Murder for Tea Read online

  Before I reached the house, I saw a covered two-wheeled wagon meandering from the stables, a brown ox plodding along the dirt road.

  “Beatrice,” the passenger shouted while waving her hands.

  Cilla’s unbounded enthusiasm was contagious. Although she was one of the few non-paranormals in my circle of intimate friends and family, I would never consider her normal. Such a description would be insulting and inaccurate.

  I joined Cilla in the covered portion of the small vehicle, and we settled into a comfortable conversation as one could only partake with a precious friend. When I informed her of the reason for my trip into town, Cilla clasped her hands over her chest, her dark blue eyes widening, her plump cheeks rosier than normal. “Oh, Bee, how thrilling.”

  That a murder in my newly opened shop should titillate my friend came as no surprise to me. She was a mess of contradictions: sweet and jolly, yet morbidly fascinated by the darker aspects of my former profession as a paranormal investigator.

  “Well, I’m certain it isn’t anything more than a clumsy attempt at stealing the gold-edged tea set,” I said, more to reassure myself than her.

  “Oh,” she said. “Well, it’s still exciting. Perhaps you will have a mystery to solve once again.”

  Shaking my head, I admitted, “It’s not the lure of a new case that enticed me out into this nasty bit of weather.”

  As the wagon bounced over a particularly rough stretch of path, I clung to the wooden siding to avoid jostling against Cilla. A giraffe and its long-legged baby paused in their grazing, their large eyes peering down their noses to study us. They were neither perturbed by our presence nor curious; if anything, they maintained a conceited air about them as they condescended to share the savannah with the likes of us. The small herd of zebra milling about nearby were far more pleasing as they cavorted in the tall grass.

  “Well, then what is it?” Cilla asked, interrupting my pleasant observations of the wildlife.

  Sighing, I admitted, “Simon’s imprisonment in the constabulary was unbearable, and we’re grateful Lord Hardinge arranged for him to be under house arrest instead. However, Simon’s confinement at home is still distressing and causes him to suffer. And I’m not used to having him around all day.”

  “It must be marvelous,” Cilla mused, her eyes sparkling.

  “Rubbish,” I said, determined to cure her of any unfortunate romantic notions she might have. “After reading the newspaper three times over, he paces about and tries to amuse himself until his conviction is overturned or the next newspaper arrives. Somehow, he believes that I should assist him in passing the time even when I’m preoccupied with my own work. A man such as your uncle should never be cooped up at home. His character is far too big for that.”

  “I wouldn’t complain if my husband was locked up at home,” Cilla gushed.

  I huffed. “You can say that because you’re not yet married.”

  Unperturbed by the foul turn in my mood, Cilla pressed on. “Speaking of which, I would be grateful for your assistance in the wedding arrangements. Lilly is doing a splendid job, but Grace does keep her occupied. Would you?”

  She grasped my hands in hers, preparing to implore me further. Perhaps sensing my reluctance to participate in planning another wedding, she added, “I promise there’ll be chocolate and tea involved.”

  “Why didn’t you say so earlier?” I demanded, forcing my enthusiasm. “I only hope that Drew won’t expect you to live in a barn.”

  Cilla giggled at the reference to my brother’s habit of sleeping in barns when he wasn’t running through the grasslands in wolf form. “I’m sure he won’t,” she said. “Lord Hardinge has kindly invited us to occupy a corner of the estate, and a cottage is being built for the purpose.”

  “Well, isn’t that a cozy arrangement,” I said, wondering how many paranormal creatures Lord Hardinge could tolerate on his land.

  “It is cozy, isn’t it?” Cilla agreed and launched into flowery details of the cottage and the wedding.

  As she prattled on, I nodded and murmured appreciative words when appropriate but my attention was caught up in speculation regarding the body in my shop. Was it accident or murder? If murder, why would anyone think to leave the victim in my shop of all places? There were far more convenient locations in which to dispose of a body. Why, just tossing it out into the grasslands would assure its quick consumption by all manner of buzzards and carnivores. But most pressing of all, would the inconvenient disposal of the body in my premise discourage my customers?

  Such were the questions that plagued me until we reached the one-street town of Nairobi. While it was still primarily a construction camp for the railway being built across British East Africa, Nairobi was rapidly becoming a more permanent home for many of its residents. It also served as a center for foreign game hunters to congregate before they set out to slaughter the wildlife. As we entered Victoria Street near the train station, a couple of inebriated hunters staggered out of the Stanley Hotel, still celebrating their successes.

  The sneer I reserved for such people never reached my lips. Instead, I caught sight of a person who should never have considered entering Nairobi if he in any way held onto a scrap of self-preservation.

  “Cilla,” I said, interrupting her elaboration on the seating arrangements for her wedding. “Do you see him?”

  I gestured toward the narrow alley between the Colony Shops and Mrs. Patel’s fabric store. The alley led to the Bazaar, a disorderly collection of tin shacks and tables from which one could purchase all manner of items, if one didn’t lose one’s wallet to a pickpocket. A man of excessively short stature was standing just inside the alley, chatting with someone hidden in the shadows.

  “What a sweet little man,” Cilla enthused.

  “He’s not a man, and he certainly isn’t sweet,” I snapped. “That’s the dwarf known as Nameless.”

  Cilla giggled. “What an odd name.”

  My lips pursed together, for the name wasn’t the only peculiar aspect of the situation. As if sensing my glare, the dwarf stepped into the shadows in the direction of the Bazaar.

  “What do you think he’s doing here?” Cilla continued.

  Turning to her, I said, “There’s only one activity with which he could be engaged and it’s a deadly one.”

  Cilla shook her head. “Beatrice, you are so quick to assume the worst of people.”

  “That’s because I’ve seen the worst in them,” I said but left the matter at that. After all, there was no point in alarming Cilla by informing her that one of the most lethal assassins I knew was now in town.

  Chapter Five

  “ASSUMING I’M NOT arrested, I’ll meet you in one hour at Mrs. Patel’s fabric store,” I said to Cilla.

  “I’m sure it will be perfectly fine,” Cilla reassured me.

  While I doubted I was in any danger of arrest, I wasn’t prepared to describe the circumstances as ‘fine’ and so merely smiled and alighted from the wagon. In order to avoid landing in churned-up mud, I stepped directly onto the bottom stair leading up to my shop. From the outside, the small structure provided a welcoming haven of delectable goodness and a veritable beacon to those who thirsted after a taste, both metaphorical and literal, of the old country.

  Somewhere inside was a corpse.

  “That should attract the customers,” I muttered and mounted the three wooden stairs to the narrow balcony.

  Most buildings in town were raised off the ground, and the recent weather made Nairobi residents appreciate why. The heavy rains had transformed the hard-packed dirt street into a long mud patch. Even though it was no longer raining, murky puddles lingered with sufficient depth to swallow one’s boot.

  Tightening my grip on my metal walking stick, I breathed deeply, catching a whiff of Chief Constable Dougal who as usual stunk of liquor and stale tobacco. Intermingled with that nauseating mix was a sharper, cleaner smell that reminded me of the ocean; if my nose didn’t deceive me, it smelled like the ne
w constable.

  “Hm,” I said and entered my store. The bell above the door tinkled in greeting.

  The Chief Constable’s backside was the sight that greeted me. As I closed the door and tapped my stick against the wooden floorboards, he straightened and turned to face me. His face displayed the indications of imbibing excessively from a bottle. The mottled red skin, the bleary eyes and the spiderweb of red veins across his cheeks certainly weren’t a result of exposure to the equatorial sun.

  It was possible, even probable, that my uncharitable opinion of the man was due to his decision to incarcerate my husband. However, I did pride myself on a certain detachment when it came to professional matters. Rather than knock the poor sod over the head with the metal, green oxide fist that topped my walking stick, I smiled and performed the slightest of curtsies.

  “Mrs. Timmons,” he said, sounding as if a pride of lions had just chased him across the savannah. “I trust all is well?”

  My smile hardened. “I’m sure it will be, eventually, once my husband’s good name has been re-established.”

  The red glower of his cheeks deepened. Rather than bumble his way through more social niceties and risk receiving further chastisements from me, he said, “I hope you don’t mind we entered. The door was unlocked and open when we arrived. That’s what had alerted us to possible trouble.” He then turned to the young man who was studying something in the far corner, and demanded, “Well, Constable Hunt, what news from the Registrar’s Office?”

  Constable Hunt turned and strode toward us. Nodding in my direction, he responded, “They confirmed that the victim and her fiancé applied for a wedding license only a few days previously.”

  “Ah ha! Well, here’s your chance, constable,” Dougal said as he planted a heavy hand on the younger man’s shoulder. “This will give you someone to hunt, won’t it, lad?”

  I stifled a groan at Dougal’s attempt at humor, and I could see the younger constable likewise frowned at the joke which suffered from being both tasteless and unoriginal. After the socially required exchange of pleasantries regarding each other’s health, Constable Hunt made reference to my delicate female susceptibilities, and I hastened to reassure him that I had none.

  “So true,” the Chief Constable said as he nodded, his pudgy cheeks wobbling. “She has none whatsoever. Never met a woman with such a firm constitution.”

  “Charming,” I said and beamed at the young constable.

  He frowned at my claim and his boss’ assertions that I was capable of viewing a corpse without fainting. “Sir, while I’m reassured, this still isn’t a sight for a lady,” the young man pressed the matter, glancing between his superior and myself, genuine concern wrinkling his forehead.

  “Nonsense,” Dougal said. “Mrs. Timmons will manage, I’m sure.”

  “Indeed, I shall,” I said. “And I would prefer to have the matter resolved before opening time this morning as the scent of death and tea do not mingle well.”

  “This way, Mrs. Timmons,” the Chief Constable said. He waved me toward the corner of the shop that his corpulent figure had blocked from my vision.

  Near the counter, a small round table and two plush chairs were as I’d left them the previous evening; a rose-patterned cloth edged with cream lace covered the table. A single white flower in a glass vase was in the middle of the table. Someone had neatly arranged a white, bone china teapot and two sets of white cups and saucers, as if in preparation for a couple to indulge in tea, treats and private discourse. Propped up in one of the chairs and positioned so that her eyes gazed across the room was a woman dressed in a white bridal gown.

  “How poetic,” I said, marveling at the composition before me.

  “Isn’t it?” Constable Hunt said, his tone agreeable, his posture casual. Yet his bright blue eyes studied me with a disconcerting sharpness.

  Only at that moment did it dawn on me with any seriousness that I could be a prime suspect in the case. After all, a dead body had appeared in my shop. While that shouldn’t be a cause for suspicion in and of itself, I had little confidence in the capacities of the constabulary to see past the obvious.

  While smiling decorously wasn’t in my repertoire of talents and skills, I attempted an approximation of a demure lady before glancing about the room. Nothing appeared out of place, nor was any piece of porcelain broken or disturbed by the murderer’s activities. There was no sign of a forced entry; then again, the door’s lock was a flimsy device that would be easy to pick. I hadn’t bothered securing the door more firmly as I hadn’t believed anyone would bother stealing from a tea shop.

  Turning my attention to the unfortunate bride, I noticed there was no blood or any other mark upon her skin, dress or perfectly coifed hair. This eliminated the dwarf from ever joining the list of suspects; he tended to leave a mess wherever he worked. Unless the bride had conveniently dropped dead of a heart attack at the sight of the murderer, poison was the most likely cause of demise.

  “Fascinating,” I murmured.

  “Ah, you noticed,” Constable Hunt said. It sounded like an accusation.

  “What would that be?” I asked, determined not to display the full force of my intellect. It was my experience that most men were terribly unnerved by the evidence of a woman’s intelligence, particularly if it rivaled their own. It was my habit to allow people to underestimate me until it was inconvenient to continue to do so.

  “Her perfect appearance, of course,” the young constable answered, his fair eyebrows pulling together slightly. “The elaborate style of her hair, every strand artistically placed; the dress, unstained and unwrinkled; her makeup precisely drawn; the skin unblemished by bruise or scratch. There is no indication of a struggle. All these details suggest the killer took great care with his work.”

  He paused, admiring the result. “It’s as if she is about to stand up and walk down the aisle at any moment but happened to fall into a faint before doing so, due perhaps to a case of nerves.”

  “I suppose that’s true,” I said, although I had little sympathy for fainting brides, only for the ones who appeared in my shop dead.

  Having finished his perusal of the corners and crannies of the premise, Chief Constable Dougal joined us. “That’s it, then. We’ll send a couple blokes over to clear ‘er out in just a bit, Mrs. Timmons.”

  Nodding, I said, “That would be most appreciated, sir, as I could hardly do much business with a corpse in the way.”

  “Yes, that’s the truth,” Dougal agreed. “You’ve not seen ‘er before, eh?”

  “Not that I can recall,” I replied, meeting his blurry gaze with what I hoped was a wide-eyed and innocent one. “Who was she?”

  “Sally O’Hara. Recent arrival from South Africa,” he said. “Fresh off the train, so to speak. Came to marry one of the engineers working the tracks. What’re they calling them, Hunt?” He turned to his associate while waving an arm, possibly to stabilize himself.

  “Mail-order brides, sir,” the young man offered.

  “That’s it,” Dougal said.

  “It reminds me of the work of the Wedding Killer,” Hunt said as he flicked a speck of invisible dust off the small table in front of the bride.

  “What?” Dougal huffed.

  Hunt shrugged and stuffed his hands into his pockets. “Our situation here holds a passing similarity to the Wedding Killer's work, sir. In both cases, the murderer dressed up the victim in wedding attire, and with similar attention to detail.”

  I eyed the young man with alarm. While imagination was one of the vital tools of a paranormal investigator, I’d not found it often amongst the normal community and particularly the police force. This man clearly had a spark, and the realization didn’t sit well with me at all. I decided that I would have to observe caution around him.

  “Mrs. Timmons,” Hunt continued, his piercing gaze settling on mine. “Isn’t your brother marrying your husband’s niece?”

  My concern over the new constable’s intellectual capacity de
epened. He had only recently arrived and yet had gathered information with some rapidity.

  “I read the police caught the Wedding Killer in London,” I said.

  “You shouldn’t believe everything you read, Mrs. Timmons,” the man rejoined.

  Miffed at hearing my own words echoed back to me, I informed him pertly, “Quite correct. I said just as much to my husband this morning.” Tapping my walking stick against the floorboards, I added, “I’m certain my brother and his fiancee are in no danger.”

  Of that I was convinced. After all, Cilla resided in a room of the Hardinge’s house. She was ideally located next to the library my vampire father inhabited and just a few rooms away from my Popobawa half-brother who would transform into a giant bat at the first suggestion of danger. And as for Drew, my other half-brother, he was a werewolf. I almost pitied the fool who tried to attack any of them.

  “The thing is,” the young man obstinately continued, “arranging mail-order brides is becoming a business. There are a lot of single men who’ve come out to claim farmland and are now in need of a wife.”

  He studied me for my reaction. I was still processing how I should handle him.

  “Well, we’d best be off,” Dougal said as he lumbered toward the front door of the shop.

  “And what of the groom?” I demanded as the men prepared to depart.

  “We haven’t found him yet,” Hunt said. “He didn’t show up at work today.”

  “Indeed,” I murmured.

  “Our first suspect, I’d say,” Dougal said while trying to suppress a burp. “What say you, eh, Hunt? Prime suspect, even.”

  “Yes, sir.”