By Kaitlyn Dunnett
Tis the season to be jolly, yet in Moosetookalook, Maine, Christmas cheer is in brief offer as a result of a snowless iciness that is maintaining skiers and consumers at a distance. thankfully, Liss MacCrimmon of the Scottish Emporium has a plan. . . Liss's brainstorm makes a speciality of Tiny Teddies, the hot "hot" toy of the season. each shop around the nation is out of stock--except a couple of wee institutions in strong ol' Moosetookalook. it is simple sufficient to drum up acclaim for the assumption of luring shoppers to city and preserving them there with a stockingful of recent England vacation attraction. Liss's actual problem lies in contending with bickering businesspeople and--once the US learns of Moosetookalook's Tiny Teddy cache--doggedly decided shopaholics. the 1st signal of anything amiss happens whilst the final Tiny Teddy is summarily finished: shot in the course of the center within the reveal window of grasping toy shop proprietor Gavin Thorne. however the Teddy's loss of life is simply a precursor to the eerily comparable homicide of Gavin himself... the 2 males in Liss's existence wish her faraway from the case, yet she can not help feeling to blame for beginning the fur frenzy that turns out to have ended in Gavin's demise. along with, how can she forget about the long record of suspects, now not the least of whom contain Gavin's vindictive ex-wife, an unscrupulous selectman, a ski store proprietor with an awl to grind, and a rabid toy collector packing warmth in her purse..? Now, with the Twelve (or, in Scots phrases, the Daft) Days of Christmas speedily drawing close, Liss has a plate packed with issues worse than haggis to cope with, beginning with a stockroom full of chook (don't ask), and finishing with a killer who'd wish to see Liss's goose good and entirely cooked...
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Additional info for A Wee Christmas Homicide
Oh, for heaven’s sake. Will you listen to yourself? ” “That’s just it. He’s seen firsthand the kind of nasty situations a cop can get into. Domestic disputes, for one thing. Not to mention the—” “Of all the male chauvinist pig mentality! ” “Probably, but—” “I’ll just have to convince Mrs. Campbell to support us without her son’s help. ” Liss glanced at her watch. “I’ve got to call Rich Smalley. See if he’s got a partridge. ” Liss breathed a sigh of relief. She didn’t know what she’d been so worried about.
What a pity that neither magic nor science could accurately predict the weather, let alone control it. After retying the bright red scarf holding her long, dark brown hair away from her face, Liss busied herself straightening the display next to a sign that read KILT-HOSE STUFFERS. To Liss’s mind kilt hose—or knee socks, as those not into Scottish-American heritage in a big way would call them—made ideal Christmas stockings. She’d gathered together an eclectic assortment of items that might be tucked into the toe or made to cascade enticingly over the top.
Whatever works,” he mumbled, and crossed back to the scroll saw. His workshop was almost the way he wanted it. He’d acquired a table saw, a miter saw, and a band saw. Next time he had a little extra saved, it was going for a drill press. ” He flipped a switch. Immediately, the workshop was filled with a loud hum that drowned out every other sound. He’d just dropped his ear protectors back into place when Liss jabbed him in the ribs. She kept her fingernails cut short but put enough force behind the poke to make it hurt like blazes.