The Tea Shoppe Mysteries Read online

  I squeezed my eyes shut, expecting to feel the letter opener slide into my heart or slice my neck. Instead, I felt the heavy weight of Helen’s body lifted off of me. I opened my eyes in surprise and saw Mathew holding Helen in a tight grip.

  “Are you all right, Georgina?” Mathew’s voice was grim.

  “I—I think so.”

  Mathew had already kicked the letter opener farther away. “Get up and call Detective Rawls.”

  I stood up, stumbled across the room, and sat on a chair against the wall. I began to press the numbers on my cell. My entire body was shaking, and I couldn’t keep tears from slipping down my cheeks. I quickly informed the detective of the situation then put down the phone.

  I wanted Mathew to comfort me, but he remained standing across the room holding the outraged Helen.

  I noticed Mathew’s lips moving and realized he was praying, which brought back the reality that God had answered my prayer. By sending Mathew into the office at just the right time, God saved me from what could have been my death.

  “What’s going on in here?” I turned at Don Johnson’s voice.

  I pointed across the room. “She … she tried to kill me.”

  The man’s eyes opened wide.

  “She killed the mayor,” I gasped.

  Don stepped farther into the room. “Need any help, Pastor?”

  Mathew shook his head.

  Although the room seemed to be spinning, I looked at Don and asked, “What were you doing here?” The words came out in a tremble. “I followed you in and found her …”

  “I wanted to walk through the whole building, spend some time praying about whether God wanted me to become the mayor or not. Even though I said I was going to run, I wanted to assure myself it was what God wanted. I was passing by here again when I heard your voices.”

  I slunk further down as I felt the fear leave my body, replaced with exhaustion. I felt as if I could just lay down my head and sleep.

  Within minutes, the room was filled with police officers, and Detective Rawls was barking orders. One officer was trying to get my statement, but my teeth were chattering so hard, I wasn’t able to speak clearly. Rawls called out, “Leave her alone, Daniels. We can get her statement later. Can’t you see she’s in shock?”

  I was grateful, but when I turned to thank him, his lips were thin and stern, which meant I had a lot of explaining to do.

  When two officers got Helen Cranz onto her feet, balanced between them, she wobbled slightly but then turned and faced me. I could feel the hate emanating from her. It was hard to feel pity for her at this point, knowing she’d murdered a man and would have murdered me too if she could have, but I knew I needed to forgive her.

  I walked across the room, picked up the bag with the boots, and moved back to stand in front of her. “Helen, I’m sorry the mayor was going to tear down your house, and I forgive you for trying to kill me.” I handed the bag to the officer who’d handcuffed her. Then I turned and walked out of the room.

  Mathew wasn’t far behind. He took my arm and supported me all the way out to the parking lot. Once more he drove me home. I didn’t try to talk. The events of the day had been too overwhelming. I just needed sleep.

  When Mathew pulled up to my apartment, he slid out of the truck, jogged around the front, opened the passenger door, and helped me down.

  “Want me to walk you in?” His eyes searched my face.

  “No. I’ll be fine.” My words were curt, although I didn’t mean to be rude.

  Mathew pulled me close for a moment, pressed a small kiss on the top of my head, and whispered, “Thank God you’re okay, Georgina.”

  I mumbled something incoherent and shuffled away from him. All I wanted was the warmth and comfort of my bed.

  On the following Monday, I tied the green-, pink-, and yellow-striped apron on over my yellow polo and blue jeans. I slipped my feet into my new warm boots, shrugged into my cozy thermal coat, grabbed my purse, and headed out the door.

  I rushed down Main Street, wanting to get to the tea shoppe as early as possible. Detective Rawls had his men take down the Temporarily Closed signs, and he had called me on Sunday to say the shop could reopen on Monday.

  The Sunday paper’s article had cleared up any question about whether the mayor had been poisoned by anyone or anything from Tea by the Sea, giving explicit details about Helen Cranz’s part in the murder and her attempt on my life. Needless to say, I expected a fairly large Monday morning crowd, even if they came just to satisfy their curiosity.

  Our baker had to quit by the end of the month and had handed in her notice, so now I was going to have to do more of the baking and a lot of the sandwich making.

  I opened the front door, thrilling at the sound of the bell jangling overhead. I would never take that sound for granted again. Gran was already in the shop, leaning over a cookbook and sipping on her mug of coffee, as if the murder had never happened.

  I hung up my coat, poured myself a cup of tea, and joined Gran at the counter. She leaned closer to me and whispered in my ear, “Thank you, love, for saving the shop.”

  I scanned the room, feeling a real warmth and fondness for the place.

  “Nothing Sherlock Holmes and his trusty sidekick Watson wouldn’t have done.”

  Just then the front door opened, the bell jangled, and I glanced up as Mathew walked in.

  Gran snickered. “Speaking of …”

  I slapped her arm lightly. “Gran!”

  She laughed, grabbed her mug, and headed into the kitchen giving me one last wink.

  Mathew moved across the room and sat on the stool across from me. “Good morning, Georgina. Are you happy to have the shop open again?”

  I poured a cup of Earl Grey and pushed it across the counter to him. “Of course, but I’ll miss the excitement of sleuthing.”

  Mathew reached over and covered my hand with his. “Well, I can’t offer any more detective work, but there are many fun and exciting things to do in this town. I’d love to be the one to share them with you.”

  Our eyes met, and I felt a blush creep up my neck. I’d wondered if Mathew would even want to see me again once the murder was solved. I had my answer.

  “That sounds really nice.”

  He stood and smiled at me. “I’ve enjoyed sleuthing with you and can’t imagine ever wanting to play detective with anyone else. Promise to always be my sidekick.”

  I stared into his eyes. They weren’t laughing. He was serious.

  “Always,” I whispered.

  With a gentle hand, he reached out and touched my face. “You know, Georgina. I believe I may be falling in love with you. Do you think, perhaps, you are falling in love with me?” His words were spoken quietly, so only I heard.

  I lifted my head with a smile and sighed as I leaned into his arms. “Indubitably!”

  Mathew held me for a moment. I finally stepped back and searched his face.

  His eyes never left my eyes until he leaned forward and pressed his lips on mine.

  The sound of Gran’s cackles caused us to pull apart, but Mathew kept his hand on mine.

  Gran came out of the kitchen, walked over, and patted my shoulder. “Well, that’s one good thing that’s come out of all this.” She nodded at Mathew, who gave her a sideways grin and a wink. “But let’s just hope we don’t ever have another murder here at Tea by the Sea.”

  In unison, Mathew and I both said, “Amen!”

  Teresa Ives Lilly’s ninth-grade teacher inspired her writing by allowing her to take a twelfth-grade creative writing course during the summer, which stirred within her a passion for writing. Nevertheless, until her salvation in 1986 when she discovered the genre of Christian romance, Teresa hadn’t written anything for publication. Since that time, however, she has gone on to write over twenty-five novellas and novels, including two published by Barbour Books. Teresa lives in San Antonio, Texas, where she and her husband are close to their three grown children and one grandson. Teresa believes God l
et her be born “at such a time as this” to be able to write and share her stories of faith. Her book Orphan Train Bride was a bestseller for two weeks on Amazon.

  BUNS TO DIE FOR

  DARLENE FRANKLIN

  DEDICATION

  To my beloved mother, Anita Bremner Gardner, who loved the Lord with all her heart and taught me to do the same.

  I caught my love of a good story and fascination with all fictional sleuths from her. I learned all about coastal Maine from the twenty-eight years she spent in East Boothbay.

  CHAPTER 1

  Sir Geoffrey Guilfoyle winked at me before he bit into one of the hot cross buns I baked that morning. His ring, with his family crest, sparkled in the light as if to emphasize the gesture.

  I nearly swooned, foolishness for a woman three-quarters of a century old. Even if Sir Geoffrey was bona fide English nobility—and handsome to boot.

  I probably should explain myself. I’m Evie Holland, owner of Tea by the Sea in the town of Sea Side on the beautiful Maine coast. I’ve lived here all my life and wouldn’t move to Britain even if Sir Geoffrey asked me.

  At the time, the tea shoppe was still in my name, although I’d handed daily operations to my granddaughter, Georgina Quin. She has a good head on her shoulders. Look at the way she handled the murder of the mayor last Christmas.

  Between Georgina and our permanent waitress, Diane Little, we kept things running smoothly. Diane played an important role in our success. Why, she can charm a lobsterman into ordering a cucumber sandwich.

  With Georgina’s help, I’d been able to devote myself to adding a “proper British tea” to our tasty combinations of sandwiches and muffins. Sir Geoffrey’s patronage inspired me to research original recipes, and he’d become my official taste tester.

  The traditional British hot cross bun was the glue holding our March and April menu together, and I wanted to get it right.

  Georgina was more concerned about the cost. The ingredients in the recipe I used cost more than the alternatives. We’d devised a plate that added “all the trimmings” for a dollar more. People thought they were getting a bargain.

  “It looks genuine.” Sir Geoffrey’s face didn’t move a muscle. “Nicely plump, evenly glazed.”

  I hoped he noticed that I had formed the cross on the bun out of flour and water instead of drizzling white icing across the top.

  If he sounded like a food critic, it’s because he’d been judging baking contests ever since he was a boy, attending local fairs with his mother. I often wondered how he kept his perfect physique, given his penchant for our pastries. My pleasantly round figure testifies to my fondness for my own product.

  He cut into the bun, one of those proper gentlemen who wouldn’t eat with his bare hands. He held the plate at eye level and studied the texture of the bread. “The leavening is even.”

  I’d learned not to hurry him. He liked to put on a show. Anything I said would slow down his examination. Only one thing ever distracted him from the task at hand.

  And here it came. Marshfield, Sir Geoffrey’s bulldog, raced through the door left open by our delivery person. Before I could snatch the tray out of the dog’s way, he gulped down a bun in one bite.

  I groaned.

  Marshfield was as fond of our pastries as his owner. The problem is, several baking staples make dogs sick. In the case of hot cross buns, raisins can be deadly.

  Sir Geoffrey always took his dog’s side. “You don’t begrudge Marshfield a taste, do you?”

  I tolerated it, up to a point. “It doesn’t matter what I think. If the health department finds that dog in here, eating our food, they could shut us down.”

  “You worry too much.” Sir Geoffrey rubbed the dog’s head.

  “For someone who loves his dog, you have a funny way of showing it. Raisins can be toxic to dogs. He’ll probably get sick. Is that what you want?”

  “Nonsense. I don’t believe it.” He patted Marshfield’s head again. “Now sit down like a good boy so the bad lady will stop scolding you.”

  The dog settled at Sir Geoffrey’s feet, his expression shouting, Who, me?

  The dog didn’t fool me, but I didn’t say anything more. Time would prove my point. When the inevitable happened, I would offer my help.

  “Let’s finish before Marshfield decides he wants seconds.” Sir Geoffrey plopped the bite into his mouth and chewed. After he swallowed, a smile leapt to his face. “Now that is a proper hot cross bun.”

  I grinned. I couldn’t help it. Sir Geoffrey’s approval was as good as a Paul Hollywood handshake, the closest I would get to The Great British Baking Show here in Sea Side, Maine.

  Georgina held up the design for our spring menu with Now THAT’S A PROPER HOT CROSS BUN! written across it. “May I quote you, sir?”

  “With my pleasure.” Sir Geoffrey liked the attention. “Americans don’t bake with sultanas very often. Why did you use them?”

  “I used Paul Hollywood’s recipe.” I didn’t admit that I had just found out what sultanas are, golden raisins made from small white grapes.

  He grunted. “These taste like you’ve sat in his master class.”

  An ugly gurgling sound interrupted our conversation, and a second later an unpleasant stench spread across the room. The raisins had created havoc on Marshfield’s system more quickly than I would have expected.

  Sir Geoffrey rushed to his dog’s side. The bulldog was as pugnacious with me as his heavy jowls threatened, but Geoffrey treated him like a much beloved son. My scolds of “Naughty dog! You know you can’t eat table food!” interrupted murmurs of “Poor dog, those raisins will get you every time. Maybe we should ask Miss Evie to bake pet-friendly treats from now on.”

  “I can’t make a proper hot cross bun without raisins.” I couldn’t help it—the words gushed out.

  Sir Geoffrey’s head whipped around, and he glared at me. “Then you should keep them where my dog can’t reach them.”

  “I refuse to change my menu because of a dog. You know I make pet-friendly treats, but it’s up to you to control your animal.”

  Marshfield came into the shop only because Sir Geoffrey insisted. I hoped that after today he would recognize the wisdom of keeping his pooch at home.

  He huffed. “I’d best get Marshfield home and get him cleaned up before my company arrives tonight. Send me the bill.”

  “That’s not necessary,” Georgina said immediately.

  She should have agreed. I know the customer is always right, but in this case, I doubted it. I always worried that the health department would show up around the same time the dog was having one of his episodes. But as the heir apparent, Georgina earned the right to make her own decisions. I wouldn’t question her in front of our customers.

  My best option was to speed Sir Geoffrey out the door. “Let me get your—” I stopped myself before I said “cookies.” To Geoffrey they would always be—“‘biscuits’ you ordered for your guests tonight.”

  He checked out the contents—gingersnaps, lemon-thyme thins, chocolate macadamia crunch. “They smell tantalizing. I’ll have trouble leaving them alone until tonight.”

  Knowing Sir Geoffrey the way I did, I had expected him to say that. “Here’s some extras to tide you over. Just keep them away from Marshfield. Chocolate is even worse for dogs than raisins.”

  At the mention of his name, Marshfield looked up at me hopefully. He really was a sweetie, and I was a softie. I went to the tin where I kept specially baked dog treats. Sir Geoffrey wasn’t our only doggone customer.

  “Package the chocolate separately next time.” Sir Geoffrey was more upset than usual about my scolding Marshfield. Maybe he was secretly worried about the family reunion. The dog had scarfed up the dog treat and come back for more. I handed him another one. “No more. I’m sorry you got sick. If you had asked politely, I would have given you something delicious, made especially for you.”

  He drooled as if he understood me.

  I counted out six of the dog
biscuits for Sir Geoffrey. “These are on the house, since Marshfield got sick.”

  We did want to keep him in our good graces.

  He nodded, but his attention was focused on the box of cookies. “These are all so very British.”

  “I gave it my best effort.” I was pleased he’d noticed.

  “I’m sure they’re delightful. But I would also like to enjoy American ‘cookies’ as well. How about three dozen of those—what do you call them—chocolate chunk cookies? And something with peanut butter.”

  “Chocolate is bad for dogs,” I reminded him.

  Georgina caught my eye. I could read her thoughts. Why are you turning away business? She baked the cookies. I mostly experimented with new recipes.

  “We’ll get right on it.” She made a note on her order pad. “I bet you’ll be glad to see your family again.”

  Sir Geoffrey’s smile faltered, and my antenna went up.

  “It’s just my sister-in-law, Daisy, and her son. They called last night to say they were flying in.”

  I thought I understood. The way he told the story, they hadn’t parted on the best of terms when he’d chosen to make his home in America.

  Georgina raised her hand in a Girl Scout salute. “I promise, we’ll make the best American cookies you’ve ever eaten, sweet delicacies to linger on your tongue and not in your gut.”

  He laughed. “I have yet to see a biscuit that will soften Daisy’s demeanor.” Once Marshfield had recovered, Sir Geoffrey grasped his walking stick in his right hand and called the dog to heel before heading out the door.

  “I’m surprised he asked for chocolate chunk and peanut butter.” Georgina watched him walk to his car. “Brits usually complain they’re too sweet.”

  “Maybe he’s developed a sweet tooth.” We’d know soon enough, when his family arrived. If I timed my visit well, I might get to meet them. It would take quite a woman to make Sir Geoffrey tremble. Daisy seemed an unlikely name for a harridan.