In the Still of the Night: Whisky Business Mystery, #5

By Melinda Mullet

They say two things are certain in life – taxes and death – but murder is a step too far in this Whisky Business mystery…

Her Majesty's Revenue and Customs are on the warpath in the village of Balfour and the local shop owners fear that their financial sins are about to catch up with them.  Meanwhile, Abbey Glen's new Whisky Masterclass is a resounding success… until the latest group of students starts to drop dead in the night and Abi Logan fears that what they are really offering is a Masterclass in Murder. Missing money, dead bodies, and a whistle blower who may not be as virtuous as he appears leave Abi scrambling for clues in the dark. Will Abi find the killer before the inevitable happens?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Melinda Mullet
• Release date: Dec 12, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223531623

Book preview

Chapter 1

Walking along the river and into the village of Balfour, I saw encouraging signs that the heavy morning mist would shortly be chased away by the strengthening sun. With any luck it would be a glorious day, but at this hour there was still a chill in the air and as I approached the local inn, the thought of a hot breakfast grew more and more appealing. As usual, Liam was well ahead of me on the food front. He broke into a trot as we neared the Golden Stag, and barged straight in the open door of the pub and through to the kitchen without breaking stride. 

Bringing up the rear, I heard a theatrical shriek from the dining area and hustled in to see what was wrong. A woman sat by the window, looking out of place in pearls and an expensive cashmere sweater. A wild...a wild animal, she stammered. It just ran through that way. She waved a heavily jeweled hand in the direction of the kitchen.

I think you’ll find it was just my dog.

Well, it shouldn’t be allowed. It’s—it’s unclean.

Ah well, if that’s the worst thing that happens today, you’ll be alright, I replied. As far as I was concerned, you could judge a person by how they treated a dog. This woman was clearly a bad lot.

As I came closer, a wave of perfume as dense as the morning fog outside hit me and it was all I could do to keep from gagging.

Take this, she said.

For reasons I couldn’t fathom, I reached out and accepted the plate she was brandishing at me. A fluffy stack of oatcakes and three of Siobhán’s homemade sausages stared back untouched.

I do not know what this is, but I do not want it. Bring me some fruit and an herbal tea. Her accent was Spanish—heavy and well-bred. Before I could speculate further, a young man entered the room and rushed to my side, relieving me of the plate. "Aunt Elena, this is Abigail Logan, the owner of the Abbey Glen distillery. She isn’t in charge of your breakfast."

He turned to me and flashed a rueful grin, shifting the plate and extending his hand. Raoul Serrano-Cortez, and my aunt, Elena Serrano. I am here to join your whisky Masterclass. I must apologize for my aunt; she did not know.

I accepted the hand being offered by the tall, slender young man with a headful of dark, wavy hair. Nice to meet you, Raoul, and welcome to Balfour. I hope you and your aunt will enjoy the program.

Elena sniffed. "I will not be attending, she announced from her spot by the window. I am simply here to foot the bills for this rustic adventure of his. It seems that I will be spending most of my time trying to find some decent food to sustain me."

Raoul shifted his feet uncomfortably and I relieved him of the plate once more. You should get on over the Glen so you don’t miss the start of the program. I’ll see what can be done on the food front.

Raoul shot me a grateful look and headed for the door as I moved around behind the bar counter and into the kitchen. It was a small but well-equipped space where the Stag’s owner, Siobhán Morgan, and her new assistant, Sheila Kinkaid, were leaning on the counter, enjoying a cup of coffee. I noticed that Sheila was slipping Liam scraps of bacon and even Siobhán had bent over to give his ears a scratch.

Oh God, what’s wrong with her highness now? Siobhán asked, reaching for the plate which had now been passed off more times than the ball at an FA cup final.

A request has been made for fruit and herbal tea. I took the plate back and sat down on a stool at the far end of the workbench. Can’t imagine why? This looks divine. I looked across at Sheila. Got a fork?

Don’t be silly, I’ll make you fresh.

No need. Waste not, want not, I said, spearing a sausage with the fork she offered and nibbling on the end.  Liam quickly came to sit next to me. Sounds like you’re having a rough go with Auntie Elena.

Can’t fathom why she’s even bloody here, Siobhán hissed. So far the room’s too small, the climate’s too damp, the bed’s too hard, and the food’s inedible.

There’s always one, I replied through a mouthful of oatcake. But not usually here, I had to admit. Balfour was not the kind of place to draw a posh crowd and any drama was usually confined to the local theatrical society. The nephew seemed nice enough.

Embarrassed by his aunt, bless him, and definitely less of a pill, Sheila said, washing a pint of strawberries in the sink. Where are they from?

I dropped a bit of sausage and watched Liam hoover it up. Madrid, according to the registration materials. They’re our first international participants. One week a month this summer we’d opened the distillery to paying guests for an intensive Masterclass in the art of single malt whisky production. Most of this week’s visitors were being housed at the village’s only inn, a recent addition to the local pub.

I’d been a bit dubious initially, but the first three sessions had been wildly successful. The early applicants were new distillers and industry watchers curious to study the way my partner Grant MacEwen and I ran Abbey Glen, the boutique distillery I’d inherited from my uncle Ben. It was not quite accurate to suggest I ran the place; it was all down to Grant. He and the rest of the distillery’s staff were experts in the traditional methods of whisky production, and most had been involved in the distilling business in the area for generations. I was the newcomer, a photojournalist by trade and a recent whisky convert.

How are the rest of the guests? I asked.

Aye, the rest are fine, Siobhán conceded. They’ve been no trouble, just herself. I’m far more bothered about the blokes from Glasgow.

Are they here on vacation?

Siobhán leaned in. They say they’re land surveyors, but I’ve seen no equipment. Just them wandering ’round the valley looking like lost sheep.

Seems harmless enough, I said.

Don’t be too sure. Siobhán crossed her arms over her chest and gave me a hard look. I can smell HMRC all over ’em.

What would the lads from His Majesty’s Revenue and Customs be doing here?

We have a lot of enterprising folks in this valley, Siobhán replied, and most are less than keen to share their hard-earned dosh with the government. These blokes are here to make trouble, mark my words.

Payment of taxes and duties had long been a sore point between the Scots and their neighbors to the south.  Whether it was whisky in the days of old or locally made goods and produce in the present, VAT was seldom if ever collected.

Sheila finished the requested fruit plate, arranging it with a sprig of mint at the center. Siobhán reached for it, but Sheila shook her head. I’ll handle this one.

As she left Siobhán sank back against the counter and downed the remainder of her coffee. She’s a real find, that one, she said. I owe you. I wouldn’t have been able to manage all this without her.

It did my heart good to see the two strong, plain-spoken women supporting each other through a difficult stretch. Siobhán’s only son had been killed just over a year ago in an accident at the distillery. She wouldn’t say as much to me, but I knew she still felt the loss keenly. Sheila had been living in Edinburgh, with her young daughter Nora, doing her best to escape from an abusive marriage and staying at a woman’s shelter known as the Shepherd’s Rest. I’d been responsible for relocating Sheila and her daughter to Balfour following a near-deadly incident in the city, and they seemed to be thriving. Having Sheila and Nora around had been a great help to Siobhán as well distracting her from her own grief, and Sheila was blossoming now that she felt safe and needed.

I’m glad it’s working out well.

Siobhán placed her mug in the sink and grabbed a tea towel. You just here to eat, or was there sommit else?

No, just breakfast, and I wanted to see if you needed any help with lunch service for today? Between them, Sheila and Siobhán were managing the catering services for the Masterclass, and frankly the program wouldn’t have been possible without them.

We should be well away. I’ll set up in the tasting room around one o’clock while Sheila handles the lunch rush here.

Siobhán ran through the week’s menu for my approval, and then, in hopes of avoiding another run-in with the dragon lady in the dining room, I slipped out the back door with Liam. Looking at my watch, I calculated that we should just about have time to run a couple of errands before heading back to the Glen to meet the rest of the new recruits. I started at Pages, the new and used bookstore. A fixture in the village, it had a large bay window stocked with two cats and a selection of suggested reads. The store’s owner took recommendations from the villagers, and there was everything from a Farmer’s Guide to Sheep Worming, to Fifty Shades of Grey.  There was no love lost between Liam and the cats, so I insisted he sit outside the door and wait for me. He gave me a dirty look and chose instead to sit by the window, staring at the sleeping cats on the other side of the glass, his breath fogging up the pane. The cats, to their credit, utterly ignored him.  

I headed straight for the stationery section to grab a packet of thin Moleskine notebooks for our students. We’d found that most wanted to take notes on what they were seeing and doing. The shop’s owner, Kim Paige, looked up with a smile. She was behind the counter dealing with a dark-haired woman in a Burberry trench coat.  

I need a map. It was a demand, not a request. The voice of a woman used to having people jump when she spoke. The voice of the woman I’d been hoping to avoid. A proper map with the hill trails and landmarks.

I have an orienteering map or a walker’s guide, Kim offered. Which would you rather?

Give me both.

No please, I noticed.

And a guide to local history. Auntie Elena’s accent might be strong, but her English was good.

"You’ll want Balfour: Legacy and Lore." Kim reached for a copy on the shelf behind the register.

It’s the most detailed, I piped up from behind. The book had been written by the father of one of the men who worked for me. It was a bit short on recent detail, but it gave a great account of the valley of Glenmorrow’s history.

Elena Serrano clearly wasn’t thrilled to see me again. She looked me up and down as if assessing me and somehow finding me wanting. "I’m sure it will be fine,’ she snapped.

There was a coldness about her and a distance that was a stark contrast to her nephew’s ebullience. As she turned to go, I was caught again in a wave of scent as she passed. It made me feel lightheaded and nauseous.

Doesn’t look much like a hiker, Kim said as she put my notepads in a small paper bag.

Not in those shoes, for certain, I said. The four-inch spike heels with the unnaturally pointed toes would be completely impractical. At least if she lands head-down in one of the bogs we’ll be able to spot the bright red soles.

Kim giggled.

Did she say why she wanted maps?

Goin’ on a drivin’ tour of the area apparently.

Bet she never gets out the car, I said. If she was looking for Highland haute couture, or even a bit of excitement for that matter, she was in the wrong place.

Chapter 2

From the bookstore , Liam and I crossed the street and strolled past the neat storefronts, with their flower boxes full to overflowing with begonias and pansies. The trees on the village square still had their leaves, mostly green, but the first blush of fall color was painting the tips and the slight nip in the nighttime air hinted that autumn was on the horizon. The scene was picture perfect. A postcard image that belied the village’s colorful heritage of illicit distilling, smuggling, warfare, and tax evasion. The last of which seemed to be alive and well in the present day, if Siobhán’s assessment was anything to go by.

Liam once again trotted on ahead of me confident that I was heading for a coffee. Our local caf was an odd conglomeration of tearoom, candy shop, and cocktail bar. Technically, the Chocolate Bar was the only cocktail venue in the village, except the pub of course, which was cozy and well stocked but hardly trendy. The chocolate and whisky-themed cocktails at the Bar were my uncle’s idea, but the locals had embraced the concept with enthusiasm even though, as a rule, their idea of exotic was ordering a merlot.

The Bar had been a real hit with the whisky school students as well, and we’d taken to bringing them over to Floss and Harold Robinson’s place on the third night of each session for a bit of a change. As news of Abbey Glen’s whisky school spread, we hoped that Balfour would see a subtle uptick in summer tourism, and with any luck, we could spread the wealth ’round the local businesses without things becoming too touristy. So far, so good. We’d yet to become a destination for coach tours and Floss hadn’t been approached by Starbucks for a buyout.

The bell tinkled as we entered, and Harold looked up from behind the counter. The very person I needed to see. He gave me a lopsided grin and reached under the counter to pull out a tray of dark chocolates.  We’ve been working on something for you. He extended the tray. Thought they’d be a nice souvenir for the whisky folks.

I took a dark chocolate shaped like a tiny whisky barrel and bit into it, struggling to catch the whisky cream that oozed out of it.

Mind yourself, he said, handing over a serviette. Floss was thinking we might have to thicken that up a bit.

Todally up to you, I said, wiping the cream from my chin, but they’re heavenly already.

Harold beamed. He was as shy as his wife was outgoing, but he blossomed under the least bit of praise. He’d always dreamed of running a sweet shop, and now the café, with its natural wood furnishings and Cadbury-purple upholstery, overflowed with fabulous confections. Glass jars, filled with chocolates of every description, took up an entire wall, and Harold’s selection of individual chocolate bars rivaled anything I’d seen outside of London.

Will you have some for sale at the Saturday market? I asked.

Not in time for tomorrow, no, but by the time your group gets here on Sunday.

I finished the treat and wiped my fingers. Perfect. We’ll see what the lads think of them.

Floss emerged from the kitchen, carrying a tray of her famous ginger scones. Ready for a coffee?

You bet. I perched on a stool at the counter. The whisky chocolates are brilliant, by the way. Are you using Abbey Glen?

Is there anything else? Doesn’t take much but Harold still has to have a taste before each batch to make sure the whisky’s good enough to go in. I’m planning to tweak the recipe a bit, but glad you like them. Floss turned to the coffee machine and added the espresso. How’s it with you? she asked over her shoulder.

It seemed like an innocent enough question, but what she really meant, what everyone in the village meant, was How are things with you and Grant? I’d fought the relationship, honestly I had. Becoming romantically involved with your business partner was traditionally a recipe for disaster. And I knew all about disastrous relationships. Virtually every relationship in my life had died on the altar of my all-consuming professional career. I didn’t want that to happen with Grant. This time there was so much more at stake. My new life. The business. My heart. It was a colossal risk but having faced more than our share of troubles together in the past eighteen months, I’d finally given in and decided to take the plunge. I had to admit the past five months had been magical, and yet old habits die hard, and the neurotic side of my brain couldn’t help wondering when the other shoe was going to drop. I gave myself a shake. Stop being ridiculous.

Things are going really well. Full house at the Masterclass this week.

And Grant? He’s well, too?

I nodded in lieu of a more detailed answer. The locals were delighted about Grant and I, and given that it was such a small community, everyone felt they had a vested interest in us, which meant they were all entitled to give us the odd word of advice in passing.  The longer they’d been married, the more fulsome and personal the advice, hence the next words out of Floss’ mouth. Here, have a nice sticky bun with that coffee, you’re all skin and bones. Men like a bit more to snuggle up to at night, you know. She gave me a wink and patted her own ample hips. I could feel myself flushing and I turned back to Harold who was fitting a half dozen of the whisky chocolates into a gold box with a clear plastic lid. He slid one across the counter to me. Take a few back to Grant and Cam and see what they think.

Thank God, Harold wasn’t paying attention to his wife’s line of interrogation. Maybe you could tie the box with a bit of plaid ribbon. I could order some of the Glen’s tartan if you like.

Floss approached with my coffee and a bun, which I waved away. I’ve only just finished a plate of oatcakes and sausage from the Stag. I’ll explode if I eat any more. Liam looked disappointed. He was never full.

Floss suddenly looked alert as a terrier who’d just heard the skitter of rat claws. "Were they about?"

Who? Oh, you mean the surveyors?

Floss snorted. Surveyors, my Aunt Fanny. They’re gaugers or I’ll eat my hat.

Between Siobhán and Floss, apparently these poor sods were condemned already. Why would they be nosing around Balfour? I was still intrigued by the level of local paranoia. Surely no one around here is on the fiddle on a scale that would warrant a visit from the taxmen.  

The man up the hill? Floss suggested with a raised eyebrow. All those years as a famous musician, Rory Hendricks earned millions. God knows what he’s done with it all.

If I had to guess, he drank it away, I thought, but there was no stopping Floss now she had the wind in her sails.

And if they’re here looking into his shenanigans, why not give the rest of us the once-over too? Frank Monroe from DIYer Necessities is in a right state.

I took a sip of coffee to hide my amusement and managed to burn my tongue. What’s Frank got to be nervous about?

Has a wee sideline in gravel and sand, Floss said softly. Harold nodded his eyes wide and serious.

Makes sense for a DIY store.

Aye, but he gets a special sort of wholesale deal. Floss looked about the empty shop as if someone might be eavesdropping from behind a barrel of Pick & Mix. There’s an awd gravel pit and road works shed on the Upland Road, at the top of the big bend. Road services used to store supplies up there to repair potholes and such when the snow and rain washed the road away, and he’s been bagging what they had stored up there and selling it round back of his shop for gardens and renovations.

Impressive—no overhead and no VAT, I said.

Well, I certainly have never asked, Floss sniffed. But Rory Hendricks was happy to take advantage of Frank’s deals when he installed that party patio of his.

What party patio?

Posh ‘outdoor living space,’ they call it. Have to see it to believe it, from what I hear.

A good excuse for a visit, though the villager’s idea of extravagant might be anything larger than the requisite six-by-six cement pad in the back garden.  All the talk of gaugers made me wonder what kind of scam Floss and Harold might be running. They were too dismayed by what was going on to simply be bystanders. Harold didn’t seem the type, mind you, but Floss? That was a different story—definitely the enterprising type.

Well, I’m sure they won’t be here for long, I said, hoping to sound conciliatory, besides I trust the village will keep a close eye on their doings.

You can be sure of that. Frank’s set up a rota and everyone has assigned times. They won’t be able to sneeze ’round here without us knowing it.

Harold nodded gravely. Keepin’ our eyes on the tax man—it’s tradition.

I did my best to keep a straight face, but what would these two poor surveyors think when they realized they were being stalked by an entire village doing what I suspected would be an abysmal job of being unobtrusive? The word gauger already carried with it a wealth of history and animosity for those families who’d been a part of the illicit whisky trade.  I couldn’t help feeling that guilt was the root of local paranoia about our guests, but if Floss was right and the village’s financial shenanigans were about to be revealed, then we were in for a very entertaining week.

Chapter 3

P ace yourself on the samples, Patrick was advising as I slipped into the back corner of Abbey Glen’s new tasting room to listen to the welcome briefing. We’d learned the hard way that the whisky tourists had a different approach to the tasting part of the program than the industry lads who sipped and spat. The first time ’round with the regular whisky fans saw our distillery manager helping overserved punters back to the Inn by midafternoon on day one.   

Patrick gave me a nod before continuing with the safety briefing. Patrick Cooke was responsible for my initial indoctrination into the cult of the whisky faithful. He was my oldest friend, a fellow journalist, and currently editor-in-chief of the Whisky Journal in Edinburgh.

The Masterclass was Patrick’s brainchild. A chance to gain some exposure for our small distillery, and to make some extra money during the slower summer months. The program he’d devised took a deep dive into the minutia of the production process—the art of hand-crafting not sullied by the use of stainless steel and machinery, like many of our competitors.  From a marketing standpoint, it was brilliant. The Masterclass participants left as ambassadors for our brand and that was just the kind of publicity that a small but serious boutique distillery needed.

I’d like to introduce Abbey Glen’s owner and namesake, Abigail Logan. Patrick’s words snapped me back to the present.

I stepped forward and raised a hand in greeting. Welcome, gentlemen. I hope you have a wonderful week, and if you have any questions make sure to ask one of your instructors, they are experts and they can tell you anything you need to know. They certainly didn’t want to ask me. I was hardly a pro at this. When I’d inherited the Glen from my uncle, I knew nothing at all about whisky. Never even drank it, but I’d learned quickly. Far more quickly and with more passion than I ever would’ve dreamed. There was something about this product of the local earth and grain that nurtured the soul and comforted the spirit. It went beyond anything I could put into words—it was a visceral connection with the land and the people.

As Patrick continued his introductions, I leaned against the wall and admired the stone barn with the high-beamed ceiling that had been used to house carriage horses in the days when whisky barrels were delivered by farm