by Louise Lynn
Chaos on Camera
Maritime Teashop Cozy Mystery Two
Louise Lynn
Nora Winters
To Agatha Frost and Tony E.
Agatha
Thank you for encouraging us.
We could not have done this without you.
Now hold my poodle!
Tony
Thank you for all your encouragement over the years.
You make me feel like I can accomplish anything.
Contents
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Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Coming soon!
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Louise Lynn
Nora Winters
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Chapter One
The green banners moved slowly in the salted sea air, billowing like an underwater kelp forest. I could see bright lights shimmering and flashing, voices echoing, hands moving up and down, and a monstrous creature working its way lazily toward me.
I blinked, and my mind tumbled back into reality.
It wasn’t a monster.
The twenty-foot-tall construction machine rolled by me and, with the aid of various attendants, onto the San Bastion Bay beach—where the kelp forest was, in fact, a Hollywood movie set with three gigantic green screens.
My twenty-six-year-old little sister, Ivy, had dragged me to the beach over an hour ago, and underneath the gloomy sky we had watched the unfamiliar faces building an enormous set. We both took turns in guessing which celebrity would be visiting our small town on the California coast.
“I think it’ll be Johnny Depp,” Ivy said with a grin, her short black hair skimming her shoulders and rubbing against her maroon puffer jacket.
My green eyes widened at her. “What … What if it’s George Clooney?”
“You mean the old guy?” Ivy sniffed, her green eyes squinting at me.
I softly bashed the top of her head with my glove. “You mean the refined and utterly exquisite A-list actor, God’s gift to humankind, George Timothy Clooney?”
She snorted. “Yah. Him,” she said, rubbing a hand over her head and glaring at me.
“A girl can certainly dream,” I replied, fixing my gaze on the set again.
A gust of wind picked up, rolling particles of sand and debris across the beach, and tangling my thick, auburn hair around my neck. I watched the various builders, including staff, stomping their feet into the white sand. It was much too cold to be visiting the beach that day, but with an unexpected Hollywood team showing up, and with little to no warning of their arrival, I couldn’t exactly blame tourists—and San Bas residents—wanting to find out what was going on.
An entire sea of them, including myself.
I leaned closer against the boardwalk railing and narrowed my eyes, scrutinizing the crew. All I had made out so far was the red logo attached to the crew’s polo shirts. A graphic depiction of a shearwater with the words “Making dreams fly” underneath. Whatever movie corporation it was, I didn’t recognize them, but judging by the number of crew members and the rich materials they were using for the set, they weren’t exactly on a budget.
Ivy glanced at her watch. “Twenty minutes until opening time,” she said.
Right.
We had to open Maritime Teashop in less than half an hour. Winter was always our busiest season—for the delicious teas and freshly baked goods I made in house—and I had yet to bring out that day’s cake from inside my truck. Almond and coffee cake with a slight caramel drizzle over the frosting. It was my mom’s favorite.
My mouth watered at the thought of it. I’d certainly be keeping a slice for myself, if the day allowed me a moment to breathe.
“We should head back,” I said, but Ivy shook her head.
“A couple more minutes. Look at the car pulling up at the set. Is that the celebrity?”
My eyes turned to the SUV rolling over the beach and parking outside of the set’s construction fence. Its tinted windows had been rolled up, and I could see little other than the stark contrast of the lime-green exterior. I held my breath and waited. Was this the celebrity starring in this film?
Ivy gasped when the door burst open and a tall, elegantly dressed woman stepped out. Her hair had been dyed an illuminated purple, and her style, a mixture of pink and yellows, stood out under the murky sky. With her hair dyed the way it was, and her style a complete eyesore, I knew straight away who this ‘celebrity’ was.
Quintessence—a total pain in the butt—Lovejoy.
My heart sank at the sight of her. I felt the railing dig into my chest, as I leaned over it as far as I could for a better glimpse.
I had to be wrong.
My high school nemesis, known then by the name of Mary Jones, was the movie star.
“I still can’t believe it …”
“Is she really who I think she is?” Ivy said, and I could hear the equal distaste in her voice.
I nodded. “Yup. Mary Jones.”
“Your high school best friend?” Ivy teased, but before I could whack her head again, she pulled up her hands. “Kidding! Do you think she’s going to be filming here? Juno said her last movie was a flop.”
Quintessence left a foul taste in my mouth, but I grinned at the remark. A high school bully, in my eyes, did not deserve the success in an industry which so many beautiful and honest people fought for roles in daily. Especially one that tried to steal my then boyfriend on prom night.
“Come on,” I said, tugging Ivy back from the railing. “Let’s get to work. How about you help me frost the cookies?”
I needed something to distract myself with. I couldn’t afford to unlock any of the high school memories I’d buried and stomped on so long ago. At thirty-three-years old, I had managed to leave my school days mostly in the past.
If not for Quintessence, I wouldn’t have had to.
“Only if you let me test one of them.”
“By test, you mean eat?”
“What else?” Ivy grinned, and we trailed back to my navy truck, parked near the boardwalk.
San Bastion Bay was a relatively small town, consisting of around three thousand people—minus the tourists—and we could probably have walked from the beach to Maritime. But I often drove as it was easier to transport goods that way.
Especially cakes.
I winced at the time I’d walked to Maritime, shortly after opening three years ago, and tripped on the sidewalk. I’d tried a new face mask that day. Raspberry gateau. It wasn’t exactly a favorite mask of mine, nor a desired one. But I learned my lesson.
When I cut the engine outside of Maritime, two customers already stood at the entrance. A tall, lean, businessman in a flashy, navy suit, and an older, unsmiling woman with moon-sized spectacles. Wyatt Edwards, a British Animal Law Attorney, and his American secretary, Elspeth.
“Why do I suddenl
y feel nervous?” Ivy said, sinking further into her seat.
“Probably because we accused Wyatt of murder a month ago and, despite that debacle, the man has a crush on my baby sister.”
Now, Ivy’s creamy complexion darkened as a blush seized her freckled cheeks. “Please don’t embarrass me,” she said, glancing over her shoulder then toward the shop. “Mom nearly told him about every embarrassing childhood experience when he was last here.”
I snorted. “Sounds like Mom. Don’t worry,” I said, reaching onto the back seat and grabbing the cake box. “I’m not as embarrassing as her.”
The look on Ivy’s face told me she wasn’t entirely convinced. I warmed to know that both she and Wyatt, who was the same age as me, crushed on each other.
We climbed out of the truck, and Wyatt’s breath streamed out like vapor.
“Hey, Wyatt,” I said, smiling to them both. “What’s brought you here so early?”
Wyatt nodded his blonde head toward his secretary, who was wrapped up as though she were living in the mountains. She smiled at me from underneath her Eskimo hood.
“I promised Elspeth one of your special herbal teas,” he explained, his cheeks pink from the cold.
In comparison to his secretary, Wyatt only wore gloves and a woolen orange scarf around his neck.
Ivy, standing beside me at the bottom of the porch, remained utterly silent.
I nudged her shoulder. “Ivy will get some for you. Feel free to come inside while we open up,” I offered, climbing onto the porch.
My sister followed and, gosh, they both had dreamy far-off looks on their faces.
“What delicacy have you baked today?” Wyatt asked, following us into the shop once I had unlocked the door.
“Almond and coffee,” I said with a smile, “and a drizzle of my Mom’s homemade caramel sauce.”
Thankfully, the heating had been set on a timer, so the shop was warm and fragrant when we stepped inside. We draped our coats on the rack near the door then I placed the box on the countertop.
Rubbing my hands together, I turned to my slightly flustered sister. “Ivy. How about you start the tea for Wyatt and Elspeth? I’ll organize the shop.”
Not that there was much to organize since I’d prepared the shop well in advance last night.
“Yes!” Ivy spoke at last. “I can do that. Would you like a slice of cake with them?”
“Unfortunately, we’re not stay—!”
“We’d love some,” Wyatt interjected, smiling as though Ivy had just told him he’d won the lottery.
It wasn’t like Wyatt needed it though, being the founder of a successful animal rights organization. He’d recently relocated to San Bas a month ago, and after a long struggle, he’d purchased the Walker’s gorgeous Victorian home up on Emerald Cove.
It had come as a surprise to the town. Even more surprising was Matthew killing his wife, Jenny Walker, by poisoning her tea. Apparently, a man would go to great lengths to keep his home. Even committing murder, regardless if it was the woman he’d spent fifty years of his life with.
Certainly, my sister and I hadn’t planned to play the detectives. But we did manage to uncover the true killer and have him arrested, all before he bludgeoned Wyatt to death inside his own office.
Mom said we’d chosen the wrong profession.
Perhaps it was gratitude that had warmed Wyatt toward my sister. But then I recalled those moments inside my teashop, when he’d become flustered and constantly stared at my sister—though he obviously thought he’d been discreet about it. He’d even been the one to make Ivy a handmade wreath after Matthew Walker had taken a bat to our Maritime Christmas display. The whole town had joined in, replacing each of the damaged wreaths, but I knew Wyatt’s were meant for my sister.
A cute gesture, all things considered.
In the wake of death.
“Is this … is this where she sat?” Elspeth asked, shaking me from my reverie.
I pivoted to see Elspeth, pointing toward the seat beside the window, a solitary flower vase on top of an ivory-marble table.
“Yes,” I said with a curt nod. “Jenny Walker sat there every Friday.”
“But it’s not her seat,” Ivy added. “Sit where you want.”
Elspeth shuddered and glided by the table. “Perhaps by the other window,” she suggested to Wyatt, who seemed pleased to sit anywhere.
I dipped behind the counter and began to slice the cake. Once I had cut Wyatt and Elspeth a generous section, I placed the rest into the cake display and turned to fetch the remaining goods from the back.
Ten minutes until opening time, according to the vintage clock on the windowsill. I was relieved that I’d prepared the shop the night before, otherwise I’d have been running late … all because I’d been stalking the town’s newest arrivals. And what did I find out? It was Quintessence Lovejoy.
Ivy was just leaving the stockroom as I entered, a box of flowering tea curved on her hip. The hand-tied tea was shipped from China monthly, and was by far my favorite of teas, which was why I’d named it our special.
I placed the cakes and a sealed jug of hot water onto a tray, along with China tea cups, and a large transparent kettle, and carried it over. I usually poured the tea myself, but not with this one. The whole point of flowering tea was the immersive experience.
“This one’s Ivy’s favorite.” I set the tray onto the table and stepped back. “It’s jasmine with a slight hint of silver needles.”
Ivy had disappeared into the stockroom again—hopefully not hiding from Wyatt, and doing some real work before our morning rush.
“What’s it called?” Wyatt asked, his sapphire eyes flitting over the teapot.
“Dancing Lovers,” I replied, and walked back to the counter.
From the corner of my eye, I watched Wyatt pour the water into the kettle, and the bud unfurled into a fully blossomed flower.
“Oh wow,” Elspeth gasped, her eyes widening as she poured the hot water into the teapot.
“Isn’t it delightful, Elspeth?”
“Yes, Mr. Edwards. I can see why you favor this teashop.”
I smiled and flicked my sign over to open. Wyatt was practically inhaling the petals as they unfolded within the water.
“This tea is sublime,” he remarked as I swept by their table. “I’ve never seen anything quite like this.”
“I’m glad you’re enjoying it,” Ivy replied, standing by the register.
I hadn’t even seen her emerge from the stockroom. “Like I said, Ivy’s favorite. Dancing Lovers.”
Ivy’s cheeks turned bright pink, and I grinned at her. Then the door chimed, and we looked up to greet our next customer. What I didn’t expect was to see a man wearing one of the movie crew’s black polo shirts and a pair of avocado khakis—in winter. He had a gorgeous, sun-kissed complexion with a mop of unruly, brown hair and a smile that seemed to melt everything within sight.
“Good morning, Maritime Teashop. I’m here to speak with the owner.”
“Hello. What about?” I asked him softly, though my heart rate picked up its pace.
It was always worrisome whenever a customer asked to speak to the owner.
When he stopped in front of the register, he just reached above my shoulders, and I wasn’t particularly tall. Still, he was boyishly handsome, and his sea-blue eyes held me spellbound.
“It’s about the new movie we’re going to be shooting here. I’m the director, Michael Phillips. Are you the owner or not?”
Chapter Two
I was momentarily taken aback, not just by his manner, but also by the boyish dimples on each side of his cheek when he smiled and those blindingly white teeth. I probably would have gaped at him for a good five minutes if Ivy hadn’t elbowed me in the arm.
"I’m the owner of Maritime Tea Shop, Olivia Darrow. How can I help you?" I said and forced a smile despite the sinking feeling in my stomach.
Were they going to shoot part of the movie on Main Street and therefore b
lock off the tea shop from customers for several days? I’d heard other businesses in towns where movies often shot had a problem like that. And while they were compensated, it didn’t always make up for lost foot traffic, especially since the shops in San Bas relied on word-of-mouth from tourists as much as anything else.
Michael clapped his hands together and bounced on the balls of his feet like a little boy, waiting to open his presents on Christmas morning. It shouldn’t have been as endearing as it was.
But I told myself to stay firm. If they were going to shut down Main Street, I would negotiate the highest price possible.
"Good. Just the woman I wanted to talk to," he said and threw a glance at the front door.
No one else was there.
"I’m listening," I said and motioned to the menu behind me. "Would you like a cup of tea? That’s usually what people come in here for. Or we have loose tea to-go. Up to an eight-ounce bag. And all the pastries in the display case are also for sale."
Michael nodded, and his eyes swept around the shop. "One of our PAs dropped in here last week and picked up some scones and other things from your shop. They were the best I’ve had since back home," he said in that delightful accent of his. It was either Australian or New Zealand, but I couldn’t put my finger on which, though it made everything he said sound incredibly exciting. I had always been a sucker for a foreign accent.
"Thanks, I’m glad you liked them. Would you like to pick up a few things now?"
Michael let out a light chuckle. “I’d like to do more than that. I’d like to make you a deal. We’re looking for a premier caterer for snacks between meals at the movie set. We have a few set up, including a chef who’ll take care of the meals. But the crew and stars like a variety. Your baking would be well paid, of course."
