Single Malt Murder

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Single Malt Murder Page 22

by Melinda Mullet


  In spite of my best efforts, it was late afternoon before I pulled up in front of the Haven. I headed for the kitchen to plug in the kettle, but pulled up short in the doorway. The photos from the library that I had stacked by the door had been ripped from their frames. Shattered glass was strewn over the floor and the shredded remains of the prints covered the counters and the table. Some pieces of Hunter’s unfinished woodwork had been wantonly dumped into the fire. It was painful to see. I called Rothes and, after a slight hesitation, Grant.

  Standing alone amidst the rubble, I scanned the kitchen for signs of other damage. The remaining bottles of the Rose Reserve had been sitting on the counter next to the stove when I left. They were both gone. I went to the library to see if the open bottle on the drinks tray was there, and it too was missing. Was Claire’s killer closing the loop? This mess must have been left for the sole purpose of covering the theft, with an added bonus of terrifying me. Other than the bottles of Rose Reserve, nothing else appeared to be missing. Nothing, that is, but my personal sense of security.

  I went back outside, angry that the Haven no longer felt like a place of shelter for me. The outside world had come crashing through the door with a vengeance.

  Grant and Liam were the first to arrive. I tied Liam outside and led Grant to the kitchen. He stopped and stared, gaping in disbelief. “Why?”

  “To steal the remaining bottles of Rose Reserve,” I said.

  “I suppose they’re worth more than all the electronics put together,” Grant said, running his hands through his hair.

  “If you know what you’re looking for,” I noted.

  He put an arm around my shoulder and gave me a squeeze. “Steady on.”

  Disturbed by his touch, I stepped away. “I’m fine,” I insisted.

  “Have you called Bill?” he asked, turning back to the mess in front of him.

  “He’s on his way.”

  I looked at Grant out of the corner of my eye as he sifted through the debris. He looked like he’d aged since we met a week and a half ago. The lines on his forehead etched deeper, the blue smudges beneath his eyes more pronounced. As I watched his eyes darkening in anger, I couldn’t believe he had anything to do with this mess. This was down to someone connected to Duff’s whisky scam, but Blaire was with me, so who? Had Maitland sent Frank Monroe? Could Blaire have sent someone over? Possibly Cam? He and Blaire had looked pretty tight when they were sitting together at Duff’s memorial. Rothes and Michaelson arrived before I had the chance to contemplate the matter further.

  “Anything stolen?” Michaelson asked.

  “Some bottles of high-end whisky from Ben’s collection. Two unopened bottles, and one partially drunk.”

  “How much would they be worth?”

  “A lot. North of ten thousand pounds in the current market,” I replied. Michaelson looked surprised but didn’t comment.

  “Hunter wasn’t here?” Rothes asked.

  “Gone to Manchester for a few days.”

  “We’ll take a look around,” Michaelson said. “In the meantime, please check to make sure there’s no damage in other parts of the house.”

  “You can’t stay here with this going on,” Grant said in a low voice as he followed me around the library. “Come up to the Larches, at least until the police can sort this out. We have endless guest rooms, and Liam’s more than welcome.”

  “I’ll think about it,” I said, and headed upstairs. I made a quick tour of the house, trying to calm my nerves as I went. Nothing else seemed to have been disturbed. Once again I wasn’t sure where to turn. Like it or not, Grant was right, I couldn’t stay here, but I wondered if I would be any safer at the Larches. I shut my eyes and concentrated on Grant’s face in my mind’s eye. Passionate was still there, but it covered so many bases—sensual, obsessive, violent. Which one was it? And still not a glimmer of the other two words. Once again, I’d have to make this call on blind faith.

  I descended the stairs slowly, trying to decide how best to broach the subject of Duff’s fake labels. No matter how badly I wanted to do this on my own, I couldn’t keep Claire’s secret any longer. It was time the police knew, but it wasn’t going to be a pleasant conversation.

  “Your intruder didn’t have a key this time,” Rothes said. “There’s a windowpane broken in the back door. It looks as though they reached in and unlocked the door from the outside.”

  I nodded absentmindedly. I was alone with Michaelson and Rothes. I decided it was best to jump in with both feet. “I think you both know that I spoke with Claire Jones after Duff’s funeral.”

  Michaelson looked up sharply. “Yes.”

  I took a deep breath. “She told me that Duff commissioned some whisky labels last fall. She didn’t get a really good look at them, but from the description she gave me they sounded exactly like the labels used on bottles of a vintage whisky called the Rose Reserve.”

  Rothes looked confused. “There hasn’t been a Rose Reserve produced in almost thirty years. Did she say what he was doing with these labels?”

  “She didn’t know, but I thought it might be important, since the last two bottles of original Rose Reserve that Ben owned went missing today.”

  “Why the hell didn’t you share this information right away?” Michaelson exploded.

  “I didn’t think it was relevant until now,” I hedged.

  “You didn’t think it was relevant that Duff was in possession of counterfeit labels for bottles of high-end whisky? Is there anything else you haven’t told us?” Michaelson glowered at me.

  “I think that’s it,” I said.

  “I should bloody well hope so,” he growled. “And how exactly did this topic come up?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “Ms. Logan, we can take this conversation down to the police station, or you can make an effort to jog your memory here and now.”

  “Alright, alright. Claire seemed unusually agitated after the funeral. Worried about the repeated visits from the police. I pointed out that they probably sensed she was keeping information from them, and I suggested that she might feel better if she confided whatever it was in someone who was looking for answers.”

  “Someone like you.”

  “What can I say, she seemed to trust Ben’s niece more than the police.”

  “Did she say who printed these labels for Duff?”

  “Not specifically. Her brother, Stewart, hooked him up with a friend of a friend. No doubt Stewart could tell you more.”

  “No doubt.” Michaelson shook his head. “This isn’t a newspaper story, Ms. Logan, it’s a murder inquiry. My men and I ask the questions—not you. I’ll expect to see you at the station promptly filing a formal statement.”

  I resisted the temptation to question the thoroughness of their investigation if an outsider like myself could have more information than they did, but I sensed the point was not lost on Michaelson, and no doubt it accounted for some part of his displeasure.

  “I can station an officer here tonight if you’d be more comfortable,” Rothes offered as Michaelson moved away.

  “No, thanks,” I said. “I’m staying at the Larches tonight.” I started to leave, then turned back. “Look, I know it’s not my place, but if I were writing a story on all this, I’d want to have a chat with Maitland and Oliver Blaire about the black market for vintage whisky, and I’d be very curious about where Frank Monroe got the money to buy a fancy car.”

  —

  I had no stomach for watching the police examine the crime scene. Hopefully they would find some trace of the intruder. I was angry about the loss of the whisky, but most of all I was angry about the invasion of my personal space. I hadn’t realized it until now, but for the first time in years I was starting to feel like I had a home of my own. The intruder, whoever he was, had robbed me of that new and fragile comfort.

  For now, I needed to get away. Looking at the situation logically, if anything happened to me while I was at Grant’s he’d be the number
-one suspect. If he was trying to get rid of me, he couldn’t risk it in his own house. I figured I was safe for the moment, at least. I quickly threw some clothes and personal items in a suitcase and stashed the hunting knife I’d bought from the hardware store in the side pocket. A girl can’t be too careful.

  Grant put my bag in the trunk of his car and opened the rear door. Liam came running from the far side of the house and leapt in without missing a beat, settling himself in the back with his head out the window. We drove to the police station, and Grant waited while I filed a written statement about Duff’s labels.

  At the Larches, Liam had already been given full run of the house, and he scampered off to the kitchen as soon as we hit the front hall. I could only hope he wouldn’t embarrass himself during our time at the big house. Having seen the place, I knew the possibilities were endless, and most too hideous to contemplate.

  Grant showed me to a room on the second floor overlooking the gardens, before heading back to finish up at Abbey Glen. Left alone, I looked around the room appreciatively. Being the landed gentry had its privileges. An impressive four-poster bed with carved rails and finials graced the wall opposite a large stone hearth. A heather-colored silk duvet was the main concession to femininity, softening the stone and wood angles of the room. A welcome fire was crackling in the grate, and the adjoining bathroom was stocked with towels and a fluffy Turkish robe. All the amenities of a five-star hotel, and happily a large dresser suitable for dragging in front of the door during the night.

  Tense from the driving and the unpleasant homecoming, I ran a hot bath in the massive claw-foot tub and sank into it up to my ears. I hid there until the water grew cold and my fingers wrinkled, as I floated in limbo and tried to accomplish the impossible task of emptying my mind. As the chill set in, I gave up trying to suppress the swirling thoughts of Duff and whisky and the Glen careening around in my head, and hauled myself out of the tub and into an oversized towel. Drying off I was startled by my own reflection in the full-length mirror behind the door. A couple of weeks of regular meals hadn’t hurt. My ribs had acquired a thin layer of padding, making me look less scrawny than usual. The faint shrapnel scar running along my right hipbone was still there, but the curves I struggled to hide had filled out once more, and the chronic sunburn of the desert climes had faded to a warm glow. At least I no longer looked as bad as I felt.

  Padding back into the bedroom, I was unnerved to see a note propped on the nightstand. I picked it up, my heart beating double time, but it was only a message from Grant telling me Kristen would be joining us for dinner at eight. I was actually relieved to find we wouldn’t be alone, but I figured I’d have to make a bit more of an effort for company. I dug through my bag and pulled out a cashmere sweaterdress in a rich shade of plum. An extravagant purchase that had seen little use, it would be warm enough to fight the chill that permeated the stone floors of the Larches, but dressy enough to constitute dinner attire.

  I looked at myself once more in the mirror. I hadn’t realized how much the dress clung to my skin, but I didn’t have a better option. Fluffing my hair in front of the fire was my sole concession to hair dressing, though I did put on a touch of makeup and slipped into a pair of heels. I couldn’t compete with Kristen Ramsey, but at least I was presentable.

  As I made my way down the long hallway to the stairs, I could hear the sound of Kristen’s voice drifting up from the main hall below. She greeted me with a hug and a sympathetic grimace.

  “Poor you. Things are going from bad to worse, aren’t they?” she said. “I’m glad you took Grant up on his offer of hospitality. Until they can sort out what’s going on, I don’t think you should be alone.”

  “Really, I’m fine,” I said. “I just need to have Hunter repair the window before I go back. I can take care of myself, you know, earlier appearances to the contrary.”

  Kristen hooked her arm through mine and guided me to the sitting room, where Grant stood by the fire nursing a drink. He looked up as we entered, frowning. His eyes were a shade of deep emerald I hadn’t seen before, and he looked slightly ill at ease. Was it a guilty conscience, or was he regretting his hasty offer of hospitality?

  Kristen made herself at home, waving Grant off and pouring us both a drink, before settling in front of the fire. “Do the police have any ideas about your intruder?” she asked.

  “Of course not. A lot of questions. But no answers. Anything more from the postmortem?” I asked.

  “Nothing relevant and nothing that makes appropriate dinner conversation. Look, why don’t we take a break from the distillery. Let’s talk about something else for a change.”

  Kristen did her best to keep the conversation light over dinner, regaling us with stories of some of her quirkier patients. Even Grant managed the odd chuckle, but I caught him watching me intently on more than one occasion. Kristen lingered over dessert, but left after declining a nightcap, pleading exhaustion from the week’s schedule. I walked her to the door, then returned to the sitting room to finish my drink, settling on the floor in front of the fire. Liam trailed in from the kitchen and came to rest his head in my lap, looking well fed and contented.

  Grant hesitated before pouring another whisky and taking an armchair on the far side of the fireplace.

  “Penny for your thoughts,” he said.

  “Not sure they’re worth that much,” I replied, fondling Liam’s ears, “and besides, the good doctor told us to take a break from discussing distillery business.”

  “A sound idea in theory, but as it’s the only thing on your mind, it’s rather like trying to ignore an elephant in the corner of the room. Are you going to tell me what’s going on?”

  The elephant was larger than Grant imagined. I took a deep breath. “Rothes told me that Duff’s girlfriend, Claire Jones, was found dead the night of Duff’s funeral.”

  “What?” Grant leaned forward in disbelief. “How?”

  “Drug overdose. She was found in the bathroom of a nightclub in Edinburgh.”

  “Do you think it might have something to do with her confiding in you?”

  “I hope not.” I looked into Grant’s concerned face. “But what if it did?”

  “I thought you said no one saw you talking to her at the funeral.”

  “I didn’t think they did, but someone must have.”

  “Any idea who?”

  “At a guess, I’d say Duff’s partner in crime.” I quickly filled Grant in on Patrick’s idea that one of our fellow distillers was working with Duff and providing him with whisky to bottle.

  “That would certainly reduce the overhead for Duff,” Grant conceded. “Who’d you have in mind?”

  “At first I thought Maitland. He’s the king of shady deals, but after today Blaire’s looking like a strong contender, too. He has access to odd lots of whisky all the time for his Warrenton’s label.”

  Grant slumped back in his chair. “You’re asking me to believe that one of these two men I’ve known for most of my life could be a murderer.”

  “I know, it’s brutal, but something went wrong with this deal. Whoever Duff was working with turned on him, and Duff paid the price.”

  Grant shook his head sadly.

  “The hardest part about trying to figure out what’s going on here is that no one in Balfour wants to believe it could be one of you,” I noted. “Everyone knew wee Duff and no one thought he’d ever harm the Glen. But Duff was involved with the sabotage. Forensics found his fingerprints all over the steam valve. The real question is not was Duff involved, but who was he working for. There’s a puppet master somewhere out there directing the sabotage and arson. A puppet master that had no problem replacing Duff with another puppet when he was killed.”

  “So you’re saying that Duff was involved in both crimes. Sabotaging the distillery and selling counterfeit whisky?”

  “I think so.” A new theory had come to me in the tub and I decided to go out on a limb. “But all this time I’ve been struggling to understa
nd these events as two separate crimes, now I’m not sure they are.”

  Grant’s eyes narrowed and he continued to watch me closely. “Go on.”

  “Well, selling fake bottles of vintage whisky is a bit risky at best. How would you explain how you came by the bottles?”

  “Duff was a former employee at Abbey Glen,” Grant offered. “Gives him a legitimate connection to the place.”

  “Yes, but then, they’re stolen goods, right?”

  “True. But there’s always a certain element willing to take things at face value and not ask too many questions.”

  “Stay with me. If you owned Abbey Glen, no one could argue with you selling a vintage Fletcher’s. It would be yours legally. What if Duff came up with the initial plan and then got involved with Blaire—”

  “Or Maitland.”

  “Or Maitland. Then Ben dies unexpectedly, and the whole dynamic changes. Now there’s a possibility of getting hold of the distillery itself. It would give them a provenance for the vintage whisky, and for Maitland or Blaire, ownership of a hot new distillery. If you look at it that way, threats, sabotage, arson could all be part of one misguided plan to encourage me to sell quickly and leave. Not two crimes and two criminals, but one crime with multiple parts. That’s the missing piece of the puzzle.”

  “I’m not saying you’re wrong, but buying a distillery’s expensive and a lot of effort for a short-lived scam. After all, there’s a limit to the number of bottles of Rose Reserve you could sell. If you kept on dumping more and more fakes on the market, the price would start to drop along with the cache, and soon it wouldn’t be worth much.”

  “But neither Maitland nor Blaire would be buying the distillery just for a vintage whisky scam,” I argued. “They’ve both fancied the place for years.”

  “And the sooner you sell up, the sooner they’d be able to start selling their newfound ‘Reserves,’ ” Grant mused. “That could explain why Duff would be willing to take part in the sabotage.”

  “Even if he didn’t relish the idea of causing harm to Abbey Glen, whoever he was working with would be in a position to blackmail him. It might be very difficult to say no.”

 

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