Death Distilled Read online

  Death Distilled 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 © 2017 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.

  Ebook ISBN 9780399179068

  Cover design: Tatiana Sayig

  Cover images: Shutterstock

  randomhousebooks.com

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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

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  By Melinda Mullet

  About the Author

  Chapter 1

  It wasn’t easy, but I was doing my level best to restrain fifty pounds of exuberant wheaten terrier dead set on dashing headlong into the trench at my feet to retrieve the tantalizing collection of bones protruding from the newly turned earth.

  “Off, Liam,” I growled, dragging him away from the edge and tying him firmly to the wrought-iron railing that separated the garden of our local pub, the Golden Stag, from the River Alyn ambling alongside.

  “Why is it you arrive back in town and right away I’m looking at a dead body?” a voice demanded from behind me. I turned to see Balfour’s chief of police, Bill Rothes, making his way across the muddy lawn. He was scowling at me from underneath a battered green hunting cap. His well-worn navy Barbour jacket and the jowly face that reminded me of a melancholy hound hadn’t changed a bit in the three months I’d been gone.

  I picked my way across the damp grass to his side. “This one’s got nothing to do with me,” I insisted. “I flew in late last night, and haven’t seen anything but the inside of Glasgow airport and the backseat of a taxi. Besides, it’s probably just a dead deer,” I added without conviction.

  “You’re a war correspondent, Abigail Logan. You’ve seen more dead bodies than I’ve had hot dinners. You know that’s no deer,” Bill snapped.

  He was right, the bones were clearly human, but at least they didn’t appear to have been interred recently. I was relieved we weren’t straying back down the path we’d been on when I first arrived in Balfour back in the spring. I’d come for a fortnight, initially. Grieving the loss of my uncle Ben, who’d raised me and in passing left me the unwilling heir to an eponymous single malt whisky distillery in rural Scotland. As the unexpected and inexperienced new owner I was ostracized by the local whisky fraternity. Tensions escalated rapidly as the change in ownership became entangled with a broader plot to sell counterfeit whisky on the black market. The final toll was two dead, one in jail, and me buried alive in a cave.

  The ordeal was a baptism by fire, but my perseverance won over the bulk of the local population. In the end, most were willing to accept me as owner of fifty-one percent of Abbey Glen, as long as our gifted head distiller, Grant MacEwen, controlled production and the other forty-nine percent.

  And thank God I had Grant. What I know about distilling would fit into a shot glass with room to spare, and once things settled down I was only too happy to leave the day-to-day operations to the master and return to my job as a photojournalist. But after a few months of sweltering in the dry desert heat of Nigeria, watching an unending parade of death and destruction, I had to admit my job was wearing on me. I found myself dreaming of the cool misty glens and lavender-tinged hills of my new Scottish home, and for the first time in my gypsy life I felt the stirrings of homesickness.

  Dead body at my feet notwithstanding, it was good to be back.

  Bill turned back from his cursory examination of the hole in the ground. “Don’t tell me this news has already spread through the village grapevine,” he lamented. “I only just got here.”

  “Wouldn’t be surprised if it had,” I replied, “but I haven’t seen a soul all morning. We were just out wandering, and Liam led us here.”

  Siobhán Morgan, owner of the Stag, appeared around the side of the building at that moment. She crossed herself as she picked her way through the debris to confront Bill, a fierce light burning in her dark eyes. “It’s an evil omen, that’s what it is.” She barely came up to Bill’s shoulder, but she faced off against him defiantly, her ebony and silver hair shimmering in the light as a faint breeze blew the long waves away from her face. If I were braver I might suggest she looked like a powerful Celtic witch, but I wasn’t that brave. The intensity of her Irish temper was known to rip through you like a gale-force wind, and as Bill and I had no clear path of escape, we braced ourselves for the onslaught.

  “Just dig one bloody hole in the ground and fill it with concrete, that’s all I asked,” Siobhán fumed. “But no, they have to upturn some poor sod’s final restin’ place and bring the whole damn thing to a crashin’ halt.” She glared at Bill, a frown creasing her brow. “Shouldn’t you be doing somethin’ about this, not standin’ round gossipin’ like an awd hen?”

  “I am doing something. I’m waiting for the bloke from the coroner’s office to turn up,” Bill explained. “Once he’s had a look we should be able to set things to rights.”

  Siobhán rolled her eyes. “Don’t give me ‘should be able to,’ just get it sorted. I need this lot back to work as soon as possible.” She gestured to the construction workers leaning on a backhoe and eating sandwiches out of a paper bag. “I’m payin’ them to work, not eat.”

  “The bones look old,” I offered, peering down at the remains from our elevated vantage point. “But that skull has a couple of pretty nasty divots on the side. I’m guessing whoever it was didn’t die of old age.” I wouldn’t admit it out loud, but this was the kind of question that intrigued me. Who was this lost soul and what misfortune had brought him to rest here?

  Siobhán narrowed her eyes and turned to look at me intently. “Unnatural death shadows you, doesn’t it, child.”

  I’d like to have taken issue with that remark, but I really couldn’t. Siobhán and I met for the first time at my uncle’s funeral, though the two of them had been an item for some time. Her initial reaction to me was lukewarm at best. Discovering her son Duff dead at my distillery later that same night did nothing to improve relations. I could only thank God I had nothing to do with her problems this time.

  Siobhán surveyed the mess and shook her head. “More fool me, I suppose, for lettin’ him talk me into this. Innkeepin’ at my age, I ask you.”

  “Who talked you into this?”

  “That slick mate of yours, Patrick Cooke.”

  “Patrick?” Patrick was my oldest and dearest friend. London journalist, creative hacker, faithful drinking buddy, and a man of infinite machinations. Well known for dragging others into his elaborate moneymaking s
chemes. Suddenly I began to worry that I might have some connection to this whole debacle after all, and I reluctantly asked, “What’s Patrick got to do with all this?”

  “Ask him yourself,” Siobhán snapped, pointing to the tall, auburn-haired figure making his way from the far side of the village green, his well-tailored suit pants tucked into a pair of Dubarry all-weather boots. “I have to get ready for the lunch rush. The whole bloody village’ll be over by noon nosin’ around.” She fixed Bill with a final withering glare. “Tick tock, Bill, time is money and I donnae have much of either.”

  Bill took off his hat and wiped the sweat from his forehead with a handkerchief as he watched Siobhán make her way back into the pub. “God help us all if we can’t get these shifted soon. We’ll never hear the end of it.” Bill ambled off to supervise the placement of the police tape being strung around the hole. I felt for Bill, the last thing we needed was another murder inquiry in Balfour. The village had barely recovered from the last one.

  I turned from the scene and headed toward Patrick, who was holding his cellphone in the air trying in vain to snag some sort of signal on the wind.

  “This is a disaster,” he said.

  “Lovely to see you, too,” I countered.

  Patrick gave me a perfunctory kiss on both cheeks. “Sorry. Welcome home. I was expecting you this weekend, and it’s only Wednesday.” He gave my ripped jeans and old sweatshirt a sour look but wisely decided restraint was the better part of valor on the sartorial front. Instead, he went with “The longer hair suits you. Less punk assassin and more chat show host.”

  I wouldn’t admit as much to Patrick, but I’d decided it was about time to give up on the short, low-maintenance cut I’d favored for years and experiment with a slightly more feminine look. I’d clawed my way up through the press ranks and now held a position of respect and seniority. I no longer had to look like a man to work like one.

  “Why didn’t you let me know you were coming back early?” Patrick said.

  “It was meant to be a surprise. Besides, I had no idea you’d be up here and not in London.”

  “Just here on a little business,” he replied vaguely.

  “Would that ‘business’ have anything to do with Siobhán’s sudden interest in running a B&B?” I prompted.

  Patrick frowned. “I simply suggested it might be a good investment for her. Expand the Stag and give visitors a place to stay when they come to town. Not to mention giving her something to focus on other than the loss of her son.”

  “And how do you think that’s working now they’ve found a body in her side garden?”

  “Bones, not a body, according to Siobhán’s message,” Patrick corrected hastily. “I’m sure they’ve been there for ages. You know this part of the world has a rich history of pirates and smugglers. I’d be more surprised if you dug somewhere in the village and didn’t turn up a secret or two.”

  Patrick was probably right, but it was too perfect a morning to be contemplating what dark and ancient secrets Balfour might be hiding. I untied Liam from the railing and moved away, giving the hole a wide berth. Liam looked crushed that I was keeping him from exercising his basic canine rights. He insisted on sighing dramatically and giving me indignant looks from beneath his overgrown eyebrows as we departed. I grabbed Patrick’s elbow as we passed and steered him away from the Stag, heading purposefully toward the high street and a much-needed coffee.

  The sky was unusually blue and cloudless, and the village was showing off the full glory of its late-summer colors. The mass of sweet peas that climbed the wall separating the churchyard from the village green looked like a woven tapestry rich with exuberant splashes of lilac, pink, indigo, and white all jumbled together. I had to stop for a brief moment to inhale the heady scent. In an instant I was a child again back in Ben’s garden in Chelsea, chasing rabbits and faeries through the foxgloves.

  Patrick continued to fiddle with his cellphone oblivious to the spectacle around him. “You still haven’t told me what you’re doing here?” I said finally.

  “I’ve switched jobs,” he announced abruptly.

  “But you loved your job.” Patrick had been the associate editor at Wine and Spirits Monthly for more than five years. He was a well-respected expert on all things booze-related and relished his frequent tasting trips to exotic locations. “Why would you quit?”

  “Not so much quit as had a parting of the ways.”

  “What happened?”

  “While you were gone, we were bought out by an American publishing group,” Patrick said, as if referring to a deputation from the Spanish Inquisition. “The new owners rolled in and dispensed with all of us quill-and-ink types and replaced us with a bunch of Gen Xers. The plan, I believe, is to convert to a pure digital format,” he said bitterly.

  “Ouch.” I gave Patrick’s hand a sympathetic squeeze. He was seldom serious about anything, but I could tell this had been a blow. “What are you doing now?”

  “I accepted a job with the Whisky Journal in Edinburgh. They offered me the chance to be editor in chief.”

  “A promotion. That’s great,” I enthused. “But I can’t believe you’ve abandoned London after all these years.”

  “Heading the Journal will be a challenge. Glossy magazines don’t sell like they used to. I’m going to have to be creative.”

  I felt sorry for Patrick, but something in his demeanor made me uneasy. After all these years, I knew when I wasn’t getting the whole story. “Fair enough,” I acknowledged, “but that still doesn’t explain what you’re doing in Balfour.”

  Patrick continued to fidget with his phone, avoiding eye contact. “The Whisky Journal’s cosponsoring a series of master classes with the Malt Whisky Society.”

  “What the hell’s a master class?”

  “It’s a special program for whisky aficionados and new distillers. For a price they can come and learn the tricks of the trade from the brightest and most innovative men in the business.”

  “It’ll be a steep price if I know you,” I said with a chuckle. “But what brings you here?”

  Patrick finally summoned the guts to look me in the eye. “You have to admit, no one’s more innovative than Abbey Glen. You’re the poster child for high-end craft distilling.”

  “You want to bring these people to the Glen?” I sputtered.

  Patrick put an arm around my shoulder and looked at me, the gold flecks in his brown eyes glittering with excitement. “Abbey Glen would be perfect, so if you could just have a wee chat with Grant—”

  “Oh no you don’t,” I said, twisting away from his embrace and walking briskly past the last of the cottages, watching for the telltale twitch of a curtain. “You’re not getting me to sweet-talk him into this scheme of yours. No way.” Patrick was like a brother to me, but in spite of that, or maybe because of it, I could wring his neck sometimes. He came up with crazy ideas, many of them brilliant, but the more I thought about trying to cajole Grant into hosting a whisky extravaganza at his beloved distillery, the more horrified I became. I turned and looked back at Patrick defiantly. “Tell the Whisky Society to find another distillery.”

  “I can’t.” Patrick caught up with me at the top of the High Street with a pained look on his face. “I sort of already said you’d host the inaugural event.”

  “What?” I moved a step closer to Patrick and stared him down. “You committed Abbey Glen without asking?”

  “You weren’t here and I needed a quick answer.” Patrick dodged my fist as it shot toward his arm. “Besides, I’m not asking you to seduce Grant, just talk to him. Convince him this is the right thing to do.”

  “Lower your voice,” I hissed as I unclenched my fist and raised a hand in greeting to the postmistress watching us curiously from across the street. I was back in the fishbowl again and had to behave accordingly. I pasted a smile on my face and tried to look unfazed by Patrick’s remarks. Not an easy feat, as I found myself wildly distracted by the thought of having to seduce Gran
t. I roused myself roughly and addressed Patrick in a low voice. “Look, I don’t think this is the right thing to do; how can I convince Grant it is? Maybe we could try something like this later, when we’ve really got our feet under us, but not now.”

  “It has to be now,” Patrick insisted. “The Whisky Society has a group of high-profile Japanese distillers coming for an official visit in less than two weeks. These chaps are extremely well regarded in the industry, and they’ve specially asked to visit the Glen. More important, they’re ridiculously flush with cash, and this is my chance to try to convince them to invest in the Whisky Journal. I have to win them over if we’re going to have any hope of surviving the digital apocalypse.”

  “Great, you get a cash infusion for the Journal. The Society gets to schmooze and booze, and I get to pay for the festivities.”

  Patrick was starting to look desperate. “It’ll be great advertising for you and a prime opportunity to enhance the Glen’s reputation.”

  “We don’t need to enhance our reputation,” I retorted. “We already have a great reputation.”

  Patrick stopped me with a hand on my arm. For the moment we had the street to ourselves, and I could tell Patrick was struggling to find the right words. “As a whisky, Abbey Glen has a wonderful reputation, but the owner’s reputation could use a bit of a facelift.”

  “Come on, I thought we were past all that nonsense,” I challenged.

  Patrick grimaced. “Not entirely. People are willing to concede that the recent problems at the distillery were beyond your control, but finding a dead body in a vat of Abbey Glen’s finest wasn’t exactly your best entrée into the whisky community. On top of that, some of your less enthusiastic fans are questioning the obscene profits you’ll make selling off that vintage whisky you discovered on the property. The word round the Society is that you’re going to make a killing and then take off.”