When Murder Comes Home

by Shana Frost

Like Aileen, he silently assessed the nine faces. And then, as one, her guests began...

  ‘It’s sinister! You can’t...’

  ‘Allow us to leave!’

  ‘Woken up, out of our beds...’

  Words like ‘frightened’, ‘horrid’ and ‘unsafe’ were splashed around.

  Detective Inspector Callan Cameron surveyed the scene like a general before battle: adamant and superior.

  When the volley of complaints finally subsided, he turned to Aileen. ‘Show me the alarm.’

  He didn’t look like someone woken out of bed, Aileen thought as she led him upstairs to the control room. In fact, he was dressed in his standard black; the man owned no other colours.

  ‘Control room?’ he asked, reading the nailed wooden plate on the door.

  ‘It’s where we keep old security footage, registers and documents.’

  ‘Seriously?’ His voice held some disbelief as he pointed at the door. ‘Ye store important documents in an unlocked room?’

  ‘Who’d steal old registers?’

  ‘Or security camera footage?’ came the sarcastic reply.

  Only Callan could be in the mood to start a fight at this time of night.

  ‘Look at what you want to. I’ll be upstairs.’

  ‘Hold on.’ He raised his hands. ‘Tell me about the system.’

  ‘It’s an alarm,’ Aileen informed him.

  She didn’t know much beyond that it was an alarm, but admitting that would make it look like she didn’t know what she was doing, and she was certain he still thought she was a daft wee city girl, out of her depth. She had no desire to prove his theory right.

  ‘It’s an alarm system for the front and back door.’ She shrugged. ‘And the windows I think.’ She mumbled the last part.

  Callan dismissed her and set about investigating.

  THE DETECTIVE SURVEYED the tiny closet-like room, cataloguing the heaps of papers and the different pieces of equipment. No one had come into the inn, as per the security footage. And there were no anomalies to be found in the footage either – no time losses or any sign of hacking.

  But the alarm had sent an alert to the station. He’d still been in his office, puzzling over his murder board.

  Callan pushed his hands into his jean pockets. Someone was getting desperate. But not desperate enough to leave clues.

  A question knocked hard on his consciousness: had the alarm been a red herring or was it an unsuccessful attempt at another murder?

  IT WAS WELL PAST MIDNIGHT when Callan left, and everyone had gone back to bed. It was only then that Aileen found herself back at her desk.

  The hope she’d catch some shut-eye was futile. Her mind raged with questions, the need to find answers more pressing than ever.

  She didn’t require forensic or autopsy reports to get to the bottom of this; she needed data on her guests. Whether it was numbers or letters, Aileen had a knack of finding discrepancies; falsified records always held some loose threads.

  Her smile was confident. If there was one thing she knew was her superpower, it was her ability to find information no one wanted found, so with the strum of instrumental music in the background, Aileen began digging into the lives of each of her guests.

  Her research began first with the most suspicious of the lot: Mr Louis Legrand. Unlike her murdered guest, Legrand was a well-known man, with too much wealth to count the zeros, and she found a number of articles written about him and his work.

  Legrand was a preferred jeweller for the ultra-rich, and in his long career he’d closed some lucrative deals involving all sorts of exotic jewelled items. According to one article, he was a ruthless negotiator and excellent at attaining artefacts his clients wanted at auction, at the best price.

  He oozed cold-heartedness like juice out of a taut fruit.

  Jean Beaulieu, the spouse, was an interesting man. A few articles spoke about the couple: Beaulieu had majored in geology before meeting Legrand. He’d been a professor at a university in France.

  His geology background with an expertise in precious stones would certainly be helpful to Legrand. And yes, Beaulieu had proved to be an asset.

  Aileen drummed her fingers. Being skilled with jewels didn’t make them murderers. In fact, they were what most would call a power couple, running a successful business together.

  Aileen moved on to John Cook. He was another peculiar man... Did being an introvert – assuming he was one – mean a person wasn’t compassionate? No. Aileen herself was one, and though she wasn’t overly fond of people, she helped when they needed it.

  John hadn’t been rude like Legrand. In fact he hadn’t spoken a word voluntarily to her. Perhaps he was just the shy sort. She dismissed his behaviour and focused on the search results.

  He was a family lawyer. It hadn’t been hard to find out about him. He had his own practice and volunteered at a shelter during his free time. There was one news article about his contribution to a woman’s shelter; apparently he was a big campaigner against domestic violence.

  Aileen played host to a wide spectrum of guests...

  John Cook, the article told her, had also served some rich people. He too had the potential to be a target, especially if someone was holding a personal vendetta.

  His partner, Susan Knight, was a female rights activist. She volunteered at the same shelter he did and had been doing so for fifteen-odd years; the official page of the shelter listed her laurels.

  She then tried to search Martha Smith and came up with nothing. Dave had said the first – or was it the second? – night that she loved designing. A homemaker, that’s what Dave had told the Grants she was.

  Aileen stifled a yawn. The insistent dull throbbing in her forehead had turned into the loud smacks of a hammer on iron.

  It was late in the night, almost dawn.

  She turned the music off and crawled into bed, but not before making sure her keys were still in place.

  Clasping her hands together, she prayed to any power who’d listen to get her out of this horridness as soon as possible – safely.

  CALLAN HAD NO SUCH prayers to offer as he worked tirelessly in his office. No other case had captured his attention like this one. Indeed, it had been a while since he’d been this passionate about anything.

  Maybe murder was a sombre affair— a man had lost his life— but a major part of him was glad to have a challenging job at long last!

  He’d almost written a resignation letter after the last botched robbery he’d dealt with. Thieves in Loch Fuar were pathetic. And crime was minimal. He was fed up being an inspector in the land of saints.

  It was seventh heaven having a murder to solve where the boss gave you full freedom – as long as you remained within budget. It was a damned thing, and rightly so, that Loch Fuar had such a lean budget that he could barely drink a glass of whisky every day for a year with it.

  When a yawn wrenched his lips apart and he couldn’t find the energy to brew another cup of coffee, Callan decided to call it a night.

  Taking the police department’s own advice, he decided it was safest for the town that he crashed on the sofa in the waiting room. He would wake up as stiff as a creaky old corpse but to hell with it! It was nothing a good morning workout won’t solve.

  And with that thought he went under, back into the nightmares that never left him.

  DOZING ON A SOFA ENTIRELY too short for his six-foot-plus height in the waiting room of the police station was the last place Aileen imagined she’d find Detective Inspector Callan Cameron.

  Judging by the drool, he’d spent the night on that sofa.

  ‘Aileen Mackinnon!’ A tall man with unkempt white hair walked towards her. Callan’s boss: Rory Macdonald. Her grandmother’s friend and informant as well, Aileen recalled.

  He pointed a stubby finger at the detective. ‘I thought about smacking his head, just to see how he reacted.’

  ‘Aye?’ Aileen raised an eyebrow.

  ‘Aye.’ With a satisfied smile he st
uck his hands in his pockets. ‘But he has circles under his eyes so I let it go. But you’re here. For him?’

  At her nod, he continued, ‘Now I can smack him.’ And he did.

  Callan yelped, and like a panther woken from a deep sleep, he jumped off the sofa, ready to strike.

  Rory boomed with laughter. ‘Oh, lad!’

  Aileen inwardly smirked. How she wished she’d had a boss like this before she’d become her own boss! Rory was fun!

  With a wave, he left a stunned Callan and an amused Aileen Mackinnon alone. Laughter followed him out.

  In the reception-cum-waiting room, Aileen studied the blinking detective. He looked out of sorts: red marks ran across his left cheek, his black shirt looked rumpled and his hair were tousled enough to look like Einstein’s.

  ‘No doubt he’s off to scheme with yer grandma.’ Callan muttered under his breath.

  Aileen knew her gran was tight with Rory. They had their old yet sharp ears pressed to the ground when it came to town gossip.

  ‘Um, I had something to discuss with you,’ she began cautiously. The detective looked furious and she needed his co-operation.

  Callan folded his arms. ‘What?’

  Clearing her throat, Aileen told him about Legrand and Beaulieu.

  ‘You see, from what I found, I think we can’ – she sent up a quick prayer for luck – ‘we can work together.’

  When he remained silent, simply staring at her, Aileen supplied, ‘I can help you find the murderer.’

  All he did was snort, like a buffalo. ‘Thanks but I’ve got it. I’m the detective.’

  ‘But I have—’

  He waved his hands. ‘I’ll get on with the case. It’s got all my attention. Ye and yer guests will soon be free to leave. Everyone but the killer – he or she will be in prison,’ Callan said in a gruff voice.

  Clearly, a partner was the last thing he wanted.

  ‘I know how to uncover information and find hidden facts,’ Aileen countered.

  All he did was shrug. ‘This isn’t a Miss Marple novel. You were at the inn when Smith was murdered. If ye haven’t figured it out, let me inform you.’ He pointed two fingers at Aileen. ‘Ye are a suspect.’

  A SUSPECT! AILEEN RAGED. She slapped her hand on the car’s steering wheel.

  How dare he! Here she was, trying to help, and he had the audacity to call her a suspect. Of course she’d realised that officially she was, but to have it thrown at her like that, as if it might be true...

  Aileen had tucked her tail between her legs and left immediately, while Callan had stormed into his office and slammed the door shut behind him – so hard that the entire station heard it.

  Aileen squared her shoulders. If he wouldn’t listen, she wasn’t afraid to snoop around on her own. Adventurous Aileen was up for it.

  But before she could get down to it, her innkeeper’s duties were calling her. It was breakfast hour.

  Aileen returned to the inn before her guests were up. She didn’t know why, but she’d assumed Callan would be at the station early this morning. He looked like someone who enjoyed his work.

  Little could she have predicted he’d spent the night there.

  Dachaigh was as quiet as she’d left it. None of her guests were up yet.

  Isla, however, waited at the kitchen counter. ‘Where have you been?’

  She knew she had a confidante in Isla, so Aileen told her: about her research, the false alarm and her morning rendezvous, which had failed in epic proportions.

  ‘I’m worried, Isla,’ Aileen sighed. ‘I got an email from a guest cancelling their stay. They were heading out here to celebrate their anniversary. An old couple from the next town.’

  ‘It’s just a bump in the road. Things’ll be fine soon.’

  ‘The sooner the better – I don’t know how long I can afford a drop in revenue.’

  ‘Bah!’ Isla waved her off. ‘Don’t start with that accounting jargon.’

  ‘I’ll need to cut expenditures to stay afloat. And the cash flow...’ Aileen ended up laughing at Isla’s agonised expression.

  Despite being the owner of a bakery, Isla didn’t believe number crunching was necessary for a successful business. She’d told Aileen time and again to have faith – in her business and in her customers.

  Their laughter died out when Martha Smith approached. As then, like a funeral procession, the rest of the guests followed.

  As her guests sat down for breakfast, the cuckoo clock announced the morning hour. And a refreshing aroma of fresh bread, omelettes and baked beans swirled through the miserable room.

  Martha slid into a chair. ‘Could you make some banana pancakes please? He loved them,’ she mumbled before breaking down into fits of sadness.

  Weeping followed sniffles which turned into melancholy. And just like that, breakfast became a sombre affair.

  Chapter 9

  When Rory Macdonald tapped on his office door, Callan had fully woken up. Coming out of sleep to find Aileen and his boss laughing at his expense had downright annoyed him.

  He’d changed out of his rumpled shirt now – like all hardworking detectives, he had a spare set of clothes with him – and had dumped a steaming cup of bitter coffee down his throat. It was only because of this that he nodded a greeting at Rory.

  ‘Working hard I see,’ Rory drawled.

  Callan shrugged. ‘We haven’t had a murder here for a while and local folks would like to see its back already.’

  ‘They naturally feel a bit scared.’ Rory scrutinised the murder board. ‘Ye know something about murder and its brutality. That’s why ye've got this case.’

  Callan nodded. ‘I dug into our records as well as internet records – there seems to be no sign of our Dr Dave Smith,’ he explained. ‘So I contacted the car rental service they hired to get here. Waiting on a response; it’s still early yet.’

  Rory analysed the board and ran a hand through his white mop. Suddenly he turned his sharp eyes on the detective.

  ‘When I hired ye, yer file said ye had an history of working alone. Now, I’m not about to delve into the why, but’ – he narrowed his eyes – ‘I think ye could use a little help with this one.’

  Callan’s intense eyes turned determined. ‘I’ve got this. I’ll find the killer. And I work best alone – I don’t need anyone to come down from—’

  He stopped when Rory shook his head. ‘I’m not suggesting you call a homicide detective.’ Placing both his hands in his pockets, Rory continued, ‘Aileen Mackinnon – she’d be an asset.’

  The innkeeper? That was the last person Callan had thought his boss would suggest.

  ‘Sir, with all due respect, she’s the innkeeper and a suspect.’

  ‘Callan, here’s where ye’re wrong. Aileen Mackinnon has no motive, does she?’

  ‘We don’t know much about her. She’s come here from the city, out of the blue. Why?’

  ‘Why not ask her?’

  Callan shrugged. ‘She was an accountant!’ That ought to do it!

  ‘A forensic accountant!’ Rory said slowly, like he was making a point.

  He continued, ‘Her job required her to dig into data, find anomalies. She’s good at IT, good at numbers and very good at finding the sorts of things that the killer might want hidden.’

  All he could do was sigh. What Rory said made some sense but working with Aileen? He wasn’t sure.

  ‘I’ll consider it,’ he conceded.

  With his hands in his pockets, Rory left.

  Callan approached his ancient computer. Who was Aileen Mackinnon? If he was to partner with her, he’d have to find out.

  AILEEN HAD NO IDEA what to do. She’d found out a lot of information; not about Dave Smith, but about Louis Legrand and his French spouse, but the rest of them... Aileen drummed her fingers on the old wooden desk. The rest of them were tricky. If only, the thick-headed detective had agreed to team up – with his resources she’d get to the bottom of this pretty quick.

  She could
smell it, feel it like it was something tangible: the lie that had been woven around this entire situation. With some information, she’d be able to pick out the threads of truth.

  Aileen almost jumped out of her chair when her phone buzzed. It was a text from Callan.

  Come down to the station.

  It was with sheer amazement that she raised her brows. That was unexpected.

  Maybe she had got through that thick skull after all. Maybe she could wipe out the black spell cast on her Dachaigh.

  Maybe you could move out the door first, she chided herself as she packed up.

  It took her ten minutes to fly out the door, cover the distance into town and find a place to park. She didn’t want to spread suspicion, so she parked in front of Isla’s bakery, waving her friend off – she’d tell her what was going on later – and walked towards the police station.

  There weren’t many people around, despite it being a Monday. Aileen smiled – small-town charm. Maybe adventure was what she’d readied herself for, but the slow life was what she’d wanted.

  She walked on down the street, slowing as she came to an old brick building with a small iron sign jutting out from it. The iron had been curved to show a cup of tea. The wooden sign hanging over the brown wooden door read: Barbara’s Tea Room.

  Would Isla be interested in joining her here for a cuppa later? Aileen gazed fondly through the window. Everything was cast in a beautiful cosy golden light.

  There were people inside, Aileen noted, and was that...? Surely not.

  Aileen peered in as inconspicuously as she could, and yes – sitting inside were Jean Beaulieu and Richard Grant, having some sort of a conversation.

  A serious conversation, Aileen observed. They hunched towards each other, as if sharing secrets. What could they be doing here together?

  Aileen shook her head. It was something to note down, but there was no point in reading too much into it yet.

  She picked up her pace as the street curved round towards the police station. It was just as she’d found it that morning – quiet as a telegram office.