interest in the Glen himself. See if he’s hostile or open in his answers, and go ahead and mention Maitland and see how he reacts.”

  “Okay, I’ll see what I can do. What about Decons?”

  “Anything you can pick up through your professional connections would be helpful. In the meantime, I’m going to take a drive over to Stirling in the next day or so to visit Oliver Blaire at his shop. If we’re lucky, he might have heard something about bottles of Rose Reserve showing up on the market in the last few months.”

  “I could come with you.”

  “That’s really not necessary.”

  Grant scowled. “Just be careful. Blaire’s a charmer, and you can’t take anything for granted these days.”

  Blaire wasn’t the only one capable of being charming. Yet I managed to look into those mesmerizing eyes and say, “Don’t worry, I never trust anyone completely.”

  Chapter 18

  I woke on Tuesday morning with my internal clock ticking like a time bomb. I was due back in London in three days, and I still had more questions than answers. But I was getting closer, I could feel it. I just needed a few more days. In the end I called my editor and begged for an extra week’s leave, on the pretext of having to finish sorting out my uncle’s estate. Telling him I was embroiled in a murder inquiry would’ve been like waving a steak in front of a pack of wolves, and I certainly didn’t need to complicate things by getting the paper involved.

  I spent the morning looking for more information on the elusive Rose Reserve. I turned the library upside down, scoured the online markets for any recent sale, and poured countless cups of tea into Hunter, asking questions, but found no answers. It was time to call on Nell Furguson again. It was her son’s whisky. If she didn’t have some insight, no one would.

  I parked Liam at the curb as we passed through the village and ran into the Chocolate Bar to pick up a present for Furgie. Floss was cleaning tables from the late-morning coffee crowd, and she greeted me with a smile and a wave of her tea towel.

  “Can I get you a cup of somethin’ strong?”

  “No, thanks, I’m off to see Nell Furguson, and I wanted to pick up a little treat for her on the way by.”

  “Right then, you’ll be wantin’ some of Harold’s peppermint creams. She adores them.”

  A tall, slim man with pale blue eyes and an oversized Fair Isle cardigan emerged from behind a beaded curtain, carrying several cases of Turkish delight. Harold Robinson was as thin as his wife was plump. It was hard to imagine him indulging in the treats that lined the walls of his shop—he must have been blessed with a formidable metabolism.

  “Harold, this is Ben’s niece, Abi. She needs some of them peppermint creams for Furgie.”

  Harold gave me a shy smile. He retrieved one of the massive glass confectionary jars from along the wall and started to fill a gilt box with the chocolate-covered mints.

  “Such terrible news about Duff,” Floss said, shaking her head. “It’s all anyone can talk about. I’ve heard plenty of folks say they are lockin’ their doors at night now, that never have before. I tell you, it gives me the willies to think of a murderer roamin’ loose around here. Have the police found out anythin’ more about what happened?”

  “Not that they are telling me,” I said.

  Floss looked disappointed but not daunted. “Mrs. Morgan’s in a right state, she is. She said it wasn’t her boy’s fault all along and she’s after Rothes to get it sorted fast. And Siobhán’s a force of nature when she gets rollin’.”

  “Don’t I know it.” At least the news of Duff’s fingerprints on the valve hadn’t leaked into the stream of village gossip. “Is there anything else Furgie likes?” I asked, attempting to redirect the conversation.

  “Well now, let’s see. How ’bout a few of those chocolate buttons? Everyone likes those.”

  “Then throw in a bag of those, too. I want to thank her for helping me with some stories for Ben’s book about the history of the Glen.”

  “That’s nice. Not much about the history round here she doesn’t know. But I’m sure Grant could help you, too. He knows everythin’ there is to know about the Glen.” Floss looked me up and down with a twinkle in her eye. “You should ask him. It’d be a nice chance for the two of you to spend some more time together.”

  I tried not to laugh at Floss’s clumsy attempt at matchmaking. “Yes, I’m sure Grant could be very helpful.”

  “He’s a good lad, you know, and he’s been alone for too long.”

  “Now, Floss,” Harold said softly as he tied a purple ribbon around the second box of sweets. “Let the young ones find their own way.”

  Floss flushed slightly. “I just worry for him. He spends too much time locked away at the Glen when he ought to be out and about, but then again there’s so little choice round here. Most of the eligible girls moved south long ago to find jobs. The only ones left now are too old, too young, or too married.”

  “There’s always Dr. Ramsey,” I said, eager to throw someone else under the bus.

  “Aye, but her patients keep her hoppin’. Besides, she had a nasty divorce before she left Glasgow, and she hasn’t shown much interest in datin’ since, has she, Harold? And of course she’s got her hands full tryin’ to keep that house of her father’s runnin’.”

  “What’s wrong with it?”

  “Leakin’ roof, risin’ damp, you name it. Must cost her an absolute fortune to keep it goin’.”

  “Inheritances aren’t always what they’re cracked up to be.” I sighed.

  “I inherited this place from my mum, and now look at it.” Floss laughed. “It brought me my Harold and enough chocolate to sink the Titanic. Things don’t always turn out the way you planned,” she said, and sighed, watching Harold constructing a display of Turkish delight. “Sometimes they’re even better.”

  —

  Liam and I found Furgie in her back garden, dozing in a wicker chair with a rug over her knees. Her eyes flickered as we approached.

  “Abi, my dear, how delightful. You’ve saved me from drowsin’ the day away. Please, please pull up a chair.”

  I handed over Harold’s gilt boxes, and she broke into the peppermint crèmes with a delighted giggle. We sat in silence for several moments, allowing the fluffy chocolate mints to melt on our tongues.

  “It’s turned out to be a lovely day.” I lifted my face to the sun, and took a deep breath of heather-scented air as the breeze ruffled my hair.

  “It can be lovely here, though we haven’t put our best foot forward since you arrived, have we?” Furgie said.

  “Well, at least it hasn’t been dull.”


  “Village life seldom is, my dear.”

  I accepted another chocolate mint. “I was hoping you could help me with something. I want to find out more about the Rose Reserve. I hear it was Ben’s favorite.”

  “What do you want to know?”

  “Have you heard of any for sale around here lately?”

  “Not for a dog’s age. There might’a been a few odd bottles here and there, but most of it’s long since drunk. There wasn’t that much made in those days, you see. Not like now.”

  “Duff found some old bottles in the cellar at Abbey Glen back in the spring last year. Gave them to Ben as a birthday present. Could there be more somewhere?”

  “I shouldnae think so. In my day people drank whisky, they didn’t put it up on a shelf to look at. Though now you mention it, Duff was askin’ questions about the Rose a few months back. Couldn’t tell him much either.”

  “Did he say why he wanted to know?”

  “Don’t think so, but my memory’s not so good for the recent stuff. I told him all about how the Rose came to be and he seemed happy enough with that, poor lamb. Can’t believe he’s gone.”

  Furgie looked distressed, and I searched for a way to distract her. “Why don’t you tell me about making the Rose? I’m sure I could use it in the book.” I handed Furgie the package of chocolate buttons and settled back in my chair.

  “The Rose was all my son Martin’s doin’. Central Spirits wouldnae have nowt to do with single malts at first. When he started he had to pay for his own yeast, his own grain, his own barrels, and he had to account for every pence so Central would know he wasnae cheatin’ them. I gave him what was left of my share of the money from the war whisky to get started. He invested it in some sherry casks from Spain. It was a big risk.”

  “But it paid off in the end?”

  “Oh, aye, but it wasn’t easy. In the early days Central wouldnae even let him use space at Fletcher’s to age the casks.”

  “So, what did he do with them?”

  “The first two years he kept the casks at the house and in the shed, till I put my foot down. By the time we were dryin’ the wash on whisky barrels, I’d had enough. I made Martin find someplace else to store the stuff. And if there was one thing we had around here after all those years of illegal distillin’, it was places to stash whisky.”

  “I’ll bet.”

  “Plenty of old caves up on Drumlinn to fill the bill, like the ones we used durin’ the war. For several years in the early ’60s, Martin managed to put up stock with no interference. He was sure it would be a huge success when it was bottled.”

  “But it wasn’t?”

  “We never knew. You see, the great part about using caves for storage is the temperature and the moisture are nearly perfect. The bad thing is you have no control. Martin didnae count on that. At the end of one very rainy spring two of the main caves up by the old waterfall collapsed. No one was hurt, but years of work were destroyed. Martin was crushed. We managed to save a few of the barrels, but the rest were ruined. In the end, he had to give up because the area was so unstable.”

  I remembered the climb up the side of the waterfall with Liam. The rocky terrain must have been the result of the collapse in Martin’s day. “What a waste, but then where did the Fletcher’s Reserves come from?”

  “Martin had the first two years’ stock that he’d been agin’ at our place. He bottled that, and sold it once it matured. Folks loved what he’d done, includin’ some of the top brass at Central. Martin was able to convince the company to allow him to keep twenty percent of the Fletcher’s basic malt to age and bottle as a single. He aged it right on the premises and supervised the caskin’ and blendin’ himself. Each vintage was more popular than the last, and the Rose Reserve was the most popular of all. The money from those sales alone often kept Fletcher’s afloat toward the end.”

  I scrawled down a few more notes for the book, while trying to think of a way to shift the conversation to Grant. I wanted to hear Furgie’s take on the Rachel story. “Grant speaks very highly of your Martin,” I offered.

  “Grant learned the business from Martin,” Furgie said with a sad smile. “Followed him around from the time he was about ten. Just like Ben and Duff.”

  “And now Grant’s on his own.”

  “He loves working at the Glen. It’s his passion.”

  “His only passion now,” I noted, “though that wasn’t always the case from what I hear.”

  “Been listenin’ to the local gossip, have you, lass?” Furgie said with a raised eyebrow.

  “Something like that,” I murmured, pleased that Furgie had taken the bait.

  “Don’t you go listenin’ to the likes of Keith Maitland. He’s a foul old scandalmonger, and he knows nowt about things.”

  “I’m not surprised, but some are saying no smoke without fire.”

  “More like smoke and mirrors, if you ask me,” Furgie said. “Maitland’s never cared a jot about who he runs over along the way, so long as he gets what he wants.”

  “So there’s nothing to the stories?”

  “Nothin’,” Furgie said, her lips pressed in a firm thin line.

  I must have looked uncertain, because she reached over and patted my knee.

  “I was Grant’s nanny, lass. Ye ken? I raised him and James from the time they were wee babes. We’ve stayed very close down the years. As it happened, things weren’t goin’ all that well with Grant and Rachel. They werenae suited from the start. She’d always wanted the city life, and Grant was happy here tendin’ to the Glen and the estate. They were constantly bickerin’ and Grant was unhappy. The night of the accident he asked me to join them for dinner. I think he was hopin’ to head off another big row. Rachel left dinner with a headache and headed upstairs to bed. The next thing we heard was an almighty crash. She must ha’ been near the top of the stairs when she fell. We called Doc Ramsey, but it was too late. Grant blamed himself, of course, but it wasn’t his fault, poor lamb.”

  Furgie looked weary, and as her voice trailed away, I could see we were reaching the end of her strength. “Thank you for telling me, it means a lot. But you should rest a bit now, we’ve been doing a lot of talking.”

  “That’s alright, Abi. I live in the past now. It’s nice to have someone who’ll visit me there.”

  “I’ll come again, if I may,” I said, patting the thin arm that lay on the knee rug. “Next time you can tell me stories about Ben.”

  “That would be lovely,” she murmured as she closed her eyes.

  —

  The beautiful afternoon was fading into a beautiful evening. Liam and I wandered back through the village and headed for home along the banks of the Alyn. I was glad to hear that Grant wasn’t to blame for Rachel’s death. I could’ve guessed that Maitland was just trying to cause problems, but it was nice to have it confirmed.

  As I strolled along the bank, I saw a familiar figure in a blue Barbour sitting on a bench finishing a conversation on his cellphone. Sgt. Rothes rose as I drew level, and fell into step beside me.

  “Ms. Logan, do you know a woman from Edinburgh by the name of Claire Jones?”

  I stiffened, looking away quickly to hide the surprise on my face. “Claire Jones?” I repeated.

  “This is a small village, Ms. Logan. Very little goes unnoticed here.”

  I should have known someone would’ve seen us talking after the service. “I believe she was Duff’s ex-girlfriend,” I hedged. “Why?”

  “Would you be surprised to hear that she was found dead in the bathroom of a club in Edinburgh last night?”

  My stomach lurched and I stopped in my tracks. “How did she die?” I asked.

  “Overdose.”

  My mind was racing as fast as my heart, but I didn’t want Rothes to see he’d rattled me. “Suicide?”

  “Doesn’t look that way. When did you last speak to her?” Rothes pressed.

  “Yesterday, after the funeral.”

  “You’re a seasoned reporter,
Ms. Logan, I know you’re more than adept at soliciting information from people. Did Claire Jones give you any indication that Duff might have been involved with drugs?”

  “Not at all. In fact, she was adamant that he wasn’t,” I answered truthfully.

  Rothes lit a cigarette and stared into the water tumbling by at our feet. “She said as much to us when we questioned her, but this casts a new light on things. If she was involved in the local drug scene, it’s reasonable to think that Duff might have been too.”

  “Does that mean you’re refocusing your inquiries on Duff’s time in Edinburgh?”

  “We’re following Michaelson’s lead. We go where he says to go.” Rothes sighed. “But I will continue to pursue every possible angle in this case. You may not believe this, Ms. Logan, but progress is being made in this investigation and we will find the answers.”

  “I’m a reporter. It’s in my nature to ask questions, especially when I’m being threatened.” The police might think they were making progress, but it didn’t look like it from where I stood. “I’m due back at work in a week or so,” I continued, “and I want to return knowing that things here have been settled. No more mysteries, no more threats, and no more victims.”

  “You can’t rush justice, Ms. Logan. No matter how anxious you are to get back to your real life.” Rothes’s phone buzzed again and he turned away to answer it.

  With Rothes occupied on the phone, I took the opportunity to slip away and avoid answering any more questions. Had Claire been lying all along? Were Duff and Skiver active in the drug trade? Not impossible, of course, but not likely. Claire came through as naïve but not as a liar. Was Claire’s death an accidental overdose—or an intentional suicide? Or, worse yet, could someone have seen her talking to me and panicked? I could hear Patrick telling me not to be paranoid. But what if Duff’s counterfeit labels held the key somehow? Was I responsible for the loss of yet another young life?

  The idea horrified me, and yet if it was true, it meant I must be getting closer to the heart of the matter.