Precious: A Humorous Romantic Cozy Mystery (Amber Reed Celebrity Crimes Investigation Agency Mystery Book 2)

by Zanna Mackenzie

  “So what do we know about this guy?” Martha asks.

  I feel as though she’s taken over the cottage. Her stuff is everywhere and now she’s commandeered the kitchen and is making us all dinner. I’ve also noticed that she is flirting full tilt with Charlie while pretty much ignoring me. Except for asking me to fetch her stuff.

  Would you be an angel and fetch me the chicken from the fridge, Amber? Would you mind fetching some rosemary from the little herb garden at the side of the cottage for me, Amber?

  She’s asking so politely that if a stranger walked into this kitchen they probably wouldn’t sense the subtle but there none-the-less undercurrents between the two of us. But I do sense them and I know what she’s up to. I know she sees me as her assistant, someone to run her errands while she works closely with Charlie to solve the case of the ex-pop star washed up on the beach.

  I hand her the chicken and fetch the herbs as requested. What else can I do? I know I’m new to all of this and I don’t have her years of experience. I’m here to learn and I want to be actively involved in finding out what happened to Flynn Garrison. The CCIA might want their best agents on this case so have sent Martha to partner Charlie but I’m not going to be pushed out.

  Charlie rests his perfect jean-clad bottom against the kitchen counter and folds his arms. “We know he was lead singer with one of the top pop groups until almost two years ago when he quit. He left the band, called Dynamo Monsoon, and decided to make use of his geology degree instead. This past year he’s been one of the presenters on a science show on TV. He’s also been contracted to do some research and development consultancy work by an Edinburgh university.”

  Martha arches one of her perfect eyebrows. “What kind of research work?”

  “We aren’t sure yet,” I chip in.

  “Married? Kids?” Martha asks as she slices potatoes ready to go in the oven for roasting.

  “Records show he’s been married to a woman called Melissa for three years,” I answer. “No children. They must have married pretty young, him and this Melissa. He would only have been twenty six on his next birthday.”

  “I wonder what made him quit the group?” Charlie ponders. “What happened two years ago to make him walk away from the band, from being famous? Something must have triggered it.”

  “Yes, that’s another thing we need to get some answers on,” Martha says.

  “I’m planning on quizzing the locals, see what I can find out about him, when he arrived, where he was staying,” Charlie says. “See if he had any local connections. Why was he here on Farra?”

  Martha nods her approval.

  “Fine. Tomorrow I’ll access his bank records to see if that offers any clues about our victim. In the meantime, this meal will take half hour or so to cook so I’m off for a quick shower.”

  She turns towards me and adds, “I trust I can leave you in charge of checking nothing burns?”

  I want to tell her exactly what she can do but silently count to five before nodding. Be professional. Martha is a work colleague. You have to behave civilly towards her, I tell myself. No matter how much you might want to shove her onto the first ferry back to the mainland.

  As soon as the bathroom door clicks shut Charlie grabs me from behind. “Who are you and what have you done with my girlfriend?”

  I pretend to try to wrestle free from his grasp as he starts to tickle me. I spin round in his arms and he backs me up against the fridge freezer.

  “I don’t know what you mean,” I say as I run my hands up his neck and into his hair. He had it cut just last week. I think it’s a little too short at the back but the front is still just about long enough to look all desirably tousled when he gets out of bed in the morning.

  OK. OK. I know I was the one who proclaimed there was to be no funny business between Charlie and me while Miss Martha is around but I can already feel my resistance weakening. “She can try to wind me up all she likes but I won’t retaliate. I will remain calm and unflustered and I will prove to her I’m every bit as useful on this case as she is. I can do this job.”

  Charlie grins at me. “That’s my girl! For a moment there I was getting worried.”

  We both hear the electric shower click on and buzz into life in the bathroom down the corridor. Our eyes meet and I know we’re thinking the same thing. We have the chance for ten minutes of quality time while Martha is out of the way.

  I stand on tiptoe and trace fingers over Charlie’s jet black hair. The kiss we share is urgent and hungry and he presses me further back against the fridge. I need Charlie’s warmth and comfort and reassurance. Want him to hold me. Erase images of the beach. Of Flynn Garrison. I need to be distracted. Hands, lips and tongues explore, finding the particular spots we know we each like, the spots we have discovered during the six months we’ve been a couple.

  Admittedly, due to Charlie’s work with the CCIA and my agency training, we didn’t get to spend the whole six months together but even so…

  However much later we hear the shower click off. I ease away from Charlie and send him a we-have-to-behave-now look. To his credit he does just that. He releases me and I tidy up my ponytail as he tucks his shirt back into his jeans. I sniff the air and realise I totally forgot to check the oven – is that burning I can smell?

  Opening the oven door I poke and prod the roast potatoes and vegetables with a spoon. Some of them are a little charred around the edges. Oh well… I’ll just have to work harder to prove to Miss Beautiful that, despite what she thinks, I am a capable modern woman. Well, some of the time I am…

  I hear the bathroom door open and stand up, closing the oven, in time to see Martha sashay – and no, I’m not exaggerating or being bitchy, there is no other word for it – down the corridor from the bathroom to her bedroom wearing nothing but the tiniest of bath towels. Her long tanned legs seem to go on forever and her generous cleavage is almost spilling over the top of the white towel.

  She turns as she reaches her bedroom door and the towel - on purpose I am sure - slips ever so slightly, revealing yet more 36DD, before she clasps it to her bosom.

  “Oops,” she laughs and then winks at Charlie in full view of me before disappearing inside her room.

  Instantly I turn to see if Charlie took in that whole little scene – after all, she clearly performed it especially for his benefit. He’s standing looking slightly dazed. I clear my throat and he pulls his gaze away from the bedroom door and back to me.

  Yep, he saw her little show all right.

  “I’ll check on the oven,” he says, turning his back to me.

  Great. Now I not only have to prove myself worthy of working for the CCIA but also have to prove it to a man-eating six-foot blonde goddess with designs on my boyfriend.

  Chapter Three

  “He’s a regular around these parts,” Hillary Campbell, who runs the village shop, says as she arranges tins of baked beans on shelves. For a moment she looks thoughtful as though she’s adding something up in her head. “Sometimes it’s only a few days he stays. Other times it’s a week or more. His visits were getting more and more frequent though. He pretty much lived here for most of the past month or so.”

  This, I’ve realised this morning, is one of the advantages of investigating a suspicious death on a small Scottish island. Everybody knows everyone else’s business. Unfortunately, one of the disadvantages is that they’re often reluctant to talk about said business, especially to strangers, to outsiders, people like Charlie and me.

  “Where did he stay when he was visiting Farra?” Charlie asks. “Hotel? B&B?”

  “No, he had his own home. A tiny converted crofter’s cottage a few miles outside the village. In the middle of nowhere it is but I think he liked that. One to keep himself to himself since he quit being famous.”

  I glance out of the window and think, isn’t everywhere on this island in the middle of nowhere? This village is the only significant (by Farra standards) collection of houses on this side of the island
. The bleak landscape consists of low-rise white and grey houses dotted amongst hillocks of windswept moorland with the occasional single track road to break it up.

  “I remember what it was like when we all found out he’d got a house here. At the time there was some mention in the press about it,” she continues. “We had a few photographers come and take pictures of him on the island. They soon lost interest though when they found out he was here doing his uninteresting geological and environmental stuff, not writing songs to launch a solo career like they were all expecting him to do. It’s not often Farra makes national news. In fact, it’s only happened twice as far as I can recall.”

  “Was he always alone when he visited the island?” I ask, leaning on the shop counter.

  Charlie interrupts. “You said Farra has made national news twice. Once with Flynn Garrison - what was the other time?”

  She smiles. “Ah. That was back in the nineteen nineties when someone found gemstones on the island. Sapphires. Not that many in the grand scheme of things but enough to get people interested.”

  “So, you were telling us about Flynn,” I say, trying to get the conversation back on track.

  “When he first came to Farra he used to stay at the Stone House Hotel near the harbour on the other side of the island.” The woman straightens herself upright and rubs her back. “Then he began renting a cottage up on the estate at the Big House. Apparently a woman used to regularly visit him there. Only been the last year or so that he got his own property. After that he’d arrive alone and then the woman would turn up with a youngster soon after. Nobody knows who she is.”

  “You said when he first came here,” Charlie interrupts. “How long ago was that?”

  “Must have been around two years ago I’d say. He was still in that music group back then. Used to come here for some peace and quiet he always said.”

  I step forward, eager to know more. “This big house you mention, where is that?”

  “It’s where the family live who own most of the land on Farra. Every Scottish country estate or island has a Big House. We even still have a laird, Rory McDonald. We’re all quite keen on history on Farra. We hold on to our traditions.”

  “I think we’ll go and have a look around up there,” Charlie says. “Where is it?”

  “Take the road towards the centre of the island and the village of Bredar. You’ll see the sign saying Farra House. Go up the track and you’ll come to the Big House. Rhona McQuire would be the woman to talk to. She’s housekeeper and looks after all the rental accommodation they have.”

  “Thanks, we’ll head up there later this morning,” I chip in. “For now, back to this woman who was usually around with Garrison. You said people didn’t recognise her so I take it she’s not a local?”

  “No definitely not. Around these parts we know and look out for each other. She definitely wasn’t a local but there was something about her which looked a bit familiar. Probably just got one of those faces I suppose. She never came into the shop with him when he called to buy provisions. I did see them together on the beach many a time and in his car too.”

  “Was she with him on this last visit?” I ask eagerly.

  She pauses, looking around her store with an air of expectation.

  Charlie reaches for a basket and starts to add bits of groceries to it. A few more packets of chocolate biscuits (yay!) and another couple of bottles of wine.

  I watch Hillary as Charlie continues to fill his basket.

  “Yes she was. Look, I really shouldn’t be saying this but…”

  Ahhh. I see. Charlie, quite rightly as it turns out, has guessed Hillary will be more amenable if we spent some money in her store.

  Charlie puts another bottle of wine in the basket and then stops and smiles invitingly at Hillary. She flushes a little under his gaze and clears her throat. I should probably explain Charlie’s smile is one of the first things I noticed about him when we met. It has the ability to make females of all ages feel a bit hot and flustered and even a little weak at the knees. It should probably have an X-rated warning on it.

  “He never said anything about her? Mentioned a name? Who she was?” Charlie prompts.

  “Not her name no.” She actually looks apologetic that she doesn’t have this information to share with Charlie.

  “What can you remember about her? Younger or older than him? Hair colour? Any particular physical characteristics?” he continues with his questioning.

  For a moment she looks thoughtful again. “I think she was probably about the same age as him. She always wore a hat when I saw her but I think she had long dark hair. Quite pretty. They often had the child with them like I said. A boy I think but they were all usually so wrapped up against the weather it was tricky to be sure. I thought I might have heard her call the little lad Luke when he was running and playing on the beach once.”

  “Did this woman stay at his cottage with him?” Charlie asks and we exchange a glance. I know we’re both wondering the same thing. Who was the mystery woman? Was he perhaps having an affair? Is she somehow involved in his demise?

  “Yes, it seems so. I think she stayed with him.”

  “You’re sure?” Charlie persists.

  The woman looks offended, as though we have insulted her neighbourhood watch skills. Come to think of it, we probably have. “Well, I know the local accommodation providers, and the woman and the little boy didn’t stay with any of them or they’d have mentioned it.”

  “How can we find this house he owned? You did say he owned it right? He didn’t rent it?” Charlie asks.

  “Definitely owned.” The woman nods. “I remember when the house was sold about two years ago.”

  “Where is it? On the main road out of the village?” I ask, adding my most persuasive smile. Not that there are many other roads but there are some tracks leading off the main lane.

  “Yes. Go out of the village past the pub and it’s the white house on its own about a mile down the road. Called Taigh An Fhraoich.”

  “Sorry? It’s called what?” I’m hopeless at these Gaelic names. I reach for my notebook and pen. “Could you spell that please?”

  She spells it out for me and I stare at the words in my sparkly pink notebook.

  “Heather Cottage in other words,” she adds. “You’ll see the sign on the gate of the house.”

  “OK, well, thanks, you’ve been very helpful,” Charlie says, beaming her another one of his smiles.

  “Yes, thanks very much, Hillary,” I add.

  Outside we head for the car. It’s raining. Again.

  “Who do you reckon this mystery woman is then?” I ask as I reach for my seatbelt. “Farra is a strange place to come to when you’re having an affair and want to keep a low profile. You’d be better going somewhere more anonymous where people don’t notice each other. ”

  “True enough. Obviously there was something which kept bringing him back here. Just one of the many things we need to get to the bottom of.”

  We head out of the village and after checking the mileage Charlie slows the car. “This is about a mile out of the village. Must be that house up ahead.”

  He pulls the car into a rough track driveway, the gate already open. We check the black name plaque screwed to the gate. To be doubly sure I lift my notepad and crosscheck it with the sign. Yep. This is it. Taigh An Fhraoich.

  “What now?” I say but Charlie is already getting out of the car and heading towards the door of the cottage.

  “Charlie!” I clamber from the 4x4 and follow him. “We can’t just…” I’m about to say break in but he’s standing at the door and checking the handle. It’s unlocked.

  “Nobody locks their house or car doors on an island like this,” he says. “But just to be sure nobody is around…”

  He opens the door and calls inside. “Hello? Anybody at home?”

  Silence echoes through the house as we wait for a response.

  “Come on, coast is clear.” He disappears inside, me cl
ose behind him. “All the locals are on first name terms with each other on Farra. No need to lock stuff up. There’s no crime.”

  He turns to looks at me as we stand on the red-tile hall floor. “Well, not usually,” he amends.

  “Shouldn’t this place be surrounded with yellow crime scene tape and have a member of the local constabulary standing guard?” I quiz. That’s what usually happens on those TV crime shows.

  Charlie shrugs. “Yeah, probably but I don’t think the local constabulary has got around to it yet. There’s only two of them plus some volunteers and I figure they’re pretty swamped with trying to deal with all the red tape that Farra’s first ever murder must be generating.”

  The cottage is tiny. Off the hall and entrance is an open-plan living space. A leather sofa sits on wooden floorboards in front of a fireplace, a bookcase off to one side. Behind it is a kitchenette with a breakfast bar type seating area. The place has been completely modernised. Everything has a fresh, contemporary feel.

  Charlie dons a pair of plastic gloves and hands me an identical pair. I hate these standard issue agency gloves, used so we don’t get fingerprints on anything. They smell and they stick to your skin, especially if you’re nervous and sweaty which, at this moment, I am. He starts checking the contents of the bookcase, pulling out books and papers, reading them, flicking through them.

  There are no toys or games around, no sign of a child staying at the cottage on a regular basis. No framed photos of the house’s occupants either.

  I head to the kitchen and open cupboards and drawers. Plates, bowls, glasses, mugs. Nothing unusual. I open another cupboard. Food. Boxes of cereal, jars of jam, dried pasta. I check the top drawer next. It won’t open properly and I tug at it. It’s probably the junk drawer. We all have one, don’t we? You know, the place we shove things which don’t seem to fit elsewhere. Phone chargers. Sticky tape. Screwdrivers. Plasters. Guns.