A Scone of Contention

Book 11: A Key West Food Critic Mystery

by Lucy Burdette

Genres: Amateur Sleuth; Culinary Cozy Mysteries; Female Sleuths

Synopsis

Key Zest food critic Hayley Snow and her groom, police detective Nathan Bransford, chose Scotland for their long-delayed honeymoon, hoping to sightsee and enjoy some prize-winning scones. But their romantic duo swells to a crowd when they're joined by Nathan's family as well as octogenarian Miss Gloria. Nathan's sister Vera takes the women on a whirlwind tour of some of Scotland's iconic mystic places as research for a looming book project. But the trip takes a deadly tartan turn when a dinner party guest falls ill and claims she was poisoned. And then the group watches in horror as a mysterious tourist tumbles to his death from the famous Falkirk Wheel, high above the Forth & Clyde canal. Vera and her friends deny knowing the dead man, but after observing their reactions to the fall, Hayley is not convinced. With one person dead, a second possibly poisoned, and the tension among Vera's friends as thick as farmhouse cheese, Hayley fears her long-awaited honeymoon might end with another murder. Far away from home and surrounded by unfamiliar faces, eccentric characters, and a forbiddingly gorgeous setting, Hayley must call on all her savvy to keep a killer from striking again and then escaping Scot free.

Release date: August 10, 2021

Publisher: Crooked Lane Books

Print pages: 336

Sample

Chapter One

Whoever said cooking should be entered into with abandon or not at all had it wrong. Going into it when you have no hope is sometimes just what you need to get to a better place. Long before there were antidepressants, there was stew.

—Regina Schrambling, “When the Path to Serenity Wends Past the Stove,” The New York Times, September 19, 2001

The phone rang, and I felt a shiver of worry as my guy’s name flashed on the screen: Nathan Bransford. A ghost walking on your grave—that’s how my grandmother would have described the shiver. I tried to shrug that off as an old wives’ tale, but … My new husband, Nathan, was a detective with the Key West Police Department and utterly serious about fending off disruptions to his work. Texts were tolerated. Calls not so much. And that meant he never called without an utterly serious reason.

“Hi, sweetheart,” I said. “What’s up?” I couldn’t help worrying about him, always. Considering that we had reservations to fly to Scotland tomorrow, where we’d be staying with his sister and her husband, now I was also concerned about a police emergency interfering with our long-delayed honeymoon trip. But I was learning the rules of married life, one of them being don’t instantly show him that you’re worried because that makes him feel weak or something even worse. And definitely don’t show that you’re worried that he’s worried.

He cleared his throat and his voice came over the line a little more rumbly than usual. “I heard from my brother-in-law today while at work. Honestly, my sister sounds a bit”—there was a pause—“unhinged, is the only way to describe it.” He was again quiet for a minute, and I could hear him cracking his knuckles, echoing Evinrude the cat, who was crunching on the dog’s kibbles. “To make things worse, he insists that I play golf. In fact, he’s already made three reservations. At one of the fanciest courses in the world, where duffers and hackers like me don’t belong. I’ll be in the deep end, way over my head. Plus, a round of golf lasts a lifetime, and that will cut into my time with you.”

Nathan had grown up in a family where golf was a given. As part of his teenage rebellion, he’d dropped it cold as soon as he left home for college. “It’ll come back to you, like falling off a horse. Oops, sorry—mixing my metaphors. Don’t worry about me—I know I’ll love your sister. How bad could she be if her husband’s planning all that golf? And besides, Miss Gloria makes everything a party.” I paused. “Sounds like you’re getting cold feet about the trip,” I said, keeping my voice light.

“No cold feet, but this sure isn’t turning into much of a honeymoon.”

I snickered. “We gave that up when we asked Miss Gloria to join us. And she’s going to make the trip so much richer. She’s so excited—she’s researching her family tree on Ancestry and she’s made a little map marking where all her relatives might be buried.”

We were all headed to Scotland, a delayed honeymoon for Nathan and me, and the first trip abroad since her husband’s death for Miss Gloria. Nathan had offered to take me anywhere I wanted to go. I chose Scotland because of Outlander and Shetland, natch, and because I wanted to meet his mysterious sister, whom I’d only recently learned about. When I’d broken the news to Miss Gloria, my fellow fanatic Outlander watcher, she’d said mournfully, “Scotland was the next trip Frank and I were going to take. And then—poof—he was gone. Dead of a heart attack and not traveling anywhere but to the morgue. I’m so happy for you, Hayley,” she added. She really meant that, but she had a shimmer of tears in her eyes.

Later that night, Nathan suggested that we should invite her along. I was shocked. “It’s our honeymoon,” I reminded him. I would have loved to have her travel with us, but I was afraid my new husband would regret it once we were on the road. Traveling with an old lady might be a challenge. Not that anyone who knew her would describe Miss Gloria as old. Some days she showed more zip than me—and I was fifty-something years younger. And if she did happen to droop, the tiniest catnap brought her roaring back to life.

“We’re already spending most of the week with my sister,” he said. “Miss G would only be an improvement.”

On the phone, Nathan heaved a big sigh. “Now the plot’s gotten thicker. My mother’s coming.”

I almost choked on the swallow of water I’d just taken. I’d gotten to know Nathan’s mom right before New Year’s. We’d survived a harrowing situation that left us filled with respect for one another. However, she was tall, formal, and super-accomplished, and she still scared the pants off me.

“She’s worried about my sister too,” Nathan continued, “but she hasn’t seen her in a couple of years, so she figured our visit would be an easy way to work herself into the mix. I assured her that you wouldn’t mind.” I could hear him taking a big breath. “I’m sorry.”

“We’ll figure it out,” I said briskly. “I’m sure it will be fine. I’ve got to run. I’ve got scones in the oven and only the barest bones of an article on the computer screen.”

I’d wheedled a week of vacation out of my bosses at Key Zest magazine but then felt guilty about dropping the ball and offered to write a special section on Scottish food and music for the next issue—Hayley Snow, traveling correspondent. In addition to the article I was committed to send by tomorrow—a roundup of restaurateurs’ opinions about the Mall on Duval Street, I’d promised a couple of scone recipes. I’ve always been and probably always will be an overachiever, once I get my compass aimed at the right point. And my bosses weren’t going to turn me down, even if it was my so-called honeymoon.

The Mall on Duval had been a brainstorm from our newish mayor. It involved closing several blocks of the busiest strip in Key West to car and truck traffic on weekend evenings, in order to increase foot traffic and attract locals as well as visitors. The jury was definitely out on whether it was a raging success or the worst mistake since the harbor dredging that opened the gates to the influx of giant cruise ships.

I got up from my lounge chair on the teak deck and walked into our new houseboat, our home. Nathan and I had been living here two weeks and I still had to pinch myself to believe it was real. Though we’d spent months pouring over plans and many more months waiting for workers and materials to show up, the outcome was, in a word, stunning—without a whiff of flashy.

Our builder, Chris, had managed to secure Dade county pine lumber from a demolition project that now found a new life as my kitchen counters and drawers. He’d also managed to find Dave Combs, an amazing contractor and woodworker, who helped to execute our dream to polished reality. At the deep end of the counter, he had built shelves where I lined up my pottery containers holding baking supplies; and above that, vertical slats for my prettiest plates; and a little higher, a glass-fronted cabinet for the flowered blue china mugs and teapot that had been handed down from my grandmother’s kitchen. There was a separate shelf for my cookbooks, and a gas stove on which every burner worked without coaxing or danger of explosion, and even a special cabinet that exactly fit the mammoth food processor that my mother-in-law had given us as a wedding present. From a wrought iron rack on the wall and ceiling over the stove hung an assortment of pots and pans, whisks, cheese grater boxes, and the other tools of my trade.

Though I wrote food criticism for a living, I lived for feeding my family and friends. The new kitchen made that activity almost purely pleasurable. There were, of course, trade-offs that came automatically with living on a houseboat—neighbors were close by, and the water all around us amplified every sound. That meant we shared our neighbors’ music, no matter the genre. And we heard every woof and meow from every furry resident. And space was at a premium. That meant that our bed, three steps up from the double oven at the end of the kitchen, was built into the wall of the bedroom, with reasonable walk-in space only on his side, and a smaller mattress than a well-muscled man might prefer. As newlyweds, we did not find this close proximity to be a drawback. And we loved waking up in the morning and looking out on our aqua-blue watery world. On nice days, we opened the sliding doors so the whole world became part of our bedroom.

We had no room for houseguests aside from a berth on the living room couch, but since the people I loved most also lived on this island, I could easily survive with that restriction. I had a small built-in desk in the living area, and pale green walls that set off the rich woodwork and matched the color of the sea on a stormy day, and a special slot for Evinrude’s litter box, and room for a bed for Nathan’s dog, Ziggy, too. I couldn’t believe that I lived here, married to a sweet and sexy hunk of a guy, with Miss Gloria, one of my best friends, next door, and my old college roommate and dear friend, Connie, right up the dock.

I heard the sound of a cowbell ringing, the system we had set up to alert me that Miss Gloria was out on her deck and available for conversation. She insisted I should feel free to ignore the call, but so far I had not failed to respond. It wasn’t an easy transition for either of us, my moving out along with two members of our furry menagerie. Easy access with the toll of a bell made the change go more smoothly and feel less draconian.

I poked my head out the door and called over.

“Are you ready for a tea and scone break? I have some banana date scones coming out of the oven in five minutes.”

“Are you kidding?” she asked. “I’ll set the table. Bring the guys with you.”

She didn’t need to mention that, as both—Evinrude, my cat, and Ziggy the dog—had already gotten acclimated to the sound of the bell. Bell equals treats plus fun with old friends.

I pulled the fragrant scones out of the oven, the air now scented with the aromas of pastries browned just right plus the richness of bananas and a pile of butter. I transferred three of them to a yellow gingham plate, another wedding present, this time from Connie. I added the butter dish and a little bowl of freshly whipped cream and another of raspberry jam to the tray. Then I poured hot water into the blue flowered teapot and covered it with a tea cozy in the shape of a sheep that had been a gift from Nathan’s sister. Following my gray tiger and Nathan’s exuberant min pin, I started over to Miss Gloria’s place, navigating the gap between the deck and the sloshing bight with care. Next time I should remember to heat the water in her kitchen.

Miss Gloria’s two cats, handsome black Sparky, and adorable and mischievous orange tiger T-Bone, were waiting on her deck. She snatched the orange kitten up so he wouldn’t wind between my legs and trip me.

“Are you working?” she asked. “I hate to bother you when you have so much—”

“You never bother me,” I said patiently. “Remember what we agreed on after Nathan bought the boat?” I settled the tray on the table in between the two lounge chairs and gestured to the place next door.

“Friends and family first,” she said, her eyes twinkling. “Your mother and I taught you well, didn’t we?”

I’d spent a good part of the last few years here on this deck, talking with my friend and absorbing the life rhythms of Houseboat Row. “The recipe called for banana nut, but I changed out the nuts for dates,” I said. “There’s a ton of Irish butter already in the mixture, but I thought we might need a little melted butter on top too.” I split open one of the scones, watching the steam drift up, and slathered it with Kerrygold butter. We each grabbed a half, doused it in whipped cream and jam, and tucked in.

“Heavenly. Maple syrup?” she asked, quirking her white eyebrows into peaks.

“Your palate is getting so sophisticated,” I said with a big smile. “What else is up this morning?” I removed the sheep cozy, poured tea into each cup, and stirred in a tablespoon of honey. This was mango honey, with a hint of ripe fruit, that I doubted you could get anywhere outside of the Florida Keys. And it was the second week of June, ushering in the hot and sticky summer season, not hot tea weather at all. But both of us had gotten so excited about the impending trip that we couldn’t let a day go by without practicing taking a proper Scottish tea.

“Two things,” she said. “I want to go over my packing one more time. And I need you to remind me how to get into my Ancestry account. I fell asleep last night while I was looking at my family tree, and Sparky walked on the keyboard, and now I can’t remember how to get back there.”

“Easy yes on both,” I said, popping the last of the sweet and buttery scone into my mouth. I cut the third confection in half and buttered that too. As we ate, I described the phone call with Nathan. “He’s worried that his sister is flipping out,” I said.

“What are the symptoms?” she asked, stroking Evinrude, who had pushed onto her lap and was eying the bowl of whipped cream.

I reviewed the conversation in my head, coming up with not much detail. “I didn’t even ask. He was so busy telling me that his mother’s joining the trip, that question never even came to my mind. I’ll find out more tonight.”

“Helen is coming too? This doesn’t sound like much of a honeymoon. I could bail out—maybe your mother should be going instead of me, since Nathan’s mother will be there.”

I cut her off before she could work herself into a lather. “Don’t be silly—she’s too busy to go on a trip right now. And we love that you’re coming. We wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Forty-five minutes later, we’d polished off every crumb of our tea and gone through everything in Miss Gloria’s suitcase, which she had laid out on the bed in my former bedroom. I wondered how it was possible to feel so thrilled with my new home and new husband and yet sad about leaving this cozy little space. Evinrude, who had followed us in, circled around several times on the pillow, appearing puzzled, then curled up for a snooze while we inspected the suitcase.

I advised Miss Gloria to remove the shorts and bathing suit and add another sweater and a raincoat. Early June in Scotland was rumored to be both chilly and wet. And being petite and thin, she tended to feel cold in even the warmest weather. And as she hadn’t gone swimming in Key West for the past decade—too nippy for her tastes—I doubted she’d be paddling about in the cold lochs of Scotland.

“Besides, they do have clothing stores in Scotland, I am told,” I said with a wink. “We can buy anything we’ve forgotten.” Then we went to her computer, where I restored her access to her family tree with a few quick strokes of the keyboard and watched two videos of Scottish bagpipers, admiring their music and their swinging kilts and well-muscled calves.

“Thanks so much,” she said, hugging me warmly. “Are you going downtown this afternoon?”

“Yes, I need to spend at least an hour wandering Duval Street and interviewing a few of the restaurant owners and diners. Somehow I have to get this article finished before we leave.”

“Would you mind running me over to Sunset? I feel like I need to touch base with Lorenzo before we go to your mother’s for supper.”

Lorenzo was our Tarot card-reading friend who set up every night at Mallory Square to advise visiting tourists about their lives. Some people dismissed him as a fruitcake, but I knew better. He had a deep spiritual connection with the universe around him. And he understood the unconscious motivations of the world and the people he met better than anyone I’d ever known, with my psychologist friend Eric Altman running a close second.

We agreed that Miss Gloria could spend the time while I was interviewing people having a little tipple of wine at happy hour, and then we would both buzz over on my scooter to talk with Lorenzo. And after that, run to my mother and Sam’s place for a pre-trip going away dinner.

We clipped on our helmets, Miss Gloria grabbed my waist, and I fired up my scooter and pulled out onto Palm Avenue. The traffic was light, a welcome change from the hordes that flooded Key West in the high season from December through March. I enjoyed all the seasons of our island but a break from the partying crowds was welcome. I took White Street to Southard, and parked my bike in the assigned area at the corner of this one-way road, which would leave us very near to the blocks designated as a pedestrian mall.

Each week, in the local papers, I’d read articles assessing the effects of this pedestrian mall project. The restaurants along these blocks were thrilled with the opportunity to expand their space to outdoor seating right on the street. Others, retail places without that same option, insisted that their sales were dropping. And restaurants outside the three-block mall often complained that they weren’t allowed the same outdoor open seating, and suggested that their sales were being siphoned off by the lucky few. The dispute appeared to be coming to a head soon.

I settled Miss Gloria on the couch outside the art gallery Duval Destiny and brought her a tiny glass of complimentary chardonnay. She had not an inch of room for new art on her walls, and these psychedelic roosters and orgasmic naked women certainly wouldn’t be her style even if she did, but the owners didn’t seem to mind her occasional appearance. To my mind, she was an asset, as she never let a tourist pass by without chitchatting with them about supporting local businesses and artists.

As I walked closer to the Italian restaurant where I planned to start my research by questioning my waiter acquaintance Cheech (so nicknamed for his spacy appearance), I heard a loud noise—the crack of a gun?—and then a panicked voice yelled, “He’s got a gun! Help! A gun!” Then all around me people began shouting and crying and running and pushing—both ways, toward the noise and away from it.

I froze for a moment, with my heart pounding. The spate of mass shootings in the news had us all in terror that we would experience this kind of event firsthand. No matter where you were headed or what the event might be, the bad guys could find you. Churches, movie theaters, schools, shopping centers—nothing was sacred. Nothing was safe. Which definitely put a damper on the Key West party mood.

Nathan had insisted on drilling the entire family on how to behave in the case of an active shooter: First, you should look for the exits when you arrive at any destination.

Second, if you are caught in an incident, evacuate and run if at all possible. If escape is not possible, drop, roll, hide, and call it in.