Tea and Primroses

T
EA
AND

P
RIMROSES

TESS THOMPSON

Booktrope Editions

Seattle, WA 2014

COPYRIGHT 2014 TESS THOMPSON

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Cover Design by Greg Simanson

Edited by Jennifer D. Munro

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to similarly named places or to persons living or deceased is unintentional.

PRINT ISBN 978-1-62015-209-6

EPUB ISBN 978-1-62015-305-5

Library of Congress Control Number: 2014901685

As always, I must first and foremost thank my editor, Jennifer D. Munro, for her remarkable and insightful editing. I could not do this without you, nor would I want to. Thank you to Susan Fye for your discerning and precise eye as final proofer. Greg Simanson for your beautiful cover; your talent astounds. To my team at Booktrope: Katherine Sears, Heather Ludviksson, Ken Shear, Andy Roberts, and Jesse James Freeman, thank you for your continued support in making my dreams a reality. To author Marni Mann for the coffee and brainstorming session on a rainy day in Sarasota. Samantha March, my new book manager, welcome to the team and cheers to much success for both of us. To my early reader group, thank you for your encouragement, support and dedication. And to all the book bloggers and fans that have been with us since the very first book, we couldn’t do this without you. As long as you keep reading, I’ll keep writing. To my aunt, Deborah Cross, for helping me through a rough personal year in more ways than can be counted. And to my little girls, Ella and Emerson, for being my “lottery.” I love you both so very much. Finally, to my mother, for always encouraging me to be myself. I strive every moment to be half the mother you are.

For my mother

SUTTON MANSFIELD PUSHED OPEN
her front window; the familiar scent of the seaside entered the room. It was an ordinary morning in Legley Bay: the sound of seagulls in the distance; the familiar view of her street, lined with modest houses built mostly in the 1940s; and, just beyond, the Pacific Ocean a paler blue than the August sky. Legley Bay was a one-stoplight kind of town, the unwanted stepchild of the northern Oregon coast. There were no tourist temptations here, no stretch of beach with famed rocks like Cannon Beach or Manzanita or Arch Cape. No one opened shops or restaurants to tempt wealthy city dwellers. It was nothing more than the ordinary here, buildings sagging and faded from damp, salty air, and small businesses struggling to survive against Wal-Mart and Costco thirty or so miles in every direction but west.

Opening the window a little farther, she took in a deep breath and felt grateful for the familiar. Home is home. It was good to return, although the two months studying in Paris with a master baker had been illuminating and expanding both personally and professionally. Her mother, Constance, had surprised Sutton with the trip to Paris as a thirtieth birthday gift—a gesture so thoughtful and generous it brought tears to her eyes just thinking of it now. She turned away from the view and back to her cozy bungalow, decorated with eclectic pieces she’d gathered over the years, antiques and shabby chic, all very French countryside, like the artisan and rustic baked goods she made: crusty breads, buttery pastries, soft cookies. She’d conquered the croissant while in Paris. She smiled, thinking of it, but instantly sobered. There was nowhere to debut her new skills but her own kitchen. She had no job. Six months ago she’d left her assistant baker position at a well-known bakery in Portland, where she’d apprenticed for the better part of five years, to move home to Legley Bay. It was her dream to open her own shop but so far the courage to do so was as elusive as the perfect croissant.

The doorbell rang. Who could it be? No one but her mother knew she was back in town. She turned down the radio; her mobile phone was buzzing—Roger. She tossed the phone on the couch; it bounced on a cushion and fell onto the soft rug.
Voicemail. Just go to voicemail
, she thought.
I need time to think.
She needed to speak with her mother first. Her mother would help her sort it through.
Mom, I’m having doubts about the wedding.
That’s all she would need to say. Then they would hash it out over a glass of wine or a walk on the beach.
Is it just that I’m afraid or do I not love him enough?
Her mother would know the answer.

The doorbell rang again just as she reached for the doorknob. Opening it, she saw Tim Ball, the town’s Chief of Police. He was the same age as her mother, in his mid-to-late fifties, and his lined face was still handsome, hinting at the town’s football star he once was. But today his skin was gray and his features pinched. She backed away from the door, as if he were going to hurt her.
What was the matter?

“Sutton, can I come in?”

She nodded, backing into the room.
Don’t say it.

He guided her toward the couch. “Please sit, sweetheart.”

She did so, clasping her hands together on her lap. “Is it my mom?”

“I’m so sorry.” He stopped; his eyes reddened. “She was killed this morning.”

“How?”

 “Hit and run. She was on her bicycle. You know, her morning ride to town. I’m so sorry,” he repeated, voice strangled in the back of his throat. “Your dad was my best friend. I was at their wedding. But you know that.”

Tim Ball was next to her on the couch now, about to pat her shoulder. When had he sat? She was outside her body, thoughts floating just above her, like a cartoon.
Hit and run. Killed.

“Is there someone you want me to call?” Tim asked. “You know, to stay with you.”

“Louise,” she said. “Call Louise.”

She barely noticed when he flinched at the sound of his ex-wife’s name. “I’ll call Peter. He can call his mother.”

“Yes, call Peter. Ask him to come home. Please.” She started to cry, hiding her mouth with her hand. Sutton’s mother and Louise had been best friends all their lives. Sutton had grown up with Louise’s sons, Peter and Jack Ball. They were all close, like family. Peter was a police detective in Seattle now. He’d married Cleo last summer and the old gang had all been together at the wedding; her best friend Gigi and Peter’s younger brother Jack had been there. Everyone but Declan.

“I’m looking at this carefully,” said Tim. “Examining it from every angle.”

She stopped crying, looking at him, her heart rate like that of a bird. “What do you mean? You mean like someone did this on purpose?”

“Like I said, I’m looking at every angle. No stone unturned, so to speak.”

“But who would want to murder my mother? Everyone loved her.”

“A crazed fan?”

“She wrote novels—she wasn’t a rock star. And she was so reclusive. I don’t think anyone even knew where she lived. Especially after what happened to poor Stephen King, you know, getting hit by that crazy driver while he was out walking. She was so careful and nervous.”
And overprotective of me
, she thought. Always worried something was going to happen. This she could hardly be blamed for, given all the loss she’d suffered over the years.

Tim shook his head, rising to his feet. “I owe it to her to find out.”

“Call Peter,” she repeated.
He’s a hundred times the cop you are
. But she kept that inside.

She walked him to the door and closed it. Time ceased and her heart thumped and ached in her chest. She stumbled to the kitchen and out the back door, walking blindly two blocks west until she reached the steps that went down to the rocky beach. It was a sunny day, the kind of weather they anticipated all year. Legley Bay—
it’s nice in August
is what the locals said, always with a hint of apology in their voices, as if they had anything to do with what the weather did or didn’t do. This was the way with the locals, sorry for this and sorry for that, like the damp salt air had crept into them and made everything gray as the gray buildings.