Murder with Lemon Tea Cakes

by Karen Rose Smith

  “Sure,” Jazzi said. “I have to keep working now. I’m behind on reading this biology chapter.”

  “I understand. I’ll bring you a mug. Then I’m going to turn in.”

  “You look worried, Mom. Are you sure there isn’t something I should know about?”

  Daisy’s reply was immediate. “There’s nothing for you to worry about.” Then she gave Jazzi’s arm a squeeze.

  She sincerely hoped there wasn’t anything for Jazzi to worry about—or anyone else, for that matter. But the stone-cold feeling in the pit of her stomach told her otherwise.

  Chapter Eleven

  The following morning, as Daisy, Tessa, and Aunt Iris readied the tea garden for customers, Daisy felt odd because she was holding something back. She’d debated with herself all night whether she should tell Iris that she was going to the police station. She didn’t usually keep things from her family. And it was quite possible her aunt would get called in for questioning too. So she supposed it would be better if Aunt Iris was prepared.

  Daisy told Tessa and Iris, “I’m going to be away from the tea garden for an hour or so this afternoon. Do you think you’ll be able to cover it with Cora Sue and Eva? Or should I call Karina to come in again?”

  Tessa and Iris exchanged a look. “We have a full afternoon tea service this afternoon,” Iris reminded her. “The prep is finished. The two of us can handle serving. But I don’t know if Cora Sue can handle the counter and serving customers in the green room too.”

  Daisy pushed up her bangs, as she was wont to do when she was anxious, nervous, or frustrated. “I’m so distracted, I forgot all about afternoon tea. How’s that even possible?”

  Tessa patted her shoulder kindly. “You’ve a lot to think about right now. Let me call Karina and Pamela Dorsey. They’re both efficient, know how to brew tea, and how to balance a tray. I think we’ll need two serving the afternoon tea, and two on the counter, with Eva in the kitchen.”

  Pamela Dorsey was a college student who’d helped them over the holidays last year and during the summer when tourist traffic had been at its height. She also helped out if someone on their regular staff called in sick. “That’s probably a good idea, especially since I could get held up,” Daisy ruminated. She really didn’t want to get held up when she was paying Marshall Thompson $150 an hour.

  “Your errand can’t wait?” Iris asked with a probing look, knowing how budget-conscious Daisy was.

  Blowing out a breath, Daisy shook her head. “I’m afraid not. Detective Rappaport wants to talk to me at one o’clock at the police station. Marshall Thompson is going with me.”

  Iris’s hand went to her chest. “If you take Marshall Thompson along, won’t you look guilty?”

  “I asked Marshall that, but since we have no idea what the detective wants, he thinks it’s best if he accompanies me. He’s experienced, Aunt Iris. I have to trust his and Jonas’s recommendation.”

  Her aunt’s hands got all fluttery when she was nervous, and they fluttered now. “Don’t you worry about anything here. We’ll handle it. At the worst, we’ll sell out of everything, brew all our tea, and have to stay until midnight to prep for the next day.”

  That was the most positive way of looking at it.

  Daisy heard Karina, Eva, and Cora Sue come in the back door. After greetings all around, she checked the teapot clock on the wall and saw that it was exactly eight o’clock—opening time. She went to the front door, unlocked it, and switched the CLOSED sign to OPEN. A few customers were already standing on the porch by the colorful array of flowers. One lady was pointing to a decorative enameled scarecrow stake in a bright yellow ceramic pot.

  When Daisy opened the door, she said hello to all of them, pretending she didn’t have a care in the world and her outlook was always optimistic. That’s what customers wanted to see. A fourth customer trailed in behind the others, and she recognized him. It was Guy Tremont. He was wearing a plaid sport coat, a wilder plaid than any of the men she knew would wear.

  He said, “I decided to try you out again.”

  “I’m glad you did. Would you like our breakfast special? Tea and a scone. Or would you prefer something else?”

  “Tea and a scone sounds good. What kind of scones?”

  “This morning we have blueberry, apple, and chocolate raspberry.”

  “I’m a sucker for chocolate and raspberry, and I’ll probably want to take six along.”

  She laughed. “What kind of tea? Our main selections are up on the board. But if you want something special, we can do that.”

  “Oh, all of it is just plain confusing. What would you suggest with the chocolate raspberry scone?”

  “I have a tea called lemon soufflé. It has a green tea base, but it should complement the scone well.”

  “Lemon soufflé it is.”

  Since Guy Tremont had returned, Daisy wanted to take the opportunity to talk to him more thoroughly about Harvey and his coin collection. So she signaled Cora Sue that she would serve the man herself. In about five minutes, she’d assembled a tray with a cobalt blue teapot with tea steeping inside. She’d placed a scone on a cobalt blue and white stoneware dish. Also on the tray, she’d included a white china sugar bowl with a serving spoon. With a smile, she set the teapot at Guy’s right side.

  “Another two minutes and that should be just right,” she predicted.

  “Tea has to be timed just perfectly, doesn’t it?”

  “It depends if you like your tea weak or strong. But, yes, each type of tea has its best steeping time.”

  He studied the scone with chocolate drizzled over the surface and brought his gaze up to Daisy’s. “That looks almost too pretty to eat.”

  She laughed. “We have more, but if you just want to stare at it—”

  He broke the scone in two. “Just look at that chocolate dough. And I can see raspberries.”

  “They’re dried raspberries. They help the dough keep its consistency.”

  He tasted a bite, closed his eyes, and savored it. “Mmm, mmm, mmm. You do know how to bake. Is this your recipe or someone else’s?”

  “This one’s mine.”

  “I declare you the best scone maker I’ve ever visited.”

  She laughed. “Mr. Tremont, you have a way with words. Thank you for the compliment.”

  “Well earned,” he said, shaking half a scone at her. “Yep, I’m going to want a half dozen of these to take along.”

  Daisy looked across the counter at her aunt, and her aunt nodded and started packing a box.

  “If you don’t eat them all before tonight, consider putting them in a Ziploc bag in the refrigerator. They’ll keep better that way.”

  Guy nodded. “Somebody told me you’re a widow. Is that right?”

  She didn’t talk about her personal life with her customers, but this man was a little different. If she wanted information, she might have to give some.

  “I am a widow. Why?”

  “Because a man would sure be glad to get someone like you with this kind of baking skill.”

  “My daughters appreciate my baking skills.”

  “I imagine they might.”

  Daisy decided the time was right to press for a little information. “Since you’re here, do you mind if I ask you a question about Harvey’s coin collection?”

  “I don’t mind.”

  “What all was in the collection?”

  Guy thought about it, as if he were taking inventory of the collection in his mind. “Harvey’s collection encompassed a wide range—from silver dollars that had value because they’re in mint condition to silver dollars that are valuable because they’re rare. There were coins with the original government packaging. His gold coin collection was spectacular, maybe more spectacular than anybody knows.”

  Just what could Guy mean by that? “Did you know about the book of coins he gave his daughter?”

  Tremont looked genuinely surprised. “I didn’t know he gave her a book.”

  “That
’s what she said. Harvey told her it was worth enough that she could change her life if she wanted to.”

  “That’s odd. It was either one of his rare coin books or a gold coin book. Has she had it appraised?”

  “No, I don’t think she has. But certainly she’d come to you for your opinion, don’t you think?”

  “I would hope. Did she seem to appreciate the coins? Or is she just going to sell them?”

  “We didn’t get that far. I’m not sure she knows what she’s going to do with them.” Daisy poured tea into Guy’s cup for him.

  He stared at it, then added sugar from the white china bowl on the table. “Maybe I’ll give her a call. She won’t think that’s unusual. She knows her father and I were good friends.”

  Another group of customers came in, and Daisy knew she’d be needed in the kitchen. She said to Tremont, “It was good to see you again. Iris has your scones at the counter when you’re ready to leave. If you need more tea, just let us know.”

  After he mumbled, “Have a good day,” around another bite of scone, she hurried to the back, thinking about silver dollars, gold coins, and a collection worth a mint.

  * * *

  “Recording this interview isn’t necessary, is it?” Marshall Thompson asked Detective Rappaport shortly after one PM. “Mrs. Swanson already gave you a statement, and you recorded that. From what I understand, this is informal follow-up questioning. Am I correct?”

  The detective looked disgruntled, but he grudgingly agreed. “That’s right, informal additional questioning.” He glared at Daisy, as if by bringing Marshall along she’d broken an important rule.

  Marshall had advised her not to talk and to answer questions only minimally when Detective Rappaport asked them. So she just sat there calmly—though she wasn’t calm inside at all—and waited.

  They were in the room where she’d given her statement, she and Marshall on one side of the table, Detective Rappaport on the other. The table had seen better days. Its laminated wood finish was scratched and scarred, and Daisy didn’t even want to think about who might have sat here before her.

  “You and your aunt opened Daisy’s Tea Garden as partners. Is that correct?” the detective asked tersely.

  “It is.”

  “Your aunt invested money, and you invested money.”

  Daisy didn’t hear a question there, so she kept quiet.

  Marshall gave her an approving glance.

  Apparently, the detective wasn’t happy with her non-response. “You comingled your funds, is that correct?”

  “That’s correct,” she responded.

  “Are you and your aunt close?” he pushed on.

  “Yes, we are.”

  “Would you like to elaborate on that?” His tone was so even, Daisy suspected he was holding his temper.

  When she looked at Marshall, he gave a nod.

  With her lawyer’s approval, she explained, “While I was growing up, Aunt Iris and I were always close. I think it’s because we both like to work in the kitchen, making baked goods especially. We stayed close over the years, even when I lived in Florida.”

  “Would you say you’re closer to your aunt than your mother?”

  “Of course not,” Daisy answered, annoyed with the detective’s attitude. “Why would you ask that?”

  Rappaport didn’t answer, just gave her a sly smile. “That caused a reaction, didn’t it? Do you think your mother’s jealous of your relationship with your aunt?”

  Marshall cut in. “Where is this going?”

  Rappaport sat forward in his seat. “I’m just saying if you and your aunt are close, the possibility is good that if you found out that Harvey was hurting her in some way, you’d want to do something about it.”

  Daisy didn’t even know where to wade in on that. “Harvey wasn’t hurting her. He was going to marry her.”

  “There’s no evidence of that. She doesn’t have a ring, does she?”

  “No, but—”

  Rappaport cut her off. “A man makes a promise and then reneges on that promise. I’d say that could get a woman pretty riled up.”

  What did Rappaport think? That Aunt Iris had gone outside that night and Harvey had told her . . . what? That he was breaking off his relationship with her? And because of that, she hauled off and socked him with a statue?

  “What are you suggesting, Detective?” Daisy asked.

  “I’m the one asking the questions.”

  “You’re not exactly asking questions. You’re setting up theories with no basis,” she returned, not bothering to check with Marshall.

  Detective Rappaport looked taken aback that she’d confronted him with logic. “I’m suggesting that you might have been just as angry as your aunt if Harvey Fitz was going to drop her. And the two of you might have colluded to kill him.”

  Daisy’s mouth dropped open, but then she snapped it shut and asked, “To what end?”

  “That’s what I’m trying to find out. I heard a rumor that Harvey was going to sell his store and invest in the expansion of Daisy’s Tea Garden, maybe even start a chain.”

  “Where did you hear something like that?”

  Marshall gently tapped her arm. She was responding too much and, she guessed, saying too much. But she’d had enough of Rappaport’s insinuations. He was the one keeping silent now.

  Whether Marshall wanted her to be quiet or not, she couldn’t be. “Let’s say your theory is true, Detective. Let’s say the gossip you heard was true. Just how would Iris and I benefit from Harvey’s death? We’d be better off if he was alive. A chain of Daisy’s Tea Gardens? That sounds like a gold mine. Why would we want to end the possibility of that?”

  He jumped on what she’d said. “So you’re saying it’s true?”

  “No, I’m not saying it’s true. Nothing like that was ever in the works.” She sat back in her chair, crossed her arms over her chest, and kept her gaze on his. She could feel Marshall’s tension beside her, but there was nothing she could do about that. Being silent was one thing. Being silent in the face of bold-faced lies was quite another, especially when they involved her aunt.

  The detective finally looked away, took a long time studying the notes in front of him, then shuffled the papers into a stack and stood. “We’re done for today, Mrs. Swanson. You can go.”

  With her dander still up, she felt she needed to take a poke at him. She didn’t like being bullied, and that’s what he was doing.

  “You should stop at the tea garden for orange pekoe tea sometime. It might improve your disposition.”

  The detective’s face turned red. But before he could manufacture a response, Marshall ushered Daisy out of the room, down the hall, and out into the reception area.

  “You can’t goad him like that,” Marshall said to her in a whisper.

  “Goad him? What do you think he was doing to me?”

  “That’s his job, Daisy. He was trying to get a rise out of you so you’d confess to something.”

  “There’s nothing to confess to,” she returned with exasperation. She saw another officer look up from his desk to see what her raised voice was about.

  Marshall just shook his head. “Come on. Before you say something that gets us both arrested.”

  By the time they reached Marshall’s car, Daisy was feeling contrite. After all, Marshall was only trying to help.

  Once they were inside his car, she said, “I’m sorry. He just made me so mad. Iris and I colluding to kill someone? That makes no sense at all.”

  “Daisy, you have to remember who Detective Rappaport deals with. Maybe not so much who he deals with now. Crime in Willow Creek is mostly limited to DUIs, jaywalking, and now and then a domestic violence issue. But he dealt with more than that in Pittsburgh. He’s witnessed a seedy side of life, and that’s what colors his thoughts and his memories. So when he sees a pretty blonde with blue eyes sitting before him, he believes you have to be making things up as you go.”

  “Because I’m blond and have bl
ue eyes I’m lying?”

  Marshall chuckled. “I didn’t mean to make this a blond thing. I’m just saying he’s probably seen a lot of pretty women hide sins. So cut him a little slack, and just try not to take it all so personally.”

  “Not take it personally? Mr. Thompson, you’re not living on the same planet I am.”

  At that he chuckled. “Do you want me to come in with you to discuss this with your aunt?”

  “Do you think I can’t relate what happened back there?”

  “You’re getting defensive now. That’s not good between lawyer and client.”

  She sighed. “Sorry. That whole scene, this whole murder, just seems like something out of a movie, and I shouldn’t be living it.”

  “I know,” Marshall sympathized. “But this is real, Daisy. Harvey was killed on your property. There is a murderer in Willow Creek, and you or your aunt might even know him or her. So when Detective Rappaport comes at you with what may seem like odd questions, just remember, he’s trying to get to that murderer. He wants to make sure that murderer isn’t you.”

  “You’re making me feel as if I should apologize to him.”

  “I did not say that. You don’t want to give him the upper hand if you can help it. But you do have to tell your aunt what he’s thinking and where he’s trying to go with the investigation.”

  “All right, I’ll do that as soon as I can pull Iris aside.”

  A car left a space in front of the tea garden right before Marshall pulled up. He expertly slipped into the parking space. “I told you it would be less than an hour.”

  “You did. Do you want me to write you a check now?”

  He shook his head. “No. Let’s wait until the end of the month. Olivia will bill you. You never know if we could have another session or two. Detective Rappaport might come up with something else that could require my services.”

  “Or Aunt Iris could. Thank you for taking the time out to do this today.”

  “It’s what I do, Daisy. Take care, and if anything else comes up, call me. Do not set foot in that police station without a lawyer.”