Murder for Tea Read online

  Yao straightened up from his admiration of Grace and lifted his hands. I swallowed against the impulse to fall into his muscular arms by reminding myself that he was Charming me and that I was married, even if my husband was currently a prisoner of the Crown.

  “Yao is a man,” he informed me as he patted his hands against his finely toned chest and lifted his chin.

  “Congratulations,” I said, focusing on a point on the ceiling.

  “The fangs have receded,” Lilly announced, peering into her baby’s mouth.

  “Oh, Lilly,” I said with a sigh. “What if Grace does this when she’s with your mother?”

  The possibility silenced us all, for my Aunt Steward was formidable in her reactions to any phenomena she considered strange. That lengthy list included elephants using the tree in her front garden as a scratching post, baby monkeys climbing her furniture, and grandchildren transforming into bats.

  “I’m sure we’ll handle it well enough,” Cilla said, nodding with confidence that no one felt.

  “Aren’t you the eternal optimist,” I grumbled.

  “Well, someone has to be,” she replied, her smile unwavering.

  “And we’re done,” Lilly exhaled, holding a clean baby.

  “Yes, we are,” I said. “Take her home before she grows wings.”

  “Because if she grows wings,” Yao lectured in a serious tone, “she’ll be a fly and she won’t be allowed in here again.”

  Gesturing to the Adze, I added, “And take him with you.”

  Not pausing to listen to Yao’s accusations that I was hard-hearted, I slipped out of the storage room and into the shop, leaned against the wall with my eyes closed and focused on breathing. What had I been thinking when I launched this ill-conceived plan? It was only the first week of running my shop, and I was already exhausted.

  Thus I may have remained, wallowing in self-pity, if I hadn’t inhaled a cloying wet dog scent that overpowered the sweetness of brewing tea and the perfumed powder of the female customers.

  It was the unmistakable odor of a werewolf.

  The power of the olfactory nerve was such that a single whiff could transport one into a different time and space. The stench of werewolf was particularly potent for me, and it summoned a plethora of memories upon which I didn’t wish to dwell.

  As far as I was aware, there were only two werewolves in British East Africa. One was my brother Drew who was receiving lessons in social etiquette from my other brother, Tiberius.

  The second werewolf had at one time been my mentor, my protector and a father figure to my younger, innocent self. I was no longer certain what to call him, but a friend he was not. He’d been complicit in the murder of my mother and her husband, and had administered the poison that had killed my first husband, Gideon. Recently and much to my dissatisfaction, he had been posted to Nairobi to discover what advantages he could create for his employer.

  Setting my shoulders and my resolve as firmly as possible, I turned to face the Director of the Society for Paranormals and Curious Animals, Prof Runal.

  “Congratulations,” his voice boomed over the background drone of idle chatter and clinking porcelain.

  Prof Runal could best be described as large: from his oversized nose to his mane of hair, his height and girth, the volume of his voice, everything about him filled the space in which he stood. Yet he easily gave the impression of a gentle giant, his yellow eyes warm and welcoming.

  It was a trap.

  That fact I had learned through the pain of betrayal. He was the proverbial wolf in sheep’s clothing.

  I glanced about the shop and saw Wanjiru, her black, close-cropped hair obvious amidst the European hats and hair. She was handling the customers remarkably well, considering her reserved nature. While still casting dark glances my way, Jonas ensured a steady flow of various teas. Lilly and Cilla were just slipping out the front door with a firefly floating above their heads. Grace was no more than a bundle in her mother’s arms. Prof. Runal seemed oblivious of her existence, and I intended for him to remain ignorant.

  Satisfied everything was proceeding as well as it could, I met the werewolf’s gaze. Those eyes were as familiar as my own. Drew, Prof. Runal and I had that in common: the yellowish glare of a werewolf. As far as I was concerned, that was the only similarity my brother and I shared with the wily old dog.

  “What do you want?” I asked.

  Sighing, he placed a small package wrapped in brown paper on the pink-veined marble counter. “I only wished to congratulate you, my dear, to give my compliments and to present you this gift, a token really.”

  “I don’t want it,” I stated, trying to focus on calming breaths. It wouldn’t do for my werewolf energy to start glowing or, heaven forbid, wreak havoc in the shop. As it was, I could feel its agitated movements in the metal contraption that had replaced my left hand.

  “It’s yours, my dear Beatrice, it’s entirely yours,” he said as he lowered his voice as best he could. “Perhaps we should make efforts to be civil with each other.”

  “You can start by referring to me as Mrs. Timmons,” I informed him. “And then you can leave.”

  “Beatrice…” He paused when my scowl deepened. “Or rather, Mrs. Timmons, we’re neighbors now. This fact may not sit well with you, not at all, but—”

  “There are customers waiting, sir,” I cut in, my eyes narrowing. “I really don’t have time to listen to your excuses and attempts at mollifying me.”

  After a hesitation, he nodded. “Of course,” he said, his tone and the slump of his shoulders expressing a degree of dejection I’d never witnessed in him. “Again, well done, my dear, well done.”

  Sliding the package across the counter, he plowed through the crowd, not once looking back.

  Snatching the gift, I tossed it on a shelf running under the counter. The unwanted item landed with a thump. It was heavy for its size, and my natural curiosity caused me to wonder what it could be.

  “What does it matter?” I muttered. “The gift is from him.”

  “Excuse me?”

  I stared into the startled face of another customer. Forcing a smile that I hoped didn’t appear ghoulish, I loosened my jaw and said, “That’s a lovely choice of tea. Would you like a tea strainer to go with it?”

  And so the day passed in a blur of tea sets, tea leaves and forced smiles.

  Chapter Nine

  PERHAPS THERE WAS a divine wisdom in my childless status.

  My agitated state was such that my mind continued to regurgitate this gloomy thought despite my best efforts to the contrary. Be it divine wisdom or faulty biology, it seemed a life devoid of maternal obligations was my destiny. The notion had never before disturbed my equanimity but did so now, distracting me from devising a solution to my sticky situation.

  And by ‘sticky situation’, I am referring to a baby.

  “You do realize I paid you a visit to distract my mind from my current stresses,” I said, hoping Lilly would notice the accusation in my tone.

  “And it worked,” she trilled as she sauntered out the room.

  “What should I do with it?” I asked, raising my quavering voice so that my heartless cousin could hear the question and, quite possibly, the desperation behind it.

  “Just pick her up, Beatrice,” she yelled from down the corridor. “It’s about time you learned how.”

  “But I might drop her,” I protested.

  Lilly laughed at the notion. “You’ve handled giant insects, rampaging zombies and reanimated skeletons. I’m confident you can manage one little baby.”

  I wasn’t nearly as certain, and said just as much, adding, “And at least with those other beasts, I was free to cut off their legs or smack them on the head. I don’t suppose I'm allowed to do the same in this case?”

  The only response I received was the slamming of a door as Lilly dashed to the comfort and security of the outhouse, leaving me alone to face her offspring, my niece.

  Grace peered up at me f
rom a prone position in a wooden box. Once upon a time, the box had been a packing crate but had since been reincarnated into a swinging crib suspended between two posts.

  “Do you have any suggestions?” I asked her.

  Big, brown eyes the color of medium-strength tea blinked at me while milky bubbles spluttered out of cherub lips. A pair of chubby fists waved at me, and the little back arched.

  “Don’t make a fuss until your mother returns,” I ordered Grace, wondering how long I’d have to endure the tyranny of an infant. I squinted at her, and her energy field blossomed before me. Her strong paranormal inheritance was clearly visible in the swirling colors.

  “You won't sprout bat wings, will you?” I asked. “That’s all I need to make this situation worse. Although I’m sure my brother would be thrilled if his offspring were to inherit his powers. Then again, Popobawa are notoriously proud.”

  Unimpressed with my rant regarding her father’s African supernatural heritage, Grace smacked her toothless gums.

  In an attempt to entertain her, I waved my walking stick. While I was by no means infirm nor excessively old (I had just recently turned twenty-six), I seldom left home without my ingeniously devised walking stick. Made of an oxide green metal, there were several hidden compartments along its length storing useful tools for a paranormal investigator such as a blowgun and darts, energy-viewing spectacles and lock picks. The bottom end hid a sharp blade while a bronze-plated steel fist sat on top. Needless to say, one most certainly didn’t want a close encounter with either end.

  “Isn’t this lovely?” I asked. “Look at the pretty stick.”

  In response, whimpering emanated from the box’s occupant.

  “Oh, bother,” I muttered and pushed at the wooden plank siding, causing the makeshift crib to rock to and fro. Lowering my voice in what I hoped was a soothing whisper, I said, “Go to sleep. Go. To. Sleep.”

  The pale pink lips quivered.

  “Don’t you dare,” I said. “I don’t know what to do with you. My interactions with paranormal creatures tend to involve a battle or at least a skirmish. You don’t want to fight with your old auntie, now do you?”

  The whimpering increased in insistence and volume. Hands groped in the air.

  “I’ll probably drop you if I pick you up,” I warned her. “My experience has tended toward slaying beasts, not nurturing them. My pet monkey is alive only because my dead husband reminds me to feed it.”

  Having had enough of my excuses, Grace opened her mouth and released a level of noise that impressed and startled me with its intensity. Her eyes squirreled shut, and her hands formed fists while her cheeks reddened. My eyes wide and my heart pounding, I wondered if it was possible for a baby to asphyxiate itself, since it appeared Grace had stopped breathing so she could scream.

  “Please breathe,” I begged the little tyrant, but she carried on howling her frustration at my inadequacies.

  I stepped out into the corridor, searching for signs of another adult, preferably the human sort. No one was there.

  Returning to the room, I glared at Grace. “If I drop you, it’s all your fault,” I warned her as I attempted to pick up the squirming lump.

  The cries puttered into a sniffle followed by a squeal of delight as her hand smacked against my cheek, leaving behind a residue of unidentifiable liquid. More fluid drooled out of her mouth and yet another substance dribbled out of her nose. Splatters of mush covered her cheeks and one of her eyebrows.

  My overly sensitive olfactory nerve detected that it was even more messy on the other end, and I could only marvel that nothing had oozed out of the nappy.

  “I can’t believe women agree to this,” I told Grace.

  My niece ignored me and focused on snagging my hair in a clammy little fist. I reacted by tugging her hand away from my precious strands at which point she arched her back, thumped my nose with her other hand and wailed.

  “Congratulations,” Lilly cheered as she strolled back into the room. Her small mouth lifted into a delighted smile, her sky-blue eyes sparkling at beholding her baby. “You’re carrying your niece, and somehow you’ve both survived.”

  “Barely. How do mothers manage?” I demanded as I thrust the sniveling baby at Lilly. “The noise, the mess. Shelby isn’t like this at all.”

  “Shelby is an ape,” Lilly scoffed.

  “Actually, she’s a Vervet monkey,” I corrected her. “And a well behaved one at that.”

  “Stop with the excuses, Beatrice, and just admit it,” Lilly said with an airy wave of a hand.

  I was all astonishment that she could hold her liquid-covered daughter with only one arm. More impressive was how she still maintained her beautiful dark curls, draped artistically around her petite face and shoulders, and her fashionable attire amidst the messiness of rearing a baby. My awe didn’t prevent me from scowling at her insinuation that my legitimate concerns were mere excuses.

  “And to what should I admit?”

  Smirking, Lilly laid Grace onto a blanket in one corner of the room and prepared to battle whatever nightmare lurked inside the nappy.

  She waggled a finger at me and said, “That you, the indomitable investigator of all things supernatural, are petrified of babies.”

  Chapter Ten

  GIVEN THAT I’D battled giant, one-eyed crocodiles, negotiated with elephant-sized spiders and befriended African vampires, I was miffed at Lilly’s accusation that my niece scared me.

  “Preposterous,” I muttered that evening as I deposited the dinner dishes into the scullery sink and meandered outside to the veranda. “How could she possibly believe I’m afraid of a miniature human?”

  Scoffing at the notion, I collapsed into a chair, grateful that Simon had retired early for the night. My current mood was best experienced in solitude. The wooden legs of the chair creaked under my weight, and the canvas seat and back conformed to my body.

  Thus embraced, I gazed up at the sky and smiled at the density of stars. As I enjoyed the grandeur of the celestial spectacle, a flower-scented breeze rustled through nearby branches and stroked my heated cheeks. The eyes of a passing African wild dog reflected my lantern’s light as a small pack of the brindle-colored canines trotted past the cottage, their large ears upright, their posture alert yet relaxed.

  I sensed his presence before I saw him.

  “Father,” I called out, too weary to stand to greet him.

  A slim yet well-proportioned man glided out of the darkness and into the puddle of light provided by the oil lamp hanging from a hook on the wall behind me. A classic vampire of Mediterranean persuasion, he appeared to be middle-aged. Although shorter than my brother Tiberius and with lighter skin coloring, Mr. James Elkhart Senior had the same graceful bearing, elegant features and welcoming expression.

  While my brother’s eyes were the color and depth of a pot of dark tea, our father’s eyes were light brown, like lightly steeped tea, but just as warm. And I could think of no higher compliment for a pair of eyes than to compare them favorably to that best of all beverages.

  “Beatrice,” he said as he sat in the chair next to mine and grasped my hands to his chest. Studying my features, he continued, “You seem fatigued. How are affairs proceeding at the shop?”

  I’d had numerous opportunities to engage with vampires, particularly while working for the Society for Paranormals in London, and had determined that they were a ruthless species. Yet every encounter with Father amazed me that there could be one who possessed a depth of compassion and empathy that rivaled any human I’d ever met. Rather than inflict terror on others, he sourced his blood from the cows of the Maasai herdsmen in exchange for steel blades, blankets and other items the pastoralists desired.

  “Well enough,” I said before sniffing back tears.

  His grip on my hands tightened, and he stroked them. The werewolf energy in my metal left hand tingled at the attention.

  “I’m a horrible aunt,” I blurted out. “Mrs. Steward is correct. I’m not suite
d for maternal matters.”

  Father draped an arm over my shoulders and pulled me into his embrace. “Lilly’s mother, God bless her, is talking nonsense.”

  I shook my head, determined to convince him otherwise. “No, it’s true. I… I can’t even look after Grace for five minutes without causing her to cry and I have no idea how to stop her. And I’m always worried I might drop her. Worse than that, I fear she might drool over me. She’s so messy and full of liquids, and then there’s the matter of her nappy.” I shuddered. “Good gracious, are all babies so smelly?”

  Chuckling, Father leaned his forehead against the top of my head. “Babies are notoriously difficult to manage, my dear child. That’s not a reflection on you or your capacities.”

  I didn’t bother to argue with him. Indeed, it didn’t matter as I would never be a mother.

  “As for the various substances they emit,” he continued, “you become accustomed to them all. But what’s really disturbing you?”

  “Maybe it’s my fault,” I mumbled into his shoulder.

  “What is? The smelly nappy?”

  “No.” I hiccuped. “Something’s wrong with me. I’m a disaster.” I pushed away from Father and struggled not to burst into tears at the kindness brimming in his eyes. “Do you think it’s my fault? Two husbands and several years of marriage, and still there’s no children. It must be me.”

  Father brushed a lock of hair off my forehead and kissed me there. “No one could ever blame you.”

  But he was wrong. I blamed myself.

  We sat there, wrapped in silence and our thoughts. From across the grasslands echoed the cackle of a hyena, answered by the cough of a lion. The last remains of the day’s warmth carried the scent of rain-nurtured grass, soil rich with decomposing matter and the sweet perfume of the nocturnal and highly poisonous flowers of the Angel Trumpet.

  “I’m not interrupting anything, am I?” Tiberius said as he rounded the corner of the cottage and leaned against the veranda’s wooden railing.