The Corpse Wore Tartan Read Free Page A

briskly along a narrow service corridor. She’d rely on one of them more often herself if she weren’t so afraid that such dependence might be habit-forming.
    Dan Ruskin, all six foot two of him, had become a fixture in Liss’s life soon after she moved back to Moosetookalook. She wasn’t quite sure where their relationship was headed, but she knew there was a special bond between them. Dan was easy to get along with and even easier to count on when there was trouble. He wasn’t hard on the eyes, either. Years of working for Ruskin Construction had developed muscles in all the right places.
    The sound of raised voices reached Liss’s ears when she was still a hundred yards away from the entrance to the kitchen.
    â€œHere we go again,” she muttered, and broke into a run.

Chapter Two
    L iss burst through the swinging doors and skidded to a stop just inside the kitchen. Richardson Bruce, treasurer of SHAS, blocked the aisle between two work stations. He was squared off with the head chef at The Spruces, Angeline Cloutier.
    Bruce, a dapper little man with a naturally ruddy complexion, was already dressed for the Burns Night Supper, wearing a Montrose doublet with his kilt in the red, green, yellow, and white Bruce tartan. The waist-length jacket had a stand-up collar and silver buttons and epaulettes. Beneath it Bruce wore a blindingly white shirt with a lacy jabot. The contrast made high color in his face look all the more glaring.
    â€œThe haggis is the centerpiece of the evening!” he shouted at the chef, ignoring the fact that she not only towered over him but was standing right next to a rack of sharp butcher knives. “It must be made according to the ancient recipe—chopped sheep’s heart, liver, and lungs, mixed with oatmeal, onions, suet, and spices in a sheep’s stomach casing.”
    â€œListen, mister!” Angeline poked Bruce in the shoulder with one bony finger, leaving a smear of flour on the expensive black velvet. “You know and I know that ain’t about to happen. The FDA had the good sense to keep sheep offal out of the food supply.”
    â€œWho’d know? Slaughter your own sheep and—”
    â€œGive it a rest! You’ve got what—three hours till your banquet starts? Thing has to boil that long. You’ll take what I’ve cooked for you and like it. Damned nuisance as it is, like making sausages from scratch.”
    Bruce’s face abruptly drained of most of its color. “Tell me you didn’t use pork!”
    â€œLamb, beef liver, oats, and suet. The casing isn’t sheep’s stomach, but you don’t eat that anyway.” Angeline’s expression of disgust was eloquent. Then it was her turn to go pale. “Do you?”
    Bruce ignored the question. “We asked for real haggis. That means it’s made from a sheep. You can’t get the right nutty texture otherwise. Or the savory flavor.”
    â€œYou won’t be able to tell the difference,” Angeline promised. “Now get out of my kitchen so I can get going on the turnips and the potatoes.”
    â€œNeeps and tatties,” Bruce corrected her. “And don’t forget the cock-a-leekie soup to start and the tipsy laird for dessert.”
    â€œYeah, yeah. Sherry trifle. I’m on it.”
    â€œBut about the haggis—I don’t think my people will be happy with—”
    Deciding it was time to step in, Liss cleared her throat, interrupting Richardson Bruce’s complaint. As soon as she had his attention, she took his arm, exerting enough pressure to start him moving toward the door. “I’m certain everything is under control, Mr. Bruce, but if you like I can go get some of the canned haggis we sell at Moosetookalook Scottish Emporium. It’s made in the U.S. from Highland beef. Of course, there are only four servings in a can, but I could sell you a case of twenty-four for, say, two hundred