by Vered Ehsani
Table of Contents
Title Page
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Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Fact & Fiction
Read More
About the Author
Copyright
Murder for Tea
a Cozy Tea Shoppe Mystery: Case 1
By Vered Ehsani
from Africa… with a Bite
Get 4 Books for Free
Ghosts of Tsavo ~ Beatrice Knight arrives in colonial Kenya desperate for a pot of tea. What she gets is a lot of adventure. This is the first book in the Society for Paranormals series.
Victorian Nairobi: A photo album ~ Enjoy this collection of century-old photos taken during the early days of Nairobi’s history.
That Night in Lagos ~ Learn how Miss Knight met the Mantis, her arch-nemesis, during her first adventure on the African continent.
From Africa, with a Bite ~ Enjoy a beginner’s guide to African supernatural beings and things that go bump in the night.
Three of these books aren’t available in any store. For more information, go to http://veredehsani.co.za/free-books/
Chapter One
“A DEAD BODY doesn’t necessarily scare away customers,” I reassured myself the day we found the first victim amongst the teapots.
Of all the lessons I learned from owning a tea shop, this was possibly the most crucial. Even in the East African colonies, the English couldn’t be so easily discouraged from buying their favorite beverage. Given the circumstances surrounding the shop’s grand opening, such resilience on the part of my customers was a jolly good thing indeed.
Most fortuitously, the aforementioned event didn’t actually occur on the day I officially opened my shop; a corpse would’ve been so terribly inconvenient. Much to my relief, opening day held no hint of murder, mayhem or anything else of interest. Glancing about, I observed only customers who were alive and with coins clinking in their purses; absent were rampaging wildlife and reanimated skeletons. It was almost boring, and what more could one ask for in the small town of Nairobi in 1900?
“How thrilling,” Cilla squealed, squeezing my arm. Her round face flushed, my dearest friend spun around to observe the growing crowd, her dark blond hair fanning behind her.
To Cilla, everything was thrilling. I’d never encountered an individual of any species as enthusiastic about all aspects of life as she was. However, I had to concede the point: it was marvelous. Despite recent events (a missing she-demon, an imprisoned husband, hungry ghost lions and a host of other disruptions), I was finally opening The Cozy Tea Shoppe.
On my other side, my cousin and sister-in-law Lilly was extracting her fashionably coiffed hair from the fist of my liquid-oozing niece, Grace. “It really is,” she said with a huff. “Grace, do behave.”
I doubted a two-month-old baby was capable of anything of the sort. Proving my point, Grace gurgled, cooed and spat up milk-coated bubbles on her mother’s jacket. Trying not to express my disgust, I sidled closer to Cilla. I was wearing my freshly oiled leather trench coat and one of the few outfits I owned that had an unsoiled hem and no rips or other deficiencies, and I intended to keep it that way. While my niece was delightful most of the time (especially when she was asleep), I preferred to enjoy her and her vomit from a distance.
We were standing on the somewhat muddy Victoria Street, minutes away from officially welcoming customers to the shop. A red ribbon awaited as did a shuffling crowd of English gentry and Indian traders milling behind us.
“That was terribly ingenious of you, Bee,” Cilla said as she gestured to the shop and linked her arm through mine. “Who would have thought of using packing crates as part of the display?”
I blushed at the praise and said, “I was hard-pressed to find anyone with the skills to craft a suitable set of shelves in time.”
Cilla giggled, although I couldn’t say what amused her. “It’s a good thing you didn’t toss out those crates then.”
I gazed at the storefront window and appreciated my handiwork. After I had removed the lids and bottoms of the crates, and sanded and polished the remaining wood, the resulting open boxes were presentable enough to stack in the window display. Each box presented a framed view of a tea set to customers both inside and outside the shop.
“Go on, then,” Lilly urged. “Make it quick. I think I need to change a nappy.”
“Thank you for information I could well live without,” I muttered under my breath.
A stiff smile on my face, I climbed the short flight of wooden steps to the narrow veranda and faced the crowd, a set of garden sheers in my hands. As I stood before the crowd of expectant faces, I swallowed against the constriction in my throat. Dampness gathered under my arms and across the back of my neck. Giant insects, flying horses, one-eyed monster crocodiles, shape-shifting vampires and an army of skeletons were nothing compared to facing a restless crowd.
A wave of a handkerchief caught my attention. Cilla held it before her, her smile wide, her dark blue eyes adoring and her nod encouraging. Keeping my gaze on her, I stumbled through the short speech I’d prepared, garden sheers gripped before me as if to ward off any spectators who might try to jump the queue.
“Welcome to The Cozy Tea Shoppe,” I said, ending my speech. Inhaling deeply, I turned and cut the ribbon to polite clapping.
In a daze, I led the way in and positioned myself behind the counter where I presumed no customer would dare to follow me. At least there I wouldn’t bump elbows with anyone. Cilla and Lilly loitered nearby, ogling at Grace.
“It seems as if the whole town is here,” Cilla gushed, gesturing to the small, round tables. “There isn’t a spare seat to be had.”
“I told you the tablecloths would be perfect,” Lilly said as she fussed with Grace’s dress. “And you said you don’t like pink.”
“I don’t,” I said, “but the rose pattern is lovely.”
I glanced admiringly at the shop. One wall was covered in paintings and ornamental plates we’d originally brought from London but had never unpacked due to a lack of space in my aunt and uncle’s new home. I’d found a section of ornate metal fencing that was rusting at the back of the post office. A fresh coat of white paint and a string of silk flowers woven amongst the bars had transformed the piece of junk into something resembling art.
Another wall had more shelves stacked against it with a wide range of tea sets, tea strainers and other accessories. Along the back wall, behind the stone countertop, were large tins and dark glass jars filled with loose leaf tea, as well as plates of pastries, imported marzipan, chocolates and salt toffee.
&
nbsp; While Wanjiru, my newest employee, could barely look anyone in the eyes, she did a splendid job of handing out tea samples. Jonas, my gardener, squatted in the small kitchen behind me where a large kettle was constantly simmering. Whenever I caught his eye, he scowled at me, tugging at the cravat I’d insisted he wear for the occasion.
I ignored his rebellious glares and turned to a red-cheeked man standing before me. Not pleased at the sight of Chief Constable Dougal, I nonetheless maintained a pleasant countenance. It wasn’t Dougal’s fault he’d had to arrest my husband a couple months ago; nonetheless, I couldn’t help but blame him.
Mumbling a few niceties, the Chief Constable indicated a younger man of slimmer build, bright blue eyes and decidedly improved looks. At least, his fair complexion wasn’t yet ruined by sun and drink. Lilly, standing next to me, commented on the young man’s attire.
“His overcoat is at least a few years out of date and an atrocious color to boot,” she whispered. “Can’t he see this is a high-end establishment?”
Fixing my smile as firmly as I could, I ignored her and was gratified that the men seemed not to have heard her observation on fashion. The Chief Constable launched into a formal introduction and clapped a hand against the young man’s back with enough force to cause us all to wince in sympathy.
“Constable Hunt arrived just last week to beef up the force,” the Chief Constable said. “Helpful chap, bright as a new penny.”
“How delightful,” I murmured. “Would you like a sample of tea? I’d recommend the house blend.”
“Don’t mind if I do,” Dougal said as he pulled out a small canister from his coat pocket and flung a few drops of a foul-smelling liquid into the teacup I offered.
Constable Hunt held up a hand. “That’s very kind. I’m more of a coffee drinker.”
I attempted to restrain a gasp. “Coffee,” I repeated as if the substance was as offensive as Dougal’s liquor, which it was. “I see.”
Sensing my displeasure, Dougal hurried into the conversational silence. “There’s too many people here in Nairobi for one officer of the law to manage, even with the three native assistants to look after the camp. Aye, Mrs. Timmons, we’re pleased as punch to have ‘im with us in this outpost, that we are. ‘Specially with the camp growing as fast as it is. Chaotic place.”
I glanced out the front window. From my position, I couldn’t see the sprawling camp, but I could easily visualize the bleached canvas tents in their messy rows. The camp housed the Indian workers who were building the East African railway. Each week, more workers arrived as the fatality rate was high and the workload even higher.
Chief Constable Dougal slurped at his tea, the red in his cheeks not so prominent this morning. “There’s not many who would give up the good life in London, what with his advancing so fast up the ranks.”
“That’s very impressive,” I said as I requested Wanjiru to take the next customer’s purchase and silently wished the two would depart. There was no reason for them to take up space in the milling crowd that filled the shop.
“Aye, he’s a solid record when it comes to the hunt,” Dougal said, grinning at his clever use of the younger constable’s last name.
I groaned softly. “He didn’t just do that.”
Constable Hunt leaned closer. “He did,” he confirmed, and entered the conversation with the ease of a well-bred man. “He’s been doing it since I arrived. And I suspect he’ll still be doing it for a while.”
At that, I forgave the young man his preference for coffee and out-of-fashion coats for he impressed me with his fine manners and pleasant countenance. We shared a conspiratorial smile before I asked, “So do you always catch your man?”
“I’ve been told I have a near perfect record,” the young constable said, although without a hint of boastfulness. “Only once did I lose my quarry, and I won’t let that happen again.”
“Indeed you should not,” I agreed as I tidied up the counter before me. “You may find this a rather quiet experience after the hustle and bustle of the big town. Even the Bazaar, as ramshackle as that marketplace is, is still rather contained.”
Leaning an elbow on the counter, he smiled, yet his gaze lingered elsewhere. “I’m sure it’s not as boring as all that.”
I didn’t correct him. In fact, there were times I wished Nairobi was a tad less interesting. Sadly, Constable Hunt was soon proven correct.
Chapter Two
STRANGELY ENOUGH, THE idea for The Cozy Tea Shoppe was proposed by my former arch-nemesis, a murderous, West African she-demon named Koki.
Koki had two habits I abhorred: shape-shifting into an elephant-sized Praying Mantis with a penchant for decapitating her enemies; and holding a grudge (she still blamed me for cutting off one of her legs, but to be fair, she had another five).
That said, she produced from time to time a decent idea or two. It was she who created the design for my newest bow, the likes of which the world had never seen; it certainly raised eyebrows here in the small town of Nairobi. She’d also saved me from being eaten by a giant crocodile, although I suspect the danger wasn’t all that she claimed it to be.
And of course, she had inspired me to enter the world of commercial enterprise, despite me being a woman and having no experience in running a shop. That said, I was grateful she hadn’t attended the grand opening. Decapitation wouldn’t encourage repeat customers.
“You have that look,” Simon said from where he sprawled across the sofa.
“Which one?” I demanded as I attempted to smooth the features of my face into a bland expression. I could feel a slight heat blushing my pale cheeks and hoped my husband would assume it was due to the fire crackling behind me. Alas, he knew me too well to be fooled. To distract myself, I played with my braided hair, the straight, mousey brown strands tightly interwoven in a pattern that I pretended to find fascinating.
He flipped a page of the newspaper, the dry sheets rustling within the grasp of his blunt fingers. “That mildly irritated and distressed look you have whenever you think about Koki. Your eyes become bright yellow. It’s almost disconcerting. What has she done to vex you this time?”
“Nothing,” I stated, my vehemence earning me no more than a twitch of Simon’s bushy eyebrows. Breathing deeply, I willed my eyes to return to their golden-hazel tone. “She’s done absolutely nothing, and therein lies the rub. She said she would be here, assisting us, or rather me, to protect baby Grace. It’s a wonder no one has noticed my little niece’s oddities. It’s only a matter of time, you realize. Where is Koki when I need her?”
He shrugged. “Maybe there’s some innocent man who requires decapitating.”
“Then he can’t be entirely innocent, now can he?” I retorted, feeling the irrational need to defend Koki. How chaotic were my emotions!
Simon peered over the newspaper at me, his dark sideburns twitching under his grin. I studied him as he continued reading. He was a strongly built man, not particularly tall, although not small by any means. His disinterest in the latest trends was evident in his unfashionably shaggy hair and bushy sideburns. The physical quality that had first attracted me and still fascinated me were his eyes: gray and fierce, like twin storm clouds.
“Enough of this,” I said and rubbed my hands together as I began to pace the sitting room of our cottage, my long skirt swishing about my ankles. “I need advice about the shop’s opening hours. I’m still unsure if I should open early or close late. What say you, Simon?” My indoor shoes clicked against the stone floor slabs.
“That you should sit down,” my husband replied as he flipped another page of the newspaper. “You’re giving me vertigo.”
“Mid-morning then,” I said, ignoring his remark. “Opening hours will be mid-morning. Not that you’d be able to ever come. After all, I doubt the Chief Constable will grant you leave from your current condition anytime soon.”
“And what condition is that, Beatrice my love?”
Smiling at his jovial demeanor, I said, “
You know very well: your house confinement. As far as the Chief Constable is concerned, you are still under arrest. The guard outside our front door is testament to that fact.”
Simon shrugged, his broad shoulders indicating a calmness and detachment I knew he didn’t truly feel. After all, his former fiancee Miss Baxter had accused him of attacking her in a violent manner; he was now in danger of being deported back to London to face trial. I almost wished Miss Baxter had informed the constables of the full truth: that during an argument, Simon had absorbed some of her energy, thereby temporarily taking on her appearance. The law enforcers would have dismissed the charges and accused her of insanity. They certainly wouldn’t have believed in the existence of a paranormal identity thief.
I glanced at the newspaper. The side column provided a story on the world’s first Fingerprint Bureau for use in criminal records; it had opened in 1897, in India of all places. After three years of experience, the Bureau had refined the system for fingerprinting to a precise science. I marveled how any thief would be able to escape justice once detectives universally adopted the fingerprinting technique.
Noting the publishing date, I observed, “The paper’s three weeks old. That makes it history, not news.”
Chuckling, Simon said, “Now, my dear, you do exaggerate. If it’s only three weeks old, then it’s breaking news here in British East Africa. At any rate, we discussed your initial question, and you have my permission to open your shop at any time you desire.”
He snickered at his last comment, knowing how it would gall me. After all, I prided myself on my independent spirit, despite my marital status. Sadly, the law of the British Empire saw the matter in a different light, and had required me to include my husband’s signature on the lease of the building. Despite that nettling detail, my plans had proceeded well enough, and I needed no one’s permission in the management of my shop.
“I used to believe you to be an intolerable ruffian,” I jested.
“And now?”
“Now I know you are,” I said and smiled as he flung his head back and laughed uproariously. I preferred him to laugh at me than to sulk at his confinement.