The Tea Shoppe Mysteries Read online

  Perhaps Sir Geoffrey felt guilty for leaving his family behind. I’d often wondered why a man with a respected, comfortable life in England would come to our small coastal town. I’d finally decided he had wanted to see the New World like his ancestors before him, hundreds of years ago.

  Georgina had our driver deliver the cookies that evening, but the next morning I decided to take him a gift box. Fridays were Sir Geoffrey’s regular days to go fishing with his neighbor Roland Whitaker, a professional fisherman by trade and a good friend. I often went to Geoffrey’s house while they were out to drop off something sweet to enjoy when they returned. This time I’d also packed a bag with Marshfield’s favorite treats as an apology.

  It takes twenty minutes to drive from Tea by the Sea to Sir Geoffrey’s house, even though it’s only three miles away across the inlet between the two buildings. But since I need the land to get from here to there, it’s easily an eight-mile trip.

  My watch had just passed seven when I stopped. I saw no sign of Sir Geoffrey’s car. Perhaps they had all gone fishing or out to breakfast, saving our baked goods for later. I knocked on the door just in case someone was there.

  Marshfield answered my summons with a loud bark. Strange. Sir Geoffrey never went anywhere without his dog.

  Not that Sir Geoffrey’s habits were any of my business.

  I rapped on the door, and it swung open. “Hello? Is anybody home?” An unpleasant smell assaulted my nostrils, different from the pungent ocean air that invades our homes with the fog. Marshfield greeted me warmly, and silence reigned through the rest of the house.

  I decided I’d look through the house to see if everything was okay. No one responded to my hails. Through open doorways I spotted suitcases in both guest bedrooms. Apparently the company had arrived, but I saw no evidence of their presence in the house at the moment.

  The unpleasant smell grew stronger as I approached the kitchen, reminding me of the butcher shop where I’d gone to do my shopping as a young wife. I knew what that smell meant, but I didn’t want to acknowledge it. Maybe it was just an accident and everyone had gone to the hospital. I built up my hopes as I walked into the kitchen.

  Sir Geoffrey lay face up, spread-eagled in a pool of blood, a surprised look on his face. A six-foot long fishing lance protruded from his chest, right around where his heart would be.

  CHAPTER 2

  Marshfield had followed me into the kitchen. He snarled when I approached Sir Geoffrey’s body after depositing my box of goodies in the pantry—out of Marshfield’s reach. To be safe, I attached his leash to his collar and roped it around the door handle.

  After that, I called the police. The sergeant told me the detective was unavailable but to please stay at the house until he arrived, with a warning not to touch anything. My toes curled at the thought, but I agreed.

  Next, I called Georgina to let her know what had happened.

  “Not you too.” Her voice was sharp. After all, it hadn’t been all that long since she got involved in solving a mystery. “Could it be a natural death?”

  The hole in Sir Geoffrey’s chest left no doubt. “No.” Grief over my friend’s death hit me, and I struggled to pay attention to my granddaughter.

  “How long has he been dead? Can you guess?”

  Long enough for the blood to stop pumping. Although it still looked fairly fresh. “The blood has started to coagulate, so it’s been some time. But Marshfield doesn’t seem to be hungry, so I’m guessing it happened after he woke up this morning and maybe, what, fifteen or thirty minutes before I arrived?”

  “Which would make it—”

  “Between six and seven o’clock,” I said.

  “Mathew and I are coming over there,” Georgina said. “You shouldn’t be alone.”

  The police wouldn’t be pleased to have more people in the house, tramping over the evidence, so I declined her offer. After we disconnected, I decided to do a little snooping. I wouldn’t touch anything of course, but I would take pictures if I found anything interesting.

  Marshfield whined when I walked past him. I put my hand on his leash, and his stubby tail thumped the floor. I sighed. I couldn’t take him for a walk, as much as we both would enjoy it. I compromised by chaining him to the dog post in the front yard.

  Marshfield pulled unhappily at his chain. He must have known his master was gone. Animals understand death in a more immediate, practical way than we do. He would miss his friend. Was there more? Did he feel fear because of whatever had happened?

  Those useful “5 W” questions ran through my brain. Half of the answers could be answered fairly easily. Like, when did he die? As I said to Georgina, my best guess was between six and seven this morning. After six, because that’s when Sir Geoffrey normally fed Marshfield and took him for a walk. Before seven, because I arrived shortly after that.

  The answer to “what happened” seemed equally obvious, unless he was already dead when someone pushed the fishing lance through his chest. But that didn’t make sense. I suppose someone could have shot him about the same time. If there was a bullet, the coroner would find it.

  Where? Where I found him. I could barely imagine a different answer, and there was way too much blood for him to have been dragged to the kitchen from somewhere else without leaving a trail.

  But as to who, or why, I didn’t have a clue. A few locals thought Sir Geoffrey’s British ways made him snobbish. His pantry shelves, filled with everything needed for an afternoon tea, from leaves to teapots to cozies, testified to his continuing love for all things British.

  But if snobbery was the basis for murder, Sir Geoffrey wouldn’t be the only target. Why, they might even come after me because of my efforts to serve a proper British tea. Fortunately for me, most people liked the idea, and that made my business successful.

  If somebody hated Geoffrey for that, did they feel the same way about me and my shop? I dismissed the possibility before I spooked at every customer complaint.

  A package of British shortbread cookies, Bremner Biscuits, was on a pantry shelf, perhaps a gift from his guests. He had encouraged me to serve the biscuits at the tea shoppe. I had considered it a victory when Sir Geoffrey abandoned buying expensive cookies from his homeland after he discovered I could make them for him fresh. The catch phrase “The best of British baking as approved by Sir Geoffrey Guilfoyle” became a major selling point for my goods.

  Tires crunched on the driveway. The police. I hurried to let them in.

  Instead of the police, Roland Whitaker, Sir Geoffrey’s best friend and closest neighbor, was walking to the house with two strangers, presumably Sir Geoffrey’s sister-in-law and nephew. Why had they left the house without Sir Geoffrey so very early in the morning?

  I stood at the door where they could see me, and wondered what I should say to them. A suspicious thought crossed my mind. Did they already know?

  They were full of good humor. I hated to spoil their day.

  Roland noticed me first. “Hello, Evie, did you bring us some of your wonderful treats?”

  “I … Um, I’m afraid I have some bad news for you.”

  “Evie?” the woman chirped. “Oh, you must be the lady who bakes those delightful biscuits. My brother-in-law told me all about you.”

  “And you must be Daisy Guilfoyle, Sir Geoffrey’s sister-in-law.” She was waspishly thin and had the same nose-in-the-air accent, but her smile was warm.

  “And this is my son, Freddy Guilfoyle,” Daisy said.

  “Call me Freddy,” he said.

  I half expected her to trot out all the titles associated with that name, but she didn’t. Perhaps he didn’t have any. He was a little bit younger than I’d expected, no more than ten years older than my Georgina, maybe less. Sir Geoffrey’s nephew, yes, but born somewhat later in life.

  “What is that awful smell?” When Freddy scrunched his nose, he reminded me very much of his uncle. The same Roman nose and eagle-eyed stare underneath the same pronounced brow. The features that made
Sir Geoffrey appear distinguished served to make his nephew look petty and ill-natured.

  I wondered if Freddy was now Sir Freddy. His own father had died years ago.

  “Perhaps you’re smelling the ocean. Geoff said it could be quite brackish,” Daisy said.

  Roland brushed past me and headed for the kitchen.

  “Don’t go in there.”

  My warning came too late, but at least he stopped at the door.

  “It smells more of the hunt than of the sea, Mother.” Freddy remained unaware of Roland’s discovery.

  Roland turned around, his face ashen. “Stay back. It’s Geoff.” He stared daggers at me. “You should have told us.”

  I didn’t bother apologizing.

  They almost trampled me and Roland in their rush to the kitchen. At least Daisy had the good sense to stop at the entrance. Freddy barged right in.

  “Don’t touch anything. The police are on their way.”

  Freddy’s hands were already on the fishing spear. He tugged on it, then thought better of it. He bent and put his hand over Geoffrey’s mouth.

  “He’s dead,” I said. No one could have survived that kind of attack. But Freddy must have had a stronger stomach than I did. I couldn’t bring myself to check his breath.

  Daisy inched into the kitchen. I had to take charge before they trampled everything.

  “Step away from your uncle’s body, Freddy. The detective will be upset that you touched the spear.”

  “We can’t just leave him like that!” Freddy said.

  “I’m sure the police will do their job.” Daisy eased her son away. She too stooped down but had the good sense not to touch the body. “Rest in peace, Geoffrey.”

  When she straightened up, she gave me an appraising look. “Are these local police any good?”

  Roland sputtered, but her query didn’t surprise me. Sir Geoffrey had asked the same question of me when Georgina got involved with the mayor’s murder last year.

  I gave her the answer I’d given him. “They’re good at their jobs, but it takes time to get from here to there in coastal Maine. It’s only two hundred miles from New Hampshire to Canada as the crow flies, but if you drive along every bend and curve of the land, it’s more like two thousand.” I paused. “My impression is that England’s coastline is less convoluted.”

  Daisy nodded, and Freddy clasped his hands together. “Thank you for staying with my uncle, Ms., um, Holland. But you can leave since we are here now.”

  I wasn’t ready to do that. The sergeant had told me to stay put. Besides, my gut instinct told me that one of these three people was probably responsible for Sir Geoffrey’s death. What if they started removing clues?

  “The detective is expecting me. It’s best if I stay.”

  I thought it strange that he asked me to leave but didn’t seem to mind Roland’s continued presence.

  Roland scowled. “She won’t leave the three of us here alone. She thinks one of us did it.”

  Every hair-sprayed-hard strand on Daisy’s head bristled at Roland’s statement. “Well, I never!”

  Freddy grinned at me slyly. “Perhaps we are thinking the same thing about you. I suggest we wait in the living room, away from—this.” He gestured to his uncle’s body. “Did you say you brought more biscuits?” he asked hopefully.

  Fair enough. “Perhaps we should save them for later. We wouldn’t want to contaminate the scene any more than we already have.”

  Roland and I took our seats in the front room. Daisy went in search of the facilities, and Freddy excused himself to go out to their rental car. He returned with an open bag of chips. He popped one into his mouth. When he saw my frown, he shut his mouth and swallowed. “I’m sorry. When I’m nervous, I munch.”

  Daisy sobbed quietly into a tissue. Roland rose and left the room and returned a few moments later, checking the hallways and side doors. “I don’t see Marshfield anywhere. Where is he?” he asked.

  “He’s outside. Didn’t you see him when you came to the door?”

  Roland shook his head. “Quiet.”

  Everyone stopped talking. He opened the door a crack. People in Sea Side said Roland can hear fish jumping in the water from a mile away.

  As always, the crash of waves over the rocks and raucous calls of seagulls filled the air. I listened in vain for Marshfield’s small snuffling sounds. Perhaps he was asleep.

  Surprise lit Roland’s face. “At least we don’t have to wait much longer for the police. There’s a car coming down the road. Hopefully it’s them.”

  The patrol car arrived in the yard a couple of minutes later. Daisy and I both headed for the front door. She stopped me. “I’m the lady of the house. I should open the door.”

  I grabbed the knob seconds before she did. “But he’s expecting me.” I opened the door. The detective stood over Marshfield, who lay on the ground as still as death.

  CHAPTER 3

  The detective noticed me as soon as I opened the door. He said a few words to his sergeant before approaching me. Up close, I could see the detective was Tom Bennett, newly hired after the last murder. I’d wondered whom they would send.

  “What’s wrong with Marshfield?” I felt responsible because I had left him outside. I owed it to Sir Geoffrey to take care of his dog. “Is he—dead?”

  Tom shook his head. “No, but he’s weak. Like he was poisoned or sumpin’—”

  Daisy came out on the porch. “I’m Daisy Guilfoyle, Sir Geoffrey’s sister-in-law. You’re here about his death, aren’t you?”

  She probably wondered why we were wasting time on a dog.

  Tom nodded. “Don’t worry about the dog. We’ll get him the help he needs.”

  “And get his stomach contents analyzed,” I said. “In case it’s connected.”

  We went back into the house and joined Roland and Freddy, who had taken advantage of my absence to return to the kitchen.

  “Mahnin’, Mistah Whitakah.” Tom’s gaze swept every detail of Roland’s attire, as if assessing where he’d been and exactly what he’d been doing all morning. “And you ah?” He turned his attention to Freddy.

  Before Freddy could say anything, Roland burst out with, “He’s the doggone fool who touched the spear when we found Geoffrey like this.”

  Freddy glared at him. “I am Lord Frederick Guilfoyle, Baron of Durrow,” he said to no one in particular. He smiled as if the title pleased him.

  Sir Geoffrey had never introduced himself with all the tags, although he didn’t complain when we used them.

  Tom ignored the introduction to concentrate on the body. Without breaking his concentration, he said, “I’ve worked with the Mounties from up north a time or two. They say their law is similar to British law. They would frown on touching things at the crime scene.”

  After writing in his notebook, he looked directly at Freddy. “You have done your uncle a great disservice by disturbing the crime scene.”

  “I didn’t want to leave him like that,” Freddy said.

  Another car approached. “That’s probably the coroner.” Tom tucked his notebook in his shirt pocket. “All right, everyone, return to the living room. My sergeant will sit with you until we’re ready to question you.”

  Freddy sputtered, where his uncle would have held his head high, perhaps answered with a cutting comment. I missed Sir Geoffrey intensely in that moment.

  I let the men go ahead of me—to guide them in case they got “lost.” Of course Roland knew the house, but he might want to wander off.

  Tom placed a hand on my shoulder before I left the kitchen. “I’m sorry to ask you to stay as well, but since you discovered the body …”

  Yes, I understood. Wasn’t the person who discovered the body automatically a suspect? I shuddered at the thought. At the first hint of suspicion, I would call my lawyer.

  During tense times, I like to feed people. I decided to ask for permission. “I left breakfast treats in the pantry when I arrived this morning. Do you mind if I bring th
em out for everyone?”

  He chewed on it for a moment. “Since you brought them with you, they’re not technically a part of the murder scene.” He walked into the pantry and came out with an open box. He was frowning. “How many items were here?”

  “A baker’s dozen—thirteen. Six hot cross buns, two scones, and five donuts.”

  He shook his head. “There’s only eleven now.”

  “Let me see.”

  He set the box on the table. Two of the hot cross buns were missing. I could see the sugary imprint of where they’d been. “I guess someone discovered the box and helped themselves,” the detective said.

  I wished it was that simple, but an ugly thought occurred to me. “Tell me, did the dog vomit anything?”

  Tom looked at me curiously. “I doubt there was much left in his stomach.”

  “Tell the vet that he probably ingested several raisins.” I explained how the raisins had made Marshfield sick at the tea shoppe yesterday. “I would guess someone fed two buns to the dog. That was downright cruel if they knew how sick the raisins would make him.”

  He closed the box and set it back in the pantry. “I’ll hold on to the box for now.” He peered at me. “We’ll need everyone’s fingerprints. My sergeant will get them when he finishes with the dog.”

  I hated to think of the many things we had touched, one way or another, that morning. And of course we’d all been there before. That reminded me of something. “Our delivery person also cleans here once a week. She did a special cleaning yesterday, in preparation for the arrival of Sir Geoffrey’s family. Any prints should be relatively new.”

  “A detailed cleaning, then.”

  “Oh yes. Sir Geoffrey wouldn’t be—wouldn’t have been—satisfied …” I broke down. “I can’t believe he’s dead.”

  Tom gave me a moment to regain my composure before he asked how to contact our delivery driver.

  “Phoebe Oberlin.” I looked up her number on my cell and showed it to him while he made a note.