“Have you seen Blair Somerled?” Nola asked. “His panel time’s been changed and I want to make sure he knows about it.”
“Sorry, Nola. Perhaps he’s not here yet.”
Somerled was from Kansas, Liss recalled. She wasn’t quite sure why he’d decided to attend a small conference in Maine, but she was looking forward to meeting him. His books featured an amiable and sometimes absentminded retired physician, an American G.P. who lived and sleuthed in present-day Scotland and was attempting, with humorous results, to learn to play the bagpipe. Liss had particularly enjoyed Homicide with Haggis, but Skulls and Drones and Eleventh Piper Dying had been excellent, too.
“Do you know Dan Ruskin?” Liss asked Nola, since Dan showed no sign of leaving.
Nola looked him up and down. “Joe’s boy. I can see the resemblance.”
“You know my father?” Joe Ruskin, head of Ruskin Construction and father to Sam, Dan, and Mary, was also the driving force behind renovating and reopening The Spruces.
Nola gave a short bark of laughter. “I grew up in this godforsaken burg. Didn’t you know? That’s how Margaret Boyd persuaded me to hold the Cozy Con here. That and the fact that there’s a certain cachet about holding a conference of murder mystery fans in a venue where a real murder took place.”
She was off again before either Liss or Dan could comment, but they exchanged a rueful look. “That’s not how we want the hotel to be remembered,” Dan muttered.
“Aunt Margaret knows that, but it’s better to attract business than to drive it away, right?” Liss glanced at her watch. “The opening ceremonies are starting soon. I’ve got to go.”
Dan brushed a light kiss across her forehead. “Have fun. I’ll see you later.”
He started to turn away, but she caught him by the front of his shirt and tugged. Obligingly, he lowered his head for one more kiss—a proper one, this time.
Grinning like a fool, Dan watched Liss sail up the sweeping staircase that led from the lobby to the mezzanine where the meeting rooms were located. No one would ever know from the graceful way she walked that she’d had knee surgery less than two years earlier. He still couldn’t believe his luck. She’d been gone from Moosetookalook for a decade before a twist of fate brought her back. Now she was going to stay on permanently ... with him.
Liss turned at the top of the stairs and sent a smile his way. The sides of her dark brown hair swung forward over her ears, just brushing her jawline. There was nothing spectacularly beautiful about her face, but Dan liked the way everything went together. And he loved her for her quick, clever mind and her absolute dedication to the things she cared about.
Only when Liss disappeared into the crowd beginning to gather on the mezzanine did Dan realize that he was being watched. His father smirked at him in a good-natured fashion from his post behind the check-in desk.
“Pitiful,” Joe Ruskin kidded him when Dan sauntered over. “Mooning over the girl like a lovesick calf.”
“If I’m a calf, shouldn’t that be mooing?”
Joe chuckled. “If that’s the best comeback you can manage, you’d better stick to working with your hands. You’re never going to master the art of clever repartee.”
“Why would I want to?”
“Listen, son,” his father said, leaning forward with his elbows on the counter, “I’ve got a puzzler for you. Sherri called a little while ago to ask if we had a J. Nedlinger registered. We don’t, and I told her so, but then I got to thinking that the name sounded familiar.”
It meant nothing to Dan, but he heard the worry in his father’s voice. If Sherri had been asking in her official capacity as a Moosetookalook police officer, then no good would come of finding a connection between the hotel and this Nedlinger person.
“A credit card issued to J. Nedlinger paid for a room, just not under that name.”
“What name did he use? Smith or Jones? And how good-looking was the woman with him?”
Joe snorted a laugh. “The name in the register is Jane Smoot. She checked in yesterday. A big woman, especially when she’s wearing a jogging suit. I saw her first thing this morning when she was heading out for a run on the cliff path.”
“Smoot?”
Joe nodded. “I think maybe she’s using an alias. I’m wondering if I should call Sherri back and let her know. We don’t want some criminal type staying here at the hotel.”
Dan shrugged. “Sure. Call her. It’s probably nothing. Maybe the Nedlingers have a family emergency and are trying to get in touch with J.”
“But why use another name? Normal people don’t do things like that—try to hide who they are.”
“Maiden name?” Dan suggested. “Or maybe it’s a pseudonym. This conference has a lot of writers attending, right? And sometimes they don’t publish under their own names.”
Joe’s tension evaporated. The shallowest of the worry lines in his face smoothed out. “Yeah, that’s probably the explanation. But I think I’ll let Sherri know anyway, just to be on the safe side.” He reached for the phone.
“You’d better try her at home, or on her cell.” Dan picked up a pen and scribbled down both numbers on a scratch pad on the check-in desk. “This late in the day there’s no point in calling the P.D. You’ll just end up being forwarded to the dispatcher at the sheriff’s department.”
Joe hesitated. “I hate to bother her if she’s off duty. She’s probably right in the middle of cooking supper for Pete and Adam.”
“Pete’s on the two-to-ten shift, and Sherri won’t mind an after-hours update.”
Although he’d been on his way down to the hotel lounge, Dan stuck around while Joe tried Sherri’s numbers. Dan and Liss had become close friends with Pete and Sherri since Liss’s return to Moosetookalook. Sherri’s compulsion to tie up loose ends was almost as strong as Liss’s inability to let any puzzle go unsolved.
In spite of the fact that Dan had already worked a full day for Ruskin Construction, adding an office above the garage to a client’s house, he’d agreed to put in three more hours tending bar. Everyone in the family—his sister Mary, his brother Sam, even Sam’s wife, June—pitched in to help their father as needed. It had long been Joe’s dream to restore The Spruces to its former status as a grand resort hotel, or at least to a modern version of those glory days. Although the jury was still out on whether he’d ultimately succeed, his three kids were determined to do all they could to support him.
“Funny,” Joe said. “No answer at the apartment. Not even the machine. Nothing on the cell, either.”
“Try Pete’s cell,” Dan suggested, and rattled off the seven digits. He’d always had a good memory for numbers. That was a definite asset in the building trade, where accurate measurements were important.
This time Joe got an answer. “Any idea where Sherri’s got to?” he asked. Then, abruptly, his voice changed. “Sorry to hear that, Pete. You at the hospital now?”
“What happened?” Dan demanded, but his father gestured for him to be patient.
“Hang in there, son,” Joe said after listening a bit longer. “I’m sure he’ll be fine.” But his brow was furrowed with concern when he hung up. “It’s Sherri’s son, Adam. Pete says they think he broke his arm. They’ve taken him down to Fallstown General for x-rays. He’s probably going to end up in a cast.”
“Poor kid. He’s only seven years old. How’d it happen?”
“Typical youngster. He fell out of a tree.”
Dan winced in sympathy.
“Pete said Sherri just took the boy into the emergency room. He met them outside and he was parking the cruiser when I caught him. Another couple of minutes and he’d have shut off his cell phone. They don’t let you keep them turned on inside the hospital.”
“They’ll be there a while,” Dan predicted.
“I didn’t tell Pete why I was looking for Sherri,” Joe said. “I don’t guess this Nedlinger business is all that important. Nothing that can’t wait till tomorrow, that’s for sure.”
The arrival of a tall, lanky individual wearing glasses with Coke-bottle lenses and a harried expression on his face ended the discussion. While his father checked in the newcomer—under the improbable name of Blair Somerled—Dan continued on his way to the lounge. He dismissed the minor mystery of J. Nedlinger from his mind and concentrated on psyching himself up for his stint as bartender. He didn’t resent the dent working at the hotel put in his personal time, but he sure would be glad when he no longer had to pitch in there.
Things would improve once he and Liss were married, he told himself. They planned to live in her house and turn his into the business that was his dream—a showroom for the furniture and other items he crafted from wood. As always, that thought brightened his day. He was whistling a cheerful little tune by the time he reached the lounge.
Liss was also in excellent spirits. The largest of the meeting rooms was packed, but she spotted a chair in the middle of a row halfway to the podium. Stepping carefully over feet and goodie bags, she reached her goal and collapsed onto the cushioned seat. What a relief it was just to sit!
She’d been on the go, and on her feet, since early that morning. To carve out the time to attend the First Annual Maine-ly Cozy Con, she’d had to spend extra hours making sure that Moosetookalook Scottish Emporium was caught up on mail and online orders. Setting up the dealers’ room had been time-consuming, too, but now everything was ready. In addition to Angie and herself, there was one other vendor. There was also a display area for the items to be offered in the Friday evening charity auction and another long table, currently empty, where attending authors could leave their promotional material. All that was left to do was unlock the big double doors at nine the next morning.
A smattering of applause sounded when Nola Ventress took the stage. She launched into a brief history of how the First Annual Maine-ly Cozy Con came to be. Since Nola was not a stirring speaker, Liss’s mind wandered. She enjoyed people-watching, and this was a fascinating group.
Women vastly outnumbered men in the audience, but one of the latter caught Liss’s eye.
She recognized him by his checked blazer and the fact that he wore his long blond hair in a queue. He’d been one of the two gentlemen standing by the elevator with Yvonne Quinlan and Dorothy Cannell. Now he had his back propped against a side wall. His attention was fixed on Yvonne, who currently shared the stage with Nola and two other women. He started visibly when an impressively large woman dressed all in gray sidled up to him. She leaned in close, invading his personal space. He tried to retreat, but he had nowhere to go. Just to be sure he didn’t escape, she got a good grip on his lapel, giving Liss a new appreciation of the term “buttonholed.”
When Nola introduced Yvonne Quinlan, Liss turned her attention back to the podium. Nola named all seven titles in Yvonne’s series of mystery novels and quoted a review in Publishers Weekly that praised the author’s skill at characterization and her light touch with humor.
The actress-turned-author smiled graciously, acknowledging the enthusiastic applause from the crowd. “Thank you all for such a warm welcome,” she said in a pleasant, slightly throaty voice. “I’m looking forward to the weekend.”
Liss expected Yvonne to hog the spotlight, but instead of acting like a prima donna, she promptly returned the microphone to Nola so that Nola could introduce the Fan Guest of Honor, Betty Jean Neal.
“You all know Betty Jean,” Nola said, “and if you don’t, you should. This woman owns more mystery novels than most libraries.”
Betty Jean, beaming, bounced up to the microphone. Like the trapped man in the checked blazer, she had blond locks pulled back into a ponytail, but her hair was thick to the point of being bushy. A few strands had escaped to frame a rosy-cheeked face.
“That’s right, Nola,” she said, and giggled when the microphone squealed. She held it a little farther from her face to elaborate on the number of books she had collected. “Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves in just about every room,” she boasted.
“Tell them about the bathroom,” someone in the audience yelled, obviously a friend.
“Oh. Well. You don’t really want to hear this, do you?” Betty Jean asked the crowd.
Reassured that they did, she launched into a description of her recently remodeled guest bath. The floor was black and the walls white, except for a suggestive spatter of red paint on one wall. The white bath rugs had red footprints on them. The black towels were decorated with the outline of a body. And the toilet paper had been printed to look like crime-scene tape.
“Of course, no one is allowed to use that roll,” Betty Jean added, chuckling along with the laughing crowd.
“And she lives in a decommissioned lighthouse,” said a woman sitting directly in back of Liss.
“No kidding?” A second female voice sounded skeptical.
“Oh, yeah. Betty Jean’s the principal of the local elementary school, and the living quarters, which belong to the town, go with the job.”
“I never heard of such a thing.”
“It’s a throwback, that’s for sure. And Betty Jean knows it. She’s had that job for thirty years and she’s not letting it go anytime soon. Well, would you?”
Liss didn’t hear what the second woman replied. Betty Jean had stepped aside and Nola was now introducing the conference toastmaster, a mystery writer named Sandy Lynn Sechrest. A tall, slender woman in her thirties, she spoke in a soft Southern accent Liss found charming.
“I’ve been thinking about the title of toastmaster,” she drawled, “and it just doesn’t fit. And I don’t want to be anybody’s toastmistress, either. So I’ve decided to call myself the Cozy Con’s Toast Chick. You know—like the Dixie Chicks? What do y’all think?”
Boisterous applause and more laughter assured her that the crowd approved. As Sandy Lynn went on to make a few announcements about schedule changes, Liss made a mental note to pick up a copy of her latest mystery, The Cat Herder Murder. Apparently Ms. Sechrest’s detective was a woman who wrote pet-care guides. Liss liked the premise and thought she might just garner some helpful hints about dealing with stubborn felines while she was trying to solve a fictional crime.
Two cats shared Liss’s house in the village. They were not going to be happy with her this weekend. Lumpkin and Glenora wanted regular meals. Since the Emporium was right next door to the house, Liss usually darted back and forth, putting down fresh food and water and doling out attention on a schedule that suited all three of them. For the duration of the conference, however, the cats were going to have to make do with seeing her only in the early morning and late at night, after the First Annual Maine-ly Cozy Con activities were over with for the day. She planned to attend the classic movie festival after that evening’s reception, the charity auction on Friday evening, and the banquet on Saturday night.
Enthusiastic applause, the loudest yet, greeted Nola Ventress’s announcement that refreshments awaited them in the adjoining room. All around Liss, people surged to their feet and started to move in that direction. She didn’t hesitate to join them. The hotel always put on a good spread. The head chef, Angeline Cloutier, produced splendid buffets. Angeline had already agreed to cater Liss and Dan’s wedding.
The woman Liss had last seen accosting the man in the checked blazer intercepted her before she could join either of the long lines snaking around two buffet tables loaded with food. “Excuse me,” she asked, “but aren’t you Amaryllis MacCrimmon?”
Liss frowned. “I prefer Liss.” And she was wearing a conference name tag that said so.
“Of course you do. I wonder if I could speak with you for a few minutes.”
“Sure,” Liss agreed, but she kept walking. She was close enough now to smell delicious aromas, and she could see that one of the buffet selections was a macaroni and cheese bar.
The woman kept pace. She was as tall as Liss and easily twice her weight
, but she was solid rather than flabby. Formidable, Liss decided. And there was something predatory about her smile.
“Why don’t we get in line?” Liss suggested. “We can talk and collect supper at the same time.” Since she’d managed only a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and a glass of milk for lunch, she expected her stomach would start to growl at any moment.
“Are you sure you want our conversation to be overheard?”
Liss hesitated, taken aback by the question. Her gaze wandered to the other woman’s shelflike bosom, to the spot where a name badge should have been pinned to the dove gray fabric and was not. “And you are?”
“Jane Nedlinger.” The woman’s light blue eyes gleamed, but not with good humor.
There were three lines to choose from, two for food and one at the cash bar. For a moment, Liss was tempted to join the latter. If Jane Nedlinger was this intense in her dealings with everyone, it was no wonder that the man in the checked blazer had looked so desperate to escape her clutches.
“I don’t believe I’m hiding any deep, dark secrets.” Liss managed a flippant tone of voice and selected the food line that looked marginally shorter.
The two women in front of them were engaged in a lively discussion that momentarily caught Liss’s attention. She recognized one of them as the conference toastmaster, Sandy Lynn Sechrest. The other had just proudly announced that she’d had her first mystery published in March. Then she proceeded to rattle off the names of every location where she’d done a book signing. They ranged from the Barnes & Noble in Augusta, Maine’s state capital, to the sidewalk in front of a local Rite Aid pharmacy managed by her sister-in-law.
“I’m doing that one again during the Apple-Pumpkin Festival this fall,” she added. “Signings are absolutely essential, don’t you think? I make a point of talking to the manager of every bookstore I come across. Can you believe it? Some of them are reluctant to schedule an event.”
“Perhaps they don’t think they’ll make enough profit,” Sandy Lynn suggested in a mild voice.
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