When Murder Comes Home

by Shana Frost

  Aileen rolled her eyes as she set her purse on the kitchen counter. More security cameras would be a pain. Just like her car tyres, they would take a while to arrive and she would need a technician to fix them up.

  Daniel could handle the wiring but they’d need an IT technician to connect the cameras up to her servers.

  And the keys, Aileen smiled to herself. Like Callan had told her, she needed to be careful about those as well.

  Thinking about keys, Aileen was reminded of the blackout. Why had it been necessary?

  Jake Winston had been roaming about that night, and he had no alibi – his wife had been with John Cook and Martha Smith.

  There were just too many links that didn’t add up.

  The other anomaly that bugged her was about the drug. Susan Knight was an intelligent woman. Visiting an unfinished room was odd enough, but accepting a drink from someone she didn’t know? In an inn where someone had been killed?

  And from what they knew, Susan hadn’t suffered from insomnia or any problems of that sort.

  Aileen hated confusion. When in doubt, she thought it was best to list down all your outstanding questions and details. She’d followed this practice through all her tough cases, and this time would be no different.

  CALLAN HAD LONG UNDERSTOOD that shifts at the police station were non-existent. Especially when the police only had a three-man army.

  Rory had had to leave because he had his grandweans to babysit, and Robert Davis had a newborn Callan didn’t think he should be away from.

  And anyway, hadn’t he craved a real case when he’d had to stay late at the station just to resolve the issue of where Douglas’s cat had disappeared to?

  Callan spread his legs as he slumped on his swivelling chair. It had been quite the day.

  In fact, it had been a while since he’d been in a formal interview, grilling murder suspects. And now he’d interviewed three suspects in one day.

  Percy Winston had been easy enough to break, but Louis Legrand and Jean Beaulieu... He didn’t know what to do about those two. They’d asked for a lawyer immediately, and those lawyers were now discussing matters with them, in separate interviewing rooms.

  Callan needed a strategy to work them. Perhaps he could ask Rory to return, or even Robert might be helpful, though neither of them had had much experience with murder.

  The emails Charles Wyatt had provided were enough to prove that the diamond belt had been in the possession of Legrand and Beaulieu. The two Frenchmen had to talk to Callan about that.

  When Callan entered Room A, he found Legrand sitting absolutely erect beside his even stiffer lawyer. The Frenchman gave him a look of disinterest, but Callan knew it was a disguise for fear. He feared being caught.

  The lawyer assessed Callan down his long pointy nose. He looked like he’d rather be anywhere else.

  His thin-lipped mouth opened. ‘Mr Legrand would like to cooperate with you if—’

  The lawyer broke off when Callan waved his hands.

  ‘I need to know yer client has the information I need before I make a deal.’ Callan sat back in the squeaky chair and folded his left leg over the right. ‘I’ve proof that the weapon used to murder Susan Knight belonged to your client. How long will it take for me to pin this on him... or perhaps on his spouse?’

  His last words got a reaction out of Legrand; he jerked up in his chair and finally met Callan’s graze. ‘Jean didn’t do anything!’ His voice was like the crack of a whip.

  A small smile played on Callan’s lips. ‘Oh?’ He looked at Legrand. ‘How would ye know that?’

  The lawyer propped his hand in between the two over the table. As if timing out the first bout in a boxing match.

  Like he was explaining to a small child, the lawyer met Callan’s gaze and said, ‘Detective, I assure you what my client has to say will be of assistance to you.’

  Callan’s chuckle sounded like the Devil’s, echoing around the room. ‘So he knows who’s the killer?’

  Legrand and his lawyer looked at each other. The lawyer piped in, ‘No, but we know who isn’t.’

  Callan leaned forward with both elbows on the desk. ‘Telling me your client had nothing to do with murder isn’t enough.’

  ‘Detective, we have logical reasoning for that claim.’

  ‘Aye?’ Callan mocked.

  ‘As long as you keep this off the record, my client will cooperate.’

  ‘Him not cooperating will land him in a deeper puddle than he’s in now.’

  Legrand fidgeted in his chair, turned to his lawyer and said, ‘Don’t play with my life!’

  Righting himself in his chair, the lawyer continued, ‘Detective, my clients are well known in their fields as jewellers. Such a scandal would—’

  ‘Talk first – we’ll consider a deal later. Unless your client’s killed people. Then there’s no mercy for him.’

  ‘I haven’t!’ came a stubborn mumble.

  ‘You willing to talk now, Legrand?’ Callan mocked him.

  ‘Detective, please. Let me explain this for you.’

  The lawyer’s snotty accent was getting on Callan’s nerves.

  He made a tsk sound and told him, ‘It better be good.’

  AILEEN COULDN’T WAIT to get dinner out of the way so she could get back to investigating.

  Jake and Anne sat at the table, holding hands but not speaking, each lost in their own thoughts. Samantha had retired to bed, saying her head ached.

  Martha Smith walked in – more like sauntered in – and walked up to the kitchen counter to Aileen. ‘Do you bake your own bread?’

  Aileen laughed. ‘I’m no good at baking. My friend Isla is the genius.’

  ‘Oh!’ Martha laughed as well. ‘Does she own the bakery in town?’

  ‘Aye, have you been there?’

  ‘I walked past it. I love walking around town.’ Martha waved her hand, dismissing the topic, then steered away as if avoiding Aileen all together. Something wasn’t right.

  Why did she look so sure of herself today? Where was the grieving widow? And surely a person fond of baking bread would have ventured into the bakery rather than just passing by?

  Aileen drummed her fingers on the counter. What was it that Martha had said once before about the kitchen?

  I wouldn’t know where to begin

  So what was she doing with Anne Grant the night Susan was killed? Could they be discussing bread or something more? Perhaps, Aileen bit her lips, it was a ruse to ensure they had alibis. Could Anne have dragged Martha along just so she’d be accounted for at the time of the murder?

  The Winstons were indeed playing a sinister game.

  The oil she’d lined the pot with shimmered. The crackle distracted Aileen from her unceasing thoughts.

  She hoped spaghetti and meatballs would lift her guests’ spirits. At least those guests who weren’t at the police station.

  Once she was done, she would get to that list of questions she’d vowed to make earlier. That would help her sort this nasty business out.

  IN TOWN THE SUN BEGAN to bid farewell for the day, but Callan was still making hay. He was even enjoying it.

  Legrand’s lawyer was just like his client. That made Callan remember all those funny online posts about dogs and their owners looking alike. The lawyer was clearly expensive, which just told Callan that his client was no stranger to legal issues.

  The lawyer cleared his throat at the small smile on Callan’s face.

  Callan spoke. ‘Let’s hear the tale then. Keep it short so I don’t doze off.’

  ‘Detective!’ The lawyer sat straighter as his attitude turned indignant. ‘I assure you it’s not a tale.’

  He continued after a pause, as if preparing for his impending speech.

  ‘My client came to Loch Fuar for business. As I told you before, he is a revered jeweller. Legrand and Beaulieu have high-paying clients who admire them for their discretion and their efficiency.’

  The lawyer pointed to the emails Charles
had provided. ‘Charles Wyatt is a new customer and thus my client agreed to come up to the Highlands to hand over his piece.’

  ‘When did this happen?’

  ‘They spoke on the phone and decided to meet at the cottage on the edges of the loch. Wyatt owns the place, and it is discreet enough to conduct such delicate business.’

  Callan nodded.

  ‘My client and his spouse – who is also his business partner –took a flight from London to Glasgow, then boarded the train to Loch Fuar. They flew premium class and used the first-class compartment in the train. They were the only ones there, no other passengers. In the train.’

  ‘And from the station?’

  ‘My client had hired a car. They’d need one to get to the cottage.’

  ‘And why was the transfer of the belt delicate business?’

  ‘Detective,’ the lawyer admonished, ‘it’s a diamond-studded belt made from the most exquisite stones. It’s worth a lot.’

  ‘So why risk bringing it here?’

  ‘For discretion’

  ‘Who knew about this exchange?’

  The lawyer cast a look at Legrand, who stared impassively at the desk.

  ‘Just Mr Legrand and Mr Beaulieu.’

  Callan narrowed his eyes, ‘Are you sure? None of their employees had a clue?’

  ‘No, this visit was classified as a holiday in their calendar.’

  ‘But a holiday this isn’t.’

  Callan placed a picture of the diamond belt on the table.

  ‘Tell me what happened to the belt’

  ‘My client: Mr Legrand and Mr Beaulieu had come over to the Highlands to conduct business. They were to go over to the cottage to meet Charles Wyatt. The night before they’d agreed to meet, Mr Beaulieu opened the case to make sure everything was in place.’

  ‘And was it?’

  ‘I’m afraid not. The belt was gone and someone had broken the case.’

  Callan scratched all this down in his notebook. ‘Why didn’t they report this to the police?’

  The lawyer sat up straighter, ‘As I said, Wyatt wanted to practice discretion. Going to the police would have alerted the world about the theft and essentially tarnished my clients’ reputation.’

  ‘Instead they kept mum?’

  The lawyer shook his head. ‘So they asked Charles Wyatt for more time.'

  Callan let out a breath. ‘And how had they kept the diamond-studded belt guarded the entire time?’

  ‘My clients never left the belt alone, and they hadn’t let anyone clean their room. But the night of the alarm, they’d found their bedroom window open.’

  WHEN CALLAN FINALLY closed the door behind him, his entire body craved a hit of coffee. So he brewed one and stood in front of the murder board.

  The interview with Legrand had been a long one. And he still had to talk with Beaulieu. But the more information Callan gathered, the more he was sure that the Frenchmen seemed incapable of murder.

  For one, they were too snotty. And for another, murder was messy. Legrand was so concerned about his reputation, there was no way he’d risk that sort of scandal. He was the sort who’d pay a professional to do it for him, if he did ever need to get rid of someone. And he would be nowhere near the murder scene; he just wasn’t that sort of a person.

  Beaulieu, Callan mused, was an oddball. He did show some compassion but adopted Legrand’s attitude whenever it pleased him.

  Callan made sure he drank the last drop of his coffee before he headed to the next interview. He was knackered!

  DINNER HAD BEEN ANOTHER quiet affair.

  John Cook had played with his food but had managed to eat some after Martha Smith urged him on. Perhaps, Aileen mused, their shared experience of losing a spouse had formed a connection between them.

  Jake and Anne had retired upstairs, still not having spoken a single word apart from the ‘thank you’ and ‘goodnight’. They continued to speak in Canadian accents, never once breaking the act.

  Aileen looked out the kitchen window. The green moors were turning dark as the sun set under the horizon, the waters of the loch falling silent after glittering under the sun all day.

  What had Jake been up to the night the lights went off? And why did Percy think he couldn’t have committed the murder?

  And why Susan, a female rights activist? All the news articles Aileen had found spoke highly about her. She had made a huge impact, especially in the lives of women who’d found themselves with no money or shelter over their heads, though she supposed Susan would also have made enemies among those women’s abusive ex-partners.

  But all in all she was a likeable person. So why murder her? What was the motive?

  And seeing all the nastiness in the world, she’d have been a careful woman. Would such a woman have accepted a drink from another guest when they were all under investigation for murder? Had someone threatened her?

  They were all just questions. But somewhere in her head, her mind screamed. It told her the answer was right there, waiting to be found.

  But she couldn’t see it. She could only ask more questions. Who had drugged Dave Smith? Had they also drugged Martha so she wouldn’t walk in on the murderer? Could Jake have slipped something in their drinks at dinner?

  CALLAN SCRATCHED HIS chin. He’d underestimated Beaulieu but now he’d asked the right questions, he was finally getting some answers. The thing was, his answers matched exactly with Legrand’s. They didn’t seem rehearsed – just the truth.

  Except Beaulieu had told him he’d left the window slightly ajar the night the alarm had sounded. The room had turned too stuffy for him.

  ‘And what’s your client’s relationship with Mr Percy Winston?’

  ‘My client doesn’t know any Percy Winston.’ Compared to Legrand’s snooty lawyer, this one spoke like a robot in a monotone voice. It was only the rise and fall of his chest that told Callan he was indeed human.

  ‘Does your client know Richard Grant then?’

  ‘Not personally he doesn’t. Mr Grant is staying at the inn, a few rooms down from my client.’

  ‘But they were seen together in the tea room in town, nice and cosy.’

  Callan flashed his teeth when the lawyer called it a bluff.

  ‘Ye should know, people in a small town such as this one thrive on gossip, and they don’t like the ugly stamp of murder on their home either. And Barbara’s a good friend of mine. So she told me.’ As had Aileen, but he didn’t want to bring her name into it.

  The lawyer waved a hand. ‘It was a brief run-in.’

  Callan laughed. ‘Having a good blether the entire afternoon? That’s hardly brief. I’ve got multiple witnesses that say you had yer heads stuck together for hours as ye poured over some papers.’

  At that revelation, the lawyer asked for another consultation with his client.

  But Callan’s smile only grew bigger as he exited the room. He knew he’d got Beaulieu good and proper; the man had definitely committed a crime, but was it murder? Callan wasn’t sure.

  AT LONG LAST AILEEN trudged up the stairs, glad to be finally retiring to her chambers. She promised herself a nice warm soak in her bathtub when this case was behind her. It wouldn’t be much longer, she hoped.

  She could feel the stress building up in her shoulders. These were trying times, but they’d taught her a lot. Like security and its importance. Aileen sneered at herself.

  Opening the door to her small study, she slumped on the chair in front of her laptop. Her own laptop was so much better than the computer at the police station. But even if the police-issued computer was old and clunky, at least it gave her quick and ethical access to police files.

  Aileen pulled out her classic yellow notepad; it was what she always used to sort things out. Though funnily enough, she hadn’t used it when she’d taken the decision to move to Loch Fuar. This move had been a quick, impromptu one, but despite the current circumstances, the decision had still been a good one.

  She thought about th
e positives: she owned an inn, had made a best friend, could breathe in fresh Highland air every day and admire the shimmering stars in the night sky, so much more vivid here than in the city.

  Letting out a breath, she brought herself to the present.

  She listed down the names of her guests and thought about each of them.

  The stiff-backed Legrand, and his shorter more compassionate spouse Beaulieu.

  Richard Grant, aka Percy Winston, and his entire family, who’d lied about their identity. Why had they done that?

  That brought her to Dave Smith, the first murdered guest. Thinking back to the scene she’d discovered sent a shiver down her spine.

  His wife was a weird sort. She’d cried alright, but there was something she seemed to be hiding. It was in her stance and the way she spoke. If she hadn’t been drugged, why would a wife spend the night sleeping in an uncomfortable chair when she’d come on holiday with her husband? Hadn’t they wanted to enjoy the weekend together? His birthday weekend at that.

  Aileen thought back to that night and the strange disappearance of her keys.

  Just to make sure, she jingled the keys in her right trouser pocket. They hadn’t disappeared again. Whoever had snatched them – taken them twice no less – had completed their work.

  Who had stolen her grandmother’s ring? And who could have known it was worth stealing in the first place?

  Lastly Aileen noted down the name John Cook. What was he up to in this entire rigmarole? He was a lawyer, someone who worked for women’s rights. It was how he’d met his wife.

  But he wasn’t the most personable man. He hadn’t mingled with the other guests, though not everyone wanted to talk to strangers. She knew enough about the need some people had to be left alone – sometimes she was one of them.

  Her last guest, and the second murder victim, Susan Knight, was another mystery, though she’d seemed friendlier than John.

  The woman she’d spoke to at the shelter had mentioned a fight, though they’d seemed civilised with each other. Maybe it was just work pressure that had wedged a problem in their relationship. They’d come to Loch Fuar to get away from work, hadn’t they? John had mentioned so to Callan.