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

by H. Y. Hanna

  “Yes, and that was years ago,” said Derek Sutton savagely. “I’d paid my dues. Not that there had ever been much love lost between me and Lynn. Our marriage was a huge mistake. She told me before she left for her research trip that she was planning to divorce me when she got back. Then I got the news that her plane had disappeared in the jungle…”

  “But I don’t understand… Why would you want to kill her after all this time? However bad your marriage was, surely you couldn’t hate your wife enough to want to harm her after all these years?”

  “Oh, I didn’t hate Lynn. Not anymore anyway,” said Derek Sutton softly. “But I needed her dead.”

  “Why?” I looked at him in bewilderment.

  “Because of the life insurance claim!” Derek hissed. “Lynn and I both took out life insurance when we first married—it was one of those silly, idealistic things you do when you’re young and besotted and wanted to prove your love to each other. If she died, then I would get half a million pounds, and vice versa. After her plane went down and they thought there weren’t any survivors, I put in a claim but the bastards refused to pay—they kept insisting that because a body hadn’t been found, she might still be alive. Even after seven years—which is usually how long it takes to declare a missing person legally dead—they still wouldn’t accept it. They just didn’t want to pay out the half a million pounds and were trying to find any way to wriggle out of it.”

  “It’s been a lot more than seven years,” I pointed out.

  “It’s been nearly twenty,” Derek said bitterly. “And even the insurance company had to admit that the chances of Lynn still being alive were pretty small after all this time. So they seemed to cave in at last. Last month, I got a letter out of the blue saying that they had finally decided to settle the claim. Providing everything goes as planned, I should be getting half a million pounds deposited into my bank account in two weeks’ time.” He leaned forwards and narrowed his eyes at me. “But that wasn’t going to happen if Lynn suddenly turned up alive.”

  “So you murdered her?” I said, aghast. “Just because her return was… ‘inconvenient’? How could you do that?”

  He shrugged. “To all intents and purposes, Lynn was dead anyway. Everyone had accepted that and moved on. It wasn’t as if I was suddenly depriving people of her presence.”

  “But you were still taking a life!” I said, shocked at his cold attitude. “You killed a woman in cold blood…”

  “She never saw it coming. She was so woozy from the alcohol—so you needn’t worry. She didn’t suffer,” he said callously. “In fact, I had the whole thing perfectly planned, and if you hadn’t poked your nose in things, Miss Rose, no one would have been any wiser. How did you guess?” he asked suddenly.

  “It was the cosmetic bag,” I said. “When you rang Marie yesterday on the internal phone to ask her to bring it down, you described it to her as a ‘quilted gold cosmetic bag’. I didn’t pick up on it at the time… but later, I realised that I had never mentioned that it was ‘quilted’. Gold, yes, but never quilted. Therefore, there was only one way you could have known that detail about the bag—if you had seen it yourself. And since Inspector Glenn had already told me that no one had been allowed into the room after the body had been found, that meant that you could only have seen it before the murder… which meant that you were the murderer hiding in the bathroom and that’s when you must have seen the cosmetic bag.”

  “Well done,” Derek Sutton said, a mocking smile playing around the corners of his mouth. “Yes, it was me in the bathroom. I had to do some quick thinking when that blasted idiot, Andrew Manning, suddenly appeared at the door. And then you turned up as well a few minutes later. In fact, I thought that trick with the electric toothbrush was pretty clever, if I do say so myself.”

  I looked at him in disgust. “Not clever enough,” I said.

  “Oh no?” He smiled again.

  “No,” I said. “When the police find out—”

  “And why should the police know anything about it?”

  “Because I’m going to tell them. When Inspector Glenn gets back this afternoon, I’m going to tell him everything—”

  “Oh, I think not, Miss Rose.” He took a step towards me.

  I backed away, suddenly realising that somehow, as we had been talking, he had manoeuvred us around so that I was standing with my back to the wall and he was between me and the ballroom entrance.

  “D…don’t come any closer,” I said nervously, backing away. “Or I’ll… I’ll scream!”

  “Scream away, Miss Rose,” he said with a little laugh as he advanced towards me. “The main building is too far away and there’s no one else here in the ballroom to hear you—”

  “That’s where you’re wrong, young man!”

  The familiar booming voice rang out across the ballroom. Derek Sutton whipped around, his mouth dropping open in horror as the Old Biddies marched into the ballroom, followed by Inspector Glenn.

  Mabel came up to us, wagging her finger. “We heard everything you said, Mr Sutton—the full confession! It was a good thing that Inspector Glenn came back to the hotel early and an even better thing that we made him come to find Gemma with us.”

  Derek Sutton opened and closed his mouth but nothing came out.

  The Old Biddies walked past him and came to fuss over me, while I sagged against the wall in relief. I couldn’t quite believe what had happened. Derek Sutton looked like he was having a hard time coping with reality as well, as Inspector Glenn handcuffed him and intoned:

  "Derek Sutton, I’m arresting you for the murder of Jenn Murray. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned, something which you later rely on in court…"

  As he was being led away, Mabel called after him: “I still expect my discount on the ballroom!”

  EPILOGUE

  “Do you want to do it?” I asked nervously.

  Cassie laughed. “Of course not, silly! It’s your tearoom. Go on—open the door.”

  I took a deep breath, fingering the heavy brass key in my hand, then inserted it into the door. It turned with a rusty click and I gripped the doorknob and pushed. The door swung open with a faint creak and I stepped into the interior of the old Tudor building.

  The place smelled slightly musty and there was dust everywhere but as Cassie strode over to the curtains and yanked them back, light flooded the place and I drew a breath of pleasure. Even with the hideous 70s décor scheme and cheap furniture, it was beautiful, full of Olde World charm. As dust motes danced in the beams of sunlight streaming in through the mullioned windows, I walked slowly around, admiring the exposed timber beams across the ceiling and the original 15th-century flagstone floors. On the far side of the room, the ugly screen had been removed and the rustic inglenook fireplace now dominated the wall.

  I sighed happily. It really was like a dream come true.

  And it was a dream that almost hadn’t come true, I reminded myself wryly. It had been touch and go yesterday, getting the loan approval from the bank after news of Derek Sutton’s arrest had finally been made public. And then it had been a race against time to get a bank draft to the original owners before they signed the deal with the Chinese.

  But I had made it, I thought with a smile, as I looked down once more at the heavy brass key in my hand. It was a still a long road, I knew—it would be weeks before I could open for business, and in the meantime there would be renovations and redecorating, sourcing new furniture, working out the menu, finding a baker to make the delicious traditional British cakes and scones that I dreamed of…

  As if on cue, the door to the tearoom swung open and Fletcher stepped in, the inevitable tool bag over one shoulder and a large flat package in his arms.

  “Aha! Perfect timing, Fletcher!” cried Cassie, hurrying over to take the package from him, then turning to me with a smile. She held the package out to me.

  “For you… a sort of tearoom-warming gift, I guess yo
u could say.” She chuckled.

  Puzzled, I took the package from her. It was about the size of a very big tray, although much heavier. Slowly, I unwrapped the brown paper packaging, then caught my breath as I held up the thing to the light.

  It was a hand-painted wooden sign—a shop sign—with a beautiful drawing of a quaint old stable door in the background and, in the foreground, a dainty china teapot with accompanying teacup. And underneath the picture, in flowing calligraphy, was the name: LITTLE STABLES TEAROOM.

  “Oh Cass!” I said, tears springing to my eyes.

  She enveloped me in a hug. “Congratulations, Gemma!”

  I hugged her back, the tears spilling over now.

  “Whoa… remember you’re back in England now and you’ve got to act like a proper Brit. No excessive emotion in public,” Cassie teased.

  I laughed. “I don’t know how to thank you. It’s beautiful.” I wiped the tears from my eyes.

  “I’m glad you like it. I wasn’t quite sure… but I could always paint you another one if you—”

  “No, no, this one is perfect,” I insisted. “I can’t wait to hang it up.”

  “Well, Fletcher can help with that,” said Cassie, nodding to the handyman who was standing shyly in the background. “That’s why I got him to bring the sign—and all his tools.”

  “Thanks, that would be great.” I smiled at Fletcher. Then I walked over and put a gentle hand on his arm. “But wait, before you do that... I wanted to ask you…” I took a deep breath. “Fletcher, would you be interested in coming to work for me here in the tearoom? As the baker?”

  The big man looked at me in surprise. “Me?”

  “Yes, your baking is wonderful and I’d love to have you on my team. It would be a full-time job so you probably couldn’t do much of your handyman work anymore. But you like baking, don’t you?”

  “Yes, I love baking,” said Fletcher simply.

  “Then will you do it?”

  He gave me a shy smile, then his forehead creased anxiously and he put a hand in his tool bag. There was a wriggle of movement and, a moment later, a little furry head popped out of the bag.

  “Meorrw?” Muesli said, looking around the tearoom, her green eyes wide with curiosity.

  “Can Muesli come too?” asked Fletcher.

  I hesitated. Did I really have to have the tabby terror as well? Still, I could see that it was the only way Fletcher would agree.

  “Well, I’d have to check with the Food Standards Agency and see what the laws are about having an animal in an eating establishment,” I said cautiously. “But providing they’re okay with it, then yes, Muesli can come too.”

  “Meorrw!” said Muesli, giving me a cheeky look of approval.

  Then before anyone could stop her, she jumped out of the tool bag and began scampering about the place, her tail straight up and her whiskers quivering with excitement.

  “Looks like Muesli’s already decided to make herself at home,” said Cassie with a laugh as the little cat hopped up to sit on the windowsill and tucked her tail around her paws.

  I went over to join Muesli at the window and looked out onto the village. In the distance, the rolling hills of the Cotswolds stretched to the horizon and, closer in, the higgledy-piggledy rows of thatched-roof cottages with their stone walls glowing in the late autumn sunshine made an idyllic picture.

  It was hard to believe that only a few days ago, I had been up to my neck in a murder investigation. Now that it was all over, I had to admit that it had been sort of… well, fun and exciting, in a way. But I didn’t need any more of that, I told myself firmly. I was going to enjoy running a tearoom, with nothing more to worry about than how many scones one should serve and with which kind of jam and clotted cream. There’d be no more mysteries, murders, or secret alibis… no more sinister clues to follow or dangerous showdowns…

  No, life was going to be peaceful now. After all, things like scones didn’t get you killed, did they?

  If only I knew…

  ***

  A Scone To Die For

  (Oxford Tearoom Mysteries ~ Book 1)

  When an American tourist is murdered with a scone in Gemma Rose’s quaint Oxfordshire tearoom, she suddenly finds herself apron-deep in a mystery involving long-buried secrets from Oxford’s past.

  Armed with her insider knowledge of the University and with the help of four nosy old ladies from the village (not to mention a cheeky little tabby cat named Muesli), Gemma sets out to solve the mystery— all while looking for her mother’s iPad password and dealing with the return of her old college love, Devlin O’Connor, now a dashing CID detective.

  But with the body count rising and her business going bust, can Gemma find the killer before things turn to custard?

  ** Traditional English Scone recipe at the end of the story!

  Read an excerpt:

  A strange snapping noise caught my attention and I turned towards the sound. It was coming from a large man who seemed to be part of the tour group that had just come in. He was sitting alone at a table at the edge of the group and had his left hand in the air, snapping it impatiently, like someone calling a disobedient dog. I frowned at his rudeness, but reminded myself that I was in the hospitality industry now. Professional, friendly service no matter what. I took a deep breath and went over to him.

  “Can I help you, sir?”

  “Yeah, I wanna glass of water.”

  He had a strong American accent and an aggressive manner, which put me instantly on edge, but I kept my smile in place.

  “Certainly.” I started to turn away but paused as he spoke again.

  “Wait—is it tap? I only drink filtered water.”

  “I’m afraid we don’t have a filter, sir. It’s plain tap water. But it’s very safe to drink tap water in the U.K. We do have bottled water on the menu, if you prefer.”

  He scowled. “What a rip-off. Water should be free.”

  I stifled a sigh. “You can certainly have water for free, but it’ll be tap water. We have to pay for the bottled water so I have to charge you for that.”

  “All right, all right…” He waved a hand. “Get me a glass of tap water. And put some ice in it.”

  I turned to go but was stopped again by his voice.

  “Hey, by the way, the service is terrible. I’ve been sitting here forever and no one’s come to take my order!”

  I stared at him, wondering if he was serious. Surely he realised that he had only just come in a few minutes ago? The rest of the group were still looking at their menus. One of the women in the group, sitting at the next table with her little boy, met my eyes and gave me a sympathetic smile. I took a deep breath and let it out through my nose.

  “I’ll just grab my order pad, sir.”

  “Yeah, well, be quick about it. I haven’t got all day.”

  Gritting my teeth, I headed back to the counter. My mood was not improved when I got there to find Cassie with an exasperated look on her face.

  “The shop’s empty again.”

  “Arrrrgghh!” I said under my breath. “Muesli, I’m going to kill you!”

  No, I don’t have an abnormal hatred of cereals. Muesli is a cat and, like all cats, she delights in doing the exact opposite of what you want. The Food Standards Agency inspector had been adamant: the only way I’d be allowed to have a cat on the premises was if it stayed out of the kitchen and dining areas. Easy, I’d thought. I’ll just keep Muesli in the extension where we had a little shop selling Oxford souvenirs and English tea paraphernalia. The fact that I thought of the words “easy” and “cat” in the same sentence probably tells you that I don’t know much about felines.

  Okay, I’ll be the first to admit—I’ve always been more of a dog person. I think cats are fascinating and beautiful and look great on greeting cards. But not on my lap leaving hairs everywhere and certainly not in my tearoom, getting under everyone’s feet. So why, you wonder, is the tabby terror even here? Well, she came as a packaged deal with my chef
. And Fletcher Wilson is a magician with a mixer and a spatula. Trust me, once you’ve tasted his sticky toffee pudding, you’d be ready to give him your first born child. So agreeing to let him have his cat with him at work seemed like a small price to pay in exchange for his culinary expertise.

  The problem was, I hadn’t counted on the cat being quite so sociable. Or such a great escape artist. Muesli had quickly decided that there was no way she was going to remain in the shop area when all the real fun was going on here in the dining room and she made it her life’s mission to escape at any opportunity. I couldn’t really blame her. In fact, I felt guilty every time I saw that little tabby face—with her pink nose pressed up to the glass—peering wistfully through the door that separated the shop from the dining room. But food hygiene laws were one thing I couldn’t ignore if I didn’t want to lose my licence.

  “One of the Japanese tourists must have gone in the shop to check out some of the stuff and she slipped out when they opened the door,” commented Cassie.

  I sighed and scanned the room, looking for a little tabby shape between the tables. I couldn’t see her. I crouched down to get a better view. All I could see was a forest of legs… I bit my lip. Where was that cat? I had to find her before any of the customers noticed her loose in here. The last thing I needed was for Mabel and her cronies to discover my Food Standards violation; the news would be halfway across Oxfordshire before the day ended.

  “Hey! Can I get some service around here?” came an irate American voice.

  I straightened up hurriedly. Oh God, I’d forgotten about Mr Charming. I gave Cassie a harassed look. “Keep looking for her, will you?”

  I grabbed the order pad—then, on an impulse, also picked up a plate of fresh blackberry cheesecake, which had just come through the hatch from the kitchen. Well, they did say the way to a man’s heart was through his stomach. I added a knife and fork, and a dollop of cream, then walked over and set it down in front of him.