Murder with Orange Pekoe Tea

by Karen Rose Smith

  “Daisy, I need your help.”

  With that opening, Daisy was worried. “Did you fall again?” That had happened a few months ago and she suspected that it could happen again. It was one of the reasons Brielle was staying with her.

  “No,” Glorie said, almost whispering. That should have alerted Daisy as to what this call was about. She listened.

  “Brielle isn’t eating. She’s upset about her parents.”

  “How can I help?” Daisy asked without hesitating.

  “I want you to come out here. We can have tea together and talk about this. Don’t you think that’s the best thing to do?”

  “I suppose it could be. When do you want me to come out?”

  “I don’t want to take you from your work.”

  “Brielle is important to me too,” Daisy said. “I have to be at A Penny Saved for a volunteer shift around six. Why don’t I come out to your place, maybe four-thirty?”

  “That sounds fine.”

  “I’ll see you at four-thirty.”

  * * *

  At exactly four-thirty, Daisy drove down the gravel lane to the small farm. Glorie must have heard her because she came out to the small front porch and waited.

  The white clapboard house looked as if it had just been painted. The porch with its little roof had gray floorboards and window trim with the same gray. Glorie had lived here for seventy years and Daisy knew she didn’t want to move. This had been her home when she’d been a little girl. When she got married, she and her husband had lived here. The house had heat, electricity, and running water. Now it probably had a window air conditioner in Glorie’s bedroom.

  As Glorie stood on the porch, the sun hit the gray in her brown hair, which was curly with the summer humidity. She was wearing her usual uniform—jeans and an oversized pink T-shirt that made her look smaller than she actually was. Although her face was always lined, today those creases looked even deeper in the tan that might fade if Glorie stayed indoors more. Daisy knew Glorie’s arthritis was getting worse. She was using a pink flowered cane today and Daisy suspected it was one Brielle had bought for her.

  “I hope you like iced tea, Daisy. It’s just too warm for hot tea, unless you have the air conditioning Nola wants me to put in.”

  “Iced tea will be fine.” Daisy lowered her voice. “What did you tell Brielle?”

  “I just told her you were coming for a visit. Really, that’s what it’s going to be, right? A visit with talking . . . lots of talking.”

  They’d be talking only if Brielle and Glorie could open up about what they wanted for the future.

  Daisy followed Glorie inside and onto the beautiful varied-color rag rug on the floor . . . an eight-by-ten oval. It softened footsteps around the sofa, armchair, wood rocker, and coffee table. A breeze blew in the window, ruffling the curtains, but it was still hot inside.

  “You like that rug, don’t you?” Glorie asked as she spotted Daisy gazing at it.

  “Every time I visit, I admire it. I know you made it before Brielle’s mom went to college and your husband wanted you to put all kinds of colors in it. I love that you included old dresses that belonged to Brielle’s mom, a couple of your husband’s threadbare shirts, and an apron or two of your own. It’s a wonderful memory rug, right?”

  “It is,” Glorie agreed with a nod.

  On her first visit here, Glorie had told Daisy that she’d made the slipcovers that were green plaid along with the curtains hanging around the window in the same fabric.

  Brielle was seated in the worn, burgundy armchair that Daisy had assessed as a Chippendale.

  After studying her phone, Brielle finally looked up. “Hi, Daisy. Grammy told me you were coming. I made the peanut butter blondies you liked. Do you want to sit in the kitchen?”

  The white metal cabinets in the kitchen had been popular in years gone by though they were pristine without any chips. The counter was gray-speckled Formica and that did have a few chips and stains. The refrigerator with its rounded top and the white gas stove could be vintage. Many times, Daisy had sat in one of the oak chairs at the square pedestal table with Glorie and talked about whatever came into their heads.

  A flight of stairs led up to a loft, and that’s where Brielle had been sleeping. Daisy could hear a fan going up there.

  When Brielle noticed the focus of Daisy’s gaze, she explained, “I’ve been sleeping on the floor in Grammy’s room where the air conditioner is.” She emphasized the last three words. “It’s so much more comfortable than the heat, right Grammy?”

  Glorie murmured, “If you say so. Why don’t we sit in here and be comfortable. It’s cooler than the kitchen. Daisy, you can put the glasses and the iced tea on the tray on the counter to bring in, and then Brielle can fetch the cookies.”

  “Will do,” Brielle said, and Daisy seconded the motion.

  Brielle carried the cookies in. She had placed them on a brown-and-off-white Pfaltzgraff pottery dish. They sat in a semicircle of sorts discussing their day and the weather and Vi and Sammy.

  Brielle had hardly nibbled at a cookie and Glorie was watching her with worry in her eyes. Finally Glorie said, “Brielle, honey, I asked Daisy here so we could talk.”

  “Talk about what?” Brielle asked with wariness in her tone.

  “I think your grandmother wants us to talk about you and her for starters,” Daisy offered.

  At first Brielle’s face was closed. It was so impassive that Daisy thought it might crack if somebody touched it. Then Brielle’s eyes misted over. “I can’t talk about it. Somebody will get upset.”

  “Getting upset isn’t the end of the world, honey,” Daisy said. “Maybe getting upset will help you tell us what you’re feeling. If you do that, your grandmother can tell you what she’s feeling. I have to say, your mom already told me what she’s thinking.”

  At that Brielle frowned. “Why didn’t she tell me?”

  “I think she’s afraid you won’t listen to her, or that you’ll be closed minded if you do.”

  Already Brielle was crossing her arms over her chest. That was a defense move if Daisy ever saw one.

  “I don’t know what to do,” Brielle admitted.

  “I want you to talk to me, honey,” her grandmother told her. “I won’t get upset. I’ll think about what you have to say.”

  Brielle studied her grandmother and then her eyes turned to Daisy. Daisy nodded.

  Brielle began with an uncharacteristic stammer. “I know . . . I know you want to stay here, Grammy. But I know what my mother wants too. She wants me to come to stay with her and you too. I don’t know what’s right.”

  Glorie looked crestfallen as if the reality of this situation was actually sinking in this time.

  Sitting next to Glorie on the sofa, Daisy turned to her. “Tell me something,” she suggested gently. “Do you really feel you can stay in your house much longer?”

  Brielle was the one who answered. “Grammy can stay here if I stay with her.” Her voice had gone higher, and Daisy knew that was a sign of distress.

  Glorie must have heard it too. She reached over to the armchair and took Brielle’s hand. “If I’m taken care of... if I would go live with your mother, you would go to college, wouldn’t you?”

  “I might,” Brielle answered hesitantly. “But I know you don’t want to move into the big house with my mother.”

  “What if there’s another option?” Daisy asked.

  “How can there be another option?” Glorie wanted to know.

  “Have you thought about the fact that Nola might not want to stay in that house since her divorce?”

  After a few moments of thought-filled silence, Glorie said, “That would open up several possibilities.”

  “What kind of possibilities?” Brielle asked.

  “Well, let’s think about this. What if your mother sells her house?”

  “She can’t move in here,” Brielle protested. “It’s too small.”

  “It is that,” Glorie agreed. �
�But what if I sold my property too, or maybe kept it and rented it?”

  Brielle was getting the gist of this idea. “Then maybe we could find a house to suit all three of us,” Brielle said. “It wouldn’t be so big and you’d be living with Mom. The thing is, Grammy, can you live with Mom?”

  Glorie gave a little smile. “I imagine that could be a challenge for both of us.” She looked at Daisy. “Would you live with your mother?”

  As Daisy thought about it, she answered truthfully. “If you had asked me that a year ago, I’d probably tell you I couldn’t. But now things are different. Mom told me about situations in her past, and I understand her so much better now. I know if my parents needed help, I could live with them. If relationships don’t grow, they just shrivel up. I don’t think any of us want that to happen as we get older.”

  “I believe you’re right,” Glorie said. “I think Brielle and I will have to have a talk with Nola.”

  * * *

  After her visit with Glorie and Brielle, Daisy put in her volunteer shift at A Penny Saved. Patrons had left and it was time for her to close up. She scanned the inside sales room of Willow Creek’s thrift store. The shop always seemed filled to capacity with racks of skirts, blouses, dresses, and slacks. Shoes were lined up against the wall according to sizes—men’s, women’s, and children’s.

  Daisy took one last look around the sales floor after she closed down the computer. She was the one locking up tonight. She’d done it before.

  She was turning her key in the lock, facing the door, when she suddenly felt fire flashing throughout her whole body. Her ears buzzed . . . her skin tingled . . . she felt as if she couldn’t think through a gray cloud that pressed in on her. She couldn’t even lift her hands to break her fall as she dropped to the ground like a heavy sack of flour. Through the pain in her body and the fog in her mind, someone hoarsely whispered in her ear, “Stop asking questions or the same thing that happened to Hiram will happen to you.”

  Gasping, Daisy fought to catch her breath. There was no air in her lungs. She saw spots in front of her eyes. Her limbs were frozen.

  Even Daisy’s stomach felt as if it had collapsed upon itself. Yet there was pain too—a burning pain in her legs and in her arms. She couldn’t move them.

  Time meant little as Daisy fought to catch her breath. Finally she sucked in air and mostly felt relief. Her muscles began to respond when she attempted to move them. Fumbling in her pocket, she gripped her phone. After she tapped her FAVORITES icon, she tapped Jonas’s name.

  He answered.

  She found her voice was crackly as without an intro she managed, “I think someone just used a stun gun on me.”

  “Where are you?” he asked tersely.

  She told him.

  “Stay put. I’m calling the police and an ambulance.”

  Feeling stronger, she offered, “Jonas, I can probably stand up . . .”

  “Don’t,” he chided. “Stay put. Promise me, Daisy.”

  Her voice stronger now, her mind clearer, she answered, “I will.”

  It seemed as if Daisy closed her eyes and Jonas was there. His arm around her, she laid her head on his shoulder as he squeezed her tighter.

  “How do you feel?” he asked.

  “Safe with you.”

  “That’s good. But I mean how do you feel physically?”

  “Just very tired.”

  Jonas had rested his chin on the top of her head, and she could feel his jaw tense along with his arm as he held her.

  It wasn’t long before Detective Rappaport showed up along with the ambulance. Daisy didn’t believe she needed an ambulance . . . that she could stand on her own two feet and walk where she needed to go. However, Jonas and the paramedics wouldn’t let her.

  Jonas climbed into the ambulance with her and held her hand the whole way to the hospital in Lancaster, even as the paramedics put an oximeter on her finger, took her vitals every five minutes and added an oxygen cannula to her nose. She hated all this fuss, but she was also feeling weak and didn’t have enough energy to protest too much. At least she didn’t until they arrived at the hospital and she was feeling stronger.

  She didn’t let go of Jonas’s hand very often. She wanted him to stay in the room even when the internist, a doctor in his mid-forties, with a name tag on his jacket that read DR. STILLWATER, spoke to her about HIPAA laws.

  Feeling her ire rise, she said to him with more vigor than she’d felt since this happened, “I want Jonas here. You have my permission to tell him anything either of us need to know.”

  The doctor glanced outside the cubicle. “There’s a detective out there who wants information too.”

  “Then he might as well come in,” Daisy said. “Detective Rappaport?” she called.

  Morris Rappaport looked a bit sheepish when he stepped inside. “I can wait,” he said.

  “Then we’ll just have to go through this all over again,” she decided. “Let’s do this.”

  The detective looked at Jonas. “I think she’s feeling better.”

  With a sigh the doctor said, “I believe you’ll be fine, but we want to keep you here for a few hours just to make sure your electrical circuits weren’t completely scrambled. We’ll do another EKG in a little while. There are two burn marks on your neck. I’ve seen those before. You were attacked with a stun gun.”

  Daisy’s mind raced and she murmured, “The same stun gun that was used on Hiram.”

  The detective said, “We don’t know that, Daisy. You’ve riled up someone, just like you always do.”

  “I haven’t done anything but listen,” she insisted.

  The doctor said brusquely, “I have other patients to see. I’ll be back in an hour or so. Rest,” he ordered Daisy and shot a warning look at Detective Rappaport and Jonas.

  Detective Rappaport asked, “What did you do that you shouldn’t have done? Who did you talk to that you shouldn’t have?”

  She supposed the best thing to do was to come clean. She had told Jonas she’d visited the clinic but not exactly how she’d done it.

  Now she explained to them both, “I went undercover at the Hope Clinic. I pretended I was a woman who was looking to freeze my eggs. The director showed me around. I talked to one of the techs and the janitor. And then I didn’t make a follow-up appointment.”

  Rappaport rolled his eyes as he often did with her. “Daisy—” he began.

  She held up her hand and he stopped. She knew what he was going to say, and he knew she knew what he was going to say.

  Jonas’s mouth tightened into a grim line.

  After Detective Rappaport left, Jonas sat by her bed and took her hand. “Do you trust me?”

  There was no hesitation when she answered, “Yes, I trust you.”

  “Then the next time tell me everything.”

  She’d been alone for years now and taking care of her daughters on her own. She’d handled the renovation of the barn into a house on her own. She’d bought the Victorian with her aunt but basically she’d made the decisions on her own. She was used to running a business and caring for her family, making financial decisions as well as personal ones all on her own. Now, however, as she gazed into Jonas’s eyes, she knew she wasn’t on her own.

  She said simply, “I promise. From now on, I will tell you everything.”

  Three hours later, Daisy had become impatient. She’d sent Jonas to get himself a sandwich while she mulled over everything that had happened . . . everything since Hiram’s murder.

  When Dr. Stillwater returned for one final check, she said, “I have a question for you.”

  “About how you’re feeling?” His dark brown almost black eyes told her he was in a hurry, but he would answer any questions she posed.

  “Does someone have to know what they’re doing to inject insulin?”

  His face changed and he looked shocked by her question. “What does that have to do with you? Your records didn’t show you as even a prediabetic.”

  “T
hat’s not why I’m asking. I was hit with a stun gun, doctor. I’m semi-involved in the investigation into Hiram Hershberger’s murder.”

  The doctor’s face paled, and he looked even more disconcerted. He hooked his shoe into the bottom of a rolling stool and brought it over beside the bed. He sank down on it. “Why would you be involved?”

  “It’s a long story, but asking questions is what put me in here today. So can you answer my question?”

  After he thought about it for a moment and gave her another look that held disapproval, he responded, “Anyone who’s been instructed by a doctor to give shots would know how to inject into fatty tissue.”

  “Fatty tissue like a stomach or thigh?”

  “That’s usually where patients inject their insulin, but . . .”

  “But?” she prompted.

  “Unfortunately anyone who researched insulin on the Internet could easily find out how to inject it, and not only inject it. They could probably learn that if they inject it into a muscle, the insulin would work faster.”

  Listening to the doctor and absorbing that information, Daisy realized Hiram Hershberger’s murderer did not have to be a medical professional. The killer could be anyone.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Jonas kept looking over at Daisy as he drove her home after she was discharged. Daisy had stayed in the car while he’d stopped at Woods to pick up Felix. It had seemed safer to leave him there with Elijah than to bring him along when he’d rushed to Daisy at A Penny Saved.

  Felix had climbed into the car all excited to see Jonas and Daisy. But when Jonas commanded, “Quiet, boy,” the dog looked at Daisy and seemed to decide on his own that he would be quiet. Quiet, maybe, but still compassionate.

  Leaning up between the seats he’d laid his head on Daisy’s arm.

  With another glance at Daisy, Jonas asked, “Can you tell me how you’re feeling?”

  She took a moment to think about it. “I still feel a little odd . . . like my thoughts aren’t in the order they’re supposed to be in.”

  “That’s to be expected,” Jonas said. “Your whole body got an electric shock, including your brain. You’re going to have to give it time to recover.”