The Low Road: The McLaren Mysteries, #16

By Jo A Hiestand

Former police detective Michael McLaren arrives in Scotland, ready to immerse himself in the fun of the Highland Games and to enjoy a holiday with Melanie. But the old saying of plans oft going awry rears its ugly head: Simon Shaw, a member of McLaren's folk group, dies. Murdered a year to the day following his uncle's death.

McLaren is determined to find out who killed Simon. Needing justice for his friend is only half of his incentive. He also needs to appease his guilt for suggesting the group sing there in the first place.

As McLaren becomes immersed in the investigation, he wonders if the two deaths are linked, or have to do with the family or their clan. Perhaps Simon's former wife killed him, bent on revenge more powerful than mere divorce. Or was the killing tied to an old hunt for diamonds? After all, diamonds aren't only a girl's best friend. Sometimes they birth greed and murder. And entrap the innocent.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Cousins House
• Release date: Sep 15, 2022
• ISBN: 9798215661987

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

Chapter One

D are I ask if you regret coming here for the Highland Games? Michael McLaren stood in the bedroom's open doorway. He had arranged his six foot-two-inch frame to lean comfortably against the wooden jamb and crossed his arms over his chest. His dark hair was ruffled, attesting to the day outdoors, and there was a light coating of dust on his boots and jeans, but it seemed in character. He spent most of his days outdoors, either mending dry stone walls or investigating cold murder cases. In fact, the majority of his friends would congratulate him on looking so neat at the moment.

His friend, Melanie Travers, sat in one of the room's wingback chairs, easing off her shoes before slumping against the chair's back. The chair, like most of the other pieces of furniture, spoke of generations of ownership and pride. She shook her head with a vigor that added weight to her words. I don't regret the trip at all. I think I'm just overwhelmed by the scenery, more than anything. It's gorgeous around your home village—the glen and the moor. But there is a lot going on here, isn't there?

Astonishingly so. And this is just Friday. You had a short, half-day baptism. Wait until tomorrow, a full day of events. Of course, he added quickly so she wouldn't feel overwhelmed by the number of activities, a person can't do everything. The majority of events are scheduled so two or three take place simultaneously. You have to choose between the shortbread bake-off and the clans' tugs-of-war, for instance. He grinned, watching the tension fade from her expression. She had a nice face, bordering on beautiful, he thought. Wisps of her dark blonde hair framed her blue eyes, which always betrayed her feelings. At the moment, they mutely stated she was enjoying the area, if not the event. I guess I'll learn a lot about you this trip. You know—discover if you favor watching muscular men heave heavy stones or if you're drawn more to the less macho competitions involving food and drink.

She kept her gaze steady, with only the suggestion of a smile hovering at the corners of her lips. I'll keep you guessing all evening. I won't decide until tomorrow. But it will be something I can sit and watch. I think my feet have had it.

Did we wear you out, then? Would you like a whisky? Or a cuppa? I can fetch either. He tilted his head slightly, waiting for her nod, studying her. I'd like to think your silence denotes you're content and not worn out, but your body language gives me a different answer.

Melanie waved her hand as though shooing away his concern. I'm fine, Mike. Just soaking it all in. What a wonderful day. And your grandfather and uncle are so...so... She paused, biting her lip.

Auld Scot? Formidable? Humorous?

Your grandfather is Auld Scot, as you warned me on the drive up. But he's a dear. He couldn't be more welcoming or caring. When you said we'd be staying in his home, of course I didn't imagine anything so massive and grand. It's a page torn from a history book, isn't it, and I've been set in the middle of the pageantry.

McLaren laughed. First I've heard of it described in that manner. That gives it a different flavor from what I would have said. But it's good that you're living the best part of your time travel. I doubt you would've wanted to live in Bonnie Scotland when the clan fightings were at their height.

I recall reading about that in school. Did the MacLarens have problems? Did a clan want to live in their glen? I can believe everyone would, it's so very beautiful. Those mountains backing up to the village, and the two lochs, and the...I don't know...the feel of the area. Mystical and Celtic, yet very much in the present world, if that all makes sense. If I lived here I'd never want to leave.

He paused, his mind racing. Would she really want to live here? Was it a hint that she would like to marry me and uproot herself from Cumbria? Or it might merely be the tourist talking, viewing Scotland through the rose-colored glasses of non-residents, caught up in the fictionalized romance of the Bonnie Prince Charlie days. She looks serious though... He cleared his throat, forcing himself to concentrate on the matter at hand. I don't know about other clans wanting to live here, but some wanted the MacLarens' cattle. That’s M-A-C Laren, by the way. Not M-C. Grandfather’s branch of the family dropped the A long ago. I guess they didn’t like writing the longer, original surname, he smiled. Actually, it’s probably more a matter of losing the A over time. Mistakes in written records, church registries. The usual thing. Anyway, my forebears lived in Balquhidder and Glencala and spots farther north of here. Our ancestral village, where the Games are held, is Balquhidder, the hub of it all. We've sort of forsaken the rest, though Grandfather's arm of the family has lived in Auchtubh, where we are, for three centuries, I think. The house is about that old and has withstood a lot. He paused, envisioning the hamlet of Auchtubh, slightly smaller than Glencala and its loch. It had been where his uncle's first fiancée had been killed half a year ago. He shook off the image, determined to enjoy his time with Melanie. I guess Buchanans or Campbells or MacGregors gave my kin the most problems back then. Well, either the clan itself or a smattering of septs. But I don't think there is a clan that didn't have their share of enemies. It was tough living, being on the alert for trouble. And that goes for life in general, not just clan fights or battles against foreign invaders or the climate. It was probably one reason people huddled together. Protection and strength in numbers, such as the septs would afford.

Septs are the family units umbrellaed under the main clan name, right?

Brava. You know your Scottish history. Yes. If a family group didn't have a lot of members but they needed protection, the larger clan would protect them. For example, some of the septs of Clan MacLaren are McRory, Patterson, and Lawson, to name a few. The MacLarens, then, would put out the call for help when they needed it. These septs, these smaller units, might have their own tartan or wear the larger clan's colors. It's astonishing to me how that feeling perpetuated itself through the decades. Of course, tit-for-tat cattle raids and reprisals perpetuated the anger brought about by killings and thefts, no matter what clan you can name.

You did this to us, so we'll do this to you. Yes.

There might be one or two people somewhere now with lingering impressions of family insults or the belated need for retaliation for murders or a stolen cow, but I'd think that would be very unusual. It was centuries ago. On the whole, I believe we all get along. Anyway, not to worry about that while you're here. My grandfather doesn't keep cattle. He gave a lop-sided grin, seeing her laugh. We'll have to make you an honorary kinswoman.

That would be nice. She glanced at the framed photos of relatives and by-gone days on the opposite wall. She had seen attire such as those in the photographs wore, but some of the farming or household items they held or stood next to were unfamiliar. And depending on the picture, the buildings varied from a herdsman's summer shieling to the ancestral great hall. But all were powerful statements that transported the viewer to a by-gone Scotland. Melanie shifted her gaze from a photo of a couple seated in an open-topped motor car to McLaren. Your grandfather is very warm and generous. So is your uncle.

If Grandfather welcomes me, then he welcomes you. But yes, he is a dear, if you can get past his gruff exterior. As you saw when we entered the house, it's his castle and he glorifies the days of the MacLaren clan.

Nothing wrong with that.

True. At least he doesn't go around with a broadsword at his side or constantly play his bagpipe.

Would he play for me, do you think? She said it so quickly that McLaren couldn't mistake the hope in her voice.

He doesn't have one. At least, not that I know of. But he could've picked it up and might play it while he's herding chickens or trudging through the snow.

Really?

I doubt it. I'm just having fun with you and with him. But I don't put it past him to do that or something equally as...

Fun? Sensible? Timesaving?

Could be all of those but I was thinking of loopy. Anything could've happened in the thirty-plus years of my absence from Scotland, including taking up the pipes. No, don't pout. You'll have heard enough bagpipe music and seen enough kilted men in the next two days to last you for years, I don't doubt.

Speaking of kilts... Melanie shifted her position slightly to lean forward as she looked at him. Did you bring yours?

McLaren shook his head. Seeing the optimism in her eyes, he wished he had rented one somewhere. Sorry to disappoint you. I don't have one. And even if I did, I wouldn't wear it. There are only so many things the public can stand to see, and my knees aren't one of them. You'll have to make do with other people's attire.

It will be difficult, but I'll do my best. She scrunched up her lips and her eyes narrowed, taking in his form. Hope colored her voice and she spoke slowly, as though needing to delay her disappointment should his reply not be what she wanted. But you have a MacLaren tartan shirt, or at least something of that ilk, I hope.

Save the mark, I've struck out twice, now. Nope. No tartan anything. Just my usual threads. He glanced at his navy-blue shirt, saw there was a tuft of dog hair on it, and deposited it in the waste bin.

Nothing wrong with your shirt, Mike. I just thought you'd be more...Scottish up here.

As if on cue, the lonesome wail of a bagpipe floated through the open window.

Melanie rushed to the window and stared in the direction of the sound, as if expecting to see the piper on the lawn. How lovely. She gripped the interior windowsill as she leaned forward, then turned to McLaren. There was no way to miss the excitement in her eyes. What a nice welcome. Thank you.

He joined her at the window and peered out. The air held the scent of late-blooming roses and damp grass. Although I'd like to take credit, he said, his voice close to her ear, I had nothing to do with this. Either Grandfather or Uncle set this up, is my guess.

Well, whoever did it, it's wonderful. Oh, Brandon. She turned at the knocking on the door jamb. A man slightly shorter than McLaren stood there, his neatly trimmed mustache and hair revealing a peppering of grey. Crow's feet were only discernible if he turned his head so that the light slanted across his skin. Otherwise, his general physique belied his fifty-five years. Brandon, we were just talking about the bagpiper. We assume you're responsible. If so, thank you.

I don't mean to interrupt. The voice came from behind McLaren, who turned to see his uncle. I just wanted to see if Melanie needed anything before I retire for the night.

Uncle Brandon, McLaren said, letting the curtain fall closed. Your piper is quite good. I couldn't have thought of a better welcome.

Right, the piper. Your grandfather and I heard it downstairs and we wondered where the music was coming from.

Wondered? His uncle's admission startled McLaren, and he leaned out the window as much as he dared, trying to see beyond the sides of the house. When he saw no one, he turned back, and sagged against the edge of the sill. How odd. You didn't set this up?

Unfortunately, I didn't think this far ahead. The music's none of my doing. Nor your grandfather's, he added hurriedly as McLaren opened his mouth. We were just talking about who it might be outside and thinking you had hired the bloke to play for Melanie.

McLaren shrugged, trying to think of another explanation. Strange that none of us knows about this piper. It's no one left over from the Games today, I take it.

Participating in some strange ritual? I hardly think so.

I'll find out, shall I? He jogged down the stairs and out of the house. But his assumption that the piper would be standing on the lawn quickly evaporated. No one was there.

But the music was, except he couldn't pinpoint its origin, for the wind shifted direction and took the sound with it.

He walked the length of the house, peering around the corners, thinking the musician might be lingering beside one of the tall yews that stood like sentinels along the stone walls. Again, he found no one.

He returned to the small gravel patch that served as a parking area. It was situated several yards from the house and sat at the foot of a slight mound running approximately half the length of the residence. Atop this modest incline, even at this distance—although it wasn't great—he had a better view of the lawns sprawling from and beyond the house. Grandfather's rose garden, small knot garden, and pond stretched eastward and westward from the house's rear and snuggled between it and the road that paralleled the residence. The barn, several outbuildings, and the large vegetable garden lounged farther to the east. Beyond that, the mountains lay to the north, the main bulk of moorland continued to the east, and a stretch of moor and grassland comprised the southern-most acreage of the family land. Melanie would love it, he thought. She would need little else to feed the romantic, if inaccurate, conception of the early clans.

A mistle thrush sang somewhere to the north, drawing McLaren's attention back to the area near the house. Probably bedding down for the night. As I should be doing, instead of chasing some barmy berk. What the hell's he playing at? How can he see where he's going?

The last vestiges of sunset touched the sky, the violet and indigo hues slowly turning to a somber grey that would soon melt into the thickening gloom. Dusk was yielding to the darkness that brought out night creatures and their sounds, but the piper seemed apart from that, like Melanie's blend of the Mystical and Celtic worlds. What is he doing here and where is he now?

The question was important, not just as an answer to the earlier curiosity of an unsolicited piper but because the music again had shifted. It now came from behind the house, apparently on the road.

McLaren tapped on his mobile phone's torch app and played the beam several feet ahead as he jogged toward the sound. The grass brushed the sides of his boots in dry, wispy sighs. Dew would anoint the lawn, yews, and the cars come morning, but at this hour it was an easy tramp without the entanglement of sodden grass. It's just as well, he thought as he approached the verge of the road. I can do without damp boots and jeans.

As he left the lawn and stepped onto the gravel edge of the road, the music stopped. Not abruptly, as if someone had hit the pause button on a recording. It groaned and lost its voice. Like a last gasp, the way bagpipe music ended with the air leaving the bag. The silence was nearly overwhelming after the lengthy skirl he had heard. The timing was strange too, as if the crunch of his boots on the chert had signaled to the piper that McLaren was there to find him.

He remained still and listened for another phrase of music. Nothing sounded: no wind moaned, no bird sang, no shoe trod on gravel. It was during the quiet that something pelted the side of his neck.

His hand instinctively went to the wounded spot. The flesh throbbed and he already knew a bruise would show tomorrow. He swept the torch beam at his feet but saw nothing other than the few rocks littering the road. He widened his search, but again saw nothing unusual. Who the hell would throw a rock, especially at this hour? Perhaps more alarming, why do it? Someone who had a good aim. The light from his torch hadn't spotlighted him per se. Just suggested his form as he stood there. And a still target was fairly easy to hit.

Walking around the small space where he had been assaulted produced no sign of the musician or the rock thrower. It was as though the stone had been dropped from the sky. Thinking the piper could be farther off to confuse McLaren, he jogged the tarmac for several hundred yards in both directions. But the exercise was useless. He saw no one, heard nothing other than the slap of shoe leather on the tarmac and the wind rustling through the stalks of wavy hair-grass and yarrow.

The piper appeared to be a phantom. A denizen of Melanie's spiritual land.

That's what he told her and Brandon when he returned to the house. They evidently had been discussing the subject, for when he strode into the bedroom, they turned from the window and accosted him with questions. You know exactly as much as I know about the person's identity, he said, standing just inside the doorway. I looked around the house, up and down the road for a way. No one's there.

Brandon strode over to the door and turned as he reached the hallway. Could be a contestant practicing. You know, he explained when Melanie's face went blank. The bagpipe competition tomorrow. Probably walking up and down the road as he practiced.

The corner of Melanie's mouth contracted as she frowned. Do they do that? Why not sit at home and practice?

He most likely is from out of town and is staying at a bed-and-breakfast in Balquhidder or some place near. He gave a short laugh. I'd give him kudos for his thoughtfulness if I were a B&B guest. I wouldn't want bagpipes disturbing my sleep, and I'm speaking as a lover of the instrument. He patted McLaren on the shoulder, seeming to convey resignation and gratitude. Thanks for checking, Michael. It was strange, wasn't it? If you ask me, it's suggestive of one of the clan's ancestors walking the low road. He strolled down the hall to his bedroom, leaving the suggestion hovering in the air.

But to McLaren's mind, the question thundered louder than the bagpipe.

Chapter Two

I t's a shame we couldn't thank the piper, Melanie said, settling back into her chair after Brandon left. He played very well. If he knew that we liked it, that might give him confidence for the contest. It's amazing what a simple remark like that, especially from a stranger, can do to bolster one's courage. It might make all the difference to his playing. Lessen the butterflies in the stomach tomorrow. She eyed him, but when he remained silent, she plunged on. Anyway, back to your situation for tomorrow. I think you need to think long and hard about having no kilt or tartan attire. It doesn't seem right.

McLaren lowered his head and feigned humiliation. I am truly remorseful.

No, you're not. She laughed. I've seen you act more convincingly when you're buttering up a witness.

I'll try better if we come another year. But I've really struck out right now. I hope I don't let you down again. What's the penalty for disappointing your... He paused. He had nearly said 'disappointing your love' but he had stopped himself in time. He cleared his throat, faking a cough, and said, ...for disappointing you? He smiled, hoping she would assume he was joking.

She opened her mouth, hesitated as if second-guessing her reply, then frowned. You have no kilt or tartan apparel, despite the fact that we're in Scotland, but you've brought your guitar. Hmmm... We all have our standards. Your guitar must be one of the travel essentials, such as your toothbrush.

I need my guitar. I don't need a kilt. My folk group is performing—well, I guess singing is the proper word—at the Games tomorrow.

You didn't want to go on this evening?

Our bassist, Simon, couldn't get away soon enough for a spot today, but we'll be on tomorrow morning.

Will I get to meet the lads?

I don't see how you can help it. Unless you make yourself scare when we're on stage.

If I want a ride back home, I'll be in the crowd, listening and telling you how brilliant you all were. Melanie grinned as McLaren laughed. You can't be bad, Mike. You were asked to appear, and you lot perform around your home village in Derbyshire. With that reputation, small though it may be, no one's going to ask—

We were asked because we don't expect to be paid in the stratosphere like some name groups do. Oh, don't get me wrong. The pay's enough to cover travel expenses, and the lads' lodgings are paid for. We'll make a small profit this weekend, so that's nice. But though we won't embarrass ourselves with our singing, the main reason we were invited is because my Uncle Brandon is head of the entertainment committee. That explain it?

Methinks the lady doth protest too much. Your uncle wouldn't have asked you just because your fee is low. He and the Games have a reputation to uphold, right? She mimicked McLaren's nodding. Who's in the group? You never said.

There are three besides me. Nick Herbert is on mandolin and fiddle and sings tenor. Colin O'Brien sings baritone and plays guitar. Simon Shaw is the bassist and sings bass.

And you on guitar and singing baritone. What do you call yourselves?

I'm glad you didn't ask what others call us.

Melanie grabbed her sunglasses and threw them at him. Stop that. I can see I need to become your fan club prez or booking agent or something.

Or something. Right.

Mike... Her voice sharpened slightly.

Just having a bit of fun with you. The group's name is Woodstock Town. We chose it because 'Near Woodstock Town' was the first piece we arranged and felt moderately comfortable with, that we wouldn't become the target of thrown rubbish. It's become our trademark song.

Good name choice, then.

McLaren shrugged. Better than most of our other name considerations, at least. Especially some suggestions Jamie came up with. Jamie was McLaren's best mate and never tired of giving tongue-in-cheek advice. Our first gig consisted of three songs we had arranged. We still sing them, but you may be glad to know we've enlarged our repertoire.

I hope so. Singing them over and over and over to fill up your hour time slot might get a bit boring, no matter how you arrange each rendition. Are the lads enthused about singing at the Games this weekend?

Nick and Colin are. Of course, some of that excitement is fueled by the possibility of the group being offered a recording contract.

Melanie leaned forward slightly, looking at him. Really? That's massive.

I think so. Even though the Games here aren't as gigantic as a good many in other places in Scotland, ours has some unique events and draws a good-sized crowd. I could be wrong, but I think that may be part of the reason local musical agents oft times frequent our Games. We've not played here before, so we don't know what to expect. But according to Uncle Brandon, we stand a good chance of drawing an agent's attention.

That would be wonderful. Oh, dear. Or would it? Her voice dropped slightly as McLaren winced. "I see. I guess it wouldn't be wonderful. Whyever not? Too much time away from spouses and family