by Cindy Stark
If the chief wanted tea, he could have that kind. She’d forgo hers.
Worries hovered in her mind as she carried the tray back down the hall. In the past, witches had been tried and, if found guilty, murdered. Chief Parrish had mentioned the residents of Stonebridge still had an aversion to witches, so what did they do now if they found one within their city limits?
She turned the corner, stepped into the room and smiled. The answer to that question was something she never wanted to find out.
The handsome chief stood as she set the tea service on the table in front of the settee. She met his gaze and shivered. “You’re not staying for tea?”
“Wish I could,” and she had the distinct feeling he meant every word. “But duty calls.”
She licked her bottom lip and quickly drew her tongue back inside when she realized she’d drawn his attention there. “Of course.”
“Don’t forget you promised me a taste test at your store.”
She shook her head as her heart thundered faster. “No. I haven’t forgotten.”
“Good.” He smiled, and the warmth of it filled her, chasing away any sadness she’d absorbed that day. He glanced at Florence and then back to her. “I will see you ladies later.”
Florence gave him a kind smile. “Thank you, Chief.”
Hazel faltered for what to say in return. Blessed be hung on her tongue, but that wouldn’t do at all. “Good day,” she finally managed and turned her gaze away from him so that he wouldn’t see her blush.
She focused on placing strainers in the appropriate cups and poured hot water over them while she listened for him to leave. She glanced at her watch to ensure the tea steeped the right amount of time.
“He’s a nice man,” Florence commented when they were alone.
“Seems so. I only met him yesterday, so I don’t really know.”
“His wife died a few years back. Tragic hit-and-run. Devastated him.”
She tilted her head as she processed the information. Gretta hadn’t mentioned an unknown person had caused the accident and then fled. “That’s terrible. Poor man.”
And here she was talking to another person who’d lost her spouse. “How are you doing today? I know that’s a dumb question because obviously awful, but is there anything I can do to help you?”
Fresh tears sprang to the older woman’s eyes. “You’ve already done it by bringing me more tea. I’ve had to cut back on the supplements I take for my aching joints because my new delivery has been delayed a week, so that along with everything that has happened… It’s too much. Your special tea helps tremendously. More than you know.”
Well, actually, she did know, but she wouldn’t admit it. “Just make sure you don’t drive after drinking it because it can make you very sleepy, especially someone who’s sick or suffering like you.” She mentally shrugged. As good of an excuse as any for its potency.
“I won’t. I’m keeping Mick on to drive me to my doctor appointments and other things, and Mrs. Jones always does the grocery shopping.” She pulled a handkerchief from her bosom and blew her nose.
Hazel’s mental alarm clock dinged, and she checked her watch. Right on time. “Tea should be ready.” She removed the strainer and handed Florence’s cup and saucer to her, hoping her spell would work wonders for the poor lady.
Hazel sipped on her own version of what she liked to call Happy Day tea. The blend of citrus, hibiscus, and lemongrass with a touch of cinnamon lifted her spirits and gave her a lovely burst of energy…without any spells.
Sometimes, nature carried its own magic.
After a good ten minutes of more tears and chatting, Florence yawned and handed her teacup to Hazel. “I’m feeling quite tired right now, my dear. Okay if we call it a day?”
“Of course.” Hazel stood. “Would you like help back to your room?”
“No.” She waved her away. “The joints might ache like crazy, but I can manage. Your tea helps.”
“Okay, then. I’ll clean up our dishes and let myself out. Make sure to call me if you need anything. I’ll stop by in the next day or two to check on you, okay?” The poor widow had enough people in the house, but Hazel wasn’t sure if any of them could be called friends, and Florence needed a friend to lean on right now.
“Thank you, dear. That would be lovely.”
They walked out of the room together, Florence heading upstairs while Hazel made her way back into Mrs. Jones’s sacred space.
Six
Chief Peter Parrish parked his police unit alongside the road in front of the historic courthouse that was now the police department. A local pastor nodded in greeting as he passed him on the cobblestone sidewalk. “Morning Father,” he mumbled.
Most days, he paused to notice the quaintness of his small town, something he appreciated after spending a few years away, but today, all thoughts were on one lovely Miss Hardy.
“Hazel,” he said as he entered the police station, testing the sound of her name on his tongue.
“Excuse me?” The department’s administrative assistant glanced his way, her blue eyes peeking over the top of black glasses.
Margaret had piled a mound of bright red hair on top of her head like women wore back in the fifties, and he fought to contain a chuckle at her latest expression of style. The woman should be in Hollywood.
“Nothing, Margaret. Just going over the details of the Winthrop case.” Or at least the woman at their house who’d captured his attention. Something in her eyes. Or maybe her smile.
Margaret shook her head, threatening to topple the massive hairdo, and looked back to her computer screen. “Always talking to himself,” she said under her breath.
Let it go. He fought to keep from pointing out she’d just done the same. He didn’t want to start the day with a verbal scuffle with his assistant. Her persistence always beat his patience. If she didn’t do a darned good job…
He stepped inside his office and then stopped, turning back to her, unable to refrain. “Kettle?” he asked, hinting that she did just as much talking to herself.
She shifted an annoyed look in his direction. “Excuse me?”
He grinned and let it drop. “Nothing.”
“Then stop wasting my time,” she said and went back to typing.
He’d been at his desk for less than five minutes when Margaret entered with his morning cup of coffee. “Thanks, but you know I can get my own coffee.”
He did a double take. Was that a poodle on her skirt? Good Lord.
“You could,” she offered as she set the steaming cup that smelled like heaven on his desk and turned toward the door. “But we both know you don’t make the coffee right.” She didn’t bother to look at him or wait for a response.
Unfortunately, she was right. Just once, he wanted her to be wrong.
He sipped the dark liquid and thought back to Hazel’s offer of tea. “You like that new teashop, right?” he called to Margaret who’d resumed her seat.
She turned with an exasperated look. “Hazel’s Teas and Temptations? You know I do.”
He nodded and waited until she started working again.
“What’s your favorite kind?”
“Are we seriously having this conversation?”
He shrugged. “Yeah. I want to know.”
“Okay, then,” she said with sugary sweetness. “I start my day with Majestic Mint. It gives me that boost I need to deal with obnoxious people throughout the day.”
Her response drew a laugh deep from within him. As much as Margaret was a pain, her sarcastic sense of humor often made his day.
“Good. I’m thinking of switching from coffee to tea. It’s supposed to be healthier, and I hear Miss Hardy will deliver. I’ll order a tin of Majestic Mint for you, too.”
She paused for a moment, and then a smile teased the corners of her lips. “Thank you, sir. That’s very kind.”
Sir? He almost snorted. “You’re welcome. Now, don’t you have a report to finish?”
She wi
dened her eyes in disbelief and turned her back to him with a huff.
God bless her. He smiled. She’d kept the department in order and running when his life had fallen apart. She deserved every bit as much loyalty from him as she’d given him.
He sighed and lifted the daily briefing from the state police that Margaret had placed on his desk. It was highly unlikely that any unsolved cases from other parts of the state would drift into his little town, but he liked to stay on top of things.
Twenty minutes later, the sound of a male voice in the outer area drew his attention. Dr. Ruben Stalwart stood tall and thin in front of Margaret’s desk, his wave of thick, white-blond hair as shocking as always. If Albert Einstein lived in the modern era, Dr. Stalwart might be mistaken for his twin.
Peter stood as the sixty-something man entered his office, and he held out his hand. “Good to see you, Ruben.”
The doctor met his handshake with a firm one of his own. “You, too, Chief.” He glanced toward the outer office. “I need to speak with you. May I close the door?”
Peter shrugged. “I fully trust Margaret to keep a confidence, but if you’d be more comfortable…”
Ruben closed the door, and both men took a seat on opposite sides of the desk. The good doctor squeezed his eyes shut and then blinked rapidly as though to clear his brain. Some might find him a bit curious, but he knew medicine.
“Albert Winthrop was murdered.”
His statement caught Peter off guard. “Excuse me?” he said, and then wondered if he’d channeled Margaret. “Is this a suspicion, or do you have evidence to back up your claim?”
He released a slow, weighted breath. “I have no actual evidence, yet, thanks to that idiot, Warner, for signing the death certificate while I was out of town. He stated Albert had died from natural causes because everyone speculated he’d had a heart attack. But I’m here to tell you I don’t believe that is the case.”
Peter steepled his fingers and leaned forward, resting his chin on the tips. “Go on.”
“As Albert’s regular physician, I know the state of his health better than anyone. I monitored his heart regularly. In fact, he’d been in my office a little more than three weeks ago, and his heart along with the rest of him was perfectly healthy.”
“Healthy enough for sex?” Peter asked knowing the blunt question would shock the older man, but he’d wanted to check his reaction.
Ruben coughed into his hand. “Yes. In fact, I’d prescribed Viagra for him.”
“Did you know he was having sex with someone other than Mrs. Winthrop?”
The doctor’s cheeks pinkened. “I told him not to mess around with that young maid of his. Adulterous affairs are against the very moral fibers upon which this town was founded.”
“Rachel Parker?” he asked, needing the details confirmed.
“Yes,” he hissed with a fair amount of disgust. He leaned in closer. “She’s a witch,” he whispered.
Peter blinked in surprise and sat back in his chair. “Those are serious accusations, Ruben, even in these times. You know there are those in town who still have issues, who still believe the witches of Redemption Pond are living amongst us, mocking our ancestors.”
“Oh, I know.” Exasperation rolled off him. “I do not say this lightly. But, as God as my witness, Albert himself told me they tried a lovemaking ritual that was supposed to help him not need the Viagra.”
Here he’d thought he’d heard it all. “Did it work?”
A huff exploded from Ruben. “How should I know?”
“Sorry. Had to ask for the record.” He scrubbed his hands over his face, trying to piece together the facts. “So, you’re suggesting I should order an autopsy on the grounds that Rachel Parker might be a witch?”
His face grew redder. “Fine, leave the witch part out. But a perfectly healthy man died, and I believe the cause of his death needs further investigation. The law is on my side.”
“And you’d put Mrs. Winthrop through further agony to see this done?”
Ruben narrowed his focus on Peter’s face. “If your wife was murdered, wouldn’t you want to know that it wasn’t an accident or from natural causes? Wouldn’t you want to see that person pay for his or her crime?”
Blood drained from his head even as it boiled in anger. The good doctor had played his cards well and knew Peter couldn’t very well deny him after that statement. “I’ll contact the coroner today.”
Ruben stood and held out his hand. Peter shook it even though he didn’t want to. “Thank you. I think you’ll find that I’m correct in my suspicions.”
Peter exhaled, trying to let go of the anger that hadn’t served him once since his wife had died. “For Mrs. Winthrop’s sake, I hope so.”
He waited until Dr. Stalwart left his office before he picked up the phone and made the call.
Then he made a second, more difficult one to Mrs. Winthrop to inform her of the situation. She’d cried like he’d expected. He hated giving her that kind of news over the phone, but he didn’t have it in him to make a second trip to her house that day.
Perhaps it would be like Ruben suggested. If it was murder, Mrs. Winthrop would be willing to endure the pain to have answers.
Just like he would have done if given the choice.
He stood, suddenly needing to get out of the stifling office. “Looks like I have further investigating to do on the Winthrop death,” he informed Margaret.
“Not natural causes, I take it?” All traces of teasing impudence and sarcasm were gone.
“Not according to the good Dr. Stalwart. I’ve ordered an autopsy, and I’ll re-interview those who were at the house to see if anything suspicious arises while we wait for results. Looks like Rachel Parker is top of my list.” He patted his pants pocket. “I have my phone if you need me.”
But first, he planned to stop at the teashop.
Seven
Hazel straightened tins of tea on her shelves, mentally noting which were running low. Gretta was off for the afternoon, taking her grandmother for their weekly lunch date at Cora’s Cafe.
The Youthful White Tea with red currants and apples and the Wellness Energy with a mixture of green and black teas and apricot seemed to be her most popular lately.
What did that tell her about the citizens of Stonebridge? That they wanted to feel younger and that they used her highest caffeinated tea for energy. Like most people, they needed to slow down and enjoy life. Doing so would do wonders for the bags beneath their eyes and their stress levels.
In the meantime, she’d do her best to help them.
Wednesdays were typically her slow days, which was why she’d given Gretta that day off, but that also made a very long day for her. She reviewed the inventory logs. Ordered more ingredients for tea from her suppliers, and then settled in at her desk in the back room. She drew a strand of hair across her lips as she thumbed through the latest catalog of teapots, teacups, and accessories for the upcoming summer tourist season.
The bell on her door tinkled, and she exhaled a breath, glad for the distraction. Perhaps it would be June Porter, who was always up for a long conversation.
She hurried to the public area of her store and lost her breath when she found one very handsome chief standing inside her doors.
He had his head turned to the side, taking his time to look over her store as though each tin of tea or colorful teapot interested him.
“Welcome to my shop, Chief Parrish.” Her heart quickened as his name left her lips.
“Miss Hardy. Or would that be Mrs.?” he asked again, his engaging smile fully in place.
“Yes,” she answered with a teasing tone in her voice.
He drew his brows together as he approached the counter that separated them. “Yes? I don’t believe that answers my question.”
She worked to keep her breathing calm. She was certain he’d asked someone in town about her marital status by now, or he wouldn’t still be flirting. But if he wanted to play, she was game.
“Of course, it does. You asked if it was Miss or Mrs., and I said yes, it was one of those, which it is.”
“Ah.” He lifted his chin and smiled. “Playing coy.”
“Playing coy?” A snort escaped her. “Does anyone actually use that phrase anymore?”
He shrugged. “We’ve been called a backward town, a century or so behind the times in some ways. Most around here don’t seem to mind.”
She straightened items on the counter and placed pens back in their holder to avoid the direct eye contact that tended to unravel her. “Did you come to try some tea?”
“I guess I did.” He seemed uncertain about his decision to do so, but she knew once she had a person in her store, she could sell them for life.
“Excellent. Follow me. I know the perfect tea for you.” She moved from behind the counter to the small area she’d set up for customers who wanted to enjoy tea on the spot as well.
She’d brought in stuffed, refurbished chairs covered in bright fabrics along with antique tables she’d found at a yard sale. Along one wall, she’d placed a counter-height narrow table where a teapot waited on a warmer, surrounded by teacups and strainers. Tins of her various teas sat on shelves above it.
“How can you know the perfect tea for me?” he asked, his voice sounding close enough that if she were to stop suddenly, he’d bump into her. For a moment, she considered doing that just to see.
“Have a seat,” she said, indicating the closest chairs. He chose the patterned coral one, and didn’t he look so cute? Of course, she wouldn’t mention that to him.
She turned her attention to the selection of teas. “You’re not a fruity man.”
He snorted, the sound of his laugh drawing her attention. “No, not a fruity man.”
He was too handsome for his own good.
“I would say something spicy, perhaps. How about…” She closed her eyes as she ran a finger over the fronts of the lined tea tins, waiting for a spark of knowing. When it came, she stopped. “This one.”
She pulled the tin from the shelf and opened it. Spiced chai had always been one of her favorites. She spooned the correct amount to a tea strainer and rested it in a dark blue cup. When she poured hot water over it, the rich scent of cloves, cardamom and cinnamon filled the air.