Murder with Orange Pekoe Tea Read online

  METHOD OF MURDER

  Tessa, who had seated herself on the other side of Trevor, leaned across him to say to Daisy, “I like that outfit. That violet color becomes you. Those earrings too. You don’t get dressed up often enough.”

  Jonas eyed Tessa. “Are you saying I don’t take her out on enough dates?”

  “If the shoe fits . . .” Tessa teased, never one to mince words with either of them.

  Instead of being insulted, Jonas laughed. “I’ll keep that in mind. More dinner dates in expensive restaurants.”

  “You’ll be able to afford it after that sale you and Elijah are going to have,” Trevor said. “You ought to be auctioning off the furniture. You’d make more money.”

  “Ever the pragmatist.” Tessa bumped Trevor’s shoulder with her own.

  After a pause, Trevor said, “I do come bearing news.”

  Suddenly all attention was riveted on him, and the music faded into the background.

  “What?” Daisy asked.

  “The autopsy on Hiram was completed. The coroner suspected something beyond the stun gun killed him. It did. Hiram was killed with an insulin overdose. The autopsy revealed two injection sites. Apparently the stun gun was used to immobilize him for the injections. The killer knew exactly what he or she was doing . . .”

  Books by Karen Rose Smith

  CAPRICE DELUCA MYSTERIES

  Staged to Death

  Deadly Décor

  Gilt by Association

  Drape Expectations

  Silence of the Lamps

  Shades of Wrath

  Slay Bells Ring

  Cut to the Chaise

  DAISY’S TEA GARDEN MYSTERIES

  Murder with Lemon Tea Cakes

  Murder with Cinnamon Scones

  Murder with Cucumber Sandwiches

  Murder with Cherry Tarts

  Murder with Clotted Cream

  Murder with Oolong Tea

  Murder with Orange Pekoe Tea

  Published by Kensington Publishing Corp.

  MURDER WITH ORANGE PEKOE TEA

  Karen Rose Smith

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  METHOD OF MURDER

  Also by

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  EPILOGUE

  ORIGINAL RECIPES

  KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  119 West 40th Street

  New York, NY 10018

  Copyright © 2021 by Karen Rose Smith

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the Publisher and neither the Author nor the Publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

  The K logo is a trademark of Kensington Publishing Corp.

  ISBN: 978-1-4967-3397-9

  ISBN-13: 978-1-4967-3399-3 (ebook)

  ISBN-10: 1-4967-3399-1 (ebook)

  My husband and I will be married fifty years this

  summer. I’m dedicating Murder with Orange Pekoe Tea

  to all the couples who strive for their happily-ever-after.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I would like to thank Officer Greg Berry, my law enforcement consultant, who so patiently answers all my questions. His input is invaluable.

  CHAPTER ONE

  The wail of sirens blared. A police SUV jumped up over the curb, heading straight for the side of the canopies where the protestors stood in disarray. A second patrol car parked at the curb while doors swung open. Red, blue, and white strobe lights dotted the dirt, the canopies, the cookies, and the spilled tea.

  Daisy Swanson viewed the scene in disbelief.

  One Hour Earlier

  The summer Sunday afternoon was peaceful and friendly. Daisy hoped that building a homeless shelter would be good for her Willow Creek, Pennsylvania community. A conversation between two men standing nearby the canopies set up in the middle of the field where the shelter would be built alerted her that all might not be as calm as she believed.

  “I hope there isn’t trouble,” the first man, around fifty in a polo shirt and plaid shorts said.

  About the same age though balder, the second gentleman who had been into Daisy’s Tea Garden a few times assured him, “Willow Creek residents are too contained for overt confrontation.”

  Hoping that was the case, Daisy had scanned the stretch of land where dandelions, milkweed, and long green and yellow grass sprouted in no particular pattern. In the next second, she swiveled toward the two yellow-and-white-striped canopies that sheltered tables with iced as well as hot orange pekoe tea in tall silver urns. A red cooler with loose ice for scooping rested on the ground next to the table.

  Daisy’s Tea Garden’s goodies spread in circles on vintage plates painted with roses, daisies, and hydrangeas. Daisy had layered snickerdoodles, chocolate espresso cookies and whoopie pies in an assortment of flavors from chocolate with peanut butter filling, to spice with cinnamon cream filling, to red velvet with vanilla cream filling on each platter. She’d set pots with pink, purple, and yellow petunias around the tables to create a festive atmosphere. The daytime temperature in June in Pennsylvania could easily climb to ninety. Fortunately this late afternoon was a balmy eighty.

  Suddenly Daisy felt the tap on her shoulder. When she spun around, her blond ponytail whipped over her shoulder. She instantly recognized Lawrence Bishop, a science teacher at Willow Creek High School who also served on the town council. Lawrence was in his late forties. His hair was still thick, although gray laced the brown. He had a long face and thin lips that looked much more pleasant when he smiled.

  He was smiling now. “It was so good of you to host this spread for the community. I hope the town council decided to pay you enough for it.”

  “Daniel can be greedy with the budget sometimes.”

  Daniel Copeland, also a member of the town council, was an assistant bank manager so she understood his reasoning in portioning out budgeted funds. “I told him I would do it at cost if he would pay the labor for Iris and Pam to help me serve.”

  Lawrence looked over the spread again. “I think we got a good deal. I like the idea that you’re serving hot and iced tea. And the cooler with bottles of water for those who don’t want
tea are effective too.”

  In her dealings with Lawrence before, she’d realized he usually had a down-to-earth outlook. “I think we all have to contribute something to make the homeless shelter a reality,” she responded.

  “Having a benefactor donate the land certainly helped the project. Now if we can just raise the funds for the building . . .” His voice trailed off. After a moment, he continued, “If the fundraising doesn’t get off the ground because of all those people who don’t want the homeless shelter in Willow Creek, I’ll be sorely disappointed. Unfortunately, they can be quite verbal.”

  Daisy caught a whiff of a man’s strong cologne along with the scent of sun streaming down on the baked earth surrounding the tents. “I know there are people in Willow Creek against the shelter. But there are many passionate residents for the shelter to counteract their voices.”

  Without an explanation, Lawrence waved to somebody on the other side of the tent. Leaning toward Daisy, he asked, “Do you have a minute to talk to my daughter and her husband?”

  Daisy glanced over her shoulder and spotted a couple making their way toward her . . . or toward Lawrence.

  Keeping his voice low, Lawrence explained, “I convinced Piper and her husband to come to this social to divert her attention and his from their problems.”

  Anyone who had children knew there were always problems. Daisy’s two daughters, Violet and Jazzi, brought her boundless joy but also daily complications.

  Keeping his voice low, Lawrence asked, “Did you read about what happened at the Hope Clinic?”

  The Hope Clinic had opened its doors in Willow Creek a few years ago. It was a fertility clinic. Last month, it had experienced a mechanical problem, losing eggs and embryos that had been frozen and crushing the dreams of many couples using the clinic.

  She listened intently as Lawrence explained, “Piper and Emory are heartbroken. The clinic lost their frozen embryos. I want them to become involved in the fund-raising endeavor to move on from what happened. I thought you could explain your enthusiasm for it.”

  Daisy felt a wisp of a breeze on her neck and she was grateful for it. She’d been scurrying around all day, and taking a few minutes in conversation with Lawrence’s daughter and her husband would be a welcome break. Her Aunt Iris, her partner in Daisy’s Tea Garden that was located in an old Victorian in town, was walking toward the tent from their van with a fresh tray of whoopie pies. Daisy caught her eye. She gestured to Lawrence and the couple who had stopped to talk with them.

  Iris nodded that she understood and she’d handle any of the serving decisions that had to be made. As Daisy quickly scanned the crowd, she saw that many residents were seated on folding chairs, a drink in their hand and a paper dish with a pastry on their lap. The buzz of chatter was everywhere. Anything that brought the community together was good. That’s what Daisy’s Tea Garden was all about.

  Turning to the couple, she let Lawrence introduce them. Piper looked to be a little older than her daughter Vi, maybe around twenty-five. Her auburn hair curled over her shoulders and around her oval face. Her bangs were blunt-cut above very green eyes and freckles spread across her cheeks. She was wearing a pin-striped sundress. Her husband Emory was about five-ten, stocky, and looked as if he might lift weights. His peach-colored polo shirt stretched across his chest. With his khakis he wore sandals and looked quite comfortable. His dark brown hair was brushed up over a high forehead and cut short on both sides. His mustache was thin and well clipped.

  After introductions, the conversation centered on the homeless shelter and the gathering. Piper admitted, “The folks who came out for this look as if they’re interested. I’ve heard several conversations with women and men who want to volunteer any way they can.”

  Emory nodded. “I heard one man say this should be a shelter that the community is proud of, not a building where the community hides away people they don’t want on their streets.”

  Lawrence grinned. “That’s exactly why I want you and Piper to get involved in the fundraising. It will give you a purpose for a little while as you recover from your loss.”

  Piper shot her dad a questioning glance.

  Lawrence admitted, “I told Daisy. She has two daughters. Her one daughter, Vi, had a baby not too long ago.”

  “And my other daughter, Jazzi,” Daisy filled in, “is adopted.” Since Lawrence seemed worried about Piper, Daisy decided to share a little. “After Vi, I couldn’t have more children. I was devastated, but when my husband and I came to terms with it, we decided to adopt.”

  Shaking her head vehemently, Piper insisted, “It’s too soon to think about that.”

  Just then Jonas Groft came up behind Daisy and settled his arm around her waist. “How’s it going?”

  “I think it’s going well,” she assured him.

  When some people looked at Jonas, they first saw the scar on his cheek and looked the other way. But she saw the former detective who’d given years to an often-thankless profession. He was strong and not only physically strong. His stubbornness, reflected in the angle of his jaw, had sometimes created a bumpy road for their relationship. But his integrity, loyalty, and caring more than made up for that. After all, she could be stubborn too.

  He’d shoved his black hair back over his brow, but a strand had fallen forward. He was six-feet tall, broad shouldered, and a ballast in her sometimes-tumultuous life. Today he wore a navy T-shirt with black denims. His low boots were dusty from crossing the field several times, helping her carry supplies to and fro. He’d put up the canopies this morning and carried the tables to them.

  “You know Lawrence, don’t you?” she asked Jonas.

  “Oh, yes,” Lawrence said before Jonas could and explained who Jonas was to Piper and Emory. “Jonas is a former Philadelphia detective. Now he owns Woods, the store downtown that sells handcrafted furniture.”

  “Really?” Emory said. “We’ve been looking for a cabinet for my den.”

  As Lawrence, Emory, and Jonas talked about the pieces in his shop, Daisy turned to Piper. “If you ever want to talk about adoption, I’d be glad to share my experiences.”

  Piper’s face took on a melancholy quality, and Daisy realized this social event wasn’t the type of solution that would help Piper move on from her experience with the Hope Clinic.

  After glancing at the men, Piper took a step closer to Daisy. “We don’t know what we want to do. We’re thinking about joining a class action lawsuit with other couples against the clinic. It’s a huge decision to make.”

  “Yes, it is,” Daisy agreed. “How does Emory feel about it?”

  “He’s more positive about the idea than I am. I almost feel like our marriage, all our plans, and even our lives will be spoiled if we become embroiled in a lawsuit. We’d be wishing for what might have been, rather than what can be. Do you know what I mean?”

  “I do understand. Losing the embryos . . . you both might need to go through a grieving period.”

  “And a class action lawsuit could just postpone what we have to feel and what we should feel. I simply don’t know.”

  Piper looked so sad. She reminded Daisy of Vi when her daughter had gotten pregnant out of wedlock and had to make heavy decisions for a young woman her age.

  Without hesitating, Daisy lightly clasped Piper’s arm. “If you’d like to talk about adoption, lawsuits, or anything else, you’re welcome to come by the tea garden. I’ll serve you iced tea and a whoopie pie on the house.”

  That idea brought a smile across Piper’s lips. The smile rapidly slipped away though as Piper looked toward the other side of the tent. Daisy saw the young woman’s attention was suddenly captured by a man in white linen slacks, white shirt, and straw hat. He seemed to be enjoying a cup of hot orange pekoe tea.

  Always curious, Daisy asked, “Do you know that man?”

  “I sure do. His name is Hiram Hershberger. He’s the lawyer representing the fertility clinic. He’s the enemy in our eyes. A group of us that were affected
by the mechanical failure has met several times. I’d better distract Emory. I don’t want him to feel he has to have a discussion with the man. Nothing good can come of it.”

  Daisy watched as Piper moved away, threaded her arm through her husband’s and guided him toward the trays of cookies. Lawrence gave a wave to Daisy, signaling that he’d talk to her later.

  However, Jonas came toward Daisy and swung his arm around her shoulders. “Not long now before we can pack up and go back to your place for a while.” The message in his eyes said he’d like to kiss her right here, right now, but that he’d wait.

  Daisy and Jonas had come to an abiding understanding that they were a couple. They’d been through hard times together and apart and then back together again. Now they felt bonded in a deep way that had produced I love yous from them both. They hadn’t talked much yet about the future, but in the present, they wanted to be together as much as they could . . . with family, without family, alone, or with friends.

  Jonas motioned to the crowd and the location of the party. “When the chamber of commerce decided to have a celebration here to have the community socialize on the property where the shelter will be built and try to form a united front, I was skeptical. But I think it is working. I’ve seen the volunteer signup sheets for the many committees. Now we just need the fundraising to get started.”

  Strolling along the table, Daisy and Jonas picked up glasses of iced tea. “For plastic glasses, these are pretty spiffy,” Jonas kidded.

  “Spiffy? If you think flowers on plastic are spiffy for this social, wait until you see what I come up with for our Fourth of July tea garden event.”

  As Jonas laughed, Daisy heard someone calling her name. That was common at an event like this. Running Daisy’s Tea Garden with her aunt, she’d met most of the residents of Willow Creek at one time or another. Some of them she’d gotten to know fairly well. She was glad to see the man approaching her this time was Gavin Cran-shaw. He wasn’t just a friend, he was an in-law . . . her son-in-law’s father.