Photo Shoot: The McLaren Mysteries, #9

By Jo A Hiestand

Michael McLaren returns home from working a cold case in Cumbria to learn that he's missed his uncle's wedding in Scotland.  Angry and fearful that his absence has re-opened the family rift just as it's healed, he drives to the ancestral home, hoping his appearance and explanation will be accepted. He's more than welcomed. His uncle asks him to investigate the murder of his first fiancée.

Fiona Lennox was found in a rowboat on a Scottish loch, shot to death during a late night photo shoot. Why would she rent a boat after dark? Did she take it out to photograph the moonlight on the water? She could've done, being a professional photographer, but she was also a proponent of civic and environmental causes, which she documented with her camera. Did someone linked to one of her crusades kill her, or was the motive personal?

As McLaren uncovers layers of Fiona's life and the reason for her nocturnal outing, he and his family are targets of intensifying attacks. But it's not until he races against a kidnapper's deadline and the threat of a loved one's death that he realizes who killed Fiona¾implications that are as deep and dark as the Scottish loch.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Cousins House
• Release date: Nov 18, 2018
• ISBN: 9781721853090

Jo A Hiestand

A month-long trip to England during her college years introduced Jo to the joys of Things British.  Since then, she has been lured back nearly a dozen times, and lived there during her professional folk singing stint.  This intimate knowledge of Britain forms the backbone of both the Peak District mysteries and the McLaren cold case mystery series.  Jo’s insistence for accuracy, from police methods and location layout to the general feel of the area, has driven her innumerable times to Derbyshire for research.  These explorations and conferences with police friends provide the detail filling the books. In 1999 Jo returned to Webster University to major in English.  She graduated in 2001 with a BA degree and departmental honors. Her cat Tennyson shares her St. Louis home.

Book preview

PHOTO SHOOT

by

Jo A. Hiestand

PUBLISHED BY COUSINS House, August 2018

Cover and Interior Design by Cousins House

COPYRIGHT 2018 JO A. Hiestand

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only.  This ebook may not be resold or given away.  Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

THIS IS A WORK OF FICTION, and is produced from the author’s imagination. People, places and things mentioned in this novel are used in a fictional manner.

Visit us on the web at: www.johiestand.com

ALSO BY JO A. HIESTAND

The McLaren Mysteries

Cold Revenge

Last Seen

Shadow in the Smoke

Brushed With Injustice

An Unfolding Trap

No Known Address

An Unwilling Suspect

Arrested Flight

Photo Shoot

The Peak District Mysteries

A Staged Murder

A Recipe For Murder

In A Wintry Wood

A Touch of Murder

The Stone Hex

Cider, Swords & Straw: Celebrating British Customs (cookbook with customs information and Peak District Mystery book synopses)

Writing as Jessie McAlan

The Linn House Mysteries

The House on Devil’s Bar

A Hasty Grave

A Whisper of Water

Dedication

For Kathy, who finally got her hands on a manuscript.

Acknowledgements

First of all, thank you to Chris Paradowski, who suggested the title for this book. And equal thanks to Tina Paradowski, who supplied the idea that unstuck a plot problem. A huge hug to mystery author Esther Luttrell for help with revamping various story points, as well as to Kathy Allen for her suggestion of the new story thread. Paul Hornung provided technical information, and Ronnie Forbes of VisitScotland in Callander furnished a location for my sheep farm. Kudos to my editor, Renée Mertz, who made this story so much better with her recommendations. And thank you to the friends who voted on cover ideas and helped finalize the choice. I appreciate everyone’s help very much.

As usual, any errors that may have crept into the story are solely mine.

Jo Hiestand

St. Louis, MO

August 2018

Cast of Characters

Michael McLaren: former police detective, Staffordshire Constabulary

Jamie Kydd: McLaren’s friend and police detective, Derbyshire Constabulary

Neill McLaren: Michael’s grandfather

Brandon McLaren: Neill’s son and Michael’s uncle

Karen Overton McLaren: Brandon’s wife

Fiona Lennox (née MacDonald): Brandon’s former fiancée

Stuart Lennox: Fiona’s ex-husband

Callum Aird: photography student

Amanda Aird: Callum’s mother

Donal Skord: member of Scottish Parliament

Victoria Skord: Donal’s wife

Words You Might Be Unfamiliar With

ane: one

Auchtubh: a hamlet (actual) in Scotland, less than one mile from Balquhidder, pronounced OUCH-tuv

Balquhidder: a village (actual) in Scotland, pronounced Bal-WHID-der

couldnae: could not

didnae: do not

frae: from

gie: give

ha’e: have

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

ken: know

lang: long

loch: a lake

o’er: over

polis: police

Saltire: the flag of Scotland, a white St. Andrew’s cross on a blue field

tae: to

wasnae: was not

wee: small, little

wouldnae: would not

yer: your

CHAPTER ONE

Voices followed Michael McLaren on his drive back home. They’d been little more than undertones when they began back in Cumbria. Soft, suggestive hints, barely audible, so that at first he couldn’t put names to the speakers. But as the miles slid behind him, the discourse and the identities grew distinctive. Advice from his best mate mixed with a hint of love from the woman he’d met on holiday crowded his car interior and his mind, real to the point that he thought at times they rode with him. Jamie’s counsel to take a deep breath, step back from his feelings, and think about his future drummed beneath Melanie’s declaration of affection. They cut in during the silence between songs playing on the car’s CD, interspersed like commercials in telly programs and droning beneath the hum of his car tires on the road.

But once he arrived in Derbyshire and stood in the familiar surroundings of his living room, the conversations no longer seemed real, as if they had been spoken to someone else or pertained to another time, and he had wandered unknowingly into interesting communication from another dimension. McLaren shook them off, letting them fade beneath the message left on his answering machine. He listened closely, fighting the feelings of disappointment, shame and surprise stirred up by his grandfather’s voice.

Michael, lad, I hope it’s ye I’m talkin’ tae. I didnae ha’e yer mobile number, sae I resorted tae this ane ye gave me when ye were up tae the house. Yer uncle Brandon’s wedding is twenty-fourth o’ February. He’d like ye tae come. I would, too. I ken ye were just up tae Scotland in December, but if ye ha’e the time and can come back...

The rest of the message faded under McLaren’s mounting frustration. Twenty-fourth of February. Ten days ago. On twenty-fourth of February he’d been in Cumbria, in the village of Moorton, involved in investigating a cold case. He had no idea Uncle Brandon was to be married.

The recording ended and the machine clicked off. McLaren stood there, as though mesmerized by the blinking message light and the words. The remarks stirred other memories: of the older man’s anger at seeing McLaren at the ancestral home, of Brandon’s eagerness to heal the family rift, of his own desperation to be accepted by the two men—the only family he had, aside from his sister. The welcome had come, thankfully, at the end of his December stay, but it seemed as stable as dandelion fluff in spring storms.

Exhaling loudly, he gathered up the mail scattered on the floor below the mail slot in the door and leafed through it. Nothing urgent. He grabbed his rucksack and guitar case, wandered into his bedroom, and set them on the floor.  He changed into a heavy pullover before turning up the thermostat. The winter chill had permeated the house while he’d been gone, and the cold already settled in his bones. His fingers wrapped around his upper arms and slid over the knitted designs of the pullover as he rubbed warmth into his flesh. Seconds later, the furnace kicked on. The metallic purr underscored the fact that he was home and must get back to work if he wanted to keep the roof over his head.

McLaren brewed a cup of tea while he considered what he’d do about the invitation. It felt like some ancient Scottish-English battle, or at least a rugby match. If he left England now, he’d be at the family home in Scotland in five and a quarter hours.  Possibly more, allowing for workday traffic. That put his arrival around eleven-thirty p.m., when everyone would already be asleep. Perhaps more than that, was going back to Scotland a good idea? At this late date, would it lessen any of the two men’s anger over his February absence and seeming indifference?

He swallowed a mouthful of the hot liquid and wandered into his office. A major stone wall repair job was set for the end of the month, but he checked his work calendar for anything he might’ve forgotten.  6 March. Today. Nothing critical, and the few projects inked on March’s page he could accomplish quickly.  After that, he was free for the next fortnight. Yes, he would go. He needed to heal the wound.

His mobile phone was in his hand before he realized it, and he formed his apology in his mind as he punched in his grandfather’s number. But his words faltered on hearing the older man’s voice, and he found himself as nervous as he’d been three months ago when he’d been the object of his grandfather’s anger and heated words. This time, however, McLaren was greeted with warmth and understanding and unmistakable pleasure when he said, I’ll be there Friday.

CHAPTER TWO

McLaren cupped his hands around the cup of hot tea and watched his grandfather settle into his upholstered chair. They’d finished with the small talk that invariably follows all greetings and hugs between long-separated family members. McLaren’s welcome had felt particularly warm—especially considering the newly-patched rift last winter—but silence now sat between the two men as each seemed to consider what next to say.

McLaren glanced around the front room. Nothing had changed since his visit in December. Nothing had changed, evidently, for decades. The glory days of the MacLaren clan were obvious in the tapestry sporting their clan badge and a handful of ancient firearms displayed on the fireplace chimneybreast. Tartan fabric hung as draperies at the multi-paned windows and ran as a quilted runner across the short wood table. But it didn’t cover chairs or footstools. I’ll nae be havin’ boots an’ backsides o’ folk muck up the symbol o’ our brave people, is how grandfather explained it. That his grandfather clung to his upbringing and heritage with such tenacity and pride astonished McLaren, but it seemed to strengthen the man.  Perhaps he found comfort in the old tales of the MacLarens, as the name was spelled originally. Perhaps they shielded him from the disappointments of contemporary times. McLaren considered following suit with something equally anchoring. He needed something like the histories to refocus his life. Yes, he got a degree of comfort from looking at his own fiancée’s photo and recalling their former good times. But on each occasion, he felt himself slipping into the shaky ground of imagining ‘what if’. Maybe the clan would offer a longer, more stable balm.

A branch tapped at the window, turning McLaren’s gaze outside. The gravel courtyard stretched in a smooth, grey sheet from the nail-studded front door to the low stone wall that partitioned the land into refinement and wilderness. Ivy hugged the house foundation and stretched periodically to the crenellated tower over the west rooms. Arrow slits accented the tower, eyes that seemed to watch for invaders or standard bearers.

The branch tapped again, and for a moment McLaren thought someone had arrived and struck the lion’s head brass knocker. A messenger from Bonnie Prince Charlie? A warning that the Hammer of the Scots, England’s King Edward I, was on the prowl?

McLaren gripped his cup more tightly, as if feeling the cold of the brass knocker and the March wind howling outside. The old house felt nearly as cold as his home in Derbyshire, the chill permeating the stones and the wind squeezing through the gaps in the casements. Neill, his grandfather, was gazing into the fire, concern in his eyes and the furrows etching his forehead. Even at age ninety, he was an impressive figure—barrel-chested, tall and a Scot who seemed to have stepped out of the Victorian era. A slight rounding of his shoulders, a thatch of white hair, and a slower walk were all that marked his age.

Ye hae the look o’ yer grandmother, Michael.

McLaren nodded, aware that he owed his blond hair and hazel eyes to the Scandinavian genes.

Nae only in yer complexion but also yer determination. She was that way, sticking tae something till she conquered it.

Could be. I never heard about that. Or knew her.

Ye’re o’ the same ilk, never mind. Ye’ll do her proud. Though she were a small woman, sae ye get yer height from me. A faint smile played across his lips and he sat straighter.

McLaren nodded, unsure of what to say. He set the teacup on the side table and sifted his position in his chair. The movement alerted the dog lying at Neill’s feet. Mungo, the Gordon Setter, raised his head and looked from McLaren to the older man, who patted the dog’s head. Mungo yawned and settled down.

The activity seemed to prod Neill into a decision. He clasped his hands and leaned forward. At first he said nothing, apparently content to gaze into the fire. The branch patted the windowpane again before he spoke. I’ve something tae say about yer uncle Brandon. He paused, as if considering the advisability of opening the subject.

McLaren’s heart rate kicked up a notch. Was the warm welcome about to be dashed with cold water? I’m sorry I missed the wedding, Grandfather. It was unavoidable. As I said, I was in Cumbria, working on an investigation on the twenty-fourth. I didn’t get your phone message until I got home, more than a week after you left it, and by that time—

The older man waved away McLaren’s apology. The firelight illuminated the side of his face, throwing the weathered skin on his forehead into relief. Ach, I ken a’ that. Ye explained. An’ I forgive ye. It was Brandon who left it late in tellin’ folks o’ the wedding. We didnae hold it again’ ye that ye wasnae here. He held his hands out to the fire and rubbed them. A log snapped, sending a shower of embers up the chimney. It’s something else about Brandon I need tae speak. Ye mentioned yer investigating. Sae ye’re still doing that.

McLaren nodded, not certain where the conversation was leading.

And ye’re successful at it. I mean, ye make a living.

I mostly build and repair dry stone walls in Derbyshire but yes, I’ve solved the cases I’ve taken on. At least so far, but I’ve not been at this very long. It’ll be... He paused, thinking back to the incident that drove him out of the police work he loved and into tackling his first cold case as a private citizen. He nodded, the scene firm in is mind. Yes, it’ll be two years come this June. Luck seems to be with me most days, though I’ve tackled only a dozen or so investigations. He eyed his grandfather, concerned about what was coming.

Neill sniffed. Ye wouldnae have lasted sae lang in the polis if yer detectin’ were amiss. He sat back and angled his body toward McLaren. His white hair fanned out from his head, encircling it like the white strap and buckle of the clan’s badge. He sighed heavily, as if not knowing where or how to begin. Yer uncle Brandon wanted ye tae come tae the wedding but that’s nae the only reason we invited ye here.

Oh yes?

He hopes that since ye’re wi’ us ye’ll investigate a cold case.

A cold case? McLaren leaned forward, his breathing shallow, his stare fixed on his grandfather.

Aye. It’s o’ a death. A murder.

Who was killed?

The woman tae whom Brandon was engaged afore the lass he married.  Fiona Lennox.

CHAPTER THREE

The quiet settled into the room as McLaren tried to understand Neill’s words. A first fiancée? And she was killed? When? Not recently, I hope. His voice shook slightly as a mental image of his own fiancée stood before him.  Dena had been murdered two months ago, and he was still coping with the tragedy.

A log in the fireplace broke in a dull snap, its bark falling on top of the embers beneath the grate. The aroma of pine and juniper twined into the room, stirring up memories of a recent Christmas Eve. Dena and him singing songs at the fireside, walking in the snow, kissing beneath the mistletoe... He blinked, willing the image from his mind. It was too soon to relive the past. The emotional wounds were still raw. He drained the last of his tea. It had grown cold but he didn’t care. Anything to distract him from the images of happier times that would never come again.

Neill jabbed the poker at the remaining logs, muttering something McLaren heard only partially. Satisfied that the fire was right, the older man turned again toward his grandson, but rested the poker across his knees. His right hand gripped the handle as though it were a claymore and he was ready to avenge the death. It were nearly a year ago. Toward end o’ March.

What happened? Didn’t the police look into it? You say it’s an old case—

They might still be workin’ on it, but they’ve made nae arrest. Brandon would hae told me.

And Uncle Brandon wants me to investigate?

He’s o’ the opinion ye’ll succeed where the polis hae failed.

McLaren opened his mouth, intending to relate his adventure when he was here that past December of finding a kidnapping victim and barely escaping with his life. But he thought better of it. Perhaps helping his uncle was what he needed to do. Perhaps it would make up for missing the wedding. Unless he had no better results than the police, then the newly patched family rift might zip apart, never to be healed.

Neill gave McLaren a look that held hope and confidence. His right hand slid over the shaft of the poker. Brandon can give ye the details when he returns frae his honeymoon. That’ll be tomorrow, ye recollect. But I can tell ye some points without him.  Fiona’s body was found nearly a week after she was killed, or so the polis surgeon estimates.

And where was that? Despite his hesitation at becoming involved and possibly jeopardizing his relationship with his uncle and grandfather, McLaren found his interest increasing.

In a boat. Floating on the waters o’ a nearby loch.

Did she live in the area? Is that why she was found there?

Neill shook his head and leaned the poker against the wall. Nae. She lived in Auld Reekie.

McLaren nodded. Old Smoky. The City. Edinburgh. What was she doing at the loch? If it’s near your house, here, that’s about a two hour drive from the city. Does she work in this area? That might explain it. He could envision the town of Callander, nearly twelve miles to the south, rich in its tourist trade. And there were villages and hamlets like Balquhidder, Lochearnhead and Balfron scattered throughout the region, villages that perhaps weren’t as well-known to holiday-makers but offered tourist-centered livelihoods, nevertheless. And the Trossachs—famed for Loch Lomond and the surrounding beauty of the Scottish Lowlands—offered its share of careers. He screwed up his mouth as he thought. That’s a far commute if she works near you and lives in Edinburgh. Even if she takes the train—

Ye’re on the wrong tack, lad. Aye, she was found near us here in Auchtubh but she lived and worked in Edinburgh. But I’m glad o’ the questions. Shows ye’re thinking like a rozzer.

Despite the serious subject, McLaren smiled at the old word for policeman. A log settled farther down in the grate as the mantle clock cleared its throat for announcing the hour. Did Uncle Brandon notify the police of her disappearance? I assume she went missing if her body wasn’t found until several days later.

He’d best tae tell ye o’ that, Michael. I’d get it wrong if I were tae relate the story. But they had an evening out on the town the night everyone assumes she went missin’. ‘Twas the last time he saw her alive, the poor lad. Neill shook his head and stared into the flames.

How’d the police find her if she was two hours from her home? Did Uncle Brandon have an idea of where to look?

It took some time tae locate her, as ye ken by me sayin’ it were near a week after. The loch’s like most o’ them—moorland an’ farmland an’ trees. Mountains come down tae the water on the north side. All in all, it’s desolate enough, even wi’ a village nearby.

McLaren didn’t know which specific loch, but he could picture the area if it was at all like most he’d seen. A body of water surrounded by moorland, lonely enough so someone bent on murder would feel relatively safe from any witness.

A farmer found her an’ rang up the rozzers. Neill’s voice pulled McLaren from his image of the crime scene. That’s all I ken. Ye’ll have tae wait for Brandon tae tell ye more.

I’m sorry he’s had to live with this for a year. But if the loch is fairly isolated, no village or farms nearby—

The dog got up, growling, and padded to the base of the staircase.

What is it, Mungo? Neill twisted around in his chair, looking at the dog.

The growl turned into a bark, and the setter put his front paw on the bottom step.

Is something amiss, laddie? Neill walked over to the dog, whose attention was at the top of the stairs.

McLaren got up and joined his grandfather. The top landing was dark and didn’t look inviting. This is unusual behavior, I take it. Is something wrong?

Mungo doesnae bark unless a’ strangers.

Could someone have broken into the house? McLaren glanced at the front wall. It seemed unlikely, given the near fortress-like build of the residence, with its thick-cut stones. But even bank vaults could be breeched.

The dog growled again, a deep throated threat of pending attack.

McLaren stepped around the dog, trying not to alarm or distract it. He hesitated, gazing at the top of the stairs again, considering which way to turn at the landing. No sound carried down to them. That wouldn’t help locate the intruder. He murmured, I’ll see if something’s wrong, shall I? You stay here, Grandfather.

Neill grabbed the dog’s collar, whispering Heel as he pulled Mungo to his side.

McLaren eased onto the bottom step, hesitated, then inched up to the landing. He paused, letting his eyes adjust to the gloom and listened. A sound of wood sliding on wood came from his left. Was someone opening a dresser drawer? He tiptoed down the hallway, keeping as close to the wall as possible. If the floor had a tendency to squeak, it would most likely be in the middle where centuries of traffic had weakened it.

He kept his left hand on the wall, balancing himself and feeling for unexpected objects like framed photos, which might fall and alert the intruder if McLaren knocked against them. But the wall was bare. Only the feel of wallpaper slid beneath his fingers.

He stopped a foot or so from the first room on his left and listened. Even though the door was closed, the faint scraping was more distinct. He crept up to the door, his right hand on the knob, his left hand near the door’s edge. He flung open the door. The sound of scraping wood, the sensation of cold air, and an image of a dark shape greeted him.

His yell evoked an oath from his grandfather and a string of barks from the dog, both still downstairs.

The figure lunged toward McLaren, grabbed his upper arm, and yanked him across the room. McLaren braced himself as he fell against a mahogany desk. His hands clutched for a drawer pull or furniture edge, anything to stop his slide, but his knees buckled and his shoulder hit the floor.

Without waiting to see if he’d accomplished his goal, the attacker dashed toward the window. A jangling of metal against metal bore into the quiet as the drapery rings slid across the curtain rod. The window hangings parted, rammed to the farthest end of the pole, and fluttered in the breeze slipping over the sill.

The figure was barely discernible in the dark opening, seeming to melt into the evening sky. He flung his legs over the sill, then groped for the bottom of the window sash. He bent over, as if angling onto the roof or trying to make himself invisible. A scuff like something hard grazing the slate tiles sailed into the room before everything fell silent.

McLaren pushed himself up and darted toward the window. He lunged, his hands outstretched, trying to grab the figure. There