All-Butter ShortDead (Prequel: Oxford Tearoom Mysteries ~ Book 0)

by H. Y. Hanna

  Fletcher met my eyes shyly and a smile twitched his lips, then he quickly looked down again.

  Barb the receptionist stuck her head into the room. “Fletcher, any chance you can fix the cabinet door in the toilet before you leave? It’s falling off the hinges.”

  “I will fix it now,” said the big man. He grabbed a couple of tools from his bag and lumbered out of the room.

  “Another scone?” said Cassie, offering the paper bag to me. I was about to reach out when I noticed that Fletcher’s tool bag on the floor was wriggling in the strangest way.

  I pointed. “Uh… Cassie… is there something in that bag?”

  She glanced down just as a little furry head popped out of the bag. I jumped back with a yelp, then realised—as Cassie fell about laughing—that it was only a cat. A little grey tabby cat with enormous green eyes, black eyeliner, and a little pink nose.

  She looked up at me inquisitively. “Meorrw?”

  “That’s Muesli,” said Cassie, still laughing. “She belongs to Fletcher and she goes everywhere with him. She’s really friendly.” She bent down and patted the little cat. “Want to say hello?”

  “Er… No, thanks,” I said, eyeing the feline askance.

  “She won’t bite, you know,” said Cassie with a smile.

  “It’s not that,” I said quickly. “I just… well, you know, I’ve always been more of a dog person. I’m not… I’m not really into cats.” I tried to edge away surreptitiously.

  Muesli, of course—like a typical cat—decided that she was most interested in the one person who wanted nothing to do with her. She hopped out of the tool bag and scampered towards me, her tail straight up in the air and her whiskers quivering. I hastily took a few more steps back.

  “Meorrw?”

  I looked determinedly at the ceiling, hoping that if I pretended I couldn’t see her, the little cat would go away. Something touched my legs. I sneaked a peek downwards. Muesli was rubbing herself against my shins.

  “She’s not going to pee against my legs, is she?” I asked in alarm.

  “Of course not—she’s not a dog!” said Cassie in exasperation. “She just wants to say hello. Give her a pat, Gemma.”

  I hesitated, then reached down and tentatively touched the top of Muesli’s head. The fur was softer than I expected. I stroked between her ears with one nervous finger.

  “Tickle her under her chin—cats like that,” said Cassie.

  I hesitated again, then did as Cassie directed. A soft rumbling sound filled the air as Muesli nuzzled her chin against my fingers.

  Cassie smiled. “Aww… see? She’s purring.” She put the bag of scones down and dusted off her hands. “Well, I’m off to teach my class now. Can you hang around here until Fletcher gets back, just to keep an eye on Muesli—”

  “Wait—you’re… you’re leaving me alone with the cat?” I said.

  Cassie gave a shout of laughter. “Anyone would think that I was leaving you alone with a sabre-tooth tiger! She’s only a little cat, Gemma. You’ll be fine.”

  With another laugh, she was gone and I was alone in the room with my new feline friend. I stared at the grey tabby warily. She stared right back at me, her green eyes wide and curious. Okay, no need to worry. There’s nothing to this cat-sitting gig, I assured myself. All I have to do is more of that chin-tickling thing… But as I reached out again, Muesli suddenly turned and began trotting towards the door.

  “Hey—wait—no, what are you doing? Muesli, come back!” I said, running after her.

  She gave me a cheeky look over her shoulder and waited until I was almost on top of her. Then, just as I was swooping down to grab her, she darted to the right, out of my reach.

  “Ow!” I winced as my knees landed with a painful thump on the hard wood floor of the studio. Irritably, I looked around. Muesli had disappeared through what looked like a gap in the studio wall. On closer inspection, however, I realised that it wasn’t a gap but rather a concealed cupboard door which was slightly ajar. I pulled it open and found myself staring at a small storeroom which had been built into the wall. It was filled to bursting with cardboard boxes stacked high, stage props piled on top of one another, dance costumes crammed on racks, and freestanding ballet barres.

  “Muesli?” I called hesitantly.

  “Meorrw!” came the insolent reply, somewhere deep in the pile of props. She sounded like she was daring me to come and get her.

  Little minx. I scowled. She’d done that last-minute escape trick thing on purpose, just to make me nearly fall on my face. I rubbed my sore knees. Wait until I get my hands on you. Then I surveyed the mess piled in front of me and frowned. How on earth was I going to find her? I reached in and carefully lifted out a pair of fairy wings, followed by a polystyrene toadstool mushroom and a couple of pairs of ballet shoes, their pink ribbons trailing dust. The boxes behind them wobbled precariously and a mini disco-ball rolled out of the top box and bounced on the floor.

  I sneezed. There was the sound of scrambling from deeper within the pile. I peered into the back of the storeroom. Was that a furry grey tail?

  “Meorrw!”

  Aha! I pounced, reaching out to grab her. A cloud of dust billowed up, causing me to sneeze again and stumble sideways. My shoulder hit the stack of boxes and I flailed, spinning and falling backwards into them.

  “Aaaaagghh!”

  I crashed to the floor of the storeroom, the boxes tumbling down around me, spilling their contents everywhere. Something hit me on the head with a soft thud, then bounced to the floor. I looked down. It was a plastic jar of glitter—and it had just emptied itself on my head. I coughed, then struggled to my feet and staggered out of the storeroom.

  “Oh my goodness, whatever happened to you?”

  Barb the receptionist stood staring open-mouthed at me. She had obviously heard the commotion and come to investigate. I turned and caught sight of myself in the mirrors on the opposite wall. I looked like Sparkly Swamp Thing. I was covered head to toe in pink glitter.

  “A…harr…nacksiden…” I mumbled, trying to speak through a mouthful of shimmering grit. “Bloorry ca—!”

  There was a small thud behind me and a little furry grey shape jumped down from a box at the back of the storeroom, and strolled nonchalantly out.

  “Meorrw?” she said, looking up at me innocently.

  Barb looked like she was trying not to laugh. Slowly, she helped me pile everything back into the storeroom, then she found some sticky tape and tried to get the glitter off my hair, skin, and clothes. When Cassie returned forty-five minutes later, she found me still sulkily trying to pick glitter off my cheeks while Muesli sat smugly next to me.

  “Barb told me what happened,” she said, trying to keep a straight face.

  “Yes.” I glared at her. “And you know glitter—it never comes off!”

  “Hey, at least you won’t need to wear reflective gear when cycling at night,” Cassie chortled.

  I gave her a look, then said a frosty goodbye to Fletcher and Barb, and stomped out of the studio. Cassie followed me, still laughing.

  “So… don’t tell me you’re not smitten with the kitten?”

  “You’re joking, right?” I said sourly. “Right now I’d like to wring her little neck!”

  Cassie chuckled. “Give it time. I’m sure you’ll fall in love with Muesli. Everyone does.”

  “Not me,” I muttered.

  Cassie gave me a smug smile. “We’ll see. No one can resist that little cat’s charms. You should have seen what it was like last Saturday morning when the ladies arrived for yoga class and Fletcher was there with Muesli. They went bananas over her. I told Fletcher he should have charged people to give her a cuddle—he could have made a fortune.” She caught my arm. “Anyway, what do you think of him, Gemma?”

  “Of Fletcher?” I looked at her in surprise. “Well… He seems really nice. I mean, I didn’t really get to know him—he’s so shy and quiet. He hardly talks.”

  “Yeah, that’s
typical Fletcher. Even when he gets to know you better, he won’t say much. But isn’t his baking divine?”

  I nodded. “Oh my God, yes! I’m sure I’ve ruined my appetite for dinner with that scone but it was totally worth it!”

  “That’s why I thought he’d be perfect!” said Cassie triumphantly.

  I looked at her in puzzlement. “Perfect for what?”

  “As a baker!” said Cassie.

  I frowned at her. “I don’t understand. What—”

  “For your tearoom, silly!” said Cassie. “You’re not thinking of doing the baking yourself, are you?”

  I gave her a rueful grin. Cassie knew me too well. Much as I enjoyed eating delicious baking, creating it myself was a whole different matter. I knew my limits and no, I wasn’t risking the success of my new business by trying to do the baking myself.

  “I was thinking you could hire Fletcher,” said Cassie.

  “Well, I was thinking of hiring someone from London…” I said doubtfully.

  “At London salaries?” said Cassie, raising an eyebrow. “You’ll go through your savings in a month, Gemma! Besides, I think everyone in the village has been worried that you might bring in some poncy French chef or something.”

  “Of course not, I’m going to be serving good old-fashioned British baking—just like our great-grandmothers used to bake.”

  “Well, that’s exactly what Fletcher does. If you want mouth-watering, traditional British baking, then Fletcher’s your man.”

  “I’ll think about it,” I said.

  “Do,” said Cassie, adding with a twinkle in her eye: “And just think—you’ll be getting little Muesli into the bargain.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  I considered it a small achievement that I managed to drag myself out of bed by ten-thirty the next morning, although I still felt like a creature that had been dug out of hibernation. I came blearily down to the kitchen where I found my mother looking as immaculately groomed as always, her hair done up in an elegant coil and her fine wool dress protected by a large white apron.

  “Good morning, darling!” she sang as I stomped in and perched grumpily on one of the kitchen stools. I wasn’t a morning person at the best of times and the jetlag had made me extra grouchy.

  “What would you like for breakfast, dear? Although it’s really almost lunchtime…”

  “I’m not hungry,” I mumbled.

  My mother tutted. “You know breakfast is the most important meal of the day. How about some toast and marmalade? I have a fresh loaf here. Or perhaps you’d like some poached eggs? There’s always cereal, of course, though I’m not sure I have the kind you like. I must pop to the supermarket and pick up some of your old favourites…”

  As she was talking, my mother was busily laying things out on the counter in front of me. I stared at a large glass jar filled with strange, black, slug-like forms, which had been placed next to the marmalade.

  “What on earth is that?” I asked, pointing to the jar.

  “Oh, those are from Mabel Cooke, darling. Stewed prunes. Mabel says they are wonderful for the digestion. Remember she was telling you about them that afternoon when they came for tea? She dropped them off yesterday. Wasn’t that nice of her? She said to tell you that she would be checking with you the next time she saw you, to see if the prunes had done their job.”

  Eeuuggh—the last thing I wanted to do was discuss the state of my bowels with Mabel Cooke and her cronies.

  “Would you like me to put some in a bowl for you, darling?”

  “No thanks,” I said hastily. “I… I’ll just have some cereal.”

  As I helped myself to milk and cornflakes, my mother said brightly, “Now, darling, you still haven’t shown me how to get my email on the i-Tap. Helen Green has been reading all her emails and replying to them using hers—and did you know, you can even take photos with the i-Tap and attach them to an email and send them on!”

  I sighed. “iPad, Mother. It’s called an iPad. Yes, all right, I’ll show you.”

  Eagerly, she brought her iPad over and proudly turned it on. Then I watched in silent agony as she began trying to navigate her way around the screen.

  “You have to tap on that little picture of the envelope, Mother,” I said, trying to restrain my impatience as I watched her flick her thumb over the screen. “With the tip of your finger.”

  “I am tapping!” cried my mother, jabbing with her forefinger. “Nothing is happening!”

  “Maybe you’re not tapping it hard enough—you have to do it a bit firmer and in the centre of the mail icon… no… well, not like that… no, now you’ve tapped the icon next to it and opened up another app. Close that and go back to your homepage… no, that’s not—okay, just ignore that… press the round button at the bottom of the iPad—that will take you back to the home screen… yes, that one… Now, try tapping on the little picture of the envelope again… yes, tap firmly in the centre…”

  I swallowed a sigh as my mother stabbed ineffectually at the screen. I could see her getting more and more frustrated with each attempt, and struggling to follow her own dictate that a lady must never use “coarse language”.

  “Oh, shi…shipwreck!” she muttered, tapping the screen for the twentieth time. “No, not that… Oh, sh…sherbert!”

  At this rate, she’s going to run out of ‘sh—’ words, I thought wryly. Finally, after several more attempts and exclamations of “Oh shoebox!”, “Oh shampoo!”, “Oh shovel!” and “Oh Shakespeare!”, my mother finally managed to open her Inbox, reply to a message (by mistake), forward another message (to the wrong person), and delete an email coupon from John Lewis Department Store that she had been eagerly waiting for. Still, it was considered a success and, flushed with the heady power of her great technological achievements, my mother demanded that I show her how to access the online edition of several newspapers.

  “Helen says the Cotswolds Post has a great website and there’s even a section on upcoming local events,” she said eagerly. “Where do I find it?”

  “Okay, I’ll make a shortcut for you… and then you just have to click on the icon… there, that’s the homepage with a menu across the top, see? Sports, finance, weather, leisure… and you have to tap on each word to take you to those sections. Or you can scroll down the homepage to see the latest articles—”

  I broke off as a headline on the page caught my eye. I sucked my breath in sharply.

  “Darling?” My mother looked at me quizzically but I ignored her, snatching up the iPad so that I could read the article properly. The words swam in front of my horrified eyes:

  “I DIDN’T MURDER HER OUT OF JEALOUSY!”

  Main suspect in the Cotswold hotel murder tells all

  about sordid love affair with victim

  “The bas—the beast!” I said, remembering my mother’s presence. “I can’t believe he wrote this! He’s completely twisted my words!”

  “What is it, darling?” said my mother. “Is it about that horrid murder at the hotel? Have the police made an arrest?”

  “No, it’s just a stupid story—nothing important,” I said hastily. Quickly, I shut down the page and returned the iPad to her. “I’ve got to run, Mother—I’ve just thought of something I need to do. I’ll see you later!”

  I gave her a quick peck on the cheek and dashed from the room. Upstairs, I hurriedly showered and dressed, all the while fuming about the article. I’ll make him retract everything he said! I thought furiously. How dare he make those insinuations! These journalists are all total rotters! Who are these so-called “sources” he’s quoting? I never spoke to anyone about anything at the hotel!

  My thoughts were interrupted by the shrill ringing of my phone. I picked it up, noting that it was a local number I didn’t recognise.

  “Is that Miss Gemma Rose?” said an officious voice at the other end of the line.

  “Yes, that’s me,” I said.

  “I’m calling regarding your application for the First Time Start-Up Bu
siness Loan.”

  I felt a surge of excitement. My tearoom! I’d almost forgotten about it!

  “Oh yes! That’s wonderful—thank you so much! I’ll come straight into the branch this morning to sign the papers—”

  “Miss Rose—excuse me, but you haven’t heard what I have to say,” the impersonal voice cut in. “I was calling to tell you that, unfortunately, we have decided to decline your loan.”

  “Wait… what?” I said, feeling like the breath had been knocked from my body. “What do you mean? The last time I spoke to someone in your department, he said it was practically all approved. His name was Mr Hicks. I want to speak to him—please put him on.”

  “Mr Hicks and I are colleagues,” said the impersonal voice smoothly. “He is away at present. However, rest assured that I have taken over his responsibilities and have made a full assessment of your case. It is with regret that I have to inform you that the bank will not approve the loan.”

  I felt a sense of disbelief and horror wash over me. No, this couldn’t be happening to me. Without the loan, there was no way I could afford to buy that tearoom and all my dreams, my future, were going up in smoke.

  “But… but I don’t understand,” I stammered. “Why? Why should the application suddenly be rejected? It was all set to go through and Mr Hicks assured me that this was simply a formality. I’d provided all the necessary documents—”

  “Your papers were all in order,” said the impersonal voice. “However, in view of recent developments, the nature of your application has changed and, in particular, the risks involved.”

  “The risks? What risks? What recent developments are you talking about?”

  “Your involvement in the murder case,” said the voice primly.

  “My… what?” My head spun. “But I’m not involved in the murder case! I just happened to sit on the plane next to the victim. That was just a coincidence and… and bad luck, you could say. There was no other connection between us!”

  “That’s not what we had understood… based on reports in the media.”