Читать книгу Season Of Glory - Ron/Janet Benrey - Страница 8

The eighteen guests who attended the Sunday-afternoon tea at The Scottish Captain ate every morsel of food offered to them inside the Captain’s back-garden gazebo.

Who could blame them? An authentic Scottish cream tea is not an everyday event in Glory, North Carolina, and the side tables in the gazebo were heaped with handmade sweet scones, clotted cream, twelve kinds of preserves, tea cakes, fruit tartlets, smoked salmon canapés, savory finger sandwiches and dark-chocolate muffins—most prepared by Calvin Constable, the bed-and-breakfast’s superb breakfast chef.

The only dish that wasn’t Calvin’s handiwork was the Strathbogie Mist, a traditional Scottish concoction of pears, cream, sugar and ginger. Sharon Pickard, the cohostess of the tea party, had made twenty-four helpings, which vanished within seconds of being served.

Sharon had brought the desserts to the gazebo a few minutes before the tea began. “Better leave the ramekins covered for now,” Calvin had said to her. “Church elders and committee people can be a ravenous lot.”

Sharon laughed, but she felt a twinge of guilt when she saw Emma Neilson scurrying hither and yon in the gazebo—arranging food on tables and putting the final touches on the Christmas decorations. Sharon realized that asking Emma to host a tea party just eleven days before Christmas had added to the chaos of her friend’s busy life.

Sharon’s own job as head nurse in the emergency room at Glory Regional Hospital could be chock-full of hassles, but Emma, the owner and manager of The Scottish Captain, seemed to work around the clock.

Sharon would have to find a way to repay Emma for her generosity. The hours she’d spent at the Captain hanging Christmas trimmings and helping Calvin in the kitchen were scarcely a down payment.

Thank goodness I never wanted to run a bed-and-breakfast.

“Has the guest of honor arrived yet?” Sharon asked Emma.

“He checked in twenty minutes ago. You’ll be surprised when you meet Andrew Ballantine. He seems too young to be an art historian and an expert on stained glass.” Emma winked at her. “He’s a hunk.”

Sharon heard a car door slam in the Captain’s parking lot.

“Showtime! The guests are arriving.” Emma flipped a switch, turning on the five strings of Christmas lights that ringed the gazebo.

“It’ll be beautiful in here when the sun goes down in a few minutes,” Sharon said.

“Christmas should be the prettiest time of the year at a B and B.”

The partygoers came, welcomed Andrew Ballantine to Glory, ate heartily, drank eight large pots of tea then went home—all without realizing that a serious crime had been committed in their midst.

The senior detective in charge of the criminal investigation was astonished that so many people, gathered together in a small, octagonal summerhouse, had observed so little. After all, two of the merrymakers were members of the Glory Police Department.

Sharon Pickard wasn’t the least bit surprised by the general lack of awareness. The invited guests had splintered into six or seven small groups that quickly became lost in conversation. She’d spent most of the party chatting with the guest of honor. They continued to talk long after the gazebo was empty.

Sharon decided that Emma had been right the moment she saw Andrew Ballantine. He looked more like a football player than a consultant who would help Glory Community Church replace a stained-glass window. He was in his midthirties and had an athletic build—she guessed that he stood about six feet, three inches tall and weighed well over two hundred pounds. He wore a heather-colored Harris Tweed jacket and tan slacks that fit him splendidly and went well with his blue eyes and ruddy complexion. His ears were prominent, and his chestnut-colored brown hair was thick enough to flutter in the afternoon breeze. His facial features were craggy rather than classically handsome, but they came together to create a striking whole.

Who cares? Once burned, twice shy.

The familiar maxim was about fire, but it applied equally well to good-looking men. Sharon had learned the hard way that a man’s most important feature—his trustworthiness—was invisible from the outside.

Not that Andrew’s fidelity made much difference to her. He was a short-term visitor to Glory. They’d spend a few hours working together, and then he’d drive home to Asheville. End of story.

But until he does, there’s no reason to be impolite. Or to ignore his positive attributes. Like his smile.

Andrew had a lovely, animated smile, but he never looked happier than when he thanked Sharon for making the Strathbogie Mist.

“It’s my all-time favorite Scottish treat,” he said.

“I know. I read the article about you in Church Art Monthly.”

“Every flattering remark is absolutely true.”

She grinned. “One thing I don’t know—is there a place called Strathbogie?”

He nodded. “It’s an area in northeastern Scotland, not far from the modern city of Aberdeen. It’s famed for its castle…and obviously for its thick fogs.”

He ended his explanation with a curious low-pitched grunt. Sharon might have ignored it, but Andrew immediately made a soft moan, a sound she’d often heard before—from patients in pain. She peered at him. Both the smile and the color were gone from his face.

Oh, my! What’s going on?

He grimaced. “I feel dizzy…really dizzy. And my chest hurts.” He abruptly tumbled to the floor, smashing a white wicker chair on the way down.

Emma and Calvin were tidying the gazebo. They dropped their trash bags. “I’ll call the paramedics,” Calvin said.

Emma rolled a tablecloth into a small pillow. “You make him comfortable. I’ll try to track down Haley Carroll. She’s one of our guests.”

Sharon nodded. “The doctor I met here earlier.”

She could tell from Andrew’s worsening expression that his chest pain had become more intense. “Hang on!” Sharon said. “The paramedics are on their way.”

Haley Carroll arrived in less than a minute and checked his vital signs.

“He’s seriously ill,” she said to Sharon. “It must have been something he ate.”

“My food couldn’t have hurt him,” Calvin said almost pleadingly. “I’ve been sampling the dishes all day.”

Sharon heard Andrew begin to retch. And then the implications of what Calvin had said hit home. It must have been her Strathbogie Mist that had made Andrew ill.

No! That’s not possible.

She saw red flashing lights above the fence that separated the parking lot from the garden. An ambulance. She moved closer to Andrew and knelt down. Save the explanations for later. All that matters now is keeping him alive.