A Scone of Contention

by Lucy Burdette

  Grace nodded again, slowly this time. “It’s difficult to fathom, and I wouldn’t ever imagine her doing something like that. But she had easy access to digitalis, and that’s what they think it came from—foxglove leaves.”

  Oh lordy, I could picture those tall purple flowers planted in front of her condominium. The same plants that were slow to bloom in Vera’s garden.

  Grace’s eyes seemed to glisten in the dim yellow light of the lanterns affixed to the hotel entrance, and I thought she might be about to weep. “Are you okay?”

  “There’s something more. When Ainsley got home from the Falkirk Wheel after that horrible fall, she was devastated. She told her husband that she was going to bed and taking a nerve pill. She said she would sleep in the guest room so as not to bother him.”

  “We were all so upset after that incident, especially Vera,” I said, thinking that Ainsley’s collapse into her bedroom hardly provided a murder clue. “All of us took a nap, or tried to.”

  Grace nodded. “Understood. And going to the other room was not so unusual either. Sometimes one or the other of them sleeps apart if they stay up late or if they have an early morning planned.” She fell silent, fidgeting with the scarf around her neck.

  “But,” I said, “it sounds like there’s something even more.”

  Grace dropped her gaze and rubbed her hands together. “Before leaving for the night, I was going to tap on her door and see if I could bring her anything. A cup of tea, a bit of chicken soup—anything. But when I got to the hallway, I heard her sobbing and sobbing. I didn’t want to intrude, so I left without knocking. In the morning, when she came in for breakfast, I asked if she was okay. And she insisted she was fine, only shaken up—it had been such a shock to see that man fall. She said she’d be fine and that the time away with friends would do her good.”

  “Can you think of a specific reason why Ainsley would want to hurt Glenda?”

  “No one really likes Glenda all that much. She’s a plain pill. But murder?” Her pale eyelashes brimmed with tears, her face completely stricken. She threw her hands up, as if hopeless about understanding any of it.

  One more question popped into my mind, though I didn’t know if it meant anything or if it would be smart to mention it when I was down here in the dark and only Helen knew where I’d gone: And why did you only now remember what happened?

  “Even worse, if it was Glenda who did this, rather than Ainsley, I worry that she meant the poison for Vera.”

  A new twist and very confusing and unwelcome. “Wait—she meant to poison Vera but fed it to herself instead? That doesn’t make a lot of sense.”

  Grace pressed her hands to her face. “I have no idea what actually happened. But that thought came to me, and now I’m afraid for your sister—she’s the stick in the wheel spokes who could make the whole project grind to a halt. I’ve seen that every time these people get together.”

  Unfortunately, I too had seen that in action from the beginning. Vera had a different vision of this book than at least two of the others, Glenda and Gavin. I wasn’t sure where Ainsley stood—she was doing her best to play peacekeeper. Though I had seen the three of them powwowing in the Peebles bar the night previous. About what? And then when we visited Glencoe, she’d pretty much disappeared.

  Grace had begun talking again while I was lost in nonsense theories. I pulled my attention back. “I heard her fighting with her husband before she left town. He accused her of still being quite in love with someone. And she said he was acting ridiculous, and stormed out.”

  “Ainsley? In love with Gavin?” I asked, incredulous.

  “I have no idea what he meant. The more I think about it, the more confused I am.” Down on the road below the hotel, a car flashed its headlights, causing the light to flicker on the lake’s surface like an SOS. “That’s Blair,” she said. “I have to go. I’ll text if I think of anything else.”

  By the time I got back inside, the musicians were packing up their instruments and chatting in their charming Scottish brogue about friends they used to know and play music with. On the far side of the lobby, I spotted Helen. She waved at me and beckoned me over. Before I could approach her table, my phone buzzed. I had missed a call from Nathan. I held up a finger to let her know I’d be a minute.

  I backed into the lobby to listen to his voicemail.

  “Headed to bed. Can’t wait to see you tomorrow. Some romantic honeymoon! One day we are going on a trip without any friends or in-laws. Deal? We checked in with the police investigating the Falkirk Wheel incident. Short story, several witnesses claimed to have seen someone with Mr. Booth before he fell and possibly heard an argument. Some saw a man, others a woman. As you described, the seats were facing the other direction; so far no one has identified the second individual with any certainty. Be careful. I love you.”

  I returned to the bar and found Helen sitting in a corner by herself with an inch of whiskey in a glass on the table in front of her. “You look tired,” she told me as I slid into the booth beside her. “In fact, you look awful.”

  Which was not a kind thing to say, even if true.

  “Last call. Tipple of whiskey?” the bartender called.

  “Why not? It’s my honeymoon after all.” Nathan’s mother’s eyes widened, and we both began to snicker. After the bartender delivered my glass, I gave her the short version of what Miss Gloria had told me, and also filled her in on my conversation with Lorenzo. I worried about whether it was right to break Grace’s confidence, but I’d already told Helen half of it; she wouldn’t rest until she knew everything.

  “What in the world is going on with these people?” she wanted to know, once I’d finished telling her about the conversation.

  Then I told her about the message Nathan had left, that he’d been in contact with the police and that several of the passengers on that boat reported either seeing or thinking they’d seen someone with Joseph Booth, and that this person could have been responsible for pushing him over to his death.

  “That’s distressing, though not surprising,” Helen said. “Unfortunately, we weren’t in a position to identify the perpetrator.”

  “We were not,” I said glumly, wishing we could rule out the people we knew—at least the ones we liked. “Although, now that I’m talking, I’m quite sure Grace said that Ainsley was upset about seeing the man fall. Maybe she knows who pushed him and why, but isn’t willing to say.”

  “Do we have any reason to doubt the veracity of Grace’s report?” Helen asked.

  “Lots. She’s a suspect in the attempted poisoning and would be thrilled to move someone else to the hot seat. And she has accused Gavin of molesting her in the past, which, as far as I know, he denied.”

  “One thing we do know for certain: Grace couldn’t have been the person who pushed Mr. Booth to his death. She wasn’t at the wheel.” Helen swallowed the last of her whiskey and stood up. “I think we must be missing something big. Who is this Joseph Booth? Someone on this trip must have known him. Personally. And more recently than college.”

  “Maybe tomorrow on the ferry, we’ll have the chance to interview each of these people in the project separately,” I said. “My feeling is we should start with Ainsley. Her name keeps coming up.”

  “Yes, but keep in mind that it’s her chef who is bringing the name up, which makes me wonder if she’s trying to divert the blame from herself to her boss. Make sure you lock your door behind you tonight. I’m going to text Vera right now and tell her the same thing.” She marched off with a grim look on her face. I wondered if she was thinking about how she hadn’t been able to protect her daughter as a teenager and she wouldn’t make the same mistake now.

  I trudged off to bed, my mind whirling with questions and worries and whiskey. My brain kept returning to Lorenzo’s warnings about Ray as well. Had he known the people at the gallery as long as Vera and her friends had known each other? Were their current projects fraught with competition and envy carried over from the past, t
he way Vera’s work seemed to be? If I hadn’t felt so exhausted, I would have started madly googling Ray and his coworkers.

  One thing I knew—this hotel had flimsy-looking locks for their guest-room doors. And no loose furniture to wedge under the knob. I’d have to sleep with one eye open, as my grandmother used to say.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  His Susan had always been a lovely baker. There was no sweetness in her nature these days and Percy had the sudden notion that it all went into her cakes and puddings.

  —Ann Cleeves, The Moth Catcher

  The next morning, the phone trilled, waking me from a deep sleep. For a moment, after patting the bed beside me, checking for Nathan’s familiar and comforting form, I had no idea where I was or why I was alone. Slowly the events of the last few days filtered in. Though I didn’t recognize the number on the phone’s screen, it was definitely Scottish. I punched “Accept.”

  “Hayley? Hayley Snow?” asked a quavering woman’s voice.

  I mustered a firm response. “Who’s calling?

  “This is Bettina, Bettina Booth of Peebles?”

  The picture of the two sad old women materialized in my mind. “Of course,” I said, sitting up and gathering the bedclothes around me. “How can I help?”

  “We were up in Joseph’s room yesterday, to find something from his college days to put in the casket, and we got to talking about how to tackle ridding out our poor Joseph’s belongings, which just about broke my sister’s heart, I tell you. We had to stop and rest so she could have a cup of tea. But then I found something in his briefcase that looked important, and I thought to call you. It was an article in the Sunday arts section of The Scotsman a few weeks ago. Something about a new book expected to come out early next winter. He had underlined lots of sections and put exclamation points and written “You’ve got to be kidding me’ along the margins.”

  “What was the book about?” I asked, although I had a sinking feeling I already knew.

  “It’s to be called Bloody Swords or some such cod swaddle. And it’s supposed to pertain to experiencing the thin places of Scotland through technology. Double-speak all of it, you want my opinion.”

  “Had your nephew been involved in anything like this?”

  “No,” she said slowly, “but he was always good with computers. He was very proud of a project he dreamed up about making the past seem more like a film than a book. We never exactly understood it because he was so smart, and his ideas were over our heads. A wizard, really. Shall I read you the paragraph that he had circled and highlighted?”

  “That would be wonderful. Let me get a piece of paper.” I rolled out of bed and grabbed the notepad supplied by the hotel.

  She read through a paragraph describing my sister-in-law’s project. “Here’s the part he seemed to have some objections to. And I quote:

  Gavin Findlay, professor of computer science and photography at the University of Saint Andrews, is the lead author on the project. Others in the field have described him as an intellectual powerhouse.

  She paused and I could hear papers rustling. “Next to that he scribbled something that I can’t quite make out. Along the lines of ‘thieving scum bastard.’ And I apologize deeply for the bad language.”

  “No need. I’m not sure what it means, but it may turn out to be helpful,” I said. “Thanks for ringing me back. Did you by any chance have any more thoughts about his broken heart? Maybe you’ve remembered a girl that he mentioned from time to time?” I thought of asking about a boy, but if that would make the women more distraught, what would be the point? “Did you ever hear him mention the name Ainsley?”

  “There was a girl he talked about, Anne maybe? It was so long ago. I couldn’t say for certain.”

  I thanked her again and dressed quickly, then packed my belongings into my suitcase and headed downstairs to breakfast. This new information made me worry that Gavin had killed poor Mr. Booth. He was definitely invested in his version of reality and quite capable of giving someone a push off that wheel. And if Ainsley was an old friend of Booth’s, she might be in danger too. Would that explain the poisonous leaves in the salad the night of her dinner party? Grace hadn’t mentioned Gavin coming into the kitchen, but Glenda had been there for sure. And she might be the kind of woman who’d do anything for her husband.

  Miss Gloria was already at our table, tucking into a big plate of eggs, sausage, fried tomatoes, and baked beans. Ainsley and Helen had settled in on either side of her and were peppering her with questions about how she was feeling.

  “A good night’s sleep and a big breakfast cures about all ills,” she said, though I thought the dark smudges under her eyes suggested something different.

  Ainsley stood up to leave as I sat across from them. “The ferry from Oban leaves at noon for the Isle of Mull, our second-to-last stop,” she said. “It will take an hour or so to drive from here to there. And Vera will need to be in the automobile loading line at least an hour ahead. There’s a lovely bookshop and plenty of fish and chips to be found in town while you’re waiting. We’ll see you on the ferry?” She pointed to Glenda and Gavin as they rolled their suitcases to the lobby.

  Our car was quiet on the first part of the way to Oban, where the ferry would carry us to Mull. I had hoped we would be able to get Vera talking, but so far, she had batted away any attempts at conversation as if she were playing badminton and my questions were plastic birdies. Why wouldn’t she talk about what she thought was going on? She was clearly bothered by something.

  “How did you feel the meeting with the publisher went?” her mother asked, as if hunting for a neutral subject. Which this clearly was not.

  Vera glanced over, her lips set. “Unmitigated disaster. With a dash of full-blown hysteria thrown in. He’s worried, as he should be, about Gloria’s bad reaction to the goggles. Gavin tried to assure him that her response was idiosyncratic because she feels such a powerful connection to her tribe.”

  “So true,” said Miss Gloria. “I’m sensitive that way. I truly have no plans to sue. Our society is lawsuit mad, and all that does is line the pockets of the lawyers.”

  Vera nodded, perhaps looking a bit relieved. “He’s loath to change anything because preorders have already been so high. People are not traveling lightly these days—they choose their destinations very carefully and travel less frequently than they might have in the past. He is convinced that providing the goggles along with the book will give readers a sense of real history and real place. Or should we call them ‘gamers’ rather than ‘readers’ in this case?”

  “Have you changed your mind about Gavin’s concept?” I asked, a bit dumbfounded to hear her describe it as a done deal. Had she given up trying to change the direction of what she hated about the project? Although referring to readers as ‘gamers’ would not support that theory.

  “Trying to be realistic,” she snapped back, her voice seething.

  We drove a few more miles in silence.

  “Will you tell us about the Isle of Mull?” Miss Gloria asked.

  I watched as Vera made a conscious effort to relax her shoulders, which were hunched up around her ears. This trip, which should have been delightful, was turning into a nightmare. And I regretted that this was my first introduction to Nathan’s sister and hoped that she wouldn’t refuse to either visit us or have us return to Scotland under less stressful circumstances.

  She smiled at Miss Gloria in her rearview mirror. “It’s the most beautiful, tranquil, glorious place, though often windy and wet this time of year. I checked the weather, and it seems we may get lucky.”

  “We already are lucky,” said Miss Gloria, gesturing at the green fields we were passing.

  “True,” said Vera, smiling again. “The only way around the island is crossing on a one-lane road. You will see that tomorrow when we drive to the tiny ferry that takes us to Iona. The locals know when to pull over to let others pass. There are enough designated pull-offs, but unfortunately the tourists don’t
know the etiquette. And if you don’t know the ropes, it can be a little hairy. Other than that, you’ll see thousands of sheep, and animals that the locals call ‘Heilan Coos.’”

  “Koos?” Miss Gloria asked.

  “Rustic long-haired Highland cows, in normal English. They are shaggy and reddish-brown and have big horns and big brown eyes. We’ll spend tonight in the town of Tobermory, which is absolutely adorable. You’ll see. It almost looks like a Scandinavian town, with the brightly painted homes and shops curving around the shoreline. And with any luck, you’ll meet the orange tomcat who owns the village.”

  Once we reached the port of Oban, Vera queued up with the other drivers waiting to be loaded on the ferry. The rest of us walked the short distance to town. The day had turned blustery and cool, making our first plan of sitting out in the sun on the benches overlooking the harbor seem less appealing. Instead, Miss Gloria browsed a gift shop with Helen while I circulated around the stacks of books in the store adjoining. I chose a romantic comedy by Jenny Colgan that took place in the Highlands, thinking a happy love story, instead of a real murder mystery, would be relaxing.

  I met them outside on the sidewalk. “A spot of lunch?”

  “Do either of you get seasick?” asked Helen. “Because fish and chips might not be the best choice in that case.”

  Miss Gloria and I snickered, and I assumed that she too was thinking about the meals we’d downed in all kinds of weather on Houseboat Row.

  “We have iron stomachs,” she said, pointing at the sky. “Onward.”

  We ordered three boxes of chips and fish cakes from a carry-out shop and stood at a bar facing the water to gobble them down. A pair of seagulls landed next to me, eying my scraps.

  “Do you think we should have saved something for Vera?” I asked looking at the few chips left in my box.

  “I checked. She insisted she wasn’t hungry,” Helen said. “We did have a substantial breakfast, but I think she’s worried about this week and her book.”