A Trifling Murder: The Cookies and Kilts Cozy Mysteries

By Jo A Hiestand

The annual Robert Burns Birthday Dinner celebration is underway in the small Missouri town of Beaudin Trace. Guests gather to honor Scotland's national poet with bagpipes and haggis and a trifle for dessert. But everything isn't as smooth as Scotch whisky. The Society's president and vice-president have a very public haggle over the haggis. And less than an hour later, one of them is found dead.

And found by Kate Dunbar, owner of The Cookie Cutter Bakery. It wouldn't be too bad except the victim was murdered with her knife.

Gossip hints she is the killer. The majority of her customers must agree, for her bakery sales fall drastically. If she is to keep the business from crumbling, she needs to investigate.

But sleuthing is harder and more dangerous to Kate and those around her than she thought. Luckily, she gets help from the town's zany songwriter and his Scottie dog. Murder is no trifling matter.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jo A Hiestand
• Release date: Jan 21, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201586621

Jo A Hiestand

A month-long trip to England during her college years introduced Jo to the joys of Things British.  Since then, she has been lured back nearly a dozen times, and lived there during her professional folk singing stint.  This intimate knowledge of Britain forms the backbone of both the Peak District mysteries and the McLaren cold case mystery series.  Jo’s insistence for accuracy, from police methods and location layout to the general feel of the area, has driven her innumerable times to Derbyshire for research.  These explorations and conferences with police friends provide the detail filling the books. In 1999 Jo returned to Webster University to major in English.  She graduated in 2001 with a BA degree and departmental honors. Her cat Tennyson shares her St. Louis home.

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Cousins House

St. Louis, Missouri

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Cover and Interior Design by Cousins House

Copyright © 2022 Jo A. Hiestand. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise—without the prior written permission of the copyright holder, except for brief quotations used in a review.

This is a work of fiction, and is produced from the author’s imagination. People, places, and things mentioned in this novel are used in a fictional manner.

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ISBN:

Cover photo of trifle by samael334 at istockphoto

Cover photo of butcher knife by3c43f815_774 at istockphoto

Cover photo of Scottie dog by GlobalP at istockphoto

Cover photo of Shepherd Tartan by idmanjoe at istockphoto

Pink high heel shoe photo by Balajaku at istockphoto

Aluminum can photo by Photoshkolnik at istockphoto

Tartan ribbon photo by AngelicaMari79 at istockphoto

Visit us on the web at: www.johiestand.com

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Published by Cousins House

Printed in the United States of America

ALSO BY JO A. HIESTAND

The Cookies and Kilts Cozy Mysteries

Shortbread And Dead

The McLaren Mysteries

Cold Revenge

Last Seen

Shadow in the Smoke

The Wall

An Unfolding Trap

No Known Address

An Unwilling Suspect

Arrested Flight

Photo Shoot

Empty Handed

Black Moon

Hide and Seek

Related By Murder

Haunted Water

The Peak District Mysteries

A Staged Murder

A Recipe For Murder

In A Wintry Wood

A Touch of Murder

The Stone Hex

Searching Shadows

An Old Remedy

Shrouded in Yew

Ancestral Whispers

Fire Trap

The Linn House Mysteries

The House on Devil’s Bar

A Hasty Grave

Last Act

Death By Gingerbread Drops – an e-book novella

Cider, Swords & Straw: Celebrating British Customs (cookbook with Peak District Mystery book synopses and customs information)

Carols for Groundhog’s Day

Tea in a Tin Cup: Travel and Culinary Adventures of a Writer

Dedication

For Kathy, who took time off from her birthday extravaganza to love the cover design and to suggest Beryl.

And to the real Agnes. I'm glad I knew you. Fois shìorraidh gun robh aig a h-anam.

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Acknowledgements

Much, much thanks to Chris E., who suggested the appearance of Agnes and supplied information about the Scottish Terrier breed. Without her input, Agnes wouldn't be in the story—and that would be a crime!

I also thank Kathy A., for editing the manuscript and making recommendations. Her suggestions and input are greatly appreciated and make this a better book.

And of course huge thanks go to the readers who read Shortbread and Dead, the first book in the series, and asked for another book. Their support and enthusiasm are very much appreciated and spur me to keep writing.

As always, any mistakes in this book are solely mine.

Jo A. Hiestand

St. Louis, Missouri

January 2022

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Diagram Description automatically generated

Cast of Characters

Kate Dunbar: owner of The Cookie Cutter Bakery

Emmanuel (Manny) Ruiz: bakery employee

Ben Hatcher: owner of Missouri Hands Gift Shop, metal craftsman

Odette St. Claire: owner of Fabulous Feasts catering company

Erin Joubert: catering employee

Larry Gooch: private investigator

Wanda Welty: dress shop owner

Scott Munro: owner of Munro Financial Group

Darlene Munro: owner of Munro Realty

Ron Picard: photographer

Ashley Roth: high school English teacher

Harold Gibler: retired schoolteacher

Joshua Cline: Deputy Sheriff

Beryl Muggle: mystery author

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Chapter 1

It's a good turn-out for the birthday dinner this evening. Scott Munro, a middle-aged man of average height and giving the impression of being encased in tartan cloth, sat at the head table and gazed around the community center's large dining room. The guests were lingering over their cocktails and conversations during the last minutes of the social hour. Everyone looked to be having a good time.

He rubbed his chin, as if deep in thought, and shifted his attention around the group. In fact, I think this year's Robert Burns Night attendance must be some sort of record-breaker. Even Harold came.

Harold always comes. Erin Joubert, seated next to Scott, smoothed a wrinkle from her white blouse without looking in Harold's direction. He's usually here to sing one of his songs. Nice that he brought a Scottie dog this year. Adds to the occasion. She repositioned a lock of her brunette hair behind her ear as she murmured, I wonder if Robert Burns had a Scottie.

Is the dog still here? Scott stood up, perhaps to get a better view of Harold, when he lurched sideways. He grabbed the edge of the table as if to steady himself. As he did, his left hand brushed against the tumbler of whisky at his place and knocked it over. The liquid arched upward and outward before it plopped onto Erin's empty plate. As the liquor gushed over the plate’s edge, she yelped and got to her feet.

Watch what you’re doing! The unfortunate victim grabbed her napkin and tried to blot the wet spots on her blouse.

Scott turned to face her, his face a picture of remorse. Erin, dear, I’m so sorry. My ankle buckled and I lost my balance. I hope your clothing will be all right. He peered at her silk blouse. Please, send me the dry cleaning bill.

Erin glared at him, her dark eyes like black pools of liquid. At least it didn’t splatter onto my kilt skirt. Just be careful, please. She sat down and laid the napkin on the edge of the table. Across the room, the Scottie dog joined her in protest.

Certainly. I’ve been having trouble with my leg lately and— He broke off as he seemed to lose his balance again. As he clutched at anything to check his fall, his hand hit the spoon beside his plate and sent it flying. It smacked Erin’s chest before it fell onto her lap.

She shoved back her chair as she jumped up. Her stare shifted from her blouse to Scott's face, and her voice rose to match the angry flush surging up her neck. Hurling the spoon at me is bad enough. What if it had been in your soup plate at the time?

Scott winced and wiped his hand over his mouth. "Technically, I didn't hurl the spoon at you. He enunciated the verb, speaking slowly and distinctly and giving it more emphasis than the other words. It accidently dislodged from its innocent placement and unfortunately your...chest...was in the path of the trajectory."

Hurled. Flung. Heaved. Choose which clash you like. The outcome is the same. It hit me.

I realize that, and I’m so sorry, Erin. I don’t know what my trouble is this evening.

"I know what your trouble is, and it’s not your ankle. She screwed up the corner of her mouth, her neck muscles tightening. The problem is you’ve been in office too long and the years are catching up with you. Just like your antiquated ideas for the Society, although you won’t admit it."

Scott’s mouth gaped open and he stood for several moments, as if trying to find a diplomatic answer. After a dozen or so gurgling sounds that might have been attempts at a reply, he inhaled deeply. Evidently the breaths calmed him, for he said in an even tone, This is neither the time nor the place to discuss Burns Society business, Erin.  The elections for officers aren’t until next month, as you know. I’d appreciate it if you didn’t spoil the birthday dinner with anything unrelated to Robert Burns.

I think my enjoyment of the birthday dinner is already spoilt by your deliberate, though crude, endeavors to drive me away. But I have a news flash for you, Scott. You can’t get rid of me so easily. It will take something more than spilled whisky and a flying spoon.

I have no idea what you’re talking about. The sentence came out in a slow seep of air, sounding as though he were tired of the entire subject. "My leg’s acting up, as I said. I don’t know what more I can say to apologize for these accidents, but they are accidents. He paused as the skirl of the bagpipes sounded from an adjoining room. A dog barked, as though singing along with the tune. Scott turned. Ahh. Good. They're piping in the haggis."

A moment later, the kitchen door opened and two pipers led a solemn parade into the main room. The parade—short in length and participants—was comprised of the pipers and a woman carrying a silver platter on which sat a large mound of cooked meat.

The staccato tenor notes of the dog's barking died as the caterer placed the haggis on the head table. She stepped back, as though in homage to Scotland’s national dish, and waited for the Society’s president to give the welcome and traditional Address to the meaty main course. Everyone in the room appeared to be waiting, tumblers of whisky poised for the salute. Even the pipers looked ready to play again. And the dog seemed to be about to launch into a new volley of yaps.

Forty-year-old Kate Dunbar, resplendent in a starched white apron, navy blue slacks and shirt, and ankle-high black boots, stood near the kitchen door of the large room, watching the proceedings. Nearly four dozen people had gathered in the town’s community center this evening to celebrate Robert Burns Night. It was an annual event, quite popular in the small Missouri town of Beaudin Trace, and helped to break the monotony of the wintry months. Something to look forward to until spring arrived. The group, seated at nine long tables forming the letter E, was comprised of varying degrees of Scottishness and varying degrees of zeal about that Scottishness. Some of the attendees claimed one hundred percent Scottish ancestry. Some, including Kate, had Scottish genes mixed with other nationalities. All, however, had assembled for the traditional dinner to honor Burns' birthday.

Even though Kate could, by the Society’s prerequisite, have shown up as a member of the group, she attended the event this evening in a professional capacity. Her bakery supplied the desserts for the celebration. And even though she didn't wear a kilt, she still showed pride in her heritage by sporting the Dunbar clan tartan as a ribbon in her hair. It didn’t matter to her that it was inconspicuous against the majority of kilted guests.  Who would even notice the subdued red, green, and black of the Dunbar tartan against the masses of intense reds, bold blues, and brilliant greens of other clans’ modern sett colors? Just wearing the ribbon warmed her with Scottish pride.

The nation, if not the spirit, was represented in the decorations throughout the vast space. Saltires hung from the ceiling, pots of heather adorned the tables, and posters of Scottish scenes graced the walls. All in all, the room conveyed the right feel for the wintry occasion.

Scott picked up a large kitchen knife that lay on the tray beside the haggis.  He held the knife, dramatically poised over the haggis, but made no move to use it. Instead, he looked around the room, as though noting the people who were there. He cleared his throat before taking a breath. His voice matched his demeanor, confident and imposing, and—although not booming—rang with a mixture of authority and passion. "Robert Burns, that great man and national poet of Scotland, was born on this night, January twenty-fifth, in 1759. I shan’t wax lyrical about him, for most of you already know of his life. If you don’t, you can read about him in one of the many biographies in book form or online. But we are carrying on a tradition centuries old this evening and, as such, are a link in this long chain that winds back to his native land. It is an important and historical chain, I might add, for not only are we connected to Scotland through our birthday dinner celebration this evening, but also we are tied to other Scots around the world who are also observing his birth. And to that I say sláinte." He raised his glass to toast the poet’s health, while his sentiment was echoed throughout the room.

And now, to get down to one of the main highlights of the evening...whisky by no means taking a back seat to him... He set down the glass, smiling as people laughed, and began reciting ‘Address to a Haggis’. When he had concluded, he nodded to the woman standing at the end of the table. Our caterer, Odette St. Claire, seems to have outdone herself with tonight's magnificent dinner. A truly miraculous achievement, if I may add my personal opinion. All the dinners from Odette's catering have been beyond my poor attempt at superlatives. But I'll let you be the judges this evening. But enough from me. We’re all eager to get to her repast, I know. He paused as applause filled the room. To quell any misgivings you might have about the haggis, that the traditional ingredients are banned by United States Law, Odette informs me that she’s made slight alterations to the recipe. She uses ground lamb meat and chicken livers instead of the unlawful...fillers...so you may all rest easy. We’re not about to become a group of criminals.

Laughter greeted his statement and Odette curtsied. My life's hectic enough, Scott, without me having to bake that standard prison house delicacy. When Scott looked perplexed, she added, Metal files inserted into loaves of French bread so you can saw your way out of the jail cell.

He laughed as she made a sawing motion. I appreciate the thought, dear. He turned slightly so he faced the woman standing near Odette. And a tip of the bonnet to our charming Kate Dunbar for supplying the desserts. Not only are they beautiful to behold, but the table holding them is adorned in the tartan that Robert Burns himself wore, the black and white Shepherd's Tartan. Again he waited until the applause died. In case anyone here’s been living on a desert island, Kate owns The Cookie Cutter bakery. We’re certainly in luck this evening, for she’s giving us three delectable dishes. He lowered his voice and leaned forward slightly, giving the impression he was sharing a secret. I was blessed with a peek earlier. Tipsy Laird—or a Scottish trifle, if you need a translation—would certainly have been the star of our last course. But also gracing our tables will be chocolate cheesecake, and Kate’s famous shortbread cookies, or I should call them biscuits, in keeping with the evening.

Kate smiled, shrugging. A person doesn't have to be bi-lingual to enjoy the evening, but it might help at times. You can call it Tipsy Laird or trifle. It's still the layers of cake, custard and fruit most people are familiar with. And the desserts are all authentic recipes that came from my maternal grandmother, who still lives in Scotland.

A real addition to our evening. He turned to face her and held out his arm. Thank you, Kate.

Kate bowed her head, acknowledging the praise, then moved to the doorway of the kitchen. But she paused, wanting to see the cutting of the haggis.

And now... Scott angled the knife, pointed end down, above the large ball of ground meat, oats, and spices. As he did so, Erin leaned forward, sneezing loudly. Her elbow jerked outward as she tried to cover her nose and mouth. In so doing, she jabbed Scott in the side with such force that he dropped the knife. It fell into the haggis, impaling it, the handle upward and quivering as if in a gale.

He jumped back, the backs of his legs slamming into the chair and sending it screeching across the wood floor. The dog ushered forth with a frenzy of barking, which faded as the owner led him into the kitchen.

Scott's face turned ashen but quickly flooded with red as his voice rose. You did that on purpose!

Erin sneezed again and dabbed her nose with a facial tissue. I did not. She replied even-toned, as if explaining something to a child. I had to sneeze. Sorry.

You deliberately jabbed your elbow into me, causing me to drop the knife. My God, if I had tried to clutch it to keep it from falling, I’d be minus some fingers by now.

You exaggerate, Scott. Anyway, it fell too quickly for you to grab it.

It’s a reflective action, Erin. You grab things that fall. It’s automatic. You don’t have a mental debate about it: can I catch this or should I let it go. He wiped his hand across his forehead, holding it there for a moment while he caught his breath. You’re getting even for my two previous accidents. And, if I need to reiterate, there was nothing intentional about them. You just want to get back at me. He dropped his hand and pointed his finger at her. I always suspected you’d do anything to get the presidential vote and now you’re proving it, showing me to be a clumsy, uncaring person. I think it best if you traded dinner places with someone farther away from me.

Erin leapt to her feet, her face flushed. "I sneezed. It was an accident. I said I was sorry. But you owe me an apology for what you just said. She leaned forward and yanked the knife out of the haggis. She waved it in the air at shoulder height, sending bits of the meat mixture flying through the air. They plopped onto the tablecloth and floor and the jacket back of the person seated near her. No one seemed to notice. I’m emailing the membership this evening when I get home, and let them know what you did. Your pathetic excuse, as you call it, is as transparent as onion skin. You apologize now, here, in public, and admit you were trying to harm me."

"Harm you? Why would I do that? I’ve nothing personal against you, Erin."

Harm me to keep me in the hospital, to keep me from campaigning for the presidency. She waggled the knife in front of him and a clump of haggis splatted onto the lapel of his black jacket. It doesn’t take a detective to figure this out. Apologize to me right here and now or I’m going to email everyone.

Scott leaned