A Scone of Contention
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A Scone of Contention
A KEY WEST FOOD CRITIC MYSTERY
Lucy Burdette
For the gang who shared the magical Scotland adventure: Sue, Jeff, John, Steve, Yvonne, Susan, David, Robin, and Jack-and Wendy, who was there in spirit
Acknowledgments
In June 2019, I was fortunate to take a trip through parts of Scotland and Ireland. The adventure was made more amazing by the presence of family and friends, to whom the book is dedicated. Warm thanks go to the organizer and musical tour guide, Jack Beck; to our unflappable driver, David; and to the musicians we met along the way, including Alan Reid. It was an astonishing experience! As I wrote, I found these books helpful for detail and inspiration: Powerful Places in Scotland by Gary White and Elyn Aviva, Around a Thin Place: An Iona Pilgrimage Guide by Jane Bentley, and Outlander Kitchen: The Official Outlander Companion Cookbook by Theresa Carle-Sanders with a foreword by Diana Gabaldon.
I apologize to the people of Scotland for the way I used the Falkirk Wheel. The wheel is real, but the unpleasantness happened strictly in my imagination. I am grateful to Susan Cerulean, Jeff Chanton, Robin Elizabeth, and Susan Hamrick, who helped me remember trip details for several scenes. I borrowed Robin’s words to describe her experience of noticing the people who had lived in the past in Glencoe. Miss Gloria’s experience while wearing the goggles came from my imagination. Susan Cerulean and Jeff Chanton helped fill in the details of the solstice parade. Thank you to Susan Hamrick for her recipe for cock-a-leekie soup. And thanks go to Bunnie Smith who, in exchange for a generous donation to the FKSPCA, allowed me to use her cats, Archie and Louise, in the book. Tobermory the cat is also real, though he did not pay a cent to be mentioned.
My sincerest gratitude must go to Angelo Pompano and Christine Falcone, my long-time friends and writers’ group, who saved me over and over from sloppy plot turns and a lack of imagination. I was under a strict deadline for this book, and they kept right up as I churned the pages out. Hayley and the gang thank them too! Chris is brilliant with titles, and I thank her for Bloody Blades: Crossing the Thresholds of History. Thank you also to my Facebook friends, who are always willing to brainstorm a murderous plot twist. A particular thank you goes to Pat Ruta McGhan for her lovely description of Nathan’s love for Hayley, which I borrowed for Janet. And a big hurrah to Margo Sue Bittner for the splendid title suggestion.
A warm thank-you to my agent, Paige Wheeler, who has stuck with me from the beginning and found a fine second home for the Key West mysteries with Crooked Lane books. Thanks to Matt Martz, Melissa Rechter, Madeline Rathle, Jenny Chen, and all the staff at Crooked Lane for producing and publishing a beautiful book. I’m very grateful for amazing editorial guidance from Sandy Harding, and the gorgeous cover design from Greisbach and Martucci.
Thanks to every reader, bookseller, and librarian who helps me keep the series going. You make all the hard work worthwhile! Thanks to my beloved pals at Jungle Red Writers, Hallie Ephron, Hank Phillippi Ryan, Rhys Bowen, Deborah Crombie, Julia Spencer-Fleming, and Jenn McKinlay, for support, brilliant ideas, and a lot of laughter. And last but never least, my thanks go to John, fabulous life partner and supporter—the Jamie to my Claire. Tha goal agam ort!
Lucy Burdette, Key West, Florida
December 2020
Chapter One
Whoever said cooking should be entered into with abandon or not at all had it wrong. Going into it when you have no hope is sometimes just what you need to get to a better place. Long before there were antidepressants, there was stew.
—Regina Schrambling, “When the Path to Serenity Wends Past the Stove,” The New York Times, September 19, 2001
The phone rang, and I felt a shiver of worry as my guy’s name flashed on the screen: Nathan Bransford. A ghost walking on your grave—that’s how my grandmother would have described the shiver. I tried to shrug that off as an old wives’ tale, but … My new husband, Nathan, was a detective with the Key West Police Department and utterly serious about fending off disruptions to his work. Texts were tolerated. Calls not so much. And that meant he never called without an utterly serious reason.
“Hi, sweetheart,” I said. “What’s up?” I couldn’t help worrying about him, always. Considering that we had reservations to fly to Scotland tomorrow, where we’d be staying with his sister and her husband, now I was also concerned about a police emergency interfering with our long-delayed honeymoon trip. But I was learning the rules of married life, one of them being don’t instantly show him that you’re worried because that makes him feel weak or something even worse. And definitely don’t show that you’re worried that he’s worried.
He cleared his throat and his voice came over the line a little more rumbly than usual. “I heard from my brother-in-law today while at work. Honestly, my sister sounds a bit”—there was a pause—“unhinged, is the only way to describe it.” He was again quiet for a minute, and I could hear him cracking his knuckles, echoing Evinrude the cat, who was crunching on the dog’s kibbles. “To make things worse, he insists that I play golf. In fact, he’s already made three reservations. At one of the fanciest courses in the world, where duffers and hackers like me don’t belong. I’ll be in the deep end, way over my head. Plus, a round of golf lasts a lifetime, and that will cut into my time with you.”
Nathan had grown up in a family where golf was a given. As part of his teenage rebellion, he’d dropped it cold as soon as he left home for college. “It’ll come back to you, like falling off a horse. Oops, sorry—mixing my metaphors. Don’t worry about me—I know I’ll love your sister. How bad could she be if her husband’s planning all that golf? And besides, Miss Gloria makes everything a party.” I paused. “Sounds like you’re getting cold feet about the trip,” I said, keeping my voice light.
“No cold feet, but this sure isn’t turning into much of a honeymoon.”
I snickered. “We gave that up when we asked Miss Gloria to join us. And she’s going to make the trip so much richer. She’s so excited—she’s researching her family tree on Ancestry and she’s made a little map marking where all her relatives might be buried.”
We were all headed to Scotland, a delayed honeymoon for Nathan and me, and the first trip abroad since her husband’s death for Miss Gloria. Nathan had offered to take me anywhere I wanted to go. I chose Scotland because of Outlander and Shetland, natch, and because I wanted to meet his mysterious sister, whom I’d only recently learned about. When I’d broken the news to Miss Gloria, my fellow fanatic Outlander watcher, she’d said mournfully, “Scotland was the next trip Frank and I were going to take. And then—poof—he was gone. Dead of a heart attack and not traveling anywhere but to the morgue. I’m so happy for you, Hayley,” she added. She really meant that, but she had a shimmer of tears in her eyes.
Later that night, Nathan suggested that we should invite her along. I was shocked. “It’s our honeymoon,” I reminded him. I would have loved to have her travel with us, but I was afraid my new husband would regret it once we were on the road. Traveling with an old lady might be a challenge. Not that anyone who knew her would describe Miss Gloria as old. Some days she showed more zip than me—and I was fifty-something years younger. And if she did happen to droop, the tiniest catnap brought her roaring back to life.
“We’re already spending most of the week with my sister,” he said. “Miss G would only be an improvement.”
On the phone, Nathan heaved a big sigh. “Now the plot’s gotten thicker. My mother’s coming.”
I almost choked on the swallow of water I’d just taken. I’d gotten to know Nathan’s mom right before New Year’s. We’d survived a harrowing situation that left us filled with respect for one another. However, she was tall, formal, and
super-accomplished, and she still scared the pants off me.
“She’s worried about my sister too,” Nathan continued, “but she hasn’t seen her in a couple of years, so she figured our visit would be an easy way to work herself into the mix. I assured her that you wouldn’t mind.” I could hear him taking a big breath. “I’m sorry.”
“We’ll figure it out,” I said briskly. “I’m sure it will be fine. I’ve got to run. I’ve got scones in the oven and only the barest bones of an article on the computer screen.”
I’d wheedled a week of vacation out of my bosses at Key Zest magazine but then felt guilty about dropping the ball and offered to write a special section on Scottish food and music for the next issue—Hayley Snow, traveling correspondent. In addition to the article I was committed to send by tomorrow—a roundup of restaurateurs’ opinions about the Mall on Duval Street, I’d promised a couple of scone recipes. I’ve always been and probably always will be an overachiever, once I get my compass aimed at the right point. And my bosses weren’t going to turn me down, even if it was my so-called honeymoon.
The Mall on Duval had been a brainstorm from our newish mayor. It involved closing several blocks of the busiest strip in Key West to car and truck traffic on weekend evenings, in order to increase foot traffic and attract locals as well as visitors. The jury was definitely out on whether it was a raging success or the worst mistake since the harbor dredging that opened the gates to the influx of giant cruise ships.
I got up from my lounge chair on the teak deck and walked into our new houseboat, our home. Nathan and I had been living here two weeks and I still had to pinch myself to believe it was real. Though we’d spent months pouring over plans and many more months waiting for workers and materials to show up, the outcome was, in a word, stunning—without a whiff of flashy.
Our builder, Chris, had managed to secure Dade county pine lumber from a demolition project that now found a new life as my kitchen counters and drawers. He’d also managed to find Dave Combs, an amazing contractor and woodworker, who helped to execute our dream to polished reality. At the deep end of the counter, he had built shelves where I lined up my pottery containers holding baking supplies; and above that, vertical slats for my prettiest plates; and a little higher, a glass-fronted cabinet for the flowered blue china mugs and teapot that had been handed down from my grandmother’s kitchen. There was a separate shelf for my cookbooks, and a gas stove on which every burner worked without coaxing or danger of explosion, and even a special cabinet that exactly fit the mammoth food processor that my mother-in-law had given us as a wedding present. From a wrought iron rack on the wall and ceiling over the stove hung an assortment of pots and pans, whisks, cheese grater boxes, and the other tools of my trade.
Though I wrote food criticism for a living, I lived for feeding my family and friends. The new kitchen made that activity almost purely pleasurable. There were, of course, trade-offs that came automatically with living on a houseboat—neighbors were close by, and the water all around us amplified every sound. That meant we shared our neighbors’ music, no matter the genre. And we heard every woof and meow from every furry resident. And space was at a premium. That meant that our bed, three steps up from the double oven at the end of the kitchen, was built into the wall of the bedroom, with reasonable walk-in space only on his side, and a smaller mattress than a well-muscled man might prefer. As newlyweds, we did not find this close proximity to be a drawback. And we loved waking up in the morning and looking out on our aqua-blue watery world. On nice days, we opened the sliding doors so the whole world became part of our bedroom.
We had no room for houseguests aside from a berth on the living room couch, but since the people I loved most also lived on this island, I could easily survive with that restriction. I had a small built-in desk in the living area, and pale green walls that set off the rich woodwork and matched the color of the sea on a stormy day, and a special slot for Evinrude’s litter box, and room for a bed for Nathan’s dog, Ziggy, too. I couldn’t believe that I lived here, married to a sweet and sexy hunk of a guy, with Miss Gloria, one of my best friends, next door, and my old college roommate and dear friend, Connie, right up the dock.
I heard the sound of a cowbell ringing, the system we had set up to alert me that Miss Gloria was out on her deck and available for conversation. She insisted I should feel free to ignore the call, but so far I had not failed to respond. It wasn’t an easy transition for either of us, my moving out along with two members of our furry menagerie. Easy access with the toll of a bell made the change go more smoothly and feel less draconian.
I poked my head out the door and called over.
“Are you ready for a tea and scone break? I have some banana date scones coming out of the oven in five minutes.”
“Are you kidding?” she asked. “I’ll set the table. Bring the guys with you.”
She didn’t need to mention that, as both—Evinrude, my cat, and Ziggy the dog—had already gotten acclimated to the sound of the bell. Bell equals treats plus fun with old friends.
I pulled the fragrant scones out of the oven, the air now scented with the aromas of pastries browned just right plus the richness of bananas and a pile of butter. I transferred three of them to a yellow gingham plate, another wedding present, this time from Connie. I added the butter dish and a little bowl of freshly whipped cream and another of raspberry jam to the tray. Then I poured hot water into the blue flowered teapot and covered it with a tea cozy in the shape of a sheep that had been a gift from Nathan’s sister. Following my gray tiger and Nathan’s exuberant min pin, I started over to Miss Gloria’s place, navigating the gap between the deck and the sloshing bight with care. Next time I should remember to heat the water in her kitchen.
Miss Gloria’s two cats, handsome black Sparky, and adorable and mischievous orange tiger T-Bone, were waiting on her deck. She snatched the orange kitten up so he wouldn’t wind between my legs and trip me.
“Are you working?” she asked. “I hate to bother you when you have so much—”
“You never bother me,” I said patiently. “Remember what we agreed on after Nathan bought the boat?” I settled the tray on the table in between the two lounge chairs and gestured to the place next door.
“Friends and family first,” she said, her eyes twinkling. “Your mother and I taught you well, didn’t we?”
I’d spent a good part of the last few years here on this deck, talking with my friend and absorbing the life rhythms of Houseboat Row. “The recipe called for banana nut, but I changed out the nuts for dates,” I said. “There’s a ton of Irish butter already in the mixture, but I thought we might need a little melted butter on top too.” I split open one of the scones, watching the steam drift up, and slathered it with Kerrygold butter. We each grabbed a half, doused it in whipped cream and jam, and tucked in.
“Heavenly. Maple syrup?” she asked, quirking her white eyebrows into peaks.
“Your palate is getting so sophisticated,” I said with a big smile. “What else is up this morning?” I removed the sheep cozy, poured tea into each cup, and stirred in a tablespoon of honey. This was mango honey, with a hint of ripe fruit, that I doubted you could get anywhere outside of the Florida Keys. And it was the second week of June, ushering in the hot and sticky summer season, not hot tea weather at all. But both of us had gotten so excited about the impending trip that we couldn’t let a day go by without practicing taking a proper Scottish tea.
“Two things,” she said. “I want to go over my packing one more time. And I need you to remind me how to get into my Ancestry account. I fell asleep last night while I was looking at my family tree, and Sparky walked on the keyboard, and now I can’t remember how to get back there.”
“Easy yes on both,” I said, popping the last of the sweet and buttery scone into my mouth. I cut the third confection in half and buttered that too. As we ate, I described the phone call with Nathan. “He’s worried that his sister is flipping out,” I said.
I reviewed the conversation in my head, coming up with not much detail. “I didn’t even ask. He was so busy telling me that his mother’s joining the trip, that question never even came to my mind. I’ll find out more tonight.”
“Helen is coming too? This doesn’t sound like much of a honeymoon. I could bail out—maybe your mother should be going instead of me, since Nathan’s mother will be there.”
I cut her off before she could work herself into a lather. “Don’t be silly—she’s too busy to go on a trip right now. And we love that you’re coming. We wouldn’t have it any other way.”
Forty-five minutes later, we’d polished off every crumb of our tea and gone through everything in Miss Gloria’s suitcase, which she had laid out on the bed in my former bedroom. I wondered how it was possible to feel so thrilled with my new home and new husband and yet sad about leaving this cozy little space. Evinrude, who had followed us in, circled around several times on the pillow, appearing puzzled, then curled up for a snooze while we inspected the suitcase.
I advised Miss Gloria to remove the shorts and bathing suit and add another sweater and a raincoat. Early June in Scotland was rumored to be both chilly and wet. And being petite and thin, she tended to feel cold in even the warmest weather. And as she hadn’t gone swimming in Key West for the past decade—too nippy for her tastes—I doubted she’d be paddling about in the cold lochs of Scotland.
“Besides, they do have clothing stores in Scotland, I am told,” I said with a wink. “We can buy anything we’ve forgotten.” Then we went to her computer, where I restored her access to her family tree with a few quick strokes of the keyboard and watched two videos of Scottish bagpipers, admiring their music and their swinging kilts and well-muscled calves.