by Linda Reilly
For now, she’d settle for thinking about it. By closing time, though, she’d have to make a decision.
To tell or not to tell—
Wait a minute.
When Westlake picked up his order earlier, he’d mentioned that one of the takeout lunches was for Abby. Talia knew he meant Abby Kingston, the administrative whirlwind who kept the police department records shipshape. Abby had a little boy, Jacob, who was in Rachel’s class. Earlier in the school year, Abby and Rachel had bonded over an incident involving a bully—a boy who’d been tormenting Jacob on a near daily basis. Rachel’s kind and creative problem-solving had halted the bullying in its tracks. Both boys had benefited from her intervention.
Maybe Abby knew something about the so-called “evidence” against Bea.
Talia grabbed her phone from her purse and sent a quick text to Rachel. With any luck, she’d have an answer before the end of the day.
Talia barely had a chance to swallow the last bite of her lunch when Whitnee returned from her break. “Did you have lunch?” Talia asked her, hoping to engage her in a spot of conversation.
Whitnee nodded. “Turkey sub from Queenie’s. They come, like, prepackaged, but they’re pretty good.”
“Sounds delicious.” Yep. She was coming up with some real snappy lines today.
“I’ll start wiping down the tables and chairs,” Whitnee said. “It was pretty busy today, and I saw some kid spill tartar sauce on his chair. His mother just left it there, too. She was, like, oblivious.” With a roll of her eyes, she pulled a clean cloth and the bottle of spray cleaner from beneath the sink.
Talia looked at Whitnee with concern. The girl’s mood was so melancholy that she had an urge to go over and give her a hug. She held back, sensing that such a gesture would make Whitnee distinctly uncomfortable. But something had put her in a blue funk today. Was she stressing over her spat with Punk, or Pug, or whatever his name was?
If she would only talk about what was bothering her, it might make her feel better. Talia realized that she knew very little about Whitnee—a fact she hoped to remedy in the not-too-distant future.
Since it was painfully clear that her coworker preferred silent companionship today, Talia busied herself tidying up the kitchen. She was putting away the container of slaw when she spied the jar of whole dill pickles in the fridge.
Hmmm.
Although Bea hadn’t come back from visiting Howie yet, Talia felt sure she wouldn’t object to a bit of experimentation. She removed a pickle from the jar and set it down on the cutting board. Pondering how she would attack the project, she stared at it for a minute. Then she grabbed a sharp knife and sliced it into even rounds, each about a quarter-inch thick.
On a large paper plate she sprinkled a layer of unbleached flour. She coated each round on both sides and set them aside. She returned the pickle jar to the fridge and removed the bowl of batter Bea had prepared for the dinner rush. The rush wouldn’t begin until around four thirty, so Talia had plenty of time to “play” with her new idea.
After swirling each floured round in the batter, she dropped them one by one into the hot oil. The aroma triggered a Pavlovian response, and her stomach rumbled with anticipation. Talia inhaled deeply, unable to keep a smile from creeping across her face.
Whitnee returned to the kitchen and put away the cleaning supplies. She peered into the deep fryer and frowned. “What are you making? Those things look … weird.”
Talia held up a finger. “Give me a few minutes and then we’ll taste test them.”
About three minutes later, when the rounds were crisp and golden, Talia drained them and set them on a plate. “Okay, they’re hot, so be careful,” she cautioned, offering one to Whitnee.
Whitnee shrugged without interest and took a round off the plate. She bit into it and immediately waggled her fingers in front of her lips. “Hot,” she mumbled over the deep-fried pickle.
Talia grinned. “I warned you. Don’t burn your mouth.” She plucked one off the plate for herself, waved it through the air, and then bit into it. The flavor burst on her tongue. She closed her eyes, savoring the blend of the tangy pickle round and the crispy fried batter. Did the batter need a sprinkle of dried dill to enhance the flavor? Or maybe the tiniest bit of cayenne pepper to give it a little zing? What about a dipping sauce?
“Oh my gosh,” Whitnee said, her eyes popping wide open. “That was, like, amazing. Can I have another one?”
“Of course!”
Between the two of them, they polished off the fried pickle rounds within five minutes. After Whitnee had gulped down her last bite she pointed at the empty plate. “Oh no, we didn’t save any for Bea!”
“Don’t worry. I’ll make some fresh ones for her when she gets back. In fact—” Talia tapped a finger to her lips. She aimed her gaze at the fryer and felt a slow grin splitting her face. “I think I have a better idea.”
9
Save for a few stragglers, the arcade was quiet. Too quiet, Talia thought eerily, making her way toward Time for Tea with Bea at her side. In her hands she clutched an oval plate piled with fried pickle rounds. She’d prepared them at the last possible moment before closing time, and covered them with foil to keep them warm.
“That was a splendid thought, Tal,” Bea said. “In all my years of running a restaurant, I never thought of dunking pickle slices into the fryer.”
“Well, we can thank Whitnee’s repulsive boyfriend for the idea. If he hadn’t ticked me off so supremely, I wouldn’t have grabbed that silly pickle from the cutting board in the first place!”
Bea laughed. “Ah, well, sometimes things work out the way they’re supposed to.”
“You seem a bit more cheery than you were this morning,” Talia said.
Bea nodded, her hands shoved deep into the pockets of her black jacket. “I had a lovely chat with my Howie this afternoon. His color was a tad better, and the doctor said he might be able to go home in few days, if they can keep the infection under control. Whether or not he’ll come back to work anytime soon … well, I’m not so sure about that.” She lifted her shoulders in a shrug. “I guess time will tell, won’t it.”
Talia bit her lip with concern. “Does Howie know about … ?”
“The murder? Yes, it’s not like I could keep it from him. He has a telly in his room, and the bloomin’ thing is always on. Anyway, I made light of the whole incident. I don’t need him worrying his poor self over me when his health is at stake.”
“Like you could stop him,” Talia said, knowing how close the two were. A wave of guilt swept over her. She’d visited Howie only once during his hospital stay. She made a mental promise to herself to pop in and see him either on Saturday or Sunday.
The two front windows of Time for Tea cast a soft, golden glow over the cobblestone at the entrance to the charming shop. Bea held open the door for her and they both stepped inside.
A host of aromas assailed Talia’s senses. Citrus and cloves and pumpkin and apple, each scent vying for dominance in the cozy tea shop.
Suzy Sato had arrived early. Her springy red curls bounding around her face, she hugged Bea first, and then Talia. Her blue eyes looked brighter than ever—glowing, in fact. Talia wondered if it was Turnbull’s untimely departure that made her beam with such apparent joy.
“Can I peek?” Suzy said, looking at the tray Talia was carrying.
“Absolutely.” Talia pulled back a corner of the foil.
Suzy clapped her hands. “Ooh, they look scrumptious. What are they?”
“Deep-fried pickle rounds,” Bea chimed in. “Talia’s idea, and a brilliant one at that.” She peeled off her jacket and tucked it under her arm.
“Why don’t you set them over there,” Suzy said. She indicated a long display counter, over which a runner the color of burnished gold had been draped. Atop the runner were several flowered teacups, each one in a different pattern. Two fragrant pots of tea rested on brass hot plates. Tiny paper containers of individual cream portions s
at in a circle around a china bowl filled with raw sugar. At one end of the counter was an ornate silver tray stacked with an array of finger sandwiches. Talia squeezed in her own tray next to the sandwich platter.
“Hey, there, glad to see you!” Jill emerged from a back room carrying a plate of lemon slices sprinkled with a fine layer of powdered sugar. Her raven-colored hair had been pulled into an elegant French twist, and her eyes were exquisitely made-up. Her cobalt-blue dress—knitted mohair, Talia thought—caressed her soft curves. She looked at Talia for a long moment, as if to convey a silent message. Then she rested the plate near the sugar bowl and turned to Bea. “Bea, I think you’ll enjoy some of the snacks I put out, especially the blends of teas I’ve chosen.” With a teasing smile, she winked at her. “You Brits all love your tea, right?”
Bea returned the smile with a saccharine one of her own. “Yes, I suppose we do.”
Talia moved past Bea to survey the goodies so her face wouldn’t betray her amusement. If Jill only knew how fiercely Bea despised tea. She was a coffee person, straight to the bone. Even in her native England, Bea often claimed, she had never enjoyed tea. There wasn’t a tea on Earth that ever pleased her, and for sure there never would be.
“Suzy, will you help me bring out some chairs?” Jill said. “We’ll set up near the checkout counter.”
Suzy trailed Jill into the storeroom, and they returned lugging a half dozen folding chairs. They were placing them in a half circle near the rear counter when the door swung open. A lanky, fiftyish man clad in a thin sweater and wrinkled navy chinos strode in, his shoulders hunched over his sunken chest. His face had a yellow, unhealthy cast, and he gawked at Talia through pewter-colored eyes as if he’d spotted an alien life form.
Bea nodded at him. “Good to see you, Cliff. I don’t think you’ve ever met my colleague, Talia Marby. Talia, this is Cliff Colby. He owns the Clock Shop across the way.”
“Oh, of course. Nice to meet you, Cliff.” Talia held out her hand. “I’ve been meaning to pop into your shop and have a look around, but I haven’t had the chance.” Lord, could she have sounded any lamer?
With a glassy stare, Cliff shook Talia’s hand. “Yeah, whatever.” He dipped his thick eyebrows toward his nose. “So you’re working for Bea and Howie?” His ragged fingernails raked her palm as he pulled his long fingers from her grasp.
“Yes. For now, at least.” She avoided looking at Bea.
At least a foot taller than Talia, Cliff glanced over her head. His strange gray eyes shone when he spotted the food trays. Talia couldn’t help comparing him to a bird of prey on one of those nature programs, gearing up to spring on some poor, unsuspecting mouse. “Those up for grabs?” he said. “What’s under the foil?”
Bea excused herself and strolled toward the back of the shop. Talia reluctantly lifted the foil on the fried pickle tray so Cliff Colby could have a peek. “They’re deep-fried pickles,” she said, intercepting the question she knew was forming on his lips.
“Huh,” he said. Without being asked, he stuck a hand toward the tray and grabbed three pickle rounds at once. He popped one in his mouth and chomped. “Geezum!” he said with a noisy swallow. He helped himself to two more.
While his hands were otherwise occupied, Talia quickly tucked the foil over the platter. “I don’t want them to get cold before everyone arrives,” she said.
Cliff assessed her with another hawkish look. When he turned his attention to the finger sandwiches, Talia saw her opportunity to escape. She hurried over to where the chairs were set up in a half circle and seated herself next to Bea. Following Bea’s lead, she removed her jacket and draped it over the back of her chair.
Jill and Suzy had retreated to the storeroom again, which gave Talia the chance to talk to Bea. “Jim Jepson isn’t here. Think he’s ditching the meeting?”
“No. Jim’s a good fellow. If he was invited, he’ll be here.” Bea turned at the sound of the door opening. “Ah, there’s Jim now. We should be all ready to start. Now where did those other two disappear to?” she groused. “I really don’t want to be stuck here too long.”
As if by the wave of a magic wand, Jill and Suzy materialized from the storeroom. Jill carried a small tray bearing plastic stirrers and cocktail-sized napkins, along with flowered china plates for the snacks. Spying Jim and Cliff, she beckoned everyone over to where the tea and treats had been set out. She smiled at the group. “Why don’t you all help yourselves, and then we’ll get started with a little brainstorming.”
“I’ll be right back.” Talia scooted up alongside Jim Jepson, the potter, whose gray hair hung in a neat ponytail over the back of his red flannel shirt. “Hey, Mr. J. How’s it going?”
Jepson turned toward Talia, and his brown eyes danced with delight. “Hey yourself, Talia. It’s good to see you. And please, it’s time you called me Jim.” He poured himself a steaming cup of apple-infused tea. “So, you’re still over at Lambert’s helping out Bea, are you?”
“Yes. It’s déjà vu all over again. I don’t know if you remember, but I worked there when I was in high school. I always loved working for Bea and Howie.” She reached for a china plate rimmed with painted violets.
“As much as you loved my geometry class?” Jepson grinned at her. He slid two of the fried pickle rounds onto a rose-colored plate.
“Ah, good old geometry. I think the only thing I remember about the isosceles triangle is how to spell it.” English, she’d loved. Math, not so much. Talia helped herself to a sandwich of smoked salmon, along with another one of the irresistible pickle rounds. “I still don’t understand how you went from teacher to potter. The kids all loved you.”
Jepson shrugged and held a pickle round to his lips. “Kids are fickle. Times change. ’Nuff said, okay?” He popped the pickle into his mouth.
“Um, sure.” Feeling a bit nonplussed, Talia poured herself a cup of the same tea Jim had chosen.
“Oh man, did you taste these things? They’re fantastic.” Jim reached for two more fried pickles.
“Bea and I made them,” Talia said. She couldn’t resist preening a bit. “Mr. J., I mean, Jim, do you mind if I ask you a question?”
“Fire away.” He added an egg salad finger sandwich to his plate.
“Turnbull told Bea that you’d caved,” she said quietly. “He said you agreed to sign the petition against the comic book store, and that Bea was the only holdout.”
Jepson looked away. He nabbed a sugared lemon wedge and squeezed it into his tea. “He’s a liar. I never volunteered to sign that ugly document.” His nostrils flared. “It was elitism, in its purest form. I loathe that kind of snobbery.”
Talia let out the breath she’d been holding. She wanted to believe him. But why had he looked away when she questioned him? Why was he still dodging her gaze?
“Thanks, um, Jim. I was sure he was lying, but I wanted to get it from the horse’s mouth, if you catch my meaning.”
Jepson’s face relaxed. “I hear you.” The opening lines of “Light My Fire” crooned from his shirt pocket. Juggling his cup and plate in one hand, he dug out the cell with two fingers. When he saw the caller ID, his face reddened.
Bea sidled up next to Jepson, her plate topped with three egg salad finger sandwiches. “Jim, how are you doing? Have you tried one of these creamed egg sandwiches? They’re marvelous.” She slapped her hand over her mouth and whispered, “Oops, sorry, I didn’t realize you were on the phone.”
Jepson immediately cut off the call and returned the phone to his pocket. He kissed Bea lightly on the cheek. “It’s great to see you, Bea. And no, I haven’t tried the egg salad yet, but Talia tells me you and she are the creator of these … these … what are they again?”
“Deep-fried pickle slices,” Bea said proudly. “And they were entirely Talia’s idea. Isn’t she a gem?”
“Oh pshaw,” Talia joked.
“Attention, everyone,” Jill called to the group. “If you’ll fill your plates and cups and have a seat, we can get
started. I know you all have other things to do, so the sooner we finish the faster we can go home.”
They all took seats. Talia was pleased to see that everyone had taken a helping of deep-fried pickles, although Cliff Colby’s helping was triple the size of everyone else’s. The man was a hog!
“I first want to express my deepest sorrow over Phil’s demise,” Jill said soberly. “I know some of you had less than warm feelings for him, but he was a human being and a fellow shop owner, and”—her voice cracked—“and he didn’t deserve to be murdered.”
Bea nodded but remained silent. She’d barely poured a tablespoon of tea into her cup. She pretended to take a tiny sip.
“I agree,” Suzy piped in, with a toss of her titian curls. “Phil could be infuriating at times, but there was a part of him that was really gentle and sweet.”
Talia nearly choked on her tea. If there was a part of Phil Turnbull that was gentle and sweet, he’d certainly disguised it well. She looked over at Jill, whose eyes had grown moist, and immediately felt bad for her uncharitable assessment of the dead man.
“Suzy’s right,” Jepson said. “We had no right to judge him until we’d walked a mile in his shoes.”
With that pronouncement, everyone turned their attention to the clock merchant. His plate balanced on his bony knees, Cliff shoved a sandwich of smoked salmon into his mouth. He looked up as if to say something, but halted when the door to Time for Tea flew open.
All eyes pivoted toward the stunningly pretty woman in the Red Riding Hood cape who promenaded toward them as if she owned the tea shop. Blond hair piled on top of her head in chic curls, she halted in her black-booted tracks and raked her gaze over the group. When her eyes landed on Jill, they locked. “Nice of you to invite me, Jill,” she said in a glacial voice. “Or did you forget that I am now the proprietor of the largest shop in the arcade?”
• • •
Everyone froze, as if some invisible giant with a remote control had hit the Pause button.
Jill rose, and her face blanched. “Kendra, what are you doing here?”
