Shop Til You Drop Dead (A Hollis Brannigan Mystery)

by Dorothy Howell

  But Rebecca had sold her on the idea, and within two months the Marlow Tearoom and Gift Emporium had opened. She’d had the interior painted a creamy yellow, put delicate linens and fresh flowers on the tables, and served tea and elegant foods from the china service Rebecca had ordered from her father’s store. Everything in the tearoom was meant to appeal to feminine tastes.

  At Rebecca’s request, her father had also sent some of the unique items he carried in his own establishment, and Rebecca had used a portion of the tearoom’s space to sell embroidered handkerchiefs, hair accessories and other items the ladies of Marlow couldn’t buy elsewhere.

  The town’s women had warmed up to the tearoom. Now it was a place where mothers brought their daughters for a special afternoon, ladies planned the town’s social and civic functions, chatted, shared news and, of course, gossip.

  There was always plenty of gossip.

  “Oh, I know!” Mrs. Tidwell sat up straighter, her eyes bright with the sure knowledge that she’d figured out the one thing Sunday’s church social still needed. “Games!”

  Mrs. Walker’s lips turned down, disappointed that she hadn’t thought of it first.

  “Yes, games for the children,” Rebecca said and made a note on her tablet. “What sort should we have?”

  Mrs. Walker rushed ahead with a half-dozen suggestions before Mrs. Tidwell could respond. Rebecca wrote them all down, nodding in agreement. When she finished, she studied the tablet, then announced, “That’s everything. We’re sure to have another successful social.”

  Mrs. Tidwell and Mrs. Walker smiled with pride and helped themselves to their tea and the remaining tiny sandwiches artfully arranged on the pink-flowered platter on the table before them.

  “How’s the wedding coming?” Mrs. Walker asked.

  Mrs. Tidwell, whose niece was getting married soon, proceeded to update them with the details.

  Rebecca cringed at the mere mention of a wedding—an old habit, one she’d not completely rid herself of, even after living in Marlow for so long.

  Since her mother’s death nine years ago, Rebecca had cared for her younger brothers and sisters and helped with her father’s business. The years slipped by somehow, and at age twenty- six, staring head-on into the prospect of being labeled a spinster, she was bombarded by her well-intentioned friends and family with “advice” and helpful “suggestions” on how she might improve herself and find a husband.

  Rebecca hadn’t objected to the idea of being married. In fact, she was all for it. But her age had made her too old to be appealing—except to men whom she found completely unappealing.

  Moving to Marlow, Rebecca had made a fresh start. After spurning the advances of the town’s older gentlemen—every single one of them, in short order—she’d settled into a comfortable life, one without a constant barrage of suggestions on how to catch a man. The people of Marlow had come to accept her as she was, and that suited Rebecca just fine.

  After all, she had everything she could ever want. A pleasant aunt, friends, enough social and civic functions to keep her occupied.

  And her business, of course. Rebecca adored her restaurant and shop. She’d discovered she had a gift for running a business, tackling the problems, making all the decisions—and she loved doing it. So much so that at times she thought that having a husband would be a distraction from the things she truly loved.

  Really, the last thing she needed was a man in her life.

  “Oh yes, the wedding,” Mrs. Tidwell said. “My niece—”

  The door burst open, the little bell above it clanging madly.

  Mrs. Tidwell gasped. Mrs. Walker’s eyes widened to the size of saucers.

  Rebecca turned in her chair.

  A man. A man had entered her tearoom.

  There wasn’t a No Men Allowed sign on the door, but there may as well have been. Never in all the months since the place had opened had a man set foot in the Marlow Tearoom and Gift Emporium. Not once.

  Heat coiled deep in Rebecca’s stomach, then surged outward. Good gracious, this wasn’t simply a man. It was that awful Jack Delaney.

  She’d never been properly introduced, but she knew who he was. Everyone in Marlow knew who he was.

  The saloon owner who’d insulted Mrs. Frazier, and had yet to set foot in church. The man who could ruin a woman’s reputation by simply speaking to her on the street.

  And he was in her tearoom.

  Rebecca got to her feet, her knees quivering, unsure if it was anger, outrage, fear—or something different—that threatened to take her breath away.

  “I believe, Mr. Delaney,” she said, struggling to keep her voice from shaking, “that you’ve entered this building by mistake.”

  He didn’t bother to look around. His gaze locked on Rebecca and held there.

  “I’m in the right place,” he said. “I’m here to see you, Miss Merriweather.”

  “Me?”

  He nodded. “I’ve got a proposition for you.”

  ***

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