Deadly Dram is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
An Alibi Ebook Original
Copyright © 2018 by Melinda Mullet
Excerpt from Died in the Wool by Melinda Mullet copyright © 2018 by Melinda Mullet
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Alibi, an imprint of Random House, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.
ALIBI is a registered trademark and the ALIBI colophon is a trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.
This book contains an excerpt from the forthcoming book Died in the Wool by Melinda Mullet. This excerpt has been set for this edition only and may not reflect the final content of the forthcoming edition.
Ebook ISBN 9781984817198
Cover design: Tatiana Sayig
Cover images: Shutterstock
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Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Author’s Note
Dedication
Acknowledgments
By Melinda Mullet
About the Author
Excerpt from Died in the Wool
Chapter 1
Flames licked at the wood of the whisky barrels piled high in the forecourt of the grand old house. We’d gathered as friends on the wide gravel drive of the Larches to burn away the troubles of the old year and start fresh with the new. The Larches was the MacEwen family home. An estate, to be precise. Slightly shabby now from age and the ravages of death duties, but still striking in the symmetry of its classic baronial lines. It loomed above us in stony silence, our elongated shadows dancing eerily across the sand-colored stone walls.
An occasional shower of sparks dispersed like glitter into the night and lit the faces of my companions. Grant MacEwen, my business partner and our host for this annual ritual, stood on the front porch conferring with Louisa, the Larches’ phenomenal cook/housekeeper. Her young son, Luke, was rolling in the grass with Liam, my shaggy, overgrown wheaten terrier. The two were having the time of their lives.
I huddled close to the warmth of the fire, watching as Cam Lewis, our distillery manager, made his way up the drive from his car with a young girl riding astride his shoulders. She had curly auburn pigtails and was giggling gleefully as Cam imitated a horse galloping to the edge of the bonfire.
“Who’s this?” I asked.
“Ma gran’daughter, Sadie,” he said, the rolling cadence of his thick Scottish brogue bringing a smile to my face. “She’s visitin’ for the weekend. Sadie, this is Abi Logan; she and Grant are now the co-owners of Abbey Glen.”
“Abi owns Abbey Glen,” Sadie said playfully, rolling the words around on her tongue.
“It was my uncle’s distillery,” I explained. “The name was kind of an inside joke. He named the place after me, even though it isn’t spelled quite the same.”
“That’s neat,” Sadie said. “I wish someone would name something after me.”
“I’ll bet someone will,” I said, smiling up at her.
“Aye, she’ll have some poor bloke wrapped around her finger.” Cam chuckled affectionately.
I felt terrible that I’d never stopped to consider Cam being anything other than our loyal and hardworking still man and manager. I knew that he’d been married, and his wife had died some years back, but in true Scots fashion he’d never volunteered much else about his personal life. “I didn’t know you had kids,” I teased, “let alone grandkids.”
“I have two daughters,” Cam said. His rugged face and sharp, attentive eyes generally gave him a somewhat dour look, but at the mention of his daughters his face lit up. “One’s off in Australia with her man, and the other lives in Glasgow. That’s Sadie’s mum.”
“And you’re visiting for Hogmanay, are you?” I said, looking up at Sadie. “Then I’ll bet you can tell me all about this celebration.”
“It’s the burnin’ of the clavie, miss,” she said excitedly. “We do it every year. It’s good luck, doncha know.”
“I didn’t know,” I admitted, “and I don’t really know what a clavie is, either.”
Sadie looked a bit stumped by that question herself and proceeded to tap Cam on the top of the head. “What is a clavie, Papa?”
“Clavie’s a collection of casks that are split in two and filled with tar to make sure they burn for a good long time.”
“Tar like on the road?” Sadie asked.
“Just like.” Cam chuckled. “Some villages carry the burnin’ clavie ’round the town and then take it to a local high spot where it burns long into the night. We’re lucky we have a big collection of old barrels to use at the Glen. Instead of tar, we sprinkle a bit of the spent lees on the wood to get it burnin’ hot and strong.”
Seeing the frown on my face, Cam added, “Spent lees are the leftover liquids in the still at the end of the distillin’ process.”
“That’s why we have such a beautiful blaze,” I said.
“ ’Tis indeed.” Cam swung Sadie down from his shoulders. “This version of the traditional celebration was passed down from Grant’s father. It’s been done every year since I was Sadie’s age.” He flipped one of the bouncing pigtails as she ran in circles around us. “My dad used to bring me, back when he was the still man at the distillery.”
“What happens after the barrels are burned?”
“Once they start to fall apart, you reach in an’ grab a chunk of wood that’s still glowin’ to take home an’ add to your own hearth,” Cam explained. “The leftover charcoal bits are rubbed up the chimneys to keep spirits an’ witches from comin’ down.”
“That’s the best bit,” Sadie said with evident delight, her eyes wide at the thought of witches and evil spirits being chased from the flue.
“For a village who drinks as much as we do,” I murmured, “we sure have a strange relationship with spirits.”
“Cannae be too careful, as well ye know.” Cam winked at me. “You’ve had your share of witches and evil spirits since you’ve come.”
Cam was right. It hadn’t even been a year since I inherited Abbey Glen from my uncle Ben and already we’d seen arson, personal threats, and more than our proportional share of murders. As the inexperienced and unexpected new owner of the Glen, I’d faced considerable opposition from the locals. My first challenge was to find a way to deal with the misogynistic whisky fraternity—the Barley Boys, as I’d dubbed them. It wasn’t easy. But not nearly as difficult as being the first embedded female war correspondent for the London Gazette. I’d managed that, and I w
as proud to say I was managing this.
Not only managing, but beginning to really enjoy my new life. My chaotic gypsy existence as a journalist was starting to wear on my nerves, and this change of pace had come not a moment too soon. Over the past nine months I’d discovered just how much being in this community meant to me. It was roots and friendships and a place to call home that I hadn’t had in years. In spite of my initial skepticism, it was the best legacy Ben could’ve given me. Still, if I were smart, I’d still get an extra helping of charred wood from the bonfire. I could use the good luck.
Young Luke was having a grand time gathering bits of wood and tossing them in. It was all Grant could do to keep him from falling in after them. I watched him dogging the boy’s heels to keep him out of trouble. Cam and Sadie went to help, and Luke’s mother took advantage of the reprieve to wander over and say hello. Louisa had been busy in the kitchen all day and this was the first I’d seen of her since before Christmas. She gave me a warm hug, and I asked if she and Luke had a good holiday.
“It was a pretty quiet, but relaxin’,” she said. “Luke had a fun for sure, but our lord and master was a bit glum.” Louisa looked me up and down with a glint in her eye. “If I had to guess, he was missin’ yer enlivenin’ presence.”
I could feel the flush rise in my cheeks. “Can’t imagine why,” I muttered.
“Yes you can,” Louisa said. “And it’s not fer yer business skills.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” I scoffed. I could feel my face turning red, and it wasn’t just from the heat of the fire. “I wasn’t gone that long. Barely four weeks, and then Liam and I stopped off to spend Christmas in Edinburgh with Patrick and his mum.” Why did I sound so defensive? It was no one’s business where I spent my holidays. Patrick Cooke had been my best friend since university days, and now that Ben was gone, he was the closest thing I had to family. His mother had trekked up from London for the holidays since Patrick refused to go home. She was an intimidating old battle ax, albeit of diminutive proportion, and although she was fond of both of us in her own way, her presence was always stressful. As usual, we compensated by eating and drinking way too much. All in all, a standard family Christmas celebration.
Louisa looked as if she would like to have said more about Grant, but mercifully the burning barrels chose that moment to crumble into smoldering pieces. The kids cheered, and Luke brought me a metal biscuit tin from a pile on the ground. I followed him over to the clavie and joined in pulling bits of wood and charcoal from the fire.
Grant came around to the adults with a shallow wooden quaich, its engraved silver rim and silver handles reflecting back the gold of the fire. I took a warming sip of the whisky it contained and passed it back. Grant caught my eye and held it for a long moment. His deep-green eyes threw back the light of the fire like emeralds. Being near him was always a heady experience, rousing feelings that were completely inappropriate between business partners. Feelings I did my best to quell at every turn.
Grant was a real challenge—a man of infinite complexity and great passion, hidden beneath a cool professional exterior. Tempting, but off-limits if I wanted to make my own name in the whisky business. Anything but a respectful friendship between the two of us would result in my being written off as nothing more than Grant’s little lady by the whisky fraternity.
Professional considerations aside, I’m the first to admit that I’m hopeless when it comes to men. Years of working as a photojournalist with an erratic schedule of assignments, facing grueling and mind-fracturing experiences, had left me scarred and frequently absent. My relationships tended to collapse in a smoldering heap faster than the clavie we’d just immolated. That’s why I was grimly determined to forge an appropriate relationship with my partner that would serve the business well, and my battered heart even better.
As the fire started to fade, we all moved inside to enjoy the spread that Louisa had laid out in the sitting room. Cam went to the fireplace and, with Sadie and Luke’s help, tossed in several pieces of burning barrel and then used some of the charcoal to make a series of marks on the chimney stone. “There we go. Safe from the spirits we donnae want for another year,” he said, brushing soot from his hands and helping himself to a drink from the tray on the end table. “Sláinte. It’s good to have you back,” he said, raising his glass to me.
“It’s good to be back,” I replied, raising my own glass and reveling in the glow of the whisky. My whisky. A year ago I couldn’t have told you anything about whisky, Ben’s or otherwise, but since his death I’d grown to love the taste and the feel of it. Especially our own Abbey Glen. Low on the usual peatiness of a malt whisky, our carefully distilled spirit was lovingly aged in former sherry wood casks to ensure that the final product had a sweet yet savory complexity that warmed you to the core.
“Patrick’s been all atwitter, literally and figuratively, over these Golden Quaich Awards. If we didn’t enter this version of the Glen’s fifteen-year-old, we should’ve,” I said appreciatively.
“You don’t enter,” Cam corrected, “you’re nominated. But yes, this is one of the Glen’s nominated whiskies. Not a sausage before now, and this year we got three nominations. Amazing.”
I raised my glass in the direction of the glowing hearth. “Maybe our luck is turning already.”
“Clavie doesn’t work that fast,” Grant interjected. “The main reason we haven’t been nominated in the past is that neither Ben nor I liked pandering to the selection committee.”
“Doesn’t seem like much of an honor if you can lobby to be included,” I pointed out. “I’d have thought it was based on pure merit.”
“Merit’s part of the equation,” Cam said, “but there are so many whiskies these days. The ones that go out of the way to draw attention to themselves at nomination times are the ones that stay fresh in the committee’s mind.”
“So what was different this year?”
“If I had to guess, Patrick,” Grant said. “You’ve said it before, his motives are complex and myriad. Remember back in the fall, when he set up that VIP tour of the Glen for those Japanese investors? Well, he also invited the key players from the selection committee of the Order of the Quaich to attend. I suspect he was using it as a subtle way to show off our little operation.”
“And I thought he was just wooing foreign investors for his magazine.”
“Patrick’s a canny one,” Cam said with a gleam in his eye. “He managed to look after himself and show off Abbey Glen at the same time.”
“So all those slide shows and photographs of the whisky being made were part of an elaborate PR campaign?”
“Seems that way,” Grant said.
I wasn’t really surprised. In fact, I should’ve known. Patrick always had my back. Whether I knew it or even wanted it. He was the annoying but lovable baby brother I never had.
A frown moved across Grant’s face like a cloud. “The competition starts the day after tomorrow. It’s a bit late, but we can try to get you booked in. Wasn’t sure if you’d be in country when the registration forms came around.”
“Actually I’m all set,” I replied. “Patrick and I talked about it over Christmas and he convinced me to come and join the fun. He’s agreed to share a room with Liam and me.”
“If that’s what you want,” Grant said. “I’m sure I could find room for you.”
If there was one thing I did not need in my friendship campaign, it was publicly sharing a room with Grant at an industry event. Two whiskies and we’d be lucky to leave the bed for the duration. The mere thought made me take a step back from the heat of the blazing hearth.
Grant belatedly realized what he’d just said, and I could see a faint flush creeping up his neck. “I mean, I’m sure we could find a way to get you your own room if you’d rather,” he amended.
“It’s quite a do,” Cam said, oblivious to our exchange. “They’
re holdin’ it at the Eagle’s Lodge this year. Used to be one of the royal huntin’ retreats. Now it’s a massive swank resort outside Stirling. Great food and every kind of whisky under the sun.”
“It’ll be a worthwhile experience for you,” Grant said. “There are educational seminars, tastings, and an opportunity to meet some of the top names in the industry.”
I’d met most of the local distillers already, but the seminars would be interesting and I was always looking for an opportunity to expand my whisky palate. All part of embracing my new role as businesswoman and whisky ambassador. “How long does it go for?”
“Four nights,” Cam interjected. “I’ve booked a room, myself.” He grinned. “Doesn’t do to be drivin’ after all that samplin’.”
“Too right,” Louisa chimed in, returning with a tray of cold salmon and salad to add to the already heaving sideboard. Liam trailed behind her like a love-struck teenager. “They do a bit more than sampling,” she added. “They come back half a stone heavier and a few brain cells lighter.”
Grant chuckled. “An apt assessment.”
“Sounds like my kind of party,” I said.
I followed Liam to the buffet table and began to fill a plate. Louisa had outdone herself. In addition to the salmon, there was a large collection of golden brown savory meat pies and sausage rolls sitting next to a fragrant vegetable curry with rice. Nearby a tea trolley groaned under the weight of a dozen different cheeses and biscuits, bite-sized mincemeat pies, and sugar-topped ginger scones with clotted cream and fresh raspberries.
This holiday season was proving to be a disaster for my waistline. Patrick might have been in hiding over the holidays, avoiding a trip to London and a possible encounter with his ex, but as usual he didn’t stint himself. He’d brought all the comforts of home up to Edinburgh for the holidays, including six large hampers from Fortnum & Mason. Two cases of assorted French wines along with goose and duck, pies, pâtés, cheeses, jams, bacon, and sausages. Even Liam was included. A massive steak bone wrapped in butcher paper and tied with the trademark turquoise ribbon arrived along with the largess. He’d spent three days in heaven gnawing away at it.
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