A Scone of Contention

by Lucy Burdette

  “So then, Vera has a sister. She never said anything about that.” Gavin tucked a white napkin into his neckline and drained the glass of Scotch he’d brought to the table.

  I opened my mouth to correct his assessment of our relationship, but Gavin had already begun to explain that he was the photographer for the book, but also what he referred to as the “concept man.” Across the table, Helen Bransford widened her eyes and mouthed “Good luck” in my direction.

  Two waiters and Grace the cook began circulating around the big table, serving wine and appetizers to each of us. Grace whispered about the dishes she was serving as she reached me.

  “Bubble and squeak patties,” she said, “otherwise known as cabbage and potatoes. And these are Scottish eggs wrapped in sausage.”

  I smiled my thanks and snapped a few photos before I bit into them. Absolutely divine, crunchy outside and soft and savory inside.

  “What is the concept of this book?” I asked Gavin. “Ainsley was mentioning the push–pull of tourism versus ecology and beauty of the spaces. And Vera writes about sacred places, I think.” By now I was somewhat confused about how all these people were working together and what the end product would be. “How will your project be different from other tour books of Scotland?”

  His lips curved into a disdainful frown. “Just like Vera not to bother to explain how very different this will be.”

  I felt my mental hackles rise on my sister-in-law’s behalf. “We rolled in from the US yesterday and are a bit staggered by jet lag. In other words, we haven’t delved into every conceivable angle of your project—we’re doing our best to get acclimated.” This was a dinner party and I needed to try to smooth over my testiness, so I added, “Though I’d love to hear about it.”

  “My concept is called interactive tourism,” he said, folding his hands over his stomach in a satisfied way.

  “I’m not familiar with that term,” I said.

  But before Gavin could explain it to me, if in fact he had had any intention of doing so, the man next to him began quizzing him about the book.

  “My female coauthors—” Gavin slapped his hand on the table—“are interested in reality. Which I find insufferably dull. We’ve seen that in a thousand history books and guidebooks to Scotland. I am interested in sharing historical virtual reality with visitors. And that means there will be a live link for each of the sites in the book connected to a virtual experience of Scottish history, as well as a downloadable app. But most exciting to me is, once you’ve purchased the Oculite headset, the experience goes from dull to immersive and astonishing!”

  “So, give us an example of what might we see,” his dinner companion urged, before I could get my question out: What in the world was an Oculite headset?

  “So, for example, if you were visiting the Great Wall of China,” said Gavin, “you would no longer be looking at the remnants of an old stone wall. After downloading my new app and purchasing the headset, you would literally experience the attacks of the Huns—the clashing swords, the thwack of mace or javelin, the screaming horses. The only thing missing would be the smell of burning flesh—and you better believe I’m working on how to simulate odors as well. After that might come scenes of slaves building the wall, which was designed to repel further attacks. You wouldn’t forget those historical events.”

  This was sounding like a book experience that I would never, not in a million years, purchase or read. And it also did not sound like the same book that Vera was writing. It didn’t actually sound like a book at all; it sounded like an expensive video game.

  Gavin continued to hold forth on his version of the project. “Similarly, many tourists visit Glencoe in the Highlands. You can drive through the mountains on those narrow roads, with buses hurtling toward you, and then pile into the visitor center with hundreds of other tourists, and then walk through a basically boring landscape and see nothing. Or you can Velcro on the eyepiece for my virtual reality experience and see a reenactment of the massacre of Glencoe. The triumph of the Campbells.” He honked a loud laugh and signaled for the waiter to refill his glass with red wine.

  I dearly hoped that Miss Gloria was too far away to hear this man crow about experiencing the massacre of her clan. Trying to focus on the plate of cock-a-leekie soup that had been served, I blew on a spoonful of hot broth, then tasted leeks and a rich chicken stock, lots of black pepper, and a hint of thyme. And sunk at the bottom of the bowl were pieces of prune, which lent a sweet finish to the savory dish. As we finished the soup course and dove into the shepherd’s pie, followed by a roast lamb with baby red potatoes, I chatted with the man on my other side, who was a golfer like Nathan and William. As dull as it might have seemed, hearing about putts and sand bunkers and the history of the Old Course was suddenly preferable to the alternative conversation.

  “I have a theory about the third stage of life,” Gavin was saying in a voice that had grown louder and louder over the course of the meal and could no longer be tuned out. “First there is childhood, then adulthood, and then what—old age? I and a handful of French philosophers prefer to call this third stage the troisième age.” He glanced around to see who was listening. “I believe this stage of life is based on curiosity.”

  Which struck me as almost hysterical as he had not shown a shred of curiosity toward anyone else in the room. He had not asked one question of his tablemates, even those of us who were obviously not local. And all that aside, his French accent was atrocious. I tried to ignore him and make mental notes about Grace’s recipes.

  After the dinner plates had been cleared, Grace served small green salads—”to clear your palates,” she told us. I snapped a quick photo, focusing on the nasturtium garnish, thinking that some of the greens that made up the salad were unfamiliar. I’d have to remember to ask what was used. Next Grace circled around with a bottle of whiskey and poured each of us a finger of alcohol over ice. “Edradour single malt cream whiskey with hints of butterscotch, chocolate, and hazelnut,” she told us.

  I took one sip of the whiskey—only to be polite, as I had never been a fan of sweet after-dinner drinks—and found it delicious. It was not at all sweet; it tasted creamy and smooth. I nibbled on shortbread and a few pieces of gorgeous cheese that were being passed by uniformed waiters, hoping they might absorb some of the alcohol. The new people I’d met began to swim together in a boozy blur. Miss Gloria looked knackered too, like a cut flower that had fallen out of its vase and was lying limply on the table.

  As I was thinking about how to signal to Nathan that it was time to clear out, at the far end of the table, Gavin’s wife, Glenda, suddenly doubled over, moaning in pain.

  “Oh my goodness,” said Ainsley, leaping out of her chair and rushing to her side. “What’s wrong? How can we help?”

  The guest who’d been seated next to her sprang up. “Should we call emergency?”

  “Do you feel nauseous?” another voice asked.

  The other guests chimed in with more questions.

  “Is her abdomen tender?”

  “Has this happened before?”

  “Does she have a history of drug use?”

  “Is her stomach swollen?”

  “Do you suppose it’s a case of appendicitis or diverticulitis or some other infected internal organ?”

  None of that would be helpful to hear if a person was feeling ill.

  “Call poison control,” a voice boomed out.

  That last comment came from Gavin, who had arrived at her side. I was hoping his wife was too distracted by her pain to absorb it.

  Vera’s face had gone ashen white, and she stood over her friend, wringing her hands helplessly. Ainsley bustled around giving orders and gently pushing people away from Glenda. “Friends, please stand back and let her breathe. Is she taking any new medication?” she asked Gavin.

  But he only shrugged. “No idea.”

  “How much did she have to drink?” she asked the people who had been seated on either side of her, incl
uding Miss Gloria.

  But my friend looked woozy, exhausted from the jet lag, I suspected. And she too would’ve been a fan of the cream whiskey and probably tippled more than one glass.

  “I’m sorry,” she murmured. “I said yes to everything that was offered and I wasn’t watching.”

  “Maybe some of us should clear out of the way,” said Helen Bransford. “It won’t help her to have fifteen tipsy guests sucking up her air.”

  I could have kissed her.

  “I’m going to stay behind, make sure she’s okay,” said Vera. “Do you mind staying with me?” she asked Nathan. “In case …” Her words trailed off, but her eyes were pleading. “And maybe William could escort the rest of you home.”

  I had to admit it was a relief to get out of the stone mansion, away from too much to drink and too much heavy food, and far away from my bombastic dinner companion. Of course, I was worried about Glenda, but I had nothing to offer that might help her. And I couldn’t wait to breathe in some cool sea-scented air and return to the comfort of our own temporary beds.

  As we walked, Helen chatted with her son-in-law and I quietly quizzed Miss Gloria. “Did you notice anything wrong with Glenda over the course of the night?”

  “Honestly not,” said Miss Gloria. “But I was feeling a little droopy myself, trying to make sure I didn’t slide under the table. Too much excitement and sausage and cheese and whiskey.” She glanced at me. “That sounded terrible, as though I don’t care a fig about her. I feel awful that it ended that way, but on the other hand, I’m so glad to leave the party and hit the hay. I guess I’m still jet-lagged.”

  “Me too, on all of the above,” I admitted. “Let’s hope she recovers quickly and it blows over tonight.”

  William deposited us back at home and then left to drive my mother-in-law to her hotel. Miss Gloria and I headed directly to our rooms. I washed my face and brushed my teeth and collapsed under the covers. I woke when Nathan climbed into bed sometime later.

  “Is she all right?” I mumbled.

  “At first she refused medical assistance.”

  “Why refuse help if she was feeling that sick?” I wondered.

  Nathan sighed and spooned his chest against my back. “Don’t ask me. Then not ten minutes after, she insisted that she had probably eaten something that didn’t agree with her. Perhaps the sausage wasn’t fresh or the lamb or the chicken soup had sat out on the counter too long. As I was about to leave, she took a turn for the worse, and Gavin got a bit hysterical, saying he was certain she must have been poisoned. At this point, she was rolling around on the carpet, clutching her stomach. And then Gavin announced that the authorities needed to be called.”

  The word stabbed through my foggy, sleep-craving brain like a knife. “Poisoned? Really? By whom? I heard him say to call poison control before we left, but I assumed he meant food poisoning—or maybe he’d gotten upset watching her discomfort. Did he mean someone at the party tried to do her in?”

  “Damn good questions. I told them that since they worried that something was amiss and she was obviously in distress, we should call an ambulance along with the authorities. Glenda agreed—she looked a little scared by that point.”

  “At least they had one calm head on the scene.”

  “At least this time it’s not my job to sort it out. Isn’t this supposed to be a honeymoon?” He sighed. “Finally, the ambulance came and carried her off. I hate that my sister is a wreck over it. And so of course is her friend Ainsley because it was her house and her dinner party. And her chef and her food.” He burrowed down beneath the comforter and pulled me closer. “And apparently Mr. Gavin has a direct line to the chief inspector who promised to send someone over instantly. At that point, Vera and I were dismissed. We may all be questioned again tomorrow if it turns out that they suspect foul play.

  “Let’s not talk about it anymore tonight, okay? I can’t believe I’m playing in a golf tournament in the morning.” He groaned. “Whose idea was it to come to Scotland anyway?”

  Within seconds, his breathing grew slow and easy as he dropped off to sleep. I lay awake for much longer, puzzling over the possible poisoning incident. Had I seen anything that was off-kilter in the kitchen? I had been so distracted by Gavin’s buffoonery that I’d noticed nothing out of order at Glenda’s end of the table. I also thought about Nathan’s sister. True, she seemed very much wound up about her project. I liked her very much, but I hadn’t spent enough time with her yet to get a sense of whether she was really anxious about something she interpreted as threatening, or whether the men around her simply couldn’t handle her being emotional and having strong opinions.

  Either was possible.

  Chapter Eight

  “I rather like you,” she said. “You’re growing on me like the mold of well-aged Roquefort cheese, but I like you.”

  —Samantha Verant, The Secret French Recipes of Sophie Valroux

  Although part of me—the part that would have loved to sleep in—regretted agreeing to an early rendezvous with chef Grace to visit the market, I was glad once I got up and moving. I knew I would enjoy touring Ainsley’s professional kitchen with all its fancy European equipment, and I really looked forward to an insider’s tour of the local farmers market, too—grist for the mill for a future article in Key Zest. And besides, this outing would give me a chance to question Grace, not only about food and cooking in Scotland but also about the disastrous way the party had ended last night. I dressed quickly and trotted across town to Ainsley and Dougal’s home. The sky was a brilliant blue, but the wind appeared to be blowing from the ocean and whipped across the open square, knifing through my clothing. I was glad I’d grabbed one of Vera’s fleece vests from a peg in her hallway, along with my pink Key West Police Department ball cap.

  Grace was waiting for me outside the lobby door, pacing along the edge of the flower garden that stretched the length of the building. Some of these flowers had already begun to bloom purple and pink, and I suspected that their placement in the direct morning sun against the stone building meant they’d gotten an earlier start than the plants in Vera’s garden.

  “Oh, I’m so glad you came,” she said. “I was terribly afraid you wouldn’t. Do you mind if I take you inside to the kitchen first, before we visit the market?”

  “Of course not,” I said, thinking she didn’t look like a happy chef about to show off her fabulous kitchen equipment. She looked as though she had a lot of worry on her mind. And why in the world would she imagine that I wouldn’t show up?

  We took the elevator upstairs, and she ushered me down the hall to the kitchen. The space was quiet and clean—nothing in the process of being chopped or peeled on cutting boards, no pastry rolled out on the marble counters, nothing simmering on the stainless eight-burner stove. As far as I could tell, not a single dish was cooking—or even in the early stages of being prepared.

  She closed the swinging door behind us and turned to face me, her expression haunted. “I suppose you heard about Glenda last night?”

  “I saw that she took ill, but we left right after,” I said. “My husband mentioned when he came in a little later that she was a bit hysterical and that an ambulance was called. And the police.” She looked so distressed that I reached out to put a comforting hand on her back. “Why, is there more news?”

  “Of a kind.” She shuddered as though she was controlling her tears. She began to speak in a rush, so quickly that I had to struggle to understand the torrent of accented words.

  “She seemed to be feeling a little better, but then she got sicker and her husband announced to everyone that she believed she had been poisoned. He would not rest until the local police were called.”

  So far, her chronology matched what Nathan had reported the night before.

  “Several officers came in last night, and after some discussion, they were told to clear every bit of food out of the fridge. The chief constable even had one of the policemen dig through the garbage where I’d sc
raped the dinner plates. And they hauled those scraps off, and every plate on the counters too.” She flung open the refrigerator and then the trash cabinet to show me how empty they were.

  “Oh dear,” I said, “that sounds so distressing. Were there new developments this morning?”

  “She’s alive, thank God, and they sent her home from emergency after pumping her stomach. I can only assume they’ll be testing the contents.”

  The way her lips quivered, I was afraid she would start bawling at any moment.

  “I know how hard you worked on that meal, and every bite of it was amazing. What a terrible end to the glorious night.” But in my head, I was also thinking that they must have had a good reason to suspect foul play to take the situation that far. Sweeping in to clear every edible morsel out of the kitchen made it appear as though they expected to find something wrong with the food.

  “It’s not only that the meal was ruined,” she said, “it’s that they might think I actually tried to kill her. I would never—why in the world—I can’t tell you … I hardly know her!” She looked like she was trying hard not to burst into tears, but barely hanging on to her composure. I patted her back and steered her toward the door.

  “Let’s take a walk over to the market, and you can tell me about it. I was so looking forward to getting your insider’s view on shopping.”

  As we walked over the cobblestone streets toward the market, I quizzed Grace further about the events of the night before. Unfortunately, I’d seen more than my share of poisoning events over the past few years, so the questions came easily. “While you were getting ready for the dinner, did you notice anything unusual at all?”

  Her expression looked simultaneously puzzled and hopeless.

  “I know that’s a very broad question, but what I’m trying to get at is, did anybody leave anything unusual in your kitchen? An ingredient you hadn’t ordered, for example? Or did someone you didn’t expect perhaps visit the kitchen? Did your hostess hire any extra help that night?”