Murder with Cucumber Sandwiches

by Karen Rose Smith

  “I am,” Stella admitted. “But this sounded urgent. The welfare of each of our students is our main priority at Willow Creek High. Now tell me what’s happening with Jazzi. You mentioned significant changes in her life, and that you feel she needs outside help handling them.”

  Tension crawled up Daisy’s spine as she wondered how much to say. “I don’t want to overload you with information.”

  “I made time for you. Go ahead and overload. You’re not the type of woman who talks just for the sake of talking. Believe me, I have a lot of parents who do.”

  Mrs. Cotton’s half smile relaxed Daisy a bit.

  She didn’t know why she was nervous. Whatever happened here . . . or didn’t . . . should help Jazzi find her way. She started with, “As you know Vi went to college this year.”

  “I hear she’s doing well,” Mrs. Cotton said.

  Daisy nodded. “She is—four-point-oh her first semester, and I think she’s enjoying it too.”

  At the guidance counselor’s nod, Daisy went on. “But Jazzi misses her. They’ve been together since we adopted Jazzi.”

  “Yes, I remember that Jazzi is adopted. That’s in her records, and I went over those before you came in. Jazzi is a good student, though according to her teachers, she has seemed moody at times this year.”

  “And that’s the essence of why I’m here,” Daisy explained. “In the fall, Jazzi decided to search for her biological parents.”

  “Ah,” Mrs. Cotton breathed, as if that said it all.

  “With help from a friend, we found her mother,” Daisy went on. “She lives in Allentown. She and Jazzi have had phone conversations, and Portia has visited us twice.”

  “How is Jazzi feeling about her?”

  “She likes Portia. But I think she feels guilty she’s hurting me by being friendly with Portia. Of course, I’m worried about their relationship and worried that Jazzi will get hurt.”

  “Why are you worried if this Portia is accepting Jazzi as her daughter?”

  “That’s the problem. She hasn’t accepted Jazzi completely. Her husband and children don’t know about Jazzi. At least they didn’t until a short time ago when Portia went away with her husband on a business trip and she told him. It didn’t go well. He moved out. Now Jazzi feels responsible for splitting up their marriage.”

  Mrs. Cotton looked aghast. “Jazzi is an intelligent, caring young woman with a sense of responsibility. I can see that from the service projects she takes on and the clubs she’s joined, not to mention the fact that she works for you now and then at the tea garden. Correct?”

  “Yes, she does. And on top of all the rest, I don’t think we spoke of my husband’s death enough. Violet was vocal in her grief. Jazzi wasn’t. When we moved back to Willow Creek, I was involved in opening the business. I feel Jazzi stuffed it all inside because she didn’t want to bother me with it.”

  “Or she didn’t want to go through the pain of the grief,” Mrs. Cotton commented.

  Daisy had considered that. “Yes, that too. On top of everything else, I’m dating someone. He’s the one who helped me find Jazzi’s biological mother. Jazzi says she doesn’t mind. She likes Jonas and she trusts him. But I think it’s just one more thing for her to deal with.”

  Both women were silent for a few seconds. Then Mrs. Cotton asked, “And how would you like me to help with all of this? Do you want me to talk to Jazzi?”

  “You have so many students to think about, and I believe Jazzi needs more than a session here and there. I was wondering if you could suggest a good therapist.”

  “Art therapist, play therapist, talk therapist?” Mrs. Cotton asked.

  “I’m not sure about that. I know it can take time to get in to see somebody. I was hoping with your recommendation, Jazzi could start sooner rather than later.”

  Mrs. Cotton’s Rolodex sat on her desk. She pulled it over in front of her and fingered through it. “I have several suggestions, but . . . if I remember correctly, Violet and Jazzi have two cats, don’t they?”

  Daisy had no idea where this was going. “Yes, we do. They’re part of our family.”

  “I know a therapist who’s very good with teenagers. She has a cat who sits in on most sessions. She finds that Lancelot relaxes her clients. He’s very loving, and in that intuitive way cats have, he knows whether to come closer or stay away.”

  “It sounds like he might be an icebreaker,” Daisy remarked.

  “Exactly. Let me give you Tara Morelli’s number. Call her and tell her I recommended that you contact her. If that isn’t enough to get you an appointment soon, I’ll call her myself. Just let me know.”

  Mrs. Cotton wrote the name and number on a sheet of paper from a notepad and handed it to Daisy. “Do Violet and Jazzi talk on the phone or do they text mostly?”

  “Mostly text.”

  The counselor shook her head. “That’s the problem these days . . . too much impersonal finger use and not enough actual face-to-face communication. If you talk to Violet about this, you might want to emphasize that actually having a conversation with Jazzi would be more beneficial to her than texting.”

  “I’ll do that. I’m hoping Vi will get home for the talent show, but that depends on her end-of-the-year workload.” Daisy picked up her purse and stood. “Thank you.”

  “Don’t thank me yet,” Mrs. Cotton admonished, standing also. “Jazzi might have to go through rough sessions and come out feeling better on the other side. Just keep that in mind while she’s going through therapy.”

  “I will,” Daisy assured the guidance counselor. “Thank you again,” Daisy said as she went to the door.

  “You can just leave the door open,” Mrs. Cotton advised her. “I have an open-door policy.”

  Mrs. Cotton’s words warmed Daisy. She was a kind woman doing a difficult job. But her years of experience showed she knew how to handle most situations.

  Daisy was hurrying down the hall when she spotted Bradley Schumacher walking toward her, looking preoccupied. As she approached him, she said, “Good afternoon, Mr. Schumacher.”

  He stopped and blinked as if he had come back from very far away.

  “My mind isn’t as alert as it should be,” he said with a grimace. “I just received a call. Derek’s body has been released and the funeral is in two days.”

  “I know I’ve said this before, but I’m sorry for your loss. It must be hard to lose a brother. I can’t even imagine.” She thought again about Camellia and the love they shared, even though they fought now and then.

  But there was an expression on Bradley Schumacher’s face that made Daisy wonder just how close he and Derek had been. “Will two days be enough time for you to notify everyone?”

  “There aren’t that many people to notify,” Bradley insisted.

  “Derek wasn’t romantically involved with anyone?”

  After a beat, he shook his head. “My brother wasn’t involved with anyone seriously at the present time.”

  Daisy suspected that could mean that Derek might hop from one woman to another, and not really get involved with anyone. She had to wonder if Detective Rappaport would be pursuing that angle.

  “Take care of yourself, Mr. Schumacher. Grief is much more difficult to handle than the worst flu.”

  “You sound like my wife,” he said with an almost-smile. “Thank you for your concern. Eventually it will be all right, especially after the police capture whoever hurt Derek.”

  Hurt was a funny word to use with regard to murder, but she supposed Bradley didn’t believe that anyone could hate his brother enough to kill him.

  * * *

  That evening Daisy was thinking about her conversation with Tessa before she’d left the tea garden.

  “Is something going on with Foster that I should know about?” Tessa had asked.

  “He won’t say, but I’m sure something is. I just hope it has nothing to do with Derek Schumacher.”

  “Why do you think it would?”

  “Foster has
computer skills. My guess is he knows how to hack into networks and e-mails. I’m just wondering if he could have hacked into Derek’s blog and seen the bad review.”

  “What bad review?”

  “When Detective Rappaport was in, he told me that the review Derek gave us sucked.”

  “But he didn’t say how bad it was?”

  “No. Actually, he did say Derek liked our cucumber sandwiches.”

  “There you go, something positive to think about.”

  Now Daisy didn’t know whether to laugh or cry because those were the same sandwiches that had killed him.

  A white crossover van came up the lane. That was Jazzi, home from debate practice. When Jazzi came in the door, Daisy went to the living room to greet her. After she hugged her, she said, “I invited Tessa to supper. She likes my sausage and potato casserole. I thought we’d have a girls’ night and watch a movie.”

  Jazzi wrinkled her nose. “I have homework, Mom.”

  “Do you think you could get it done while Tessa and I clean up after supper?”

  Jazzi gave Daisy a thoughtful look. “Maybe. I do have a study hall tomorrow morning.”

  Usually, Daisy didn’t suggest putting off homework until the morning or before class. But this was a little different. She sat down on the sofa and petted Marjoram who was sitting bread-loaf-style on one of the cushions. The tortie stretched out and rolled over.

  Daisy fluffed her tummy hair. “I saw Mrs. Cotton today.”

  “What did she say?” Jazzi removed her backpack, setting it by the staircase.

  When Daisy hesitated, Jazzi pushed. “Be honest with me, Mom.”

  “Have you heard from Portia?”

  “No, I haven’t. Nothing. Not a text, not a call, not an emoticon.”

  Daisy knew her daughter lived on emoticons . . . with her friends anyway.

  “First of all, Mrs. Cotton said you’re a good student, and that you’re responsible and caring.”

  “How does she know?” Jazzi brushed her hair back over her shoulder. “She’s not around me that much.”

  “She knows from comments teachers make on permanent records, from clubs and activities you participate in. Willow Creek is a small town and gossip travels. The school is an even smaller community. Good and bad things spin around.”

  “I know that. What else did she say?”

  Sometimes Jazzi was too perceptive. “She said some of your teachers have remarked that you’ve been moody since fall. I explained about Portia.”

  Jazzi sank down on the sofa and lifted Marjoram onto her lap. The feline stayed there as if she sensed Jazzi needed comfort. “Does Mrs. Cotton want me to go in and talk to her? I just can’t see it. We have nothing in common.”

  Daisy thought of Stella’s dyed black hair, her intense makeup, her bold outfits. “You don’t have to have anything in common with someone for them to be a good listener.”

  She could see Jazzi was still doubtful. “But really, that’s not what she suggested. I think you need more than a drop-in session.”

  “Mom—”

  “I mean it, Jazzi. You need to get your feelings out. If you can’t do it with me, you have to do it with someone.”

  “Not Mrs. Cotton.”

  “No, I didn’t think you’d want to do that. As I said, the whole community is a small one. So I asked her for the name of a good therapist.”

  Jazzi sighed. “And what did she come up with?”

  “It’s interesting, really. She asked if I thought you’d be interested in play therapy or art therapy or just talk therapy. I told her I wasn’t sure. So she suggested a therapist, Tara Morelli, who brings a cat to her sessions. Apparently, Lancelot is a yellow tabby and a sensitive feline. He can tell when her clients need comforting or want to be left alone.”

  Daisy saw Jazzi’s dark brown eyes sparkle a bit. “Really?”

  “That’s what she told me. I have Mrs. Morelli’s number. Do you want me to set up a session? Mrs. Cotton said if I tell Mrs. Morelli that she recommended her, she’ll get you in sooner rather than later.”

  Jazzi studied Marjoram for a moment. The tortie gave a soft meow. At the sound, Pepper came running in and wound around Jazzi’s ankles.

  “Do you really think this is best?” Jazzi asked.

  “I do. And if Portia gets in touch with you again, this therapist can probably give you strategies to handle that too. I’m warning you, though. She’s not going to have answers.”

  “Then what’s the point of going?” Jazzi whined.

  “The point of going is for her to lead you to find your own answers.”

  Jazzi scooped up Marjoram and set her on the sofa beside her. Pepper jumped up on the couch too.

  Finally, Jazzi said, “Okay. Call and make the appointment. I want to stop feeling so sad every day, and I want to stop being mad at Portia for not letting me know what’s going on.”

  “That will be a good place to start.”

  When Jazzi stood, Daisy went to her and gave her a long, tight hug. “I’m proud of you. For the most part, you’ve handled all of this really well.”

  “But not by drinking.”

  “No, not by drinking. Trying to escape never solves a problem. Why don’t you try to get some of that homework done? I’ll call you when dinner’s ready.”

  Jazzi nodded and headed toward the staircase, both cats jumping off the sofa to follow her.

  As Daisy crossed to the kitchen, she hoped she was doing the right thing for Jazzi. If Portia cut Jazzi out of her life altogether, Jazzi was going to need more help than Daisy could give her.

  * * *

  When Daisy and Tessa entered the funeral home Wednesday morning, they saw right away that it was packed. Were all these people Derek’s friends? Daisy wondered. Or were they simply nosy onlookers who wanted details about the murder or about the case?

  Daisy spotted Detective Rappaport and knew it wasn’t unusual for him to attend the viewing and/or funeral of a murder victim. He arched his eyebrows when he spotted her as if to ask—a nosy onlooker?

  No, she wasn’t. She had a reputation to uphold and a business to protect.

  Noticing Harriet sitting in her wheelchair along the velvet rope next to the closed casket, Daisy said to Tessa, “I’m going to give her my condolences.” Aunt Iris hadn’t come along, because funerals brought back too many memories. Memories returned for Daisy too.

  “I’ll come with you,” Tessa said. “Do you know who the woman is standing beside Harriet?”

  The woman standing beside Harriet’s wheelchair was dressed in a black suit and sturdy black shoes. She looked older than Harriet. Her hair was laced with as much white as gray. Her face, lined with wrinkles, told Daisy she was probably in her late fifties or sixties.

  As Daisy and Tessa waited in the receiving line, they could hear bits and pieces of conversations.

  “Derek could be quite snippy. Did you follow his blog?” one woman asked another.

  “Yes, I did. Do you think that person who made the death threat is the one who killed him?”

  Daisy had forgotten all about that death threat. She wondered if it had been brought to Detective Rappaport’s attention. Maybe his tech support people were tracing it back to whoever had posted that day.

  “Derek was a wonderful chef,” a man sitting on an aisle seat commented. “A couple of years ago, he invited me over. He made shrimp scampi to die for.”

  Bad use of the phrase, Daisy thought. As the line inched closer to the front, she saw the woman in front of her cup her hand around her mouth and say to the woman directly in front of Daisy, “That’s her sister. She hadn’t seen her in thirty-five years!”

  That was news. Daisy elbowed Tessa. “Do you believe they really weren’t in contact for thirty-five years? That must have been some rift.”

  “Anything’s possible,” Tessa replied with a shrug.

  Soon Daisy and Tessa were standing in front of Harriet’s wheelchair. Daisy took Derek’s mother’s hand in hers. “I’
m so sorry.”

  Harriet took a deep breath. “This is harder than I thought it would be.”

  Had Harriet thought she could sail through the viewing and the funeral without feeling anything? Why would she want to?

  Harriet squeezed Daisy’s hand. “I appreciate your coming. Let me introduce you to my sister, June.”

  After Daisy and Tessa were introduced, the woman in the black suit stretched her hand out to Daisy. “It’s good to meet you. It’s good to know Harriet has people who care about her.”

  Harriet’s son and daughter-in-law were standing next to June. Harriet’s daughter-in-law frowned.

  Daisy didn’t know what to ask without being nosy, but June herself started the conversation. “I haven’t been back in Willow Creek for thirty-five years.”

  Daisy wanted to ask why, but of course she couldn’t, at least not here. “Do you feel it’s changed much?” Daisy asked.

  “That’s the thing about towns like Willow Creek,” June said, “they don’t change much in even fifty years. Oh, there might be a new restaurant or a motel, one of those discount stores, and maybe even an extra streetlight, but for the most part they stay the same.”

  “Do you feel that’s a good thing?” Daisy asked.

  “The thing is, Daisy, the town doesn’t change, and neither do the people.”

  “I’m not sure about that,” Daisy disagreed. “The younger generation brings new ideas.”

  “Possibly. But I’m not sure they’re better ideas. I like the fact that there are still horses and buggies on the streets of Willow Creek. The farmers market has stayed viable. Many of the families I knew when I lived here still own farms that their families lived on for a century or more. Somehow they’ve kept them up and running.”

  “Not an easy task,” Daisy agreed.

  “Especially when you’re older, it’s hard to keep your own place. That’s why I moved into one of those retirement communities. Harriet should do the same.”

  Harriet’s gaze met Daisy’s. “She’s my older sister, can’t you tell? Always has an idea or a suggestion for what I should do.”

  June gave Harriet an indulgent smile. “For now, I’m going to stay with Harriet so I’m sure she has everything she needs. Then she can decide if she wants to sell the place or not.”