Chapter Four Written Trouble #2
“Yeah,” he murmured, watching her lips move in an inaudible whisper as she read the document. “If the Stewarts own St Albert land, they must be the ones who donated them to the town. Now, we just have to find the document that proves that.” She pulled out her phone and took a picture of the page.
“Funny how these are just copies. Without the original, we can’t tell the authenticity.” She frowned.
“That can’t be good.” Finlay turned the folder over, checking for the Stewart name. He found the page, but no documents indicated a transfer of ownership or donation to the town.
“Check for properties listed under Lochraven,” Isla suggested.
“Still nothing,” Finlay said, his shoulder slumping. Could it have been word of mouth? “Maybe that’s why she rebuked me. Her family lied to the town.”
“It’s possible.” Isla pursed her lips, tapping one finger on her chin.
“But isn’t it weird that in the document you found, Buchan donated his land to the town, but in the town’s record, he is transferring ownership to the Stewarts?
And if you’re right that the Stewarts lied, isn’t that motive? ” Isla whispered.
“Motive?” a strange voice interjected.
Finlay and Isla turned to see Callum. He grinned at them, looking too excited for Finlay’s liking.
“I thought I saw ye two walk in here,” he chuckled, scanning the area.
His eyes darted from left to right, ensuring no one was paying attention to them.
“What do ye mean by motive?” He cocked his head to the side.
“Is this about Angus? Mr Fraser, ye shouldn’t worry.
The police are working hard to catch whoever did that to him. ”
“I’m sure they are,” Finlay said.
“Aye, they are. If ye want to resume working… um, please give me a call,” said Callum, walking away.
Finlay waited until he was gone before returning the folder to the shelf. “I think we should go.”
“Why, don’t you trust him?” Isla asked.
It wasn’t that he didn’t trust Callum. It was a different thing. “He does too much sometimes, and I’d like to keep the upper hand,” explained Finlay with a sheepish smile.
“Isla?”
Her eyes darted to his. “Yes?”
“I’m coming to dinner.”
As Finlay stepped out of Isla’s truck and onto the winding driveway, a sense of curiosity settled over him. Before him, a charming bungalow materialized from the twilight shadows. The porch was adorned with delicate latticework and wicker chairs.
Finlay felt a thrill of excitement mixed with a dash of nervousness. As he followed Isla up the path, the sound of gravel crunching beneath their feet seemed to echo through the stillness of the evening.
The front door was painted a warm, sunny yellow, and it swung open to reveal a cosy foyer, its walls lined with family photographs and colourful tapestries.
Finlay’s eyes adjusted slowly to the warm, golden light spilling from the kitchen, where the enticing aromas of roasted lamb, fresh vegetables, and baking bread wafted through the air, making his stomach growl with anticipation.
Finlay followed Isla to the dining room. Moira, Isla’s Gran, beamed at him from the head of the table.
“Ah, Finlay, laddie, welcome to our humble abode,” Moira exclaimed, her Scottish brogue warm and inviting.
Finlay smiled, feeling a sense of ease wash over him. “Thank you, Moira. Your home is very lovely.” He looked around with a gentle smile.
After setting the table, Moira sat, beckoning them to join her.
“Good evening, Gran. Remember me, your granddaughter?” said Isla, her voice laced with sarcasm.
“Silly ye.” Moira playfully smacked Isla’s arm as she settled next to her.
Finlay sat beside Moira. “Perhaps she is jealous,” Finlay commented, eyeing Isla teasingly.
Woof!
Of course, the dog. Finlay turned in the direction of the Shakespeare bark to see him racing toward the dining table from a corridor leading deeper into the house. He was holding something colourful in his mouth.
“He’s awake!” Moira announced.
Shakespeare skidded to a stop when he spotted Finlay. “Hi again.” He waved, but his friendliness was reciprocated with a bark.
Isla slid out of her chair to attend to Shakespeare. She picked him up, peppering him with kisses, and he squirmed joyfully in her arms. It was a pleasurable sight, one Finlay was glad to have witnessed. There was kindness in Isla’s heart. Maybe not for him, but it was there.
For the right people. He sighed, feeling melancholic. Even though she was helping him, he knew it was out of pity.
“Hey.” Moira nudged his arm. “Pass me the spoon.” She began to serve the meal.
As they ate, the conversation flowed easily, with Moira regaling them with stories of her childhood in the Highlands. When they finished their main course, Finlay pushed his chair back, intending to help with the plates. “Let me give you a hand, Moira.”
Moira waved him off. “Och, no, Finlay, ye’re our guest! Isla will do it.”
Isla rolled her eyes, murmuring an inaudible complaint. She packed up some plates and left for the kitchen.
“We are having my famous scones for dessert,” Moira said. Her phone chirped, and she excused herself and walked toward the living room, leaving Finlay alone.
Finlay, feeling a bit useless, decided to help Isla. He carried some plates. “I can’t wait to have Moira’s famous scones.”
“Infamous, you mean?” Isla snickered.
Woof! Shakespeare barked at him as if to say, You’re in my territory.
Finlay jumped back, startled by the dog’s sudden appearance. “I’m just going to leave this here.” He quickly set the plates on the kitchen island and returned to the dining room.
“… hidden tunnels, ye say?”
Finlay halted as he caught snippets of Moira’s conversation on her phone. “Ah, I ken the ones ye mean. Been sealed off for years, but I’m not sure that’s the whole story.” Moira’s voice trailed off as she moved out of earshot.
Finlay’s curiosity was piqued. Hidden tunnels? What is Moira talking about? He made a mental note to ask Isla about it.
When the dining table was cleared, Isla returned with a tray laden with tattie scones and shortbread.
“Thanks for helping, Finlay,” she said, smiling.
Moira followed, a twinkle in her eye. “Now, let’s enjoy our dessert and some good company. The evening’s still young!”
As Finlay stepped out of the darkness and onto the now familiar path leading to his cottage, a sense of trepidation settled over him. The memory of Angus’ lifeless body, lying in a pool of his own blood just some days prior, still lingered in his mind like an open wound.
He approached the front door, his heart rate slowing slightly as he reached for the handle. But as his hand touched the wood, his gaze fell upon something that made his blood run cold. A small, white envelope was lodged under the door, its corner peeking out.
Finlay’s fingers trembled as he pulled out his phone and turned on the flashlight. With a sense of growing unease, Finlay bent down and picked it up.
He turned the paper over, his eyes scanning the surface for any sign of who might have sent it. But there was nothing. No indication of the sender’s identity. Just a single, chilling phrase printed on the inside of the envelope in red ink: “You are next.”
Finlay’s mind reeled as he stumbled backward, the envelope slipping from his fingers.
Panic set in, propelling him forward as he flung open the door and hurtled inside.
The door slammed shut behind him, the sound echoing through the cottage like a death knell.
Finlay leaned against the door, his chest heaving as he struggled to catch his breath.
He wasn’t safe. Someone was definitely following him.