Chapter Seven Who Could It Have Been? #2
The receptionist pursed her lips for a few seconds, then shook her head. “You need an appointment for such a visit or research or whatsoever. I can book you, and when it’s approved, we’ll call you.”
“That will be great. But can I please use your restroom? I’m really pressed, and it’s almost fifteen minutes to my destination.”
Isla nodded politely at the receptionist, who pointed down the hallway. “Go down that hallway. The bathroom is just past the water cooler. It’s the last door on your left.”
Isla smiled and headed in the direction indicated, but as soon as she turned the corner, she veered off course with Shakespeare loping beside her. She pretended to study the row of framed certificates on the wall, using the opportunity to slip unnoticed toward council leader’s office.
She pushed open the door and stepped inside, her eyes scanning the tidy space. “Shhh.” She looked down at Shakespeare with a finger pressed against her lips. He would be quiet. She knew that.
In the office, there was a solid pine desk with tapered legs and a simple, elegant finish. Isla’s gaze landed on a file cabinet in the corner, its drawers labelled with alphabetized tabs.
She quickly located the “S” drawer and pulled it open, scanning the contents until she found what she was looking for: the deed document for St. Albert Church. Not just the deed but also a plan for the boarding school.
She leafed through the files and saw another plan. It was titled Haven Raven Resort. It was Finlay’s plan. She wanted to go through it but needed to find the deed. She leafed through until she saw the deed for the donation of St. Albert Church to Lochraven.
Isla’s fingers trembled slightly as she held it up to the light.
The words “Saint Albert Church” appeared in bold, black letters, but to Isla, they shimmered with a faint, murky light.
The ink seemed to shift and writhe on the page.
It appeared to be a fraction too dark, the font, too perfect.
Isla’s gaze lingered on the signature block, where the names and dates seemed to hover just below the surface of the page rather than being firmly rooted on the paper.
She felt a growing sense of disquiet as if the document was trying to convey a message that didn’t quite add up.
The more she looked at it, the more it seemed…
off. The edges of the paper appeared slightly worn, but the wear seemed unnatural as if it had been carefully crafted to appear aged.
She could taste the falsity, a bitter, metallic flavour lingering on her tongue.
This document, the deed to St. Albert Church, was a forgery. The donation was fake. The property still belonged to Beatrice Stewart.
She lied.
Shakespeare suddenly raced towards the door, whining, alerting her that someone was coming.
Just as Isla was about to replace the document, she heard the door open behind her.
She spun around to see Beatrice and the receptionist with the deed still clutched in her hand.
Their expressions were identical—shock, anger, and a hint of triumph.
“Ah-ah, Isla,” Beatrice said, her voice dripping with malice. “Indeed, the rumours are true! Finlay has employed ye to do his dirty work.”
Isla’s heart sank. “I… I can explain…” she stuttered, then her eyes flickered to the fake deed and then to Beatrice’s glare.
Isla stood her ground, the fake deed still clutched in her hand.
“I’m planning a history workshop, and I need these for my research,” she said, her voice steady.
“I wasn’t sure how long it will take to get an approved appointment so I decided to help myself.
” Shakespeare barked, standing in front of her, ready to charge.
Beatrice’s eyes darted from Isla to Shakespeare. “Is that so? Well, ye will hae to continue your research in the police cell.” Beatrice pulled out her phone and began dialling. The receptionist folded her arms across her chest, glaring.
“What are you doing?” Isla asked.
“What do ye think I’m doing?” She brought the phone to her ear. “Calling the police.”
Isla swallowed hard.
“Hello, yes. This is her. I would like to report a situation.”
Isla sat down quietly in the lobby. Rory, the assistant inspector, strode in. “What’s going on here?” he demanded, his eyes scanning the room.
Of all the officers in the station, it had to be him. Isla groaned, keeping her eyes on her shoes.
Beatrice pointed an accusing finger at Isla. “She was snooping around my office, looking for who-knows-what.”
Rory’s expression turned stern. “Isla, what were ye doing?”
Beatrice huffed, disappearing into the hallway.
“Like I said, I’m planning a history workshop,” she answered dryly.
Rory rolled his eyes at her. “On old buildings and on the same church Angus reported Finlay to be in possession of the said deeds.” He chuckled icily, shaking his head disapprovingly. “Something tells me ye are playing detective.”
Isla stood her ground. “Okay, what if I am? I’m just trying to help, Rory. I didn’t mean to cause any trouble.”
Rory chuckled. “Trouble is the only thing that can come out of this. This is official police business, not some amateur sleuthing game. Ye need to stop playing detective and let us handle it.”
Moira appeared in the doorway, her eyes twinkling with concern. Finlay was behind her, a mixture of worry and fear etched on his face. Their shoes were wet, which meant that it was drizzling outside. As if to confirm the point, thunder boomed through the office, causing Shakespeare to yelp.
“Elliot asked me to call her.”
Isla let out a frustrated groan.
“And ye are lucky, Dugan asked Beatrice to let ye go,” Rory scolded.
Moira rushed to sit beside Isla, placing one arm around her shoulder. “Isla, dear, what’s going on?”
Rory shot Finlay, who was standing quietly in the corner, a dirty look. “This doesn’t concern ye, Fraser. Why are ye even here?”
Moira intervened, placing a gentle hand on Rory’s arm. “Now, now, Inspector. Let’s not be too hasty. I called him.” She turned to Isla and continued, “Isla, dear, come along. It’s pouring outside, and we don’t want you catching a chill.”
As they exited the council office, the rain-soaked streets were chaotic. People scurried about, umbrellas blowing inside out in the wind. Shakespeare hovered by the doorway, barking at the umbrellas.
“Shakes, it’s okay.” Isla picked him up. Moira kept her arm around Isla while Finlay opened an umbrella to cover them.
Woof! Woof! Shakespeare barked at him as they hurried to Isla’s truck.
As they dashed into the bookshop, Isla filled Finlay in on her discovery. “I found the deed document for St. Albert Church, but it’s fake! Beatrice lied about donating the church to the town.”
“What?” Finlay said, eyes darting to Eryn, who was taking inventory of books by the shelves.
Beatrice knew something. “I think she killed Angus because he was going to expose her. And she is gunning for MSP. That’s a dent in her image if she wants to be an elected representative.”
Finlay’s eyes widened. “Election fraud.”
Isla nodded grimly. “I know. Imagine what it could do to her career. We just need to prove it.”
“How?” Finlay asked.
“That’s what I’m still trying to figure out,” she answered with a distant look. “Guess what Dugan said when I asked about the church?”
“Now, what are ye two whispering about?” Moira asked, setting Shakespeare down. “Whatever ye two are up to, please be careful and don’t go breaking and sneaking into private properties.”
Isla took Moira’s hand, her expression remorseful. “I’m so sorry. Gran.”
So sorry that I won’t be taking your advice this time.
As far as Isla was concerned, Beatrice Stewart was a suspect.