When Murder Comes Home

by Shana Frost

  That brought her to why Susan had gone to the unoccupied room. Who had she met up there?

  And all of these questions led to a single one: what was the motive behind it all?

  Aileen drummed her fingers as she picked out her interwoven thoughts. Any one of her guests could be the killer. They just had to have been able to get the drug into the victims...

  She tapped a steady rhythm, her left leg dancing along. The killer had to have had patience, to wait for the right moment to strike.

  Aileen remembered the footsteps she was sure she’d heard at around midnight, the night Dave Smith was murdered. Who could that be?

  Maybe the killer had an ally...

  The speed of her rhythm picked up; her leg began to sway aggressively...

  An ally – perhaps a parent; a spouse? No, that was too obvious and dangerous.

  Could one of her guests be a hired hit? But then there would have had to be a connection between Dave and Susan.

  She thought about Susan and the opportunities someone might have had to dose her with a sleeping drug.

  Suddenly her tapping came to an end. Her legs halted their nervous beat and stilled.

  Aileen pulled open Susan’s financial records Callan had sent her.

  Oh yes, yes!

  Susan wasn’t just a smarty, Aileen peered at those regular payments from the same account, she was a very good blackmailer...

  Aileen stared at her notes again. It couldn’t be, could it?

  CALLAN STILL COULDN’T figure it out, nor did he entirely agree with his theories about the murders.

  He wasn’t an expert on family secrets, but could Beaulieu have plans to sell the diamond ring and keep them from his husband? The chances of him keeping anything from that prick Legrand were minimal.

  And Percy? He’d shared everything with Jake. He’d have to.

  That left Samantha, Anne, Martha and John.

  Did any of them have a motive?

  Samantha had one speeding ticket on her name. How could such a woman kill someone?

  And Samantha’s daughter-in-law was no different. Anne Winston, was a scaredy cat, too frail to handle an incapacitated Susan.

  Legrand, as Callan had put it before, was too snooty to kill someone especially in a way that drew blood. He wouldn’t want blood on his pristine clothes.

  Martha, her life was in obscurity. Jocelyn, that’s what Spiers had called Dave’s partner. But Dave’s murder showed no vengeance. And why would she kill Susan? Unless Dave and Susan were...involved.

  Again Susan’s murder had no vengeance. Generally, a betrayed wife would question the woman with whom her husband had...

  Unless, unless...Jocelyn... Where had he read that name before?

  These murders were a result of jealousy surely, but not the kind that dealt with love. No, the motive was stronger...it was money.

  That left John Cook. He had played the part of a grieving widower but hadn’t shown a flicker of remorse for Martha’s loss.

  Susan had kept secrets from him, perhaps leading to their disagreements,... or had she?

  Callan scrambled over to Susan’s financials.

  One name on his mind — Cook.

  In his desperation, Callan flipped the pages, but couldn’t seem to find the name.

  At wit’s end, he sat back, forcing himself to breathe. There was no use getting agitated. The answer was at his fingertips, he just had to find the evidence.

  Evidence that would implicate John Cook and Martha Smith.

  Or, Callan sneered as the name finally popped onto the page: John Cook and his cousin Jocelyn Cook.

  Jocelyn Cook who’d been paying Susan Knight blackmail money...

  Chapter 15

  Callan sat staring at a sweating Beaulieu. The man grimaced, looking out of place in that plain interview room.

  Jean Beaulieu had spoken – in fact he’d sung like a bird during spring. And lo and behold, Callan had discovered some precious information, though it wasn't about the murders. Now he wanted to know:

  ‘Tell me, Mr.Beaulieu, where is the ring?’

  Beaulieu looked at his lawyer— The man said, ‘What ring, Detective?’

  ‘The one your client planned to steal.’

  Beaulieu blinked, gripping the edge of the table, muttering something in french.

  ‘Ah Mr.Beaulieu, I cannae understand ye. Do you have the ring?’

  Beaulieu shook his head, ‘Non! I don’t know where your ring is.’

  CALLAN WAS DONE WITH interviews. His eyes hurt from all the strain. And his bloody right knee protested from all the pacing.

  But he was as excited as Aileen was.

  Callan stood up and started pacing again, despite his protesting knee.

  Aye, now it made better sense

  Beaulieu didn’t know where the ring was and despite his refusal, he’d met Richard that day to discuss something. Callan could bet his meagre annual salary, it was about the ring.

  Callan rubbed his hands over his worn face.

  One of the guests had to know about the existence of this ring. So why kill two guests to steal it?

  That part bugged him.

  Aye, that itch in his gut was right. The ring and the murders: they weren’t as interwoven as he’d thought them to be.

  Callan stood again and glanced at his murder board. Eight suspects stared back at him. Aileen wasn’t one of them, he was sure. And with what Beaulieu had told him, he was down to a select few.

  In fact, he was down to one.

  Yes – yes it all fit!

  The troubled knee was long forgotten as Callan flew out of his office and off to hunt down the killer.

  AILEEN SAT STARING at her yellow notepad. It all made sense to her now!

  The killer had a strong alibi but also enough motivation to do it. How could Aileen not have seen it before! The lies, the ruse and most importantly the slight flinch in her body language.

  Oh, how it all came together in her head. It explained the footsteps too but Aileen frowned. It didn’t explain the theft of her gran’s ring.

  Maybe Callan could help her piece that part together. In her excitement, Aileen fumbled for her phone, but it wasn’t in her pocket. Where had she put it?

  Just then she heard it – the creak of the floorboards. It sounded close. The hair on the backs of her neck rose, alert.

  As if on cue, the door to her bedroom across the hall opened. It was a distinctive sound.

  Aileen hunched behind the door of her study room and looked around for anything to help her protect herself.

  With a wooden ruler, she stepped out of her tiny study.

  It had been a bad idea to step out. The ruler made her look like a teacher whose bark was way worse than her bite.

  There was a murderer in their midst. A sane human being would have locked themselves in the study and called the police. But in her excitement, Aileen had not only stepped out but moved towards the footsteps, into her bedroom.

  Aileen didn’t turn the lights on. To her utter dismay, it was a moonless night and the blinds were pulled shut. Her eyes struggled to adjust from the stark glow of the lamp in her study room.

  Damn her phone! Where was it when she needed it? If only she could reach Callan.

  A bulb flickered inside her head. The bedside table! That’s where she’d left it to recharge.

  As if hearing her thought, the phone flashed, like a beacon of light at the end of the tunnel. A message. But what the light also revealed was the lone figure standing in the dark abyss at the other end of her bedroom.

  Before Aileen could steel herself, the man lunged at her and she crashed hard on the floor, his bulk squeezing the air out of her lungs.

  Shooting pain zipped through her back, and a huge rough hand landed on her mouth. ‘Quiet,’ a gruff voice threatened. ‘One wrong move, I’ll snap your little neck like a twig.’

  Hot breath washed over Aileen’s face. It felt like the breath of a demon from hell. Somewhere in the dark, death loo
med over her.

  ‘You thought you were so clever? Assisting that twat and staring me down during that shit you call dinner.’

  Was this it? Would he end her? He had to. She knew who he was; she’d recognise that voice anywhere, and he hadn’t dared mask his disinterested tone. Only now his voice sounded colder than the frozen water of Loch Fuar in the peak of winter.

  A shudder ran down her spine; Aileen felt her hands going cold.

  Fear – this is what real fear felt like. This was the end.

  Aileen struggled but she had no chance. Her fidgeting landed her nowhere close to freeing her legs, and he’d pinned both her wrists with one hand.

  ‘Shut up, you bitch!’

  Was it wise to talk to him? Try to coax him into letting her go?

  He pressed her head further into the ground and her back screamed with terrifying sparks of pain. Her hands started to fall dead from the lack of blood supply.

  A crash sounded from down below, and a heavy stomping of feet told her someone was approaching.

  But was it a foe or a friend?

  Her captor released the grip on her mouth only to wrap his iron-like paws around her throat.

  ‘What did you do?’ He banged her head on the floor as if she were a rag doll.

  Aileen fought for dear breath. She almost gagged; her head sang with pain.

  In his fury, the man’s grip on her wrists lessened. Struggling but still tenacious, Aileen found her opportunity to strike. With all her might, she jabbed her elbow into his head. It was a blind strike but his grip on her throat loosened.

  Gulping in as much oxygen as she could, Aileen shoved her hands into his chest.

  Someone banged on the door but it didn’t budge.

  Encouraged by her success, Aileen used her elbow again, trying to set at least one of her legs free. But her attacker was ready – he caught her and twisted her arm at a bad angle. Aileen swore she heard something snap and howled with pain.

  Another crash sounded in the distance, and the pounding on her door began again.

  Blood roared in Aileen’s ears, deafening her to any other sounds apart from her own war cry.

  She tumbled over, rolling across the floor. Her throat burned and her vision didn’t seem right even in the dark. Her elbows hurt where they’d been scraped raw, and so did her knees. Everything hurt.

  But adrenaline throbbed through Aileen’s body, flooding her muscles with energy. She jumped up on her feet to attack the man.

  But she lost her footing as the door to her left flew off its hinges and another burly figure barged in.

  The shadow lunged towards her attacker. She could barely make out what was happening, but the sounds told her they fought vigorously.

  Stumbling over her numb feet, with a flicker of determination egging her on, Aileen found her way to the light switch.

  Fumbling and cursing, she turned it on.

  Everything went still for a moment as bright light blinded the room.

  After a brief pause, the two men on the floor continued to wrestle.

  Never before had she had a man fight for her – now there were two brawling in her bedroom. That amusing thought went out the door when John Cook shoved Callan away.

  The detective countered with a punch to John’s face but he deflected with a blow of his own. They went at each other again, panting heavily.

  A few splatters of blood flew across the room. A second later, blood oozed out of John’s nose. Callan was in no better shape, his own river of blood staining the front of his black shirt.

  What could be done when an officer of the law was in a wrestling match with a murderer?

  When John punched Callan so hard that he landed on his back, Aileen’s revved body acted on its own accord.

  She didn’t know how she did it, especially with no practice.

  Forgetting her own aches and pains, Aileen jumped forward and raised her leg to strike. Her kick landed where it had meant to – below John Cook’s belt. It might have been the oldest trick in the book but it worked.

  Apparently her limbs weren’t done. Perhaps the frustration of the previous days had caught up to her, but like a ninja, Aileen thrust a second hard kick at the same spot.

  That had her former captor crumbling to the ground with a loud howl.

  While the old Aileen would have doubted her actions, this Aileen smirked with vengeance on her face.

  She glimpsed at Callan, who was still sprawled on the floor, his trouser legs hitched up to his calves. A shocked gasp escaped her before he covered his legs back up. He’d walked differently alright but she’d never have guessed he was an amputee!

  Of course there was a story there, but some stories were personal, and no matter how curious she was, she’d developed a new respect for Callan throughout all this – he was more than he let on beneath that black broody facade. He could tell her about it when he was ready, whenever that might be.

  For now, she’d just enjoy feeling superhuman while it lasted.

  CALLAN JUMPED UP, GOT his handcuffs out and looked at John with some pity, making a note never to get on Aileen’s nerves. The women in the Mackinnon family weren’t to be messed with. Especially the woman who stood panting beside him.

  He’d watched in awe, his jaw hanging open, as she’d slammed her foot into John Cook’s weakest part not once but twice. The poor sod was still wriggling on the floor screaming bloody murder, his tears evidence of his burning pain. Maybe, Callan thought, that was exactly what he deserved after killing one man and then his own lady love.

  He’d definitely add this unusual end to his report.

  He looked at Aileen with a shrewd smile. ‘I’ll call Robert up, ask him to get another set of handcuffs along. We’ll need them for Martha Smith.’

  Aileen grinned back at him, apparently only too eager to put this horrid business behind her.

  As if on their own accord, Callan’s right hand slipped into Aileen’s. He squeezed...in reassurance? Callan certainly hoped so.

  He felt blood seep out of the cut on his lips. Callan knew he’d have to explain things to the innkeeper soon. But for now, he huffed out a satisfactory breath, ready to lead the unwelcome killer away from home.

  WHAT A NIGHT! LOCH Fuar’s entire police force had descended on her doorstep, though Aileen’s mind had shut off somewhere between Rory Macdonald arriving and Callan leading the two criminals out of Dachaigh. She ached all over, barely able to stand upright.

  Rory Macdonald had assembled everyone in the drawing room. He paced, maintaining a vigil, not for invaders but for the group he guarded.

  Samantha and Anne stood looking silently out into the night, while Jake had tried his best to argue with Rory, demanding Percy’s return. Aileen would never have thought the white-haired, grandfatherly superior police officer could be so cold and assertive. He’d shut Jake down immediately.

  RORY NOW REGARDED THE young Aileen Mackinnon. She’d proved herself a resourceful individual. Siobhan had been right about her grandchild; Aileen had indeed risen to the challenge and emerged victorious, despite the nefarious plans of her guests.

  The Winstons, he observed, stood tall with pride, as if no one could touch them. As if the dark cloud had passed.

  His grandweans might have thought he was a pushover, but Rory knew how to keep an eye on things. He’d reviewed those interviews Callan had conducted, and he had noticed the same pride in all of the men questioned: Jean Beaulieu, Louis Legrand and Percy Winston.

  They’d each smirked, looked superior and hidden behind their stiff-collared lawyers. What they didn’t know was they’d been digging their own graves, and now that Callan had just come striding back into the drawing room, the cat would soon be out of the bag.

  CALLAN GAVE RORY A quick nod before his gaze fell on Aileen. She looked beat. Her trousers were ripped and so were the sleeves of her shirt, while her hair looked like a rooster had nested in it. He was sure she’d have her fair share of bruises tomorrow.

  The res
t of this lot, well... he was going to relish this...

  ‘Hand the ring over, and you’ll see the light of day quicker.’

  Jake jerked upright as if he’d been slapped.

  ‘Excuse me?’ he spat.

  Callan relaxed his posture, a smirk playing on his lips. ‘You can drop the accent too. Your father did.’

  Jake took a defensive pose, as if readying for a fight. ‘This is how I talk—’

  ‘I’ve got a report to write, people to book with murder and I want the ring that belongs to Ms Mackinnon’s grandmother. I know you have it; you know you have it. Save me time and hand it over.’

  ‘He’s no thief!’ Samantha Winston jumped to her son’s rescue. She’d dropped her fake accent.

  Callan let it go and instead turned to Anne. ‘I can have you checked or you could show me the golden chain you have tucked under your shirt, Mrs Winston.’

  Anne didn’t move.

  ‘I’m calling our lawyer,’ Samantha began.

  ‘Go ahead and do that. I’ve got evidence and witnesses willing to speak.’

  Anne raised a trembling hand to the thin golden chain around her neck and gripped it tight.

  ‘There’s no evidence,’ she mumbled.

  ‘It won’t do ye any good to protect them,’ Callan told her, nodding to the rest of her family. ‘All they’ll do is pin this on ye and walk away.’

  Jake finally spoke, flustered, ‘She wears that chain every day. You cannot put the blame on an innocent woman.’

  ‘Then please show us what that chain holds.’

  It was an open challenge. With two members of the police force in attendance, Jake could do nothing. He’d declared Anne innocent for all to hear.

  Anne’s gaze flittered from Samantha to Jake. She looked unsure, shaking like a timid bird.

  ‘Come on, lassie,’ Rory urged her in a grandfatherly way. ‘Nothing to worry about if ye’re innocent.’