A Scone To Die For (Oxford Tearoom Mysteries ~ Book 1) (21 page)

“An affair with a council member…” I murmured.

“That was the reason she rang you and asked to meet. She heard that you were asking questions about her alibi at the dance studio and she was worried that you would dig out the truth and spill it to everyone—so she was hoping to speak to you privately to ask for discretion.”

I shook my head ruefully. “And here I thought she was luring me to my doom or something!” Something else occurred to me. “Oh, of course! My mother was wondering how Justine got the permit to park directly in front of her house so easily…”

“Yes, I imagine her liaison comes with certain perks,” said Devlin with a wry smile. He paused, then added, “I hope you’ll believe me now when I say I wasn’t prejudiced towards Justine. I suppose you could say I
was
giving her special treatment of sorts—but only because I knew she wasn’t really a suspect in the case. Her lover verified her alibi—she was with him the whole time.”

“Oh…” I looked down, embarrassed and ashamed of my past accusations now. “I… well… yes, I’m sorry if I doubted you. I realise now you were telling me the truth.”

“Not quite,” said Devlin. He hesitated, then said, “I did lie to you, Gemma, about one thing.”

I looked at him in surprise. “About what?”

“I said that I would never let my personal feelings interfere with an investigation…” He met my eyes, his own very blue. “It was a good thing
you
weren’t a suspect in this murder, because I would have broken my own rule.”

I stared at him, my heart thudding in my chest. He smiled slightly and reached out, brushing his fingers along my cheek—a feather-light caress which sent goose bumps across my skin. I was conscious of the Old Biddies watching us, goggle-eyed, from the nearby table.

“I’ll see you around, Gemma.” Devlin winked at me, turned, and left.

I stood staring at the door for a long time after he had gone.

The next morning, I arrived bright and early at the tearoom. It was Sunday and as I walked about the dining room, drawing back the curtains, switching on the lights, arranging the tables and chairs, I couldn’t believe that it had been a little over a week since I had gone about these same rituals, preparing for the day, never knowing that, in a few hours, I would be meeting a man who would be murdered in my tearoom. So many things had happened in the past week!

“Morning!” Cassie sailed in through the front door, a smile on her face. She was clutching a tabloid newspaper in her hands. “We’re becoming a fixture on the front page…” Her smile widened and she gestured towards the outside of the windows. “But this time, they can talk about us as much as they like! It’s great for business!”

I glanced out of the windows and saw that she was right. Already, there was a small crowd forming in the street outside, waiting for the tearoom to open. I felt my own face light up.

“What are we going to do about the food, though?” asked Cassie worriedly. “I mean, with so many customers—and no proper chef yet—”

I turned to her. “Well, actually, Cassie, speaking of a chef…”

As if on cue, the tearoom door opened and my mother stepped in, looking resplendent in a vintage gingham dress with an enormous frilly apron and a white chef’s hat perched atop her perfect coiffure. I gaped at her.

“Mother, why are you dressed like that?”

“What do you mean, darling? Helen Green has been helping me with my outfit and she assures me that this is the latest thing in cuisine wear.”

“Yeah, if it’s 1940,” I muttered, trying to ignore Cassie grinning in the corner.

“It’s vital to look the part, you know, now that I’m a ‘working woman’,” said my mother importantly. “Now, where is the kitchen, darling? Oh yes, through here… no, don’t worry, I can sort myself out…”

Her voice faded away as she went through the swinging door, only to get louder again a moment later as she called out: “Oh, by the way, darling, Helen was telling me about this exciting thing called Twitcher. She says I simply must get onto it and then I can twitch all the time! And people will follow me and I’ll be able to tell them all about what I’m baking in the kitchen—
as it’s happening!
Isn’t that just marvellous? But I’ll need you to show me how to do it. Apparently, I can do it right from my phone…”

I groaned and covered my face with my hands, while Cassie fell about in uncontrollable laughter. Taking a deep breath, I removed my hands from my face. It was okay. I could do it. I had faced a maniacal murderer. Dealing with my mother should be a piece of cake…

The low brick building rose in front of me and I paused, setting the cat carrier down on the ground next to me. I could see a young couple coming out of the sliding doors, their faces wreathed in smiles as they looked down at the fluffy puppy in their arms. Passing them in the other direction, heading into the building, was a family with a child who pointed eagerly to the poster on the wall, showing a kitten with the words: “Adopt a cat today and take home your new friend!”

I looked back down at the cat carrier by my feet. Muesli’s little face showed through the bars. She was eyeing her surroundings curiously, her ears pricked and her whiskers quivering as she took in the sights and sounds.

“
Meorrw?
” she said, looking up at me.

She’ll find a good home here
, I told myself. Oxford Animal Shelter had one of the best reputations in the country and the shortest times for rehoming. Muesli wouldn’t have to stay in a cage for long… and she’d make friends with the other cats… and have the chance to find a family who’d be able to lavish her with love and attention…

There was no other option really. No one else could look after her and I didn’t even have my own place—there was no way she could live at my parents’ house, where she would probably shred their cream silk upholstery and dig in my mother’s prize flowerbeds… Besides, I was busy at the tearoom all day and didn’t have the time for a pet…

No, no, this was definitely the best option for her and I knew I was doing the right thing.

So why did I feel so awful?

I took a deep breath, picked up the carrier, and walked into the shelter building. There were several people ahead of me and I had to wait my turn at the reception. Finally, a woman behind the counter smiled and asked if she could help. I explained my mission.

“You’ll have to fill out some information about the cat—the more you can tell us, the more it’ll help us place her in a suitable home,” she said, handing me a clipboard with a form attached.

I heaved the cat carrier up onto the counter next to me, then picked up the pen and began filling in the spaces.

Name:
Muesli

Age:
1+ year?

Breed:
Moggie

Colour:
Grey tabby with white chest and paws

Sex:
F

Vaccinated:
Yes

Spayed:
Yes

Microchipped:
Yes

Personality & quirks:
very sociable and inquisitive, talkative, bit of an escape artist, likes to hide under rugs and ambush your ankles when you walk past, enjoys belly rubs for 2.5 seconds then freaks out, hides in boxes, will come when called…

I stopped and stared at what I’d written. Next to me, Muesli stuck a little paw through the bars of her carrier and batted my hand playfully, trying to catch the pen tip.

“
Meorrw!
” she said.

“All finished?” The woman came back and smiled at me. She reached out to take the form. “You can hand her over to us now and we’ll get her settled—”

“Actually…” I held on to the clipboard, pulling it back from her. “I… I’ve changed my mind.”

She looked at me in surprise. I pulled the form off the clipboard and crumpled it up.

“I’d like to buy some cat supplies—I thought I could get them from the shelter store and have the money go to a good cause…”

“Oh, that’s very kind.” The woman smiled at me warmly. “What would you like to buy, dear?”

“Um…” I couldn’t believe I was doing this. “A cat litter tray and a couple of bowls… and a cat bed, I guess?”

“You’ll need a scratching post as well,” said the woman with a grin. “And some food. And maybe some toys. We’ve got some gorgeous new feather mice, which have been very popular. And some kitty treats would be nice too—to reward good behaviour.”

“Do cats even know the meaning of those two words?” I asked dryly.

She laughed out loud. “Sounds like you’re all set to be a cat owner.” She poked a gentle finger at the cat carrier next to us. “She’s gorgeous! I love her little pink nose and those beautiful green eyes with that black eye liner… what’s her name?”

I looked at the little tabby and felt an unexpected flash of pride. “Muesli,” I said. “Her name is Muesli. Like the cereal.”

“Muesli! What an adorable name!” She laughed as Muesli put out a playful paw again and batted her finger. “I can see that you’re going to have a lot of fun with her.”

Yeah, a lot of fun
, I thought sourly as I found myself back outside the shelter building, staggering under the weight of a ton of feline paraphernalia.
I must be mad
, I told myself.
What am I doing adopting a cat?

“
Meorrw
?” said Muesli from the carrier next to me.

I glanced down at the little tabby face and scowled. “And don’t think you’re coming on my bed.”

“
Meorrw
,” said Muesli complacently.

As I was beginning to learn, cats always got the last word.

FINIS

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While at an Oxford cocktail party, tearoom owner Gemma Rose overhears a sinister conversation minutes before a University student is fatally poisoned. Could there be a connection? And could her best friend Cassie’s new boyfriend have anything to do with the murder?

Gemma decides to start her own investigation, helped by the nosy ladies from her Oxfordshire village and her old college flame, CID detective Devlin O’Connor. But her mother is causing havoc at Gemma’s quaint English tearoom and her best friend is furious at her snooping… and this mystery is turning out to have more twists than a chocolate pretzel!

Too late, Gemma realises that she could be the next item on the killer’s menu. Or will her little tabby cat, Muesli, save the day?

Here is an excerpt:

CHAPTER ONE

You know your social life needs work when your first Saturday night out in months ends in murder.

Of course, murder was the last thing on my mind as I peered over the heads in the crowd, trying to see what people were looking at. From their excited murmurs and pointing and whispering, I expected some scene of horrific carnage—or a naked woman at the very least.

It turned out to be just a big grey square with a red blob in the middle. Apparently, from the heated discussion going on between two of the spectators next to me, the red blob could either represent the surrealism of perfect geometric form or the angst of the artist’s tormented search for his mother’s approval but
certainly
not the pent-up aggression of today’s youths.

I sighed and turned away from the crowd. This just confirmed to me that I didn’t “get” modern art. You may wonder, then, what I was doing wandering around a contemporary art gallery on a precious Saturday evening off work. Well, I was there to support my best friend, Cassie, who was an artist (and not of the grey-square-with-red-blob variety either)—and she was having her first exhibition, with tonight being the opening night party.

I looked across the room and saw her, face beaming and cheeks flushed—though I wasn’t sure how much of it was from the excitement of her first exhibition and how much from the proximity of the tall, attractive man next to her. Jon Kelsey. Owner of the gallery, art dealer extraordinaire, and general smooth operator. As I watched, Cassie flushed even more while Jon slipped a possessive arm around her waist and bent down to say something to her. She giggled, then looked across the room and caught my eye. I hurriedly changed my grimace into a smile.

Yeah, I have to confess, I didn’t like Cassie’s new boyfriend much and I’m a bit ashamed of my feelings. I know, I know—I should’ve just been pleased that my friend had found someone she loved and was happy—and believe me, I’ve tried really hard to like him—but there was something about Jon Kelsey that put me off. He was just a bit too handsome, too smooth, too arrogantly self-assured. It seemed unfair to take against a man just because he was too charming, but something about Jon Kelsey made me bristle.

And to be honest, I wondered why Cassie was with him. Cassie had the typical fiery artist’s temperament, but with a warm, down-to-earth approach to life—and Jon Kelsey wasn’t her usual type at all. With his posh London accent, flashy car, and loud designer clothes, he was more the type that Cassie would normally only glance at with contempt.

But maybe it was true that “flattery will get you anywhere”, because the honour of being chosen as such a high-flying art dealer’s latest protégée seemed to have gone straight to Cassie’s head. Or in this case, her heart. Their chance meeting at the Tate Modern gallery in London had turned into a whirlwind romance and now, barely three weeks later, Cassie was revelling in her status as the star of his newly opened gallery in Oxford.

Not that her paintings really fit in there. That was another mystery. I knew that art dealers usually specialised in particular styles and, looking around the gallery, I could see that Jon seemed to favour huge empty canvases with random blobs of colour or strange Post-Minimalist pieces which resembled the products of a rubbish compactor. Cassie worked in a more traditional style and her paintings stood out like a paint-splattered sore thumb. I couldn’t understand why Jon had taken Cassie on.

Then I glanced over at my friend again and thought maybe I could understand after all. At five foot two, Cassie was a classic “pocket Venus” and had the kind of curves I’d always envied. Rubens would have killed to paint her. And not just for her voluptuous figure. With her flashing dark eyes and generous mouth, she had a warm, sensual appeal that drew men like moths to a flame.

At any rate, her launch party looked to be a raving success. The gallery was crammed with several art critics and wealthy collectors from Oxford, and there were just as many people admiring Cassie’s paintings as those looking at works by the more established artists. The gallery, housed in a converted 18th-century Georgian townhouse, provided the perfect elegant setting, and I had to admit that Jon had gone all out in hosting this party for Cassie. He had even set up a bar in the corner of the gallery, with a waitress mixing cocktails on demand for the guests.

I raised my own glass of frozen lime daiquiri to my lips and took a sip. I didn’t normally drink much—okay, I admit, I’m a bit of a lightweight when it comes to alcohol—but I had a weakness for cocktails and this was scrumptious. I glanced over at the creator of the drink—the waitress behind the bar, who was now opening the cocktail shaker and pouring out a drink for a man waiting by the counter. She looked like she could be a university student, with wispy blonde hair and a cute upturned nose, although her looks were spoiled by the sulky tilt of her mouth and the air of resentment that surrounded her like a black cloud. I glanced back at my own glass and decided wryly that I had better not annoy her at any point in this evening or heaven knew what she would put in my next cocktail!

I looked at her again. She seemed so young… and then I grinned at my own thoughts. At twenty-nine, it seemed silly to label someone who was probably only six or seven years younger than me as “so young” but in a way, since returning to England, I did feel like I had left my youth behind. Well, I was a grown up now, with my own business to run. After eight years of climbing the corporate ladder Down Under, I had given it all up and come home on a crazy whim to open a tearoom in a quaint little Cotswolds village on the outskirts of Oxford.

In fact, my feet were aching now from all the standing I had done today (Saturdays being one of our busiest days, as we were inundated with tourists keen to have the “English afternoon tea” experience) and I wished now that I hadn’t worn such high heels for the party tonight. I looked surreptitiously around for somewhere to sit—why were galleries always so devoid of furniture?—and spotted a couple of velvet upholstered chairs behind a pillar. However, my way there was blocked by a group of people standing around a large frame on the wall next to me.

“Amazing,” said one woman, shaking her head admiringly.

“Look at the use of white space, how it hints at the emptiness of our collective souls,” said another.

The man next to her nodded. “I love how it just speaks… without speaking.”

I leaned over eagerly to see what they were looking at.
Hmm.
I don’t know. Maybe I lacked the gene for art appreciation but it looked like they were all admiring a piece of blank A4 paper mounted on a board. Trust Jon Kelsey to stock the sort of pretentious rubbish that attracted all the top prats in Oxfordshire…

“Hey… enjoying yourself?”

I whirled around guiltily to see Cassie beside me. Were my recent thoughts about her boyfriend showing? Quickly, I pinned a bright smile on my face.

“Yeah, fabulous.”

Cassie gave me a look. “Gemma. You can’t fool me. I can see that you’re bored.”

I shrugged helplessly. “Well, poncy modern art isn’t really my scene—”

“Shhh!” said Cassie quickly, looking hastily around. The group next to us was still contemplating the brilliant talent required to create a blank piece of paper and she drew a breath of relief. She looked at me severely. “Gemma… this is
great art
!”

“Aw, come on, Cass…” I sighed impatiently. “Don’t tell me you agree with them and think any of this stuff is good?”

She avoided my eyes. “Well, you know my style is more traditional so I’m not really in a position to judge—”

“Rubbish,” I said rudely. “This is like the Emperor’s New Clothes where nobody wants to come out and admit that he’s naked—or that this so-called art is stupid.”

“Hush!” Cassie said, throwing a quick look around again.

I frowned at her. Since when had my friend started to care so much about what other people thought? Cassie had always been unapologetically candid and outspoken—it was one of the things I’d always loved about her and envied her for. Unlike her, I hadn’t grown up in a large, rowdy family of creatives, dancers, and artists, all championing honest emotion and self-expression—I was the product of a stiff, middle-class British household where restraint and polite reserve were the ideals. Ever since we were little girls, Cassie had always said and done the things that I wished I dared. And yet recently, my free-spirited friend seemed to be disappearing.

And I knew why. My gaze travelled resentfully across the room to the suave man in the brocade silk blazer. Jon bloody Kelsey.

Still… I felt a twinge of guilt. Maybe
I
was the one being unreasonable. This
was
an important night for Cassie—the first night of the opening of her exhibition—and surely it was understandable that she wanted to make a good impression?

“Sorry, Cass.” I gave her a rueful smile. “Maybe it
is
just me and it’s my fault that I don’t get it.”

“N-o-o…” she said, looking uncomfortable. “It’s not your fault. Maybe… well, maybe you just need someone to look at the art with you—you know, so you can share opinions and discuss the meanings behind the pieces…”

If I studied that piece of A4 paper with a whole library of scholars for ten years, I still wouldn’t have a clue how it was supposed to mean anything. But I bit my tongue and kept my thoughts to myself.

“You know you could have brought a date tonight,” said Cassie slyly. “Maybe you should have asked Devlin if he had the night off?”

“And why would I have asked
him
?”

Cassie gave an innocent shrug. “Oh, I don’t know… Maybe because he used to be the love of your life and you are now both back in Oxford…” She grinned. “Not to mention the fact that he’s a dashing CID detective with looks worthy of James Bond?”

“I told you, things between me and Devlin are over. That was eight years ago and we’re completely different people now.”

“Exactly.” Cassie’s grin widened. “Maybe that’s why you guys might have a chance this time round.”

I rolled my eyes. She was like a terrier with a bone on this subject. “You keep your sticky fingers in your own love life and out of mine,” I said.

Cassie laughed. “Speaking of love life—has Seth got a girlfriend or something? I was really surprised when he told me he couldn’t come tonight and when I asked why, he was very evasive. You know how he never normally misses anything we’re involved in—he’s usually so supportive…” She sounded slightly wistful. “I wondered if there was a girl or something—someone he’s fallen head over heels for and now he’s abandoning his oldest chums?”

I gave Cassie a sideways glance. I could make a good guess as to why Seth hadn’t come tonight. It wasn’t because of a girl he had—it was because of a girl he
couldn’t
have. Seth, Cassie, and I had been a firm trio since university days—ever since that first week in Michaelmas Term when we’d arrived as Freshers together. And I think Seth had been carrying a torch for Cassie ever since that first week too. But Cassie had only ever seen him as a good friend and shy, studious Seth had never got up the courage to try and change her mind.