by Cindy Stark
Was he flirting with her? If so, didn’t he know that expression was about as lame as they came?
She cleared her throat and worked to slow her pulse. “Florence and I were the only ones to drink my tea.”
She paused and widened her eyes as a thought occurred. “What difference does it make if he drank any tea unless you think it somehow caused his heart attack?”
Her thoughts kicked into high gear. “Unless it wasn’t a heart attack.”
Blessed Mother. What was he accusing her of?
The officer glanced up and caught her gaze. “I’m not at liberty to discuss the case, but at this moment, it doesn’t appear he was the victim of foul play.”
His statement didn’t bring her any relief. “Then why all the questions? I feel like I’m on trial.”
He smiled, and she wanted to punch him for causing her stress. If he wasn’t so attractive…and an officer, she added for good measure, she might very well do that.
Or hex him. That would serve him right.
“Just dotting—”
“Never mind.” She held up a hand. “I believe we’ve been over that. Do you have any more questions for me?”
He stared at her for a long moment, long enough to send a shiver of attraction racing through her. “No, that should do it. Whenever there is an unexpected death, our office does a thorough investigation.”
She nodded and stood. She could appreciate that.
She made it to the closed door before another thought entered her mind, and she turned to ask him. “Wait—”
Her surprised intake of air echoed through the room. He was only inches behind her. Close enough she could smell the intriguing aftershave he wore, and she longed to lean closer and get a better sniff. Whatever it was might work very well in the new love potion, make that designer fragrance, she’d recently been experimenting with.
He reached past her and gripped the doorknob, but didn’t open the door. The man’s nearness alone was enough to scramble her thoughts and make her confess to things she hadn’t done.
After a deep breath, she collected enough of herself to be coherent.
She narrowed her gaze. “Did you bring me to an isolated room just to ask me about tea?” That seemed rather odd.
His face lit up with a smile so sexy it would light her heart for days. “That’s just it, Miss Hardy.”
“Hazel,” she interrupted, her voice barely above a whisper.
“Before we came in here, I had no idea what you might say that might need to be kept confidential, did I? We could have discussed tea…or something else.”
She blinked several times, trying to clear her thoughts. Then she focused her gaze away and looked pointedly at the doorknob. If he didn’t release her soon, she’d likely spontaneously combust, something no one in her mother’s coven had ever been able to perfect.
But he did, and she hurried away from him, down the hall, pretending he didn’t watch her.
“Blessed Mother,” she whispered under her breath when she reached the staircase. Today had been far more exciting than she’d ever expected, and it wasn’t even noon yet.
“Miss Hardy?” the officer’s sultry voice caught her from behind.
She paused and looked over her shoulder with a questioning gaze.
“I’ll see you later, then.”
She lifted her brows in a panic. “Later?”
“When I stop by to taste your temptations?”
A surprise cough bubbled up and choked her. “Yes. Stop by anytime.”
She forced a friendly smile, and then did her very best not to run the rest of the way out of the house.
As she pedaled away, she wondered if he watched. The burning sensation inside her told her he did, but it could be heartburn, too. The morning had been crazy enough to sprout any number of maladies inside her, attraction to a good-looking, flirtatious, witch-fearing officer being the least.
Or the most.
She couldn’t decide.
She might need some of her special chamomile tea herself.
Four
The rest of Hazel’s deliveries seemed to take forever, but luckily, news of Mr. Winthrop’s untimely passing hadn’t hit the gossip mill just yet, relieving her of retelling the story numerous times. By the time she made her rounds to other customers on Thursday, everyone in Stonebridge would know what had happened.
In fact, the story would receive several rounds of edits and embellishments by then, so no one would need her version.
She parked her bicycle on the cobblestone sidewalk alongside the renovated, eighteenth-century brick building that now housed her teashop along with a women’s clothing store and a hair salon. She couldn’t have picked a better location.
Luckily, the people who’d originally been interested in the lease changed their minds at the last minute, leaving it available to her.
Good karma, she liked to think.
She dragged her weary body inside and was instantly comforted by the smell of lavender and citrus, remnants of the teas she’d crafted the day before. She inhaled and allowed the scents to infuse her body and relax her.
There might have been the tiniest bit of magic in the air as well, nothing detectable by others, but perhaps a little something she’d added to the atmosphere to make it a more enjoyable experience for her customers.
Yes, she’d promised her mother, but despite the location, the citizens of Stonebridge weren’t the most trusting and had needed convincing that she owned a respectable, lovely business and her wares would enhance their lives. Which was true. She wasn’t trying to pull the wool over their eyes and offer them an illusion.
But sometimes the best of intentions needed a little support, a little boost, she liked to think. And if people left her shop a little happier than when they’d entered, well, didn’t that make the world a better place?
More good karma and all that.
A squeal came from the entrance to the backroom, and Gretta rushed toward her. “What…on earth…happened?” It was as though she could barely get the words out.
Two older ladies paused and looked in their direction.
Hazel discreetly pinched Gretta’s arm as she smiled at the two customers. “Hello, Mrs. Lemon and Mrs. Tillens. Can I help you find anything?” she called across the store.
Smiles broke on both of their faces, and they waved back. “We’re fine. Thanks, dear,” Mrs. Tillens called.
Hazel gave them a friendly nod and strolled casually to the register. Gretta was right behind her. The women watched her for a few seconds, but when it seemed there would be no more excitement, they turned back to their shopping.
“Don’t do anything to draw attention,” Hazel said under her breath. “I don’t want the teashop to become the source of rumors in Stonebridge.”
Gretta widened her eyes. “I need to know what happened.”
Hazel knelt and pretended to fetch something from below the counter but glanced up at Gretta instead. “Do you know Officer Parrish?”
Gretta’s lips curved into a dreamy smile. “You mean Chief Peter Parrish?”
Peter Parrish. She frowned. “He’s the police chief?” She’d managed to attract the attention of the town’s top lawman?
Her friend fanned herself. “He’s pretty hot, don’t you think? But cold as December. His wife died in a terrible accident several years ago. The ladies of the town gave him a good year before they swooped in like vultures.”
Gretta cringed. “I shouldn’t refer to it that way since technically I was one of them, but he wants nothing to do with the feminine sort. Not even the prettiest girl in town could snag his attention.”
And Hazel had thought he’d been interested in her.
Her knees wobbled so she let her bottom drop to the floor and leaned against the counter. “Really? That’s better news than I could have hoped for.” That meant if he did bother to stop in at her shop, it was because he was interested in tea, not her.
She exhaled and ignored the odd ach
e growing in her chest. She must have been so distraught by what had happened to Mr. Winthrop, or so enthralled by the chief’s handsome face that she’d somehow magnified each look he’d given her, each question and statement he’d made.
Blessed Mother, she was an idiot.
Gretta stared at her with a confused look. “So, I take it, the whisperings about someone dying at the Winthrop household aren’t true?”
She refocused on her friend. “No, they’re true. Mr. Winthrop keeled over from a heart attack, and…we found him with their maid. Naked,” she said, whispering the last word.
Two loud female gasps from the opposite side of the counter warned her of her faux pas. Slowly, she rose and faced her customers.
“Dead?” Mrs. Tillens asked. Shock and excitement swirled in her eyes.
“Whilst he was…you know?” Mrs. Lemon chimed in.
Before Hazel could answer, Mrs. Tillens leaned closer and whispered. “With another woman? A younger woman?”
They both gasped again. “The scandal,” Mrs. Tillens added.
“Please.” Hazel put a hand over her mouth momentarily, wishing she’d done that from the start. “I don’t think you heard me right. That’s not exactly what happ—”
“Of course not, dear.” Mrs. Lemon waved away her concern.
“We won’t say a word,” Mrs. Tillens added before slipping a sly smile to her friend.
The moment the women walked out of the shop, Gretta turned to her. “They’re going to tell everyone.”
Hazel buried her face in her hands as shame tossed a shadow over her. “I know. I know.” She hadn’t meant to betray her friend. If she had some way to retract her words…
Or at least a way that didn’t involve magic.
She sighed and looked at Gretta. “I need some chamomile tea.”
The good kind.
Five
Warm sunshine poured through the windows in the backroom of Hazel’s shop where she crafted her designer teas. The brightness of the day worked to dispel the remainder of the sadness she’d absorbed from Florence Winthrop yesterday.
Hazel had taken as much of Florence’s woe that she could to help the poor woman through such a trying time, and it had left her in a low state, unable to sleep most of the night.
Well, that and the fact that she’d been a major contributor to Stonebridge’s rumor mill.
Another queasy wave of unease rolled through her at the reminder. Her intent was to spread positivity and goodness in this town. Not…
She shuddered. What was done was done.
Hazel scooped dried chamomile flowers from a large container and muttered under her breath as she slowly poured them into a small tin.
“Blessed Mother, I ask of thee, grant the power of peace to this tea. Strength and resilience will be needed as well. I ask—”
“What are you doing?” Gretta’s voice sent a jolt of surprise ripping through her.
Hazel squealed and swung around, unintentionally flinging the remainder of the dried flowers across the workshop like fairy dust. An apple-like scent filled the air.
Hazel put a shaky hand to her chest. “You scared the living daylights out of me.”
Her assistant snickered and cast a glance at the mess Hazel had made. “Sorry,” she said with a light laugh. “I didn’t realize you were so jumpy, or I would have made more noise coming in.”
“No, no. It’s all right. I was just saying a little prayer for Mrs. Winthrop while I made her tea. I guess I was focused on that.” She tried to shake off the adrenaline dump.
Spells, at least her spells, were much like a prayer. Of sorts.
“Since I’m the one who caused you to make the mess, I’ll get the broom and dustpan while you finish,” Gretta offered and smiled.
“Thank you. I need to get this finished and over to Mrs. Winthrop as soon as possible.”
Gretta drew her brows together. “You’re going back again today?”
Hazel shrugged. “She asked me to bring something to soothe her frayed nerves. Plus, she’s one of my best customers. I can’t exactly say no.”
“True,” Gretta agreed. “I guess this means she’s not angry with you for spreading rumors.”
Hazel clutched at her stomach. “Don’t remind me.”
Gretta put a hand on her shoulder and gave her a kind smile. “You’re a good person, Hazel.”
A rush of warmth flowed through her, strengthening the ties of friendship. “Thank you.” If Hazel were ever to tell anyone about being a witch, it would be Gretta.
Hazel added a touch of lavender to the tea while Gretta cleaned, and when her assistant returned to the front of the shop to open for the day, Hazel quickly finished her spell. With a satisfied nod, she placed the lid on the tin.
“I’ll be back soon,” she called to Gretta. She grabbed a warm sweater because the morning was still cool and headed out the back door to where she’d parked her bicycle.
As she zoomed down tree-lined streets and past old churches, she couldn’t help but compare this ride to the one she’d taken yesterday. Life had been a breezy spring day filled with nothing to worry about other than making her deliveries on time.
Then she’d come across the curmudgeonly Mr. Winthrop and all the negativity pouring off him. She’d wished she’d never have to see him again, and now she wouldn’t.
Her wish had come at quite a cost to Mrs. Winthrop. Not that she considered it her fault. She didn’t have that kind of power.
She turned on the road to the Winthrop house and a moment later cruised up the driveway. No one to run her down this time.
A white sedan sat where Mr. Winthrop had parked his Mercedes the day before. Nothing on the car stood out marking it as a police vehicle, but she’d lived long enough in the city to recognize an undercover unit.
Chief Parrish, perhaps?
A swift bolt of excitement coursed through her at the prospect of seeing him again. She put that out as quick as a boot stomping on a spark in the middle of a dry forest. Chief Parrish was danger with a capital D. She’d be best to remember that.
She left her bike near the side of the house as usual and made her way around back to the kitchen door. She stepped inside, and a whole host of powerful sensations slammed into her. Pain. Anger. Fear. So many feelings, which was understandable.
The kitchen was completely quiet. No sign of Mrs. Jones. No heated tea service waiting for her to take upstairs.
“Hello?” she called out.
No reply.
She placed the tea canister on the counter and headed out into the main part of the house which was as quiet as the kitchen. Stairs creaked as she moved toward the second floor.
Panic threatened when she found Florence’s room empty as well.
She hurried back downstairs as fast as she could without stumbling. This time, she headed deeper into the house, an area she hadn’t explored in the past because she’d had no reason to do so. She’d always come to see Florence, and she’d never seemed to leave her bedroom.
Soft murmuring voices, one male and one female, greeted her as she passed the formal dining room. She continued toward the sounds and peeked inside.
Chief Parrish sat on an old-fashioned brown settee while Florence occupied a tan chair next to him. Her heart quickened in response, and she cursed it.
The tall, nicely-muscled officer seemed awkwardly out of place on the dainty couch. Florence looked ten years older than she had the day before, which brought more sadness to Hazel.
Florence’s red-rimmed, swollen eyes looked up and connected with Hazel. A watery smile appeared on her face. “Hello, dear. Thank you for coming.”
Chief Parrish’s gaze followed, searing her as he studied her, and a startling revelation rooted deep inside her. She had not imagined the undeniable attraction that burned in his gaze now and yesterday. “Miss Hardy.”
Back to the formal use of her name, it seemed. “Hi,” she answered in return. “I brought the tea you requested, Mrs. Winthrop…uh
, Florence, but Mrs. Jones didn’t have the tea service ready.”
Florence nodded in understanding. “I gave her and the rest of the staff the day off.”
“You’re all alone?” In such a big house? That didn’t seem like a good thing. Who would cook for her? Take care of her? Make sure she had what she needed?
“Wipe that worried look off your face, Hazel. I’m capable of taking care of myself despite what everyone thinks.” A hint of strength resided in her voice that Hazel hadn’t noticed before which brought her hope for the woman.
“Of course.” A warm blush stole over her, and she prayed her cheeks hadn’t turned bright red.
“If you could manage to find your way around Mrs. Jones’s kitchen and boil some water, the kind chief and I should be finished soon.”
Hazel flicked her gaze to him, and he arched a brow that made his beautiful green eyes even more seductive and turned her brain to mush.
“Of course,” she repeated and then turned, admonishing herself for acting like a bumbling idiot in front of him.
Hazel entered the kitchen with more than a little trepidation running rampant through her. No one touched Mrs. Jones’s kitchen. She’d made that extremely clear on multiple occasions, such as every time Hazel had visited. And now she was to rifle through her cupboards looking for a teapot and cups?
She swallowed. “Bless and protect me, dear Mother,” she whispered as she opened the first cupboard.
She found what she needed in short order. It was the waiting for the water to boil that took forever. All she could think about was getting back to the other room. She wanted to see the chief again, even though she didn’t want to, and she itched to know what they were discussing.
Why would he return the following day if nothing was amiss?
When the shrill whistle of the teapot broke her reverie, she startled. Heaving an exasperated sigh, she filled the teapot and added it to the tray she’d already laden with cups.
She filled only one tea strainer with the chamomile tea because she didn’t need to be sleepy this morning, and she’d die if the good chief drank some of her special chamomile and realized she’d worked her magic. She filled another with her favorite citrus blend.