Vampires, Bones and Treacle Scones

by Kaitlyn Dunnett

Inches from the door, Liss turned back. Curiosity, she reminded herself, killed the cat, but an old adage was not enough to keep her from wanting to know how Dolores had come to this particular conclusion. “What makes you think so?”

  “He unloaded a lot of office equipment from a U-Haul.”

  “A home office doesn’t necessarily equate to a writer.”

  The absence of solid facts had never kept Dolores Mayfield from jumping to conclusions before. Liss didn’t need to ask how she’d come to notice the U-Haul in the first place. The library occupied the second floor of the municipal building. Although row after row of book shelves filled the interior, with a few tables, microform readers, computer terminals, and storage cabinets tucked in among them, there were banks of tall windows along all the exterior walls. They provided an excellent view of the town square and the buildings surrounding it.

  Liss made another mental note. Make sure the bedroom curtains are tightly closed any time Dan and I are in there together!

  “I’m guessing horror writer,” Dolores elaborated. “Like Stephen King. Wouldn’t that be something?”

  “What’s the new guy’s name?” Liss asked.

  “Homer Crane, but I’m sure he writes under a pseudonym. Everyone seems to these days.”

  “Or maybe our Mr. Crane is a retired sales clerk or a long-distance truck driver or a chicken farmer who decided to buy a former funeral home simply because it was priced for a quick sale.”

  Dolores dismissed Liss’s alternatives with a careless wave of one hand. “If he’s not famous, why don’t we know more about him? He’s kept a very low profile for someone who’s been living in this town for a couple of months. He moved in while you and Dan were away on your honeymoon.”

  I should have kept going when I had the chance, Liss thought. Now that she’d been drawn into the web of Dolores’s speculations, she couldn’t seem to fight her way out.

  “Maybe he’s just shy,” she suggested.

  “He doesn’t go off to work every day like someone with a real job. That means he works at home.”

  “Or he’s on vacation.”

  “He’s a loner, too. He hasn’t had a single visitor since he moved in.”

  Liss wondered if Dolores stayed at the library at night to spy on her neighbors, but dismissed the idea as too fanciful. Dolores and Moose Mayfield had a lovely little house out on Upper Lowe Street.

  “He hasn’t made any attempt to make friends,” Dolores continued. “The only time he comes out of that house is to walk to the post office to collect his mail. He gets a lot of mail,” she added, a knowing look on her face. “Lots of packages. Manuscripts, I’ll bet.”

  Manuscripts, Liss thought, would be going the other way if he really is a writer. Or, more likely, be submitted electronically. She kept that thought to herself. She couldn’t spend the entire day debating with Dolores. She’d put that BACK IN 15 MINUTES sign on the shop door fully twenty minutes ago.

  “I’ve really got to get going, Dolores. You have a nice day.” Liss thought she’d escaped, but no sooner had she set foot on the pavement outside the municipal building than she heard the unmistakable sound of a window being raised.

  Dolores thrust her head out through the opening. “You should stop in and ask him if he wants to be on your committee,” she called down. “The house is on your way back to work.”

  Liss gestured toward the town square on the other side of Main Street from the municipal building. Cutting across it was the most direct route to Moosetookalook Scottish Emporium. The former funeral home was en route only if Liss went the long way around the square.

  “It’s not as if you have customers beating down the door to get in!” In a huff, Dolores retreated, slamming the window closed for emphasis.

  Sadly, her observation was true, even though it was the height of leaf-peeper season. And, if Liss was honest with herself, she had to admit that Dolores’s speculations had made her curious about her new neighbor.

  There were three buildings on each side of the square. The municipal building was in the center on the north, Main Street. Liss gave the Emporium one last, longing look and turned right. Once she passed Angie’s Books, owned and operated by Angie Hogencamp, she had only to hang a left at the corner to reach the former funeral home.

  I’m just being friendly, she told herself as she climbed the steps to the porch. Not snoopy. Before she could change her mind, she rang the doorbell. Belated second thoughts immediately assaulted her. What on earth was she going to say to the man when he answered?

  Liss shifted her weight from foot to foot as the seconds passed. Make that, if he answered. It didn’t look as if he was going to. She had just turned to leave when she heard the sound of a deadbolt being released. The door opened only a few inches, just enough for her to glimpse a bulky figure in gray sweats. A man blinked at her from the dimly lit foyer, making her wonder if she’d woken him from a nap.

  “Yes?” His voice was very soft, but not obviously unfriendly.

  “Uh, hello. I’m one of your neighbors. Liss MacCrimmon. I mean Liss Ruskin.” She felt herself blushing. “I only recently got married. Sometimes I forget my own name.”

  Liss’s flustered explanation seemed to have a positive effect. The door eased open another inch. “My name is Homer Crane. How may I help you?”

  “I’m your neighbor,” she repeated, and gestured toward the south side of the square. “My shop, Moosetookalook Scottish Emporium, is over there and my husband and I live almost directly across from you on Birch Street. I just wanted to introduce myself and, well, I imagine you’ll think me silly, but I’m also the chair of Moosetookalook’s Halloween committee and we’re working on ideas for a festival and fundraiser. In particular, we’re turning an old mansion on the outskirts of town into a haunted house, and someone suggested that you might have some, um, expertise in the area of ghosties and ghoulies and things that go bump in the night.”

  Very fair eyebrows lifted all the way to what appeared to be a receding hairline—it was hard to tell between the shadows and the hoodie he was wearing—and his tone of voice sharpened. “Who told you that?”

  Liss took an involuntary step back. “Our town librarian. She’s convinced that you write horror novels. Under another name.”

  “Another—? She’s wrong.” He closed the door in Liss’s face, but not before she caught a glimpse of alarm on his face.

  “Sorry to have bothered you,” she called through the solid wooden barrier.

  His only reply was to reengage the deadbolt with a decisive click.

  Since it was on her way around the square, and since there was still no line of potential customers waiting in front of the Emporium, Liss stopped in at the post office before she returned to work. Julie Simpson handed over two envelopes—bills, unfortunately—and a magazine.

  “What do you know about Homer Crane?” Liss blurted.

  “Odd duck,” the postmaster declared in a loud, nasal voice that betrayed her New York origins.

  “Dolores thinks he’s a writer.”

  “Artist,” Julie said. “At least that’s what he told me. He said he designs video games. Said he does the artwork on a computer. Not the story lines, though. Said he’s not clever enough to write those.”

  “I’m surprised he was so chatty.”

  Julie’s brassy laugh bounced off the walls of the small post office. “Not so’s you’d notice. One of his packages was damaged when it got here, so I got a look at what was inside. On top was this really disgusting picture of a dead body. Lots of blood. He told me it was research for the artwork he’s doing for a vampire story. I got a feeling the vampires he draws aren’t the sexy kind.”

  “Maybe it’s just as well I couldn’t persuade him to help us design spooky sets for the haunted house.”

  “He said no?”

  Liss nodded. “He made it pretty clear he wanted to be left alone.” Like most Mainers, Liss had been taught to oblige folks who wanted to keep themselves to themselves.r />
  “Good luck with that if Dolores has him in her sights.”

  “I don’t think she’s been able to see much, although she did say the only time he leaves his house is to come here and pick up his mail.”

  “She doesn’t know everything.” Julie snorted. “And she’d need x-ray vision to see through Angie’s place and take a gander at the old funeral home parking lot and that big garage Doug Preston built for his hearse.”

  “Meaning Crane does go out?” Somehow that relieved Liss’s mind.

  “Oh, sure. I can just see the corner of Elm Street from here. He heads out that way, so he avoids circling the square. No idea where he goes, but I’ve seen him three or four times. He drives a black Toyota.”

  Arms filled with the bulging Chadwick file and her mail, Liss returned to work. She put the odd little man living in the former mortuary out of her mind. She intended to spend the rest of the afternoon reading clippings, but she’d barely started on Alison O’Hare’s obituary when a tour bus pulled up in front of the Emporium. Two dozen leaf peepers poured out, intent on visiting the quaint little shops of Moosetookalook, Maine. Online promotion, it seemed, was paying off.

  Fixing a “friendly shopkeeper” smile on her face, Liss stashed the file folder beneath the sales counter and concentrated on helping potential customers find souvenirs of their trip to view Maine’s fall foliage.

  Moosetookalook Scottish Emporium sold everything from figurines of pipers to clan crest pins to canned haggis. Kilts and tartan skirts filled two large clothing racks, and she stocked scarves and hats, too. An item she’d recently added—a small pewter figure in a kilt standing next to a large pewter moose—seemed to tickle the fancy of the tourists. She sold four of them, along with several other, less expensive items.

  More than two hours later, just as the last shopper was leaving, the phone rang. The bell over the door fell silent as Liss answered.

  By the time she hung up, the good mood created by a successful afternoon of selling merchandise had evaporated. Dan wasn’t going to make it home for supper. He was on his way to Three Cities to hunt for a particular brass drawer pull a customer had decided she had to have on her kitchen cabinets. Since Ruskin Construction was trying to finish that job by the weekend, he didn’t want to wait around for a mail-order delivery.

  Liss thought about seeing if any of her friends were free. She considered mooching a meal off Aunt Margaret, who lived above the Emporium, but Margaret hadn’t come home from work yet. Deciding she wasn’t really in the mood for company, Liss closed up and walked home, the Chadwick file tucked under one arm.

  At the house, a quick check of the refrigerator, freezer, and kitchen cabinets revealed nothing that appealed to her. She fed Lumpkin and Glenora, then stood in the center of the room, thinking. Fruit, she decided. She was in the mood for fresh fruit, something her new husband ate only when forced into it.

  Grabbing her lightweight fall jacket, she headed out again. It was only a short walk to the High Street Market. Liss ordinarily did her food shopping once a week at the Hannaford in Fallstown, but the small mom-and-pop store served as backup for everyone in Moosetookalook. If you ran out of milk, or beer, or cat food, you stopped by the local grocery store to pick some up. Like as not, you came home with a few other goodies, as well.

  It was already getting dark outside by the time Liss entered the store. The bright lights inside momentarily blinded her. They seemed particularly glaring over the produce bins, but she was glad to see that the selection of fresh fruit was all she could have hoped for. She took her time over melons and oranges, apples and grapes. She added a bunch of bananas, thinking they’d be good sliced on cereal, too.

  Her selections made, Liss carried her bright red plastic shopping basket to the cashier. There was no line. She wasn’t even sure there were any other shoppers in the market. After she unloaded the fruit onto the counter, she shifted her attention to the woman standing on the other side.

  “Hilary?” she asked.

  Liss wouldn’t have recognized Boxer’s mother if Stu hadn’t mentioned that she worked at the market. Hilary Snipes had never been a great beauty, and Liss remembered her from high school as having a “boyish” figure. Worn down by life, she was downright skinny and looked far older than her early thirties. She wore her mousy brown hair scraped back into a thin ponytail. Her eyes, the same brown as her son’s, were dull with fatigue. Liss struggled to conceal the burst of pity she felt for the other woman as, with slow, listless movements, Hilary rang up the items Liss had selected and stuffed them into a paper sack.

  “It is Hilary Snipes, isn’t it?”

  The woman didn’t meet her eyes. Her voice was scarcely more than a whisper. “Hello, Liss. It’s been a while.”

  Liss had to strain to catch the words. “Yes. Yes, it has been. I, uh, met your son the other day.”

  Hilary’s hand tightened on the green plastic bag holding two large Cortland apples. Her gaze collided with Liss’s for just a moment, long enough to reveal that her expression was no longer blank. Her eyes had narrowed in sudden suspicion. “Where did you run into my Teddy?”

  At first Liss thought she must have misunderstood. “Maybe we’re not talking about the same kid. The one I know goes by Boxer.”

  “He doesn’t like his real name,” Hilary mumbled, and told Liss how much she owed for the groceries.

  Teddy? Liss thought first of President Teddy Roosevelt. Teddy was short for Theodore. She could understand why the boy wouldn’t want to be stuck with that moniker. The only other Theodore who came to mind belonged to Alvin and the Chipmunks.

  As Liss paid up, she debated whether to say more. Hilary didn’t seem happy to hear that her son had been fraternizing with Liss. That didn’t bode well for Boxer staying on the committee. Then again, she’d talked to all the other parents before recruiting their kids. She owed the same, somewhat belated courtesy to Hilary Snipes.

  “I hope it’s okay with you that your son volunteered to help out with the Halloween festival. Several of the village young people are working on ideas for activities—trick or treating, a corn maze, a haunted house. They’re quite enthusiastic. I’m surprised Boxer, er, Teddy hasn’t mentioned what we’re planning.”

  Hilary handed over her change. “You looking for my permission?”

  “Yes, I am,” Liss said brightly. “We held our first organizational meeting yesterday. There will be several more and then, of course, the actual work of setting up for Halloween.”

  Hilary thrust the paper sack full of fruit into Liss’s arms. “Teddy’s old enough to do what he likes. He will anyway.”

  “Okay then. Thank you.” Unable to think of anything else to say, Liss left the market and walked home.

  Chapter Four

  On Friday—just four weeks and one day before Halloween—Liss opened the Emporium in a cheerful frame of mind. Plans for the Moosetookalook All Hallows Festival had been moving smoothly forward, especially after the addition of her aunt, Margaret MacCrimmon Boyd, to the committee. Margaret was events coordinator at The Spruces, the luxury hotel on the hill above the town. In short order, she’d located a volunteer to create the corn maze, booked rooms in the hotel for the two costume parties, and arranged for ads in all the local papers and online.

  Liss booted up her laptop and the cash register to the accompaniment of saws whining and hammers banging. Renovations had begun on the house next door, the one in which Liss had lived before her marriage to Dan. The first floor was being converted into a display room and store for Dan’s custom woodworking business and they were installing an apartment on the second floor. Sherri, Pete, and Adam, who currently lived in a much smaller place above the post office, intended to move in as soon as it was ready.

  It hadn’t been easy to decide which house to live in and which to convert. Liss had liked living right next door to her shop. She’d inherited the property shortly after her return to Moosetookalook—after ten years of total independence, eight of them traveling
with an itinerant dance troupe—and had lived in it for the best part of two years.

  During those years, she’d worked at the Emporium, first as an employee, then as a partner with Aunt Margaret, and finally as sole proprietor. She’d increased their online and mail order business since she’d taken over, but the shop itself was much as it had always been. Scottish items, many of them imported, were displayed in cabinets and on shelves and tables. Liss gave the stock a lick and a promise with a feather duster every day and polished the furniture with lemon-scented wax once a week. Margaret approved, which was a relief to Liss, especially since her aunt still owned the building and continued to live in the apartment above the store.

  As if she’d conjured Margaret up by thinking about her, Liss heard the clatter of high heels on the stairs. “I didn’t realize you were still at home,” Liss said when Margaret came bustling through the private entrance to the showroom. She usually left well before eight to make the ten minute drive to The Spruces.

  Although she was in her early sixties, Margaret Boyd had as much energy as a woman half her age, and the most consistently cheerful disposition of anyone Liss had ever met. She looked trim and well-groomed in tailored slacks and a tunic top.

  “I was tied up at the hotel until nearly midnight last night,” she explained. “Not that I have to worry about the boss firing me for being late. My hours are pretty flexible.”

  That boss was Dan’s father, Joe Ruskin, and he knew full well what a gem he had in Margaret. He wouldn’t bat an eye if she decided not to come in until noon every day of the week.

  “Do you have time for coffee?” Liss asked.

  Margaret glanced at her watch. “Why not? I want to give you an update anyway. The manikins you arranged to borrow for the haunted house are going to be delivered this afternoon.”

  The pot of coffee Liss had started brewing in the stockroom as soon as she arrived at work was ready to pour. She picked up the bakery bag with a half dozen blueberry muffins from Patsy’s Coffee House, and Margaret carried their gently steaming mugs to the area of the store furnished with comfortable chairs and a coffee table and designated as the “cozy corner.” They were still on their feet when the bell over the door jangled.