Scone Cold Dead (3 page)

“So, how you doin', Liss?” Ray's voice was a bit on the nasal side, a raspy baritone straight out of New York City. He couldn't speak more than a dozen words without throwing in a rhetorical “y'know?” and his hands automatically went into motion the moment he started talking. “Never figured you for a country girl.” His gesture seemed to indicate all of Fallstown.

“If you think a big town like this is the boondocks, you should see Moosetookalook!”

Too late, Liss realized Dan had come up beside her in time to overhear her flippant remark. He was not smiling. He probably didn't appreciate the criticism of their hometown, but it was too late now to take back what she'd said.

“Dan, this is Ray. He's our stage manager and one-third of our backstage crew. He specializes in running lights on all kinds of systems, some extremely antiquated. He was also the one to provide emergency first aid—ice packs—the night I injured my knee.”

Waving off the praise, nodding a greeting to Dan, Ray returned to the one subject Liss wanted to avoid. “You call this a big town? I dunno, Liss. You should pardon the expression, but two days in the back of beyond and I could die of boredom already.”

“City boy,” she teased him. “Think of it as a chance to catch up on sleep.”

Dan, community pride piqued, jumped in with suggestions. The Fallstown movie theater offered six screens. There was a potluck supper tomorrow at one of the local churches. And the motel where Ray was staying had cable with NESN.

“NESN?” Ray asked, straight-faced. “Never heard of it.”

“New England Sports Network.”

Liss kept mum. She knew Ray was just stringing Dan along. He knew perfectly well what NESN was. But he had a point. Not everyone in the company was happy about spending a quiet weekend in rural Maine. Still, they didn't have another booking until Monday evening and it was far less expensive to stay in Fallstown than to arrive early and pay exorbitant sums for an extra night in the Boston area, near their next gig. Victor, almost as frugal as Charlie and Jock, had jumped at the chance for two nights at cheaper rates.

Sandy and Zara joined them just as Dan mentioned that the Boston Bruins hockey game would be televised the next afternoon. Liss headed off Ray's response—he was
not
a fan of any New England sports team—and turned the conversation back to what had been happening among the members of
Strathspey
since she'd last seen them.

Ray recounted a particularly hilarious encounter with a group of locals during a road trip—what was it that made some men think a guy in a skirt must be a sissy? Then Sandy chimed in to tell her about another incident with a similar outcome, except that he'd ended up with a black eye.

Halfway through the second story, Dan wandered off. Liss started to call him back, then let him go. It wasn't as if he didn't know anyone at the reception.

She surveyed the gathering, quietly pleased at its success. A great many local people had come, in addition to a good number of college students and faculty members. Liss caught sight of a neighbor, Angie Hogencamp, and her daughter, Beth, at the other side of the room. Liss had been giving the girl dance lessons since August and had found the task surprisingly enjoyable.

A burst of laughter pinpointed Stewart Graham's location. Good old Stewart—the more he drank, the worse his puns became. Liss tuned in just long enough to hear him proclaim that Scottish country dancers were reel people and had to stifle a groan at hearing that old chestnut again. None of Stewart's puns were particularly original and he tended to repeat the same ones over and over.

“Nice shindig, Liss,” Sandy said a short while later, when they found themselves standing together with no one else nearby.

“Yes,” she agreed. “Thanks.” But she couldn't hold back a sad little sigh.

“What's wrong, kid?” he asked. He was all of three years older than she was, but he'd always called her that. He claimed it was because, during those first few years with
Strathspey
, she'd tended to look at the world through rose-colored glasses.

No longer. That wide-eyed nineteen-year-old innocent had started to grow up a long time ago, and the abrupt end to her career as a dancer had completed the process.

“Kid?”

“I was just daydreaming—wishing there could still be a place for me with the company. A nondancing role, of course. But there isn't. Not unless Victor suddenly decides to resign.”

“He'll never do that.” Sandy sounded grim. “It would make too many people happy.”

Chapter Two

S
herri Willett glanced at her watch. It was getting late and she had a five-year-old son who got up at the crack of dawn. She looked around for Pete, and found him deep in conversation with one of the organizers of the local Scottish festival. Pete competed in some of the athletic events and had a vested interest in when they were to be scheduled. Both Pete and Sherri were deputies with the Carrabassett County Sheriff's Department, she at the jail and he on patrol, and both planned their lives around what shift they were on. It was a crazy schedule in some ways, but did allow for a very long weekend once every three weeks.

Leaving him to it, she wandered back to the refreshment table. Liss had done herself proud. There wasn't a loser in the bunch. Sherri was reaching for one of the crunchy little bacon thingies, since the supply had just been replenished, when someone spoke to her.

“Well, aren't you a pretty little thing,” the man said in a slurred voice.

She spared him a sideways glance but didn't respond verbally. He was with the dance troupe, although he wore a plain suit and was clearly not a performer. Not with that flabby midsection. Victor Something. She remembered that Liss had said he was the company's manager.

Sherri was a little surprised he wasn't at least decked out in a tartan tie. She'd worked part-time at Margaret Boyd's gift shop long enough to know that most people who were into things Scottish flaunted their heritage. Even the ones who wouldn't wear a kilt and sporran tended to have little Scottish lion flags as lapel pins or bagpipe tie tacks.

The man—Victor—took a sip from his glass. It was whiskey by the smell of it. Then he leered at her. When Sherri moved farther along the table, he followed, plucking up bits of food as he went. The servers were still putting out fresh supplies, even though the crowd was starting to thin. Sherri grabbed one of the cocktail scones Liss was so proud of and the man did, too.

“These aren't bad,” he said. “I tried a few of them earlier. They have some kind of honey filling.”

Sherri bit into hers. Not honey. Not even sweet. She had to force herself to swallow and she quickly discarded what was left of the pastry by chucking it into a convenient trash container. The man didn't seem to be put off by the taste. Or perhaps his scone had a different filling. It disappeared in two bites and he reached for another.

She remembered now that he'd been right here at the refreshment table when Liss had identified him. And later, when Liss had been talking to him, he'd had a blond dancer at his side. The blonde was nowhere in sight now.

“So, sweet thing—what's your name?”

Sherri moved another yard or so away from him. She didn't look his way again, and when there were no heavy footsteps following her she breathed a sigh of relief. Then a burst of song from the other side of the room distracted her. The attempt to render Bobby Burns's lyrics in a Scots accent ended in peals of laughter, equally loud. An odd coughing sound was almost drowned out by the noise of the revelers.

Sherri frowned. The overweight Lothario, gearing up for another try? She told herself not to turn around. She shouldn't even glance over her shoulder at him. Either action would only encourage unwelcome advances. But there was something odd about that cough, and the wheeze that followed it. The hair on the nape of her neck lifted when she heard a strangled, gagging sound.

Sherri looked back, expecting to find him choking on one of the hors d'oeuvres. She was prepared to administer the Heimlich maneuver.

Victor's face was red, his mouth open and gasping, his eyes bulging. He was scrabbling futilely at his jacket pocket.

Shit
, Sherri thought.
Heart attack.

No one else had noticed yet. They were all too busy enjoying themselves. Even as she reached toward him, he collapsed. Sherri knelt at his side, pulling her cell phone from her purse and hitting the button to speed-dial the dispatch center at the jail. At this time of night, the sheriff's department handled emergency calls for the entire county.

Sherri almost lost her grip on the phone as Victor thrashed about on the floor. His flailing hand struck her elbow with painful force. “Donna, this is Sherri,” she barked at the deputy who answered. “Send an ambulance to the Student Center ASAP. Possible heart attack.”

Victor was still gasping and choking when the blonde who'd been with him earlier reappeared. “Oh my God!” she shrieked. “What happened?”

“Has he got a heart condition?” Sherri asked. In the mere seconds it took to ask the question, Victor stopped breathing.

Sherri tossed her phone to the blonde, hoping she'd have sense enough to keep the line open, and started CPR. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Pete making a beeline for her and sent up a silent prayer of thanks.

“He's got food allergies,” the blonde wailed.

Damn
. Realizing that he'd probably been trying to get at an EpiPen, Sherri let Pete take over CPR and shoved her hand into Victor's nearest pocket. She came up empty. She tried the others in rapid succession, but none yielded an epinephrine injector.

This is not good
, Sherri thought. If he was severely allergic, he needed a shot, fast, to counteract food-induced anaphylaxis.

Pete continued CPR until the ambulance arrived, but with shocking suddenness Victor moved beyond their ability to save him. When they both stood aside to let the paramedic and the EMT take over, Sherri already knew that whatever Victor had been allergic to had just killed him.

“If only I'd paid more attention,” she murmured. “If I'd turned around at that first odd little coughing sound—”

“Guy didn't have epinephrine on him, Sherri.” Pete's arm came around her shoulders and he gave her a comforting squeeze. “Not a heck of a lot you or anyone else could have done. Who was he, anyway?”

“Victor Owens,” Liss said, coming up beside them. She looked ghastly, and it occurred to Sherri that she must have known the victim well.

“He had a food allergy?”

“To mushrooms,” Liss said.

“Mushrooms?” Pete sounded incredulous. “I knew peanuts could be deadly, but
mushrooms
?”

“It's not as common, but . . .” Liss's voice trailed off and she looked down at the body. Seeing was believing.

Sherri hadn't encountered a situation like this before, but she'd read of similar cases. This was the reason peanuts had been banned in so many schools and on most airplanes. They were completely harmless to most people, but absolutely deadly to a select few. Severe allergic reactions were nothing to sneeze at.

Sherri winced at the unfortunate turn of phrase her subconscious had provided. That one was almost as bad as the atrocious puns that guy, Stewart, had been coming up with all evening.

“Mushrooms,” Pete said again. “Who'd have thought it?”

“I don't understand,” Liss murmured. “There were no mushrooms in any of the refreshments. I made sure of it.”

“Did he usually carry epinephrine?” Sherri asked.

“An EpiPen. He always had one on him. And he wasn't shy about letting people know he had to watch what he ate, either. He knew what could happen.”

“He was gobbling up everything in sight,” Sherri reminded her.

“He trusted me to make sure it was all okay for him to eat.” That seemed to shake Liss's composure all over again.

At a loss over how to convince Liss not to blame herself for what had happened, Sherri was glad to see Dan turn up. With him was the punster she'd just been thinking about. Stewart . . . Stewart . . . ? Graham—that was it. Like the cracker. Stewart Graham.

Dan tugged Liss close against his side. Though normally fiercely independent, she looked for once as if she welcomed having someone to lean on. Her arm went around his waist, but her eyes stayed on the body.

Sherri had already searched Victor's pockets. Now she lifted the cloth covering the refreshment table to peer beneath it. It didn't make sense that someone with such a violent allergy would forget, or lose, the one thing that could keep him alive. He didn't seem to have dropped it, though. At least not here.

“What's that in his hand?” the EMT asked.

Sherri leaned forward. “That's a partially eaten cocktail scone.”

And he'd just consumed a whole one.

Stewart Graham, beer in hand and staggering a little, took a wobbly step closer to the body and peered down at the bit of food.

“Are you sure he's dead?” someone asked. The older woman. Fiona Something.

“Indeed he is,” Stewart Graham proclaimed in a ringing British accent. “Scone cold dead.”

 

 

Victor Owens's death brought the reception to a sudden and sobering close. Liss stayed until the medical examiner had made it official, but even after Victor's body had been taken away, she was still struggling to come to grips with what had happened.

“One moment he was fine,” she murmured, “and the next—”

“We all knew Victor had that food allergy,” Sandy reminded her. “He always knew there was a risk he'd have a bad reaction.”

“I can't understand how this happened. I took special care that no mushrooms be included in the menu for the reception. I even went so far as to specify that no pan previously used to cook mushrooms should be used in the food preparation. Remember? Victor told us once that he almost died from eating a cheese omelet made in a pan that hadn't been properly cleaned after making one that contained mushrooms and onions.”

“If you're blaming yourself, stop it right now,” Sandy said. “This was nobody's fault but Victor's. He was careless. Probably left the EpiPen in his motel room.”

That did not make her feel any better.

Dan took her arm and steered her toward the exit. “There's nothing more you can do here, Liss. We may as well head home.”

“I'm really anxious to see your place.” Zara's tone made it clear she was changing the subject. “You've been gushing about it in your e-mails for months now.”

Liss produced a faint smile, but her heart wasn't in it. She reminded herself that she'd been looking forward to showing Sandy and Zara around her part of the western Maine mountains. Victor's death wouldn't change that plan, but it had certainly cast a pall over their reunion.

“Give us a hug,” Sandy said when Dan went to collect their coats. “You'll feel better.”

As they embraced, tears sprang into Liss's eyes. She wiped them away, embarrassed. “He wasn't such a bad guy. He didn't deserve to—”

“Don't dwell on it, Liss. If you'll forgive the platitude, maybe it was just his time.”

“It was so
sudden.
”

“Kid, there's no good time to kick the bucket. At least it was quick and relatively painless.”

He was right. Especially about not dwelling on what had happened. She couldn't change anything by wallowing in guilt.

“I've missed you,” she whispered as she finally eased herself out of Sandy's comforting arms.

Dan cleared his throat. Liss didn't even look at him as he helped her into her coat. Sandy held her attention by saying, “On a much brighter note, I've got a surprise for you, kid.”

“Oh, goodie. I love surprises.” She managed to coax some enthusiasm into her voice. “What is it?”

“Later. If you're very, very good.”

They collected their luggage, which had been left on the company bus, and piled into the five-year-old station wagon that belonged to Liss's aunt.

By unspoken agreement, Victor's name was not mentioned again as they drove north to Moosetookalook through a light snowfall. Sandy told a story about a mix-up in room reservations at a gig in the Midwest two months earlier. Then Zara chimed in with an amusing tale of her own. It wasn't that they were cold or unfeeling about Victor's death, Liss knew. They were trying to take
her
mind off that dismal subject.

They were halfway home before Liss realized that Dan, who was behind the wheel, hadn't said a single word since leaving the Student Center.

Moosetookalook was a small, quiet community—population 1,007—with a picture-perfect town square surrounded, for the most part, by white clapboard houses. A majority of them were no longer one-family homes but rather had businesses on the first floor and apartments above. Liss's house was one of the exceptions. Situated next door to the building that housed Moosetookalook Scottish Emporium, it had a wide front porch and a bay window that looked out over most of the neighborhood.

“It's a Christmas card!” Zara exclaimed in delight.

It
was
pretty, Liss acknowledged, now that a fresh white dusting covered the rusty piles of snow that had been such a blight on the landscape earlier in the day.

Liss unlocked and opened the door and flicked on the lights in her foyer to reveal a flight of stairs off to their right. Lumpkin occupied the second step. All of it. The enormous yellow cat effectively blocked the way up.

“Wow!” Zara exclaimed. “That's some welcoming committee.”

“Meet Lumpkin. He came with the house.”

“Cute name,” Sandy remarked, “but not very flattering.”

“My theory is that he was named after a family that appears in some of Charlotte MacLeod's mysteries. His former owner was a big fan.”

Liss expected Dan to chime in with a warning about Lumpkin's tendency to bite unsuspecting victims in the ankle—although there had not been such an incident for months now—but he remained silent. She lifted the cat into her arms to get him out of the way, thankful that he'd slimmed down a bit since she'd had charge of feeding him. He'd originally weighed in at twenty pounds. Now he was closer to fifteen, but still an armful. When he kicked her in the stomach, she let him go, giving him a shove toward the living room.