“Mayor Dalton is meeting with his pro tem, Robert Casey, today. I need to get back to the office. Should I just take the tray, or is there a bag to put it in?”
“I think the tray will protect them. I’ve taped the sides, which should help.” I lifted the tray, stepped from behind the counter, and handed it to her. I couldn’t think of anything else to say except, “Have a nice day.”
She glared at me for a second then swirled around and scampered out of the shop. I thought my boots were inappropriate, but her thin, high-heeled boots were ridiculous. I was wondering how the mayor dealt with her scurrying around the office all day, heels clicking on the floor, when Gran’s voice startled me.
“She reminds me of a hamster on one of those wheels.” Gran came out of the kitchen and stood beside me. “She just runs around, doing everything she can think of for the mayor, and he doesn’t care a jot.”
“I feel sorry for her,” I answered, remembering the touch of sadness I’d noticed in her eyes.
“Don’t. She wouldn’t have it any other way. She might complain about her job and the mayor, but she loves everything she does. I’m not sure she’d know what to do if the mayor ever did notice or commend her for anything. She likes to make everyone feel sorry for her.”
“Still, that can’t be a very pleasant way to work. She says he never takes her advice, but I’m guessing mayors don’t ask their secretaries for advice, as a general rule.”
A smile crossed Gran’s face. “That’s exactly what I mean. She complains about things he doesn’t take her suggestions about, but generally they’re things she’s not in charge of.”
“Why does he keep her?” I picked up a petit four from the tray the cook had set out on the counter earlier and plopped it into my mouth.
“She’s the best secretary in town. Her job is to type, file, and run errands for him, and she does all those to a T.”
“What’s a pro tem?” I murmured, swallowing the delicious treat.
“Oh, you must mean Robert Casey. He’s the pro tem. Basically that means he’s the one who would take over if Mayor Dalton couldn’t fulfill his duties for any reason.”
“Wouldn’t that be like a vice mayor?”
“No, he’s not paid for the position and doesn’t work for the mayor or the town. But if the mayor got sick or died, he would fill in until a new mayor could be elected.”
I was intrigued. I’m not a very politically minded person, so this was all new to me.
Gran continued. “The man lives in perpetual hope that the mayor will get good and sick so he can step in and ‘clean things up,’ or so he likes to tell everyone. We thought he’d run for mayor this upcoming election, but he surprised us all. He may end up being the pro tem again, because no one else has ever mentioned wanting the position.”
Gran stepped back and looked around the shop. She jammed her hands onto her hips. “Speaking of jobs, aren’t you supposed to be working on those baskets for the Victorian Christmas Festival? The festival starts Friday night. That only gives you four days to get them made. The petit fours won’t actually be put in the baskets until right before the festival begins, but you need to decorate the baskets with silk poinsettias and Christmas bows.”
I followed her to the kitchen. In one far corner, away from the ovens, was a long table set up as a workbench. A hot glue gun and about ten glue sticks lay on the table, but nothing else.
“The baskets are in the storage room. The silk flowers and ribbon are in that box on the floor.” She pointed to a large white box.
“All right, Gran. I won’t let you down. How many baskets should I make?”
I assumed she’d say something like fifteen or twenty. To my surprise, she called over her shoulder before leaving the kitchen, “One hundred.”
I felt my jaw drop. I picked up the glue gun and pushed the glue sticks around a bit. Ten glue sticks were never going to be enough if I had to make one hundred baskets, and four days would never be long enough for me to get them all done.
I turned and shouted, “Gran, you’ve got to be kidding!” The kitchen was silent. She’d slipped away.
Lord, maybe I need to rethink the whole idea of taking over the tea shoppe.
I considered finding her and turning down the job, but I knew in my heart I wasn’t going to. Sea Side, Maine, had already started to steal my heart, and I didn’t plan to leave. Staying meant taking over Tea by the Sea, which meant making one hundred petit four baskets, so I set down the glue gun and went looking for the baskets.
I found the boxes filled with baskets, grabbed about ten, and placed them on the worktable. Then I opened the box of silk poinsettias and snatched a roll of gold ribbon. With a sigh, I sat down and started creating. I thought about the trays of petit fours in the freezer and knew there weren’t enough for our daily customers, our special orders, the Victorian Christmas Festival, and the mayor’s party. I’d enjoyed helping to make the petit fours last week, but I hoped Gran planned on having our baker make the rest we needed.
The feeling of inadequacy flooded me, and I wondered if I was really going to be able to step in and take over the tea shoppe.
When I was only a few minutes into making the baskets, my phone rang. It was Gran calling from her home. “I’m feeling a little under the weather. Guess I’ve caught the cold going around. I think I’ll stay home for a few days and let you handle everything. There’s no need to worry about me. I’ve earned a week’s rest.”
I was surprised because Gran had seemed fine earlier. I wasn’t sure I believed she was sick, but she was right. She’d earned a few days’ rest.
I suggested some hot soup and lots of rest, then hung up my cell and turned to face the job in front of me. There was nothing I could do but take things one step at a time. This morning, decorating baskets was the main thing to accomplish.
As I worked, I actually found the process soothing. Several hours later, my shoulders started to ache, so I stood up and stretched then meandered out to the front to see how things were going. A few customers were scattered throughout the shop. They all seemed content with their tea and treats. Our waitress was on break, and the baker had gone home for the day.
A man was sitting at the front counter, sipping a cup of tea and eating a scone, with his London Fog coat slung over the counter. I’d met him a few times since moving to town. He was the new pastor at the local church. He’d taken over the pulpit about six months before I got to town. When I first met him, I was surprised to hear he was a pastor. He seemed so young. Gran informed me he was actually thirty-two and single.
I watched him for a few seconds. He was definitely not my definition of a pastor. If I had to describe him, I’d say something more like tall, dark, and handsome. He stood about six feet two, had dark brown hair, and was really good-looking, with a clean-shaven face and steel-blue eyes.
Suddenly he looked up and met my glance. I turned away quickly, hoping he didn’t think I was checking him out. I moved to the front of the shop and stared out the picture window. The street in front of the shop was clear, and I could see the snow-covered coast. That was a sight I loved and could never grow tired of.
After a few minutes, I walked back to the counter and slipped behind it.
“Hello, Pastor. I noticed you’re a regular here.” I spoke in a friendly tone, hoping it would dissuade him from thinking I’d been staring at him earlier.
He smiled.
As I suspected, perfectly white, even teeth.
“Yep. Best tea around.” He held up his cup. “I’m partial to tea, having spent a few years in England after high school, and your Gran’s scones are the best. I love her petit fours as well.”
I nodded in agreement then felt tongue-tied. I wasn’t much for talking to men, much less a pastor. Luckily, he filled the void.
“I’m glad you’re here, Georgina. May I call you Georgina?” He tilted his head slightly.
“Yes.”
“I’m not sure if you know it, but I’m overseeing
the Victorian Christmas Festival this year, since it’s being held to raise money for the church.” He took a bite of his scone and a sip of his tea.
I rolled my eyes. No wonder Gran put me in charge. She’s trying to play matchmaker.
“I see.” I reached up and smoothed my hair, wondering if it was a mess, as usual. “I just got started on the petit four baskets today. Would you like to see one, Pastor?”
He swallowed his tea while nodding. “When I’m not in church, everyone calls me Mathew.”
“Are you sure?” I pulled on my ear, something I tended to do when I was feeling shy. It was embarrassing, so I dropped my hand to my side.
“Yes, even your grandmother does. I believe it makes it easier to communicate with my members. At church, everyone reverts to calling me Pastor, or sometimes Pastor Mathew.”
Slightly more convinced, I said, “Okay, Mathew, follow me.” I turned and began to lead him toward the kitchen. Suddenly, the tea shoppe door flew open, the bell clanging from the force. Billy Deck, our delivery boy who works part-time after school running errands and taking small orders to customers, rushed in the door, his eyes moving back and forth until they lit on me. He sped across the room and stopped in front of me. His nose was red from the cold. I couldn’t imagine why he seemed in such a tizzy.
“Heard the news yet?” he blurted, an urgency in his loud voice.
“News? What news?” I asked, wondering what could be so important he felt he needed to come into the tea shoppe in such a wild flurry.
I was just about to pull him into the kitchen, away from the startled customers, when he shouted, “The mayor’s dead! I heard the police talking about it, and they say it’s murder!”
CHAPTER 3
Needless to say, I was stunned, especially since I’d just sent the mayor the sample tray earlier in the day. I bent over, grasped his arm, and pulled Billy toward the counter, shushing him.
“Slow down.” I shook his shoulders gently. “Tell me what you’re talking about.”
“Mayor Dalton is dead. I saw the ambulance at city hall, and I heard a few of the police officers talking about it. They said it had to be murder ’cause it wasn’t suicide.”
“What? Are you telling the truth, Billy?”
The boy nodded.
“Are you sure you heard them say ‘murder’?”
Billy didn’t answer. He looked a bit pale.
I was holding him by the shirt. “Is there anything else you can tell us, Billy?” My voice was insistent.
Mathew moved forward and pried my fingers off Billy’s shirt. “I think we can let the boy go now. I’m sure he’s given us all the information he can. Isn’t that right, Billy?”
The boy’s head bobbed up and down.
Mathew walked him to the front door, speaking softly. I assumed he was advising the child to keep this story quiet, but I knew Billy. That wasn’t going to happen.
After watching Billy tear away on his bike, Mathew came back to the counter, his face a bit ashen.
“Do you think Billy is telling the truth?” My eyes met Mathew’s.
Mathew nodded. “Doesn’t seem to be any reason for him to make this up.”
I wrinkled my brow. “Did you know the mayor very well?”
“No, but he did go to the church. This is a terrible thing to happen, especially at Christmastime.” I heard the sincerity in his voice.
Yes, this is terrible, especially because Gran was hoping the mayor would let us cater his big campaign party! I didn’t say that out loud, but I couldn’t help from thinking it and then wondering how I could be so callous. Hoping the guilt didn’t show, I faced Mathew.
“I … I don’t even know what to say. I haven’t lived here long enough to get to know the mayor, but I’m sure if he was voted into office, he was well-loved.”
I noticed a strange look on the pastor’s face. He stood up and slipped his coat on. “I’m going back to the office. I’m sure someone from the mayor’s family will be contacting me pretty soon, and I need to be available.”
I shivered at the thought. This perfectly lovely man was going to be the one who had to help plan and carry out the funeral for Sea Side’s beloved mayor. Rather a gruesome task to have to take on and, like Mathew said, especially at Christmas.
My eyes swept the shop, and I realized that all the customers had heard Billy’s announcement. Several had risen and were making their way out the front door, each of them sporting a grin like the cat who caught the canary. I imagined they were eager to start spreading the news of the mayor’s death. Small towns were known for their intricate gossip chains.
Mathew sluggishly moved toward the front door, but just as he reached for the handle, he had to step back to allow the door to swing open again. This time an older gentleman, wearing a severely outdated double-breasted overcoat, came in. Mathew didn’t leave. Instead, he hurried back to stand beside me. I wasn’t sure why, but I got the sense he was there to give me moral support.
I saw the man’s eyes sweep the room, and then he came toward us. I looked up at Mathew. “Who is he?” I asked him quietly.
The gentleman must’ve heard me, because he spurted out, “I’m Detective Rawls.”
“Hello, Rawls,” Mathew said, his voice even, not quite friendly.
“Hello. Is Mrs. Holland here?” The man spoke in a dull, monotone voice.
“No, I’m her granddaughter. Is there something you need? I’m in charge.”
The man huffed, obviously not pleased by my answer. “Mayor Dalton died a few hours ago.” His words were blunt, and his eyes seemed to bore through me with a cold glare as if I weren’t even there.
“We just heard,” Mathew spoke before I could. He reached out and took my hand in his, giving it a gentle squeeze. I felt comforted by the action.
The detective eyed Mathew. “How did you hear, Pastor?”
I was surprised the detective knew Mathew. I wondered if he attended Mathew’s church as well.
“A young delivery boy named Billy Deck told us about it. You know how these kids are. They know about everything before anyone else.” Mathew tried to joke, but the detective just grunted and cocked his head.
“Hmm.” He pulled a notepad from his coat pocket and wrote something in it. I assumed it was Billy Deck’s name.
“And did this”—he looked at the notepad again—“Billy Deck happen to tell you how the mayor died?” His voice dripped with sarcasm.
“Murder!” I blurted out. I wanted to slap my hand over my mouth but didn’t move a muscle.
The detective’s head turned, and he seemed to actually acknowledge me. I couldn’t help but gulp. Somehow, his stare made me feel as if I was the person he’d decided had murdered the mayor.
“Indeed, murder. In fact, we’re pretty sure it was poison, since there was no blood or trauma to his head.” He took a step toward me.
My eyes were locked with his. “Goodness, that’s terrible.” I could feel my hand slip to my throat. “Do you have any idea …?” Suddenly a thought formed in my mind. Why did the detective come to the tea shoppe right after finding out the mayor was dead, unless …
“You don’t think that I? That we …” My hands started to tremble, and I felt a bit faint. I could feel the blood drain from my face. Mathew must have noticed, because he stepped even closer and put an arm around me just as I started to faint. He helped me to one of the chairs at a table and sat me on it.
“Put your head down for a minute. You look like you might pass out.”
I spread my knees and bent over, my head falling gently between them. If the situation wasn’t so serious, I might have burst out laughing. First good-looking man I’d spoken to in a long time, and here I was, hanging my head upside down in front of him.
I heard a few chairs scraping as our remaining customers rose and quickly left the shop. I kept my head down for a few moments, then sat up straight when I felt better.
First, I looked at Mathew. He wore a sympathetic smile on his face.
Then I turned so I could see the detective. He wore an accusatory look.
“Can we go on?” Rawls asked.
I nodded.
“Very well.” Rawls had his pencil poised. “Please tell me what was on the tray you sent to the mayor’s office this morning.”
As I rattled off the contents of the sample tray, my mind was feverishly thinking of the ingredients in each one. Flour, sugar, butter, vanilla, peppermint, milk, pecans … Was the mayor allergic to nuts?
“According to our sources, the mayor only ate one thing today before he keeled over and died. A petit four that came from this tea shoppe.” He didn’t exactly accuse anyone, but I could tell by the look on his face that he was doing more than simply reporting occurrences.
My mouth opened and closed, but I made no sound. This tended to happen to me whenever I was flustered. Realizing I must look like a codfish caused me to clamp my lips together and sit up even straighter. I did some deep breathing through my nose, then met the detective’s eyes once more.
“Exactly what are you trying to say, Detective Rawls? That the petit fours were poisoned? I can assure you, that is impossible. Gran and I made them together, and I packaged them this morning. In fact, I ate one myself. As you can see, I’m alive and well.” I stood up, straight and stiff, one hand jammed against my hip, a sinking feeling tugging at me.
“Detective Rawls, is there any proof the petit fours were poisoned?” Mathew asked. “Did he eat anything else on the tray? Are you going to test everything on the tray?”
“We will, yes, but we’re pretty sure it was the petit four, since that seems to be all that was missing from the tray.”
“And who told you the mayor didn’t eat anything else today?” I asked. “His wife? She wouldn’t know what he did once he left the house.”
“No, his wife died over five years ago. But if you must know, it was his secretary.”
I threw my hands up to express my frustration then quickly lowered them. “Oh! I see. His secretary knows if he ate breakfast? Or grabbed a donut on the way to work? Or, well, I could give a million scenarios of what else he could’ve eaten today.”
The Tea Shoppe Mysteries Page 2
