A View to a Kilt

Book 13: Liss MacCrimmon Mystery

by Kaitlyn Dunnett

Genres: Amateur Sleuth; Cozy Mystery; Female Sleuths

Synopsis

A series of blizzards have kept tourists away from Moosetookalook, Maine, and shoppers out of Liss MacCrimmon's Scottish Emporium. But as warmer weather brings promises of tartan sales and new faces, melting snow reveals cold-blooded murder . . .
 
Liss has suddenly found herself in charge of the March Madness Mud Season Sale, a town-wide celebration created to boost the local economy during the slushy weeks of early spring. With businesses ailing after a rough winter, the pressure is on to make this year's effort the can't-miss-event of the season. But before Liss can get her hands dirty, her husband makes a horrifying discovery. There's a dead man on their property, and he didn't die of natural causes . . .
 
Stunned by the murder mystery developing in her own backyard, Liss receives another shock. The victim is identified as Charlie MacCrimmon, an uncle believed to have died eleven years before Liss was born. No one has seen or heard from Charlie since he went off to fight in Vietnam. What secrets could he have been hiding for so many years, and who would want to kill a man long thought to be dead?
 
Enlisting the help of her family, Liss uncovers more questions than answers as she delves into her uncle's murky past. One thing is clear—before he met his end, Uncle Charlie was desperately trying to warn her about something sinister. And unless Liss can soon track down a maniacal criminal as elusive as the Loch Ness Monster, she just might be the next MacCrimmon to disappear . . .

Release date: January 28, 2020

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 236

Sample

Moosetookalook, Maine’s annual town meeting almost always took place on the second Saturday in March. The only exception in recent memory was the year the area was hit by a nor’easter, which closed down everything in the entire state for three days running.

This year, the fifty or so hardy souls in attendance, out of a population of just over a thousand, were among the ninety-three who’d voted the previous day on four uncontested races. In addition to two slots for three-year terms on the board of selectmen and two six-year memberships on the budget committee, there had also been an opening for a seat on the regional school board. Since no resident had submitted nomination papers, townspeople had filled that vacancy using write-in votes. Thanks to ballots cast by thirteen friends and family members, the retired schoolteacher Violet “Vi” MacCrimmon had been chosen to serve for the next year.

Vi’s daughter, Liss MacCrimmon Ruskin, was pleased and proud . . . and also relieved. The busier her mother was, the less time she’d have to meddle in Liss’s life.

Voting had been done at the town office, and although the municipal building lacked a large assembly room, town meetings in the past had always been held in the empty bay after the fire truck was parked on the street. Folding chairs had been provided and a propane heater had been fired up. This year, for the first time, they were instead gathered in the cafeteria at the elementary school. The seating was no more comfortable, but it was definitely warmer and less drafty.

The change was due to a campaign mounted by Liss’s mother. Vi MacCrimmon disliked being cold, which made it all the more inexplicable to her daughter that she had decided to move back to Maine from Arizona.

The large room with its raised platform at the front—the area where the teachers ate their lunch—had been repainted since Liss’s days as a student, but the long tables and the benches on both sides were the same. Liss was willing to swear the place still smelled faintly of fried bologna, boiled cabbage, and burnt pizza.

She wriggled around on the hard seat, trying to keep her nether regions from going numb. The meeting had already lasted an hour and a half, and those attending had only just voted to accept the eighteenth article in the forty-one-article town warrant. Deciding whether or not to spend $70,000 on the town’s insurance seemed a no-brainer to her. The expenditure funded the town’s employee health benefits, equipment protection, and workers’ compensation.

Truth be told, Liss was in favor of supporting all the budget items on the warrant. If passed, Moosetookalook’s budget for the coming fiscal year would be $665,769—an increase of about $64,000 over the one from the previous year. Each expense had been carefully studied and recommended for approval by the board of selectmen and the members of the budget committee. In theory, they knew best what was necessary to run the town and what was not, but it was a small miracle when any budget item passed without someone questioning the allocated amount. When motions were made to amend, there was always further debate.

Not all articles pertained to financial matters. A particularly acrimonious exchange broke out over Article Twenty-one, a proposed alteration in the town’s property management ordinance.

The moderator, Greg Holstein, who was also Moosetookalook’s fire chief, allowed several people to voice objections to the ordinance before recognizing Thea Campbell, the longest-serving member of the board of selectmen.

In common with more than half of those present, Thea was old enough to be collecting Social Security. Hitting seventy hadn’t slowed her down one bit, nor had it made her more tactful. Conservative to the core, she was dressed in what she considered “proper” attire for the occasion. In contrast to the jeans and sweaters favored by almost everyone else, Thea was decked out in a red power suit, which flattered her rather chunky build, and had added three-inch heels to compensate for her lack of height. From the look of it, her hair had been recently styled by someone far more skilled than Betsy Twining at the local Clip and Curl. It had also been artfully colored, so that the increasing number of silver strands might charitably be referred to as highlights.

“As a board,” Thea began, “we believe in this ordinance. It is not designed to be punitive and is, in fact, less rigid than the restrictions cited in state law. It was drafted after numerous complaints were fielded by town officials regarding certain pieces of property and their impact on the local aesthetic and property values.”

Sherri Campbell, seated next to Liss, shifted restlessly and fiddled with the collar of her uniform. Sherri might be Thea’s daughter-in-law, but Liss doubted this show of nerves had anything to do with the issue at hand. Her petite blond friend was also Moosetookalook’s chief of police. The item to fund her department was next on the agenda.

“There have already been two public meetings on this issue,” Thea continued. “Everyone agrees that the properties in question need to be cleaned up. All we’re doing is setting minimum standards.”

A bench scraped against the wooden floor as someone behind Liss stood up. She turned her head far enough to recognize Ernie Willett. After Sherri did likewise, she sank a little lower in her seat, as if she hoped to make herself invisible. Ernie Willett was Sherri’s father.

He had the appearance of a sour-tempered garden gnome—his face craggy and grizzled, his lips thin, and his eyes dark and beady. His disposition was cranky, his temper ran hot, and his stubbornness would rival that of any mule. This afternoon he was clearly itching for a fight.

He didn’t mince words. “Your minimum standards say that a resident of Moosetookalook can’t have more than two ‘uninspected, unregistered, or otherwise inoperative vehicles’ in his yard. That’s all well and good for you folks that live in the middle of town, but it shouldn’t apply to those of us on the outskirts of Moosetookalook. Am I going to be arrested just because I keep a few old clunkers around for spare car parts?”

His argument carried weight, since he owned and operated the only combination service station/convenience store in the town. Technically, his lot was an unlicensed junkyard, but he hid the worst of it behind a high fence, unlike the two village residents whose “lawn art” had sparked the drive to revise the ordinance. Broken-down cars and trucks, left to rust at the front of their houses and in their driveways, had created enough of an eyesore to outrage neighboring property owners. Neither of the offenders, Liss noted, had bothered to attend to defend themselves.

Thea fixed her daughter-in-law’s father with a cold stare. “We’ll issue fines on a case-by-case basis, not arbitrarily. Must I remind everyone that it has taken the planning board nearly two years to draft this ordinance? We believe it preserves flexibility for the code enforcement officer.”

One of her two fellow selectmen, Liss’s next-door neighbor John Farley, the youngest member of the board at a mere fifty-six, spoke up to support his colleague. “The ordinance isn’t perfect, but it represents the best efforts of the citizens involved in its creation. What you have to keep in mind is that if a resident is fined for a violation, he has recourse to the board of appeals.”

“Fines! Just another way to stick it to the little guy!”

“Oh, sit down, Ernie!” The shout was followed by a snigger. “You keep spouting off and we’ll be here all night.”

Turning in her chair, Liss identified Roger Mayfield, known to one and all as “Moose.” He sat beside his wife, Dolores. For once, he appeared to be stone-cold sober, but he looked bored out of his skull by the proceedings. Liss suspected Dolores had nagged him into accompanying her in case she needed the extra vote to approve funding for the town library. As librarian, she was responsible for keeping it open twenty hours a week.

Moose’s comments earned him a poke in the ribs from his wife. Two or three people laughed. One muttered, “Got that right.”

When the vote was taken, the ordinance passed by a vote of thirty-five to fourteen.

The next article, funding to allow the police department to operate at the same level for the next fiscal year, was approved with little debate. So was the allocation of funds for the public library. After a plea from the head of the local food bank, explaining that the program had been asked for and had given assistance to an additional forty Moosetookalook households during the previous year, providing a total of 10,200 meals, residents voted to add another $200 to the $2,700 the warrant recommended.

“Now we come to the matter of Merveilleuse International,” the moderator announced.

Liss glanced at the warrant and skimmed the item. The wording was vague, but had something to do with giving the board of selectmen permission to grant a bottling company the rights to tap into the local aquifer. The income this deal was projected to generate for the town, even without figuring in additional job opportunities for local people, was impressive. A ripple of excitement ran through the small crowd as Thea once again took the podium.

“The natural springs found within the boundaries of the town of Moosetookalook have never garnered the attention, some might even say fame, of those located at Poland Spring. However, it appears there is now enough of a market for springwater that Merveilleuse International, a well-respected conglomerate, is interested in harvesting this natural resource. An impact study has already been done and there appears to be no difficulty getting the necessary permits. I can assure you that we will not act without the approval of the Maine Drinking Water Program, the Public Utilities Commission, the Maine Department of Environmental Protection, and the Land Use Planning Commission. What this item on the town warrant asks for is authorization for the board to move forward at the appropriate time.”

“Will there be public hearings before this thing gets going?” Liss’s aunt Margaret asked the question from her seat a few rows behind Liss and Sherri. “I’d like an opportunity to pose a few questions to the people who will actually be in charge of the operation.”

Like Thea, Margaret MacCrimmon Boyd was a force to be reckoned with in Moosetookalook. She’d followed up a career spent running Moosetookalook Scottish Emporium, the MacCrimmon family business she’d surrendered to Liss a few years back, with an extremely successful stint as events coordinator at The Spruces, Moosetookalook’s elegant grand hotel. Since her retirement from that job, she’d become active in a host of clubs and service organizations.

“Naturally, we aim for transparency. We’re close to the go-ahead stage. All we need from you good people today,” Thea said again, “is authorization for the board to proceed to the next step.”

As Liss listened to the lively exchange that ensued, she realized that Thea never made clear exactly what that next step entailed. Some residents, the ones who never liked any change, good or bad, argued against the article on general principles. Others were concerned that their wells might dry up if too much water was extracted. Thea’s detailed recitation of rainfall and groundwater statistics seemed to put those fears to rest.

Although Liss thought, as her aunt did, that it would be useful to talk to representatives from the company, face-to-face, she was ambivalent about the issue. Not so Stu Burroughs, who owned Stu’s Ski Shop. The rotund little man popped up out of his seat to object to handing over any rights to people “from away.”

“In that case,” Thea said, “you’ll be pleased to hear that Merveilleuse International has local roots. Jeremiah Forestall, the CEO, was born in Bangor and raised in Skowhegan. Although he now resides in Switzerland, where his business is based, he still spends summers at his cottage in Bar Harbor.”

“Am I supposed to be impressed?” Still as bristly as his salt-and-pepper beard, which, together with his build, had earned him the job of playing Santa Claus at town events, Stu subsided, but not without a muttered comment about “skunk hunters.”

Liss had to smile at the old-timers’ name for tourists. Since both her business and Stu’s depended upon sales to out-of-town shoppers, she took his grumbling with a grain of salt.

The article was approved by a vote of thirty-three to twelve. The remaining attendees abstained.

Liss found the next item far more interesting. It concerned a change to the town’s zoning ordinance, one prompted by the recent legalization of recreational use of marijuana in the state of Maine. Everyone agreed that pot shouldn’t be sold within five hundred feet of schools, churches, or libraries, but the ban on on-site consumption at “Adult Business Establishments” sparked debate. Then old Alex Permutter, who was eighty-five if he was a day, wanted assurance that his access to a cream that contained marijuana wouldn’t be affected by the changes.

“That liniment is the only thing that helps the arthritis in my neck,” he announced. “I’m not about to give it up.”

There was a murmur of assent from the crowd. When a number of others in the geriatric set began to compare notes on prescriptions, the moderator was obliged to call for quiet. With Maine having the oldest population in the nation, its physicians had been quick to take advantage of an earlier change in state law, one that had legalized medical marijuana.

At length, they came to Article Forty, the one for which Liss had closed the Emporium on a Saturday afternoon. At the invitation of the moderator, she stood up to speak.

“As you know, we’re coming up on our annual March Madness Mud Season Sale. In the past it has brought good publicity and paying customers to Moosetookalook’s business district. This year’s event is three weeks away, and everything is progressing smoothly.”

Surreptitiously, she crossed her fingers. Their good fortune might or might not continue. It was always a risk to schedule something at the end of March in Maine. The threat of heavy snow was usually past—hence the name “mud season”—but not always. If tourists couldn’t get to Moosetookalook, the entire exercise would be a dismal failure.

“We are requesting funds for next year’s festivities,” she continued, and quickly outlined the items she hoped the town would agree to pay for. Chief among them was overtime for Sherri’s police officers.

Liss had come prepared to answer questions. She was braced for curmudgeonly comments and the suggestion that the businesses located around the town square pay their own expenses. To her surprise and pleasure, no one raised any objections. The item was approved without debate.

“There now,” Margaret said afterward as she engulfed her niece in a congratulatory hug. “Didn’t I tell you there’d be no problem?”

“Yes, you did,” Liss said, “but I still wish you were going to be around for the run-up to this year’s sale. I could use the benefit of your experience.”

Those weren’t just empty words. Although Liss had been in charge of this and other municipal events in the past, she’d always relied heavily on her aunt’s years of experience. This time around, Margaret was literally flying the coop. On Monday, she’d be leaving Maine for Ireland, off on a two-week jaunt with her genealogy club.

Since the sidewalks, where there were sidewalks, were sloppy, Liss had driven the short distance from her house to the school, picking her aunt up on the way. Margaret lived on the Pine Street side of Moosetookalook’s town square, in the apartment above Moosetookalook Scottish Emporium. To get home from there, Liss had only to pass Stu’s Ski Shop on her right and take the first left.

The house she shared with her husband was the middle building of three on the block of Birch Street that faced the town square. The one beyond hers, on the corner of Birch and Main Street, belonged to John Farley, selectman and accountant. He and his wife were neighbors, but not close friends of Liss’s. In contrast, the couple living next door to Liss and Dan, on the other side, were old pals from Liss’s professional Scottish dancing days. Sandy and Zara Kalishnakof operated Dance Central on the first floor and lived in the apartment above with their two children. Since Saturday was their busiest day, with classes in ballet, tap, and ballroom dance scheduled from nine until five for students who couldn’t get to a lesson during the workweek, neither had attended the town meeting. As Liss drove past, she thought she heard the faint strains of a waltz.

She parked in the garage and exited through its rear door. As she made her way to the back stoop, she glanced toward the old carriage house Dan had turned into a shop for his woodworking business. The lights were still on, which meant he hadn’t yet finished for the day. He had a huge backlog of orders for the custom-made jigsaw-puzzle tables he created. Dozens had come in right before Christmas, when last-minute shoppers had gone searching online for unique gifts. Despite the price tag, and even though customers were told it might be April before they received the finished product, since each table took a week to produce, there always seemed to be buyers waiting in the wings.

The flagstone path had recently been shoveled, but Liss still had to watch her footing. The ragged piles of snow on both sides had melted during the day, sending rivulets of dirty water onto the walkway. These refroze and thawed again with every shift in the weather. According to the thermometer in her car, the temperature had hovered right around thirty-two degrees all day. She felt certain the sun was somewhere up in the bleak sky overhead, but at the moment it was well hidden behind ominous-looking clouds.

As Liss unlocked the back door, she gave thought to whether she’d missed any sales by closing Moosetookalook Scottish Emporium. Her hours tended to be flexible, since the bulk of her profit came from online and mail orders. Lately, it seemed, volunteering to help with various community efforts took up more and more of her time. She kept telling herself she needed to learn how to say no. This year’s March Madness Mud Season Sale was a case in point. She’d never intended to take charge, but here she was, responsible for herding the other shopkeepers, meeting deadlines, and attending to the million-and-one tiny details no one remembered until the last minute.

This winter had already presented more of a challenge to local businesses than most. An unusually long warm spell in January had kept skiers and snowmobilers from flocking to Carrabassett County the way they usually did. The rest of the season had been plagued by one blizzard after another. Heavy snowfall should have been good for business, but the weather had been so bad that flights were grounded and roads closed. Unable to reach their destination, tourists ended up canceling plans to spend time in western Maine. Even Five Mountains, a ski area just north of Moosetookalook, was rumored to be hurting. Liss had heard they were in financial difficulty. Privately, she thought that might be as much due to poor management as to uncooperative weather, but if the resort closed, it would be bad for the entire county.

Seconds after she stepped into the kitchen and closed the door behind her, she was greeted by a welcoming chirp. A small black cat appeared, seemingly out of nowhere, to wind herself around Liss’s ankles.

“Hello to you, too, Glenora.”

As she bent down to scratch behind her pet’s ears, Liss caught herself scanning the room for Lumpkin. Then she remembered, and her heart gave a painful stutter. The big yellow Maine Coon cat was no longer with them.

Liss cuddled the smaller feline in her arms, sighing as a wave of sadness washed over her. She missed the old boy something awful. He’d shared her life for more than ten years, ever since the day she’d inherited him from the woman who’d also left her the building that now housed Carrabassett County Wood Crafts. She reminded herself that Lumpkin had enjoyed a good, long, mostly healthy life. He’d reached the advanced age of eighteen before developing an inoperable tumor. Sadly, logic didn’t mitigate her sense of loss. There was an empty space in her life. Although Lumpkin had been gone since late January, she still looked for him first thing every morning, even before she got out of bed, and still expected him to be waiting for her when she got home from work.

She wondered if Glenora felt the same way she did. It must seem strange to her to be an only cat. She’d been Lumpkin’s sidekick ever since Liss first brought her home as a kitten.

“Poor baby,” she crooned.

At once, Glenora began to purr, forcing Liss to admit the truth. She felt sorrier for herself than she did for Lumpkin’s adopted sister. He had not been the easiest cat to live with, but his quirks had given him a distinct personality. There would never be another like him.

The sound of Dan’s cheerful whistling snapped her out of her pity party. She wiped away a stray tear and shifted Glenora to one arm so she could open the door for her husband. She couldn’t help but feel better when she caught sight of his smile.

Liss hadn’t married Dan Ruskin for his looks, but she’d always found his sand-colored hair and molasses-brown eyes attractive. For a man of nearly forty, he was in excellent physical condition. Turning out custom-made jigsaw-puzzle tables for a living meant he got less exercise than when he had worked full-time at Ruskin Construction. He might have put on a little extra weight around the middle, but he was a long way from running to fat. Even at a glance, he gave the impression of strength and. . .