Scotched

by Kaitlyn Dunnett

  “If I do—and that’s a big if—I’ll call in the sheriff’s deputies.” He chuckled. “It’ll give Pete something to do for a change. Now shoo!”

  George’s brusque voice drifted up to them, faint but clear. “Injuries consistent with a fall from this height. Just another damn fool accident.”

  “Now will you go home?” Jeff asked.

  Sherri rolled her eyes, but she went.

  She returned to her apartment less than two hours after she’d left to get an early start on her day. It wasn’t even eight o’clock yet, and Adam and Pete were both still asleep. She smoothed a hand over her son’s forehead to make sure he wasn’t running a fever, then changed from her uniform to jeans and a loose top. Both of her men would appreciate a hearty breakfast when they woke up. She could stand to eat something substantial herself. French toast, she decided. And sausage.

  She didn’t give the unfortunate jogger or her fatal fall another thought.

  When Liss’s alarm clock went off at eight, Lumpkin had her legs pinned at the bottom of the bed. The kitten, Glenora, had draped herself over the top of Liss’s head like a pair of furry black earmuffs.

  “Off,” she ordered, but she was not surprised when neither cat moved.

  With an effort, she extricated herself, made a quick stop in the bathroom, and stumbled downstairs to start the coffee brewing. Lumpkin nearly tripped her as he dashed past, determined to be the first one to reach the kitchen and his food bowl. Glenora gamboled after him, fetching up by the water dish and nearly upsetting it.

  When Liss began to run water into a large glass measuring cup, Glenora was right there, batting at the stream coming out of the faucet. Liss pushed her off the counter. Three times. The little cat was back by the time Liss stuck the container in the microwave. At that point, Liss gave up. She left the water running in a thin trickle so that Glenora could play with it.

  Still half-asleep, she measured scoops of coffee into her French press, popped two slices of bread into the toaster, fed the cats, turned the faucet off, poured hot water over the grounds, and set the timer for four minutes of brewing time. Her plan was to drink one cup in the kitchen and a second upstairs while she dressed, and put the remainder in a thermos to take with her to The Spruces. She had nib-blies ready to go into a small cooler, too, just in case business was so brisk in the dealers’ room that she couldn’t get away for lunch.

  Halfway through the first reviving sip of caffeine, the phone rang. Since the caller I.D. told her it was Patsy from the coffee shop, she picked up.

  “I’m just back from delivering pastries to the hotel for the author breakfast,” Patsy said. “Good news. Our little problem has resolved itself.”

  “What problem?” Still groggy, Liss struggled to recall if there had been a crisis over the baked goods. She couldn’t remember one.

  “This morning one of the hotel guests went out for an early-morning jog along the cliff path,” Patsy continued.

  Liss’s hand clenched on the phone. With a sick certainty, she knew she wasn’t going to like what she heard next.

  “We don’t have to worry about the evil blogger anymore,” Patsy announced. “Jane Nedlinger took a header off Lover’s Leap. Broke her danged fool neck in the fall.”

  Chapter Six

  The dealers’ room opened promptly at nine. It had been arranged so that a large open area in the middle was surrounded by long tables. They had been set up about two feet out from the wall, so that the dealers had room to move around behind them. As the only bookseller at a conference for readers, Angie had the most prominent spot, to the right as people came through the door. She was also the only one who had three tables. Today she was working them alone, but her ten-year-old daughter, Beth, would help out on Saturday and Sunday.

  Liss stood behind the two tables to Angie’s right. She had a variety of items from Moosetookalook Scottish Emporium displayed in front of her. To her right was an empty space, room for the lines they hoped would form at the signing tables. These took up the entire wall opposite the entrance.

  There was only one other dealer at the Cozy Con. A T-shirt vendor displayed a variety of brightly colored offerings on two tables set up just across from Liss. Most bore book-related slogans and graphics. Next to him were two tables holding the items to be auctioned off at the charity auction that evening. A third, where attending authors were encouraged to put out promotional material for their newest titles, was rapidly filling up with postcards, flyers, bookmarks, newsletters, pens, pencils, key rings, bowls of candy, and refrigerator magnets.

  From her vantage point, Liss had a good view of the entire room. The first panel didn’t start until 9:30, so they had attracted a good number of people, including several of the guest authors. Yvonne Quinlan was at the center of a small group of adoring fans.

  Solo and in groups of two and three, attendees wandered from table to table, examining the merchandise and chattering excitedly among themselves. The mood was upbeat, even though word of an accidental death near the hotel had clearly gotten around. “That’s the young man who found the body,” someone whispered.

  Liss followed her gaze to a young man pushing an older woman in a wheelchair, but she barely had time to think that he looked to be no more than twenty years old when she was distracted by a loud “Well, really!” from Angie’s direction.

  The woman who had been trying to get Dorothy Cannell’s autograph the previous evening tossed the book she’d been examining back onto Angie’s table and turned away, looking affronted. The book, a hardcover, grazed a nearby stack of paperbacks with enough force to send the entire pile topping. Angie only just managed to catch them before they tumbled to the floor.

  “What was the matter with it?” the woman’s friend asked as they walked past Liss’s tables. Neither seemed aware that they’d very nearly left a mini-disaster in their wake.

  “It was written in that god-awful present tense. I can’t stand reading books written that way.”

  The second woman shrugged. “Oh, that doesn’t bother me if the writing is good enough. But I hate it when an author head-hops. That constant switching back and forth will drive you crazy. Do you remember that one book where the author even included the point of view of the detective’s dog?”

  When the two moved out of earshot, Liss and Angie exchanged exasperated looks. “At least they read,” Angie muttered.

  Liss caught other bits and pieces of other conversations as she watched over her stock.

  One woman said, laughing, “And she shoved the book right up under the bathroom stall! Can you imagine? And she actually expected the author to sign it while she was—”

  A deeper voice obscured the first: “When does the first panel start?”

  A woman wearing a purple T-shirt dashed up to another sporting a bright red tunic and trim black slacks. The second woman had on one of the green name tags, identifying her as a panelist. “You’re Kathy, aren’t you?” the first woman gushed. “Oh, I’m so excited to meet you. I just love your historical mysteries. I’m writing one myself. Do you think you could introduce me to your agent? I’m sure—”

  Liss had to smile. Good luck with that one, she thought.

  Just before nine-thirty, Nola came in, clipboard in hand. She was hotly pursued by a pale-haired young woman in an identical outfit—conference T-shirt and jeans.

  “You haven’t told me yet who next year’s guest of honor is going to be,” the blonde whined. “How am I supposed to talk up the second Cozy Con if I don’t know that?”

  “Keep your voice down, Phoebe,” Nola snapped. “Nothing’s settled yet.”

  “The conference committee voted a week ago,” the younger woman persisted. “You must know by now who won and if they’ve agreed to do it.”

  “Phoebe, this is not the time or the place for this discussion. Go back to the registration table where you belong.”

  Phoebe turned sulky. “I’m going to be stuck there all day. It’s not fair. I’ll miss all the panels.�
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  “Someone has to remain on duty, Phoebe.” Nola sounded exasperated.

  “Why?”

  “Because there are a few registrants who haven’t checked in yet. And there will be other attendees who have questions. About next year’s conference, as you suggested. You can assure them there will be one and give them the dates, even if you can’t yet reveal the next guest of honor’s name. Besides, what if someone got an extra-large conference T-shirt in their goodie bag and wants to know if it comes in a smaller size?”

  “But it doesn’t,” Phoebe objected.

  “Exactly. That’s why a representative of the Cozy Con needs to be at the registration desk all the time. To tell people that.”

  “But why does it have to be me? Susie could do it.”

  Nola looked as if she wanted to hit Phoebe upside the head with her clipboard. “You’re my second in command. It’s your responsibility,” she said through clenched teeth.

  “Second in command, my ass,” Phoebe muttered as she stomped past Liss on her way to the door. “Slave labor is more like it!”

  Soon after that, the room began to clear out. It was almost time for the first two panels to begin. According to the program, they’d run from 9:30 to 10:30 and be followed by a signing session for the participating panelists from 10:30 to 11:30.

  “I wish you’d stop talking about it, Davy,” the woman in the wheelchair said as she and the young man pushing her passed Liss’s tables. “I get palpitations every time I think about you climbing down that cliff to check that poor woman’s pulse. You could have fallen to your death yourself, and then where would I be?”

  “I was perfectly safe, Mother,” the young man said, and shoved her chair out into the corridor with just a little more force than seemed absolutely necessary. Liss had a feeling it wasn’t the first time he’d been obliged to reassure her.

  With the first rush of business over, Angie began to tidy the piles of books on the tables in front of her. Dozens of people had picked up titles and read back cover copy and even the first page, but from what Liss had seen, few had actually bought anything.

  “What on earth was that woman doing out at Lover’s Leap in the first place?” Angie asked as she worked.

  “Apparently, she was out jogging,” Liss said. Her stock, too, had been pawed through. She refolded a tartan scarf and straightened a stack of boxes that contained pins in the shape of bagpipes. “That’s what Joe Ruskin told me when I got here.”

  Angie’s brows shot up. “Jane Nedlinger didn’t sound to me like the type for early-morning exercise, but I guess you never know.”

  “You can’t judge a book by its cover,” Liss quipped, then winced at her own misplaced sense of humor. A woman was dead. That was nothing to joke about. Or to be glad of, either, even if it did mean that she, along with the hotel and the town, were now unlikely to be written up in The Nedlinger Report.

  Liss hadn’t had much time to gather information. She’d already been running late by the time she’d arrived at The Spruces. “All he said was that one of the guests—apparently that young man, Davy—found Jane Nedlinger dead at the foot of the cliff this morning. He said it looks as if she went out there, jogging, at the crack of dawn, got too close to the edge while admiring the view, and took a fatal fall.”

  “Still strikes me as some peculiar,” Angie said.

  “Be glad it’s so cut and dried. The last thing we need around here is another murder.”

  The sound of a throat clearing made Liss look up. Yvonne Quinlan stood on the other side of the display table. Liss and Angie had been so intent on their conversation that neither of them had heard her approach. The only other person left in the dealers’ room, besides the three vendors, was Nola Ventress. She was on the opposite side of the room, fussing with the display of auction items.

  “Perhaps,” Yvonne suggested with a faint smile, “Ms. Nedlinger was lured into the woods by a vampire. It’s well known that vampires have the power to compel obedience from mere mortals.”

  “Uh-huh,” Liss said. Looking past Yvonne, she saw Nola start to walk toward them.

  “I’m sorry,” Yvonne said with a rueful little chuckle. “I meant no disrespect for the dead. You know writers. We just can’t resist spinning stories. I’m always startling the people around me by saying things like, ‘Oh, look! Wouldn’t that be a great place to hide a body?’”

  The twinkle in Yvonne Quinlan’s eyes was difficult to resist. Liss found herself responding to it, but she couldn’t help but notice that Nola didn’t appear to be at all pleased by what she’d overheard. She looked, in fact, as if she’d just bitten into something extremely sour.

  “Sorry to disappoint you,” Liss said to the author, “but the vampire explanation won’t work. Apparently the fall took place after the sun came up.”

  Yvonne’s smile widened into a grin. “What a pity! And I guess that means it really was an accident. After all, few humans would have the brute strength to toss someone as hefty as Jane Nedlinger off a cliff. I suppose there was a fence to haul her over first, yes?”

  Liss had to think about it. She hadn’t been up to Lover’s Leap in years, not since she was a teenager. It had been considered a daring make-out spot when she was in high school.

  “Lover’s Leap is on town land and the selectmen are cautious people, so I’m sure there’s a barrier of some kind.” There had been a dozen years ago—a sturdy structure with log rails.

  “You don’t seem real upset over her death,” Angie said to Yvonne. “Knew her well, did you?”

  “Hardly at all.” The actress examined one of the thistle pins Liss had for sale, the thistle being the symbol of Scotland. “I talked to her a few times at events like this one. That’s about it. Put this aside for me, will you?” She passed Liss the pin. “I’ll send Bill by to pick it up and pay you for it later.”

  When Yvonne had left, Liss closed the box the pin came in and stashed it in one of the empty cartons she’d stored beneath her table. While she was down there, she thought about fishing out a notebook and a pen. The temptation was strong to start making lists of suspects, motives, and alibis.

  She resisted, telling herself that she mustn’t let her imagination run away with her. Jane’s death had been a terrible accident, nothing more. It was only the influence of all the murder mysteries stacked on Angie’s tables that was making her remember just how many people would benefit from Jane Nedlinger’s sudden demise.

  You’re here as a dealer, not a detective, she told herself firmly, and there has been no crime.

  Some two hours later, Bill Stoltz wandered in. “Yvonne tells me you’re holding something for her,” he said.

  Liss produced the box with the pin in it and an invoice. “Terrible about Jane Nedlinger, isn’t it?” she asked as she swathed the little box containing the thistle pin in tissue paper and placed it in a small Moosetookalook Scottish Emporium bag, then added one of her business cards.

  “Who?” Bill handed over a credit card—his, not Yvonne’s.

  “The woman who fell off the cliff.”

  “Oh, yes. I did hear something about that. Didn’t catch the name. As you say, a terrible thing.”

  “What were you two talking about last evening?”

  “I didn’t talk to her. I didn’t know her.”

  His denial set off alarm bells. “Perhaps you didn’t catch her name then, either,” Liss said smoothly as she passed him the gift bag. “As I recall, she wasn’t wearing a name badge. Jane Nedlinger was the woman who cornered you at the opening reception, at right about the time Nola Ventress was introducing Yvonne.”

  Bill blinked a few times, then apparently decided that Liss wasn’t going to be put off by repeated denials. “Oh, that woman,” he said. “I suppose I’ve been trying to repress the memory.”

  “So? What did she say to you?” Liss wasn’t sure why she persisted, except that Bill had lied to her. He had to have known all along who Jane was. He’d been right there with them last night
when Yvonne had been telling them about her own encounter with the blogger. Since they’d been discussing Jane Nedlinger’s negative review of Yvonne’s latest book, Liss was certain Bill had been paying attention. After all, he was Yvonne’s manager.

  “She was angling for an in-depth interview with Yvonne,” Bill said, his reluctance to share the information almost palpable. “That’s it.” He shrugged. “I told her no. Why would I do any favors for that barracuda after she trashed Yvonne’s novel?”

  Bill’s explanation made sense, but Liss couldn’t help but think there’d been more to his encounter with Jane. She had seen the expression of sheer panic on his face when Jane latched onto him at the reception.

  Bill glanced at his watch. “I must go.” He started to scurry off without reclaiming his credit card.

  “Mr. Stotz. Wait.”

  For a moment, she thought he intended to keep going, but when she waved the plastic rectangle at him, he came back.

  “Thanks,” he said, grabbing it. “Sorry, but I’ve got to run. There’s, um, a panel I need to be at.” On his way out, he nearly bowled over a small, round person just coming in.

  “Hi, there,” the woman said, coming straight to Liss but nodding at Angie, too. “Are either of you two ladies working on a novel of your own?”

  Liss laughed and shook her head.

  Angie said, “Not a chance. Too much work involved.”

  “And that’s exactly how I stay in business. I’m Ruth Merchason. My friends call me Ruthie.” She pulled a stack of business cards out of her purse and handed one to each of them. “If you ever need my services, just give me a call.”

  She abandoned them for a group of conference-goers who’d just entered the dealers’ room, passing out more cards and brightening when one of them admitted she’d been trying to write a mystery of her own. Liss glanced at the card in her hand. It read: RUTH MERCHASON, BOOK DOCTOR.

  “What the heck is a book doctor?” Angie wanted to know.