Tainted Teacup

by Michelle Busby

  “Is that like retirement?”

  “Exactly. I still get my pension, even though I live in America. I’m 71 now.”

  “Beverly Cantrell said you paid cash for the duplex. Is that because you banked most of your money?”

  “Did she now? That’s rather cheeky of her to tell my personal business.”

  “I’m sorry. Cheeky of me to ask, huh?” Tommie was embarrassed by her faux pas.

  “No, lad. It’s a fair question. I don’t mind telling you. I buys everything cash. Never was one to carry any debt. Besides banking my wages, I did some investments that were profitable. And, of course, I play the ponies, and a lot of them win. If you like, I’ll teach you how to pick a horse.”

  “Sure. I could always use some extra cash. You said earlier you were a food inspector. Does that make you ‘Inspector Holmes’?” she asked with a wink and a grin.

  “Suppose it does. ‘Twas my title for a number of years. Not only that, I’m a great lover of puzzle solving. It’s my hobby. I do sudoku and crossword, read mysteries, and watch detective films on the telly.”

  “Me too, only not the crosswords, but I do love to solve mysteries.”

  “Delightful. Maybe we can team up and outguess the telly detectives.”

  “That’d be fun.

  “Lovely. Now, how do you take your tea, missus Thomasina? Milk or lemon?” he asked.

  “Neither. I usually drink it with sugar or honey, if you don’t mind.”

  “Oh, well, I don’t have either one. I’m diabetic, so no sweets for me. I’m sorry. No, wait. I’ve ordered in a few times. Just let me see. Ah, yes. Will these do?” He pulled two packets of sugar from a sack in the garbage.

  Tommie laughed aloud. “Why not? I’ve eaten from the trash can before.”

  “Here you are, then,” he said, handing her the sugar. He poured her a steaming mug of nearly black tea from a cozy-covered teapot and set a plate down with thick slices of dense brown bread.

  “Irish soda bread. I make it myself. And this is some sliced Wexford cheese I brought in my luggage and some Kerrygold butter from your Wal-Mart. Sláinte!”

  “Sláinte,” Tommie repeated. “And that means …?”

  “Health,” Finbar said. “D’you like the bread?”

  “Mmm. It’s wonderful. I like the butter, too, and especially the cheese. It’s very strong,” she said as she chewed.

  “Yah. Puts hair on yer chest. You can see I’ve eaten more than my share.”

  Tommie almost spit out her bread. Finbar was hairy all over—chest, arms, back, and legs. He chortled at her reaction and continued drinking his tea.

  “Yer turn, lad, if you can chew and talk at the same time. Tell me about Thomasina Watson.”

  “I am 64 years old. I was a schoolteacher for 20 years, but I didn’t start teaching until I was 35. After I retired from the school system, I was the Education Director for a children’s museum in Bay City for several years. That’s about an hour or so away. I’ve been married a few times, and I have three children: two girls who are married and live in Tallahassee, and an unmarried son who manages a restaurant in Sugar Sands Beach. All of them are about an hour and a half from here. I worked as a technical writer for a couple of years, and then I retired at 62 and started drawing my social security while I took online courses and became a certified herbalist. I run a little shop in town called Watson’s Reme-Teas where I sell herbal teas and natural remedies.”

  “I should like to visit your tea shop soon,” he said.

  Tommie’s face immediately clouded over. She had almost forgotten that her shop was closed, and she was a murder suspect.

  “Missus, what’s wrong?”

  Her eyes teared up again, and she fought to regain control of her emotions.

  “Thomasina?”

  “My shop is closed indefinitely, Mr. Holmes.”

  “Oh? And does that have anything to do with yer tears earlier, dear?” He was sweet and tender, and she found herself spilling out the details of the whole story to him.

  “… and now my shop is a crime scene and I am a suspect in Ms. Beadwell’s murder, and if I lose my shop, I won’t be able to pay my rent, and I’ll have to move away and rent some less expensive shabby place or go on welfare or something like that,” she blubbered, wiping her red nose and watering eyes with a napkin.

  “Now, now, now. Stop yer weeping. I won’t have you put out on the street. You’ll stay right here in yer home. I promise you that. I own this property now, and I can charge whatever lease I desire, and I think what you pay now is too much anyways. What do you think, Sherlock?”

  The dogs had heard the noise and smelled the cheese. They sat at their masters’ feet, their heads rotating from side to side comically. The sight made Tommie giggle.

  “There, you see? The lads say for you not to worry. We’ll all stay here together, and we’ll be the best of friends. Tuig? Understand?”

  “Tuig,” she agreed.

  “Go on to yer house and get a bit of rest. Then come back over at 6:30, and we’ll have a bite of supper. Do you like fish and chips? I fix a fine flaky breaded cod and fried spuds with malt, and maybe even some rissole and marrowfat peas. Would you like that?”

  Tommie nodded, even though the only thing that sounded recognizable was fish.

  “Lovely. And when you come back, we’ll take pen and paper and begin making out a list.”

  “A list?”

  “A list of suspects and clues. We’re Inspector Holmes and Dr. Watson, are we not?”

  “I suppose you’re right,” she snickered.

  “Right, then. Go get some rest and come back soon, Watson. The game’s afoot!”

  Chapter Eight

  Finbar’s fish and chips were not exactly the meal Tommie expected when she came to his unit for dinner. Instead of rectangular strips of pasty minced mystery fish baked on a sheet pan and served with a side of ketchup, what she received was a huge filet of battered and fried white cod that filled her entire plate. Chips were not potato chips at all. Finbar called those “crisps” and said they were not a meal item but a snack. The Irish version of chips consisted of long, thick wedges of russet potatoes which were expertly fried, with crispy exteriors and soft interiors.

  The other two sides were presented on a smaller plate. They included rissole—a patty of compressed minced cod, mashed potatoes, herbs, and seasonings rolled in breadcrumbs and deep fried—and marrowfat peas—mature green peas which had been dried out naturally on the vines instead of being harvested young as they were in America.

  Finbar placed a bottle on the table, but it was not tomato catsup; it was malt vinegar. The traditional way of eating the meal was by liberally sprinkling both the fish and the chips with coarse salt and malt. Always willing to try new things, Tommie followed suit and was amazed at the difference in taste.

  “Oh my gosh. This is way better than fish sticks and French fries,” she gushed.

  “Good. Now, try yer rissole and mushy peas,” Finbar suggested. (He pronounced them mooshy peas)

  Tommie took a bite of the rissole patty and declared it was the tastiest thing she had ever placed in her mouth. The peas—not so much. They were mushy, to be sure, and so starchy they stuck together in a clump on her tongue. She had to wash them down her throat with water.

  “What d’you think?” Finbar asked.

  “I think it’s all delicious. But, quite honestly, I’m not overly fond of the peas,” she admitted.

  “It’s an acquired taste, like black pudding. I’ll fix that for you for breakfast one day.”

  “Black pudding? Sounds like a dessert.”

  “No, dear. It’s more of a savory breakfast dish. Maybe tomorrow morning. The peas, though. They’re marrowfat peas cooked down until their texture is soft. First, you’ve got to soak them in bicarbonate for an hour or more.”

  “Bicarbonate, as in bicarbonate of soda? Baking soda? Why do you do that?” she asked.

  “To take the farts out, of course,
” he replied with a wink, scooping a lumpy wad of peas onto the back of his fork with his knife.

  Tommie couldn’t contain her guffaw, and food exploded from her mouth, just barely caught by her napkin.

  Though she couldn’t finish her peas, she ate every morsel of the fish, chips, and rissole. Afterward, she helped him clear the table and opened the dishwasher to load, but he set the dishes in a sink of soapy water to soak. He told her he always washed by hand, but he was glad of the dishwasher as a place to let them drain. Tommie shrugged and went back to the table.

  “I’ve got no sweets, myself being diabetic, but I can offer you a nice suppa tea. I found some more sugar packets in the waste bin,” he said.

  “Thank you. I’ll take the tea, but I brought over some honey I can use since you can’t,” she said, picking up the small basket she had set down on the floor. “And here is a special tea blend I made just for you.”

  “You made it for me? How lovely. Let’s have that later, shall we?” he said, taking the basket from her. “Oh, and a tea egg, too. Aren’t you thoughtful? And cream, as well.”

  “That’s for your last cup of tea at night. It’ll help you sleep and give you good dreams. You should probably put it in the fridge for now.”

  “Oh, thank you, lad. I can’t wait to try it. Now, whilst we drink our tea, perhaps we can get a lead on solving this murder that’s happened in yer shop, eh?” he said.

  Finbar brought a yellow legal pad and a pen to the table. Tommie could see there was writing on the pad already. After a couple of sips, he pushed his mug to the side and pulled the pad in front of him.

  “All right, Thomasina. The first thing I do when I’m trying to solve mysteries on the telly is make a list of the crime, the victim, and the logical suspects.”

  “You do that while you’re watching the movie?”

  “Why, yes. How else could you solve it?”

  Tommie chuckled. He’s charming, but he’s an odd one. Best to let him take the lead since he’s done it already.

  “I’ll ask you questions, Thomasina, and you give me the answers. We can get this filled out in no time.”

  “Sounds reasonable to me. I’m ready.”

  At the top of the page in underlined capital letters was written: CRIME: Death in Watson’s Tea shop. Beneath that was written: VICTIM: Finbar began his crime-solving process with the first question.

  “There can be no crime without first there being a victim, so who was the victim, missus?”

  “Ms. Coral Beadwell. C-o-r-a-l B-e-a-d-w-e-l-l.”

  “What was the weapon?”

  “Poison.”

  “Method?”

  “You mean, how was she poisoned?”

  “Yes. By what means was she poisoned?”

  “I don’t know that yet.”

  Finbar looked up and nodded thoughtfully “I will leave it blank for now. We’ll come back and fill it in later.”

  “I’m hoping I can get that information from my cousin. He’s the county coroner.”

  “Perhaps you can put in a call to him tomorrow. That would be most helpful,” he suggested.

  “Sure. That’ll work,” she said.

  “Let’s continue. Date and time?”

  “Monday, February 11, 2019. 12:28 p.m.”

  He regarded her quizzically. “How d’you know the very time she died?”

  “I’ve got a big clock on the wall.”

  “Well done. Where was the victim discovered?”

  “On the floor of my shop. Watson’s Reme-Teas. That’s R-e-m-e-dash-T-e-a-s.”

  “Delightful name. I very much like it, by the way. Who discovered the victim?”

  “There were five of us in the shop, but I guess you’d say I discovered her since it was my shop.”

  “Thomasina Watson. Proprietor.”

  “Who was present when the victim was murdered?”

  “Let me see. Charles Williams. Don Lareby. Susan Clay and her sister Elaine Frank. And myself, of course. Do you need spellings?”

  “Not right now. All right. Were there any other people around? Maybe outside?”

  “Well, yes. Beverly Cantrell came in just before and right afterwards.”

  “Oh, rot. I don’t care for that one. Anyone else?”

  “Henry Erving was there right afterwards. Oh, and somebody snuck in my back door and was in the restroom. I didn’t see her face, but from the back she looked like Coral’s sister-in-law Linda Beadwell.”

  “How’d you happen to notice her?”

  “I heard arguing from the next shop, then the door slammed, and it sounded like my back door had opened, but I didn’t see anyone when I looked. Then, just after I turned my sign, I glimpsed the woman slipping out the back.”

  “Interesting,” Homes said, making a note on his pad. “Whose shop is next door?”

  “My friend Sarah Beth Brewster.”

  “Would that be Brewster’s Coffee Shoppe? I saw it when I visited the housing agents on Wednesday last.”

  “Yes, it is, and my shop is right beside it.”

  “Lovely location, across from that little park. Now, missus, can you give me a description of the victim, Coral Beadwell? Just a sketch of what she looked like, what age, what she was wearing, that sort of thing. Slowly, please, so I can write it all down.”

  Tommie sat back against the chair and stared at the ceiling, lost in the soft blond lines of the wood as she brought Coral Beadwell to mind.

  “She was late 50s. I want to say 58. Think I heard that somewhere. Height I’m not so good at. Taller than me, shorter than you. Kind of right in between.”

  “I am 1.70 meters. You are about 1.60 meters. Let’s put her in the middle at 1.65 meters.”

  “How tall is that in feet and inches?”

  He smiled indulgently. “I do wish you Americans would adopt the metric system. That would be five feet, five inches. Weight?”

  “Um, here again, I’m not so good with that. Somewhere between you and me, but a little more on the heavy side. And before you guess, I am ashamed to admit I’m 200 pounds.” Her face burned, but he seemed unconcerned.

  “I’m 10 stones. That’s 140 pounds.”

  “How many stones am I?” she asked.

  “Oh, about 14.2,” he responded.

  “Dang. I sound better in stones.”

  He chuckled. “Don’t we all? Let’s see, half of our combined weight would be 170 pounds. We’ll just add 10 pounds and say 180.”

  “That’d make her just about 13 stones?”

  “Brilliant. I think you might get the hang of it. Now, what were her facial features like? Hair? Eyes?” What was she wearing when it happened?”

  “She had grey hair, and she always wore it in a ponytail. A low flat one; not a high bouncy one. Medium blue eyes, square black frame glasses. I never saw her that she wasn’t in a powder blue UPS shirt and khaki slacks. Wonder if she even wore that uniform to church on Sundays. Never any makeup. That’s about it.”

  “Did she look any different when she came into yer shop on Monday? Pale, flushed, disheveled, made up?”

  “No, except just before she collapsed, I noticed her face was really red. Could that be important?”

  “It might be. It just might be. I think we should get a bit of description for the people who were in and about yer shop when Coral died. First, Charles Williams.” He wrote the name in capital letters beside the number one.

  “He’s 49, heavyset, probably close to six feet tall, no clue about weight but he seems fit …”

  “I’d say 13½ stones, give or take a bit, from the look of him on Wednesday last.”

  “OK. Dark black hair, beady dark brown eyes, thin mustache, round wire-rimmed glasses. He owns Floral Real Estate and is a huge pain in the butt.”

  “I agree with you there. I reckoned him a right bloody arse when I met him. All right. Don Laraby?”

  “Don Laraby. I’d guess early 40s, a bit shorter than Charles, slenderer, works at the First Bank of Floribunda,
wears suits, brown hair, light eyes like an amber color, kind of quiet. Susan Clay and Elaine Frank are his sisters.”

  “Tell me about the sisters.”

  “Susan Clay and Elaine Frank are identical twins. Mid-forties, female versions of Don in looks, your height, my weight. All three of them work at the bank together.”

  “They all sound rather unremarkable.”

  “They are, now that you mention it. They’re always pleasant, but they seem more like placeholders instead of actual people—like extras in a movie, you know?”

  “Excellent observation, Watson.” He winked at her. “How about this Henry Irving?”

  “That’s Erving with an E instead of an I,” she said, looking at his paper. “Henry is a quiet man, from what I can tell. He works at the UPS Store with Coral. He’s early 60s, taller than Charles—I’m guessing six feet and one or two inches. Not fat but has a paunch belly. Light hair, pale eyes, ruddy complexion, wide hips, and hairy knuckles.”

  “That’s an important detail, those hairy knuckles. I have them as well.” Holmes laughed, and she blushed.

  “OK. Beverly Cantrell you’ve met, so you tell me how you’d describe her.”

  “Good on you, Thomasina. Miss Beverly Cantrell, the woman who came in twice. I would describe her as being 55 or 56 years of age, judging from the fine creases in her forehead filled with cosmetics foundation. She wears quite a bit of beauty products to hide her age. She stands five feet and eight inches—she’s just above my eye level if I subtract the three-inch heels on her pumps. She is a regular dieter—one can see the horizontal lines at the edges of her mouth and the tiny vertical striations at the base of her lacquered nails. Her fingernails are professionally manicured, but her hands themselves give away her shift into menopause because of their dry and brittle skin. I detected the smell of chlorinated water beneath her bathing soap, so she likely attends a gymnasium in the mornings and showers there before she comes to work. Her dyed blond hair is naturally ash brown and is starting to grey, as evidenced by the barely grown out roots. Her eyes are pale blue but are made more tourmaline-colored with contact lenses. She is the leasing agent who works with, but is not equal with, Mr. Williams at the Floral Real Estate.”