by Shana Frost
This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.
WHEN MURDER COMES HOME
First edition. November 1, 2020.
Copyright © 2020 Shana Frost.
Written by Shana Frost.
When Murder Comes Home
Aileen and Callan Murder Mysteries
BY
SHANA FROST
When Murder Comes Home
Blurb
An adventure she’d asked for, being a murder suspect? Not really.
Introverted yet brilliant (former) accountant Aileen Mackinnon ditched her risk-less life in the city for the village of Loch Fuar, nestled in the picturesque Scottish Highlands. Now she’s the co-owner of her Gran’s inn, Dachaigh, and an amateur innkeeper to ten new guests. But when one of her guests doesn’t turn up for breakfast and the other dangles over the window sill, Aileen finds herself in deep waters, especially with the handsome local detective.
One man show, Detective Inspector Callan Cameron couldn’t be happier — finally a murder if not two! The only issue- he’s forced to join forces with the new innkeeper in town. What could be more horrible than having a partner? A partner Callan loves to argue with? A partner that gels with his detection style seamlessly?
Between bloody murders and stolen rings, the tension is high, so is the heat. They might not always see eye to eye, but can they agree: whodunnit?
Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Before Adventure: Aileen & Callan
Your Free Gift
Authors Note
About the Author
PROLOGUE
The wind howled, its sound almost guttural. Dark grey clouds gathered over the inky sky, adding their sombre presence to the full-moon night.
Hadn’t they always talked about creatures who woke up during a full moon?
The wind picked up speed, almost pushing him back a step or two.
He wasn’t sure if he’d ever make it. Maybe seeking shelter might be the right choice.
His life or the diamonds?
Remember, he warned himself, he’d taken an oath for the King. The diamonds...
He laid a hand over his heart. Was it to make sure it still palpitated?
He knew they’d be there. Those tiny shinning crystals that neither he nor his ancestors could together afford. He’d tucked them against his heart when he’d vowed to his king, ‘Je les protégerai de ma vie.’ (I’ll protect them with my life.)
The skin over his heart felt the friction of the soft pouch the diamonds sat in. His hands though – when he looked down at them, he could feel not a thing.
His fingers were frozen from the cold. His teeth were on the cusp of chattering.
Oh Lord, how would he survive the night?
The wind pushed him a few steps to the right. It was angry.
The full moon shone its sinister white light on the lone figure of a short, slight man, too ill-equipped for the weather.
He walked up a steep hill, on a muddy road, hunched against the brutal wind, his hand on his still warm heart, and a hope in his heart – a wish – that no highwayman would chance upon him.
How far was Calais? Another day’s journey perhaps – at least that’s what he’d been told.
Yes, he was to hand off the diamonds to a man at Calais the next night. Oh how relieved he’d be then. Only now, he was exhausted – he had travelled so far!
He groaned, giving in to his spasming muscles. His legs quaked; he stood on sheer loyalty to his king and continued.
The wind still assaulted him, the strange howl of an unnatural beast surrounded him and the night turned heavy with thick mist.
OH HOW CALM THE NIGHT; no strong wind or the roar of a beast to shatter the earthly peace.
The coastal village was tranquil, fast asleep now.
A light, cold breeze danced through his hair. Anchored boats bobbed on the quay.
All the short, bone-thin man could do was wait.
His body jerked and halted, petrified, as a thick hand landed on his mouth; the other held a lethal knife to his throat.
‘Diamants!’ a gruff voice demanded.
The knife’s razor-sharp edge glinted under a steady moonbeam.
The man’s bony hands shook violently, but he somehow managed to remove a piece of paper from his pocket.
Another hard hand grasped the crumpled note. How many men had his captor brought along?
‘Ah,’ the accomplice grunted.
That must have been a cue because everything immediately turned on its head.
It was quick. The mortal knife disappeared and in its place appeared a deadly hand. It clenched around the man’s neck.
He knew something had gone wrong – vitally wrong. The King’s diamonds would be lost and so would his life.
Another shudder; he felt the chill of fear run tremors through his body.
The soft brown bag that had been his companion for the last fortnight left the side of his heart.
Gone – the diamonds were gone.
A loud splash followed the weedy man as he crashed into the freezing water – silvery water, as cold as the dead.
Chapter 1
It had been a stupid thing to do! Who in their right mind left their job on a whim, put their house up for sale – which, mind you, they’d just paid the loan off on – and bid adieu to the city they’d always wanted to live in? All in a blink of an eye.
Only her
No, Aileen reminded herself. It was time to be ‘adventurous’. Her mind was so used to following a logical pattern that it was now in an ocean and didn’t know how to swim.
Would she drown? Maybe she had bitten off more than she could chew.
No, no – she wasn’t the old Aileen any more. She would never be that Aileen.
Bummer, how long had she been driving? She had left the main highway behind a long time ago. Had she seen another car on the road in the last hour?
But Aileen remembered all those summers spent at her gran’s inn. She remembered the magical snow-splattered hills; the quiet burbling of the loch waters. Oh how blue the loch was, a mirror reflecting the abundant cerulean abyss of the sky.
It was that dream she had recalled: those carefree summers where she had been adventurous. She’d chase rabbits and swim in the refreshing waters of the loch, when she’d been told not to.
Aileen sighed in awe at the pleasant scenery hurtling past her.
She was surrounded by rocks that stretched up to the sky. A gurgling stream zipped by the side of the road and right there was a ruined fortress: all the pieces that made the Scottish Highlands so bonnie.
The road turned narrower and raced away from the fortress. It went past hills, dense pine-filled forests and then, oh my! Aileen gasped.
In front of her was a large mass of deep cobalt water, as blue as the Scottish flag. And white snow sparkled on the mountains that stood tall and mighty behind the loch.
Home, her heart beckoned.
A smile cracked on Aileen’s face, the frown that had settled there with self-doubt dissolving into pure joy, the stress that had taken residence in her body evaporating into the song of the Highlands.
Aye, she could hear the melody now. The wind whistled with the tune of a bagpipe playing ballads, as they seemed t
o have for aeons. These songs that scores of Scots had sung, danced, made merry or cried at.
A blue sign on the road announced Aileen had reached the end of the road. And hopefully a bonnie beginning in her life.
Aileen had reached Loch Fuar, the village with the cold lake.
THE LONG SEDAN THAT drove through the ancient streets of Loch Fuar was caked in mud. The fact that it was long and a sedan told every passer-by that it wasn’t local. There was no need for a number plate. It had disappeared behind the coated mud a long time ago.
The lass who stumbled out of the car had long brown hair. Some would say it was almost black. Her coat and shoes screamed city folk.
She stretched her legs as best she could. Grimacing at her sore muscles and then wincing at the look of her car, she blew out a breath.
A long way from home she was.
The tea shop’s wooden door chimed open as Aileen rushed into the warmth.
The shop was filled with gusto. After all, it was late in the afternoon, time for some warm tea.
Aileen shuddered. She could do with a whisky. Her nerves were all over the place. Fish out of water, made to mingle with people she didn’t remember. Aileen’s shiver turned into a moan as pain zinged across her back.
Perhaps she needed a warm bath to loosen her tight muscles.
‘If it isn’t MACKINNON!’ a boisterous voice exploded in her ears. The tea room went quiet.
Aileen’s heart began to thud wildly.
She searched for the voice in a room full of hefty, pink-faced, heavily bearded Scottish men who looked older than the Duke of Edinburgh.
Some of them had grown old with rotund bellies and some remained burly.
One such man stood and raised a beefy hand. ‘Helped yer granny with the inn.’ His voice held a strong Scottish burr. ‘Remember ya as a wee lass running about. Look just like yer granny did fifty years past.’
Her poor heart had no chance – it was beating at such a high rate, she thought she might collapse. Before she could react, Aileen lost her small hand in one of the smiling gent’s.
Manners kicked in and in one exhale she muttered, ‘Aileen – Aileen Mackinnon.’
‘Aye!’ This time it was an old Scotswoman who came up to her. ‘Now I remember. Ye loved the shortbread I’d bake – never spared any for the other guests.’
Aileen wedged her lips apart into a smile as polite as she could muster and felt a strong fiery blush burn her cheeks.
The last thing Aileen had come looking for was attention...
But this was a small town, and the Adventurous Aileen could talk to people.
As if experimenting, Aileen licked her lips.
‘I remember you,’ Aileen said in her Lowland tongue. She wished she had a burr too. That way she wouldn’t stick out like a sore thumb.
Smiling at the people in the room, she tried retreating from all those kind, cheerful faces, but it was not to be. Instead she ended up walking face-first into a hard chest.
‘Grown up, ye are! Such a bonnie lass...’
And so it continued. She was engulfed, thumped heavily on her back, pushed into a chair and stuffed with as much food as she could stomach.
It would have overwhelmed some. But to Aileen, it was a sign that she was indeed home. Even if that meant she’d had to combat her inner fears.
THE SKY WAS PAINTED in a beautiful lavender shade, with a few bright stars shimmering like diamonds. The fresh air smelled sweet with the scent of wildflowers.
Aileen looked up at the clear sky and sighed.
She’d spent a busy evening with the local folk, laughing and talking. They showed no qualms about her being here. It had been so long now, more than a decade since she’d last been to Loch Fuar. And yet they’d been good to her.
How long had it been since she’d mingled and felt no urge to run for her life?
Aileen took a deep breath. Things were about to change because Aileen had changed. If sometimes she did slip, it would be fine. As long as she kept up being adventurous.
A bird sang a tune, a goodnight to his fellows, and Aileen lost herself in its sweet tune, tilting her head to glance towards her right.
Behind a stone fence, she patted with a smile, stood ‘Dachaigh’, her gran’s inn.
Aye, this was her home now.
The old inn stood solitarily on a wee mound. Sturdy stone hid behind brilliant white paint, clean and welcoming.
Aileen let a giggle escape. Her grandmother had insisted the window frames be painted a distinct pastel blue. It might attract bluer skies, she’d joked.
Siobhan was that kind of a woman: twinkling cerulean eyes and hair gone white so long ago she hadn’t a single brown strand left.
Aileen’s grandmother had set up her inn five decades ago as a young widow. The short yet independent mother of two had decided to fend for herself after her husband had died, so she’d travelled up to the Highlands with her sons and settled in a small town. The real estate was affordable for her, and Loch Fuar was a decent place to raise two strapping boys, so it was the best destination to set up her inn.
The innkeeper’s chambers were on the last floor, Aileen recalled.
Her face split in an even wider grin. The inn had two storeys above the ground floor. From the outside though, the innkeeper’s quarters couldn’t be seen. They were stuck between the first floor and the slanting grey roof.
She’d loved trying to climb onto the roof from her granny’s bedroom window. Siobhan had laughed at the attempt though her father had yelled at Aileen’s dangerous antics.
The good old days.
Aileen looked at the inn again and took a deep breath. She wished that joy would return to her heart.
With a jump in her step, humming a tune, Aileen made her way towards the entrance.
The wooden door, which had once seemed as gigantic as that of a castle’s, now creaked open easily.
Aileen gasped. She had expected warmth, not rain! What a horrendous scene!
Three buckets were spread around the large reception area that led into what used to be a cosy drawing room. Water pattered languorously into the waiting buckets, like a ghost’s laughter, while the plush sofas and cushioned chairs which were her grandmother’s pride were covered in sheets of plastic.
What in the world?
Armed with a suitcase in her hand and a furious glare, Aileen made her way towards a middle-aged woman who sat behind the reception counter, her face buried in her phone.
Aileen’s awkwardness was so deeply buried inside the raw fire in her belly, it needed a tombstone. Her wooden boots clomped on the plastic-covered flooring, yet the woman didn’t look up.
‘Excuse me, Miss.’ Aileen pressed her lips together and gestured at the lady.
The present innkeeper looked up with a scowl. ‘We need reservations first – no walk-in guests.’
Holding in her rage, Aileen told the woman, ‘I’m Aileen Mackinnon, Siobhan’s granddaughter.’
The woman’s face seemed to be contorted in a permanent scowl. ‘Well, you can stay then, in whichever room you like. We don’t have any guests.’
‘Why don’t we have guests?’
‘Look around ye.’
‘Explain what I see.’
The scowling lady shrugged. ‘We don’t have any funds for repairs.’
‘My grandmother is advised bed rest and she isn’t here. So she can’t know what the inn needs. You could have taken the initiative. Have you taken the trouble of asking Gran for funds?’
‘Not my job,’ came the disinterested answer.
‘Well, it is your job to keep this place clean and bring in customers,’ Aileen huffed. ‘Tomorrow morning we’ll work on this.’
‘So you’ll take over now?’ The lady smirked. She hadn’t bothered to introduce herself yet.
How could she charm customers with this attitude? The inn needed someone personable to keep guests returning every holiday.
Aileen decided tomorrow was soon enough to fight h
er battles. For now, she needed a good night’s rest.
THE HIGHLAND MORNING had been as scenic and pleasant as any Aileen remembered. She woke to the melody of birds, the sun shining merrily through her window.
But the smile on her face promptly disappeared. Her gran’s inn was in a state worse than any haunted house.
Aileen had been too exhausted to remark on the state of her mattress or that of her bedroom last night. She sincerely doubted it had even been cleaned since its last guest had departed.
And now the larder, oh God’s teeth! The entire larder was stocked with tinned food. Food that had expired a year ago. The entire thing stank of vomit and a cesspit mixed together!
Aileen gagged.
Her feet thundered on the stone floor and then over the wooden stairs as she burst out the front door.
Without skipping a beat, she jogged to her car and made her way to the main village. It was high time someone got the messages.
The rough road wound around tall trees, before crossing a buzzing stream. The city sedan tumbled over a short stone bridge, completely out of place in one of the world’s quaintest areas.
Quaint it may be – boring it wasn’t.
The trees opened to reveal gigantic mountains, proud and mighty under the fresh pastel sky. Clouds in all forms and shapes decorated the blue gulf.
It was as if an artist had painted this masterpiece: ‘The Beginning of Spring’.
A few short minutes later, small stone cottages began dotting the greenish landscape. Just looking at this view made Aileen feel as if she’d been transported back in time.
One cottage was alive, its chimney busily huffing out smoke, and as she drove past, Aileen could smell freshly baked bread through her open car windows.
These brick houses had probably stood here for ages. How many happy memories did they hold in their walls?
The narrow winding road opened up into a junction of sorts. Here there were a few people at large.
A busy place for a small town like Loch Fuar, almost like a city suburb.