When Murder Comes Home

by Shana Frost

  Aileen’s nerves told her it seemed like a bad idea now.

  Surprisingly the Smiths were the first to turn up. Dave smiled weakly at Aileen. They were followed by the Canadian couple.

  Legrand arrived alone.

  At the archway leading up to the dining room, he cleared this throat then gave the entire room a sullen look.

  An old vintage dining table, rickety chairs with pastel blue cushions and a fireplace behind the head chair clearly wasn’t something he approved of.

  ‘My husband shall be delayed,’ he said in a cultured voice.

  Richard Grant beamed at him. ‘Are you from Belgium?’

  ‘France,’ came the curt and short reply.

  ‘The country of cheese and wines,’ Samantha Grant supplied.

  ‘French fries are not French,’ Richard tried to make a subtle joke.

  Legrand regarded him with a look but stayed silent.

  His husband panted as he walked briskly into the dining room. ‘I apologise for the delay.’ He didn’t offer an explanation.

  ‘I like French fries – they’re so crispy,’ Martha Smith mumbled. She seemed rather down this evening, completely different from the enthusiastic woman who’d greeted Aileen earlier.

  Legrand gave the table a cool look. ‘The French have dignity and elegance. Subtlety too.’

  That prim sentence had the potential to explode into an all-out battle.

  ‘Hope you enjoy potatoes. We have a traditional Scottish dish called Clapshot this evening with mince.’

  'What’s a Clapshot?’ Martha Smith asked, her voice reserved.

  Aileen tried to sound as chirpy as she could. ‘Clapshot is mashed tatties and neeps topped with butter. Tatties is what we call potatoes. My gran-’

  ‘Potatoes with butter!’ Legrand’s tone was indignant. ‘I want some food, Ms Mackinnon. Something healthy. Potatoes!’ He threw the cream white napkin on the plate. Loud stomping feet travelled up the stairs as he went up to the guest room.

  A bit self-conscious, Aileen looked at her guests. Had it been a bad choice? She’d thought they’d appreciate it, and Isla and the lady at the grocery store had agreed with her. It wasn’t as if she was serving them whole potatoes rolled in butter!

  She snapped out of her doubt. Aileen wasn’t embarrassed – she was miffed. She’d cooked, hadn’t she? With all her love and care to greet them with classic Scottish fare, her Gran’s favourite. The man could go to hell!

  Richard cleared his throat. ‘He was rather rude.’

  ‘Please excuse my husband – he’s, um, stressed lately, very stressed.’ Beaulieu stood. ‘I apologise, but I must go, um...’ He sighed, hurrying up the stairs.

  That left four people at the table now.

  Morale ran low, on the precipice of rendering the entire meal dull. No one spoke but for a few mumbles to pass the plate and a quick thank you after.

  The silence felt uneasy.

  Aileen stayed quiet too, not in much of a mood for conversation.

  ‘Good night.’ Martha Smith stood unexpectedly and left the room.

  Samantha turned a gaze towards Aileen. ‘Could I help clean up?’

  ‘I’ve got it, Mrs Grant. You must be tired,’ Aileen replied, a small polite smile on her face.

  As the clock chimed again, silence descended once more over Dachaigh. Aileen’s guests took the hint.

  ‘Well I’m off.’ Richard Grant patted his belly. ‘Nice cooking.’

  But Aileen heard him when he mumbled to himself, ‘Such nasty company – ill-mannered fool.’

  Dave Smith excused himself too and stepped out for some fresh air, despite the fact that twilight had unfurled into a dark night.

  As a full moon beamed its ghostly light on the darkened Highland scape, Aileen got her answer.

  Do not mix such different spices together – they explode in the pan!

  Chapter 4

  Callan Cameron woke up groaning and cursing. His muscles popped as he did his best to stretch. He clasped the aching right knee. That darn thing.

  The pain was an unshakable reminder of victory over darkness, but it left a bitter taste in his mouth.

  It was still very early—not even a stray ray of sunlight painted the glittering, star-strewn abyss overheard. Calm, it was his favourite time of day. With no one but him around...

  Callan’s shoulders protested, begging for some exercise.

  A gruelling run was the best cure for the stiffness.

  When the first nascent rays of the sun streaked from behind the mountains, Callan panted through a rocky trail. He knew it so well; he’d whizzed past these trees as a hopeful lad and pounded the ground as a cautious man.

  A timid chirp snapped the thin shard of the peaceful morning—a songbird that would awaken the cold Highland scene.

  Ending his run with the rhythm of birdsong made Callan feel as Zen as a Japanese garden. Who needed gyms and earphones to keep them entertained when the Highlands set a staggering stage?

  He’d missed them, this, the years he’d spent away. Nowhere in the world could it be as beautiful as it was at home.

  The fir trees, the rocky mountains and the expansive loch...

  Callan came to a rapid halt.

  That was unusual. With the sharp, unshakable eye of a detective, he observed.

  No one was ever around this early, especially here. But as the sky turned lighter, he could see two figures standing beside the cold loch. Neither were moving.

  He peered closer as a bird rustled restlessly in its nest.

  Were they male or female?

  The figure facing the other was definitely male. Against the backdrop of the morning light, Callan could see him leaning towards the other person. He shook his hands in a stiff gesture with unhinged passion.

  The other figure wore a baggy jacket and had a flurry of wild hair. The area around the loch was rocky, so judging the two of them based on their height was hopeless.

  Abruptly the hand-shaking stopped, and instead the man raised an accusatory finger at the other person. But the other person had turned to face the loch waters, apparently disinterested in whatever their companion had to say.

  It was strange. Callan was sure none of the locals would be down there this early. They weren’t foolish enough to arrive before sunlight had swept the landscape; too many men had died braving that road and the enigmatic loch’s edge.

  He looked the other way, towards Dachaigh, but the two figures were just too far away from the inn given they were still in the wee hours of the morning. And could a stranger really drive down there using that deadly road, in the dark?

  Callan shrugged. It wasn’t illegal to stand by the loch, was it?

  Unless something went wrong.

  He squared his now limber shoulders. If it did, he’d step in to do what he’d always done: serve and protect.

  His feet thudded on the mud road again as Callan took off running.

  The two people by the loch never noticed him.

  AILEEN HAD ADAPTED to an innkeeper’s lifestyle - she woke with the sun and tried hard not to sleep on her feet.

  It was time to cook breakfast. Breakfast was something that had been a luxury when she’d been toiling away at her demanding desk job. Back then, she’d be lucky to snag a steaming cup of coffee before braving the gruelling morning rush hour.

  Her guests were sound asleep. Lucky them, Aileen huffed as she rubbed her droopy eyes. There was not a single stirring from any of their rooms.

  She gathered all the produce, cleaned and dusted, all the while fighting off face-splitting yawns.

  Isla came through the side door and into the kitchen. ‘Hiya!’

  ‘As long as you come bearing fresh bread, you’re welcome.’

  ‘As long as I get your scrumptious omelette, I have bread,’ she sang back.

  They both smiled at each other.

  And with the next breath, Isla began her morning newscast. She told Aileen about her bairn, about the milkman who’d dropped
in late, the chicken she’d cooked that night, and an impending meeting of the local business community.

  When Aileen had left the city for this tiny village, scepticism had burned a nasty wedge in her heart. What if they treated her like an outsider? What if they hated her? But she had done something she hadn’t managed all those years in the city: make a friend she was comfortable with.

  The warmth and acceptance Isla offered was a treasure.

  Together, just like the previous night, they cooked and set the table.

  Isla, who’d never left the bakery in the wee hours, now felt no qualms about driving down to the inn instead. In exchange for her fresh bread, she got steaming hot gossip about Dachaigh’s guests.

  As Aileen narrated the dinner incident, Isla grinned, as though she’d never heard of a more interesting bunch.

  ‘I dread them all assembling for breakfast now,’ Aileen sighed.

  ‘Why dread? It’s as exciting as can be! Using your metaphorical spices, now you’ll see what happens when you have a shimmering fire underneath. Wish I could be here!’

  What could happen? Nobody could have guessed.

  The Grants came in early. Richard Grant looked half asleep.

  ‘This one wants to go bird watching!’ He shot a half-annoyed, half-loving look at his wife.

  She smiled. ‘Yes! My friend told me it’s something I must do.’

  They chose a cup of coffee each. Richard picked up a few muffins. His wife decided on the healthy option: a bowl full of fruit.

  The clatter of china and cutlery rang out as the conversation ran dry – last night’s dinner was a heavy elephant in the room.

  Martha Smith pranced in, a spring in her step. She was smiling, but the smile didn’t reach her eyes. In fact, Aileen observed, her eyes looked forlorn.

  ‘Oh!’ she gasped, hands covering the only feature of her face that held any glee. ‘I... I...’

  Finding nothing to say, she shrugged and walked towards the table.

  ‘G’morning,’ Samantha Grant greeted her with a courteous smile.

  Martha merely bowed her head in acknowledgement.

  The bright morning light didn’t shine its cheer inside the dining room; it was all stiff and formal in there. Aileen hadn’t a clue how to break the ice. It had frozen solid the night before.

  Martha flashed a cordial smiled at the Grants and looked over at Aileen. ‘Dave’ll be here soon.’ She cleared her throat.

  After the Grants left, the deafening silence stretched on. Martha sat by herself, chewing absentmindedly and staring off into space. Her face had fallen into a scowl.

  A breeze picked up outside, but it didn’t dare sway the dullness that descended over Dachaigh.

  Wasn’t it Dave’s birthday weekend? That’s what they’d told her. So why the long face?

  Unlike the local people, Aileen knew the importance of privacy. She didn’t pry.

  Abruptly, Martha’s chair screeched against the wooden floor. She pointed out a distracted hand. ‘I’ll be outside.’

  The door clicked in place behind her.

  What in the world was going on with the Smiths? They’d seemed like an ordinary couple. A couple out to celebrate the husband’s birthday. Shouldn’t they be spending the day together?

  But what did Aileen know about couples? She didn’t remember the last time she’d gone down to the pub! Her love life had been flushed down the drain long ago.

  The French duo never appeared for breakfast.

  Perhaps her cooking was not the quality they were used to. She didn’t give two hoots.. Everyone loved her cooking, Aileen reassured herself with a definitive nod – if they didn’t, something was wrong with their taste buds.

  Yes, that was the new Aileen: strong and confident.

  The chime attached to the front door tinkled and the latest bane of Aileen’s existence stepped in. Detective Inspector Callan Cameron looked well rested and prim in his all-black outfit.

  ‘Isla says ye make a smashing cup of coffee.’ Just to irk Aileen some more it seemed, Callan punctuated that with a challenging smirk, but what could she do?

  She sat him down at the kitchen counter, a warm cup of coffee in his hand, then raised a questioning eyebrow. ‘And the reason I find a detective at my door this morning is?’

  Callan paused as he took a sip of his coffee.

  ‘You didn’t have any qualms about me helping to repair this place. I was around a lot during that time.’

  ‘I’ve guests now and it’s breakfast hour. What’ll they think about finding an officer of the law at their inn?’

  ‘That the inn serves decent coffee.’ This time Callan curled just the left side of his lips upward.

  Aileen’s retort died in her throat when the front door swung open and a woman strode in. She had curly dark blond hair enveloped around a small head. The short hair befitted her tiny face very well.

  A compact woman of about middle age, she was dressed in heels and a suit, completely out of place in the rugged Highlands.

  The last thing Aileen needed was a high-handed guest – a female version of Legrand.

  A stomping of boots followed the elegant lady, and a pale man with a mop of bright red hair and a frown on his rumpled face emerged.

  The woman gave him a disinterested look.

  ‘We can’t possibly be staying here.’ He gestured at the reception area.

  The elegant woman turned to him. ‘Why ever not?’ A completely unexpected grin split her face. ‘Aunt Milly lived here when she came to Loch Fuar. She loved this place.’

  When Aileen walked through to the reception area, the lady shone the full beam of her bright smile on her. ‘Siobhan, that’s what my Aunt Milly told me. The gentlest and best innkeeper she’d ever met. My aunt travelled a lot, from Asia to South America. She went to every continent except Antarctica!’

  ‘Siobhan is my grandmother.’ Aileen smiled cordially. ‘Your aunt sounds like a daring woman.’

  The woman nodded. ‘You have large shoes to fill.’ She seemed friendly enough. ‘We are the Cooks,’ she continued in a cultured voice.

  Before Aileen could respond, Callan made an appearance. Aileen internally rolled her eyes. Hadn’t she just told him about impressions?

  With a smile he introduced himself. Her new guests cast a suspicious glance at Aileen.

  She quickly interrupted their thoughts. ‘Detective Cameron helped the local team renovate this place.’

  ‘Aye,’ he agreed, raising his cup. ‘Enjoy yer stay here. Any worries, ye can find me at the station.’

  Crude, that’s what this man was.

  ‘I’m John Cook.’ The man seemed priggish.

  ‘Susan Knight.’ With a click of her heals she approached Aileen and raised a card. ‘If you’d check us in please.’

  BY NOON, AILEEN PATIENTLY awaited the arrival of the younger Grant couple. They were the only guests left to make an appearance.

  Ten guests. Aileen shook her head in exasperation. Six had already been a handful!

  Despite her minimal people skills, she’d tried to start conversations, but apparently her efforts weren’t enough to fulfil her primary duty: keep your guests happy.

  As if on cue, Legrand descended the stairs.

  He looked around. Sensing no one nearby, he cast a superior gaze at Aileen. ‘Anywhere nearby we might find a decent meal?’

  Don’t look down your long snooty nose at me, you—

  Aileen could only dream of flinging those words at him. Instead she cleared her throat of her mean thoughts, but before she could reply, the sound of a car door slamming shut interrupted her.

  A man wearing a backpack jogged in. ‘Dad’s so right! It’s like I’m in Outlander!’

  He wore hiking clothes, with a pair of sturdy bulky boots. A camera swung by his side. Gaping, he admired the interiors of the inn.

  ‘Hello.’ The man waved at a displeased Legrand.

  ‘Mon Dieu! The lowly company I’m subjected to.’ Such unkind words shou
ld have been muttered privately but were just loud enough for the new guest and Aileen to hear.

  Legrand turned 180 degrees and strode away.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Aileen hastily apologised to the vibrant young man. ‘Um, it’s... it’s...’

  ‘A difficult guest – I understand. Mom was super excited when she called. Found some cool birds and such.’ He spoke in a heavy accent, unlike his parents. ‘Oh! I’m Jacob Grant. Please call me Jake though.’

  Judging by his cherub-like face, he looked to be in his mid-twenties. A thick gold ring glistened on his finger.

  ‘My wife’s out clicking pictures. I hope I brought enough memory cards!’ He laughed.

  Susan Knight appeared in the doorway.

  ‘Ms Aileen... oh I thought...’

  ‘Hello.’ Jake beamed at her. She grinned back.

  Two happy people – could they flood this place with their delight?

  ‘Oh, it’s such a marvel!’ Another happy human walked in. She headed straight for Jake and hugged him. ‘Oh, it’s the perfect place!’ She looked moony eyed.

  After the dreary dinner of the previous evening, the three of her four new guests got along well. In fact, after checking in, the younger Grants and Susan Knight sat by the fireplace, sipping refreshing lemonade and chatting with each other.

  They spoke about Scotland, its culture, and Loch Fuar.

  Aileen left them to their own devices, playing the discreet hostess. Hopefully their cheer would renew the air.

  The older Grants didn’t make an appearance till late in the afternoon. They’d had a marvellous time bird-watching and trekking in the surrounding landscape.

  Their son and his wife had retired to their room, so they too headed upstairs.

  Martha Smith returned in the evening, looking flushed. Healthy colour stained her cheeks and her face held a small smile. She joyfully greeted Aileen and declined her offer for a snack.

  Martha’s husband was nowhere to be seen; he hadn’t shown his face the entire day.

  The Cook-Knights had had some soup and bread before diving into the inn’s library. Aileen was glad she’d renewed the family area as a library. She loved to be surrounded by books, even if they weren’t number-filled ledgers.