A Scone To Die For (Oxford Tearoom Mysteries ~ Book 1) (3 page)

The next half hour was a race to serve the tour group before their coach departed. I was looking forward to the American man leaving with them—his rude demands and obnoxious behaviour had continued, and it was all I could do to hold on to my temper. To my surprise, however, he got up before the rest of the group had finished and made his way over to the counter.

“Your meal is complimentary, sir,” I reminded him. “But the rest of your group haven’t finished yet.”

“Huh?” He glanced towards the tour group, then turned back to me. “Nah, it’s all right. I’m going to head off first. Hey, I hear that you’re famous for your scones. Can I get some to take out?”

“Sure—how many?”

“Give me half a dozen.”

Cassie joined us and began preparing the takeaway order of scones. I saw the American make a great show of eyeing her up and down. She was wearing a simple black T-shirt and faded jeans, with a frilly pale pink apron over the top. I had an identical apron but in pale blue. I had found them at a local market and decided they did pretty well as a sort of unofficial uniform. Hopefully when I had a bit more money, I could get some aprons custom-made with the tearoom’s name and logo embroidered on the edge. But for now, these would have to do.

The American winked at Cassie and said, “I like your outfit… sorta like a kinky French maid, huh?”

“No,” Cassie snapped. “Not unless you have a dirty min—”

“Ahhh… what she means is that isn’t quite the look we had in mind,” I interrupted hastily, giving my friend a quelling look.

He guffawed. “You English chicks are so uptight. What you need is a good…” He trailed off, waggling his eyebrows suggestively.

I recoiled in distaste. Cassie gave him an icy glare, then turned and bent over to retrieve a paper bag for his scones from the cupboard behind us. Suddenly, he reached over the counter and grabbed her bum, giving it a squeeze.

She yelped and whirled around. “What the hell are you doing?” she snapped.

“Aw, don’t be such a prude. I was just admiring your butt in those tight jeans and couldn’t help myself.” He smirked.

“You creep! I have half a mind to report you for sexual harassment!” Cassie seethed. She caught my horrified look and took a deep breath, then said with cold dignity, “But I wouldn’t want to waste time on a rotter like you.” She shoved the bag of scones at him, obviously just wanting him to be gone.

I gave the American an icy look. “I’d appreciate you keeping your hands to yourself, sir.”

He laughed uproariously. “Maybe if you get to know me better, you’d change your mind.” He leaned across the counter towards Cassie. “Listen, why don’t you come over to my room tonight? I’m staying at the Cotswolds Manor Hotel on the outskirts of the village. I could have a great time with a feisty girl like you…”

Cassie’s hand twitched and I grabbed it before she could slap his face.

“Thanks for the offer, but I think I’ll pass,” she said through gritted teeth.

He shrugged. “Your loss, hon. Anyway… I’ll see you tomorrow. I think I’ll come back for some breakfast.” He winked at her. “But you know where to find me tonight if you change your mind.” He included me in his parting smirk, then picked up the bag of scones and strolled out of the tearoom.

Cassie let out a growl of frustration. “I hope he bloody chokes on those scones!”

I realised that the entire dining room was silent and looked up to see everyone staring at us. I felt my cheeks redden, but forced a smile to my face and said as breezily as I could, “Show’s over, folks!”

A few people laughed awkwardly and the moment passed. I gave Cassie a sympathetic pat on the shoulder as she went off into the kitchen to fetch the next order. Then I turned to deal with the next customers at the counter. It was the Old Biddies, coming to settle their bill as they were hurrying off to catch a matinee show at the cinema in Oxford.

Glenda held out a half-finished plate of scones. “Can you put these in a bag for me, dear? I couldn’t quite finish them, but I know my great-nephew would love to have some.”

I wrapped up the scones, put their bills through, and watched them leave with some relief. The rest of the lunch hour passed in a blur as Cassie and I raced to take orders and serve the tables. I was pleased that the place was so busy—it was a great sign. Still, I was glad when the lunchtime rush was over and I could sit down and catch my breath. My stomach growled and I glanced at the clock on the wall. It was nearly three o’clock. I hadn’t eaten since early that morning. I threw a quick look around the room. There were only two tables occupied at present: an elderly couple by the windows and a lone young man poring over a map of the Cotswolds in the corner. They had both been served and would not need attention for a while. In any case, there was a little hand-held bell on the counter for them to call for service.

Rising wearily, I made my way into the kitchen, hoping that I might be able to scrounge some sandwiches. I pushed open the swinging door to the kitchen and was instantly enveloped by the wonderful smell of baking—sweet cinnamon and rich chocolate and that delicious fragrance that comes from fresh bread and warm, buttery pastries. Cassie and Fletcher were sitting at the large wooden table in the centre, the former stuffing her face with toasted teacakes and the latter putting the finishing touches to a batch of traditional English shortbread.

I went over to join them and helped myself to a teacake from Cassie’s plate. I slathered some butter on it before biting into the soft, chewy bun. Like a lot of British desserts, teacakes had a slightly misleading name. They weren’t cakes at all but a type of lightly spiced sweet bun, often filled with juicy raisins, currants, and sultanas. You cut them in half and popped them under a grill (or over an open fire if you were of a romantic bent), so that they became soft and puffy, with crisp golden edges. Topped with oozing melted butter and accompanied by a hot cup of tea, they were one of the ultimate comfort foods. I sat back with a contented sigh as I enjoyed my teacake and sipped the hot mug of tea that Cassie had placed in front of me.

“Hey… Fletcher, sorry about what happened earlier,” I said.

He nodded. “I saw Muesli. She’s okay.”

“Yeah, I just looked in on her again and she’s curled up in her little bed, sleeping. I don’t think that guy actually touched her with his foot when he tried to kick her.”

“Rotten swine,” Cassie muttered.

“Let’s hope that’s the last we see of him,” I said with a sigh.

“Didn’t he say he was coming back tomorrow morning?” Cassie made a face.

“I’ll serve him,” I promised. “You don’t have to go anywhere near him.” I looked around the kitchen, noting the trays of freshly baked scones and butter crumpets. “Things are probably going to be quiet now for the rest of the afternoon and I can see that we’ve got lots of supplies.” I turned to Fletcher. “Why don’t you take Muesli and go home early today?”

He thought a moment, then nodded and stood up, shuffling to the back of the room to collect his things and the cat carrier. I’d been meaning to speak to him about the feasibility of continuing to bring Muesli to work every day—especially after the disaster this morning— so I followed him as he went to get her.

Muesli woke up as we entered the shop area and arched her back in a perfect cat stretch, then yawned widely, showing sharp white fangs in a little pink mouth. She looked none the worse for wear after her adventures that morning. She came trotting up to me with her tail in the air and rubbed herself against my legs. I wanted to be mad at her—if it hadn’t been for her, none of the fiasco would have happened—but looking down at that cheeky little face, with her bright green eyes and tiny, heart-shaped nose, I felt myself soften. Almost involuntarily, I crouched down and reached out to stroke her. Her fur was silky soft, a pale dove grey patterned with a series of darker grey stripes across her body, broken only by the white on her chest and paws. She climbed onto my lap, kneading with her front paws and purring like an engine.

“She likes you,” said Fletcher.

“Yeah, I like her too,” I said automatically. Then I realised to my surprise that I was actually speaking the truth. I
did
like the mischievous little cat. Friends had warned me that felines could worm their way into your heart, but I hadn’t believed them. How could you like anything as infuriating and contrary as a cat? And yet I had to admit that even in my short acquaintance with Muesli, her saucy impudence had won me over. It was ridiculous, but there was something very appealing about the way cats walked around, acting as if they owned the place.

I lifted Muesli off my lap and deposited her gently into the carrier. She didn’t resist—used to the routine by now—and simply pressed her little face against the bars as we shut the door and latched it securely. Then Fletcher lifted the carrier and stood up.

“I will see you tomorrow,” he said solemnly.

I started to say something about Muesli, then changed my mind.
Maybe I’ll talk to him about it tomorrow.
I knew I was just being a chicken. The truth was, I was so grateful I’d found him—I didn’t want to do anything to rock the boat. Fletcher was the baking godmother to my tearoom Cinderella and, without him, my little business would never have had a chance. Cassie had been the one who had suggested him when I was looking for a chef for the tearoom. She taught occasional classes at the dance studio in the village—another of her many jobs—and she’d met Fletcher when he came in to fix the broken ceiling fan. He was sort of an unofficial handyman in Meadowford—helping the local residents with odd jobs—but he was also known for being a brilliant baker. Cassie had insisted that I consider hiring him for the tearoom.

I’d been doubtful at first: after all, Fletcher wasn’t a trained chef and I’d been thinking of getting someone with a proper qualification. But when I’d tasted one of his scones, I hired him on the spot. Cassie was right, his baking was divine. And funnily enough, giving Fletcher the job had won me brownie points with the villagers, who had been bracing themselves for some snooty chef from London.

The arrival of a group of Chinese tourists put a stop to my reminiscing and I hurried to seat them and hand out menus.

“Whew!” said Cassie, sinking down into one of the chairs at the tables. “I’m knackered.”

I gave her a grateful look. “Thanks so much for helping out today, Cassie. It’s been really full on, I know.”

She waved my thanks away. “It’s what you want! And tomorrow should hopefully be even busier because loads of local tourists come to the Cotswolds for the weekend, so we’ll have them on top of the internationals…”

“As long as there aren’t any more visitors like that American today,” I said with a dark look.

“Yeah, he was an obnoxious plonker, wasn’t he? Still, he made a good subject.”

“You sketched him?”

She shrugged. “You know I like to do quick sketches of interesting faces if I have a moment free. I’ve actually had a couple of customers ask me if they can buy theirs—maybe I should start a sideline business in portraits.” She grinned.

“I’m surprised you want to remember his face,” I said.

“Yeah, he’s got an ugly mug, all right, but quite interesting from an artistic point of view. I did one of him from memory this afternoon—look…” She got up and went to the counter, returning in a moment with a piece of paper.

I took it and looked down at the sketch. Cassie was really talented. She had managed to capture the American’s likeness with a few swift strokes, from his block-like head to his jutting ears and fleshy cheeks. There was something hard and cruel about his eyes.

I shuddered and pushed the sketch away. “He gives me a bad vibe.”

“You mean, aside from being a lecherous old git?”

I nodded. “There was something that just didn’t add up… I mean, he was trying really hard to put on this image of a hale and hearty American tourist but he seemed fake somehow.”

Cassie laughed. “Fake tourist? Why would anyone want to fake being a tourist?”

“That’s just it—I don’t know! It seems such a stupid thing to do, doesn’t it? And yet, I’m sure he was lying. For example, he asked me directions to Magdalen College.”

“So?”

“Well, he called it ‘Maud-lin’! Not ‘Mag-da-len’, which is how most tourists—especially American tourists—say it. Only locals and students who’ve been to Oxford know that it should be pronounced ‘Maud-lin’. It’s one of the first things that flags you as a foreign tourist—when you can’t say the college names correctly.”

Cassie shrugged. “Maybe he read about the pronunciation in a guidebook somewhere. It’s hardly a state secret.”

“I suppose so…” I said. “But it wasn’t just that. When we were talking about directions to Magdalen, he also mentioned Catte Street being opposite the bank.”

Cassie looked at me blankly.

“He meant an actual bank,” I explained. “Not the Old Bank Hotel, which is what’s there now. He tried to cover it up but I could tell that that was what he meant.”

Cassie frowned. “So? Gemma, I really don’t see what you’re getting at…”

I leaned forwards. “My point is, he wouldn’t have known that the Old Bank Hotel used to be a bank, unless he was actually here in Oxford when it
was
a bank—
before
they turned it into a hotel.”