Murder at a Scottish Social

Book 3: Scottish Shire Mystery

by Traci Hall

Genres: Craft & Hobby Cozy Mysteries; International Crime & Mystery; Culinary Cozy Mysteries

Synopsis

Sweater shop owner Paislee Shaw puts the yarn in Nairn, but a killer has put poison in some Scottish shortbread cookies . . .



Opening her shop Cashmere Crush and making a new home for herself, her son Brody, Gramps, and their black Scottish terrier Wallace in the beautiful Scottish village of Nairn, is a dream come true. So Paislee is happy to give back by donating a luxurious cashmere sweater for an auction to raise money for the Nairn Food Bank. She's less happy to make the acquaintance of a clique of competitive moms at the charity event, who treat a baking contest like it's life or death. It turns out to be the latter for queen bee Kirsten Buchanan when a peanut-laced shortbread cookie triggers her fatal nut allergy.



Who would poison Kirsten? How about half the town? But when Paislee's pal Blaise is suspected, the sweater-selling sleuth leaps into action to unravel the mystery. Along with gruff but handsome DI Mack Zeffer, she has to sort through a batch of suspects without becoming this cookie-cutter killer's next target . . .

Release date: January 25, 2022

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 304

Sample

Nairn, Scotland

Saturday morning Paislee Shaw left Cashmere Crush, her sweater and yarn shop, in the wrinkled but capable hands of her grandfather, Angus.

“And dinnae forget tae bring back snacks—the larder is empty, lass.” Grandpa patted his flat stomach as he watched her pack another shawl into the box for the Nairn Food Bank fund-raiser.

By larder, he meant her bin of crackers, crisps, and sweets in the shop that he tended to pilfer like a silver-bearded mouse.

“If you’re hungry, tape the sign on the door and get something healthy tae eat besides junk food—a new Indian place just opened behind us.” She’d noticed an increasing stream of empty biscuit packets in the trash at home as well. “A vegetable curry would do ye good.”

She balanced her donation of a girl’s cashmere sweater set in light blue on top of the other knitted items for the table at the Social Club and Art Centre.

Grandpa made no promises about fresh veg as he eyed the box. “Givin’ away the merchandise is no way tae make a profit,” he advised, sucking at his teeth. Though seventy-five he still had them all. He kept his silver-gray hair combed back from his forehead and his beard trimmed. Glasses slid down his long nose.

“This will raise money tae feed our neighbors. A local cause.” Paislee braced herself for another round of Grandpa’s opinions on getting something for nothing.

“Keepin’ our own bellies full is verra local.” He thumped his again to make his point.

“Have you never gone hungry?” He’d spent two weeks in the woods and she figured he’d have a wee bit more empathy toward the comforts of a stocked pantry.

“Naw.” Grandpa lifted his hands. “Because I know how tae fish. Mibbe instead of soup, they should offer fishing poles.”

“Och, I don’t want tae argue. I’m donating the sweater, and doing my part for our community. It won’t affect your paycheck.” This wasn’t the first time she’d noted the prickly combination of Scots pride mixed with age.

“Let me get the door for ye.” He opened it wide and half-bowed.

She headed out the back to where her Juke was parked in the alley. “Ta.”

Paislee took a deep breath of the warm morning air. Mid-May was pure magic in Nairn, with fine aqua-blue skies. The sun didn’t set until after nine and was part of the reason tourists flocked to their seaside town for the summer.

“What time will ye return?” Grandpa stood in the threshold of the back door on the stoop, arms crossed loosely at his waist.

She shuffled down the four cement stairs, opened the hatch with one hand, and set her items inside before coming round to the driver’s door. Paislee shrugged up at him. “Half past six at the latest.” The highly advertised event was ten to five both days of the weekend, but being a vendor meant setting up and breaking down. “I’ll bring ye back something chocolate.”

He gave her a thumbs-up and ducked into the shop.

She pulled out to the street and drove toward Silverstein Real Estate Agency to pick up her best friend, Lydia Barron. They were going to share a vending table with Blaise O’Connor, who had recently moved to Nairn with her golf pro husband, Shep, and daughter, Suzannah.

Blaise fit right in at Paislee’s Thursday night Knit and Sips where her crafters got together to knit and gossip. She was a step beyond beginner in her knitting, but did it to relax.

Her mobile rang and Paislee answered via Bluetooth. “Hello!”

“It’s Blaise.” Panic laced her voice. “Please tell me ye’re on your way.”

“I am. I thought you wanted us there at ten?” It was just nine thirty. Paislee wasn’t even close to late for once.

“I do—you’re fine. I’m a complete disaster.” Blaise’s exhale ruffled through the phone line. “What was I thinking, agreeing tae enter a baked sweets contest? I should’ve just handed over a couple thousand pounds tae the Buchanans and been done with it.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Kirsten is oot for bluid. My bluid.” Blaise’s tone lowered. “She tried tae hide our table in the corner by the loo, can ye believe it? I’ve talked tae the person running the show, Anders Campbell, and it’ll be sorted any second, or I’ll move it meself.”

Blaise had kept them in stitches during the Knit and Sips as she joked about the competitive “ladies who lunch” from the golfing social circle. The Queen Bee of all the wives was Kirsten Buchanan. She ran everything from the Golf Charity to the Parent Council at Highland Academy where Blaise’s daughter was enrolled.

The horror stories of ridiculous competitions, from whose child had the highest marks, which mum made the best biscuit, to whose husband earned the most money, made Paislee very glad that Fordythe Primary wasn’t like that, or if it was, that she’d been too busy working to notice any cliques.

“Count tae three,” Paislee advised. “Take a deep breath. We’ll be there soon. Can we bring you anything? Scotch for your tea?”

“That wouldnae go over well, but it sure is tempting. I’m no Christina Baird.”

“Who?”

“I’ll explain later. Here comes Anders—hurry, before I lose me temper!” Blaise hung up without a proper goodbye.

Paislee parked before the Silverstein Real Estate Agency and Lydia strode out, cherry-red head high. Her bestie changed her look every six weeks or so as the mood struck. The super-short style on one side was beginning to grow out in a wave with a swoop of bang over one gray eye. Lydia’s impeccable makeup was something Paislee admired but would never dare attempt.

Paislee hopped out to help Lydia as she juggled paper cups, her large tote, and a shiny black box in one arm. She rescued the coffee, which smelled like mocha, and nodded at the box. “Morning—what’s this?”

“Newest model gaming laptop. Dell Alienware Area-51m.”

“What happened tae the trip for two tae Paris you were going tae donate?”

“Blaise is under a lot of pressure tae provide amazing items for the auction, so . . . I got Silverstein tae add tae his donation. He paid almost four thousand pounds for this beauty.” Lydia strapped the box in the rear passenger seat as if it were a person.

For a laptop? Paislee could get all-new kitchen appliances for that. “Under pressure from whom?”

“Kirsten Buchanan. As ye know, Blaise’s husband, Shep, is the newest golf pro in Nairn, so there are expectations from the other ladies in regard tae her participation. Kirsten requested only the best, or dinnae bother.”

“That’s ridiculous. Every little bit will help the food bank.”

“It’s the circle she’s in, love. Blaise married a golf celebrity, who was endorsed by Gerard Buchanan, and she cannae let Shep down.”

“How’d you get Silverstein tae up the ante?” Paislee climbed behind the wheel and plopped her coffee in the drink holder on the console. The scent of chocolatey goodness rose from the lid.

Lydia buckled up in the front seat. “I reminded him that Blaise is a potential client who hasnae closed on their new home yet. The bait is still on the hook, tae put it crudely.”

Paislee laughed. “Yet, very nicely done.”

“Natalya helped.”

Natalya Silverstein was twenty years younger than her seventy-something husband, and had taken a liking to Lydia. Everyone in the business knew that Natalya would inherit the agency one day.

“She’s a good ally tae have.” Paislee left the agency and drove toward the club.

“Aye. So where’s my prodigy today?” Lydia sipped her drink. “At work with Grandpa?”

Bennett Maclean, Brody’s best mate’s dad, owned a comic book store/arcade and had offered to keep Brody for the day. “Hanging out with Edwyn . . . I gave Bennett cash for at least four pizzas. Cheap at half the price.”

“It’s great that ye dinnae have tae worry aboot him. And Grandpa?”

“He doesn’t understand why I’m givin’ away the store. His idea is tae hand out fishing poles instead of food parcels.”

Lydia chuckled. “What a character. Because ye know he’d share his catch with any who asked.”

“You’re so right. He’s a grouchy old fraud.” She glanced at Lydia. “Blaise called. Kirsten tried tae put our table in the back and she’s not pleased.”

“Blaise needs tae get away from that snobby school and those catty women. I’ve asked around and Highland’s got commendable marks but a snooty reputation—as in, enroll with yer bank statements on display or forget aboot it.” Lydia whistled. “Twenty thousand a year for day school, thirty for boarding students. Who can afford that?”

Paislee shuddered at the cost. “Not me. Drumduan will be a walk in the park for them in August.” Drumduan was a private school with a less formal learning structure than Highland Academy.

“That’s what I keep telling Blaise—she just needs tae hang on.”

Lydia and Blaise had become friendly as Lydia helped the O’Connors find just the right house (mansion) in Nairn.

“I’m anxious about meeting the ladies in person—they can’t be that bad, can they? Maybe you should have driven both days,” Paislee said, thinking of Lydia’s pretty red Mercedes. “I don’t want tae embarrass Blaise with my Juke.”

“There’s nothing wrong with your SUV.” Lydia set her coffee in the holder after another drink. “Just no, on principle.”

The GPS directed them to go left and they headed away from the sea to the hills a few miles inland. Five minutes later they arrived at an old Victorian spa that had been refurbished into the twenty-first century to be used for public rooms that could be rented.

The car park was so new the orange-yellow lines separating spaces hadn’t had a chance to fade. The clientele targeted for the fund-raiser was evident in the selection of parked SUVs: Range Rovers, Mercedes, Lamborghinis, and a Bentley.

“This is a sport utility vehicle mecca,” Lydia observed. “Corbin would be ecstatic right aboot now.”

Lydia’s friend Corbin was in reality Laird Corbin Smythe. Paislee had met him once—he was handsome, no question, and he’d seemed genuine. He was only moderately rich, which for some reason mattered to Lydia. She didn’t want to be “friends” with someone so wealthy they were out of touch.

Just friends, though, Lydia had claimed with a glimmer in her gray eyes.

“Will he drop by today?”

“Mibbe. There’s Blaise’s car,” Lydia pointed, changing the subject.

Paislee parked between her friend’s black-and-silver Range Rover and a bronze vehicle with huge shiny rims. She felt very out of place as she retrieved her boxes from the hatch. Her donation of the cashmere ensemble belonged, though, and this was for the Nairn Food Bank, for heaven’s sake.

She lifted her chin as she and Lydia walked toward the front entrance. The old spa doors had been replaced with double glass and brass panels, with brass knobs. Planters full of bright red begonias brought vibrant color to both sides of the porch.

A friendly man in a chauffer’s uniform and cap opened the door for them.

“Cheers, love,” Lydia said.

Paislee nodded and wondered which designer SUV he belonged to—she’d put money, maybe as much as a pound note, on the Bentley.

“Wow.” Lydia’s eyes widened with appreciation as they entered the lobby. “I havenae been here since they gutted the place—brilliant choice in the new design. I wonder who the architect was?”

Paislee liked the large open foyer, white tiles, and natural light from all the windows, but it never would occur to her to wonder who designed it.

“Welcome tae the Social Club and Art Centre.” They were greeted by an elegant woman in a dove-gray dress and white-blond hair. “You must be here for the Nairn Food Bank event. Doon the hall tae the left, and the conference room tae your right. You’ll hear the commotion as things are set up, tae be sure. If ye have any questions regarding future room rental, I’m Sonya Marshal, director.”

“This is fantastic!” Lydia exclaimed when they’d reached the room and peered inside. “I’ll have tae bring Natalya for a possible new venue tae entertain.”

Paislee followed Lydia through the open door. The tile in the gymnasium-sized conference room had been covered with thin beige carpet. Indoor palms in wicker pots brushed the high ceiling. Tall windows at the rear afforded a view of an emerald lawn and a thick beech tree provided shade over a patio reached by a back door, propped ajar as people brought in larger items for sale, like TVs and paintings. Tables teemed with opulence, luxury in each silk fabric swatch.

A dais had been raised to the left against the wall. Shelves showcased auction items. Along the right were the restrooms that Blaise had been worried about, but honestly, there wasn’t a “bad” table to be had. Each was clearly visible, the aisles wide enough for browsers and shoppers once the sale started. Paislee checked the time on her phone. Fifteen minutes until it began.

“I’ve never been tae a sale quite like this before.” She was surrounded by chic objects not in her budget.

“It’s magnificent.” Lydia surveyed the tables, effortlessly glamorous in a silk sleeveless charcoal blouse, fitted checked gray-and-black pants, a cherry-red belt and black boots. There was no doubt she fit in.

Paislee wasn’t as confident in her cashmere lavender cowl-neck short-sleeved sweater as she’d been when she’d first put it on, though it was perfect for spring weather. Her belt and shoes were both distressed brown leather, custom made for her by James Young, who had a leather shop next to Cashmere Crush. Her large leather bag was the same material and color. She’d twisted lavender cashmere into a bracelet with leather accents, and done the best with her too-thin auburn hair by braiding it loosely.

“You’re here!” Blaise smiled but there was a frown between her reddish-brown brows when she reached them in a strawberry-jasmine mist of Marc Jacobs Daisy.

Paislee liked perfume in theory but didn’t wear it—who had time?

“And hello tae you, too.” Lydia calmly kissed each of Blaise’s pink cheeks. “Where are we set up?”

“Hiya Lydia, hi Paislee—in the center now instead of the back, thanks tae Anders—Kirsten is so mean. Did she really think I wouldnae protest? Anytime someone went tae the toilet the door would hit our chairs.”

Blaise’s reddish-brown bob was so smooth it flowed to her shoulders like silk, her makeup appeared professionally done and her clothes were right on trend with the latest fashions according to the magazines Lydia left at Cashmere Crush.

They bypassed dozens of tables until they reached one in the middle of the back row. Other people were already seated on either side and Paislee smiled her hellos. Each new person might be a potential customer.

“This looks really pretty,” Paislee told Blaise, who’d covered the table in silver sparkly fabric. Dishes of thin almond biscuits, a recipe that Blaise had been practicing since the last Highland Academy bake sale in February, were arrayed on tiered shelves, covered in clear wrap and tied with a raffia bow. “And the cookies, delicious.”

“I’ve never won the stupid contest,” Blaise muttered between clenched teeth, after a careful glance around. “Just once I’d like tae come oot ahead and show Kirsten that she is not the best baker. God, that makes me sound childish and shallow but I cannae help it.” A vein pulsed at Blaise’s temple.

“You’re neither of those things,” Lydia assured her. “Once you have Suzannah at Drumduan what they think willnae matter so much.”

“I hope so, but their husbands all golf. I cannae get away from them completely just by switching schools.” Blaise sighed. “Shep tells me tae ignore them but he doesnae realize that the wives hold a lot of sway in where a husband spends his money. And if I dinnae play along, then things will be bad for him, and for Suzannah, and we just moved and—”

“Ah.” Paislee put her box of items down and gave Blaise a quick hug. “It’ll be fine.”

“You realize that Scotland has the most famous golf courses in the world? We cannae move away tae start over.” Blaise rubbed her bare arms. “Can you see me livin’ in Florida? Shep got an offer there once at Sawgrass where they have alligators on the green.” Her eyes couldn’t get more round. “No lie!”

“Calm doon, lass.” Lydia put her arm around Blaise’s shoulders. “Now, where should we put our things?”

A tall man with blondish-brown hair strode toward them, his untucked camp shirt billowing over slacks.

“Here’s the person in charge now,” Blaise said.

“Hello, ladies!” The man clasped first Lydia’s hand, then Paislee’s, letting his warm grip linger. “I’m Anders Campbell, fund-raising chair for the club.”

“Nice tae meet you.” Paislee pulled her hand free, noticing that his manicured skin was softer than hers, his nails shiny with clear polish. Grandpa would no doubt have something to say about that, she thought.

“Do ye have anything for the auction that I can display for you?” His friendly gaze settled on Lydia, and the shiny gaming laptop box.

“Aye!” Lydia held it up and grinned. “This sweet prize is from Silverstein Real Estate Agency.”

“Oh, that should go for a lot.” Anders eyed the picture on the side with approval.

“It’s very powerful, with state-of-the-art graphics and a large screen,” Lydia explained.

“Do you game?” Anders asked with interest.

“No.” Lydia winked. “I shop.”

“I’m glad you’re here.” Laughing, Anders turned to Paislee. “And what have you got for the auction?”

“A bespoke cashmere sweater set,” she said. She unwrapped it from the tissue she’d packed it in to show him, proud of what she’d done—including her signature tassel at the end of the matching scarf.

“I brought a velvet hanger,” Blaise interjected, “tae showcase the craftsmanship. Paislee Shaw is the designer.”

Anders admired the soft sweater as he put it on the velvet hanger, and set it across the gaming box, then lifted the items. “Wonderful! These should bring in quite a bit for the Nairn Food Bank.”

“What time will you do the auction?” Lydia asked.

“We’ll have the bidding live through tomorrow, in order tae raise the most money.” He smiled at them over the pile. “We’ll even have the items available online for those that cannae make it in person. Gerard Buchanan does a similar fund-raiser at the school his son goes tae, so he’s in charge of the whole operation—but if you have a question, I’m chuffed tae help. Thanks again, ladies.”

Anders shuffled off toward the dais and the shelves.

“Well, he’s a cutie,” Lydia observed.

“Single, too—but you can do better than that,” Blaise informed Lydia. “He’s flirted with every woman in here so far.”

Paislee elbowed her bestie. “Sounds just like Lydia.”

“Two flirts in one relationship always equals trouble.” Lydia crossed her arms and searched the room. “Where are your viperous ladies?”

“Shh!” Blaise joined Lydia to observe the front entrance. “Kirsten and Mari must’ve stepped oot.”

While they stood watch, Paislee unpacked the other knitted goods from her box and displayed them, making sure they all had price tags.

“If only I had a smidge of your talent.” Blaise turned around and smoothed a tassel on a shawl. “That’s why I’m doing the cookies rather than attempting tae knit anything meself.”

“You’re learning!” Paislee hated for Blaise to doubt herself. She believed that the more you practiced the better your stitch. “You’ve got a fine eye for color.”

“These jackals would tear apart anything less than perfection. Dinnae stare, but here come Kirsten and Gerard. The Highland Academy power couple.”

Paislee oh so casually shifted toward the front entrance of the conference room and squinted to bring the man’s black hair and trim mustache into focus. He grinned and laughed as he chatted with everyone.

“He seems nice,” she said.

“He’s the guid cop in the Buchanan marriage but no prince. Gerard married Kirsten when she was at the height of her modeling career tae take her off the market and boy does she resent it.”

Kirsten had long, ebony hair, and a slender figure. “Kids?”

“One. Their son, Maxim, is in Suzannah’s class.” Blaise wriggled her shoulder. “When we first brought up moving and switching schools, Suz begged tae finish her year with her friends. I’ve had tae suck it up, but I am counting doon the days.”

“For what, Blaise?”

Blaise whirled guiltily, her fingers to her mouth. “Och! Christina—sheesh, you startled me. Christina Baird, I’d like you tae meet my friends, Paislee Shaw and Lydia Barron.”

“Pleased tae meet you.” Christina offered a pretty smile, then turned to Blaise. “We really miss you at our after-meeting lunches. I ken ye’ve been busy with the move and all, but you cannae just disappear altogether. You’re one of us.”

The blond woman might have stepped out of a boating magazine, in white and navy blue. Paislee guessed somewhere in her mid-thirties, like Blaise. No popping out bairns at eighteen for finishing school lasses. “Hi.”

“My son, Robby, is in class with Maxim and Suzannah. P3.” Christina rested her fingers lightly on Blaise’s wrist. “Where’s Shep?”

“At the golf course, where else?” Blaise chuckled. “Will John be here today?”

“Naw—he’s also at the golf course. Standard Saturday appointment with the green.” Christina waved her hand airily. “At least your husband is making money—mine just likes tae spend it.”

Blaise winced at the dig but rallied with a broader smile. “Where’s your table?”

“Kirsten, Mari, and I are sharing one at the front there.”

Paislee noted that it was the most favorably placed table, in the center, with an aisle on either side.

Christina studied Blaise’s cookies. “I’m glad ye took my advice and tried a different recipe.” She shrugged apologetically. “Going shortbread tae shortbread with Kirsten was a mistake—her private chef specializes in desserts, as you know.” She sighed again. “I’ve given up on ever moving beyond third place.” With that, she finger-waved and sauntered off.

“At least you make the top three!” Blaise mumbled to Christina’s back.

“Why does Kirsten having a private chef matter?” Paislee watched the blonde go, the slightest weave to her stride. “Isn’t she supposed tae be the one that bakes them?”

“She swears she does, but . . .” Blaise gave a slow blink. “I feel sorry for Christina withoot me at those lunches tae take the sting of Kirsten’s and Mari’s barbs. She’s sweet, but boneless. Drinks vodka like water.”

“That’s so sad.” Paislee patted Blaise’s back. “Well, you have us now.”

Kirsten ambled toward them, a too-thin lady at her side not even wide enough to be a shadow.

“You remember Kirsten,” Blaise murmured. “Mari Gilmore is her very best friend. She could use a dozen steak-and-kidney pies.”

Paislee half smiled and braced herself for the introductions.

“Cheers! You must be the friends who stole away our Blaise.” Kirsten embraced Blaise, and offered a very limp finger shake to Lydia, then Paislee.

Mari squeezed Blaise in a hug. “We’ve missed you at school, but I’m so glad we can still count on you for the golf committee—you cannae get rid of us that easily.” Her fake laugh suggested that Blaise wanting to would be unbelievable.

Kirsten caressed a long, manicured fingernail over a yellow scarf of merino wool. “Cute.” Kirsten observed Paislee and Lydia just as carefully as the scarf. “Dinna. . .