A Drink of Death (Japanese Tea Garden Mysteries Book 2)

by Blythe Baker

  “She’s probably at the community garden,” I suddenly realized and snapped my fingers.

  Mamma Jackie had thought she was being smart when she demanded the residents along Peet Street do something with what she called “that offense to sight and sensibility.” It was a corner lot that was over-run with garbage, weeds, and a broken down chain-link fence. She had balked and squawked about it at a recent town hall meeting. As luck would have it, the fine people of Peet Street had been saying the same thing, and suddenly the mayor was ready to listen. Within a month, the corner had gone from an eyesore to a beautiful community vegetable, flower, and butterfly garden.

  Although her contribution to the community garden had mainly been to sit in a lawn chair at the edge of the property and oversee the work of others, Mamma Jackie took full credit. That was her way. She was a force to be reckoned with because she was so hard to ignore. If her car didn’t get your attention, then perhaps her affinity for leopard printed clothing would. If that didn’t turn your head, then you were really in for it because the only thing left was her mouth. Nothing was sacred. Feelings didn’t matter. And Mamma Jackie was always right.

  So, at this early hour, I didn’t know where she was but I was sure she had her attitude with her. I wasn’t worried.

  3

  After taking a hot shower and slipping into my thick fuzzy robe and slippers, I came back downstairs to sit at the cluttered dining room table to work on my list of to-dos. I was finding that list kept getting longer and longer with very few things getting crossed off.

  As I stared at the column of chores, a chirp kept drawing my attention. At first I thought it was Moonshine acting up again. But he was asleep. It was coming from somewhere in the kitchen. Holding my breath, I sat and listened.

  The chirping sound came again.

  It was my phone, buried underneath a handful of magazines I was hoping to read sometime this year. I picked it up and swiped my finger across the screen.

  I had two voicemail messages from yesterday.

  I listened to the first one.

  “Hi Maddie. This is Detective Sullivan. I mean, Michael Sullivan. Yeah. Well, I hadn’t heard from you and I was wondering if we were still on for dinner tomorrow. I had suggested Angelo’s but, you know, if you’d like to go to another place...”

  As he rambled along, I felt horrible for not calling him back since we’d had coffee together a couple weeks ago. I had meant to but the whole idea made me uncertain, so I kept putting it off. I hadn’t gone out on a real date since my divorce. I wasn’t even sure I’d know what to do on a date anymore. Had the shared coffee thing counted as a date? I couldn’t decide whether it did.

  As I hemmed and hawed over Michael’s invitation, half listening to the recording of him offering up other options, I looked absently around me at the knick-knacks and collection of things brought down from the attic.

  One item stuck out from the boxes and seemed to stare at me. It was a cat figurine about the size of a shampoo bottle. Something about the statue didn’t sit right with me. Maybe it was because the thing hadn’t come from the attic, it had been buried in the kitchen wall. The construction guys had fished it out the other day from between the plaster and wood. Call me crazy but the idea of ugly trinkets being buried in the walls of my house gave me the heebie-jeebies. I knew that, in some cultures, sticking special items in the walls or under the floorboards of a new house was intended to bring good luck. Probably the cat had been placed there by my grandmother long ago. But I couldn’t help but wonder ever since what else could be in these old walls. A diary outlining a family tree filled with scandal and treachery? The murder weapon of a crime committed decades ago?

  I shook my head and shivered. Of course there were no weapons stuffed in the walls of my grandmother’s house. Just goofy, ugly little cat statues that would soon be thrown out or dropped in a donation box somewhere. That was one thing Mamma Jackie and I found we agreed on— the ugly cat wouldn’t be sticking around as a permanent decoration.

  I snapped my attention back to the matter at hand just as the voicemail was ending.

  “So, I’ll see you at Angelo’s at seven, unless I hear different from you. I’m looking forward to it. Yeah. Okay. Bye.”

  Detective Michael Sullivan. He was the polar opposite from Drake Morgan, attorney at law. Part of me said that was a good thing, a great thing, even. But part of me wasn’t so sure. If I moved on now, I was really moving on. Whatever lingering feelings of frustrated affection I might have for Drake were definitely over. As if the signed divorce papers in my attorney’s office weren’t proof enough.

  “You need to stop thinking about Drake,” I told myself. “Use last night’s dream as a metaphor. Your old life is dead. Your old worries are dead. Your old routines are dead. That’s all that dream meant. As for Michael, he asked you out because he liked something about you. Of course he did. What’s not to like?”

  “Rawk! Lazy!” The screech from the next room cut into my thoughts.

  “Shut up, Moonshine!” I shouted through the doorway.

  I took a deep breath and quickly dialed Michael’s number, before I could chicken out. As expected, I got his voicemail. Thank goodness.

  “Hi, Michael. This is Maddie. Maddie Morgan.” I winced at the sound of my voice. “I’m sorry I didn’t call sooner. There’s just a lot going on with my grandma’s house and my ex-mother-in-law staying with me. That’s a long story. Her parrot is mean. Any-hoo. I will see you tonight at Angelo’s. I’m looking forward to it, too. Okay, bye.”

  Lame. I rolled my eyes. “Who says any-hoo? Me, evidently.”

  Suddenly, I was struck with another fear.

  “Like I haven’t had a rough enough morning?” I groaned.

  What on earth was I going to wear tonight? That stirred up a whole new batch of anxiety.

  “I’ll wait. I’ll wait until the last minute and then I’ll just close my eyes and pick and hope I don’t end up looking like a circus clown or Mamma Jackie.”

  While shaking my head, I dialed my voicemail to get the second message that was still patiently waiting beneath the blinking blue light on my phone.

  “Good morning, Ms. Morgan. This is Felix Henderson at Origin Bank. I just wanted to confirm our nine o’clock appointment tomorrow to review your loan application. Please call me if there are any changes. Thank you.”

  “How could I forget, Felix?” I asked my phone. “You guys are not only going to approve my loan application but you’re going to be so impressed with me that you’re going to say, Here, have an extra ten thousand dollars on us.”

  As if I didn’t have enough to worry about picking out an outfit for my date tonight, I also had to worry about my meeting with the bank.

  The improvements to my grandmother’s house had severely eaten into my savings. It wasn’t like I was upset about that. I knew once I sold the house that I’d get my money back and then some.

  But the tea garden still had portions of it closed off. It was obvious my grandmother had some lofty ideas. Stones and wood lay unused near the small creek that cut through the northern area of the garden. It was clear she had wanted a small bridge to cross over the water. On the southern tip, there were partially erected chess seats where people could bring their own chess pieces and play at the cement tables that had the boards already in them. They were quite beautiful. Grandmother had used recycled glass for the dark and light checkerboards. Two of the tables had been constructed but there was enough material for another three.

  Then, there was the sign at the entrance: a weathered and sad looking wooden sign hanging on a post. Its faded red arrow pointing down a narrow road to the parking lot was all there was to let people know the garden existed. Sure, it was enough for some of the regulars who lived around town. But the casual passers-by? Tourists? Real tea enthusiasts? Meditation groups? Nature lovers? There was a whole world of people out there who would love my grandmother’s garden if they knew about it.

  Plus, the garde
n boasted a tiny shop at the top of a hill just inside the entrance. I had stocked it already with a few bits of merchandise but there was room for more. Of course there was tea for sale already, but it was hardly enticing to buy tea from a big barrel marked Jasmine in black marker. That little shop could really turn a profit if, in addition to the tea, I could afford to stock it with teacups, tea pots, tea cozies, honey, pure cane sugar, and more.

  My stomach fluttered with the possibilities. But just as quickly, it soured when the thought of relying on the bank surfaced. I was sure Felix Henderson drank only coffee. That thought made me not want to finish my cup.

  When I looked up at the clock, I realized if I didn’t hustle I’d be late. Time to face the dragon.

  4

  “We’ll be in touch.”

  Those were the words Felix Henderson said to me, as I was about to leave his office. Our meeting hadn’t exactly been promising.

  On arrival, I had noted that he wasn’t at all what I thought he’d be. For some reason, I had envisioned Felix Henderson as a thin man with a pencil mustache, who wore two-tone shoes and could appreciate a creative and wonderful idea like my tea garden renovation.

  Instead, Mr. Henderson proved to be a balding ex-high school football star, who was crammed into his button down shirt and nearly choking from his tie. He had more pictures of his younger self in a football uniform placed around his office than he did of the woman I assumed was his wife.

  His office was a good-sized room with a tinted picture window that looked out onto the street. There were some desert bushes and plants outside the window, offering a little privacy, and beyond them a nice view of the changing stoplight on the corner. His desk was one of those huge wrap-around things and the computer on his desk was a black screen with the Origin Bank logo ponging back and forth. On just about every flat surface, there was a picture of him with a full head of hair in a yellow and red uniform. The exception was a single wedding picture, in which he still had hair and wore a tuxedo. The bride was a tiny thing with a wide smile and a huge chest. They looked cute, like they belonged together.

  As Mr. Henderson motioned me to take a seat, I studied that wedding photo and wondered if Drake and I had ever looked that way, like we belonged together. I doubted it. Drake left the house looking like he was stepping out of a fashion magazine. I always looked like I was running to catch a bus. My hair never stayed the way I wanted it to. My shirts always came untucked in the back, during the course of the day. When I did wear a dress, static cling was my closest friend and I almost always spilled something down my front. I was on a first name basis with the dry cleaner.

  I shoved aside my nervous distraction and told Felix Henderson my plans and what I hoped to do with the tea garden.

  He had looked at me like my ideas were the most boring thing he’d ever heard. I half expected him to say, “What? No football?” But he didn’t.

  Instead, he studied the papers in my file, grunting a little as he adjusted his leather chair and breathed heavily.

  “Do you have any additional questions, Ms. Morgan?” he asked.

  Yes. Do you ever smile? Have you ever told a person they were approved for a loan? Does your neck hurt from that tie? Do you always sweat so much? Have you ever tasted tea?

  “No. No sir.” I clutched my purse in my lap like it was a security blanket.

  “We’ll be in touch,” he muttered then, without really looking up.

  Recognizing a dismissal when I heard one, I stood and thanked him awkwardly, then slung my purse over my shoulder, and walked out.

  I felt numb. Somehow, I had blown it. I was sure of that. They were hesitant to give me the loan, because they didn’t think there was enough local interest in the tea garden. I had explained how business was booming already, even with only parts of the garden open yet to visitors. I talked about the kinds of visitors we had and how many more we could attract with the right funds and improvements. I spoke about how I’d promote the property and generate interest in retreats and outdoor meetings. One thing about having any kind of garden in Little River was that the weather was always perfect.

  “My tea garden would be beautiful for weddings or family reunions, in addition to peaceful retreats and meditation seminars,” I had blathered.

  Felix Henderson had looked unimpressed.

  “Well, you did your best, Maddie,” I soothed myself now, as I slid behind the wheel of my car.

  I felt the sting of tears as I swung out of the parking lot and headed back home. I blinked them away quickly. The last thing I wanted was Mamma Jackie to see me in tears.

  “You didn’t get the loan,” she would bark. “Well, that’s just great. Looks like you’ll need new work gloves, because you’ll be making all the renovations yourself.” Then she’d cackle. Without another thought toward me, she’d pick up her silver peach julep tumbler and her latest book and walk out onto the veranda. No words of encouragement. That wasn’t her style.

  I pulled up into the driveway, took a deep breath, and headed inside the house.

  “Mamma Jackie? Where are you?” I called.

  Only my own voice echoed back to me.

  “Moonshine, where is Mamma Jackie?” I asked as I pulled off his cage cover.

  “Rawk! Fatso!” The parrot squawked, unhelpfully.

  “Not now, bird.” I sighed.

  “Where are you?” he mimicked me. “Where are you?”

  “Mamma Jackie?” I called again, as I added seeds to Moonshine’s food dish.

  “Sorry, sorry,” he cooed, as he lowered himself to eat.

  “Sure you are, when you know who’s feeding you,” I muttered.

  Mamma Jackie wasn’t in the house. I could sense the whole place was empty, except for Moonshine and me. It was an eerie feeling.

  My grandmother’s old Victorian house was too much space. It had three fireplaces, a full attic, and a basement. I barely used half of it in my day-to-day activities. So those mysterious rooms that I never needed just sat there, empty and forlorn. It was a waste, really.

  That was why it was easy to put up with Mamma Jackie’s eccentricities. She certainly made the house feel less lonely.

  But now she wasn’t here. I was all by myself and I wasn’t sure for how long. As much as I hated the idea, I decided to call for reinforcements.

  “Drake Morgan’s office,” the receptionist chirped at the other end of the line.

  “Hi, can I speak to Drake please?”

  “May I ask who’s calling?”

  “This is Maddie, his wife. Ex-wife.” I cleared my throat.

  “Just a moment.”

  Classical music piped through the phone while I waited. Then, he picked up.

  “This is Drake,” he said, suddenly cutting off the music. His voice was sharp and he pronounced every sound of every word precisely. When we first met I found I was attracted to the way he spoke. But after a few years and a few hundred times of having my faults meticulously pointed out to me, I now found it annoying.

  “Hi, Drake. It’s me. I was wondering…”

  “Me who?”

  “Me, Maddie. Who else?”

  “This is a business, Maddie. I can’t have people calling up, assuming I know who each of them are. What is it?”

  His impatient manner brought back last night’s dream. It didn’t seem nearly as gruesome now that the sun was up. For a split second, I contemplated telling him about the dream. But if he thought that was why I called him, he’d lecture me on the value of time and hang up.

  “Have you heard from your mother?” I asked instead.

  “My mother? Why? What has she done?”

  “She hasn’t done anything. Not that I know of.” I chuckled. “But she wasn’t in her bedroom this morning. I saw her last night before I went to bed but she didn’t leave me a note or tell me she had any plans. Not that your mother is inclined to be courteous that way. I was wondering if she called you and said anything to you about her plans?”

  Drake didn�
�t answer.

  “Drake?”

  “Yes, yes. Uhm, no. She hasn’t mentioned her plans to me.”

  “Are you all right?”

  “Maddie, I’m really busy. I’ve got more than one trial coming up this month and I just don’t have time to chit-chat. I’ll call you tonight to check on Mom.”

  “I won’t be home tonight. I have a date.” I hated how Drake just assumed everything he was doing was important and whatever I was doing was trivial. When was this ever going to stop? I was looking after his mother, after all.

  He didn’t say anything in response.

  “You’re right,” I continued. “She’s probably out shopping or ordering around the volunteers at the community garden. She’ll turn up.”

  He said, “Leave word with my assistant if you need to get hold of me. She’ll be able to reach me while I’m in depositions this afternoon.”

  There was something in Drake’s voice that made me think he was holding back. Did he know where his mother was and he just didn’t want to tell me? That would be weird.

  “Fine. Talk to you later, counselor,” I said.

  “You know I hate it when you call me…”

  CLICK.

  I smirked with satisfaction having successfully gotten under Drake’s skin. Then, I felt the guilt. He really wasn’t so bad. Like when he brought groceries over for his mother. It was funny to watch her argue with him. She was his perfect nemesis cutting him off at every turn with her razor sharp tongue and arsenal of sarcastic remarks. He hated sarcasm, insisting it was the lowest form of wit.

  “I can’t be worrying about his feelings right now.” I looked at my phone. It was almost 11:30.

  Normally, Mamma Jackie wasn’t up before noon. If she was, she certainly wasn’t dressed in anything more than her leopard spotted silk pajamas and her tattered terrycloth robe. Leaving the house was also highly unlikely before the sun was directly overhead.