by Shana Frost
The middle-aged couple were each cosied up with a book. John had dozed off in the reclining chair, his book resting open on his chest, while Susan sat in one of the two high-backed chairs beside the fireplace. Next to her was the floor-to-ceiling wooden bookshelf. Apparently the library was cosy enough for readers to lose themselves in, whether it was in the written word or their own dreamland.
As for Beaulieu and Legrand, after the latter’s rude comment, they’d taken their car and headed towards town.
With nothing to do, Aileen busied herself in the kitchen.
Just then the back door clicked open.
‘Your snotty guests made an appearance at Barbara’s Tea Room. She handled them like a school headmistress.’
Here was Aileen’s gossip radio, extra hand and entertainer all mixed into one.
Chattering, Isla rolled up her sleeves – she had a lot to narrate.
Steaming pots of savoury food effused mouth-watering aromas that drifted through the kitchen into the dining room.
What would happen during dinner? Aileen was a bit sceptical but excited. Last night’s dinner had involved six reserved people, but today she had to add three jolly guests to the list.
THE DINNER HOUR CHIMED in by the sound of a cuckoo. Aileen had bought the cuckoo clock home from the German Black Forest.
Martha Smith swooped down the stairs. She looked put together in her skirt and blouse, and smiled at Aileen. ‘It smells delicious. You’re rather good at cooking.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Did your grandmother teach you? Talk in town is she was the best innkeeper you could ask for.’
‘Aye, my grandmother is a dear. She brought love and life to this inn. It was like a child to her.’
‘You have her skills,’ she complimented. ‘I wouldn’t know where to start!’
Jake and Anne Grant giggled in, holding hands like newlyweds. Their infectious happiness seemed to raise Martha’s mood and they began sharing details of their day – her walk alongside the stream and their interest in visiting Loch Fuar.
‘They say it’s dangerous to go down there,’ Anne informed the small group.
‘Dangerous yet fun!’ Martha rubbed her hands together, leaning in.
‘The road’s winding and a little rough. So they say on the internet.’ Anne whooshed out a breath.
‘We could hire a car, babe,’ Jake suggested. ‘Driving on a difficult British road is hopeless.’ He looked at Martha, ‘You guys drive on the other side of the road and on the other side of the car. It’s like being toppled over.’
‘Jacob!’ Samantha Grant sauntered over to her son and the family embraced each other heartily. Ohs and ahs, with kisses and cheery shouts, puffed out affection into the air.
‘Did you hear about the Rembrandt sketch pieces?’ Richard said to his son. ‘Apparently they’re conducting an auction soon.’
‘Oh, you two! It’s not time to talk shop,’ Samantha chided.
John Cook entered the room. He gave a dispassionate glance at the dinner guests and then took a seat.
‘What is it you do?’ Martha asked the Grants as Aileen began serving the evening’s meal: an aromatic shepherd’s pie.
‘There’s pudding later.’
‘You are a dear!’ Richard announced jubilantly.
‘We run an art gallery,’ Samantha told Martha.
‘How exciting!’
‘Yeah, and we once had a...’ With vivacious gestures, Samantha rambled on.
Except for John, everyone seemed engrossed in the lively conversation. He stared out of the window, looking into the night.
Aileen mused at the climate in her inn. It was very contrary to yesterday’s nastiness: everyone was laughing!
‘He didn’t!’
The group broke into giggles and snorts.
‘Yeah, he did! Sent us empty canvases, said he felt empty within. Not a scratch of paint on any of them. And when I—’ Jake broke off as Dave Smith walked in, the British man’s demeanour too serious for the company he stood amidst.
Martha smiled at her husband. He took a seat next to her and nodded at John.
After introductions, Samantha asked Dave, ‘What about you? What do you do?’
‘I’m a doctor.’ He shook his hands vaguely. ‘My wife’s a homemaker and a talented designer.’ He looked towards Martha with adoration.
A flushed Martha replied, ‘Well, interior decorating magazines are such fun! I’m obsessed.’
Just like that, the conversation flowed once more and continued long after pudding was served. Everyone seemed to enjoy themselves – everyone except John Cook, who sat aloof and told no one where his wife was.
No, he looked out as if he knew bad could swallow the good in one swift gulp. And there was nothing good about this night.
Chapter 5
Martha announced she’d found an interesting book in the library. ‘It’s wonderful that you’ve got a library in the inn!’
Her husband declared he was retiring for the night. His eyes looked droopy; he’d been rubbing at them throughout the night, and his feet trudged heavily up the stairs.
Aileen had handed over the brochure for the local museum to Dave as he’d left. It had a free pass they could use the next day.
The Grants spoke for a while. They seemed like a close-knit family. Aileen gave them their privacy and locked up for the night.
She fastened all the larger windows, double-checking each lock, just in case. It was her upbringing, a product of living in the city: locking up was now a habit.
And double-checking was her self-doubt. Aileen huffed an exasperated sigh. No one changed overnight.
She reached into her pocket for the innkeeper’s keys, fiddled a bit, felt around her trousers, then squished the pocket in her hands. Where were they?
Her heart thudded, growing louder with every beat. She never lost anything, not even when she was a child. Aileen was a person who always kept a thorough stock of her erasers, pencils and notes.
Where had she seen her keys last?
Hastily she walked into the kitchen, her heartbeat quickening until it burned in her chest.
She checked the service closet. Maybe she’d left them here when she fetched the mop?
Fiery flames of panic licked around her heart.
Where were her keys?
She jogged out into the drawing room. The Grants had retired to bed, leaving only the golden glow of the lamp to cover the room in a warm blanket of peace.
She turned down the lamps in the reception, leaving just enough light for Martha to make her way to bed later, and spun around to head up the stairs.
Something glinted on the reception counter and Aileen let out a sigh full of relief. There they were!
How irresponsible she had been! No one should have access to the keys apart from the innkeeper. That was rule number one. The keys should be on her at all times.
Hadn’t her diligent grandmother taught her that?
At that thought, Aileen’s face lit up in an affectionate smile. She’d best call her gran. It had been a while.
Despite the late hour, Aileen knew Siobhan would be awake. She loved those late-night horror shows.
Siobhan was a strange woman; sturdy and stubborn despite her age. She picked up on the third ring. ‘You best have a reason to interrupt me,’ came a strict but loving voice. It was as strong as she remembered, with not a shiver of old age evident.
‘Grandma.’
‘Ah. Did you burn down ma inn?’
‘No! I just called to ask how you were.’
‘Fit as a fiddle I am. And ready to break the neck of anyone who disturbs Horror Nights!’
Aileen rolled her eyes. These were words of affection, reserved for her kin.
The best reply to that was a rebuke. ‘Have you been naughty? Troubling dear Nancy?’
‘The lass keeps pushing those horrid medicines down ma throat. Told her I’d rather a glass of whisky. Do me loads of good.’
I
t was common knowledge that her grandma had ways to sneak in whisky. She enjoyed a regular dose.
‘Is everything fine, dearie?’ Despite the hard exterior, Siobhan carried a soft heart underneath.
‘Aye, everyone’s been kind and helpful.’
‘Small town wonders. Rory Macdonald tells me you’re tight with Isla. Good lass as ever she is. Married the good-hearted Daniel.’
‘She’s wonderful.’
‘She helped me out some before Daniel stole all her time. Heard she has a wee bairn.’
‘Ah yes, little Carly!’
And so Aileen spent a good hour laughing and joking with her grandmother.
Even though she was away, Siobhan kept her ears to the ground when it came to Loch Fuar’s gossip. She had her trusted sources. And Aileen realised, she’d pumped her granddaughter for information as well – not about the town per se, but about the frustrating Detective Inspector Callan Cameron.
AS AILEEN READIED HERSELF for bed, Martha Smith read her novel. She was lost in a bygone era. A time when turbaned traders crossed great distances on horseback, pounding down the miles under the sweltering sun. Would they find the key to save their ailing prince?
The inn fell silent around Martha, but she never noticed the eerie quiet.
AS AILEEN LEANED BACK against her headboard, she let out a groan. It had been a long day. And tomorrow she had to be up early again. Being an innkeeper was demanding! A yawn escaped her lips.
She was reaching over to flick off the bedside lamp when she heard it: a muffled patter of footsteps. The thudding of Aileen’s heart seemed louder than the rhythmic steps. She inhaled a lung full of breath and froze in place. That didn’t mean her heart stopped. Leaning over, Aileen cursed when her bed creaked.
The sound of crickets enveloped Dachaigh again. And then she remembered. It would just be Martha, coming to bed. She was being silly.
With the click of the lamp’s button, blackness swallowed the golden orb of light and Aileen settled down to sleep with a grin on her face. Her first day with ten guests had been a success. And it felt nice, talking to her grandmother; sleeping in the same bed Siobhan had slept in all those decades ago, the sheets tucked around Aileen’s slumbering body with love.
Being here was like being with her grandmother. Siobhan had sounded happy on the phone call. That was good. Maybe it was time to pay a visit to the nursing home. She’d—
Aileen jerked up. What was that noise?
It sounded like a door being firmly clicked shut.
Aileen held her breath, her heart palpitating beyond control. If only it would be quiet!
She’d made a mistake leaving her keys out for everyone to see. There could be a burglar in the house!
For a few minutes, nothing stirred. Had the temperature dropped? The inn had turned as quiet as a cemetery.
Shaking her head, Aileen cast this episode as a figment of her imagination. Hadn’t she always had a wild one?
Cuddling into her pillows, Aileen pulled the covers up to her chin, snuggled in and was out like a light before anyone could warn her otherwise.
AILEEN FELT GROGGY as she showered and dressed for the day. Her disorientation had turned to lingering annoyance.
As she made her rounds and found everything as she’d left it the previous night, Aileen chided herself for her self-doubt. Uncertainty about herself was a feeling the new Aileen didn’t entertain.
Pleased that everything was in place, she walked passed the library. There, in a high-backed chair, was Martha Smith. She seemed to have dozed off; the book slumped on the floor beside her.
She fitted in the chair perfectly, and the room was still warm and cosy.
Aileen’s irritation eased at finding her guest comfortable.
Isla bounced in late. Dark circles under her eyes made her look ghostly pale.
‘Bairns are good to look at, but incredibly frustrating otherwise! Did Carly sleep a wink last night? No!’ Isla whisper yelled, gesturing vividly with her hands. ‘That means we stay awake with her too. Crying her eyes out! Why? The Lord knows. And now, now that little devil’s asleep with a thumb tucked in her mouth—’
‘And you look like a haunted woman,’ Aileen finished.
‘Aye!’ Isla said indignantly. ‘You could make me feel alive again with yesterday’s dinner news.’
A sly smirk accompanied the demand.
Aileen huffed out a breath and protested that as innkeeper she couldn’t gossip about her guests. But like Siobhan, Isla had perfected the art of milking gossip from everyone she met, whether they were a willing or unwilling participant.
Isla made a tsk sound. ‘That’s plain. Boring! I wish they’d be nasty to each other. It’s more fun that way.’
‘I wish not.’ Aileen shot a pointed look at her friend. She was a fiend for scandal.
Beaulieu and his husband were the first to make an appearance. The stubby Frenchman was in high spirits, though Louis Legrand was his usual sullen self.
It would be such a bore being married to a stiff man like him, Aileen thought. Her irritation piqued. They seemed to be fine as they took their seats.
Boisterous laughs announced the Grants’ arrival before they stepped in. Legrand gave them the customary look down his pointed nose, while John Cook came down the stairs behind them, looking miffed.
Martha appeared then. ‘Oh! I dozed off in the library all night.’ Her giggles ended on a moan as she massaged her shoulders.
Richard Grant laughed with her. ‘Hope you don’t have a stiff neck!’
Susan Knight strutted in last. She looked elegant but had replaced her suit and heels for trousers, a T-shirt and hiking boots.
‘Where’s Dave?’ Martha looked around the table with a confused frown.
‘He hasn’t come for breakfast yet.’ Aileen placed a plate piled high with food on the table.
Mouth watering smells of coffee, eggs and toast wafted through the dining room.
‘Oh, that’s strange! We’re supposed to go down to the museum today.’
‘It’s an exciting place.’ Samantha Grant slapped her hands in enthusiasm.
Susan leaned in. ‘They say on the internet that Loch Fuar has a history that goes back to the Celts.’
Martha muttered, ‘I think I should go up and check. He never sleeps in.’
She strutted over to the staircase and hiked up quickly. They could hear her footsteps echoing along the floorboards as she walked to her room.
There wasn’t another sound apart from the chirp of the birds outside and the occasional rattling of pots as Aileen continued to plate up breakfast.
Heavy clouds marred the grey sky, the brightness missing from the colours of spring.
The door upstairs creaked open as Martha pushed it – and then let out a blood-curling scream.
Such a horrendous sound!
It echoed through the inn and out around the mournful landscape of Loch Fuar.
Chapter 6
The entire inn had bustled in a flurry of activity.
Perhaps a few of her guests had frozen at the plain horror of that scream, but the formerly prim and proper Aileen had somehow known.
Looking back, she’d always had a very keen intuitive sense. And her intuition had been dinging an alarm in her head ever since Martha Smith had enquired after her husband.
Maybe it was because of the preparedness that intuition brought, or perhaps it was her quick reflexes, but Aileen was flying up the stairs before Martha had hit the floor.
It was a terrifying scream, more sinister than a wolf’s howl.
The door to the bedroom was pushed wide open, and in the doorway lay the prone figure of Martha Smith. She’d crumpled, unconscious to the floor.
Heavy footsteps echoed behind Aileen. Whoever it was would take care of Martha, she told herself. As innkeeper, she had to find out what had happened to Martha’s husband.
Nobody could have prepared themselves for the devastation she found inside the room. Blood drenched the en
tire bedspread, as crimson as a rose. And Lord, the smell! Not just the dried blood, but a gruesome, gut-burning stench Aileen could only document as the culmination of a life.
There could be no mistake.
Since – especially since... Aileen swallowed but immediately gagged – right in the centre of the bed, an elaborately hilted knife protruding from his chest, lay Mr Dave Smith... And yes, he was dead – as stone cold as the early Neolithic men.
DETECTIVE INSPECTOR Callan Cameron was enjoying his second cup of espresso when the call came.
He hadn’t thought the neat and put-together Aileen Mackinnon could sound so shaken. She hadn’t been hysterical, but she had made little sense. He’d only caught the words ‘dead... murder... come quickly’.
Callan rubbed his scruff. His pace a little languid as he headed to his car. It was true Loch Fuar hadn’t seen murder in decades, and he hadn’t witnessed a murder in the village himself, but death, assassinations and killings – he had seen plenty of that circus in his career; sometimes much more than he could stomach.
But now wasn’t the time to go back there, and Callan sealed those disturbing thoughts in the past – where they belonged.
Somebody had died.
With a frown, Callan reminded himself that he was now a detective. And he would do whatever it took to achieve justice.
Callan’s worn truck bobbled over the tiny bridge and swooshed down the rugged road. Unlike his laid-back demeanour, he drove with vigour.
Dachaigh emerged from behind tall trees.
From the outside, everything seemed calm. The heavy clouds had parted, the sun was now shining down on the old stone walls, while the flowers in the yard bloomed with cheerful colours and the blue windows added a touch of pleasantness to the entire scene.
The scene of a possible murder.
His heavy boots struck the gravelled pathway leading up to Dachaigh.
Dachaigh – home in English, he mused. Murder had come home.
The front door burst open to show a harried Aileen. Her usually neat locks now stuck out in weird angles, as if she’d pulled on them repeatedly. For the few weeks he’d known her, he’d never seen a single hair out of place on that pretty face. But now her eyes looked a little too wide, a little too bright.