A Scone To Die For (Oxford Tearoom Mysteries ~ Book 1) (2 page)

He scowled. “What a rip-off. Water should be free.”

I stifled a sigh. “You can certainly have water for free, but it’ll be tap water. We have to pay for the bottled water so I have to charge you for that.”

“All right, all right…” He waved a hand. “Get me a glass of tap water. And put some ice in it.”

I turned to go but was stopped again by his voice.

“Hey, by the way, the service is terrible. I’ve been sitting here forever and no one’s come to take my order!”

I stared at him, wondering if he was serious. Surely he realised that he had only just come in a few minutes ago? The rest of the group were still looking at their menus. One of the women in the group, sitting at the next table with her little boy, met my eyes and gave me a sympathetic smile. I took a deep breath and let it out through my nose.

“I’ll just grab my order pad, sir.”

“Yeah, well, be quick about it. I haven’t got all day.”

Gritting my teeth, I headed back to the counter. My mood was not improved when I got there to find Cassie with an exasperated look on her face.

“The shop’s empty again.”

“Arrrrgghh!” I said under my breath. “Muesli, I’m going to kill you!”

No, I don’t have an abnormal hatred of cereals. Muesli is a cat and, like all cats, she delights in doing the exact opposite of what you want. The Food Standards Agency inspector had been adamant: the only way I’d be allowed to have a cat on the premises was if it stayed out of the kitchen and dining areas.
Easy
, I’d thought.
I’ll just keep Muesli in the extension where we had a little shop selling Oxford souvenirs and English tea paraphernalia.
The fact that I thought of the word “easy” and “cat” in the same sentence probably tells you that I don’t know much about felines.

Okay, I’ll be the first to admit—I’ve always been more of a dog person. I think cats are fascinating and beautiful and look great on greeting cards. But not on my lap leaving hairs everywhere and certainly not in my tearoom, getting under everyone’s feet. So why, you wonder, is the tabby terror even here? Well, she came as a packaged deal with my chef. And Fletcher Wilson is a
magician
with a mixer and a spatula. Trust me, once you’ve tasted his sticky toffee pudding, you’d be ready to give him your first born child. So agreeing to let him have his cat with him at work seemed like a small price to pay in exchange for his culinary expertise.

The problem was, I hadn’t counted on the cat being quite so sociable. Or such a great escape artist. Muesli had quickly decided that there was no way she was going to remain in the shop area when all the real fun was going on here in the dining room and she made it her life’s mission to escape at any opportunity. I couldn’t really blame her. In fact, I felt guilty every time I saw that little tabby face—with her pink nose pressed up to the glass—peering wistfully through the door that separated the shop from the dining room. But food hygiene laws were one thing I couldn’t ignore if I didn’t want to lose my licence.

“One of the Japanese tourists must have gone in the shop to check out some of the stuff and she slipped out when they opened the door,” commented Cassie.

I sighed and scanned the room, looking for a little tabby shape between the tables. I couldn’t see her. I crouched down to get a better view. All I could see was a forest of legs… I bit my lip.
Where was that cat?
I had to find her before any of the customers noticed her loose in here. The last thing I needed was for Mabel and her cronies to discover my Food Standards violation; the news would be halfway across Oxfordshire before the day ended.

“Hey! Can I get some service around here?” came an irate American voice.

I straightened up hurriedly.
Oh God, I’d forgotten about Mr Charming.
I gave Cassie a harassed look. “Keep looking for her, will you?”

I grabbed the order pad—then, on an impulse, also picked up a plate of fresh blackberry cheesecake, which had just come through the hatch from the kitchen.
Well, they did say the way to a man’s heart was through his stomach.
I added a knife and fork, and a dollop of cream, then walked over and set it down in front of him.

“Sorry for the wait, sir. Compliments of the house. This is one of our specialties.”

“Huh.” He looked surprised. He picked up the fork and cut the corner off the soft, creamy cake, putting it cautiously into his mouth. His eyes glazed over slightly and his face softened. “Say… this is not bad.”

I suppressed the urge to roll my eyes. Coming from him, that was probably considered high praise. Still, trying to be charitable, I told myself that maybe he was just one of those people who got really grouchy when hungry. I observed him surreptitiously as I took his order. He was a large, thickset man, with a blocky, almost square-shaped head, fleshy cheeks and prominent ears. His mouth drooped slightly on one side as he talked—the result of a stroke?—and I put him in his early forties, though he looked older. He seemed slightly incongruous sitting there with the other tourists. He was certainly dressed like a tourist in chinos, a loud shirt, and sports jacket, and he had a sort of knapsack on the chair next to him, but somehow he didn’t quite fit in.

“…and I gotta have the bread soft, d’you hear? I don’t want any hard crusts on the sandwiches.”

“All our tea sandwiches are made the traditional way with untoasted bread and the crusts cut off, so they’re all very soft to eat,” I assured him. I noticed the tourist map of Oxford spread out on the table in front of him and gave him a polite smile. “Visiting Oxford, sir?”

“What?” He glanced down at the map. “Oh… oh, yeah.” He gave me a sheepish grin. “Yeah, first-time visitor here; never been to Oxford before. Gotta figure out how to get around. Say, you know how long it takes to walk from the Bodleian Library to Magdalen College?”

“No more than ten or fifteen minutes, I should think. You can take the shortcut through Catte Street onto High Street, and then just turn left and walk straight down to the bridge.”

“Catte Street… that comes out opposite the bank, doesn’t it?”

I frowned. “You mean, the Old Bank Hotel?”

He blinked and a look of confusion flashed across his face, to be replaced quickly by a bland smile. “Sure, yeah, that’s what I mean.” He folded up the map. “Well, thanks for that. You gotta restroom here?”

I directed him to the door beside the shop, then hurried back to the counter to put his order through. I could hear raised voices in the kitchen and winced. I wondered if Cassie was telling Fletcher about his missing cat. I hoped it wouldn’t upset him too much. Fletcher was… “sensitive”, for want of a better word. He was painfully shy and didn’t relate to people like most of us did—in fact, he found it difficult to even make eye contact when he spoke to you. Animals seemed to be the only thing that helped him come out of his shell and I knew that having Muesli here played a big role in calming his nerves and helping him cope with things.

Remembering the request for water, I hurriedly poured a glass and added a few ice-cubes, then took it back to the American man’s table. As I was putting it down, the little boy at the next table jumped up with a yell and jostled my elbow. Water sloshed out of the glass and onto the man’s knapsack.

“Blast!” I muttered.

“Oh, I’m so sorry!” said the woman at the next table. “Hunter, apologise to the lady.”

I gave the little boy a distracted smile. “That’s okay. It was an accident.”

I set the glass down and picked up the knapsack, trying to shake the water off. It was unzipped and a lot of water had spilled onto a folder inside. I hesitated a second, then pulled the folder out and grabbed a napkin from the holder on the table to mop up the moisture. My heart sank as I saw that water had seeped into the folder and wet the sheaf of papers inside. I could just imagine the American’s reaction when he came out and saw what had happened.

Hastily, I pulled out the sheets and dabbed at them with more napkins. The water had soaked through the first page. I hoped it wasn’t anything important. It had the look of an official letter, with the
University of Oxford
letterhead at the top, but what I was more worried about was the bottom where the signature—obviously done in fountain pen—had smeared across the page. I dabbed at it, thinking to myself frantically: most signatures were illegible anyway, weren’t they? This one, for instance, you could hardly make out what the name was. It looked like a “G” and then “Hayes” or “Hughes”, but in any case—

“WHAT THE HELL DO YOU THINK YOU’RE DOING?”

I gasped as a hand grabbed my wrist and yanked me back from the table. Conversation at the next table ceased and the whole room went silent as everyone turned to stare. The American towered over me, one hand clamped on my wrist, the other holding something that gleamed dully. My eyes widened as I realised that it was a knife.

“N-n-nothing…” I said, stammering in surprise. I tried to pull my hand out of his grip. “I spilled some water on your papers and I was just trying to mop up the mess.”

By now, the American had become aware of the whole room staring at him. He released my wrist, laid the knife back down on the cheesecake dish, and made an attempt at a smile.

“Oh… oh yeah. Sorry… can’t be too careful these days, you know, especially when you’re travelling. All this identity theft stuff…”

I rubbed my wrist. “Well, I can assure you, sir, I wasn’t attempting to steal your identity. I was just trying to mop up the water as quickly as possible.”

He gave an awkward wave. “It’s no big deal anyway. Just some tourist brochures and stuff.” He shuffled the papers back into the folder and closed it firmly.

I took the half empty glass and promised to return with another one, then retreated. But my interest was piqued. Why was he lying? It was obvious the papers were not just some tourist brochures. Bloody hell, he’d acted like they were state secrets or something!  Still, I reminded myself that it was none of my business. One thing I’d learnt since opening this tearoom was that you met all sorts of people in the hospitality industry and it was best to turn a blind eye to their eccentricities. All I cared about was that they ordered my food and paid their bills.

Besides, I had bigger problems than some cranky American. I looked at Cassie hopefully as I returned to the counter but she shook her head.

“Still can’t find her—though I can’t look under the tables properly unless I get on my knees and crawl around.” She nodded over my shoulder. “What’s with American Psycho?”

I shrugged. “Heaven knows. Got out of the wrong side of the Atlantic this morning. Anyway, forget him… I’m more worried about the cat.”

“I had to tell Fletcher,” said Cassie uneasily. “I went into the kitchen to see if Muesli might have slipped in there and he asked me what I was up to.”

“How did he take it?”

“Not good.” Cassie made a face. “He was all ready to come out and look for her himself, but I assured him that we had it covered. He’s in the middle of plating up the orders for the tables by the window, and then he’s got to do that big tour group and we can’t have them delayed. Their coach will be leaving for Oxford in forty-five minutes.”

I sighed and turned to scan the room again. Suddenly, I froze.

“Cassie!” I hissed. “What’s that over there?”

Cassie’s eyes widened. I knew she’d seen what I’d seen: a little grey tail flicking behind Mabel Cooke’s chair, by the wall.

“Nooo…” Cassie groaned. “Of all the tables in the place, the little minx had to choose that one? What are you going to do?”

Luckily, at that moment, the order for the Old Biddies came through the hatch. I loaded it onto a tray and hurried across the room.

“Here you are…” I said as I rested the tray on the table. I leaned to the side slightly and tried to look behind Mabel’s chair. The tail twitched back and forth, then flicked out of sight underneath the table.

“Are you all right, dear?” said Glenda. “You look a bit odd.”

“Oh, no, I’m fine,” I said hastily. I unloaded their order from the tray, then shifted my weight from foot to foot, wondering how I could find an excuse to reach under the table and grab the cat. The four old ladies looked at me expectantly.

“So… um… Is there anything else I can get you?”

They shook their heads.

“No, dear. You run along; we can see you have lots of customers to look after.”

“Um… Yes… it’s lovely and busy today, isn’t it? It’s great to be so busy—although I suppose it’s only to be expected, since it’s Friday, just before the weekend, and that’s always the busiest time of the week,” I babbled. “Not that you want to be
too
busy, of course, but it’s good to be a
bit
busy and find a balance…”

They stared at me, obviously wondering if I had lost my wits. In desperation, I grabbed the edge of the table and gave it a little jiggle.

“Oh, it looks like your table isn’t very steady. I think one of the legs might need a bit of propping.”

Mabel Cook gave the sturdy oak table a good shove. “It feels all right to me,” she said doubtfully

“Really? Because it seems really shaky to me,” I said. “In fact, I think I’ll just slip a wad of paper under one of the legs. Excuse me while I do that…” I grabbed a napkin, then dropped to my knees and crawled under the table before they could react. The table was positioned with its short end against the wall, jutting out with two chairs on either side. Muesli sat at the other end, with her back to the wall, looking at me with bright green eyes.

“Muesli!” I hissed under my breath. “Come here!”

She blinked at me innocently.

“Come here, you blasted cat!”

She gave me a disdainful look, lifted a paw and languidly began to wash it.

Grrrr.
I debated what to do. I could try to reach out and grab her by the collar, but that would mean sticking my hand through the row of legs in front of me, and even if I caught her, I would have to pull her through the legs. If the Old Biddies felt the cat’s furry body brush against them, they would probably all erupt in screams.

“Gemma, dear, are you all right?”

“Oh! Uh… Yes, of course… Just a moment longer…”

“Would you like some help?”

“No, no,” I said desperately. “I’m fine, thank you.”

I turned my attention back to the cat. I decided to try a different tactic. Making a monumental effort, I forced my voice into a gentle whisper. “Muesli… here kitty, kitty, kitty…”

The cat paused in her washing and regarded me curiously.
“Meorrw?”

“Gemma, dear, did you say ‘
meow
’?”

“Uh… no! No, I said ‘
no-ow
’. I said I’m almost done
now
.”

“Well, you’re obviously having trouble. Let me come and help you,” came Mabel’s booming voice. I saw her chair being pushed back.

“No! No!” I yelped, jerking up in alarm. I smacked my head on the underside of the table. “Ow!”

The loud bang startled the cat; she shot out from under the table and scampered across the room towards the tour group. I crawled out backwards and stood up, rubbing my sore head.

“Gemma, dear… Are you
sure
you’re all right?”

I met four pairs of sceptical eyes. “Yes, fine… sorry, so clumsy of me. Right, I’ll leave you to have your tea in peace now!”

I beat a hasty retreat across the room, heading for the tour group. I stopped short. I could see a little tabby face peeking from between two of the chairs. I swear, the cat stuck her tongue out at me.

Little minx.
I scowled. Strolling over as nonchalantly as I could, I bent down slowly as I approached the cat. She looked up at me with her big green eyes, her tail wrapped around her front paws, but just as I reached out to grab her, she darted under the table.

“Blast!” I muttered under my breath.

“Is there a problem?”

I looked up to see a woman turning around on the chair that Muesli been sitting next to. It was the mother with the little boy, Hunter—the one who had given me the sympathetic smile earlier.

“No, no problem,” I said hastily. “Has anyone taken your order yet?”

“Yes, that other nice young woman came and did it a moment ago.” She smiled at me, then her face clouded and she glanced sideways at the American man at the next table. She lowered her voice. “I hope you don’t think all Americans are like
him
.”

I returned her smile. “As long as you don’t think all English men are like Mr Bean.”

She laughed but whatever she was about to say was cut off as her son suddenly sprang up in his chair and pointed an excited finger.

“Hey, Mom, look! There’s a cat!”

I groaned.

Half the tour group stood up to look and the sudden scraping of so many chairs scared Muesli out from underneath the table. I made a lunge for her but she darted nimbly past.

“I’ll catch it!” cried the boy, jumping after her.

Muesli easily evaded his grasping hands. She dived between his legs, around his chair, and across to the next table where the American man was sitting. He had glanced up at the commotion and was now rising from his chair.

“What the…” he growled.

I ran over to him. “I’m so sorry, sir! Just give me a moment and I’ll catch her—”

“Say, why is that animal in here? What kind of place is this?”

“Sorry! Sorry!” I panted, diving around him to try and grab a furry tail. “There’s been a bit of a… um… accident. The cat isn’t normally in here.”

Muesli scooted sideways around the table, then made an attempt to rush past the American. He screwed his face up in disgust and kicked at the cat as she ran past him.

“Mangy animal!”

There was a loud gasp. I jerked around to find Fletcher standing in the kitchen doorway. His eyes bulged as he stared at the American.

“Fletcher…” I put up a placating hand. “Fletcher, I’m sure Mr… um… didn’t mean to hurt Muesli…”

I glanced at the American, half expecting him to jump in with his own apologies and excuses but, to my surprise, what I saw was not a look of remorse but a smile of satisfaction. I felt a wave of dislike for him. It was obvious that he was enjoying the distress he was causing. The man was a bully and, like all bullies, he got pleasure from watching others squirm.

“That was uncalled for, sir,” I said sharply. “I realise that the cat should not have been in here but that doesn’t give you the right to kick her.”

He swung back to me. “Oh yeah? Well, why don’t you tell that to the Health Department,” he sneered “I can report you and get this place shut down tomorrow.”

“I—”

I bit off the words. He was right. At the end of the day, food and hygiene laws would trump the RSPCA. I swallowed and took a deep breath, forcing an apologetic look to my face. “I’m very sorry sir. I… I can offer you your meal free of charge, to make up for the inconvenience.”

“Yeah, that’s more like it.” He grinned, then with a last glance at Fletcher—who was being hustled back into the kitchen by Cassie—he sat back down at the table.

I was relieved to see that the ruckus had scared Muesli enough that she had run back into the shop of her own accord. At least there was one silver lining in this fiasco. Slowly, peace returned to the tearoom and I hoped fervently that this was the end of dramas for the day.