Vampires, Bones and Treacle Scones

by Kaitlyn Dunnett

  “Were you afraid I’d find evidence that you’d been in there again?”

  Once again, his answer was a shrug.

  How much, Liss wondered, do I really want to know?

  “I’m glad you didn’t just come rushing in. Danby might have caught you, too.”

  Killed you, too, she added silently.

  Boxer snorted. “I saw the caddy parked in the dooryard. I knew you weren’t alone. But I was curious, so I peeked in through a window where there’s a crack in the plywood, and I saw what was going on.”

  She leaned toward him across the coffee table, trying to catch his eye, but he avoided meeting her gaze. “You should have gone for the police.”

  “If I had, you wouldn’t have made it out of the mansion alive.”

  It was hard to argue with that logic. And impossible for Liss to demand an answer to the one question that remained—the nature of the secret she felt sure he was still keeping from her. He’d taken an awful risk for her sake, but he’d saved her life and Jason Graye’s, too. His quick thinking and bold action meant that a sadistic killer would spend the rest of his natural life in prison where he belonged.

  A quarter of an hour later, keeping her promise to take Boxer home, Liss turned off Owl Road into Hilary Snipes’s driveway. She put the car in park. Then she just stared. The decrepit old trailer was gone. In its place was a brand new double-wide fancy enough to be called a modular home.

  “Nice,” Liss murmured.

  “We think so.” Boxer grinned at her, unrepentant, and slid out of the car. With a wave, he disappeared inside.

  Liss was shaking her head as she drove away. When the Moosetookalook grapevine got wind of this, everyone would be speculating about where Hilary had gotten the money to upgrade. Aunt Margaret might have given Hilary and Boxer everything that had been in Ned’s bank account. She certainly hadn’t wanted it for herself. But the purchase price must have been much more than that . . . just about what was supposed to be in the cache of cash allegedly stashed in a certain hidey-hole next to the fireplace in the parlor of the Chadwick mansion.

  It didn’t really matter where the money had come from, Liss decided. After all they had been through, Boxer and his mother deserved a break.

  She smiled to herself all the rest of the way home. Discovering the origin of their windfall was one mystery she was happy to leave unsolved.

  Keep reading for an exciting sneak peek at

  Ho Ho Homicide,

  the next Liss MacCrimmon Scottish Mystery,

  available November 2014!

  Business is booming at the Scottish Emporium in Moosetookalook, Maine, and Liss MacCrimmon Ruskin couldn’t be happier—or busier. A romantic getaway at a rustic Christmas tree farm is just what she needs. But the property’s mysterious past has her feeling less than merry . . .

  Liss is surprised when an old friend from high school asks her to spend a week at the Christmas tree farm she recently inherited from a great-uncle. Realizing it would be the perfect chance for her and her husband Dan to get away from work, Liss happily accepts the offer and packs her bags for the tiny town of New Boston.

  Upon their arrival, Liss and Dan are greeted by a ramshackle farmhouse and unfriendly townsfolk. It’s hardly the idyllic vacation locale they’d hoped for, especially when needling neighbors start raising questions about the farm’s dark history. Who was the man whose body was found neatly netted in a shipment of Scotch pine? Why did the owner vanish into thin air? And why are the trees growing so close together, forming a maze more twisted than a Celtic knot?

  The rumors pile up faster than snowdrifts in a blizzard, and as Liss starts unwrapping the truth, she discovers something even more scandalous than murder hiding beneath the town’s humdrum façade. When a series of “accidents” strikes the farm, she’ll have to spring into action faster than a Highland Fling to find the killer who’s been lurking among the pines—before she ends up in a pine box herself . . .

  Chapter One

  Liss MacCrimmon Ruskin emerged from the back room of Moosetookalook Scottish Emporium, where she’d been packing orders for shipment. A professional smile lit her face and the words “Good morning. How may I help you?” were on the tip of her tongue. They never made it out of her mouth.

  “Gina?”

  The last person Liss expected to see at ten o’clock on a Wednesday morning in early November was her BFF from high school, Gina Snowe. They’d long since drifted apart. Gina hadn’t even come to Liss’s wedding. In the nearly five and a half years since, their only regular contact had been an occasional Christmas card.

  “The one and only,” Gina said.

  She was a walking advertisement for the successful, high profile businesswoman—power suit in a muted shade of red, perfectly manicured fingernails, exquisitely applied makeup, and light but expensive perfume. Liss didn’t need to look down at Gina’s feet to know she was wearing a designer brand of shoes with heels high enough to cause any ordinary woman to break an ankle. Not only could Gina walk in them, she thought they were comfortable!

  In jeans and a loose pullover sweater, Liss felt decidedly underdressed.

  They engaged in a brief hug. The gesture felt awkward, but it was a better alternative than air kissing. Liss retreated behind the sales counter as soon as Gina released her.

  “This is a surprise.”

  “A good one, I hope. This place looks exactly as I remember it,” Gina added as her gaze swept over the shop.

  The shelves and tables were filled with Scottish-themed gift items, many of them imported from Scotland. Racks held ready-made kilts and tartan skirts. The walls were hung with colorful plaids and framed prints of heather-covered hills and rugged Highland peaks.

  “It even smells the same.”

  “Lemon-scented furniture polish.” Liss shoved a stray strand of dark brown hair behind her ear. “As the saying goes, if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.”

  When Gina gave a toss of her head and laughed, Liss couldn’t help but notice that her expertly styled black locks fell effortlessly back into place, not a single strand awry. Betsy Twining at the Clip and Curl, located in the back half of the building that housed the post office, couldn’t have achieved such perfection if she’d had a month of Sundays in which to practice.

  Liss eased herself onto the high wooden stool behind the sales counter and rested her elbows on its smooth, glossy surface. “What’s up, Gina?”

  “Up? Why should you think anything is up?”

  “Oh, I don’t know.” Gina’s “Little Miss Innocence” act didn’t fool Liss for a second. The look in Gina’s almond-shaped eyes was calculating rather than naïve. “Maybe because you’re a hotshot lawyer in Chicago and I run what you’d probably call a mom-and-pop tourist trap in rural Maine? You didn’t drop by to buy kilt hose or a thistle pin.”

  “We were good buddies once. Maybe I want to catch up with an old friend.” Gina feigned interest in the small revolving display case on one end of the counter. It held an assortment of thistle jewelry, not only pins but also earrings, necklaces, and charms.

  “That was half a lifetime ago,” Liss reminded her. And even at seventeen, the two of them had never had a great deal in common. Just one thing, really. They’d each been deeply involved in extra-curricular activities that nobody else in their high school under stood or appreciated.

  Back in the day, Gina had claimed they broadened each other’s horizons. While Liss had spent all her spare time at Scottish festivals entering, and usually winning, dance competitions, Gina had been on the beauty pageant circuit. She’d earned enough scholarship money to put herself through college and law school.

  Gina batted the display case, setting it whirling. “Okay. Okay. I have an agenda. So, sue me!”

  “I’m listening.” With one hand, Liss stopped the spin, but she didn’t take her eyes off Gina’s face.

  “I need a favor.” The admission didn’t sit well. Gina snapped out her next words, impatient and out of sorts. �
��Get something to write on. Knowing you, you’ll want to take notes.”

  Liss’s clipboard was on the open shelf beneath the sales counter. Without comment, she extracted it and fished a felt tip pen out of the cracked mug she used to hold pens, pencils, and markers. Holding it poised, she waited, curious to learn what had happened to shake the cool-as-a-cucumber composure of Ms. Gina Snowe.

  “I’m here,” Gina said, “to offer you and Dan an all-expenses-paid week’s vacation in an idyllic location.”

  At the word vacation, Liss felt her interest quicken. She doodled a palm tree on the yellow, college-ruled page. “Define idyllic.”

  “Exactly your thing—rural, remote, and quiet.”

  Liss waved a hand toward the scene beyond the Emporium’s display window. “Take a look outside. Moosetookalook already offers me all that and more.” The village had a population of just over a thousand and was located in the scenic Western Maine mountains. It was close, but not too close, to several major ski areas.

  Gina didn’t bother to turn around. Instead she leaned in. “Here’s the thing, Liss. I came to Maine to inspect a Christmas tree farm I inherited from a great uncle. The original plan was to stop by your place for a visit, maybe even try to persuade you and Dan to join me for a few days.”

  “Uh-huh.” Liss took the part about the invitation with a grain of salt. It hadn’t escaped her notice that the other woman hadn’t once asked after Dan. For all Gina knew, Liss and Dan could have separated months ago. Or be encumbered by small children. Or have one on the way.

  Still, the words “Christmas tree farm” struck a chord. Liss cherished fond memories of the annual pilgrimage to find the perfect Christmas tree. When she was a girl, she and her parents had tromped all over a local farmer’s fields. When they finally agreed on one, her father had always let her help cut it down with a hand saw. Beside her first doodle, Liss drew a tiny Christmas tree.

  “I no sooner arrived,” Gina went on, “intending to stay for two weeks, than I was called back to Chicago. I’m needed there to handle a major criminal case. I don’t know when I’m going to be able to return to Maine.”

  Gina’s plight didn’t spark Liss’s sympathy, not when Gina was highly paid to be at her clients’ beck and call. “I’m not sure I understand the problem. Reschedule your stay.”

  “One issue to do with the property is time-sensitive.”

  “Meaning?”

  “It’s a Christmas tree farm. I need to know if there’s any chance to make money off the place this year. If you and Dan will spend a little time there in my stead—just a week—you can evaluate its potential for me.”

  “We don’t know anything about trees.” Liss’s protest was automatic, but she had to admit that her curiosity was piqued.

  “You know how to make a success of a small business.”

  “Sure—work ten-hour days, seven days a week. I don’t have time to—”

  Gina cut her off. “Some of the Christmas trees are Scotch pines. You can bring back as many boughs as you like to decorate the Emporium for the holidays.”

  “That’s your best argument? You’re slipping, counselor. And isn’t Scotch pine the variety that stinks to high heaven?”

  “You’re thinking of white spruce,” Gina shot back, “and the branches only smell bad if you crush the needles.”

  “Been reading up on the subject, have you?” Quietly amused, Liss couldn’t resist a bit more “need -ling.”

  “Come on, Liss—be a sport and help out an old pal.”

  With a sigh, Liss abandoned the clipboard, hopped off her stool, and headed for the stock room, leaving Gina to follow. “I wasn’t kidding about the ten-hour days, Gina. The Emporium, especially the online and mail-order side of the business, keeps me plenty busy and Dan—”

  Gina caught her arm. “I’ll make it worth your while. I’ll pay you for your time and pay the salary of someone to keep this place open while you’re gone. Seems to me,” she added as Liss turned to face her, “that if you two are working as hard as you say, you need a vacation.”

  “Gina, I can’t take money for—”

  “Call it a birthday present, then.”

  Liss winced. She’d celebrated her thirty-fourth a few weeks earlier. By her thirty-fifth, she had a pretty big decision to make, one she’d been brooding about lately.

  As if she sensed Liss was wavering, Gina abruptly changed tactics. “Think of the romantic possibilities,” she argued, drawing Liss back into the main room of the shop. “You and Dan all alone—no interruptions by family or friends. Face it, Liss. You live in a fishbowl here.”

  When she’d hauled Liss to the front window, Gina came to a stop. A passing neighbor—Stu Burroughs from Stu’s Ski Shop on his way to the post office to pick up his mail—peered in at them and waved.

  “Everybody in Moosetookalook knows everybody else’s business. Wouldn’t it be nice to get away for a bit to a place where nobody knows your name?”

  There were some things she and Dan needed to talk about, Liss thought. And there was no question but that they could do with a short vacation. From one heartbeat to the next, she came to a decision. “What do you want us to do?”

  Liss retrieved her clipboard from the counter and scribbled down details as fast as Gina could rattle them off. As she wrote, her mind worked even more furiously. An hour later, Gina was on her way to the airport and Liss had committed herself . . . and Dan . . . to spending a week on a Christmas tree farm.

  Now all she had to do was convince her overworked husband that he needed a vacation.

  Liss stood in the doorway of what had once been an old carriage house. She told herself she was planning her strategy, but the honest truth was that she was taking advantage of an opportunity to admire the man she’d married.

  Dan Ruskin was not movie-star handsome, nor was he athlete muscular. But he had a certain strength, both of character and in his person. That was what had drawn Liss to him even before they fell in love. He was, in the simplest terms, a nice guy.

  That was not to say that they always agreed. Or that he was never irritated with her. But he accepted her as she was. He didn’t try to change her. And when she was a bit too impulsive and committed them to something without running it by him first, he usually went along with it.

  Usually.

  Dan had begun using the carriage house as a woodworking shop as soon as he bought the house behind which it was situated. When his custom woodwork started to sell well, he’d built onto the back, doubling the size of his work space. The long, narrow room contained nearly a dozen large pieces of equipment—saws, sanders, and who-knew-what-all. An elaborate filtration system kept down the amount of sawdust in the air and dissipated the fumes from varnish and other smelly substances. A propane-fueled heater warmed the place in winter.

  Dan worked at the far end of the shop, securing Styrofoam corners onto one of his custom-made jigsaw-puzzle tables with stretch wrap and strapping tape. When a lock of sandy brown hair fell over his eyes as he worked, he absent-mindedly shoved it out of his way. Liss supposed she’d have to remind him to get a haircut. Dan never bothered with to-do lists of his own.

  She must have made some small sound. She had no idea how he could hear it with stereo speakers blaring, but he glanced up, smiled when he saw her, reached over to flick a switch, and cut off Gordon Lightfoot just as the gales of November slashed the doomed freighter Edmund Fitzgerald. Sometimes Dan listened to folk music, sometimes hard rock, and sometimes classical, but he never worked to the sound of skirling bagpipes. That was the one passion he and Liss did not share.

  “Sorry to interrupt,” Liss apologized when silence had descended.

  “I’m almost finished for the day. All I have left to do is get this box ready for UPS to pick up in the morning.”

  Liss threaded her way through the shop until she was near enough to see his muscles flex beneath his sweatshirt as he wrestled the heavy wooden table and its equally well-wrapped detached legs into a re
inforced cardboard carton for the trip to California or Florida or New Jersey. He’d dispatched jigsaw-puzzle tables to almost every state in the country and only the prohibitive cost of international shipping had discouraged potential buyers from as far away as England and Australia.

  “I had a surprise visitor today,” Liss began, plunging into a full confession of what she’d agreed to do.

  She’d barely finished before Dan shook his head. “I can’t take a week off. I’ve got six more orders waiting to be filled.”

  “You always have orders waiting to be filled. You made more than fifty jigsaw-puzzle tables last year.”

  Dan didn’t look up from sealing the carton.

  “You know you need a break. That’s why you raised your prices six months ago. You were hoping that would result in fewer orders.” The plan had backfired. Even more people had pre-ordered custom-made jigsaw-puzzle tables. “Dan, are you listening to me? The world will not come to an end if we go away for a few days of R&R.”

  “I can’t just drop everything. Besides, what if Dad needs me? Or Sam?”

  When they’d first been married, Dan had been working three jobs—at Ruskin Construction with his brother Sam, at The Spruces, the hotel his father owned, and as a woodworker, making boxes, clocks, and other small items in his spare time. Within a year of the wedding, he’d opened his retail storefront. Little had he known then that one of his offerings, the jigsaw-puzzle table, would become so popular that it would end up being his only product.

  Both the credit and the blame for his success went to Liss. She had been the one who’d designed his webpage. Soon after, people from all over the U.S. and Canada had started ordering his tables. He’d stumbled upon a niche market lucrative enough to allow him to earn a living supplying it . . . so long as he was willing to work straight out seven days a week, twelve months a year.

  Hands on hips, Liss glared at her husband. “You have an overdeveloped sense of responsibility, Dan Ruskin. Right now, I’m the one who needs you.”