A Wee Dose of Death

Praise for

A Wee Murder in My Shop

“Peggy Winn brings a bit of Scotland home to her Scottish-themed shop in Vermont, but this time it's more than she bargained for in this enjoyable debut. A great start to a new series!”

—Sheila Connolly,
New York Times
bestselling author of the County Cork Mysteries

“The very first paragraph of
A Wee Murder in My Shop
hooked me. . . . It is the town of Hamelin, Vermont, however, that charms its way into the readers' hearts. . . . A fun start to the ScotShop Mystery series.”

—Fresh Fiction

“Fran Stewart has done something so incredibly right with this new series. She whisked me away to the land of Scotland right from the beginning, and the magic of Scotland carried through, even when Peggy returned . . . to Hamelin. . . . A strong start to what is going to be a fabulous series. She's created very memorable characters, full of charm and mischief, and readers will be fondly recalling this adventure long after they turn the last page. If you haven't picked up this first book in the ScotShop Mysteries yet, go grab a copy today, because it is going to be one series you don't want to miss!”

—Cozy Mystery Book Reviews

“Scotland, a seven-hundred-year-old ghost, a hunky police officer, and [the] murder of a cheating boyfriend. What's not to like in the new ScotShop Mystery series?”

—Lesa's Book Critiques

“An interesting concept that you might expect in a time-travel romance, only it is a cozy mystery—which provides a completely different flair.”

—Mysteries and My
Musings

Berkley Prime Crime titles by Fran Stewart

A WEE
MURDER IN MY SHOP

A
WEE DOSE OF
DEATH

An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014

A WEE DOSE OF DEATH

A Berkley Prime Crime Book / published by arrangement with the author

Copyright © 2016 by Fran Stewart.

Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices,
promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.

BERKLEY® PRIME CRIME and the PRIME CRIME design are trademarks
of Penguin Random House LLC.

For more information, visit
penguin.com
.

eBook ISBN: 978-1-101-63956-6

PUBLISHING HISTORY

Berkley Prime Crime mass-market edition / January 2016

Cover art by Jesse Reisch.

Cover design by Diana Kolsky.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

This book is lovingly dedicated to my sister Diana,
who believes in me and my
ghosts.

I owe a huge debt of gratitude to the group of artists who invited me to go along with them to Folly Beach, SC, for an entire week of painting—or, in my case, of writing. They went off to paint each day, leaving me alone, in a windswept house overlooking the ocean. The shape of Wee Dose formed itself to the backdrop of seabirds calling and waves rolling in.

Then my friend Peggy Dixon offered me the use of her mountain cabin. That was where I wrapped up the story amid towering North Georgia pines. Having a mama bear and two cubs living in the area helped with inspiration. So did the ride on the mule.

Sharron Grovner, a woman who works at the Reynolds Mansion on Sapelo Island, suggested the Univex and invented a story line unique to her, in which she had Karaline give a ride to a stranger (NOT recommended) who just happened to be an out-of-work pastry chef. I told her that with such a vivid imagination, she should be writing books herself.

Erica Jensen, my Middle English researcher, finds lovely words for Dirk.

Someone at Kittredge Foodservice Equipment & Supplies in Williston, Vermont (I'm sorry I didn't get his name), confirmed that it would take an SUV to haul an SRM-20. Then he
passed me on to Bob Beattie, who assured me that Chester could get away with wearing red suspenders. I relocated Kittredge's warehouse/showroom from Williston to Winooski for the purposes of the plotline. When I lived in Vermont years ago, I learned that the Abenaki word
Ouinousqui
(as spelled by early French explorers) meant
wild onions
, which grew plentifully along the “Onion River.”

Michele McMahon, a nurse who works with the Emergency Preparedness departments of three Georgia counties, said a ten-hour operation was more believable than the four-hour one I'd originally written, considering the extent of gunshot damage. She also admitted that cold ghostly healing hands would be a big help, and we grossed out everybody else at the table as we talked about perforated intestines and nicked diaphragms.

David Funderburk, biology teacher extraordinaire, shared stories of his years teaching biology to students of all ages and grades and gave me the silver nitrate story.

Jesse Reisch illustrated the cover of
A Wee Murder in My Shop
, the first ScotShop Mystery, and put a Scottie dog on the cover—something I hadn't even considered—so, of course, I had to go back and write in a dog for the Sinclairs—and, in this book, Scamp for the ScotShop.

Scamp evolved from only a vague idea to a real pooch after I contacted Rhea Spence, president of the Scottish Terrier Club of Greater Atlanta, who invited me to a dog show. There I met Judi Helton. Both these women added greatly to my knowledge of Scotties and educated me on the value of maintaining distinct breeds.

Kari Hill of Charthill Scottish Terriers was showing several of her dogs that day, and spent a great deal of time explaining, sharing, bragging about, and just generally loving her dogs with me. She showed me their teeth, let me pat their waterproof
coats, explained their history, let me feel their heart-shaped rib cages, and showed me how stable their broad rear ends are when they “play patty-cake.” She's the one who suggested that Scamp might like to sit in the display window. “Give him an ottoman, would you? He'd like something soft to sit on.”

Edwin Lowe gave me the term “GBBD.”

Finally, I must thank my agent, John Talbot, who found me and coached me through the process of being traditionally published; Michelle Vega, my editor at Berkley Prime Crime, who recognizes deadwood, sees what needs to be expanded, and still manages to treat me with utmost gentleness; and all the fantastic professionals at Berkley Prime Crime, who turn my manuscripts into works of art.

From my house beside a creek

on the other side of Hog Mountain, GA,

Fran Stewart

April
2015

The Joy of a Wee Cabin

M
arcus Wantstring wasn't looking for a place to die. He was looking for a quiet place in the snow-covered mountains of Vermont to get his thoughts together so he and Denby wouldn't look like deadbeats. He didn't want anyone to think less of Denby, now that Denby couldn't defend himself.

He propped his cross-country skis outside next to the overly tall door and looked around the small cabin. The perfect place for his purposes. He was glad an early blizzard was on the way. There usually wasn't this much snow in October. Snow would keep other people away. He had a deadline.
Deadline
, he thought, and the emphasis was on “dead.” He shook his head—too much drama.

He had another problem, too. It niggled at the back of his consciousness. One of Denby's most promising graduate students—John Nhat Copley. Denby had found a printout of a sparse e-mail balled up in the trash. Something about identity theft. It sounded like a big plan, but surely nothing could come
of it. Copley may have been brilliant, but he was stupid as a paramecium to leave the printout behind. Denby, of course, had brought the e-mail to Marcus for a brainstorming session. Marcus hadn't questioned why Denby was going through the trash. Denby had always seemed to have his own way of doing things.

They'd had no way of knowing whether Copley had infected any of the other students with his stupidity, but nobody else seemed to be acting any differently. Denby tried to track down the e-mail's sender, but the account had been closed down. Still, just in case, the two professors had collaborated, then e-mailed Copley, asking him to explain himself. They drafted another letter, an official one, banning Copley from the department, but decided not to send that one. Innocent until proven guilty. But Copley never replied to the e-mail. He disappeared, seemingly overnight.

Marcus chuckled to himself. Maybe Copley had been writing an espionage thriller, and the supposed e-mail was part of the manuscript. This wasn't the time to worry about it. He had his own priorities. But why had the boy taken off?

He slung his backpack onto the sturdy central table and pulled a thick green binder from it, along with a water-purification kit, an aluminum pot stuffed with numerous packets of food, and a box of utility-grade candles. He moved the binder to one of the two chairs and removed the food packages from the cooking pot. He unhooked his hiking boots and pulled out an extra pair of socks. He ran his finger across the wildly improbable pattern of brilliant variegated yarn. His wife had knitted them for him as a Halloween joke years ago—before . . . before everything happened—and they'd turned out to be his favorites, maybe not for wearing to work, although he'd done so on occasion when the weather was cold enough. And, of course, every October thirty-first for sure. He
loved the things she knit for him. Sweaters, socks, scarves. He always felt like he was wrapping her love around him when he wore them.

She'd started calling him Mark soon after her surgery. Although he was Marcus to everyone else, Mark was a special connection between himself and the woman he loved with all his heart, even after all these years together. He paused, thinking fondly of how she'd slept through his gentle good-bye kiss that morning well before dawn. He was a lucky man. His lips drew up in a smile, one that was surprisingly soft on so angular a face.

He didn't know his luck was about to run out.