by Shana Frost
Why slash the innkeeper’s tyres? Was it a local irked that she was here running the inn? Or was it one of the guests?
‘I’ll fix you two a coffee and some cake I just baked while you look through the footage.’
But as Isla had predicted, the car was too far away to be seen on the footage.
It had been a bold move, slashing someone’s tyres in broad daylight in the busier part of town.
‘They had the local vendors’ meeting today at Barbara’s,’ Isla explained. ‘I didn’t go but the rest went. Daniel said he’d fill me in.’
Well that explained the lack of people. Hard damn luck!
AILEEN SAT DEJECTED and still the whole way back to the inn. Callan had offered to drop her off and Isla had agreed with him, saying it was best he saw to it that she got back safely.
Aileen hadn’t bothered to rebuke her friend for meddling.
She wondered whether this adventurous foray into the Highlands had been too much for her. The slashed tyres were definitely a warning. But who knew she’d teamed up with the detective to hunt the killer?
She shuddered to think how far the killer might go to keep her away.
‘YOU DON’T NEED ME TO tell ye to be careful,’ Callan informed her as he pulled up in front of Dachaigh.
She’d been awfully quiet, understandably so. But there was a lot he had to consider.
First and foremost was that whoever had done this had to have known about the vendors’ meeting – and that Aileen wasn’t attending.
Perhaps someone had wanted to delay her return to the inn. But who? And why?
At this moment, all Callan could do was warn her. He trailed behind her as Aileen walked up the driveway.
She tried brushing him off. ‘I got it.’
Callan simply followed her inside.
The golden lights of the reception area were warm and welcoming, and Callan remembered the first night he’d visited the inn. Siobhan had stood behind the counter, her hair as white as snow, and flashed him a smile as warm as the sun.
He looked at Siobhan’s granddaughter now. Both these women had one thing in common: they were deceptively strong. Most people would have created a scene by now, given everything that had happened, but she’d remained calm.
‘Since I’m here, I’ll have a look in the control room,’ Callan informed Aileen as he made his way up the stairs.
Light shone under some of the guest rooms. His shoes made no sound on the carpeted floor, his steps light.
He heard a muffled sound from one bedroom.
‘I don’t know!’ came a high-pitched terrified voice. It was definitely male.
Callan’s feet halted, his ears perking up.
A gruff voice retorted. ‘You made that deal! Remember?’
‘You can’t possibly think—’
‘Haven’t I ask you to research?’
‘I did!’
‘I’m done with this. I’m telling you, warning you,’ a hard, furious voice whispered. It was so low, Callan had to inch towards the door to hear it. ‘If we don’t get this deal, I’m going to the police.’
There was a moment of silence. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I know what you did.’
‘But – but I sold it!’ the alarmed voice countered.
The sounds abruptly halted as footsteps echoed off the walls, heading his way. Callan jumped away. Someone was coming up the stairs.
He quickly turned into the adjacent corridor and peered back into the one he’d just left.
Jean Beaulieu walked up and disappeared into a room. The guest room where he’d heard the voices remained quiet; no one entered or exited.
When everything had been calm for a few minutes, Callan went into the control room. It had been as he’d seen it the first time. Nothing missing, apart for the security footage he’d taken with him to the station.
Abruptly he turned and walked back down the stairs to the reception desk, and looked at the registry, rechecking what he’d already seen.
Scratching his day’s scruff, he thought about the conversation he’d overheard.
He was frowning, deep in thought when a pot clanged. It was followed by a curse. He knew that voice.
With a roll of his eyes, Callan walked into the aromatic kitchen.
‘Who’s staying in room four?’ he asked without preamble.
Aileen muttered another curse – she was staring down at a very frozen chicken; perhaps it was supposed to have been dinner – before casting an exasperated glance at Callan. ‘No one.’
‘That can’t be right. I heard someone up there.’
Aileen shrugged. ‘Look, I’m busy here. You’re the detective. I know I haven’t given room four to anyone. It’s not finished.’
Before she could say anything else, Callan walked briskly up the stairs again, strode over to room four and pushed the door open.
Aileen had been right – it was unfinished. The bed frame stood without a mattress. The wallpaper had been ripped off, leaving behind ugly spots of glue, and a few paint and turpentine bottles rested against the wall.
So who’d been here before?
Callan walked to the sole lamp that stood on the only other piece of furniture in the room – a round table – and studied it. But he didn’t touch it.
He looked around in the room, then checked the dilapidated bathroom. Not a soul and no way to escape. The room had no adjoining door leading into the next room either.
Callan looked into the closet and almost broke the door handle off.
Satisfied with his digging, he called Robert Davis, the only other policeman on the payroll apart from Rory.
‘Get a kit to Dachaigh quick.’
He hung up and stood thinking in that dirty room as the sun began to call it a day. He’d never been one for sunsets; they made him feel sad.
As the waning sun cast long shadows in the room, Callan folded his hands, stared at the stunning landscape of home and replayed the conversation he’d overheard. Thanks to his excellent memory he remembered it exactly.
Focus on the tone, he told himself.
One accusatory, one defiant – almost scared. What did the accusatory voice know? And what had the other person done?
The voices had both been rather tensed and a bit gruff. Male. And the accents? They were clearly English, closer to London to be precise.
A knock on the door made him turn around. Aileen stood there, and behind her was Robert.
Carefully he set the kit on the bed, then took out the brush and powder, handing them to Callan, who meticulously dusted the lamp switch.
He noted Aileen watching on in awe as he lifted a partial fingerprint. Thankfully she didn’t bombard him with questions.
Callan turned to Robert. ‘Get this to the lab. Drive over now – say it’s urgent. We need them to match it for us.’
‘Got it.’ Robert smiled at Aileen. ‘See ya.’ And with that he dashed out. Robert had only just passed his police exams but Rory had taken him under his wing. Despite his young age and green disposition, Robert was diligent in his work.
‘Care to explain what you found?’ Ah questions...
Callan looked at Aileen. ‘When’s dinner?’
When she only stared back at him, Callan shrugged. This partner thing was getting on his nerves!
He told her what he’d heard.
‘And I saw a faint glow of light, so someone would have had to have switched the light on. We’ll find out who it was soon enough.’
Aileen considered for a moment. ‘Are you sure they had English accents? That’s strange—’
Callan rolled his eyes. Did she think he was daft – or deaf? ‘Yes – and you do have three guests who are English, do you not?’
‘Yes, but only one of them is male,’ she fired back.
Callan changed the subject. ‘So, dinner?’
Within a few minutes, he sat enjoying a nice bowl of warm soup, with fresh bread.
None of her guests had made an appearance y
et. So when Callan insisted, Aileen joined him with a cup of coffee.
‘Won’t you have trouble sleeping?’ he asked.
‘I don’t plan on sleeping. I’ve got some things I need to check.’
Callan sighed. This woman was certainly impatient. ‘Did you find something in the system this afternoon?’
‘Sort of – I’m not exactly sure.’
At Callan’s confused look, she elaborated, ‘I was thinking about the murder weapon. It’s a unique piece, the knife. Almost artistic – and antique.’
‘So ye think it’s something to do with the Grants?’
Aileen nodded. ‘Perhaps, but you’ll need evidence, won’t you? So I thought we could try to identify who owned the piece and searched the internet for auction listings.’
The cuckoo clocked chimed the evening hour, but still none of her guests appeared for dinner.
When Callan gestured for her to continue, Aileen told him how she’d found a few potential matches in auctioneers’ dailies and finally narrowed it down to two possibilities.
‘What the dailies don’t say is who purchased them. They were both silent auctions, held online, through an agent. Now you’d ask what the Grants have to do with it, but art dealers could also dabble in antiques, though there’s no record of their business on the internet.’
‘Right, and every business must have a presence online?’
‘If not a business, at least the person behind it,’ Aileen pressed her point. ‘There’s no mention of Richard, Samantha, Jacob or Anne Grant. At least none who look like the people staying at my inn.’
‘How do you plan on finding out more about the dagger?’
But Callan’s question remained unanswered when footsteps descended the stairs and Martha Smith walked up to the table. Contrary to the last couple of days, she looked put together.
She smiled and said, ‘I didn’t know you were here, Detective.’
‘Had some things I needed to cross-check. Say, Mrs Smith, what’s your educational background?’
‘Educational? Oh well, I studied Psychology.’
‘Where?’
‘Oh um, nowhere you’d know,’ Martha deflected the question.
‘Edinburgh perhaps?’ Callan pressed.
‘A little ways from Edinburgh.’
Callan noticed she twiddled her thumbs and pulled at her jumper. That was what she’d done when he’d interviewed her, even though she’d been crying most of the time. A very prominent nervous tell. What was she nervous about?
‘That’s where you met your husband?’
At that intrusive question, Martha’s lips trembled. She nodded her response with a slight bob of her head.
‘Excuse me.’ She jerked away and walked briskly out the room.
Aileen raised her brow in question. ‘The least you could do is be kind to her.’
‘She’s done nothing but lie this entire time,’ Callan defended himself. He wasn’t an oaf. ‘I’m just trying to figure out the truth.’
A WHILE LATER, CALLAN stood. ‘Thanks for the meal. And let me know what ye find about the knife.’
‘Dagger – it was a dagger.’
Callan performed a mock salute and strode out.
He had a way of walking, Aileen mused. As if there was something not quite right with his right leg...
‘Aileen.’ Samantha Grant walked towards her and took her hand. ‘Richard’s feeling a bit under the weather; could you please fix a tray for him that I could take upstairs?’
‘Sure.’
Aileen was done with all her chores by half past nine, an incredible feat for an innkeeper who provided dinner for her guests. Though perhaps it was something to do with the lack of guests who ventured out of their rooms, Aileen thought, rolling her eyes.
Almost as if they’d heard her, Martha Smith and Anne Grant appeared on the stairs.
‘Mrs Smith. Mrs Grant.’ Aileen’s smile was forced.
‘Oh, we were just about to head to the drawing room!’ Anne informed her.
Martha nodded. ‘Yes, we discovered a joint interest in baking bread!’ She laughed.
Anne waved a rectangular pouch. ‘I’ve got recipes with me. We’re sharing.’
On that happy note, the two walked down as Aileen went up.
Her rooms on the upper floor were as she’d left them. She sighed. She craved a bath, but the dagger was more important.
Perhaps hiring someone to cook would be a good idea – then she’d have more time to do research. She’d barely had a chance to think anything more about it since this afternoon...
Budget, came the flat response.
The phone buzzed; it was Callan.
‘Hello.’
‘Did you check your safe?’
‘The safe? Oh! I completely forgot about it.’
‘Check it right now,’ Callan’s voice boomed through the line.
She opened her closet, removed a drawer out and inserted the key in.
‘It hasn’t been used in forever. No one even knows about it except for Siobhan.’
Callan didn’t respond.
The thick steel door took some effort to pull open. The safe was a tiny one, but Siobhan had come to Loch Fuar with very little.
Aileen studied the contents and smiled at the stack of letters her grandmother had preserved. She knew they were love letters from her grandpa.
And the dust-covered maroon box – the pseudo diamond engagement ring Aileen’s father had told her about. The story had made Aileen’s romantic heart sigh.
Her grandfather hadn’t been a rich man, so he’d purchased a stone that looked like diamond, designed the ring for his lady and then asked her to marry him.
‘It’s all in place,’ she assured Callan.
‘Are you sure? If there’s jewellery, did you open the boxes?’
‘Everything seems to be covered with a thick coating of dust. Won’t there be fingerprints if someone had opened the safe?’
Callan’s voice held annoyance. ‘Open the boxes, Aileen.’
She sighed petulantly, frustrated. ‘Hold on,’ Aileen ordered as she balanced the phone between her shoulder and ear. Reaching for the dusty velvet box, she pulled it open.
Her gasp was loud down the phone.
‘It’s gone!’ she cried. ‘Grandma’s engagement ring’s gone!’
Chapter 11
Aileen slumped on the door in front of her closet. What an idiot she had been!
Hadn’t Aileen always vowed to trust herself? So when the keys weren’t in their place, two times in a row, she should have been suspicious. Besides—
Aileen gasped again. What had happened to the lights? She was cast in pitch darkness.
Aileen held her thoughts on a leash, calmed her mind and perked up her ears: everything was absolutely quiet. Noiselessly, she held the phone’s torch in her hand and tiptoed to her room’s door.
Her boots made muffled sounds on the carpeted floor, then an old plank creaked. It sounded loud in the hush of the night.
There was no other sound, no shouting to indicate the lights had abruptly gone off.
Squaring her shoulders, Aileen walked down the stairs.
A door at the far end of the corridor opened, and she paused.
Heavy footsteps strode towards the stairs, then a torchlight shone in the corridor.
The light beam came closer but Aileen couldn’t see the person behind it.
‘Hello?’ Aileen cleared away the fear in her throat.
The torch jerked, followed by a curse before the voice spoke. ‘Jake Grant. What’s happened?’
‘The lights went out. Let me head over to the main switches.’
Jake followed Aileen as she went into the control room.
Just then she heard a car drive up. It had to be Callan.
Sure enough, heavy footsteps soon raced up the stairs, and another brighter torch appeared and followed them.
‘Everybody okay?’ Callan asked.
Aileen cleared her parched
throat; she had a bad feeling about this. ‘I don’t know. I was just about to check the fuse board.’
But Callan pushed ahead. ‘Darn it! Looks like someone’s turned off the switch for the lights.’
‘But the board’s locked behind—’
The lights blinded them for a moment. Aileen opened her eyes to see Callan give her a look. He turned to Jake. ‘Please head over to the library.’
Another set of footsteps came down the hall. John Cook appeared, and behind him came Martha Smith, along with Anne Grant.
John strode up to them. ‘We were in the drawing room when the lights went out.’
Martha nodded. ‘Yes, we thought the power must have tripped.’
Callan regarded them and caressed his beard.
Jake pointed at Callan. ‘He’s asked us to wait in the library.’
When it was just the two of them, Aileen turned to Callan.
‘Someone turned them off deliberately?’
Callan said not a word. The fuseboard was indeed barricaded inside a locked cabinet. A consummate thief could click the lock open, but he had no doubt that whoever had done it had an entire set of keys. They didn’t need to break in. And only the lights had gone off; the rest of the power had stayed on, so it didn’t seem to be an electrical fault.
‘It’s not a red herring like yesterday’s alarm,’ Callan muttered. His intuition told him something had happened. They were too late.
‘I’m going to knock on everyone’s door. Assemble everyone in the library.’
‘But...’ Before she could argue that she was his partner, Callan was off.
CALLAN KNOCKED ON RICHARD and Samantha Grant’s door first.
He couldn’t hear a thing inside the room, and wasn’t it odd that so many of them were in bed already? He glanced at his watch. It was barely half past ten.
Callan knocked on the door again. This time there was some shuffling before a faint glow of light flickered from under the door and footsteps padded across the room. The door opened slightly and Richard Grant stuffed his face in the meagre crack that appeared.
‘It’s Detective Inspector Callan Cameron. Yer wife and ye safe?’
Richard’s eyes looked around. ‘What’s wrong?’
