Single Malt Murder

by Melinda Mullet

  “True, and if he did argue too much, it might explain how he wound up in the washback that night.”

  With that sobering thought, we both fell silent.

  “It’s messy, but it makes more sense to me than anything else we’ve come up with,” Grant said, rubbing his eyes. “Of course, you were with Blaire today, so he couldn’t have been responsible for the break-in at the Haven.”

  “Do you really think either Blaire or Maitland would be hands-on in any of this?”

  “No, I suppose not. So we’re back to accomplices.”

  “Afraid so. Any luck getting alibis for the Glen’s staff?”

  “I checked everyone’s whereabouts immediately before the fire. Frank and Cam were together hosing out the washbacks, and Evan Ross and Walter Bell were on their way to a cattle auction in Dundee. The night Duff died was trickier. Cam dropped the vicar and his wife home around eight, then went back to get his wife settled at home before returning to the Glen. He said he arrived at the distillery office around ten. Evan and Walter were at Evan’s place having a few drinks, since the pub was closed, and Frank says he was at his mum’s place all evening.”

  “Nothing rock solid for the night Duff died,” I noted. “Would you have any idea where Frank Monroe might have got the money to buy a flashy car?”

  “Frank? He has a five-year-old convertible VW bug…is that what you call a flashy car?”

  I grimaced. “He was getting teased about it down at the DIY. I just figured…”

  “You’re not in the big city now, lass, as Hunter would say. By our standards any convertible is a flash car, even one that leaks. As for the money, I think he inherited a bit when his gran died last year.”

  So much for spending ill-gotten gains. I’d just have to hope the police would come up with something more concrete.

  Grant stretched and stifled a yawn. “I took Liam to the sheep trials in Denny today,” he mumbled.

  “Sheep trials?”

  “Aye. Several of the Islay distillers were sponsoring the event, and I heard that Rowan Johnson would be there.”

  “And you took Liam?”

  “He has such an affinity for the peaty malts, I thought he might enjoy it.”

  I smiled in spite of myself. “And here I was thinking the two of you might not get along.”

  “The novelty of a whisky-drinking dog goes a long way in these parts. I figured it couldn’t hurt to take him with me.”

  “Any luck?”

  “Johnson is pretty tight-lipped at the best of times. I mentioned Maitland once, but he didn’t bite and he certainly wasn’t discussing his future plans for Abbey Glen.”

  “Did Liam like him?”

  “Beg your pardon?”

  “Did he wag or jump around?”

  “Of course not. He followed along close to me, especially after I got him a wee dram. Why?”

  “I trust his instincts. If he doesn’t take to someone, there’s usually something wrong with them.” I thought about Liam’s response to Grant. I might not be able to judge dispassionately, but Liam could. In his book, Grant was fine.

  Grant looked at me as if I might be going off the deep end. “I’ll take your word for it,” he said.

  “He hates Maitland.”

  “Point taken, but you can’t judge a criminal by whether you like them or not. Or on Liam’s feelings, for that matter.”

  I knew I could, but it was time to change the subject. “Anything more on Decons?”

  “The boys at Decons aren’t inclined to talk to me directly, but rumors are, they’re only interested in the place as an additional source of basic malt. In the end, I think they’d like to consolidate most of the small distilleries around here under their own banner, but I didn’t find any evidence of a personal vendetta against you or the Glen.”

  “Good to know. Anyway, thanks for putting me up and putting up with me. It’s been a long day. I ought to try and get some sleep.”

  Grant rose and offered me a hand up from the carpet. When I hit my feet I found myself inches from Grant and I reached out to steady myself with a hand on his chest. It may have been my imagination, but I sensed an almost imperceptible movement toward me, and suddenly in spite of the chronic chill in the air I felt overheated, overdressed, and overwhelmed. I knew I had to flee upstairs before I did something I’d regret. I muttered a quick good-night and headed for the stairs with Liam close on my heels.

  Chapter 21

  In my dreams I was falling down the main staircase, but instead of crashing to the floor, I found myself swept up in an embrace that left me shaking. And even as I began to surface, I struggled to return to the dream and the warmth of Grant’s arms. I opened my eyes to see Liam leaning on my stomach. When he began to whine, I gave up and decided I’d best get him outside before he availed himself of the antique Persian on the floor by the bed.

  I reached for jeans and a sweater, pushed the dresser from in front of the door, and snuck outside in the damp morning air. Liam headed for the nearest tree, did his business, then took off behind the house at a trot, with me trailing blearily along behind. It had been a quiet night. I wasn’t ashamed to admit I slept with the knife under my pillow, but no crazed Scot had come to murder me in my sleep. If it wasn’t for a thick head from mixing whisky and wine, I’d have been raring to go.

  Liam forged on through the wet grass, leaving a dark trail behind him. It must have been quite an estate in its heyday. The gardens spread out in manicured lanes from the rear of the house, less formal than they would have once been, but even now cared for by a loving hand. The fresh morning breeze drove the sleep and the residual whisky from my head as I chased Liam down past the stables and up into the hills before turning back to the house.

  We were so wet and muddy I deemed a return through the front hall ill advised, so I steered Liam to the back door and tied him outside on a length of rope I found lying on an unused coal bin. Mrs. Yates, who had served us dinner the night before, was in the kitchen tending a skillet of bacon.

  “Sorry for barging in, but I didn’t want to muck up the front hall,” I said, indicating the state of my wellies.

  “No worry. Leave them by the door and I’ll take care of them later.”

  “I can do it,” I assured her. “I was looking for a towel to clean Liam up. I can’t let him in the house as he is.”

  “It’s fine,” Mrs. Yates said with a smile. “My Luke’s taken a real shine to him.” She leaned out the back door and called. As I watched through the window, a young boy came running from around the shed. He caught sight of Liam and trotted over to greet him. The two of them fell to the ground, rolling around like puppies.

  “Now, mind you donnae make him worse,” Mrs. Yates scolded. “An’ give him a good cleanin’ before you bring him in.” She turned to me, looking uncertain. “Is that a’right? He’s having such a grand time with Liam.”

  “I don’t mind, if it’s alright with you, Mrs. Yates. Liam’s always wanted a boy of his own. He’ll be thrilled.”

  “We’re quite informal here at the Larches. I’m Louisa.”

  “Abi,” I responded.

  “Grant asked me to tell you that he’d be at the distillery this mornin’. I can bring you a tray up to your room if you’d like.”

  “Oh no, I’m happy here, if I’m not in the way,” I said, sitting at the polished oak kitchen table, relieved that I wouldn’t have to face the master of the house over the breakfast table.

  “You’re more’n welcome.” A steaming cup of tea landed in front of me, followed by eggs, bacon, sausage, tomatoes, and warm bread.

  “I can’t do this too often or I won’t fit into any of my clothes,” I said, nibbling on the last of the bacon with a satisfied sigh.

  “Don’t be daft. Exercise, fresh air, and good food. You’ll no’ come to harm on that. Besides, you could use a little feedin’ up, if you don’t mind me sayin’.”

  No wonder Liam had settled in so fast. “Have you been at the Larches long?�
�� I asked, reaching for another slice of homemade bread.

  “Five years or so.”

  “Then you didn’t grow up around here?”

  “Naw. Worked most of my life down in Glasgow, but when my husband and me split up things were a bit rough. I had Luke to think of,” she said, nodding toward the yard. “He was just a wee one at the time. No one wanted a cook with a young child in tow. Grant was the only one willin’ to take us as a package deal. I’ll always be grateful for that.”

  “Isn’t Luke lonely here?”

  “He’s thrivin’,” Louisa said, refilling my cup from a large pot on the stove. “He loves having the run of the estate, and the village school is first-rate. Couldnae ask for more.”

  “I think it’s Grant that lucked out,” I said, mopping up the last of my egg with another slice of bread. “You’re a fabulous cook.”

  “I’m glad you enjoyed it. Come down later this afternoon if you’re around. I’m baking today; there’ll be fresh scones.”

  “I’d love that. In the meantime, let me know if Liam’s in the way.”

  “It’s not a problem. Wee-man’s very well mannered.”

  Now, that’s something I’d never heard before. The old cupboard lover.

  When I could pry myself away from the kitchen’s fragrant warmth, I put in a call to Patrick and Richard Thomas to apprise them of my temporary change of address. Thomas rang back right away, and as expected, it was all I could do to stop him arranging for paratroopers to descend on the place.

  “What did the police have to say?” he asked.

  “They’re continuing to investigate, blah, blah, blah…the usual drivel.”

  “Hmm.” Thomas did not sound pleased. “I left you a message at the Haven earlier this morning. Señor Bartolli is delighted by the prospect of being your host for a trip to the Whisky Society. We tentatively planned for this evening, unless that’s a problem.”

  “No, that should work.”

  “Right, I’ll let him know. In the meantime, I’m glad you’re staying at Grant’s, and I’d feel much better if you continued to stay there until the police sort things out.”

  —

  By late afternoon I was off to Edinburgh, relieved to avoid an awkward evening chez Grant. Trying to deal with the double whammy of suspicion and attraction was exhausting. I should be more charitable, since he’d let me take the estate car again in spite of its earlier treatment at my hands. This time I’d made the effort to dress the part of the competent, sophisticated businesswoman. It gave me a shot of confidence, and I felt better prepared for meeting with the managing director of AXB. Bartolli may not prove to be Mr. Right, but for now he was certainly Mr. Convenient.

  Mr. Convenient was waiting in the bar when I arrived, and I could tell from the look on his face that my sartorial efforts hadn’t been wasted. The members’ lounge was much livelier than it’d been on my last visit, but Bartolli was well known to the staff and had no trouble securing us a prime spot at the bar. He introduced me to the cellar master, Mark Findley, as the new owner of Abbey Glen. I was welcomed like a long-lost relative, and presented with a whisky menu that stretched to more than sixty pages, resembling a scholarly tome more than a drinks list. Whiskies were divided by region, then by distiller, then by age. Current distilleries were included, as were the now-defunct producers. I turned to the section on Fletcher’s, and was pleased to see they had a bottle of the Rose Reserve in the cellars, though the price per glass was more than most people’s car payments for a month. I feigned shock and questioned why this particular bottle was so expensive.

  “It was part of a special series of malts produced by the head distiller at the time. Very limited supplies, and virtually unattainable now,” Mark explained. I ordered a more conservative glass of Abbey Glen’s inaugural year and asked if I could take a peek at the Rose Reserve. Once I’d expressed an interest, I was treated to a tour of the cellars and a sampling of most of the bottles of Fletcher’s and Abbey Glen that they had in the place.

  In honor of Ben, Mark offered us both a small taste of the Rose as well. It was smooth and mellow and went down easily. As far as I could tell, the bottle was identical to the one I’d had at home. I held it up to the light and ran my finger over the label and across the smooth green glass. “Would something like this ever come on the market now?” I asked. “I’d love to get some more. It’s wonderful.”

  “Chance’d be a fine thing,” Mark said, shaking his head. “Haven’t seen any in years. We’re down to the last two bottles ourselves. Once this is gone, the Rose Reserve will be nothin’ more than a ghost spirit.” Mark pointed to a glass case at the side of the room that housed row upon row of empty bottles. “All of them from distilleries that are no longer with us. It’s enough to break your heart.”

  “Is there a market for private sales among collectors?”

  “Aye, always plenty of folks sellin’ on the Internet, but I doubt you’d find a Rose.”

  “I see you’ve been bitten by the collecting bug,” Bartolli said with a smile.

  “I suppose I have. Do you have any bottles of the Rose Reserve in your collection?”

  “I did. But they are nothing but a sweet memory now. If you succeed in finding more, you must let me know. In the meantime, shall we walk to dinner? There are several nice restaurants along the pier.”

  I wasn’t sorry to hear food was on the agenda. Even without drinking everything I’d been offered, I could feel a headache coming on. I was disappointed by the lack of information, but it was too much to hope that the cellar master would whip a replica bottle out from behind the bar. I’d have to come up with a new strategy.

  As Bartolli steered me toward the door with a hand at the small of my back, I was surprised to see a familiar face seated in a large chair by the fire.

  “Patrick?”

  “Abi…Hi.”

  “You didn’t tell me you were coming up so soon.”

  Patrick shifted in his seat, looking like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar. “It was a spur-of-the-moment trip. A little unfinished business.”

  His companion, an older gentleman looking incongruous nursing a red wine, was doing his best to look disinterested in our hushed exchange. Not Patrick’s usual type at all.

  “Call me later,” Patrick murmured as he stood to hug me.

  I nodded, confused, before hastening after Bartolli.

  “A friend of yours?” Bartolli asked, helping me into my coat.

  “More of a business colleague,” I said, looking to change the subject. “Your son isn’t with you on this trip?” was the best I could come up with.

  “Yes, he’s back at the hotel tending to some business. He wanted to join us, but his presence is rather distracting, and I was hoping we could talk without being disturbed.”

  Bartolli chatted amiably about inconsequential matters as we walked to the restaurant. I watched him out of the corner of my eye. He reminded me of a bedouin chieftain I’d photographed once. The supreme arrogance of perpetually being in control. They expect the sea to part before them. Bartolli’s slightly self-deprecating sense of humor and an overabundance of charm were the only things that kept him from being unbearable.

  As soon as we’d ordered, Bartolli came straight to the point. “Have you had an opportunity to look over our proposal for Abbey Glen?”

  “I have, and I’ll admit it’s tempting.”

  “You must be anxious to settle this matter and head back to work.”

  “They’re managing fine without me.”

  “I find that hard to believe. I have seen your photographs, Signorina. They are impressive, tragic, poetic even. Your work must be a passion for you, like mine. I cannot see you wanting to stay away for long.”

  “Work will be there when I’m ready to return. But Ben left me to find the right match for his distillery, and I intend to do so.”

  “Our offer is very generous,” Bartolli said, placing a hand on my arm. “And, because of my good friendshi
p with your uncle, I want to ensure that you are treated well in this transaction.”

  Bartolli’s comments made me uncomfortable. By all accounts, his relationship with Ben was long-standing but not close. I knew he was trying to capitalize on my emotional state in order to grab a new toy for his collection, and from a business standpoint that was reasonable enough, but I just wasn’t ready to commit yet.

  “I’m not going to rush to sell to the first buyer that comes along,” I said. “In fact, I might keep the place for a bit and see what other options present themselves.” The words surprised me even as I said them, but there was something about Bartolli, his self-assurance, his presumption that everything would come to him in due course, that rankled. I didn’t want to be bulldozed by his charm and his money.

  Bartolli’s face hardened almost imperceptibly. “Ms. Logan, you will not find a buyer more sympathetic to your desires for Abbey Glen than AXB. If you are attempting to elicit a more lucrative offer, I would encourage you to consider your position. Running a small distillery is an expensive hobby, and finding a qualified buyer that meets your explicit criteria will be difficult. I’m making you a very generous offer, and I would advise you to consider your position carefully before refusing.”

  “I never said I was refusing—merely considering all the options,” I replied with a smile. “But there’s no rush, right? Important decisions should never be taken in haste.” I looked up at Bartolli from under my lashes. “No matter how attractive the package.”

  Bartolli smiled in return, somewhat mollified, though the muscle in his jaw continued to twitch. “As you say, you must not rush this decision. Ben himself would have expected that. No doubt that is why he chose to leave Abbey Glen in your capable hands.”

  For the remainder of the meal we confined ourselves to the more neutral topics of football and politics, and I did my best to be charming in return. Bartolli’s spirits rallied, and he continued to ply me with wine and compliments.