The Tea Shoppe Mysteries

by Darlene Franklin

  The file held more clippings than I had expected. Sir Geoffrey had followed the story in six different papers, with one-off clippings from several more. They were sorted by date, with the latest at the front. That piece was dated ten years ago. One of those “What really happened back then?” type of articles, a true crime drama that had happened to someone I knew personally.

  The articles brought the story to life. I had read some of them online, but seeing them this way, laid out in order, gave me a different perspective. When I saw the pictures of the handsome young Freddy Guilfoyle in his public school uniform, with his hair just turning from white blond to brown, he was clearly the pride and joy of both his parents and his uncle.

  When the articles hinted Freddy had been a reckless mischief-maker, I asked myself, What ten-year-old isn’t? I had two fairly mild-mannered daughters, but I’d had three brothers and watched my friends’ sons grow up. Ten years old seemed about the right age to fall from a tree or a roof or to go to overnight camp for the first time.

  Or drive a car on a deserted stretch of road. Plenty of parents let their young children take a turn behind the wheel, although I don’t think it’s wise.

  Whoever was driving that day, a tragedy occurred. The articles guessed about the nature of Freddy’s condition. Was that a factor? Or was it his parents’ fault for letting him drive?

  I went back to the earliest documents and read them through, paying close attention to the variations in accounts. I didn’t learn anything new. The overview had made me sad for the young Freddy. He had gone from the prized scion of a proud house to a public spectacle.

  I didn’t know how well Daisy and Sir Geoffrey had coped with the changing situation. Did they join the public in blaming Freddy for his father’s death? About the time Freddy finished uni, Sir Geoffrey emigrated to America and dropped out of the boy’s life.

  Not the kind of behavior I had come to expect from my friend. Oh, I knew the arguments. The boy had become a man, ready to be on his own. Perhaps Sir Geoffrey felt he was giving Freddy what he wanted, the run of the family estate.

  But not all university graduates are ready to face life alone.

  I considered the situation from Sir Geoffrey’s point of view. The boy was now a man, with his mother alive and involved in his life. My friend had spent the past dozen years helping to raise his brother’s son. He had a right to seek his own dreams.

  But everything I’d seen in my searches revealed Sir Geoffrey’s love for his nephew. They might have grown apart, but I didn’t sense animosity toward Freddy. His sister-in-law, perhaps. But not Freddy.

  I continued sifting through the pages, mostly pictures. Young Freddy looked horrific after the accident. If he already had physical problems, surely the accident made things worse.

  The biggest surprise came at the end of the file. Sir Geoffrey had kept medical reports from Freddy’s birth on. Jackpot!

  The accident that killed Freddy’s father wasn’t his first. As an infant, he’d been involved in an accident that had mangled his left arm and left it considerably weakened and almost useless.

  CHAPTER 14

  The file on the accident contained a police report. I read everything several times over before I understood what had happened.

  In the early morning hours after a New Year’s Eve party, the Guilfoyles’ chauffeur had side-swiped the parking attendant’s booth. The police suspected he was legally drunk, but he wasn’t tested, and they didn’t know for certain. The man protested his innocence, but he was dismissed on the spot.

  No one realized anything was amiss until they arrived home and changed Freddy for bed. His left arm was bent at an alarming angle, and he screamed when they touched it. They walked back out into the freezing night air, which shook off what remained of the alcohol fog. The side of the car that held the infant seat was dented in a couple of inches, enough to crush the baby’s fragile bones.

  One of them called for an ambulance. Sometime after that, John called his brother.

  “Didn’t Freddy cry?” Sir Geoffrey had asked.

  Yes, of course, but they thought it was colic. He cried a lot.

  For a number of nightmarish days, they thought Freddy might lose his arm. The doctors had managed to save it and provided the parents with detailed instructions on how to exercise the limb. His physical development slowed down, his ability to crawl and walk was delayed, but not for unnaturally long. When Freddy left for school, a professional physical therapist took over. But the therapist’s notes left no doubt that Freddy would never gain full use of his arm again.

  I thought about Freddy and what, if anything, would make a person notice his disability. I had never seen him in short sleeves. And I assumed he was right-handed, so I thought nothing of his not using his nondominant left hand. I replayed his dropping the box in my mind. The box had fallen to his left—as if that arm wasn’t able to support its weight.

  The next file I opened contained articles and documents about the second accident, the one that killed Freddy’s father. Buried in the fine print of the police report was a very interesting note. The Guilfoyles’ car had a manual transmission—which would require the use of both hands to drive. And in England the gearshift is to the left of the driver… .

  Freddy had no business driving a car like that. No wonder he felt guilty for his father’s death.

  I put down the papers and shook my head over those silly young parents. My heart broke for the innocent child whose life was changed forever, for the young boy encouraged to try something he wasn’t equipped to handle, for the guilt that must have consumed everyone concerned.

  The last physical therapy test in the file indicated Freddy had 20 percent use of his left arm. He wasn’t supposed to carry anything more than ten pounds with that arm. This morning he had carried the heaviest box, easily weighing more than ten pounds.

  My phone rang. Anne Stetson reminded me of Marshfield’s follow-up appointment from his illness in the morning. I agreed absentmindedly. What a waste of time, since Marshfield was doing so well. But I made a note in my datebook.

  I put everything back in the box. I needed time to consider what I had learned. I decided to go to bed early and let everything percolate overnight and see what my brain came up with in the morning.

  Seven hours later, at half-past four, I started downstairs with one thing on my mind. I’d forgotten about the third flash drive. I sat down at my computer and opened the file with ease now that I knew the password.

  The first document I opened was dated April 22—a week before Sir Geoffrey’s murder. My heart stopped beating for a second. He might supply the clues to his own murder in this file.

  An hour later, I was certain he had. My phone rang, but I let it go to voice mail as I read the last few pages of the file. A few minutes later Georgina popped into the apartment. “Gran! Is something wrong?”

  I felt guilty for making her worry.

  “I think something may be right,” I said.

  “You figured something out.”

  I nodded. “Who do we have running the kitchen today? Can you get away for a couple of hours?”

  She calculated beneath her breath.

  “Kendra’s coming in. She’ll be super busy, but she’s capable.”

  I agreed. “Marshfield needs to see the vet, and I’d like you to come along with me.”

  Of course Georgina understood there was more involved, but I felt safer if that’s the reason she gave Kendra for her absence.

  My granddaughter’s eyes sparkled with questions she didn’t ask. “What time should I be ready?”

  “I think eight thirty should do it.” I turned off the computer. “Now let’s go bake something.”

  “Are you feeling up to it?”

  “Of course I am. It’s the least I can do since I’m taking you away.” When we got to the kitchen, I studied the daily menu. Georgina and I discussed a few tweaks that would make it easier for Kendra to manage on her own. We removed one item and offered a s
pecial on the fresh fruit, yogurt, and granola platter with a muffin and all the coffee they wanted for free, a perennial favorite.

  I also made half a dozen quiche pies that could be warmed and served fresh. It felt good to be back in the kitchen I had neglected for too long. I greeted the fishermen who came in at five, the travelers eager to get on the road at six, and before I had turned around, it was seven.

  I finished washing the dishes and left the kitchen with reluctance. “I’ve got to feed Marshfield and take him for a walk before we leave.”

  “Go.” Georgina pushed me out the door. “Thanks for your help. It should go as smooth as clockwork now.”

  I drove a short distance to the nearest open ocean space where Marshfield could run and bark without my having to worry about him bothering the neighbors. “We’ll come back later,” I promised him. “But first we have important business to finish. You want Sir Geoffrey’s murderer to be caught, don’t you?”

  I stopped by the tea shoppe at the stroke of eight. Georgina climbed into the car holding a bag. “I thought I’d ask if Anne wants to sell some doggie treats on consignment.”

  Smiling, I shook my head at her unstoppable entrepreneurial spirit.

  “So where are we really going?”

  “To the vet, like I said.”

  She looked at me sideways. “Not that I mind, but why did you invite me along?”

  “I think I know what happened to Geoffrey. I have another theory to test out first though.” Without further explanation, I stopped by the local hardware store. “I’ll be right back,” I said to Anne. “Stay in the car with Marshfield.”

  When I returned to the car, I showed Georgina my purchase and told her about my idea.

  We drove to a deserted section of the beach, and Georgina and I got out of the car. I rubbed Marshfield’s ears. “You stay here and wait for just a few minutes, Marshfield. You’ll be safer in the car.” I handed him a couple of Georgina’s treats to keep him happy, rolled down the windows, and joined Georgina on the beach.

  She held the six-foot-long fishing spear. “Now, let me get this straight. First you want me to see if I can thrust this just using one arm?”

  “Yes,” I said. I didn’t know how much flexibility Freddy had in his injured arm, so it was best to go with the worst-case scenario for him.

  She took the spear and bounced it down in her hand until she was holding it in the center, then lunged forward, holding it parallel to the ground. “That wasn’t any trouble.” She retrieved the spear. “Now you want me to throw it with my right hand and not use my left arm at all, right?”

  “Yes,” I said. “Pretend you can’t even lift that arm. And you don’t get to take any running steps either.”

  Georgina had been a javelin thrower in high school, so she knew what she was doing. She hefted the spear onto her right shoulder then reared back and threw it. Straight as an arrow.

  Dr. Stetson gave Marshfield a thorough examination. “He’s bristling with good health. You must be taking good care of him.”

  “We’ve made a connection.” I rubbed the top of the dog’s head, and his tongued lolled out of his mouth. “I have a favor to ask of you. I have a free bag of homemade dog treats as a bribe.”

  The vet arched his eyebrows. “I’ll help if I can.”

  Five minutes later, Georgina and I were headed to the police station sans Marshfield. I had locked the files in the trunk to show to the police before I left the house.

  “I’d better warn Kendra I’ll be gone a little longer than we thought.” Georgina made a quick call.

  Our local stringer for the Portland Herald arrived at the police station at the same time we did. “What are you two doing here?” he asked as we walked up the steps.

  I clutched my folder tighter and continued up the steps as he dashed ahead of me.

  I glanced at Georgina. As one, we followed him as quickly as possible.

  Freddy Guilfoyle blocked my view to whatever else was going on in the station when I reached the door. His eyes fell on me. “You.”

  He made me sound like the root of all his problems.

  “I know the truth about the accident and your arm, Freddy,” I said.

  He stumbled back and his face crumpled.

  I walked past him to the desk where Enos was sitting. “I need to speak with Tom.”

  “He’s with the prisoner, Mrs. Holland. We don’t appreciate your interference.”

  I drew myself to my full height and reminded myself to respect the law.

  Georgina barged ahead. “She has information he needs to know. It’s unlikely it came up in your investigation.”

  “I suppose you’re going to tell me she’s not guilty.”

  My granddaughter and I both nodded vigorously. “She’s not,” I said vehemently.

  “What do you mean?” His curiosity got the better of him.

  I opened my folder and pulled out Freddy’s medical records. “These are the documents Sir Geoffrey kept regarding an accident that permanently injured his nephew thirty-five years ago.”

  Enos’s shoulders went rigid. “You should have turned this over to the police.”

  “I am now. It’s taken me time to go through Sir Geoffrey’s things. I just figured out what happened this morning.” I hesitated. “He also wrote something in his last journal entry—the week before his death—that has everything to do with motive.”

  Enos started to scold me again, but Georgina shushed him. “Give Gran a break, okay? You couldn’t expect her to hand over the entire estate lock, stock, and barrel, especially after you released the crime scene.”

  “I knew that was a mistake,” he said gloomily.

  I looked at Georgina. She nodded, and I turned back to Enos. “Is it possible for us to sit down with Daisy and Freddy and I can present the evidence?”

  Enos scratched his head.

  Tom came out of the interrogation room. “You have no business here today, Ms. Holland. Why you don’t you go home and brew some tea.”

  I felt Georgina’s hackles rise.

  Enos tapped his superior on the shoulder and whispered to him. In a louder voice, he added, “She’s asking to see the prisoner, sir.”

  I held my breath while Tom studied me. At length, he said, “She keeps saying it was all a mistake.”

  “If it matters, I don’t think it was premeditated.”

  Tom shrugged. “We need to hear what you’ve got, I suppose.”

  Daisy turned an incredulous look in my direction when Georgina, Freddy, and I followed Tom into the interrogation room. “What are they doing here?”

  We all took a seat at the table. I put the folder down in front of me. “I asked to speak with you and Freddy, Daisy. You see—” I opened the folder. “I’m here on behalf of Sir Geoffrey. I wanted to let you know that he never forgave himself for what happened in that accident years ago.”

  His jaw tightened. “You can’t know that.”

  “But I do, because he wrote about it. At the end, when he knew you were coming for a visit.” I had reached the crucial point. “How long have you known your uncle caused the accident that left you permanently injured?” Sir Geoffrey’s guilt had drenched that final file.

  Freddy blinked. “He wrote me a month ago, telling me he was leaving me all of his holdings in Britain except for a lifetime stipend for … for someone else.”

  I took a very educated guess. “For a certain chauffeur and his family?”

  Freddy ducked his head, looking stricken.

  Tom stirred beside me. “What accident are you talking about, Mrs. Holland?”

  I handed him all but one of the pages I’d printed from Sir Geoffrey’s journal. “Thirty-five years ago, a drunken Sir Geoffrey caused an accident that disabled his infant nephew, Freddy Guilfoyle. The family blamed the accident on the chauffeur—whose word would never be taken over British royalty, no matter how far removed from the Crown.” I pointed to the pages in his hand. “It’s all there—Sir Geoffrey’s confession
and wish to make things right.”

  Tom frowned. “So are you saying that Mrs. Guilfoyle killed her brother-in-law to punish him for what he did to her son?”

  I pulled the last printed page from the folder. “No. You’ve arrested the wrong Guilfoyle.” I handed him the paper. “Sir Geoffrey received this email from Freddy just before he and Daisy left for the States.”

  Freddy lifted his head. With a weary sigh, he spoke in a low voice. “When Uncle Geoff wrote me and told me what really happened that night, I felt so betrayed and angry.” He shrugged his left shoulder. “And it’s not just because I have to live with this. My father died because I couldn’t handle driving the car. That’s Uncle Geoff’s fault.”

  Tom held up the paper. “So you wrote him this letter, threatening to hurt him like he hurt you?”

  Freddy dropped his head in his hands. “We argued all night. We were supposed to go spearfishing with Mr. Whitaker—that’s why the gear was out.”

  Enos stopped taking notes and stared at him, his mouth open.

  “I grabbed the spear, thinking I’d injure him, like he did me, but—it all happened so fast—he lunged to get the spear away from me, and I … I couldn’t lower it in time.” Freddy covered his face as his voice broke.

  I had to know about Marshfield. “Did you have to poison your uncle’s dog? He never did anything to you.”

  “Mother did that. She thought it might suggest someone else had snuck into the house.”

  The tape recorder in the center of the table whirred, recording every word. A part of me wanted to remind Freddy he didn’t have to speak without a lawyer present. Surely he was aware of his basic rights.

  Suddenly Freddy sat up straight. “I’ll wait until my lawyer is present before I say any more.”

  EPILOGUE

  Two hours later, Enos handed me a note from Georgina. ENOS’S WIFE HAS TAKEN ME HOME. YOU’LL HAVE TO GIVE ME A BLOW-BY-BLOW DESCRIPTION OF WHAT HAPPENED.