The Diva Serves High Tea

by Krista Davis

  “Sophie, this is my husband, Max. What did you find out?” she asked him.

  “They’re testing the contents of Robert’s kitchen and his trash first,” Max said. “It could be anything. It could even be something from a grocery store, which might mean a national outbreak. But apparently the most likely source is improperly canned foods.”

  “Robert doesn’t really seem the type to be canning food,” I said. I omitted my thought that it would more likely be takeout. “Can food that spoils in the refrigerator develop botulism? You know, the stuff that starts to look like a science experiment?”

  They turned blank faces toward me.

  Max shook his head. “I don’t think so, but I haven’t researched it enough yet. I think it has to be oxygen deprived.”

  Martha consoled another lady who begged to buy some macarons on the sly. “I can’t do that. I could lose my business license!” Martha exclaimed.

  “But it’s my bridge club. I was counting on the macarons.”

  “Martha.” Max uttered only her name, yet his tone carried layers of warning.

  Martha looked worn out. Her hair was swept up. Her makeup was perfect. But deep furrows accentuated worry lines between her eyebrows, and her mouth puckered tightly as though she was struggling to keep it all together.

  In a voice so soft I could barely hear it, she said to the woman, “I’m so sorry.”

  The woman left in a huff, prompting Max to hiss, “This will be the end of your business.”

  Martha rubbed the side of her forehead with three fingers but showed no other reaction to her husband’s unhelpful observation.

  “He’s a single guy. It was probably something canned he bought at the grocery store,” I said. “What a rotten break when you work such late hours and you’ve put so much effort into The Parlour. I’m sure everyone will come back as soon as you reopen.”

  Max’s piercing eyes snapped to me. “Late hours? The Parlour isn’t open in the evening.”

  “I suppose there’s always work to do. I saw someone inside last night.”

  The muscles in Martha’s neck tightened. “You must be mistaken, Sophie. I was home with Max last night.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Dear Sophie,

  My best friend insists on leaving the tea bag in her tea as long as possible. Like half an hour! I think that’s crazy. I steep my tea for 2–3 minutes. Who’s right?

  —Light Tea for Me in Steep Brook, Massachusetts

  Dear Light Tea for Me,

  You are partly correct. The proper steeping time depends on the tea and on your preferred flavor. Your friend, however, is way wrong. Allowing the tea to steep too long only results in the release of more tannins and may result in a bitter flavor.

  —Sophie

  Uh-oh. Had I stepped on a sensitive spot? “Maybe it was the cleaning crew.” I tried to sound soothing.

  “It was probably Callie. She’s always forgetting something.” Martha didn’t meet my gaze.

  Her husband snorted. “I don’t know why you keep her. You shouldn’t have such irresponsible employees.”

  “Callie is a talented baker, not a mess crank.”

  Alex was former military, too, but as tidy and precise as he was, Max made him seem like a lazy slouch. Granted, the situation was grim, but I wondered if Max could smile.

  I had to get going or I would be late. “Lovely to meet you, Max. Martha, I hope you’ll let me know if there’s anything I can do.”

  “Thank you, Sophie.”

  I walked away but overheard Max say, “There’s nothing anyone can do about this mess.”

  I hoped Max wasn’t always so full of doom and gloom. At home, I let Daisy out in the backyard, swapped my flats for heels, patted Mochie, and let Daisy in again. I locked up, hopped in the car, and negotiated the traffic into Washington.

  The cocktail event at the National Museum of American History was a huge hit. I had guessed that lawyers would be particularly interested in history. I must have been right because they turned out in droves. By seven o’clock most of them had gone off to dinner, and I spent half an hour wrapping up before heading home.

  I pulled into my garage wishing all events would go that well. My feet ached from the high heels, though. When I stepped into the covered porch that joined the garage, I stopped and stepped out of the shoes. While I was bending over, a warm wet tongue licked my cheek. Startled, I jerked away before I realized that Francie’s golden retriever, Duke, was standing next to me.

  “What are you doing here, sweetie?” I picked up my shoes and shrieked when I saw a shadowy person on the porch.

  “Finally! Where have you been?”

  “Francie? What are you doing out here in the dark?” I flicked on the tiny starlike lights overhead and realized that Velma was with her.

  “It was peaceful in the dark. A little cold, but considering the day we’ve had it was nice.” Velma sniffled and blew her nose in a hankie.

  “I’m so sorry about Robert.”

  “You heard, huh? Velma has been walking around like a zombie. The death of a loved one is always hard.” Francie looked over at her friend.

  “It was so unexpected,” Velma said. “I knew he was seriously ill when I saw him on the gurney, but it never crossed my mind that he would die.”

  “Would you ladies like to come inside? I think I could rustle up something to nibble on.”

  The two of them struggled to get to their feet. Velma carried a good-sized Vera Bradley bag with her.

  I unlocked the living room door, and Daisy greeted us all with excitement, especially her pal, Duke. I let them play outside for a bit while the rest of us settled in the kitchen.

  “What would you like, ladies? Hot cider, maybe?”

  “Scotch. Have you got any Scotch? I could use a stiff drink tonight.” Velma opened her bag, pulled out slips of paper and a fragile paper rose, and set them on the table.

  Like magic, Nina appeared at the kitchen door. When I opened it for her, Daisy and Duke dashed inside.

  At the commotion, Mochie lifted his head and yawned.

  Nina stopped cold when she saw Francie and Velma. “I guess you already heard about Robert. Velma, I’m so sorry.”

  “Would you get them some Scotch? I’ll put out a few goodies and build a fire.”

  In minutes, a crackling fire warmed my kitchen. Scotch had been poured in Waterford Irish Lace double old-fashioned glasses for everyone except me. It wasn’t my preferred drink.

  Given the odd pile of items on the table, I thought maybe I should stay alert. For all I knew, the two sweet old Peeping Toms had begun pilfering, too. I made a bracing cup of hot tea for myself with sugar and milk.

  A quick raid of the fridge produced hard-boiled eggs, leftover plum tart, and a lovely brie. I popped a frozen baguette in the oven to warm, topped the brie with chopped pecans and apricot preserves, and slid it into the oven next to the bread. I cut the eggs in half and mashed the yolks with mustard and mayonnaise for deviled eggs. A quick sprinkle of paprika and I arranged them on a large platter, along with the warmed brie and black grapes. I sliced the baguette on a diagonal and tossed the pieces into a basket lined with a napkin.

  I cut the leftover plum tart and placed the slices on vintage china dessert plates with white centers and pale green rims with a touch of gold around the edges. I carried a little crystal bowl of whipped cream for the plum tart to the table and found that Nina had very thoughtfully put out plates, forks, and pale green napkins that matched the color of the dishes.

  The Scotch must have loosened Velma’s lips because the second I sat down, she slathered a piece of baguette with brie and held it in her hand while she pronounced, “Robert’s death wasn’t an accident.”

  I nearly choked on my tea.

  “I knew it!” Nina was so excited that she almost spilled her Sc
otch.

  I tried my best not to appear skeptical or to belittle them. It wasn’t uncommon for the bereaved to second-guess everything that had happened, sometimes even blaming themselves. It was a time when people asked what if and if only and sometimes who could have? Too many people lived with secrets about their health, and more often than I would have expected, about things they had done in their lives.

  As sweetly as I could, I said, “Botulism isn’t exactly a handy means of murder. I think it’s highly unlikely that anyone slipped Robert some botulism on purpose.”

  “But that’s exactly why it’s so diabolically clever. No one would ever suspect it.” Francie selected a little cluster of grapes.

  “Why on earth would you even think such a thing?” I asked. “You’d have to plan far ahead, intentionally can something poorly, and then convince the person to eat it. I’m sorry, Francie and Velma, I don’t think so.”

  Velma raised her eyebrows. “Why did you ask me if my sister’s name was Rosie?”

  I’d forgotten about that. “Robert said the word rosy to me. But I could have misunderstood. He could barely breathe, let alone talk.”

  Francie’s eyes sparkled. “You didn’t misunderstand.”

  Velma snapped her fingers and pointed at me. “He was trying to give you a message. What do they call that? Dying utterances or something?”

  One by one, Velma held up items from the pile on the table. “A pretend rose tattoo, a withered dried-up rose, a rose made out of the pages of a book—”

  “I want to know how they made that. It’s so cute!” Nina peered at the paper rose.

  “Where did you get these?” I asked.

  Francie swallowed a bite of the tart. “From Robert’s house!”

  “So he had some roses. Maybe he liked roses.” I sat back and listened.

  “We went over to his house when the health department was collecting specimens. We found these on his rolltop desk.” Velma produced scraps of paper from her bag. She read aloud.

  You will see my face in still waters,

  And hear my voice in the wind.

  I will curse you eternally,

  A reminder that you sinned.

  “Eww. Do you think he got that from a book or something?” Nina asked.

  “Just listen.” Velma picked up another one.

  In your darkest hour

  Remember this,

  You have created

  Your own miserable abyss

  And the devil awaits you.

  Nina gasped. “Maybe he liked dark poetry.”

  I admit I was a bit taken aback, too. “Were these on his desk as well?”

  Velma nodded. “You see? Someone had it in for him.”

  Suddenly, I didn’t like that she was holding the small wisps of paper in her fingers. I retrieved a plain paper bag and some non-latex gloves. Handing them to her, I said, “Slip these on. Let’s not get your fingerprints all over them.”

  The color drained from Velma’s face. She dropped the paper she was holding. “You mean these could be real threats?”

  “Isn’t that why you showed them to us?”

  “Well, sure. But I don’t know . . .” Her voice faded. “Suddenly it’s all very real. Do you think this person murdered him?”

  Nina poured herself another Scotch. “Of course! Those are clearly threats.”

  “Come on,” I said. “It seems very unlikely. Kind of like giving someone the flu and hoping that person would happen to die from it. Stabbing Robert with a knife would have been a sure thing and required a lot less planning.”

  “It would have been much messier,” Francie observed. “Poisons are a rather tidy means of dispatching someone. And so much harder to track. After all, don’t many of our neighbors have some kind of poisons in their homes?”

  “I don’t!” Velma recoiled at the thought.

  “Really?” A sly smile worked Francie’s lips. “You have no medicine that could kill in a large dose?”

  “That doesn’t count. Everyone has . . . I see what you mean.”

  “And that doesn’t begin to include all the lovely poisonous plants in our yards.”

  “You’re beginning to worry me, Francie.” Velma scowled at her.

  Oddly enough, that seemed to please Francie. “I’ve always had a fascination with poisons. Though I rather suspect that botulism isn’t actually a poison per se. But it would be a very clever way to kill someone because no one would ever suspect that it was intentional.”

  “Are there any more of those weird notes?” asked Nina.

  Velma slipped the gloves on and read aloud again.

  You can never escape your past.

  It chases you wherever you go.

  Until the day when at last,

  You collapse from the weight of your woe.

  “Why do you think these had anything to do with him saying Rosie?” I asked.

  Francie waved her fork at Velma. “Read her the one that gave us chills.”

  Roses are blood red

  Now I bid you adieu.

  Rosie is dead

  And so are you.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Dear Natasha,

  I threw a tea party and served cucumber sandwiches, but it seems nobody liked them, because most of them were left on the serving platter. I spread margarine on white bread, added cucumber slices, and cut off the crusts. Where did I go wrong?

  —Embarrassed in Bread Loaf, Vermont

  Dear Embarrassed,

  You erred by using margarine. The classic cucumber sandwich demands butter. The flavor and texture will be off with margarine.

  —Natasha

  The other messages were unpleasant, for sure, but that was a death threat. I rose from the table and phoned Wolf. Naturally, I got his voice mail. I left a message. “I’m sorry to call you so late but Francie and Velma found something you should know about. Can you please stop by my house?”

  When I turned around, Nina had disappeared. “Where’s Nina?”

  “She’s making copies of the notes in your office.”

  It didn’t take her long. She was back in a flash, still wearing gloves. “They all look alike. Probably written on a computer and printed out, then cut into little slips.” She handed each of us a copy of them.

  I shared a piece of bread with Daisy and Duke while the other three leaned over the table, examining the notes. “Velma, did Robert ever mention anyone named Rose or Rosie?”

  “Francie asked me the same thing. I can’t remember him mentioning anyone named Rose.”

  Her sister had died in an unusual manner. “Are you sure he didn’t call your sister Rose or Rosie as a pet name?”

  “Positive. He called her Pookie. Don’t ask me why. I found it a bit nauseating, but she loved it. It was probably some kind of private joke between them.”

  “What do you know about Robert’s past?” Nina asked, helping herself to more plum tart.

  Velma settled back in the banquette. “He came from a small town in Virginia, not too far from here. Graduated from college. He married my sister in a beautiful beach wedding and they settled in Charlotte, where he was employed by a company that manufactured furniture. He worked his way up, then opened his own furniture store. He and my sister dreamed of owning an antiques store in their retirement but she never lived to see it happen.”

  “Why did he move up here?” asked Nina.

  “Because I was his only living relative. My sister wanted to live near me, so they always looked at houses when they came to visit. As you can imagine, they loved the ambiance of Old Town and all the antiques. After Livy died, I didn’t think he would come. But you reach an age when you’re grateful for family and friends who can lend a hand when you need it. They lived out in the country in a lovely house, but it came with some acreage and was
a lot of work. I guess a town house in Old Town started to seem more attractive to him.”

  “They didn’t have children?” I asked.

  “No. And he was an only child. No siblings.”

  Daisy and Duke ran to the door. I saw Wolf before he knocked and got to my feet to let him in.

  He grinned when he saw the table. “Looks like I’m in time for dessert?”

  “Tea?” I asked.

  “Sure. Can you make it decaf?” Wolf slid off his jacket and warmed his hands by the fire.

  While I cut a piece of the plum tart for him and heated water for tea, Velma and Francie filled him in about the rose items and the threatening notes.

  When we had dated, I was often frustrated by Wolf’s poker face. It was a good thing for a police investigator, but it drove me crazy when I didn’t have a clue what he might be thinking. He listened to them politely, as though they were explaining something less important, like a broken window.

  I brought his tart and tea to the table, threw another log on the fire, and joined everyone.

  “They’re clearly threats,” insisted Velma. “Don’t you think that changes things? Someone wanted Robert dead.”

  “Thank you for bringing these to my attention.” Wolf turned his focus to the tart.

  “How can you be so calm?” Velma’s eyes grew large. “This person obviously wanted to kill Robert.”

  Wolf took a sip of tea. “And he or she might have done exactly that if Robert had not died from botulism poisoning. I would be much more concerned if Robert wasn’t already dead. There’s not much anyone can do to harm him now.”

  “How do you know the person who left the notes didn’t murder him?” demanded Francie.

  “Botulism poisoning is an accident, not an intentional murder.” Wolf remained calm and ate more of the tart with a generous dollop of whipped cream on top.

  “I thought you were smarter than that.” Francie seemed to be baiting him.

  Wolf lifted his eyebrows. “How’s that?”