Scone Cold Dead

by Kaitlyn Dunnett

  Irritated, Liss spoke without thinking. “Perhaps that will make it easier for you to solve the case, Inspector Clouseau.”

  “Ouch. Low blow!”

  Liss searched his face, trying to read his mood. Was that an amused glimmer in his dark eyes? The lighter flecks almost seemed to be dancing.

  Liss blinked, laughed a little self-consciously, and decided to risk teasing him. “Would you prefer I called you Sherlock?”

  “I’d prefer you stay out of police business, but I suppose it’s too late for that.” His tone suggested regret rather than annoyance.

  “You’re the one who asked for my help,” she reminded him again. “And then you made it pretty obvious that you suspected my friend Sandy of killing Victor. I thought it would be a good idea to provide you with a few alternatives.”

  “All right. Cards on the table.” He shoved off from the rail to sit beside her on the bench, turning so that their faces were only inches apart. “I do suspect Kalishnakof, but no more than a couple of the others. I do not have a closed mind. If you want to tell me why I should consider one of these folks more closely, I’ll be happy to listen to your reasoning.”

  Gordon’s broad shoulders shifted to block her view, but not before Liss had seen Angie come out of her shop. The bookseller was pretending to sweep the porch, but her gaze darted toward the bandstand every few seconds. Lee Annie was almost certainly glued to the window of the Emporium. Liss had the feeling there were eyes watching her from every building that looked out over the town square. It was only a small comfort that none of them would be able to overhear what she and Gordon said to each other.

  “Some of the cast and crew now staying here in Moosetookalook had reason to hate Victor Owens,” she admitted. “Ray Adams, the stage manager, was in love with Sarah Bartlett, a dancer who left because of Victor’s sexual harassment. He has an alibi for the time period before the performance, but if Sarah was working with him . . .”

  She waited for Gordon to comment, but he merely nodded. That he didn’t pull out his handy-dandy notebook made her suspect he already knew about Sarah.

  “Then there’s Stewart Graham. He was angry because Victor cut his role in the show and threatened to let him go entirely.”

  Another nod.

  “And Emily . . . well, you must agree Emily Townsend’s behavior has been odd. Who knows what Victor did to her? Treated her like dirt, I expect. Maybe she got fed up.”

  “And then there are your friends Sandy and Zara,” Gordon said, “currently engaged to be married. Zara and Victor used to be an item. He was threatening to replace her with Emily.”

  Liss gritted her teeth, but it was her turn to nod. “You’ve obviously already thought of everyone I just suggested.” The real question was, had he followed up on their motives? Instead she asked, “Any other suspects?”

  “Fiona Carlson ended up with Victor’s job.”

  “She doesn’t want it. She’s planning to retire at the end of the tour.”

  “Kind of young for that, isn’t she?”

  “She’s a professional athlete. You do the math.”

  He pondered that for a moment and acknowledged that early retirement made sense.

  “I gather I made your suspect list,” Liss said. “Is that why you suddenly shut me out when we met in Waycross Springs?”

  His lips quirked, almost making it to a smile. “Truth? It never even occurred to me to suspect you until I was talking to Sherri in the parking lot at the jail the other day.”

  “Then why did you pull back? You were acting as if I had something to offer, as if I could help you, and just like that”—she snapped her fingers—“you changed.”

  “No, Liss. You did. Your . . . enthusiasm for the investigation started to worry me. You were excited by the prospect. Excessively so. It made me remember that you’re a civilian. I had no right to drag you into a potentially dangerous situation. I’d let my . . . admiration for you blind me to the facts. I shut you out to keep you from getting hurt.”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake! I wouldn’t have—”

  “You did get hurt the last time you meddled in a murder investigation.”

  “Fine! Let’s everyone protect poor, defenseless, stupid Liss! So how did I go from useful source of information to suspect? What was my motive supposed to be?”

  “The same as Fiona’s—Victor’s job.”

  “Oh, please!”

  “No interest?”

  “I considered it, okay? But not for long.” She shifted uneasily on the bench, and then hugged herself. It was chilly sitting there in the shade. “I’m settled here. I like my life the way it is.”

  “Good.”

  Liss’s eyes narrowed. There was entirely too much satisfaction in his tone.

  “Fortunately,” Gordon went on, “you’re not a suspect any longer. Like I said, I just had to be sure you were in the clear. It’s my job to look at everything, even if it means putting personal feelings aside.” He reached out to touch her bare wrist, exposed by the gap between the top of her glove and the bottom of her coat sleeve.

  Liss felt a distinct tingle when his fingertips grazed her skin. It coursed inward, setting off aftershocks in even more intimate places. His rueful expression told her he was just as aware of the chemistry between them as she was. More so. He’d deliberately provoked the reaction by putting his hand on her.

  Frowning, Liss pulled away. He was flirting with her. Now that she thought about it, he had been, on and off, all along. And she’d been flirting back.

  How had she missed that?

  That she was attracted to Gordon Tandy worried Liss. The timing was, to say the least, inconvenient. For one thing, she was supposed to be in a relationship with Dan Ruskin. And even if Dan weren’t in the picture, Gordon Tandy was twelve years older than she was. Besides, for all she knew, he could have two or three ex-wives and a half dozen kids.

  Her panic subsided as abruptly as it had emerged. No, he did not come with former spouses or with children. She’d have heard about them by now if he did. That was one good thing about gossipy small towns. The bad stuff surfaced quickly.

  Gordon studied her, a contemplative look on his face, for a long time before he finally spoke. “Here’s the thing, Liss. I’m drawn to you. I have been since we first met. I told myself it was just a fluke. I was trying to ignore how I felt. Then, when you were briefly a suspect, I couldn’t say anything. Even now, I’m probably crossing a line. But I’d like to spend some time with you when we aren’t talking about murder. Will you have dinner with me tonight? At the Sinclair House?”

  The Sinclair House was a landmark in Waycross Springs, a turn-of-the-last-century hotel that had somehow kept operating through the hard times. Unlike The Spruces, with which it had much in common, it had found new ways to keep guests flocking to an out-of-the-way location.

  Liss stared at her gloved hands as she attempted to examine her feelings. She was still ticked off that Gordon had checked up on her with her neighbors. She understood, on an intellectual level, why he’d had to ask questions about her movements on the day of the murder, but that did not diminish her irritation at being considered capable of killing someone.

  She could forgive him for that, she decided. He was just doing his job. He had his responsibilities . . . and she had hers.

  If she discounted the tingle . . . sizzle . . . whatever the heck it was—surely an aberration!—she could use him as he’d initially used her, as a source of information. There was no harm in a little mild flirtation, especially if it helped her friends in Strathspey.

  “Tonight?” she asked, looking at him at last. She sent a bright smile his way. “Why not?”

  She told herself she was accepting his invitation so that she could pick his brain about the case and make sure he really was keeping an open mind about his suspects. Not talk about the murder? No way!

  “Good.” He glanced at his watch. “I have to go now. I’ll be back to pick you up at six.”

 
But she shook her head. She needed to be the one in control of the situation. “I’ll meet you there at seven.”

  After her regular shift at the jail on Wednesday, Sherri headed for Moosetookalook Scottish Emporium and her part-time job. She was scheduled to work until closing. She had just gotten out of her pint-size pickup truck when Beth Hogencamp came barreling out of the store and nearly bowled her over.

  “Whoa, there, hotshot! What’s the rush?” Sherri caught Beth by the shoulders to hold her still—the kid squirmed worse than an eel—but when she saw the tears, Sherri dropped to one knee beside the girl and loosened her grip. “What’s the matter, Beth?”

  “She’s a mean old witch!”

  “Who is?”

  “Miss Carlson.”

  “Fiona? What did she do?”

  “Zara said I could watch a rehearsal at The Spruces and then she said I couldn’t. Mom would have let me skip school.” Her lower lip began to tremble. That, and the earnestness in her voice, made Sherri’s heart ache.

  Standing, Sherri took Beth’s hand and led her back to the truck, boosting her into the passenger seat. She went around to the driver’s side and got in, but she didn’t start the engine. With the late-day sun beating down, it was warm enough in the cab to sit and talk for a while.

  A few pointed questions elicited the rest of Beth’s story. Zara had told her she’d have to ask Fiona if it was okay to watch the troupe rehearse. Beth had obediently trotted up to Margaret Boyd’s apartment after school to request permission. She’d been shot down with a blunt “Forget it, kid!” and no explanation.

  “Cheer up, Beth,” Sherri told her. “You’re still taking private lessons from Zara, right?” Liss had told her how the two had bonded. She’d almost sounded envious.

  Beth nodded.

  “Well, then—”

  “Why doesn’t she like me?”

  “I don’t know, Beth. Maybe it’s just one of those things. I don’t think Fiona Carlson likes Lumpkin, either.”

  The girl’s incredulous look had Sherri fighting not to smile. “How can anyone not love Lumpkin?”

  Sherri could come up with several reasons and not even work up a sweat. First among them was Lumpkin’s habit of biting people’s ankles. “Fiona’s allergic to cats. Some people are, you know. The sheriff is. Then again . . .” Her voice trailed off as a long-ago memory surfaced.

  “Then again what?”

  Sherri grinned. “My great-aunt Susan claimed she was allergic to cats. She was my grandfather’s brother’s wife and my grandmother didn’t like her much. She thought the whole ‘allergic’ thing was just an excuse not to come visit. It wasn’t that Gram really wanted Aunt Susan’s company, you understand. She just didn’t like being lied to. Anyway, one Thanksgiving when the whole family was together at my house—I must have been around your age at the time—Gram decided to test her theory. We didn’t have a cat, but our neighbor did, a sweet-natured calico named Calpurnia. Gram borrowed her and put her behind the sofa in her cat carrier before Aunt Susan arrived. Since Aunt Susan didn’t know Calpurnia was there, she didn’t sniffle or sneeze. Not once.”

  Beth giggled. “Did your grandmother show her the cat?”

  “She intended to, but my mother got suspicious of all the knowing glances Gram and I exchanged. When Aunt Susan left the room, Mom looked behind the sofa, spotted the cat carrier, and made me take Calpurnia back to her owners.” Ida Willett had not been amused!

  Once Beth headed for her mother’s bookstore, in much better spirits than she had been, Sherri entered the Emporium. She found Liss perched on a stool behind the sales counter, attaching tiny price tags to necklaces and sets of earrings. “So, anything new on the murder front?”

  Liss kept at her task, which allowed her to avoid meeting Sherri’s eyes. “I’m having dinner with Detective Tandy this evening. At the Sinclair House.”

  Sherri gave a low whistle. “Guess you must have come up squeaky clean in the alibi department.”

  “Guess so. You understand that I’m only going so I can pick his brain about the case?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Really.”

  “You keep telling yourself that, chum.”

  “Keep telling herself what?” Dan Ruskin asked as he came through the door.

  Sherri glanced at her watch. “You’re off early.”

  “I never started. I had to babysit.”

  “The company borrowed the dining room at The Spruces for a rehearsal hall,” Liss explained for Sherri’s benefit, unaware that Beth had already given Sherri a full account of this development. Liss frowned at Dan. “I don’t know why you and your father think they need watching every minute. They’re all responsible adults.”

  “Better safe than sorry. So, what are you supposed to keep telling yourself?”

  “That she’s only going out with Gordon Tandy tonight, to dinner at the Sinclair House, no less, because she wants information on his investigation.” Sherri watched Dan’s face as she spoke, anticipating his reaction. She wasn’t disappointed. It didn’t reveal much, but there was a definite flicker of alarm in his light brown eyes and for just a second his whole body went rigid.

  “What do you think you’ll learn?” he asked. “As a general rule, I don’t think cops talk about their active cases.”

  “But this cop asked for my help. I’m not letting him take that back. And how can I help him if I don’t know what he’s thinking?” She carried the tray of jewelry from the sales counter to a display case and busied herself arranging the pieces on a length of red velvet.

  “I bet I know what he’s thinking.” Dan spoke too softly for Liss to hear, but Sherri was close enough to catch every word.

  “I bet you’d be right,” she whispered back.

  Liss closed the back of the display case and joined them. “Since you’re here, Sherri, I think I’ll take off early.”

  “Fine by me. Go for it.”

  “Great.” She grabbed her jacket and was at the door before either Sherri or Dan could say another word. “See you later.”

  The shop bell jangled. The door slammed with a thud.

  “Damn. She’s going to go primp. She wants plenty of time to get ready for her business meeting with Gordon Tandy.”

  “Maybe she just wants to make lists of questions to ask him. I’m sure she’s more interested in pumping him for information than jumping his bones.”

  “Oh, thanks so much for that image.” Dan looked as if he’d just bitten into a sour grape. “Damn it, Sherri, I’ve botched this up but good. I got jealous of Sandy, who turns out to be a great guy and no threat at all, and now I can’t say a word about this dinner with Tandy because she’ll think I don’t trust her.”

  “You don’t,” Sherri pointed out. “Face it, Dan. You are jealous. You’re also possessive and overprotective.” She held up a hand when he opened his mouth to protest. “I’m not saying those are entirely bad things, but try to see the situation from her point of view. She’s been a free spirit for years. You can’t expect her to change completely in a matter of months.”

  “I thought she and I were headed somewhere permanent.”

  “Did you talk to her about that?”

  “No.”

  “Then you’re stuck. For now, anyway. Try not to snap at Liss, or at Gordon Tandy, either. Liss won’t want anything to do with either of you if you and Gordon start snarling at each other like dogs fighting over a bone.” Then Sherri gave him the same advice she’d given Liss: “Just keep telling yourself it’s not a date.”

  Dan’s glower was impressive. “The Sinclair House is a pretty damn romantic setting for a business meeting. It would be a hell of a lot easier to convince myself I don’t have anything to worry about if they’d have supper at one of the fast food places in Fallstown.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  The Sinclair House had posh written all over it. Liss had been to functions there once or twice, but that had been years ago when she’d been a child. She hadn’t appr
eciated the finer touches, like valet parking and the fact that no gentleman was admitted to the dining room without a jacket and tie. She was glad she’d taken the time to twist her hair into a sophisticated style and chosen to wear one of her more feminine outfits, a long tartan skirt and a gauzy white blouse with lots of lace.

  They were seated at a cozy table in a window alcove. Their view of the floodlit, snow-covered grounds reminded Liss of a Currier and Ives print. “This is lovely, Gordon.”

  “So are you.”

  “For a suspect.”

  “Former suspect.”

  “So you say,” she teased him. “Maybe this is just a ploy to give me the third degree.”

  “Trust me when I say that I don’t want to spend the evening talking shop, but I do have the answer to a question you asked me earlier today. I know where Sarah Bartlett is.”

  “Where?”

  He shook his head. “You don’t need specifics. Suffice it to say that I talked to her on the phone and confirmed that she’s nowhere near Maine and could not have been here Saturday night to kill Victor Owens. She’s out of the picture, and that pretty much eliminates your stage manager friend as a suspect, as well.”

  Liss was glad to know Ray was off the hook, but that still left several other friends on it. “Who’s your prime suspect?” she asked.

  “You know I can’t tell you that.” His voice was mild, but his eyes had gone as hard as the obsidian she’d decided they sometimes resembled.

  With a sigh, Liss gave up. Pleading wouldn’t do anything but ruin the evening. She took a sip of the wine Gordon had ordered to go with their meal. He had good taste. And when she looked into his eyes again, the darkness had eased. He’d abandoned all thought of Victor’s murder. What she saw there now was warmth . . . and an invitation.

  Hastily looking away, Liss fixed her attention on their surroundings. Anything to distract herself from thoughts that were far too confusing.

  Like the rest of the Sinclair House, the dining room had been in use for well over a century. There were touches of the Gilded Age everywhere, carefully preserved—a crystal chandelier, flocked wallpaper—while at the same time every modern convenience was provided. Service was fast and efficient.