Table of Contents
Excerpt
Praise for Jo A. Hiestand
An Unfolding Trap
Copyright
Dedication
Acknowledgements
Cast of Characters
Words You May Find Unfamiliar
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Thank you for purchasing this publication of The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
Ross leaned forward, closing the distance between them. “You’re sure you didn’t get angry when you found him this afternoon?”
“Of course I got angry! Who the hell wouldn’t? The bloody git killed a man, frightened a dozen others who were there, kidnapped Miss Skene, held her hostage—” He stopped before saying Lanny had knocked him on the head and left him for dead in the marshland along the loch, or that he was a threat to Neill McLaren. He took a deep breath. “But I didn’t kill him. I tied him up so he wouldn’t escape, then phoned you when I could.”
“An hour later.” The voice was flat, unimpressed.
“Yes. An hour later. Maybe ninety minutes. I didn’t write down the bloody time, but I phoned here, in the village.”
“Why wait so long to ring us?”
“Pardon?” The suspicion that things were turning horribly wrong whispered to McLaren.
“Why didn’t you phone right then? Did you want to put some space between you and the killing so you could establish an alibi?”
Praise for Jo A. Hiestand
And
AN UNFOLDING TRAP
“Hiestand’s writing is crisp, intense, and action-packed. The mystery is well crafted, and the plot twists and turns to keep you on the edge of your seat until the end. The narrative builds to an intense climax, and the confrontation (and secrets revealed) was anything but predictable. McLaren is the perfect modern noir detective—a gruff edge, professional, cautious, likable—just the kind of character that can carry a series beyond a single novel. She delivers an intriguing, action-filled story that lures you in like the shifting darkness of Scotland’s deep, unfathomable waters.”
~Drake Morgan, Suspense Magazine
~*~
“Inspired by her travels and all things British, Jo Hiestand delivers a brilliant, intriguing mystery.”
~Anonymous Reviewer
An Unfolding
Trap
by
Jo A. Hiestand
The McLaren Mysteries
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
An Unfolding Trap
COPYRIGHT © 2016 by Jo A. Hiestand
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
Contact Information: [email protected]
Cover Art by Angela Anderson
The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
PO Box 708
Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708
Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com
Publishing History
Previously published as Rock Song, by Copper Ink
First Crimson Rose Edition, 2016
Print ISBN 978-1-5092-0587-5
Digital ISBN 978-1-5092-0588-2
The McLaren Mysteries
Published in the United States of America
Dedication
For Babette, Bill, Peter, Christopher and M-H.
Who knew what would result from a gift?
Thanks for the concert and the setting.
~*~
And for Kathy,
the eager reader who had to wait 290 days too long
to see what McLaren’s up to next.
Acknowledgements
Since I’m not an imbiber of beer, I had to ask someone I consider an authority. Slàinte mhòr agad! and a tip of the glass to Ian McCalman, who created the brewery’s beer name and supplied information on the beverage. He also de-Anglicized my Scottish conversations, turning them into something real Scots would say. I thank him for this immense undertaking.
A hug and my thanks to Paul Hornung, St. Louis-area police officer, for reading the manuscript and catching police problems.
My gratefulness also goes to Kaitlin West, my editor, who did a super job and didn’t blink an eye when she came to the Scottish dialogue.
Gabe Maichel, Kevin Cheli and Nathan Pence…what can I say about their recording of “The Braes of Balquhidder”? The song is important in the book and they gave it a lilting jazz rendition. I’m so thankful it’s saved for posterity on CD recordings.
Thanks to David McLaren, who provided me with the description of Loch Voil and The Boar’s Rock—all very important to Michael and the story. I also thank Chuck Lawson, Vice President of Clan MacLaren Society of North America, Ltd, for steering me to the song so pertinent to Michael and the Clan. Barbara Gard, President of Clan MacLaren Society of North America, and Gloria Shellenbarger, Commissioner for the Mid-West Region of CMSNA, both pointed me in the right direction when I’d lost my way. Without their compass I’d still be stumbling in the dark and would not have met people with the detailed knowledge I needed.
More gratitude than I can ever convey to Donald MacLaren of MacLaren, Clan Chief, for supplying details of Balquhidder and the area, for the suggestion of the song “The Braes of Balquhidder,” for enduring my seemingly unending emails and questions, for giving me some Clan history, for supplying a story point, and for his general enthusiasm for reading about another McLaren.
Any errors that may have crept into the story are solely mine.
Jo Hiestand
St. Louis, MO
February 2016
Cast of Characters
Michael McLaren: former police detective, Staffordshire Constabulary
Gwen Hulme: McLaren’s sister
Dena Ellison: McLaren’s girlfriend
Jamie Kydd: McLaren’s friend and police detective, Derbyshire Constabulary
Neill McLaren: McLaren’s grandfather
Brandon McLaren: McLaren’s uncle
Karen Overton: Brandon’s girlfriend
Jean MacNab: owner of Saltire Guest House, Harvester’s pal
Hurd Dowell: research librarian
Liza Skene: accident witness
Stuart Forbes: owner of Arthur’s Seat Insurance Company
Lanny Clack: car mechanic
Fowler Ritchie: businessman
Frank Papadakis: Yank Army soldier in World War II
George Roper: British Army soldier in World War II
Tam Innes: British Army soldier in World War II
Ross Gordon: Constable, Central Scotland Constabulary, Stirling, Jamie’s colleague
Charlie Harvester: former colleague of McLaren’s, now a detective in the Derbyshire Constabulary
Words You May Find Unfamiliar
Balquhidder: village (actual) in Scotland, pronounced BalWHIDder
ben: mountain peak
brae: sloping river bank, a hill
burn: stream
close: small l
ane branching off a street
couldnae/didnae: could not/do not
dreich: drawn out, tedious, dreary (describing weather)
goldie: whisky
havenae: have not
heavy: a strong, dark traditional beer of Scotland (similar to the English ‘bitter’) sometimes written and referred to as 80/- which denotes the old currency system of 80 shillings. Beers were priced according to their strength, the lighter beers perhaps selling for 54/- up to 90/- per cask or barrel
Hogmanay: the Scottish celebration of New Year’s Eve
kirk: church
lang: long
linn: a waterfall, pool of water at the base of a waterfall
loch: a lake
muckle: great, much
Saltire: the flag of Scotland, a white St. Andrew’s cross on a blue field
Sassenach: Highlander for anyone “from the south”
shieling: a rough hut on summer grazing land in which shepherds, livestock tenders, and/or their families stayed for the season
sporran: type of purse/pouch worn with a kilt
wasnae: was not
wouldnae: would not
Chapter One
Dreams woke him that night. Not nightmares. Not exactly. More like flashes from his past. Mingled, as happens through the power of dreams, with foreshadowing of the future. Except he didn’t know that yet.
Michael McLaren sat up in bed and threw off the duvet. November’s chill had no affect on him; his fantasies consumed his attention as he stared into the darkness. Moonlight gilded the edge of the clock on his bedside cabinet and threw a shadow across the top of the furniture. The sweep second hand caught the light and accented the swift passage of time. Three fifteen. Halfway between night and morning, as far as he was concerned. Too early to get up and he was now too awake to lie down.
He sank against the headboard. The wood lay cool across his back. What had wakened him? He rubbed his forehead, uneasy, trying to remember. Something about the letter in the morning’s mail, the invitation from his grandfather. That was real. But the dream took that and twisted it, turned the invitation into a funeral notice.
The transformation had frightened him. He had stared at the black-edged envelope as through gauze or in the distortion of a funhouse mirror. His breathing still came shallow and fast as he regained his sense of normalcy. Why would a letter hold such terror in his dream? He took a deep breath, trying to slow his heart rate. Because he would soon be out of his comfort zone? Because he’d be seeing his grandfather for the first time in thirty-six years?
McLaren switched on the tableside lamp, got up, and rummaged about in the wardrobe. He found the family photo album and sat cross-legged on the bed as he leafed through the pages.
Photos of his mother and dad, smiling in their home in Auchtubh, Scotland, crammed the early part of the album. McLaren’s uncle Brandon appeared in few pictures, away at school for most of his formative years. When he was older, he spent time on the Continent touring breweries. With McLaren’s father out of the family business, the responsibility to grab the helm would eventually fall to younger son Brandon. So education and hopes were piled on Brandon with all the weight and solemnity of one of his university tomes.
Neill, McLaren’s grandfather, stared from a few sepia-toned snaps, gruff-looking and Auld Scotland in his kilt, sporran, and tam o’shanter. In every photo a pipe stuck from the side of his mouth, spewing white smoke that at times hid part of his face. A dog—whether a terrier, setter, or deerhound—always appeared at his side.
Photos of outings and church plays came next, then suddenly stopped when his parents moved away.
He eased the book shut, the leather binding cracking and flaking, the pages angled at various degrees from the cover. It was a different world, that life in Scotland. He had no recollection of it, no warm feelings of connection. His grandfather was this old-time photograph, an image without a voice, a piece of Jacobite Rebellion in the twenty-first century.
McLaren returned the album to the wardrobe, flipped off the bedroom light, and got into bed. He lay awake, watching the moon inch across the black sky and disappear behind the hills. The Pennines was his recollection of his childhood here in Derbyshire, forming part of his parents’ property. The house had cradled and nurtured him until he’d left to make his own life. Now that he’d bought it, settled in it for his adult years, he felt the ties of this branch of the family. He was content in his part of England. Why even contemplate traveling up to Edinburgh to meet his grandfather, a sepia tone and a mere name? Because he was curious about the older man, had heard the stories of his childhood and wanted to see if they were true?
Because he wanted to accept the olive branch the man held out.
McLaren rolled onto his side and fell asleep, dreaming of a Scottish winter and a frigid drowning.
****
“You’re a liar. I never sent for ye. And if I had, it wouldnae be to receive ye in my home. It’d be me standing on soil and you in a thistle patch.” The elderly man paused to catch his breath, his face red, his green eyes throwing daggers. He bowed his head as a cough shook his body.
McLaren sensed that his grandfather hated the show of weakness. He didn’t know much about the family, but he’d heard enough stories from his parents to know his grandfather’d been reared to emulate the Scottish chiefs and warriors of the past, the bravest of his brave clan. Yet as McLaren looked at him now he could see that age and illness reduced the man’s stature. And he probably hated that. Just as he hated anything that pulled him down to McLaren’s level and handed him a one-upmanship that he couldn’t change for all his desire and money.
When the spasm passed, the grandfather glared at McLaren, staring as though he saw a mirror image of himself fifty years ago—tall, muscular shoulders, thick blond hair. Now he was bent as a comma, with sparse white hair. The change must madden him.
McLaren stood erect, nearly at attention. His throat threatened to close, but he tried not to struggle for air. It would be a sign of weakness. “I don’t mean to contradict you, Grandfather, but you did invite me. You mailed me a letter.” He returned the slip of paper on which he’d written his grandfather’s name and address to his jacket pocket, then fumbled for the piece of stationery. It wasn’t there. He patted the pockets of his jeans, hating the display of forgetfulness and confusion. Another point for his grandfather.
“Tell me why I should have ye here.” Neill McLaren’s fingers clenched the edge of the front door. He leaned on it, as though it was a second cane, ignoring the December wind that whipped into the entryway. “Why I should break my oath and foul the air in my house with ye? It’s enough that ye’re tainting the village with your self. I’ll not have ye contaminating the house of my family. Now, out with ye.” Neill grabbed the doorframe and steadied himself with his walking stick as he struggled to stand straighter. The shock that he stood a head shorter than his grandson was obvious in his expression. Perhaps feeling disadvantaged, he sought the intimidation of volume. “Get ye gone now or I’ll call your uncle to throw ye out.”
McLaren’s fingers slid over the lump in his back pocket. He drew out his wallet, opened it and removed the folded piece of paper. Smoothing it flat, he held it in front of Neill. “Here’s the letter, Grandfather. And the envelope. See? Postmarked in Edinburgh. I wasn’t making this up. You wrote it middle of last month, if you recall. Look.” He stepped forward so Neill could see the handwriting.
“I’ve no need to look at it. It didnae come from me and it’s not my handwriting. Ye’ve forged it, a skill ye no doubt perfected with your police job.”
“But it was mailed in Edinburgh.” McLaren’s voice rose and he tapped on the envelope. “How could I have maneuvered that?”
“I dinnae know and I dinnae care. If ye dinnae leave my house—”
“Please, Grandfather. I don’t know why you’re saying you didn’t invite me, but I came. A two hundred fifty mile train trip. I want to patch things up between us. I-I don�
�t like this rift in our family and if I can heal things somehow, you’ve only to say.”
Neill angled his head, his gaze directly falling on McLaren. “I’ve only to say, eh? I say for the last time, get out or I’ll ring for the police. How will that look, do ye think? A copper arrested for trespassing.” A hint of a smile flickered at the corners of his mouth before anger erased it.
“But you reserved my room at the bed-and-breakfast. I checked in yesterday afternoon. It was made in your name. Ring up the owner if you think I’m making this up.”
Despite his obvious desire to end the conversation, Neill paused. McLaren’s voice held the urgency of wanting to be believed. “Where are ye staying?”
McLaren’s tone lowered in pitch. Had he convinced the old man? It was easy enough to check out the reservation. “At Saltire Guest House. In Edinburgh.”
Neill blinked. “I’ve not heard of the establishment name, but I give ye that it may exist.”
Sensing a chink in Neill’s armor, McLaren rushed on. “Would I have bought a train ticket and hired a car for some kind of joke? For what purpose? If I made this up, I’d know you hadn’t booked the room for me. Or would see me. I traveled up here because I want to be part of your family again. That’d be the best Christmas gift I could ever receive.”
Neill glanced outside. December settled over the village of Auchtubh in a smothering blanket of gray clouds and stinging cold wind. The hills, usually heather-covered and alive in green, purple, and pink, lay barren in outcroppings of rock and patches of early snow where the sun had not found them. A burst of wind rattled the wooden casement and stirred the edge of the curtain as it seeped into the neighboring room. Neill drew his woolen jumper closer about his neck.
McLaren tapped on the letter once again. “Then who did? It says in your letter—someone’s letter—that you couldn’t put me up due to that wing of the house having construction done on it. You stated that I shouldn’t phone because Brandon usually answers and my visit was to be a surprise to him. You stated that the bed-and-breakfast room was paid for, I was to be your guest for the week and to email you in care of this email address so you’d know when to expect me.” He pointed at the paragraph in question and held it steady so his grandfather could read it.
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