Murder with Lemon Tea Cakes

by Karen Rose Smith

“Do you think she might?”

  “She’s not sure what she’s going to do, but I don’t think she should be alone.”

  Yet Daisy knew her aunt probably felt very alone right now.

  When Iris emerged from the hall that led back to the interrogation rooms, she looked terrible. She even looked as if she might have been crying.

  Daisy stood and crossed to meet her at the gate. “Are you free to leave?”

  “For now,” Aunt Iris said, her lower lip trembling.

  Daisy saw the officers watching them, the dispatcher not that far away. She took her aunt’s arm. “Come on, let’s go. We can talk outside.”

  Once they’d exited the building and headed toward Daisy’s car, Iris stopped her a few feet from the door.

  “He wanted to know everything about my relationship with Harvey,” Iris said, sounding dejected.

  “What do you mean everything?”

  Her aunt blushed. “He wanted to know if we were intimate.”

  “I hope that wasn’t his first question,” Daisy muttered, feeling outraged for her aunt.

  “No, not his first. He asked when we started dating. Then he wanted to know if I’d ever gone to Harvey’s condo.”

  “You told him you had.”

  “Yes, of course. I’m not going to hide anything. He asked if I knew Harvey’s wife . . . if I had spent any time with his children. Finally, he wanted to know if I was aware of how rich Harvey was and if I had access to his bank accounts.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Seriously. I’m worried, Daisy. I think I’m their number one suspect, and I don’t know what I’m going to do about it.”

  Chapter Five

  After Jazzi climbed on the school bus the next morning, Daisy felt at loose ends. She hadn’t received a call from the police yet to say she could reopen the tea garden. After giving their statements yesterday, she’d made sure Aunt Iris was tucked in with Daisy’s parents. It would be good for Iris to have her sister to talk to about everything, Daisy hoped.

  When Daisy felt unsettled like this, as if she had to organize her mind and her heart, she cooked or baked. It was just her go-to activity to settle herself down. This morning she decided to make chicken soup and take some to Jonas. After all, he’d been a big help, and she wanted to thank him.

  Daisy was just about to add vegetables to the simmering chicken when her landline rang. She dumped the carrots and corn into the pot, repositioned the lid, and then picked up the cordless phone. After her “hello,” a male voice asked, “Is this Daisy Swanson?”

  She didn’t recognize the voice and was wary. “Yes, it is.”

  “I’m Trevor Lundquist from the Willow Creek Messenger.”

  Ever since the murder, she hadn’t picked up the phone and had just let her voice mail handle calls. Most of the calls had been from the press and interested residents of the town who wanted the scoop on what had happened. She didn’t want to give the scoop.

  However, Trevor Lundquist wasn’t a stranger. Willow Creek was small enough that she’d met Trevor when the tea garden had set up a stand during the May Fling at the carnival grounds this past spring. She, of course, suspected what the reporter wanted, but she’d be polite and listen. Being friends with the local press was important to business.

  “I’d like an interview with you,” he continued. “After all, the hometown paper deserves to know what happened first.”

  “I don’t know any more than the report the police gave on the news,” she hedged.

  “I’m sure that’s not true. This happened at your tea garden. You and your aunt were there.”

  Gossip flew fast and furious in a town this size. Still, she told him the truth. “I’d rather not talk about what happened.”

  “An interview could be good for me and good for you. Did you ever think about the lift it would give your business?”

  “I don’t want to capitalize on a tragedy.”

  “Mrs. Swanson, it’s my job to report the news. If you benefit from that, so much the better.”

  “I also don’t know any more than anyone else,” she repeated.

  “Nonsense. You could give me the whole background story. People saw your aunt and Harvey Fitz together. They were dating. I want to know all about that and what led up to the murder.”

  “That topic isn’t for discussion,” Daisy said firmly.

  “Maybe not by you, but what about your aunt? If you won’t give me what I need, I’ll get in touch with her. She’s the source. Maybe I could draw the true story from her.”

  “I don’t want my aunt badgered.”

  “Then give me something.”

  Daisy considered what she could and couldn’t do, what she would and wouldn’t do. She’d seen Trevor Lundquist’s byline many times, and he seemed to write an honest perspective on whatever the subject was. This murder, she imagined, was his chance to write about something meaty. If she didn’t help with it, he’d find a way to do it. She didn’t want him bothering any of her family.

  “How about this, Mr. Lundquist. For now, stick to the reports the police give you. I’m sure you’re experienced enough to have a contact there.”

  After a beat of silence, he admitted, “I am and I do.”

  “When the murder is solved, I’ll give you an exclusive.”

  “What if one of those network shows come calling?”

  “If I tell you I’m going to give you an exclusive, then that’s what I’m going to do. Believe me, my aunt won’t want this story blared nationwide.”

  “I’ve checked around about you,” he said. “You seem to be an astute businesswoman.”

  “Thank you, I think.”

  “I’ve also heard that if a customer has a problem with service or any of your products, you make it right.”

  “I won’t stay in business very long if I don’t please my customers.”

  There was a moment of hesitation. “All right,” he said. “I won’t badger anybody right now. But I’ll tell you this. If the investigation goes on too long, I might need a tidbit or two to keep the public interested and to fill in my weekly byline.”

  “That’s not our deal.”

  “You’re tough.”

  “When it comes to protecting my family, I am,” she assured him.

  He grumbled, “It’s a deal. But if some L.A. movie producer comes calling—”

  “I’ll tell him to go back to L.A. I don’t want the notoriety, and neither does my aunt. We just want the killer to be brought to justice.” She added silently—and for Aunt Iris to be cleared of any suspicion.

  After Daisy hung up, she pulled a spoon from the drawer, dipped it into the chicken broth, and tasted it. She added more pepper, then pulled a bag of frozen peas from the freezer. Should she add rice or noodles?

  For Jonas, she’d add noodles.

  * * *

  Daisy drove by the tea garden and the crime scene tape and pulled into a parking space in front of Jonas’s store. She’d dipped the soup into a mason jar, wrapped it in a navy tea towel, and stowed it in a small wicker basket. She’d also slipped a half dozen chocolate chip cookies into a Ziploc bag and added that to the basket. Now as she exited her car and took a whiff of the crisp autumn air, catching just a hint of wood smoke, she wondered if this was a good idea. It was a simple thank-you, right?

  Maybe not so simple, considering their visit to the police station yesterday. Maybe, just maybe, she wanted Jonas’s advice.

  Woods had a distinctive flair, if not a usual furniture store arrangement. Giant cubicle shelves lined one side of the store. In each square stood a ladder-back chair in a different color and finish—one in a pretty lemon color, another in a robin’s-egg blue, and a third in distressed green. But there were wood finishes too—cherry, dark walnut, and a chair that was unfinished. A variety of styles of tables, from pedestal to traditional to library to octagonal occasional tables, stood along the other side of the room, their finishes gleaming in the sunlight that shone through the windows. Through
out the store stood armoires, chests, and highboys, the most beautiful Daisy had ever seen. All of the furniture here was handcrafted by local craftsmen, including Jonas himself.

  Jonas sat at a counter at the rear of the store, studying something on the computer monitor. He looked up, however, when the bell over the door rang and Daisy walked in. She had to admit that when she’d picked out her wardrobe today, she’d taken a little extra time. Jazzi and Vi kept her up to date on trends. Today she’d worn cranberry-colored skinny-leg jeans and a sweater with geometric shapes in cranberry and black. Although Vi insisted she should have highlights added to her hair, she preferred keeping it natural, letting the sun do its thing in the summer. This morning she’d simply brushed it, letting it wave where it wanted to, rather than confining it in a ponytail. At the last minute, she’d inserted a wooden barrette over her right temple. Her bangs were getting a little long, but Jazzi insisted that was the style. When she took her daughter’s advice, that pleased Jazzi, so she did it whenever she could.

  Jonas’s gaze seemed to study her a moment longer than usual, but that simply could have been her imagination.

  She set the basket on the counter. “Just a thank-you for helping me the other night. I’m grateful you saved us from that mob.”

  “I don’t need a thank-you. That kind of thing is second nature to me.”

  “You had to lead witnesses to safety?”

  “Some of the time.”

  He was always so enigmatic about his past and his work. She was sure there were reasons, so she didn’t like to pry. Whether he considered it second nature or not, she was still grateful for what he’d done.

  “Chicken soup and cookies. The soup’s still warm.”

  “I have a small refrigerator and microwave in the back. You’ve saved me from a burger and fries.”

  She wrinkled her nose. “Don’t tell me that’s your mainstay.”

  He laughed. “Along with doughnuts. Old habits die hard.”

  “We have good restaurants along with fast food joints in Willow Creek.”

  “Yes, I’ve seen that,” he said. “But it’s really no fun eating at a restaurant alone, and gourmet food in takeout containers just isn’t the same.”

  She knew what he meant. She wondered if he’d ever had someone special to have those meals with, because he sounded as if he missed it, just as she did.

  “I had another reason for stopping by, other than the chicken soup.” She wanted to be honest with him.

  “You need to buy a table, chair, or armoire?”

  She smiled. “Not right now.” After a moment’s hesitation, she explained, “Iris and I went to the police station yesterday to give our statements. They wouldn’t let me stay with her. They separated us and recorded everything.”

  “That’s standard.”

  “From what Iris told me, she was interrogated more than interviewed. They wanted to know every detail about her relationship with Harvey—how well she knew his wife, if she associated with his children, how intimate she and Harvey had been.”

  Jonas’s eyebrows arched at that one, and she felt herself blush. That was not something she wanted to talk about with a stranger, but she wanted Jonas to know exactly how the police were looking at Iris.

  “Iris should have had a lawyer with her. She needs to consult one immediately.”

  “She just wants to tell the detective what she knows. She’s vulnerable right now and completely open.”

  “Open isn’t good, not in this situation. You and Iris are honest people, not used to dealing with something like this. Rappaport and the chief of police are. No, we don’t have many murders in Willow Creek, but that’s even more reason why they’re going to go after this with a pick and shovel.”

  Jonas took a notepad from alongside his computer, picked up a pen, and wrote something on the top sheet. “Marshall Thompson is a friend. He’s also a criminal defense attorney who’s worth every penny of what he charges.”

  “Iris doesn’t have unlimited funds.”

  “Marsh also works on a sliding scale. She needs to talk to him, Daisy, whether she hires him or not. He’ll do a free consultation if you tell him I recommended him.” He tore off the sheet of paper from the tablet and held it out to her.

  When Daisy took it, her fingers brushed his. Her heart sped up, and she felt something electric when she looked into Jonas’s green eyes. That scared her.

  When she was scared, she retreated in order to figure out what to do next. After slipping the piece of paper into her purse, she waved at the soup and cookies. “Enjoy. Maybe for just this one lunch you’ll forget about burgers and fries.”

  “Maybe,” he agreed enigmatically.

  With the scent of wood and glossy finishes still in her senses, she left Jonas’s store, not exactly sure what had just happened between them, yet certain something had.

  * * *

  Daisy couldn’t get her stop at Jonas’s shop out of her head the rest of the afternoon. Maybe it was because she was distracted by the fact that she couldn’t go to her place of work, the murder that had taken place there, and her worry about her Aunt Iris. Thinking about Jonas was more . . . pleasurable. Of course, when she thought about his advice, she started worrying all over again. It didn’t help that when Jazzi came home from school, she went straight to her room. Daisy had called up to her twice now, and she hadn’t answered or come down.

  Her daughter hadn’t heard her? Or she was ignoring her?

  It had to be one or the other. So Daisy climbed the stairs. Even though the door to Jazzi’s room was partially open, she knocked. She respected her daughter’s privacy.

  Nevertheless, when Jazzi didn’t call “Come in,” she went in anyway. Privacy was one thing, rudeness was another.

  Jazzi’s room was about the millennial teenager, not frills and polka dots as her own room might have been at her daughter’s age. Well, maybe she would have had a poster or two of her favorite idol on the wall. But Jazzi’s room was about empowering a girl or a woman. There was a poster of Malala Yousafzai. She’d framed photographs she’d taken of some of her favorite places—her grandmother’s house, a nearby covered bridge, an Amish horse and buggy. Jazzi might have her fingernails painted in the latest designs, but she was the type of girl who created those designs.

  Now as Daisy entered her younger daughter’s room, she saw that Jazzi was so engrossed in what she was doing, she hadn’t heard or noticed her.

  “Jazzi?”

  Her daughter gave a startled jump and then quickly closed her laptop where she sat using it at the corner desk.

  That was a red flag if ever Daisy had seen one. Being secretive as well as being sullen were causes for concern.

  “I didn’t mean to startle you. I called up to you twice. What are you working on?” She tried to monitor Jazzi’s computer use. She had monitored Violet’s too before her daughter had gone to college.

  But Jazzi wasn’t giving Daisy any explanations. She wasn’t opening the laptop. She was looking . . . scared. What was her daughter into? Pornographic photos? Singles chat sites? E-mailing with a boy she didn’t want Daisy to know about? All of those things created chaos in Daisy, so much chaos that her daughter’s privacy was put on the back burner. She opened Jazzi’s laptop.

  The screen had gone dark with Jazzi closing it, but now Daisy hit a key.

  “Don’t!” Jazzi said. “I don’t want you—”

  But Daisy had already seen the website. At first, she didn’t understand what she was looking at. But then the title began to make sense. The name of the website was Bonds Forever. After a quick look, Daisy could see it was one of those websites where children who were adopted could register to find their birth parents.

  Jazzi must have seen the stunned look on her mother’s face. “This has nothing to do with you,” she told Daisy quickly. “I mean, nothing to do about you being my mom. I want to find my birth parents.”

  Over the years, they’d had plenty of discussions about being adopted—ho
w Jazzi had been a gift to her and Ryan, how she’d been a child of their hearts. But since Ryan had died, they hadn’t had any of those discussions. In fact, since Ryan had died, they hadn’t talked as much as they should have. Violet had expressed her grief and sadness over her dad’s loss much more openly than Jazzi, and Daisy had given her younger daughter the opportunity and the time to grieve in her own way. But maybe that hadn’t been the right thing to do. After all, their life had been in Florida. With Ryan gone, Daisy had moved them back here, changing everything.

  At this moment, she knew she had to accept whatever Jazzi was feeling or she could lose her. “Have you been registered on this site for very long?” Her voice quavered a little, and she didn’t want that. She didn’t want Jazzi to know she was as scared as she was.

  “I’ve been registered on the site for about a month. I thought about registering a few months before that.”

  “You could have come to me about this.” She tried to keep her tone even, not letting any hurt show. But Jazzi must have seen some of the hurt.

  “Really, Mom? You would have tried to talk me out of it.”

  After Daisy took a moment to consider Jazzi’s conclusion, she shook her head. “You’re wrong about that. I wouldn’t have tried to talk you out of it, not if it’s what you really want. If you need to find your birth parents, I’ll do whatever I can to help you.”

  Now Jazzi was the one who looked surprised. “You really will?”

  Daisy lowered herself onto Jazzi’s bed, needing to sit before she sank like a puddle to the floor. “I really will.”

  “Then tell me what you know so I can plug in the information. All I know is my birth date.”

  “Your dad and I didn’t tell you anything about the adoption because we didn’t know much. Your adoption was a private one, through a lawyer. Your dad and I didn’t want to wait for an agency to find us a baby, so we pursued all of our options. He spent hours on the Internet and found this lawyer’s website. We filled out the forms, and Glenn contacted us that he’d found an unwed mother in Pennsylvania who wanted to give up her baby. He’d taken into account that I was from here and still had family here. We came to Pennsylvania to adopt you because you were born here. I know your mom’s first name is Portia, but that’s all I know because it was a closed adoption. But I’ll see if I can find out anything else if that’s what you want.”