Single Malt Murder: Whisky Business Mystery, #1

By Melinda Mullet

The Scottish Highlands conceal a cunning murderer in this first book in the Whisky Business mystery series…

Abigail Logan is the first to admit that what she knows about running a whisky distillery would fit into a shot glass with room to spare. But when she inherits a boutique distillery in rural Scotland, she quickly discovers that she is now part of a high-stakes business – more art than science – that elicits deep passions and prejudices. When one of Abi's employees is found murdered and floating face down in a vat of the distillery's finest, Abi vows to find out why. But distilling truth from lies can be tricky especially when everyone around you seems to have something to hide.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Melinda Mullet
• Release date: Dec 12, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223529415

Book preview

Chapter 1

A re you going to tell me why you’re sitting there looking like something the cat dragged in on an off night, or should I order another bottle of wine and start guessing?

Patrick Cooke might have been my oldest and closest friend, but that remark still earned him a kick in the shins under the table between us. He scowled, the gold flecks in his brown eyes flashing, but it didn’t stop him from continuing to assess me with a critical eye.

Truth is a defense, Abi, he said. Have you even glanced in a mirror lately?

Not if I can help it, I admitted, downing the dregs of my wine and extending the glass for a refill.

I probably did look like hell. I couldn’t remember when I’d last run a comb through my hair, and I seldom bothered with makeup even at the best of times. But it’d been a particularly tough week, and for a photojournalist who spends most of her professional life crawling through the filth of one war zone after another, that was saying something. I deserved to be cut a little slack and I certainly didn’t need to be judged by Patrick with his impeccably coordinated clothes and perfectly gelled hair.

Tonight he looked even more out of place than usual next to the scruffy journalists and media types that call this corner of London’s Fleet Street home, but the Scrivener’s Arms had been our regular post-work watering hole for more than ten years, and I refused to migrate to the trendier West End bars just because Patrick had recently been promoted to associate editor of Wine and Spirits Monthly.

You should take better care of yourself, you know, Patrick chided, moving his legs out of the line of fire. You’re not as young as you used to be.

Thirty-four is hardly old. And besides, no one cares how I look. Especially when I’m on assignment.

"You mean you don’t care. But you can’t fly under the radar anymore. People know who you are. At least in our business everyone knows the name Abigail Logan. You’ve won more awards than any journalist I know. Patrick raised a hand before I could interrupt. And you’ve earned every one of them. Your pictures are brilliant."

I couldn’t help bristling. I don’t want to be well known, I insisted. I hated to be the focus of attention; that was Patrick’s thing. Back when we first met at university, I was happily buried in the psych department’s research lab studying the inner workings of the mind. An experiment on the effects of sleep deprivation brought Patrick into my life. He arrived as a guinea pig and never quite left. We were an unlikely duo—I was a loner and Patrick was never alone—but somehow we complemented one another and were better for each other’s company.

Patrick encouraged my love of photography, and over time I grew more and more fascinated by the way the inner psyche was reflected in the human face. Eventually I began to think of photos as a frozen glimpse of the mind within. I was obsessed with studying people’s faces, and as it turned out, I had a knack for portraits. The next thing I knew, Patrick was dragging me along to interview for a summer job at The London Gazette. Twelve years later, I was still there, immortalizing real people, in real moments of crisis, in every dark corner of the world.

I sighed heavily. All I ever wanted was to make a difference.

"You have made a difference, Patrick argued. I’m the one who critiques wine for a living. Why are you suddenly selling yourself short?"

The news business is changing, I lamented. I met with my editor this afternoon to go over the pictures I took in Sierra Leone last week. Gut-wrenching stuff. If he ran them, no one would be able to ignore what’s happening there, but he won’t touch them. He’s afraid of losing advertising revenue.

You know it’s all about the money these days.

It shouldn’t be. So I told him what to do with his next assignment . . .

Patrick’s eyes grew wide and he stared at me, momentarily speechless. You quit?

I tried. He said I was succumbing to ‘female hysteria’ and gave me a few days of unpaid leave to ‘reconsider my position,’ I said, shredding my cocktail napkin into a blizzard of tiny pieces. I have nine months left on this wretched contract. If I break it now it’ll cost me a bloody fortune. I wanted to tell him to get stuffed, but I can’t even afford my own principles.

Why don’t you go freelance when your contract’s up? You have the clout now. Who needs to go overseas? The streets of Britain are awash with repressed emotion and cross-cultural animosity congealing in the cold and damp. Take a job closer to home for once, get some sleep in your own bed, and spend some more time with Ben while you can.

I buried my face in my hands. Too many raw emotions were coursing through me, and the tears that I’d been suppressing all evening came flooding out.

Abi? What’s going on? Patrick leaned across the table. I know you. This is more than some philosophical difference with your boss.

It took me a minute to trust my voice. I should have led with this, but every time I said it, it became more real, more painful.

I took a deep shuddering breath. I was still in Africa when I got a message from Ben’s doctor in Scotland saying he was in a bad way. I caught a military flight out, but by the time I got as far as London, he’d died.

Patrick’s perpetually sardonic expression softened to one of genuine concern. Oh, Abi, I am so, so sorry.

I tried to focus on my glass, watching the edges blur as the tears filled my eyes. I would have called you sooner, but your assistant said you were boozing it up in Berlin on some junket, and I didn’t want to bother you.

Don’t be stupid, you should’ve called. What happened? I thought he was doing better before you left.

He was. Holding his own, anyway, but he caught pneumonia. After the last round of chemo he just wasn’t strong enough to fight it.

Patrick reached across the table and gave my arm a squeeze. I know this is a blow, but even if you’d made it back sooner, there’s nothing you could’ve done to stop it.

I could’ve been there. After everything we’ve been through, he died alone. I lowered my voice as the adjacent table turned to stare at us. I didn’t expect the end to come so quickly. I thought we had more time.

Abi, you can’t beat yourself up over this, Patrick insisted. You know he wouldn’t blame you.

"But I blame me." We lapsed into silence, each lost in our own thoughts.

Patrick was right. Ben would never blame me for not having been there, but I couldn’t forgive myself. Ben had been there for me in my darkest hour, and in the end I wasn’t there for him. More than twenty-five years had passed, but the memory of waking up in hospital alone and frightened was still as clear to me as if it were yesterday. An ordinary night out at the movies, a short drive home, a blinding flash of headlights, and then blackness. At the age of eight it hadn’t seemed possible that my parents could be gone forever, but that unfathomable reality sent my world spinning out of control. Uncle Ben had been the only solid ground under my feet. Our already tiny family was down to two, and we clung to each other like lost souls adrift at sea.

A prominent, successful broker in London, Ben hadn’t made time for a wife and family himself, but after the death of his brother and sister-in-law, he embraced being a father with gusto. He moved me into his townhouse in Chelsea along with four goldfish, two hamsters, a gecko, and an eclectic assortment of books, art supplies, and muddy football cleats. It was like Harrods Toy Kingdom meets Architectural Digest, but against all odds, Ben made it work.

Looking back on it now, I don’t know how he did it. He worked insane hours, but it never stopped him from being around. He always made time for me. According to the headmistress at school, I was a difficult child, but Ben never accepted that. He was my champion. When teachers found me stubborn and headstrong, Ben maintained I was creative and free-spirited. I had passionate views about everything. It made me opinionated and often abrasive, but as far as Ben had been concerned, I simply had a strong moral compass. He saw the best in me, even when others couldn’t. And now that he was gone, a small selfish part of me despaired that no one else ever would.

What happens next? Patrick prodded gently.

I blew my nose into the last of the cocktail napkins and sat up reaching for my bag. I was in marathon meetings with Ben’s lawyers yesterday. Reams of legalese. I don’t understand half of it, but look at this.

Patrick scanned the pages I handed him. He left you nearly everything. No surprise there, you’re the only family he had . . .

Read on.

. . . all lands and properties . . .

That’s it. The lands and properties bit.

He owns property up in Scotland, then?

Sadly, yes. He’s been going up there for years because of a couple of big clients in Edinburgh. But fifteen years ago he bought himself a new toy—a run-down whisky distillery. It’s been a mad hobby of his ever since. When he decided to retire six years ago, he bought the adjacent farmhouse and started spending a lot of time up there.

And you’ve inherited the distillery? Patrick said, trying to hide the smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

Not just inherited. I’ve been given complete control over the business, and it looks like somebody’s none too happy about it. This arrived under my door overnight. I handed Patrick an envelope with no return address or postmark. He pulled out the plain card within and read:

No woman should possess the water of life,

Try and you’ll die at the point of a knife.

Appalling verse, Patrick noted.

I’m not looking for a literary analysis. This is some kind of bizarre death threat. I searched ‘water of life’ and it’s a translation of the ancient word for whisky. This must have come from someone connected with the distillery.

Maybe it’s just some Celtic curmudgeon’s idea of a joke.

I scowled across the table at Patrick. Not funny. It gives me the creeps.

Were people friendly when you visited before?

I’ve never visited.

Patrick looked dumbfounded. "You mean you’ve never seen the place?"

Rural Scotland’s too rustic for my taste.

Says the girl who’s spent half her life dodging gunfire in Third World countries.

My travel schedule’s been brutal lately without having to trail up to the wilds of Scotland in my time off. Besides, once Ben was diagnosed with the cancer he was back down to London for treatments so regularly I saw almost as much of him as when he lived here. More to the point, I didn’t want to see it. In fact, I tried to get him to give up on the distillery. I was afraid it was sapping his strength, but he swore it gave him more vitality than it took.

And what’s Ben’s place called?

Abbey something, I said, flipping through the pages. Here it is . . . ‘Abbey Glen.’

You’re kidding. Patrick frowned. How did I not know that Ben owned Abbey Glen?

Because I never let the two of you talk shop when we got together, but never mind that. You’ve heard of it? What can you tell me?

Patrick shook his head in amazement. Abbey Glen’s only one of the hottest up-and-coming independent single malt producers in Scotland. Small and very pricey, a boutique distillery. The kind of place Ben would love. It’s a real class act.

Ben never did anything halfway in his life. I sighed. I should’ve known he’d make a decent whisky.

Decent? More than decent. It’s exquisite. Graceful, smooth, complex . . .

Stop. I raised my hands in protest. We’re talking about booze here, not art. You sound like Ben when he started to wax poetic about the stuff.

Connoisseurs are very serious about their malts, Patrick replied stiffly.

Don’t get stroppy, I need your help. Let’s face it, what I know about running a whisky distillery would fit into a shot glass with room to spare. But the Abbey Glen crowd doesn’t know that. So why am I getting death threats?

Patrick considered the question with a pained look on his face. For the Scots, whisky is more than a drink, Abi—it’s an obsession. Like the tourist board says, ‘a cherished part of the collective national culture and heritage,’ Patrick intoned in his best announcer voice. Distilling a handcrafted single malt like Abbey Glen is more an art than a science. An art a man can devote his whole life to perfecting.

A man?

Patrick grimaced. I’ve met a few women on the PR and distribution side in recent years, but none in actual distilling. It’s pretty much a closed shop. A real old boys’ network.

So Ben’s landed me smack in the middle of some sort of sexist turf war?

Afraid so. I wouldn’t count on the lads at Abbey Glen rolling out the red carpet for you.

Sounds familiar.

Maybe so, but you still shouldn’t have to put up with threats. Threats that might just be serious. Call the police.

I shrugged, and did my best to brush off a sense of foreboding. There’s no point. I’d get the usual, ‘Where’s your sense of humor? It’s only lads being lads’ routine, and then they’d ignore it.

Possibly, Patrick said without conviction, but it might just be serious. What are you going to do?

Ben’s funeral’s on Saturday in the church near his home, and no one’s going to keep me away from that. I have compassion leave through the weekend, and my boss has given me another fortnight to try to get my act together before I absolutely have to be back to work. Two weeks should be enough time to settle the estate and sort out whatever this is.

Patrick rolled his eyes. "That doesn’t sound risky at all. I don’t like the idea of you being up there alone, pursued by some deranged whisky fanatic. I’m going to the funeral with you."

I wouldn’t have asked Patrick to come, but I was relieved that he’d volunteered. The poetic death threat was ludicrous, but even so, it was unsettling. Can you afford to get away?

For you, I’ll make the time.

For me, or for Abbey Glen?

I’ll have to cancel a few meetings, but it can be done, Patrick said, ignoring me. Is there someplace to stay up there?

The village of Balfour’s a speck on the map about an hour or so northeast of Glasgow. I doubt they’ll have a hotel of any kind, but I suppose we could stay at Ben’s place. I’ve never seen it, but he told me he’d made improvements to the old croft over the past six years. I’m sure it’s got running water by now.

A frown wrinkled Patrick’s patrician brow and I could see him weighing the relative merits of an unlimited supply of a first-class whisky against the potential for physical discomfort in the accommodations department. Sybaritic as he was, I wasn’t surprised to see the whisky win out.

I guess we can make do for a couple of days, he conceded without enthusiasm.

Thanks. I watched Patrick down the rest of his drink. If someone tries to stab me, I’ll feel better knowing you’re watching my back.

After an hour or so, I left Patrick with a couple of good-looking young men from The Times. I was physically and emotionally spent and I needed to get home. The rain was pelting down in earnest by the time I reached the door to my block of flats. I was soaked to the skin, and the water dripping from the tips of my untidy auburn curls trickled down the back of my neck, making me shiver. As I ducked into the steamy warmth of the entry hall I caught sight of myself in the mirror and realized Patrick was right: I was a mess. The years behind the camera were starting to take their toll, and the events of the past week had only made things worse. Fatigue and stress were etched out in premature lines around my eyes. The hollows under my cheekbones, once attractive, now just looked gaunt, and the silver eyes I’d inherited from my father had faded to a dull gunmetal color.

Fortunately, the man in my life didn’t mind, but as I’d been gone longer than I expected, it was a good bet he was killing time ingesting something around the house not traditionally meant for canine consumption. I could hear him scratching at the door as I turned the key in the lock, and as soon as I cleared the threshold, I was assaulted by a wriggling mass of cream and brown fur. A shag carpet jacked up on espresso. As a puppy he’d made use of his terrier heritage to execute an almost vertical leap at my face every time I came home. Now that he was carrying close to fifty pounds, his vertical leaps had lost some of their height, but none of their enthusiasm.

I sank to the floor and allowed the warmth of Liam’s greeting to soothe me. It had been several days since the news came about Ben, but I still had a dull ache in my chest, and no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t breathe deeply enough to expel the pain. Liam’s boundless and unconditional affection was a much-needed balm to my wounded heart.

It hadn’t always been that way. In fact, I was furious when Ben first presented me with the tiny ball of brown Irish fluff, decked out in a big blue bow. He’d tried to get around me by naming the dog Liam. I’d always had a thing for Liam Neeson—that voice. We’d argued at length over the wisdom of leaving me in charge of another sentient being given my travel schedule, but in the end Ben prevailed. Now I couldn’t imagine my life without Liam in it.

A sharp knock on the door made me jump and set Liam barking. I scrambled to my feet and opened the door a crack to see my neighbor Sally standing at the door in a dingy fleece bathrobe and a pair of pink rain boots.

These came for you today, she said, holding out a white flower box. Looks like a bunch o’weeds, if ya ask me. Got yourself a right tight bloke there.

Nothing was sacred to Sally, even the Royal Mail, but I was wet and in no mood for her venom, so I relieved her of her burden and firmly shut the door. I hadn’t expected anyone to send flowers here. I laid the box on the counter in the kitchen, lifted the lid, and pushed back the tissue. Nestled inside was a huge bouquet of thistles tied with a funereal black grosgrain ribbon. I dug through the paper, but there was no card, no receipt, and no florist’s name. If it hadn’t been for the threatening message on the mat this morning, I would have dismissed it as a somewhat bizarre gesture of condolence, but this was no act of sympathy. This was a calculated move designed to unnerve me. I hated to admit it, but it was working.

I gingerly lifted the spiky blooms from the tissue, hesitating for a moment over the trash bin before shoving them into the empty wine cooler on the counter. It was a simple gesture, but I still managed to prick my fingers with the thorns. I reached out to touch the delicate lavender frill atop the spiky green bulb, but the blood on my fingertips left an angry crimson streak across the flower. I couldn’t help but feel that this was a bad omen for the weekend to come.

Chapter 2

"E xplain to me again why we are breaking into your distillery?"

Because it’s gone five and I don’t have a key.

Patrick rolled his eyes as I climbed atop an empty barrel and pushed open a small pivot window about six feet off the ground.

Can’t this wait till tomorrow morning when the front door might be open?

In the morning I’ll have Ben’s lawyer and the distillery crew in tow, I explained. I don’t want to look like a complete idiot in front of them. Besides, Liam needs to burn off some steam. He’s been trapped in the backseat of your car all day.

Hm. I’m more worried about the backseat of my new car at this point than the hound of the Baskervilles. I swear he’s doubled in size since I last saw him.

Dogs are like kids, you feed them, they grow, I observed.

Apparently. But what are you feeding him? Steroids?

Liam had eyebrows that express a surprising array of emotions for a dog, and he was following this exchange with a decided frown on his face. He knows when he’s being praised, and he knows when things aren’t going his way. Patrick was treated to a hard stare and a disdainful growl.

I threw a leg over the windowsill and looked down at Patrick. You’re the one who’s been dying to see the place. So, are you in, or out?

Oh, alright. In, Patrick grumbled, as I disappeared feetfirst through the window. But go open the back door. I’m not ruining a good pair of slacks climbing through that filthy window.

I dropped to the floor and went to let the boys in, flipping the lights on as I made my way through the vast, echoing space. Patrick might be one of London’s foremost experts on wines and spirits, but I wasn’t convinced he was right about Ben’s little business venture. My first sight of Abbey Glen in the waning light was somewhat anticlimactic, and no matter what Patrick said, it didn’t look like the kind of place that was producing a legendary whisky coveted by connoisseurs the world over.

The brick-paved courtyard where we’d left the car was surrounded by five solid-looking stone farm buildings converted for use by the distillery. From a distance it was quaint, but up close they looked austere and a bit shabby. A carved, gilded plaque with the Abbey Glen logo hung over the door of the largest building, but if it wasn’t for the stacks of empty wooden barrels and the traditional pagoda-shaped vent on the top of the barn, the place could easily have been mistaken for a deserted farmyard.

If there’s anyone out there they’ll see us, Patrick complained, scrambling across the threshold and shutting the door behind him.

Who cares? Like you said, I own the place. I have every right to be here.

Patrick led the way into the main part of the building, where we found ourselves in a cavernous space more than two stories high and some sixty feet wide. Not only was this the largest of the buildings, I saw now that it was the newest. The freshly whitewashed walls were crisscrossed by dozens of polished metal pipes connecting different parts of the operation. To the untrained eye it looked like a maze crafted with Tinkertoys. A raised metal catwalk created a mezzanine level about ten feet off the ground, and a vibrant red railing running along its length added a splash of bright color to the otherwise muted interior.

It’s gorgeous. Patrick breathed, his reticence gone, replaced by his kid-in-a-candy-store face.

What exactly am I looking at? I asked.

This is the Still House, Patrick said in a low voice.

Okay. I’m going to need a bit more than that, I replied, clueless about the machinery around me.

You know whisky’s made from barley, right?

If you say so.

Well, before you can use raw barley it has to be dried. That happens in the Malt Barn on the far side of the yard.

The one with the vent on the roof?

Right. Once the grain’s dried, it gets ground up next door in the Mill Room, and then it’ll come in here through that tube. He pointed to a large stainless-steel pipe cutting through the sidewall. The ground-up grain is washed and soaked in warm water in here. Patrick caressed the large metal tank next to him like it was a prize racehorse. It’s empty at the moment, but normally the washing would be extracting all the sugars from the grain, and then that sugary water would be separated out and sent on to be fermented.

I could tell Patrick was dumbing down his spiel for my benefit, but I was too tired to care.

After it ferments, the whisky ends up in these pot stills. Patrick stood back to admire the two massive copper containers gracing the far wall.

The stills sat heavily atop red brick supports, looking like oversized ship’s decanters. I climbed the stairs to the platform level to admire them up close. Liam followed behind, looking less than thrilled to be on the suspended metal walkway. The stills were beautifully constructed, polished until they gleamed even in the cool light of the fluorescent fixtures. It was clear they were the beating heart of the room, and the heart of the operation as well. I could picture Ben standing here, the captain of his ship, watching over his domain with pride.

The pot stills are heated by a steam system that’ll be located under here. Patrick examined the brick supporting structures with interest. None of the systems are running, he said. Not sure why, but it could be in deference to the funeral on Saturday.

After a couple of minutes he joined me on the platform. As the stills are heated, the liquid inside is allowed to evaporate and recondense twice. The best of the liquid that remains is transferred into casks for aging, then bottling. One distillery. One whisky. That’s why Abbey Glen’s a single malt whisky and not a blend.

Makes sense, I guess, but it seems very labor intensive, I said, shaking my head.

That’s why it’s so expensive when it’s done right. Think of it like making wine. A thousand different things combine together to make the end product a winner or a dud. It’s the same with whisky. The grain, the water, the casks, the timing and the skill of the people that run the distilling operation; it’s an inexplicable chemistry that produces a fine wine or spirit. Sometimes you can have all the right components and it still ends up tasting lousy.

I nodded, marveling at the complexity of the process.

But when it works, it’s magic, Patrick said with a sigh.

It was strangely quiet in the distillery. Warm and waiting, as if everything had gone to sleep till morning. I pulled out my camera and took a couple of shots from our elevated position.

It’s getting late, I said. I suppose we’d better get on to the house. I’ll need better light to get any really decent shots.

Wouldn’t have thought you’d be bothered.

I wouldn’t normally, but Ben had his heart set on putting together a book on the history of the distillery. He hadn’t got very far with it, but it was really important to him. I’ve decided I’m going to take it on. It may end up being mostly pictures, but I want to be able to dedicate it to him.

I can help if you want, Patrick volunteered.

I might just take you up on that offer if I get too overwhelmed.

I called to Liam and we headed out