Murder for Tea

by Vered Ehsani

  “Oh, Mrs. Beatrice Timmons, how you flatter me,” Simon said between guffaws.

  I leaned over and kissed his forehead before straightening. “And what news is this?” I demanded, tugging at the corner of the newspaper to view the headline article. “The Wedding Killer?”

  Simon flipped to the front page, glanced at the article and commented, “Yes, apparently the case of the Wedding Killer was quite the rage up until a couple months ago.”

  “Do tell,” I prompted him despite my avowed disinterest in outdated news. I sat by his side, leaned against him and placed a hand on his knee.

  “Some bloke took it upon himself to murder several brides and their grooms,” Simon explained, his gray eyes bright with merriment. “But at least he did so before the respective bride and groom could marry and kill each other themselves. There are those who might argue he performed a service to society. Instead, he was arrested and jailed.”

  “The law is a strange beast indeed. And then what happened?” I asked, intrigued by any mystery that could command the front page of The Times.

  Grinning, he shook out the newspaper to another page. “The entire wedding industry throughout the United Kingdom nearly collapsed for a while.”

  “You truly can’t take such stories seriously,” I chided him.

  “It doesn’t matter at any rate,” he said. “They caught the man. For the longest time though, weekly updates on the murderer’s activities entertained us thoroughly. It was better than the serials by Charles Dickens.”

  “This is why I don’t bother with the newspaper,” I huffed as I stood up, gesturing to the front page and resuming my pacing. “It’s at least three weeks out of date, and that’s assuming the steamer from London to Mombasa isn’t delayed. And it’s so dreadfully prone to sensationalism. They encourage fear mongering and hysteria amongst the unwashed and uneducated masses.”

  “I bathe,” Simon pointed out, not in the least bit offended.

  Before I could respond in any sensible manner, Gideon floated through the wall. My dead first husband bestowed on me his most charming smile, his angelic, boyish features disguising his mischievous nature. He swept a lock of brown hair off his forehead with a flamboyant flick of one hand and saluted me.

  If I were to wax poetic (and I seldom do), I’d describe Gideon as an elegant, fleet-footed gazelle bounding across the field. Simon would be the water buffalo: not particularly pretty or graceful, but solid, unshakeable, fearless and determined in his defense of loved ones. It is most fortunate that I’m not a poet, for I doubt any man would appreciate being compared to an African herbivore.

  “Speaking of uneducated masses,” Simon muttered, bestowing on Gideon a dark look. “Beatrice, love of my life, you have a visitor.”

  “Ah, Mr. Timmons, you wish I were a mere visitor,” Gideon said, tap-dancing in the air around husband number two. “I happen to dwell here and, let me remind you, I was married to her before you were.”

  “What do you want?” I demanded before the two men could continue their bickering. Managing this household was something akin to herding cats.

  Feigning a pained expression, Gideon sighed in a dramatic fashion and pretended to wilt across the love seat. The paisley pattern was barely visible through his translucent form. In his faint voice, he whispered, “How you abuse me so. I merely came to remind you to feed Shelby.”

  “As if I could forget,” I exclaimed.

  “Oh, but you could,” Gideon countered as he floated up to the ceiling. He wagged a finger at me, an impudent grin brightening his features. “You’ve forgotten that baby enough times—”

  “Only once,” I corrected him.

  “And if it were not for me, she’d be nothing but skin and fur,” the ghost continued, willfully ignoring me as he adopted another dramatic pose, hand over heart, and chin tilted upward as if surveying the future.

  “An unlikely scenario if there ever was one,” I said, glancing at the clock on the mantle over the stone fireplace. Dismayed to realize that I was in danger of missing Shelby’s feeding time, I left Simon to his newspaper and hastened through our cottage into the kitchen where I grabbed a banana and began to peel it.

  “It’s bad enough you haunted me when you were alive,” I chided Gideon as he floated by my side, “but to do so when you’re dead is uncivil. It’s been a few years now, Gideon. Surely you’ve seen the light at the end of the tunnel, or perhaps found an equally annoying girl ghost with whom you can float away to a better, distant place?”

  As I peeled the banana, a small pile of fur leaped down from a wooden rafter above. With a happy shriek, the Vervet monkey landed on my arm and wrapped her tail around my wrist. As she gorged herself on mushy fruit, I studied her, intrigued as always by her near-human qualities as much as by her wild ape ones.

  The baby monkey had hairless, pale pink skin on her face, ears and palms which had yet to darken to the charcoal black of adulthood. Her dark eyes were prominent and had within their depths an intelligent glimmer. The ears jutted out, twitching with every swallow. A white fringe surrounded the little face while her overall color was light gray. Her delicate fingers clung to the banana as she tore into her meal. Bits of banana splattered around her and over my shirt sleeve.

  Leaning back into the cushion that padded the wooden chair, I gazed about the kitchen, enjoying the warmth provided by the black, round-bellied, metal stove. A kettle, its surface battered and darkened over the years, squatted on the stove’s top, a thin stream of steam rising to the ceiling. The scent of burning wood mingled with the perfume of herbs I’d hung from a rafter to dry. Amidst the chaos of life, I appreciated the orderliness of the kitchen with its lightly plastered stone walls, rough flagstone floor, and the copper and iron pots and pans hanging from hooks over the stone countertop.

  My contented reverie was interrupted by Gideon.

  “The poor thing is starving,” he said, his translucent form seeming to lean against the countertop.

  Huffing at the absurdity of his statement, I informed him pertly, “I’ll have you know I fed her only two hours ago.”

  “Two hours is an excessive length of time in the life of a baby,” he countered. As I opened my mouth to provide a suitable argument, he said, “I’ve been observing monkeys, and do you know what I’ve learned?”

  “That they’re a lot of trouble?” I offered.

  Adopting a wounded air that would melt the heart of most women, he turned his back to me and said, “On behalf of baby monkeys everywhere, I am offended.”

  Tossing the banana peel onto the table, I attempted to wipe Shelby’s mouth. “Out with it, Gideon. What is it?”

  Spinning about, he said, “Mother monkeys carry their babies everywhere.”

  “Fascinating.”

  “In fact, I believe the constant contact is vital for the development of the baby,” he continued, his enthusiasm for the subject evident in his dramatic arm movements. “Just as with human babies, you wouldn’t leave one on its own for hours on end.”

  “Well, I might,” I said as I wiped mush off Shelby’s little hands. While I didn’t consider myself particularly domesticated, I certainly couldn’t allow her to cover our cottage in banana-scented paw marks.

  “That is destined to change,” Gideon said. “As of today, you must carry Shelby everywhere you go.”

  I laughed; he didn’t.

  Gawking in a thoroughly unladylike fashion, I attempted to speak. Eventually, I squeaked out, “Surely you jest.”

  “I do not. This is no joking matter, Beatrice,” he declared, holding one hand aloft, clearly reveling in the drama of his pronouncement. “And I found the perfect solution: your old leather pouch. You used to store evidence in it when you worked as an investigator, and now it’s just collecting dust.”

  “Were you snooping around in my chest?” I demanded, wondering what else he found and hoping it was nothing incriminating.

  “Well, I’d hardly refer to it as snooping,” he said, grinning. “It
was more like creative exploration.”

  “Creative exploration,” I repeated as I slowly rose from my chair. “How about I creatively explore how to exile you to the Underworld?”

  Shaking his head, he smiled. “You’d miss me too much.”

  Rather than protest the fact, I warned him, “Stay out of my room.”

  “So you are sympathetic to my plan?”

  “I am not,” I said, thumping my metal hand upon the wooden table. Shelby squirmed in my other hand. “I have no intention of carrying around a baby monkey. It’s enough that I feed the little blighter.”

  He floated closer and whispered in my ear, “If you don’t, I’ll tell Simon you killed me.”

  “Oh, go on, then,” I scoffed. “Why should he care if I killed you?”

  Frowning at me, Gideon said, “Because it indicates a predilection of a particular sort.”

  “What—the husband killing sort?”

  “Exactly!”

  “Preposterous,” I said and released Shelby. She scampered across the table, searching for any gooey bits of banana I had yet to wipe away. “Besides, I already told him. And if we want to be completely truthful—”

  Gideon shuddered. “Perish the thought.”

  Ignoring the interruption, I resumed my seated position, leaning back in the chair, and said, “I actually didn’t kill you.”

  “Your werewolf energy did,” Gideon said. “And that’s about the same.”

  As if summoned by the accusation, a faint outline of a silver wolf appeared by my side, silently snarling at Gideon. The result of a werewolf bite inflicted upon me during my tumultuous childhood, the werewolf energy had remained even after my mother cured me. Thanks to her intervention, I didn’t sprout excessive amounts of hair or fur once a month, for which I was grateful.

  “You’re being ludicrous,” I said. “It didn’t kill you, any more than I did. If you recall, you had already been poisoned, and not by me or my wolf.”

  “It still attacked me,” Gideon insisted, scowling at the snarling canine.

  Ignoring him, I signaled to the wolf to return into my metal left hand. As the energy sunk into the joints, the fingers creaked and squeaked.

  “You need to oil your hand,” Gideon said, sulking at my disinterest in the topic of his death.

  “Thank you,” I said, my tone anything but appreciative. “Now about what were we chatting?”

  “We were discussing how you will carry Shelby around at all times,” he reminded me.

  As if in agreement, Shelby mewed and stared up at me with her large, dark eyes. Squealing, she flung herself around my neck.

  “You see?” Gideon said, his face the picture of self-satisfaction. “I told you.”

  Chapter Three

  THERE WERE TWO sorts of correspondence that I abhorred: telegraphs and notes from a police officer. Good news never resulted from either source, and I’ve yet to be proven wrong in this prejudice.

  I was at home in the kitchen fiddling with my bow when a heavy pounding on the front door disturbed my concentration. As our close acquaintances seldom approached us by the front path, my shoulders tensed in anticipation.

  “I’ll see to it,” Simon called out.

  Holding my breath, I listened with great care, for one could never be certain how safe it was to answer the front door. As I didn’t hear the sound of a gunshot or swords clashing, I relaxed until Simon strolled into the kitchen. While his posture was casual, there was a dark glimmer in his gray eyes.

  “It’s a message from the Chief Constable,” Simon said, handing me a crumpled and dusty note. “I must congratulate you, madam.”

  “Oh?” My suspicions aroused, I took the note and smoothed the paper against my skirt.

  “Oh, yes,” my husband said as he scratched one of his sideburns. “It seems you’ve managed to land yourself in trouble yet again, and you’ve only just started your first pot of tea for the day. Assuredly this is a record for you.”

  “Not at all,” I answered nonchalantly. “I’ve found trouble while sleeping.”

  Ignoring his indecent and scandalous response, I studied the words scrawled in pencil before me.

  “I see,” I said.

  Gideon floated up through the stone floor. “What do you see?”

  “It seems The Cozy Tea Shoppe has had its first pre-dawn customer,” I said, folding the paper into my pocket.

  “But you’re not opened for business until at least after breakfast,” Gideon said as he stroked his chin.

  “Correct.”

  “Then hearty congratulations!” Gideon cheered. “Your store is so popular they can’t wait for you to open.”

  Simon snorted and leaned against the doorway, shaking his head.

  I frowned at Gideon. “Did I neglect to mention the customer is dead?”

  “You did fail to do so,” Gideon said soberly, then grinned. “I hope he or she paid before dying.”

  Simon glared at my first husband while I sighed and said, “Sadly not. To make matters worse, I’m being summoned there by the Chief Constable.”

  Gideon shrugged. “Why would they need to question you? Do they realize you haven’t yet had breakfast?”

  “Apparently not,” I said. “But I suppose that’s the procedure when a person shows up dead in your shop.”

  Gideon clucked his tongue and said, “People can be so inconsiderate.”

  Chapter Four

  “PLEASE TRY NOT to lose another limb,” Simon implored me as he slumped at his desk, attempting to write a reassuring letter to one of his suppliers. “I’d rather my wife remain in one piece.”

  Smiling, I yanked on my leather glove. “Well, aren’t you demanding? Of course I shall be the epitome of caution and—” I began.

  “Beatrice,” Simon interrupted me as he looked up from his scrawled words. “Let’s maintain a firm grip on reality here and avoid exaggeration.”

  Stuffing my feet into my boots, I peered up at him from the stool near the door. “As you wish.”

  I cleared my throat, placed one hand over the general location of my heart and said, “I solemnly swear I won’t unnecessarily endanger myself or place my hand in the maw of a ravenous beast. I’ll avoid creatures that want to possess me and I’ll even ask Nelly not to buck me off when she’s flying through the air. There, I believe I’ve covered all possibilities. Does that satisfy you?”

  Simon’s hands clenched around one another where they rested over his letter but he otherwise remained impassive. “I suppose it shall have to do. But perhaps you should keep Nelly on the ground; that’s fast enough.”

  Standing up and brushing at my long skirt, I settled a wide-rimmed hat upon my head. Taking care to angle it so that it covered the werewolf bites on my right ear, I turned to face my uncharacteristically preoccupied husband.

  “What’s the point of owning a flying horse if I don’t make use of her abilities from time to time?” I demanded. “Please don’t fret. I’m only going into town.”

  “Famous last words.” He stood, tossed his fountain pen onto the desk and paced his office, tentacles of his energy snapping around him as if seeking a victim to latch onto and absorb.

  It was fortunate that the Chief Constable had sent a messenger. I was certain if the head of the constabulary were standing on our doormat, Simon would have caught him in those tentacles, drained his life force and tossed his remains to the hyenas by now. Perhaps, I mused, Dougal had enough sense to recognize a caged tiger.

  “I’m sure it’s nothing,” I said. “It’s not as if I’ve anything to hide from them.”

  While I’d hoped for a soothing impact, my words only aggrieved him further. Every muscle in his limbs was like a coiled spring, ready to explode into action at the first provocation. Rather than continue pacing, he resumed his seat.

  Reaching for my walking stick, I said, “I shall be careful.”

  “Don’t make promises you don’t know you can keep,” he warned me, his eyebrows drawn together into a fr
own. “And you don’t need to cover your ear anymore.”

  I leaned over and kissed him on the forehead. “I receive enough stares because of this,” I explained, holding up my left hand. My werewolf energy glowed in the metal joints, causing the fingers to twitch. “What would people say if they saw my chewed-up ear?”

  Simon shrugged and picked up his pen. “That you’re dreadfully negligent when it comes to the well-being of your body parts. At any rate, it’s of no importance what they say, my dear.”

  Despite his display of indifference, I could tell his confinement chafed at him, and that he yearned to accompany me to the murder scene. I kissed him again, and he rewarded me with a reluctant smile.

  Leaving him to his letter, I marched through the house to the kitchen’s backdoor, as we seldom used the front door. Jonas was hunched over the stove, stuffing bits of wood into the fat belly of the blackened, dented contraption.

  I had no doubt that Jonas had listened to our conversation. He confirmed my suspicions when, without raising his wrinkled head, he said, “Miss White, she’s going to town now.”

  It was Jonas’ indirect way of informing me that he’d rather not have to leave the warmth of the kitchen to saddle my horse for me. I didn’t blame him. Earlier that morning, a squall had flayed the landscape with a torrent of heavy drops. After a long drought, the rains were a relief but they had transformed our garden into a muddy marsh and had drained the warmth from Nairobi. While the storm had moved down onto the savannah, low-lying clouds remained along with a bone-numbing damp cold.

  I glanced at Jonas who was gripping a log in his gnarled hands, his face warmed by the embers within the stove.

  “Lucky bloke,” I muttered and stepped outside.

  A cool breeze nipped at my cheeks. In a nearby thorn tree, the yellow weaver birds’ nests bobbed on the branches like straw-colored ornaments. Clutching my leather trench coat tightly at the throat, I hastened toward the neighboring house, a delightful two-story construction of roughly hewn stone blocks and red brick roofing tiles owned by the Hardinge family. Lord and Lady Hardinge had generously provided rooms to Father and Cilla, in addition to giving the guest wing to Lilly, Tiberius and their bat baby. They had also gifted the cottage to Simon and me. We were entirely indebted to them and yet they never made mention of all they’d done for us.