The Tea Shoppe Mysteries

by Darlene Franklin

“Will is returning next week,” Noelle said. “He’s coming for the vote on his development center, but he’s not optimistic. He didn’t mention Logan.”

  “Logan called. I collect his mail and keep an eye on the house.” I added honey to my tea and stirred.

  “You two make a nice-looking couple,” Mary said.

  “I like Logan. He’s friendly and flirtatious when we’re together, but he behaves the same way with Jane. Could he be interested in me? I’m not sure what to think. My Texas church friends say I push people away because I’m afraid of relationships. What do you think?”

  “Good grief, Ladessa.” Mary slammed her teacup down so forcefully the amber liquid spilled on the saucer. “Just follow the Golden Rule, and you’ll be fine.”

  “I agree with Mom.” Noelle shrugged into her jacket. “Ready to go, Mom?”

  I’d accomplished one thing. I’d reunited Mary and Noelle, even if their forged truce was at the expense of my lame approach to relationships.

  Walking home, a police car pulled alongside, and Detective Hardy lowered the window. “Want a ride?”

  “In the front or the back?” I gestured to the barrier between the seats.

  “Front, for now.”

  “I planned to call you tomorrow.” I got in and fastened my seat belt. “I remembered something about the day I discovered the body. Sharp’s nasal spray was on the café table the day he died. I noticed because he’d used it at the airport and made loud, obnoxious snorts. I remember hoping he wouldn’t do that in the tea shoppe.”

  “Your point?” Detective Hardy kept his eyes on the road.

  “When I found him, or rather his dead body, it wasn’t there. So I wanted to ask you if the nasal spray was in his pocket.”

  “I can’t tell you.” He stopped at my apartment. “Don’t meddle in police business.”

  His attitude annoyed me. “When Will officially identified the body, the coroner gave him his uncle’s belongings, and there was no nasal spray.”

  “I’ll be making an arrest this week. But your little tidbit proved helpful. I’m confident I have the killer. Good night.”

  As I tackled the steps to the apartment without using the handrail, I realized my legs were stronger than when I arrived. Inside, I tugged another blanket from the trunk, resisting the urge to turn up the heat. I brushed my teeth, cleaned my face, and snuggled under the covers.

  The sheep I counted to put me to sleep mutated into suspects until I got up, grabbed my computer, studied names and motives, and tried to organize my thoughts. For a man who appeared to be so charming, Trent Sharp had a full house in the enemy department.

  CHAPTER 8

  My focus flitted from discovering a murderer to recording family stories for posterity. Bundled in a heavy jacket and wearing a ski hat and gloves, I biked to Happy Days, computer in my backpack, to hear tales from other apartment residents. The sessions Grandpa and I held had stimulated a desire for residents to share their personal histories.

  Betty commandeered the craft room for the evening, and coffee and tea urns dispersed enticing scents. I counted eighteen people in line. The staff distributed sliced pumpkin rolls with cream cheese filling, so I wasn’t sure whether these people waited for me or for the delicious dessert.

  Dressed in her usual black attire, Betty passed out the suggested story starters I emailed in advance. I wondered if her closet held any color except black. Betty ferried the residents to Tea by the Sea weekly, and her spirits seemed more cheerful each time we met.

  I set up individual files with the residents’ names and standard questions. We aimed to create a comfortable atmosphere by eliciting innocuous responses, such as birthdates, information on living family members and past residences, and how they’d selected Happy Days. Betty recommended timing each person’s answers, warning me that some residents might dominate the discussion. She also provided a disclosure agreement. Perhaps Betty wanted favorable comments to use in future marketing.

  All our participants were widows or widowers. Either Trent Sharp or Betty Boyd had contacted them within a year of their spouse’s death and offered a free week in the complex’s guest apartment. They all raved about the facility, the director, Harlan Gramford, and his dogs. Another similarity in the backgrounds concerned family proximity. None had relatives in town, and most close relatives lived at least three hours away. The residents claimed this as a plus, explaining that Sea Side was close enough for family to visit but not too near for them to be a bother to their grown children. I considered Mary and Noelle. They fit the pattern until Noelle took a leave from her job to be with her mother. And Grandpa lived in isolation until I showed up from Texas.

  I capped the evening by promising more interesting meetings in the future. For the next time, I challenged them to recount the best day in their life and list three things that made them happy. Betty hoped these sessions would foster new and deeper friendships. The chatter as guests left the area made me believe she was right.

  I pedaled toward my temporary home, thrilled with the new program Betty and I had initiated. In my apartment, I switched on the lights and shrieked at the sight of a man in my rocking chair.

  “Surprise.” Logan acted pleased with himself.

  “How did you get in here?”

  “Not the welcome I expected. I thought you’d be glad to see me.” He rose and dangled a key. “As the house’s tenant, I have a key to the garage apartment.”

  “Hand it over.” I held out my hand, palm up.

  Logan deposited the key. “Aren’t you glad to see me?”

  “I might be happy to see you tomorrow, when I can breathe again.” I pointed toward the door. “Is this the only extra key?”

  “Yes. I’m sorry. I thought it would be funny.” He looked contrite.

  “Your being here in the dark wasn’t funny. Your having a key to my place is definitely not funny.” My heart still raced, and my hands felt clammy. I scanned the room for items out of place. “Did you snoop through my things?”

  “No. I entered, sat, and waited.”

  “In. The. Dark?” I emphasized each word to show my anger.

  “If I’d turned on a light, you’d have called the police, wouldn’t you?”

  “Yes. But you could’ve waited in the house, not my apartment. You could’ve turned on lights in every room, and I would’ve known you were back. Leave.” I pointed toward the door again, as he’d made no progress in departing.

  “I wanted to talk to you. I uncovered some shocking information related to my big story.” Logan’s earnest brown eyes tugged at my heartstrings.

  I ignored the temptation to weaken, jerked the door open, and pointed toward the darkness. “Get out. Your shocking information can wait.”

  With my back leaning against the door, I listened to Logan’s fading steps on the creaky stairs. Then I put the kettle on for tea and surveyed my apartment. Nothing appeared to be disturbed. I paced until the whistle sounded, indicating the water was ready. Tea connoisseurs claim chamomile tea lowers stress. I used it frequently in Texas, but tonight marked my first cup in Sea Side.

  Soothed by the calming brew, I relaxed. Then my mind went into overdrive. What shocking news brought Logan to my apartment? Should I go ask? No. I needed to stick to my guns.

  I slept soundly until the alarm jarred me awake for another day at Tea by the Sea.

  I flipped the lever on the coffee brewer and lifted a blind slat to look at the driveway. No car meant no Logan. Where was he at five thirty in the morning? The coffee machine beeped. At this point, I desperately wanted to hear the shocking findings he considered paramount to his investigation. But I couldn’t chase him down. I showered, dressed, and reported for work as usual.

  Before nine, the Happy Days troop descended upon Tea by the Sea, even though it was Wednesday, not one of their regular days. Betty practically glowed with her makeup carefully applied, her nails manicured, and the ubiquitous black dress livened by a brilliant aqua scarf.

  “
What’s the occasion? You’re Thursday people.” I handed out the daily special sheets once they found their accustomed spots.

  After a few weeks, I knew the tables favored by regulars. I preferred the same pew in church, the same seat at the lunch shop close to my CPA firm, the same seat in the conference room. Did Trent Sharp sit at his spot on that ill-fated morning? He entered with three others that day. Was table four his choice? Jane’s? Logan’s? Will’s? Did it matter?

  Betty helped me deliver tea and treats to her group despite my protests. She said, “The residents shared stories after you left. I’m glad we’ll have this as a regular event.”

  “You have a diverse and interesting group.” I remembered the dissimilar vocations and previous home locations mentioned.

  “You inspired me, Ladessa. I busy myself taking them places, when what they need is people, friendships. That’s my new mission.”

  Brisk business kept me moving. Despite the full shop, Betty and her group lingered.

  “May I get you anything else?”

  Betty’s face clouded, and I thought she might start crying. “I must apologize for what happened to your grandfather.”

  “What? We can talk later.” I patted Betty’s arm and pointed to people waiting. “Maybe you should shepherd your flock to the ceramic shop. They’re excited about making Thanksgiving decorations for their apartment doors.”

  “Your grandfather’s problems rest on my shoulders too.” Betty turned, tapped her cup, and announced the Pottery Toss as their next stop.

  I wanted to run after Betty and beg her to explain her mysterious comment, but new customers swarmed toward the emptied tables, and Diana had called in sick today.

  Detective Hardy tipped his hat to me and joined the mayor and Jane Mills. I heard the three discuss logistics and security for the pumpkin toss—a variation on the raw egg toss, but with larger and untidier results. Jane must have known what people liked, because October profits at local hotels, bed and breakfasts, restaurants, and shops surpassed all previous years.

  Jane, who might or might not be Logan’s primary love interest, touched my arm. “Ladessa, what do you think about a pumpkin paddle event, where contestants row across the inlet inside hollowed-out giant pumpkins?”

  “I think they’d capsize.”

  “Me too.” Jane clapped her hands. “Our volunteer firemen promised to man rescue boats. It’s a first, so we have no idea how many in the pumpkin armada will reach the far shore.”

  “You’re the master, Jane. Now, what can I get for you today?” I readied my pen and pad.

  Detective Hardy spoke up. “We’ll all have the special and the house blend tea. Jane takes cream with hers.”

  When I served the order, Detective Hardy asked when my break was. He wanted to talk. Being short-staffed on a chaotic day left no time for speculation about anything people wanted to share. Logan wanted to talk to me. Betty wanted to talk to me. Detective Hardy wanted to talk to me. And I already yearned to go home, steep in a hot tub, and listen to the ocean’s rhythmic cadence.

  I joined Detective Hardy at a back table during my break, glad to sit, if only for a few minutes.

  He leaned forward. “I’m making an arrest today. I thought you should know since you provided crucial evidence.”

  My exhaustion vanished. “Who did it?”

  “Betty Boyd. She and Trent worked and played together, if you get my meaning.”

  I did.

  “Betty went to prison for their crimes, and charges against Sharp were dropped.”

  “That’s old news. Even I, as a newcomer, know that.”

  The detective continued, “When released, Betty couldn’t get work, then Sharp offered her a position at Happy Days. My thinking is that Betty assumed they’d continue their romantic involvement as well as business, but Sharp rejected her.”

  “My dear detective, if all scorned women committed murder, there would be a lot of dead men.”

  “Including my brother?” Detective Hardy raised his eyebrows.

  “Getting over him took time. Grandpa has a picture of their wedding. I’m beside Aletha, a woebegone look on my face. You’re next to your brother, looking quite chipper.”

  “At the time, I hoped I might have a chance with you.”

  His comment stunned me. Was he flirting with me? I directed the conversation back to the pending arrest. “So Betty had motive. How about means and opportunity?”

  Thanks to my detective binge-watching, I could talk the talk about murder investigations.

  His countenance changed. “First, she knew the seriousness of Sharp’s peanut allergy, and she had two—count ’em, two—EpiPens in her giant bag the day he died. I believe she took his so he didn’t have one when he needed it. And you told me his nasal spray was missing from the table. Betty had nasal spray in her bag that day too.”

  “Betty doesn’t seem like a killer, and she kept everything the residents might need on an outing in her giant tote. That doesn’t mean the nasal spray in her bag was the murder weapon.”

  “She’ll confess. Criminals prefer a clean conscience.” Detective Hardy winked. “I always liked your Brillo-pad curls.”

  I ignored that remark. Had Betty wanted to confess to me before leaving earlier that day? She mentioned sharing blame for Grandpa’s problems. Why didn’t I listen?

  “Detective, could I go with you to see Betty?”

  “Absolutely not. I don’t want you interfering.” He pulled a ten from his pocket.

  “The mayor paid,” I said.

  “Can’t have that, wouldn’t be ethical. I’ll stop by his office before I make the arrest. My town will rest easier when the killer is in custody.”

  CHAPTER 9

  “Ladessa, come get me. Come now!” Grandpa’s panicked voice scared me.

  “Where are you?”

  “Happy Days. Hurry.” He hung up without explaining his emergency, which left me in a quandary about what to say to cut my shift short.

  “I need to check on my grandpa.” My face must have betrayed my anxiety, because Georgina shooed me toward the back and Noelle tossed me her car keys.

  I drove faster than the posted speed limit and slammed on the brakes to park behind the van idling under the covered drive. Residents milled in the foyer and whispered behind cupped hands.

  I inventoried the people before shouting. “John Nolan? Has anyone seen him? Has anyone seen my grandfather?”

  Residents shook their heads and kept their eyes lowered. I stalked toward the administrative offices but glimpsed Grandpa on the second floor crosswalk holding a finger to his lips. He pointed to the dining room exit.

  Honoring his signal to avoid making a scene, I pulled out my phone and exclaimed, “Oh, false alarm. Grandpa’s meeting me on the walking path. Sorry.”

  My speech fell on disinterested ears as everyone concentrated on the resident director’s office. I scooted around back and wondered if one of Mr. Gramford’s precious bichons had passed away. What were their names? Sunrise and Sunset? If only one died, I’d put my money on Sunset, just because of his name.

  Grandpa threw his arms around my neck. “Ladessa, I need to get out!”

  I shivered as his cold hands brushed my cheek when he released his grasp. “I borrowed Noelle’s car. I’ll take you to my apartment where you can get warm and tell me what’s going on.”

  “I don’t want anyone to see me leave. I’ll meet you where the driveway meets the road.” He hurried out the back exit.

  I raced to the front, threw the car in REVERSE, then stopped. Two men in Happy Days staff uniforms carried a sheet-shrouded gurney through onlookers toward a van.

  I left the area at a respectable speed and spotted Grandpa.

  He slipped into the passenger seat. “Ladessa, can you afford a hotel room? They’ll look for me at your apartment.”

  “Who are they? What’s going on? Was that a body? Did one of your friends die?”

  “Betty. Betty’s dead.”

&nb
sp; “No!” Had she known that Detective Hardy planned to arrest her? Had she committed suicide to avoid going back to prison?

  “And I might be next.” Grandpa sounded completely coherent.

  “We’ll find a hotel, and you can explain.” Was harboring my grandfather the best course of action? Was he paranoid, or in real danger?

  “Drive, Ladessa. Go to the Extended Stay Motel in Upton. The institution used to book long-term researchers there.”

  I programmed my phone then remembered this was not my car. I needed a rental. “Grandpa, can you drive?”

  “Of course I can drive.” His words were tart and sharp. “I was driving long before you were born.”

  November weather predictions provided a reason to switch my mode of transportation from a bike to a car. Was I thinking like a criminal, trying to hide my tracks?

  Maybe. I rented a small SUV for two months, then Grandpa followed me in Noelle’s car back to Tea by the Sea.

  I calculated we’d be halfway to Upton in the rental before Noelle’s shift ended. Was I obstructing justice, harboring a fugitive, abetting a felon? Like Scarlett O’Hara, I vowed to think about those things tomorrow.

  On our route, we stopped at a Walmart for basic foodstuff, some clothes, and toiletries for Grandpa. I tossed in laundry soap and dryer sheets in case he ended up with an extended stay at the aptly named motel.

  In the room with a fully furnished kitchen, I heated water and mixed up mugs of hot chocolate, sliced some pound cake, and set our snack on the small table.

  I did a deep cleansing yoga breath before asking, “Now, what’s going on?”

  Grandpa wrapped his hands around his mug. “I sat with Betty on the ride back to Happy Days. She usually drives, but today Mr. Gramford did. We’d finished making the door decorations early, so we—”

  “What happened, Grandpa? Why did you call me with the urgent message to rescue you?”

  “As I said, Betty and I sat next to each other in the van.” Grandpa returned to his original thought pattern, and I willed myself to be patient. “Betty told me she had an unexpected call from a lawyer who asked to meet her this afternoon.”