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think a guy in a skirt must be a sissy? Then Sandy chimed in to tell her about another incident with a similar outcome, except that he’d ended up with a black eye.
    Halfway through the second story, Dan wandered off. Liss started to call him back, then let him go. It wasn’t as if he didn’t know anyone at the reception.
    She surveyed the gathering, quietly pleased at its success. A great many local people had come, in addition to a good number of college students and faculty members. Liss caught sight of a neighbor, Angie Hogencamp, and her daughter, Beth, at the other side of the room. Liss had been giving the girl dance lessons since August and had found the task surprisingly enjoyable.
    A burst of laughter pinpointed Stewart Graham’s location. Good old Stewart—the more he drank, the worse his puns became. Liss tuned in just long enough to hear him proclaim that Scottish country dancers were reel people and had to stifle a groan at hearing that old chestnut again. None of Stewart’s puns were particularly original and he tended to repeat the same ones over and over.
    â€œNice shindig, Liss,” Sandy said a short while later, when they found themselves standing together with no one else nearby.
    â€œYes,” she agreed. “Thanks.” But she couldn’t hold back a sad little sigh.
    â€œWhat’s wrong, kid?” he asked. He was all of three years older than she was, but he’d always called her that. He claimed it was because, during those first few years with Strathspey , she’d tended to look at the world through rose-colored glasses.
    No longer. That wide-eyed nineteen-year-old innocent had started to grow up a long time ago, and the abrupt end to her career as a dancer had completed the process.
    â€œKid?”
    â€œI was just daydreaming—wishing there could still be a place for me with the company. A nondancing role, of course. But there isn’t. Not unless Victor suddenly decides to resign.”
    â€œHe’ll never do that.” Sandy sounded grim. “It would make too many people happy.”

Chapter Two
    S herri Willett glanced at her watch. It was getting late and she had a five-year-old son who got up at the crack of dawn. She looked around for Pete, and found him deep in conversation with one of the organizers of the local Scottish festival. Pete competed in some of the athletic events and had a vested interest in when they were to be scheduled. Both Pete and Sherri were deputies with the Carrabassett County Sheriff’s Department, she at the jail and he on patrol, and both planned their lives around what shift they were on. It was a crazy schedule in some ways, but did allow for a very long weekend once every three weeks.
    Leaving him to it, she wandered back to the refreshment table. Liss had done herself proud. There wasn’t a loser in the bunch. Sherri was reaching for one of the crunchy little bacon thingies, since the supply had just been replenished, when someone spoke to her.
    â€œWell, aren’t you a pretty little thing,” the man said in a slurred voice.
    She spared him a sideways glance but didn’t respond verbally. He was with the dance troupe, although he wore a plain suit and was clearly not a performer. Not with that flabby midsection. Victor Something. She remembered that Liss had said he was the company’s manager.
    Sherri was a little surprised he wasn’t at least decked out in a tartan tie. She’d worked part-time at Margaret Boyd’s gift shop long enough to know that most people who were into things Scottish flaunted their heritage. Even the ones who wouldn’t wear a kilt and sporran tended to have little Scottish lion flags as lapel pins or bagpipe tie tacks.
    The man—Victor—took a sip from his glass. It was whiskey by the smell of it. Then he leered at her. When Sherri moved farther along the table, he followed, plucking up bits of food as he went. The servers were