Murder with Lemon Tea Cakes

by Karen Rose Smith

  “Since Dad died—” Jazzi stopped and swallowed hard. “I’ve just felt this big hole. It was there a little bit before he died, I guess because I didn’t know exactly where I came from. But after he died, it’s gotten really big. I thought finding my birth parents might help fill it. I want to do it, Mom. I keep checking back on the website to see if anybody’s tried to connect with me, but nobody has. It’s like waiting for an e-mail that never comes. Do you know what I mean?”

  “I know exactly what you mean. Let me see if I can find out anything else.”

  Jazzi hopped up from her chair and threw her arms around her mother’s neck. “Thank you.”

  In a way, Daisy felt as if she had her daughter back. In another way, she was worried she might lose her.

  * * *

  In the end, after a long discussion with her aunt the following day, Daisy made the call to Marshall Thompson and scheduled an appointment for late that morning. His office was located a few streets north of downtown, on Cherry Tree Road. It was an older section of town with row houses, cherry and blue spruce trees, and ivy crawling up the front of brick homes. His establishment was gray brick on the first floor with white siding on the second. Dark gray shutters accentuated the double-hung windows. The front stoop had two steps and no porch, though there was a sign that proclaimed the handicapped entrance was in the back.

  When Daisy rang the front doorbell, a young woman answered. She looked to be in her mid-twenties, with a fresh face without much makeup, just a dab of lipstick, a flowered blouse in orange and green, and slacks in the same green color.

  She smiled. “You must be Daisy Swanson and Iris Albright. Appointment at eleven?”

  “That’s right,” Daisy said with a nod since her aunt still seemed incapable of speech. Iris hadn’t wanted to come and didn’t want to be here.

  “Come on in,” the young woman said. “I’m Olivia. Uncle Marsh will be right with you.”

  The reception area was wallpapered in a thin cranberry and navy pinstripe. The receptionist’s oak desk was L-shaped. Daisy could see that the monitor sitting there was state of the art. She recognized good quality when she saw it because she had done a thorough perusal of computers to buy one for the tea garden. A set of headphones lay beside the keyboard, and Daisy guessed that Marshall Thompson’s niece transcribed for him.

  Daisy could see steps leading to the second floor. To the left of them was a short hall. Now a door along that hall opened and a man walked toward them. He was tall, at least six feet two. His hair was thick, though snow white, and his dark brown suit was impeccably cut. He wore a white shirt with a tan pinstripe and no tie. He extended his hand to Iris. “I’m Marshall Thompson. And you’re Iris Albright?”

  “That’s right,” Iris said in a clipped voice that said she was nervous.

  After he shook Daisy’s hand, he said to Olivia, “I’ll take care of them now. You can go back to what you were doing.”

  Olivia gave her uncle a smile, nodded, and went back to her desk. Marshall Thompson led them down the hall into his office.

  This room was very different from the reception area. It was large, with wood paneling, a sofa, coffee table, and chairs. A long credenza lined one wall. They faced a huge mahogany desk with a matching side table that housed a computer. From the high-end coffee pot on the credenza to the oil paintings of Lancaster County farms hanging on the walls, the room shouted quality, just as Marshall Thompson did.

  Instead of going behind his desk as most lawyers would, he motioned to the sofa and chairs.

  “Let’s have a seat. Coffee?”

  Iris shook her head, and so did Daisy. They both just wanted to get into this and find out what they were facing.

  Marshall nodded as if he understood. He lowered himself to the sofa next to Daisy and across from Iris. “When you phoned, Olivia told me you said Jonas Groft recommended me?”

  Daisy nodded. “His store is down the street from my tea garden. He was a big help the night—”

  She stopped and hesitated. “The night the murder happened.”

  The lawyer nodded, but he didn’t say how he knew Jonas or anything else about their relationship.

  Aunt Iris, who had laid her purse on the sofa next to her, was now twisting her hands in her lap. “I need to know how much this is going to cost. I don’t know if I can afford you.”

  “Is it Miss or Mrs. Albright?” he asked.

  “Miss. I’ve never been married. I thought I was going to be—” Her voice broke.

  Marshall Thompson asked, “Instead of coffee, how about a cup of tea? I always have water heating. I don’t have loose tea like you probably use in your tea garden, but I have a selection of tea bags.”

  “You enjoy tea?” Iris asked.

  “I do. Unfortunately, I’ve never stopped in at your tea garden. I begin my work days early, and I end them late.” He picked up a hand-carved wooden box sitting on the credenza. He opened it for Iris and said, “Pick one.”

  Daisy saw her aunt pick chamomile for calming. No decision to make there.

  “Miss Swanson?” he asked.

  “For me, it is Mrs. I’m a widow.”

  He opened the box in front of her.

  She chose a green tea. She needed the antioxidant these days. If she had a cup of tea with them, maybe her aunt would relax a bit.

  After he’d poured the tea and offered them cream or a slice of lemon from his small refrigerator, they both prepared their tea, and Daisy felt more comfortable. She hoped her aunt did too.

  “Now fill me in,” the lawyer directed.

  “We haven’t discussed your fee,” Iris reminded him.

  “Let me hear your story first.”

  Daisy let Iris do the telling. Her aunt needed to talk about what had happened, to empty her head of the images, to try to diminish their impact. Maybe if she said the words and described it often enough, that would happen. It could make it worse too, Daisy supposed, but she hoped it was more like a desensitization exercise.

  After Iris was finished, the attorney looked thoughtful. Then he leaned forward. “I’d like to tell you that you have nothing to worry about. However, it was your tea garden, Miss Albright, and you found the body.”

  “But I didn’t touch him. I could see he was . . . dead.”

  “Lots of things come into consideration here, some of them accidents, some of them not.”

  “What do you mean by accidents?” Daisy asked.

  The lawyer looked at Iris. “You said you were dating this man?”

  She nodded.

  “For instance, the suit he was wearing. Had he worn that same suit when he’d been with you before?”

  Iris thought about it. “He wore that blue pinstripe suit often. He might have. Why?”

  “Because your hair could be on that suit. Your DNA could be on that suit, even if you had merely touched his arm. That wouldn’t mean you touched him that night, but it would be evidence.”

  “Oh, my,” Iris murmured.

  Daisy patted her hand.

  “Could you tell what might have been the murder weapon?” he asked Daisy.

  Daisy didn’t want to remember that scene either, but she called it up again. Thinking about it made her want to gag. “The way Harvey’s head was bashed in, it could have been a rock or a bat,” she offered.

  “There’s a difference,” Marshall said. “A rock would mean an impulse murder, while a bat could mean it was premeditated.”

  “But Iris was with me in the tea garden until she left to meet Harvey.”

  “The police will work a story around that if they think they have the evidence to prove she’s the one who did it. So listen carefully, Miss Albright. This is what I want you to do. Do not talk to the police again.”

  Iris appeared shocked. “But what if they call me for another interview?” she asked.

  “Then you call me. I do not want you speaking to them, and I definitely don’t want you speaking to them without counsel. Understood?”

&nb
sp; Her aunt nodded. “Will you need a retainer? I do watch crime shows. I know about these things.”

  Marshall Thompson smiled. “I think Jonas probably told you my first consultation would be free. It is. So no worries about a retainer today. If you need my services, then we’ll discuss it.”

  “I know lawyers like you have to be expensive,” Iris murmured.

  “Lawyers like me?” he asked with a quirk of his lips.

  Iris motioned to the room, to the bookshelves with law volumes, to Marshall himself. “You’re obviously successful.”

  “My practice has never been just about money,” he responded.

  Daisy wondered just what it had been about, but he didn’t elaborate, and she didn’t ask.

  The criminal defense attorney stood, indicating that their meeting was over. Iris and Daisy picked up their purses and stood too.

  “Put my number on your speed dial,” he directed them. “The police can sometimes take you by surprise. If I don’t pick up, leave a message. I will call you back.”

  It was funny, Daisy thought. She got the same feeling around Marshall Thompson that she did around Jonas Groft. Call it woman’s intuition or whatever, but they gave off an aura of deep-seated integrity.

  That was exactly what she and her aunt needed right now.

  Chapter Six

  Daisy and her aunt had just left the lawyer’s office when Daisy received a phone call from a police officer telling her she could reopen Daisy’s Tea Garden. When she told Iris, she realized from the expression on her aunt’s face that she was a little scared to do it. What were she and her aunt going to find? What was she going to relive? What was Aunt Iris going to relive?

  Whatever the repercussions, Daisy drove them to the tea garden and parked in the back lot. The crime scene tape was no longer strung across the edge of the yard or around the front.

  Daisy knew this would be difficult for Aunt Iris. They had chosen to go in the side entrance for many reasons, mainly because this was where it had happened. This was where the police had been. This is where they had to start, not only to heal, but to forget what they had seen here.

  It was easy to notice that the garden area, with its outside tables, needed not only straightening but a professional cleaning. The flagstone where Harvey had lain was blood-covered. Fingerprint dust was here, there, and everywhere.

  Aunt Iris mumbled, “I can’t bear to be out here,” and she hurried inside.

  Daisy looked around the area and knew what she had to do. Last evening, she’d searched online and found a service in Lancaster that specialized in this type of cleanup. She took her phone from her purse and called the number she’d added to her contact list. Someone answered on the first ring.

  “Kline’s Cleaning Service. This is Maria. How can I help you?”

  Daisy didn’t quite know what to say but finally plunged in. “My business, Daisy’s Tea Garden, had a murder take place here. My aunt and I need cleanup before we can open again.”

  “Fingerprint dust and blood?” Maria asked as if she were used to dealing with Daisy’s request.

  “Yes,” Daisy responded.

  “Fingerprint dust is the worst. It’s best you don’t try to remove it yourself. We start with a dry sweep-up, then use a special cleaner that breaks down the elements so it can be wiped away. If you try soap and water, you’ll leave a muddy mess.”

  “Can you give me a price estimate? Could you do it soon?”

  Maria explained, “My guys have to examine the scene to give you an accurate estimate. But I can have a team there in about an hour, if that suits. They’re just finishing a job in Lancaster.”

  “An hour would be wonderful. I’ll be here.” They couldn’t open the tea garden again until it was put right, no matter what the cost.

  After Daisy ended the call, she looked around. The police and techs had retrieved evidence. If that had meant stepping in the bushes, that’s what they’d done. If it had meant smashing the herbs, there went the herbs. If it had meant tracking mud on the flagstone, so be it. She understood all that. She just wished a terrible situation hadn’t been made worse by the whole investigation process. But she supposed that’s the way it had to be.

  Daisy couldn’t help studying the area, deciding what herbs she might have to replace, thinking about whether they still had time to grow more before winter set in or whether seasonal plants in colorful ceramic pots with decorative plant stakes, like she had on the front porch, would be a better solution.

  She walked all around, estimating in her mind what they’d need. Leaving the immediate area, she moved past the tables and the flagstone patio to the path down the yard. Along that path she and Aunt Iris had planted pineapple sage that grew into more like a shrub than an herb plant and chocolate mint that took off and spread if she didn’t carefully watch and prune it. And then there was the lemongrass. At this time of year, it rose about three feet tall and accented either side of the handcrafted cedar bench. Patrons often sat there at the rear of the property and listened to the creek and contemplated the blue sky.

  As Daisy walked back to the patio with its pots of herbs and flowers, she suddenly noticed something was missing—the foot-high sculpture of a unicorn.

  Had the police taken it, thinking it was evidence? If they hadn’t taken it, had that been the murder weapon? If so, did the killer just dump it, or take it with him or her? The statue was white alabaster, and blood would stain it. It was quite possible the killer could have dumped it in the creek or somewhere around town and the police had found it . . . or would find it.

  She didn’t know if her Aunt Iris would want to be involved in a discussion about it. So Daisy made a unilateral decision, looked up Detective Rappaport’s number in her contact list, and called him. It was his direct line—at least that’s what he’d told her—so she assumed she wouldn’t have to go through a dispatcher. But when he said in a gruff voice, “Detective Rappaport here, how can I help you?” she wondered if she was being silly . . . if this information mattered at all.

  “This is Daisy Swanson.”

  “Hello, Mrs. Swanson. Did you have a question about what we did at your place?”

  “Not exactly a question.”

  “I can’t talk about what we did or didn’t find, if that’s what this call’s about.”

  “Not exactly.”

  “Mrs. Swanson, I’m a busy man.”

  “Don’t you think I know you’re busy? Don’t you think I’m busy? I have a tea garden to set up and get running again after losing three days of revenue. So I’m not calling simply to chat.”

  “Tell me why you called,” he said in an impatient voice.

  “After studying the garden, I realized something was missing. It’s a foot-high statue of a unicorn. It’s only missing if your men didn’t take it. Did they?”

  “Hold on a minute,” he said, and he was gone less than that. “No unicorn was brought in as evidence. Are you sure it’s missing and it didn’t just fall someplace? Maybe a customer took it before the murder.”

  “I examine everything around the tea garden each evening before we close. Either I or Iris would have noticed it was missing.”

  “There wouldn’t have been one night you simply didn’t notice?” he asked skeptically, obviously not convinced.

  “Every aspect of the tea garden is important to us. A white unicorn that’s a foot high isn’t going to go unnoticed.”

  She heard him sigh. “Is this another strategy to cover up for your aunt?”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “You said your aunt was with you until she went outside to meet Harvey Fitz. You said only moments passed. I suspect your aunt got into a heated fight with her lover and conked him on the head with a rock.”

  Daisy was absolutely flabbergasted. “You’re wrong!”

  “No surprise you’d say that. But enough time could have passed that she’d even dumped that rock in the creek. It’s a deep creek with lots of rocks.”

 
“You’re fabricating a scenario that isn’t true,” she protested.

  “So you insist. But I’ll get to the truth.”

  Daisy met his statement with, “Will you?”

  A combative silence ensued until Detective Rappaport asked, “Do you have a photo of this unicorn?”

  “I do. I can text or e-mail you one.”

  “Text it. But don’t expect anything to come of it. Thanks for calling, Mrs. Swanson. Have a good day.”

  After Rappaport ended the call, Daisy just studied the phone. She was dismayed by his attitude. It was probably his job to question everything about everything. But how far would he get doing that? Maybe she should fish around herself just to make sure Aunt Iris would be in the clear.

  * * *

  Daisy and her aunt decided to keep the tea garden closed on Saturday. After the cleaning service had finished yesterday afternoon, they’d both felt too emotionally spent to do the prep work for opening. With Jazzi going to a friend’s to work on a science fair project, Daisy had called Tessa and Cora Sue and asked them to come in this morning to help ready the tea garden to open again on Sunday. This evening, she, Iris, and Jazzi would be having dinner with her parents. With that, hopefully life would regain a more “normal” tone.

  After Tessa arrived, Daisy started soups while Tessa created a new salad with carrots, grapes, raisins, and pecans with a sour cream, mayo, lime, and honey dressing. Iris didn’t talk as she mixed up batter for chocolate raspberry scones.

  It was almost noon when Daisy took a call from Jazzi. She said, “Mom, Nicole and I are in the middle of making our display for the science fair. Can you just pick me up on your way to Gram’s tonight?”

  Actually, that sounded like a good idea to Daisy. She didn’t want Jazzi to be alone at the house in case news vans or reporters came calling. Up to now, freezing them out with “No comment” had worked. Although Harvey’s murder wasn’t to be taken lightly, the news people from other areas who’d hoped to pick up juicy tidbits would move on to the next crisis or crime.