When Murder Comes Home

by Shana Frost

  A satisfied smile graced her lips. The reception area now opened up to the charming drawing room. The cream walls added a hint of elegance, and the rustic walnut wood furniture was a reminder of home. The windows offered stunning views of Loch Fuar in the distance and the mountains beyond it.

  Aileen had brochures ready for her guests, along with tourist maps, in case they needed any information about the locality.

  Armed with a clipboard, her dark hair tied up in a bun, Aileen frowned at the ceiling.

  That was how Isla found her.

  ‘Now what’s wrong with it?’ Isla asked, pointing at the ceiling.

  Aileen jumped. ‘Isla!’ Laying a hand over her heart, she said, ‘Oh, it’s nothing.’

  ‘Excited?’

  ‘Aye!’ And terrified out of my skin, Aileen thought.

  It could be an adventure or it could be a disaster, but Aileen decided she’d handle it just like she’d handled the last few weeks: with her chin up!

  JUST WHEN THE CUCKOO clock in the drawing room chimed the tenth hour, a black Land Rover pulled up and circled around to the inn’s parking lot.

  Aileen twiddled her thumbs. This was it, she told herself. The journey begins.

  Like a well-rehearsed dance, the doors on either side of the car opened at an angle slightly greater than forty-five degrees and a tall lean gentleman stepped out from one side. He had on a pair of goggles, which looked as sharp as his chiselled jaw, and his hair was painstakingly pulled back using a thick coating of hair gel. The crisp blazer he wore over a polo shirt seemed too fancy for a laid-back village-like Loch Fuar. Besides, his shoes were Oxfords – hardly apt for the Highland weather.

  He gave a cursory glance at the inn, swiftly clicking the car’s door closed behind him, then, with purpose in his stride, he walked like a panther towards Dachaigh.

  On the contrary, the other gentleman who hopped out of the car was short and had a generous belly. He wore a pair of dark goggles too but hid the better part of his small face beneath a hat.

  A sharp blazer over a polo shirt seemed to be a standard issue for these two, though unlike his companion, this gentleman had paired the ensemble with slip-on shoes. So unlike anyone she’d met in the village before.

  Didn’t most tourists take efforts to look less tourist-like?

  The second man noisily clomped up the mud road towards the inn.

  Aileen positioned herself behind the reception counter, her hands primly folded on the table and split her face in a smile.

  It all felt real now. Her first customers were here.

  ‘Dachaigh Inn?’ a posh, heavily accented voice asked. It suited the tall man before her.

  ‘Aye! How can I help you?’

  A diamond glinted at the man’s right ear. He looked at her down his pointed nose as he reached into his wallet, showing off an expensive watch. He had an air of superiority about him.

  The Inn’s door had barely clicked behind him when it swung open again and the shorter of the two men pattered in. Pulling the hat from his head, he revealed a balding scalp.

  ‘Dachaigh at last!’ He smiled sincerely at Aileen.

  The subtle fragrance of a floral perfume wafted through the air.

  Extending a ring-studded hand, he introduced himself. ‘Jean Beaulieu. This is my husband, Louis Legrand.’

  Aileen switched her smile from a polite one to a friendly one. What a pair! Apart from the clothes, they seemed to have nothing in common.

  ‘I’m Aileen.’ Both men had a distinct accent. ‘Did you come from France?’

  ‘Non, non. It’s our country of birth. Now we live here but the accent is hard to... shrug off.’

  Legrand hadn’t uttered another syllable. He continued to look displeased.

  Aileen checked her list. Ticked their names off.

  ‘If you could please fill in your details?’ She handed the register over.

  Legrand ignored the pen she offered and pulled out a shiny golden fountain pen. Aileen almost gasped out loud. A solitaire glistened on the pen’s nib.

  In clean cursive, he penned down their details. His husband had wandered off into the drawing room.

  Beaulieu re-entered holding the complimentary lemonade Aileen had placed in a jug by the sofa set.

  ‘Fresh!’ He sipped at it. ‘Louis, you must try.’ He pointed to the jug in the drawing room.

  Legrand gave him a brisk nod. ‘What of the luggage?’

  Aileen flustered a little, not sure what to say. Didn’t guests haul their luggage themselves in an inn?

  ‘Um, er, I’ll get it for you!’

  He nodded, holding out a key. ‘You know where the car is.’

  She had been dismissed.

  Huffing at her guest’s rudeness, she approached the slick car. The boot opened to reveal three large suitcases! Three for a weekend-long visit!

  Struggling for breath, Aileen stumbled over the last suitcase as she got it indoors. It felt like they’d stuffed their luggage with rocks!

  Now these bags had to be carried a storey up.

  Aileen sent up a quick prayer for strength.

  She handed off the room keys to Legrand, informing him that she’d place the luggage up shortly. Beaulieu gravitated towards the windows, enchanted with the view.

  ‘Magnifique,’ Beaulieu exclaimed, slipping into French as he cheerfully pointed out something in the distance.

  Mr Louis Legrand hadn’t let out a single appreciative interjection. After a cool assessment of the drawing room, he subtly dragged his husband upstairs.

  Aileen remained at the reception desk, twiddling her thumbs and biting her lip. Her first guests had given opposing reactions. What did that mean?

  Did they hate it? Was Beaulieu being kind? Perhaps they—

  From afar, a hoot from a car broke through her self-doubt.

  A rental van hobbled towards the inn then rattled to a stop right at the gate. The left-hand-side door opened and an energetic flurry with red hair popped out of it.

  ‘Oh, Dave, look at the view!’ The red-haired lady’s voice held excited jubilance.

  She rounded the vehicle and crushed ‘Dave’ into a tight hug. The man looked flustered, barely catching his wife when she’d flung herself at him. His left leg was stuck in the car.

  Aileen left the two of them to their own devices.

  A few short minutes later, the front door opened. The red-haired lady who’d been bubbling with joy hopped in. Her husband followed, blushing really hard.

  He walked up to the counter, almost tripping over his legs. A pair of stubby hands latched onto the wooden table. His eyes were beady and looked a little lost.

  ‘Smiths, we are.’ He cleared his throat. ‘That’s my wife Martha and, um, I’m Dave.’

  Lost and unsure, his shoulders sagged a bit as his gaze flittered around the inn.

  Martha had wandered into the drawing room. Every now and then she exclaimed at the beautiful landscape: it started with the ‘magical’ loch, then the ‘awe-magnificent’ mountains and then went on to the sky and the birds.

  ‘It’s my birthday this weekend. We’re here to spend it together.’ The husband blushed again.

  ‘That’s wonderful! We have a fantastic confectionary in the village. Would you like a birthday cake?’

  Isla would love to bake a cake for him – Aileen was sure of it.

  ‘Er, yes, that’d be brilliant.’ He filled in the register with the ordinary pen she offered, unlike Legrand.

  This couple seemed normal enough. Despite the contrast in their moods and energy levels, they fit in perfectly.

  Martha danced back to her husband’s side.

  ‘You have the most magnificent estate! Oh, Davy, you’re about to have the best birthday ever!’

  She peered over her husband’s shoulders. ‘We should get our luggage out!’

  ‘I’ll do that.’ With that Dave Smith escaped.

  ‘He’s such a dear! Say, what are the touristy activities hereabouts?’

&
nbsp; Martha and Dave were a young couple, just crossing the thirty mark, Aileen predicted. They were smartly dressed for the Highland weather: thick boots, jumpers, jackets, scarves and trousers, ready for a hike.

  Aileen took out her neatly designed and printed leaflets and spread them out on the table between them. She’d always been good at creative projects like these in school.

  ‘This is the Loch Fuar. It’s wonderful. You can’t miss it. If the weather holds, you’ll be able to take a picnic there. But do be careful – the road down is a little...tricky.’

  ‘Maybe on Dave’s birthday. Can we swim in the loch?’

  ‘I’m afraid that’s not permitted. You see Loch Fuar is called that for a reason. It’s frosty, throughout the year, even in summer.’

  ‘That should be a welcome sight in summer.’

  ‘Um, it’s uncannily cold there, Mrs Smith.’

  ‘Oh, I sense there’s a mystery there...’ She waved a dismissive hand. ‘What else can we get done?’

  Aileen suggested some other options to the energetic Martha Smith: she could check out the village, they could go on a hike up the hills or perhaps visit the local museum. The hike was well received. Apparently it was something right up their street.

  At least they were courteous enough to carry their own luggage upstairs, and they chattered happily as they trudged the two small suitcases up.

  Peering outside, Aileen groaned. Despite their helpfulness, they’d left the van parked right in front of the inn!

  A rugged car pulled up behind the rental. It had been a while since the road passing Dachaigh had seen so much traffic. But this car Aileen ruefully recognised as belonging to Detective Inspector Callan Cameron.

  He strode up the three stairs and inside the inn.

  ‘You letting the guests park on the road now? Got to charge ye for breaking traffic rules. This isn’t a private road,’ he began without a preamble.

  This was the last thing Aileen needed.

  She raised her chin in defiance. ‘I was about to ask them to park their van in the appropriate area.’

  ‘And the luggage? Don’t they know they’ve got to take it up with them?’ Detective Cameron pointed towards the French couple’s bags behind the reception desk. His husky voice mocked Aileen.

  Right – he thought she was just a city girl, no good in a Highland town. Miffed, she trolleyed the first of the huge suitcases to the staircase.

  Hoping her irregular workouts would pay off, she lifted the first suitcase up. Heavy footsteps followed her as she placed one trembling leg in front of the other.

  It was sheer willpower that had Aileen hold her own. She nearly tumbled over a stair at one point, and her hands were shaking, but she carried on.

  At the landing, the suitcase thumped on the floor. It was joined by another. This one gracefully placed beside the suitcase she carried.

  ‘You’ve got muscles,’ Callan said, smirking. Aileen seethed, clearly he'd assumed she couldn't manage on her own.

  ‘It’s an innkeeper’s job to keep guests satisfied.’ It came out like a well-rehearsed phrase. She’d repeated it in her head a couple of times since Legrand had so rudely brushed her off that morning.

  Callan laughed. He could mock all he wanted. Aileen knew he'd predicted she'd run back to the city a week after moving here, overwhelmed by the Highland way of life.

  A burning fire to defy him blazed in Aileen’s stomach. She’d prove that snarky detective wrong!

  ‘Don’t the police have important matters to get to?’ she asked coldly.

  The polite ‘get out’ seemed to bring him out of his thoughts.

  ‘Well, we do have the occasional theft. In a town where there’s been no murder for decades, our thieves aren’t inventive either. And’ – the confident smirk he wore seemed like a permanent feature – ‘the detectives on our team are the best.’

  Aileen snorted out a laugh. The police force at Loch Fuar was tiny. So tiny that you could count the number of officers by the fingers of one hand. Callan was the only Detective Inspector.

  THE FRENCH-TURNED-BRITISH couple snagged a brunch of bacon, eggs and coffee from Aileen at about noon then disappeared back into their room promptly after.

  Although Beaulieu had spoken a few words to her, his husband had all but forgotten Aileen existed. There were no polite compliments from him, nor were there any comments about the inn.

  Neither of them let her know if the room was as per their needs. But Beaulieu was at least decent enough to thank her for the meal.

  It was so odd, Aileen thought, her usual curiosity at the forefront. As per their register entry, they were here from London. Most people travelled this far north to be away from their electronic gadgets and become one with nature, but the couple from the continent? They hadn’t so much as asked for a brochure, just the Wi-Fi password.

  Unusual indeed...

  The sound of a rubber tyre skidding over a mud road broke Aileen’s thoughts, and another car came to a halt in front of the inn.

  A busy day indeed.

  The Smiths had taken off as soon as they’d arrived, to explore. Martha was so exuberant she didn’t seem like the sort to sit in a place for too long. She had dragged her husband along, though Aileen thought he looked absolutely knackered. He’d driven up from... where was it? Edinburgh...

  Aileen made a mental note to ask them to park in the lot when they returned. She’d barely gotten the chance to do so before.

  Would they be back for a late lunch? Aileen worried her bottom lip.

  It was a little nerve-racking: welcoming guests, seeing to their needs and maintaining an inn. What if she failed at this? What if they absolutely hated it and gave bad reviews? Bad publicity was the kiss of death for a business. She couldn’t afford that.

  No, Adventurous Aileen didn’t worry; she didn’t have any doubts. Aileen breathed in confidence just as the handle on the wooden door rattled.

  After a bit of a struggle, the person managed to get it open and a tall hefty man with hair as white as snow tumbled in. He looked like Santa Claus without the suit: his cheeks were pink, he had a long white beard, blue shining eyes and a well-fed belly.

  ‘Oh! I ain’t used to everything being on the wrong side!’ He thumped his large boots as he stepped inside. His accent didn’t belong to Europe.

  Another figure appeared beside him. She was tall as well but slender, a contrast to her husband.

  This couple didn’t need to introduce themselves; their accents told Aileen who they were. She had only one family booked from Canada: the Grants.

  They’d been married for most of their lives, so their email had said. They were here to celebrate the coming of spring with their son and his wife.

  ‘You must be the Grants.’ Aileen grinned at their beaming faces.

  The wife extended a lean, elegant hand. ‘I’m Samantha, and this is my husband Richard.’

  Her voice was as elegant as her appearance, the mile-wide smile on her face the only thing that was Mrs Claus-like. She wasn’t a grandmotherly sort of woman at all. In fact, she boasted glossy, well-styled brown hair. It was obvious she took care of herself.

  Richard smiled. ‘I tend to forget my manners. This one does it for me.’ He laughed at his wife and they shared a loving look.

  ‘I’ll get the bags,’ he said and took off as Samantha completed the formalities.

  When it was all done Aileen released a sigh. The Grants had settled in just fine.

  They were ravenous so she cooked beans on toast for them. They wanted something ‘breakfast like’.

  They sat at the table asking Aileen questions about Scotland: kilts, Celtic traditions, the songs, the dance, whisky, haggis and everything else.

  How typical!

  They seemed the most normal and delightful couple. A perfect pair in Aileen’s mind: the sophisticated wife and the forgetful husband, and their happy temperament and easy conversation came as a welcome change. At least they weren’t snooty like Legrand.


  As the afternoon waned off, the Grants excused themselves and went up to their room. Their son would be arriving the next day and staying for the week, while they would be staying for two.

  That reassured Aileen that the older Grants had confidence in her inn. Reopening on the Friday of a long weekend had been an amazing idea.

  Aileen was booked solid for the five rooms she’d renovated in the last few weeks. Even if the inn had a capacity for more people, starting small felt right. She could gain some experience this way.

  The one thing she knew was business and the workings of one. And if all went to plan, her books would soon be in the black.

  Aileen sneaked in a quick break in the early evening, then Isla dropped in to help make dinner. The middle-aged woman had become an unexpected best friend.

  They gossiped a bit about the ‘couple from the continent’ as they’d agreed to name them. What did Legrand think of himself? What were they thinking travelling up here so ill-prepared? Who was Legrand? How was he so rich?

  ‘Jeweller – that’s what he wrote on the register,’ Aileen whispered to Isla. She was sure gossiping about guests was a bad policy for any innkeeper but this was her first time. Who could she talk to beside Isla?

  And the best part: Isla joined in, undeterred.

  ‘Do you think he’s into smuggling?’ Isla was always looking for scandal.

  ‘What would they be doing here?’

  ‘Loch Fuar is known to be secretive,’ Isla said in a thick accent. She did that when she got too excited. ‘It’s the perfect place to smuggle goods. No one looks at the wee Scottish towns.’

  ‘Have you seen the series Shetland?’ And so their talk continued.

  When dinner was ready, Isla set the table. Much as she’d enjoy observing Aileen’s guests, she had to leave; her family were waiting for her.

  With nothing else to do, Aileen patiently waited for her guests to arrive, rubbing her hands together with excitement.

  What happened when you mixed varied spices together?

  Maybe it wasn’t a tradition at most inns but she wanted her first guests to know each other and mingle. In the hopes of getting them to socialise, she’d asked them to come for dinner at 7 p.m.