Scone Cold Dead (12 page)

“That's where the scones were baked?”

“Looks like it. Problem is, so far we haven't found a single fingerprint on the stove or pans, nor was there any trace of mushrooms. Everything was very thoroughly cleaned. We've taken other evidence from the cabin for further testing, but it's not likely to be much use unless we have something to match it to. Fiber or a hair could have come from the person who broke in or from a tourist who stayed there six months ago.”

This was a good man sitting across from her, Liss thought. He wanted justice for Victor and he was trying, within the rules he had to live by, to be open with her. He really did want—and value—her input. He was talking to her as a friend, an equal, and she felt compelled to respond in kind.

“Fiona said she talked to you this morning. Does she know about the break-in?”

He shook his head. “I stopped by to see her to ask if she had the victim's medical records. She's filling in for him and had already passed on personnel and financial records, so I figured she'd know where to find them. She did, but they're curiously incomplete. No mention of any recent visits to a doctor. Anyway, Fiona was heading out when I arrived and stayed only long enough to talk to me for a few minutes and hand me Victor's file. She left before the owner hailed me. I gather Fiona rented a car yesterday, right after she agreed to cancel tonight's show.”

“Fiona always has been superorganized.”

“I'm surprised so many people stayed at the cabins. They're kind of isolated out there.”

“Not really. Everyone has a cell phone and I had volunteer drivers lined up to take them anywhere the tour bus didn't. Of course, I didn't think they'd be there more than two nights.”

“Stewart Graham have a number for a driver?” Gordon asked.

“No. And I can't see him breaking into a cabin, using a kitchen, or cleaning up every trace of his presence, either. Knowing Stewart, he'd have left a beer bottle, complete with fingerprints, in the trash.”

“He has no alibi. He says he was in his room at the motel, having a couple of beers. There were empties in the wastepaper basket. The cleaning crew verified that. Can't prove when he drank them, though.”

A waitress interrupted them to ask if they wanted a refill on their coffee, enforcing a momentary lull in the conversation.

“We're all set, Monica,” Gordon told her.

“Something else I can get ya?” It was obvious she knew Gordon well. A saucy wink went with the question.

“Just the check.”

Looking disappointed but resigned, Monica produced their bill. After a few more flirtatious words with Gordon, she took her coffeepot on to the next booth, but she put a definite wiggle into her walk as she left them.

Gordon concentrated on finishing his coffee. Liss just stared at hers, wondering once again if she should tell Gordon about the quarrel between Sandy and Victor. Instead she asked him what he intended to do next.

“More interviews. We're still talking to the local people who attended the reception—those we know about, anyway. We're looking for a witness who may have seen something out of the ordinary that night.”

His words lifted her spirits. For the first time that day, she felt optimistic about the outcome of the investigation. “The murderer must have been behaving suspiciously. Sneaking into the kitchen. Bringing scones in from somewhere. Someone will have noticed something. I'm sure of it. We'll find Victor's killer.
Strathspey
will survive.”

Gordon's response to her sudden enthusiasm was a frown. He glanced at his watch, tossed a few bills on top of the check, and stood. “I've got to go.”

“Yes, to talk to Janice Eccles. I'll come with you.”

“No, you won't.”

“But she—”

One look at the stony expression on his face stopped Liss in midprotest. She felt as if someone had just tossed a dipper of cold water in her face. Straitlaced, by-the-book
Detective
Tandy was back and he clearly did not want help from an amateur.

“Isn't there anything I
can
do to help?” She heard the touch of asperity in her voice and knew he did, too, but he didn't even blink.

“Yes, you can go home and try to stay out of trouble.”

Chapter Seven

S
herri was almost at the end of her shift for the day when a woman walked into the small lobby outside the dispatch center. She seemed familiar, but it took Sherri a moment to identify her. Emily Townsend no longer looked sophisticated. Her hair was a tangled mess, she wore no makeup, and she was spooked by the sight of the security camera covering the entrance.

“May I help you?” Sherri asked through the speaker.

Emily started, then peered toward the bullet-resistant glass partition that separated them. She didn't appear to recognize Sherri. “I . . . I'm trying to find the detective. I . . . I don't remember his name.”

“Detective Tandy?” Sherri asked, knowing full well that it was.

Emily frowned. “I guess. Is he here?”

“Why don't you have a seat and I'll see if I can locate him?”

Emily perched on the edge of one of the uncomfortable plastic chairs that furnished the jail's “lobby” but she looked as if she might bolt at any moment.

Sherri punched in Tandy's pager number. He could be anywhere and Emily Townsend didn't look inclined to wait very long. She did, however, appear to be about to crack. Sherri's decision was easy to make.

Five minutes later, having gotten one of the other corrections officers on the shift to take over dispatch so she could leave work a bit early, Sherri was buzzed through two security doors and entered the lobby. “Miss Townsend?”

“How did you know my name? I didn't tell you my name!” She was on her feet and heading for the door before Sherri had a chance to explain.

Cursing under her breath, Sherri went in pursuit. She ignored the blast of cold air that hit her the moment she stepped out into the frigid March afternoon—she hadn't had time to put on the coat she carried folded over her arm—because Emily already had a good head start on her. The other woman was running full tilt across the parking lot.

Sherri dropped her coat and sprinted after her. She was in decent shape, but she was not a professional athlete. Emily Townsend was. Fortunately for Sherri, uneven paving dotted with icy spots was a far cry from the typical stage. Emily almost fell, twice, giving Sherri the opportunity to shorten the distance between them. When Emily lost her balance the third time, Sherri leapt, catching the other woman by the sleeve.

Emily turned, arms flailing, and they both went down, Sherri on top. Save for ample breasts, the woman was nothing but skin and bones, and her sharp cry told Sherri that the lack of padding had cost her.

“Hold still!” Sherri struggled to keep a grip on her squirming captive. Her knees throbbed from the impact of striking the ground.

“Let me go! Let me go! I haven't done anything!” One hand, fingers curled into claws, came straight toward Sherri's eyes.

“Then why did you run?” Twisting aside, Sherri managed to grab both of her opponent's thin wrists in one hand. She jerked them above the other woman's head.

Abruptly, Emily went still. She stared up at Sherri with a reproachful look. “You chased me.”

“I chased you because you ran. Sheesh! Don't you dare cry.”

But it was too late. First Emily's lips quivered. Then big sloppy tears ran down her face, making Sherri feel like the worst kind of bully. To make matters even more embarrassing, she belatedly remembered that they were performing for an audience.

Security cameras didn't just keep an eye on the lobby. They swept the parking lot at regular intervals. Sherri didn't need to look over her shoulder to know that the nearest one was currently pointed straight at her. Aimed, she realized with a sinking sensation in her stomach, directly at her backside.

The slap of boots on tarmac heralded the arrival of other officers. That they were there to “assist” didn't provide Sherri with much consolation. She was in for it now, and it would be a toss-up which part of the ordeal would be worse, explaining to the sheriff why she'd tackled a woman who probably hadn't done anything wrong, or putting up with the ragging of the coworkers who'd witnessed her making a fool of herself.

 

 

Liss arrived back in Moosetookalook in a rare temper. If she'd found Sandy and Zara alone at the house, she'd have unloaded on them, confessing her frustration with Gordon Tandy and sharing everything he'd confided to her, even the parts he'd asked her not to repeat.

They were not alone. Beth Hogencamp had come over as soon as the school bus dropped her off. She'd already had another dance lesson from Zara. Now she was seated on Liss's living room sofa, industriously brushing the cat and showing no inclination to leave.

Definitely getting over her shyness
, Liss thought.

“He really needed brushing, Liss,” Beth said in her most earnest voice. Her big brown eyes pleaded for her to be allowed to continue, to stay longer in the company of real professional dancers.

Liss wondered whether it was Sandy who was the object of her hero worship, or Zara. At Beth's age, she'd bet on the latter. Thank goodness Zara seemed to like kids and was patient with her. She'd be a great teacher if she and Sandy ever decided to go into business with his parents.

“How did it go?” Sandy asked.

“Tell you later.” Liss sent a pointed look in Beth's direction. “Anything new here?”

“Nada. It's a good thing Beth came over. Kept Zara from going stir-crazy.”

They watched Beth brush Lumpkin. Gobs of fur came away with each stroke—he was a Maine coon cat, a breed well known for its long, luxuriant coat. Beth paused to clean the brush and deposit the wad of hair she removed from it on top of others she'd dropped beside her on the sofa cushion.

“Good grief, Beth! You've got enough there to stuff a pillow!”

At Zara's words, Liss felt her face grow warm. She'd obviously been neglecting Lumpkin's grooming. She'd have to start brushing him more often. Then again, he liked it when she ran the hose of the vacuum cleaner over his fur. Maybe that would make less of a mess.

Lumpkin, meanwhile, had tired of behaving himself and had grabbed the brush in both front paws. Not surprisingly, it went directly into his mouth for an experimental chew.

“You're done,” Liss told the cat, rescuing the brush. “Thank you, Beth.”

Beth scrambled to her feet, then turned to collect the pile of fur, which she wadded up and stuck in the pocket of her jeans.

Liss started to comment but thought better of it. Beth was nine. At that age, the mind worked in mysterious ways.

When the girl had gone home, however, Liss looked to Zara for an explanation. “What do you suppose she wants with Lumpkin's fur? You don't think she's going to try casting a spell on him, do you?” Beth was a big Harry Potter fan.

Zara chuckled. “I suspect Beth is trying to collect enough to stuff a pillow. Now, tell us what you found out in Waycross Springs.”

Once they'd gotten comfortable, Liss in the Canadian rocker in the bay window and Sandy and Zara on the sofa, Liss complied, leaving nothing out. She no longer felt bound by any promises she'd made to Gordon Tandy, not after the way he'd behaved. He'd strung her along, letting her think she was part of his team, and then he'd shut her out completely.

“So that was that,” Liss told Sandy and Zara. “Don't call us. We'll call you. My short, illustrious career as a supersleuth sanctioned by the authorities seems to be over.”

“Just as well,” Sandy said. “We don't want you getting hurt on our account.”

Liss shot an exasperated look in his direction. She wasn't sure which was worse, Dan jealous of Sandy or Dan and Sandy ganging up to protect the little woman. She was certain Dan was the one who'd convinced Sandy that it was dangerous for her to get involved in a murder investigation.

It was a little early for a drink, but Liss excused herself to open the bottle of her favorite white wine that was chilling in the refrigerator. A box of dark chocolates with outrageously fattening cream centers would have been better, but she didn't have any in the house.

“Did Detective Tandy say anything about me?” Zara asked, following her into the kitchen.

“He didn't ask about anyone in the company except Stewart, and that was only because Stewart's animosity toward Victor was so obvious.”

Sandy joined them and began rummaging in the cabinets. “At least we know now where the scones came from, but I suppose anyone could have broken into that cabin.”

“Anyone who had the recipe, knew about the housekeeping cabins, and planned ahead to somehow arrange transportation out there. The timing would have been close. I suppose the next step will be for the police to ask everyone for alibis for the hours between reaching Fallstown and the start of the show.”

Sandy and Zara exchanged a glance. She spoke. “We were together.”

“Sort of,” he corrected her.

Liss didn't like the sound of that. “Meaning?”

She took the package of macaroni and cheese Sandy had found and foraged for a pot. She had hot dogs in the freezer and a bag of salad in the fridge. She wasn't up for preparing anything fancier. They'd have to count on the wine to make the meal more palatable.

“We had a couple of hours to kill.” Sandy winced at his inadvertent word choice, then continued. “We weren't scheduled to meet you until after the show, so we stayed with the bus until it dropped Ray, Paul, and Winona off at the theater. They didn't need our help setting up for the show, and it was too cold to stay on the bus, so we decided to explore the campus. We ended up at the college library. There's a reading room off the lobby. I went in there to see if there was anything interesting in the day's newspapers.”

“And I went off on my own.”

Zara pressed her fingers to her temples and closed her eyes, presumably to help her better recall how she'd passed the time. Liss filled a saucepan with water for the macaroni.

“I listened to music in the audiovisual center for a while. Then I read a magazine—an old copy of
People
—in the reference room. I didn't see Sandy again until we had to go to the theater and dress for the show.”

“Neither of us left the building,” Sandy said, “but I don't suppose there's any way to prove that. We didn't do anything to call attention to ourselves. The circulation desk is directly opposite the reading room, but the students working there would have no reason to remember if I was there the whole time or not.”

“Same for the girl working the desk in the reference room.” Zara frowned. “I think it was a girl. Maybe it was a long-haired boy. I'm afraid I wasn't paying much attention.”

“You could hardly be expected to know you'd need an alibi.” Liss was about to ask if they knew where any of the others had been, besides the crew, when she saw Sherri's small truck pull into her driveway. The fact that her friend was still wearing the uniform of a Carrabassett County deputy sheriff was not reassuring. Sherri almost always changed into civvies before she headed home. Besides, she should have gone off shift hours ago.

Liss was at the door and had it open before Sherri had a chance to knock. “What's wrong?”

“Nothing. It's good news. I think. Emily Townsend has turned up.”

Ten minutes later, Sherri had finished recounting the story of her “capture” of the fugitive. In spite of the seriousness of the situation, Liss was having trouble smothering a laugh.

“Go ahead,” Sherri told her. “Yuck it up. The guys at the jail got a major chuckle out of the whole thing.”

“Is Emily all right?” Zara asked. “Why was she behaving so oddly?”

“Well, that's the question, isn't it? And ‘oddly' is the right word. After running away like that, and in spite of the way I reacted, she decided I was the only one she could trust. Lucky me. I got to transport her to the hospital to be checked out. I wasn't allowed to sit in on her questioning when Gordon Tandy arrived to interview her, but I was with her until then and Emily was rambling the whole time.”

“Did she make any sense?” Liss asked. “Rambling” did not suggest it had been a particularly coherent monologue.

“Some of it did. Enough that I think I've pieced together what happened. From the questions the emergency room doctor asked her and a few other comments Emily made, I think she took some medication prescribed for Victor. Apparently, she thought the pills would calm her down. She was pretty shook-up by his death even before she knew it was murder. Whatever she took, it made her paranoid. She convinced herself that Victor's killer was going to come after her next.”

“That goes along with what Detective Tandy told me earlier today.” For Sherri's benefit, Liss repeated the sketchy facts she had about Victor's medical condition.

“Something that could be painful, huh? That must have been what the pills were for.”

Sherri didn't speculate further, but anyone who watched the news on television knew that powerful painkillers were popular on the black market. Liss preferred not to take anything stronger than aspirin herself, but it seemed logical to her that if pain pills could produce a high in some people, they might trigger a different reaction, such as paranoia, in others.

“So you have no idea what was wrong with Victor?” Zara asked.

“Not a clue.”

“I wonder why he didn't tell anyone he was sick.” Sandy, who had taken over the cooking, drained the macaroni and mixed in the milk, butter, and powdered cheese. Liss popped the hot dogs into the microwave. “I'm surprised no one suspected. If the diagnosis was really bad, that would certainly explain his behavior these last few months. I'd be moody and irritable, too.”