Murder for Two Read online

  Murder for Two

  Maritime Teashop Cozy Mystery One

  Louise Lynn

  Nora Winters

  To Agatha Frost and Tony E.

  Agatha

  Thank you for encouraging us.

  We could not have done this without you.

  Now hold my poodle!

  Tony

  Thank you for all your encouragement over the years.

  You make me feel like I can accomplish anything.

  Contents

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  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

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  Louise Lynn

  Nora Winters

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  Chapter One

  “Another wreath, Olive! This time with a weird bell on it,” Ivy said as she charged in the front door, her long maroon skirt blowing around her legs in the December wind.

  I looked up from my spot behind the counter and tried not to wince at the old nickname. “You’re late. And don’t call me ‘Olive’ in public.”

  Ivy was always like that, even if she only worked at the Maritime Tea Shop part-time. I could complain to her all I wanted, but being my twenty-six-year old younger sister, she never took it seriously.

  And I couldn’t fire her.

  Mom would have a fit.

  “Okay, Olivia. My alarm didn’t go off. Then on my way here I saw a puppy and—”

  “You didn’t take it, did you?”

  Her bright green eyes widened in mock horror. It was the one feature we shared. Most people would look at us and doubt that we were sisters, though we did both have fair complexions. But her hair was so dark it was nearly black, and mine was a deep coppery red. Our mom said it looked like the leaves in autumn.

  “I don’t steal dogs. I find them homes. And this one had a leash and a collar, but it did get mud on my pants. So, I had to go home and change, and then when I got here, somebody had left another wreath outside the shop. That makes… twelve in total!”

  I rolled my eyes and tossed her an apron with the shop’s logo on it: a tea kettle with a cat perched on the elongated, curved handle. The cat represented our shop’s mascot, Buttercup, an orange and white ball of feline fluff.

  Ivy shoved the apron over her head and brushed her shoulder length hair out of her face. Her cheeks were flushed from the wind and cool air. “And what about the wreath? Any leads?”

  I finished putting the last of the cookies into the display case. The biggest mystery in town this month—the secret wreath patron. “Not one. Though I haven’t discounted Malachi. Maybe he’s trying to woo you with wreaths?”

  Ivy’s flush deepened and she got that dreamy far-off look in her eyes that happened whenever I mentioned the cute florist that worked down the street. I couldn’t blame her. His dimples were adorable. “Yeah, right. I work here part-time, and they show up on my days off. Oh, that means he’s wooing you!”

  I shook my head, and my gut tightened into a knot. “Yeah. Right. Not gonna happen.”

  Ivy frowned, but thankfully didn’t push it. It had taken a least a year for her to give up on me. And it’s not like I could blame her. She was young and romantic, and hadn’t had her heart crushed to pieces by the man she thought she was going to marry.

  After a five-year engagement.

  But I’d gotten over my ex, Andrew, and moved on with my life by moving back to my home town, San Bastion Bay, called San Bas for short. I had been running a popular tea shop in San Francisco, but Andy decided to leave me a week before our wedding, and my entire world had been flipped upside down. Like my mom put it at the time, at least he didn’t leave me at the altar.

  Right.

  That made things so much better.

  Then the rent went up on my shop, so it was either raise my prices or move. I went for option two and haven’t looked back since.

  While there was a time I couldn’t wait to get out of San Bas and live in a real city, now the little seaside town felt like home to me. Nestled about fifty miles south of San Francisco, San Bas boasted a thriving downtown with neighborhoods of historic craftsman bungalows and Victorian mansions, all brightly painted and cheerful. A boardwalk was tucked next to the most popular beach and drew tourists all year round. The rides were mostly authentic to the early 1900s, including a classic carousel and one of the oldest roller coasters in California. Not Disneyland, but it was still fun.

  And it was what I called home.

  We also had a world-class aquarium and plenty of shops selling everything from taffy to T-shirts to whale watching tours. And, the best part of it all, the rent was far cheaper than San Francisco, even this close to the ocean.

  I couldn’t complain if I’d wanted to.

  My tea shop, Maritime, was bigger than it had been in the city. Ivy even helped me decorate it. We wouldn’t let our mom near the place until it was perfect, or she would have hung wind chimes everywhere. As it were, I preferred the potted plants that lined the walls and hung from the ceiling. They were mostly herbs with a small Meyer lemon tree near the door. One other citrus, a kumquat tree, graced the opposite side. There’s nothing like the smell of fresh citrus blossoms. Plus, the fruit made wonderful fresh ingredients for the tea we mixed in-house.

  Sure, the town wasn’t perfect. While it always had a lot of tourists moving through, the actual population was around three thousand. Not small enough that everyone knew everyone else, but if someone had a shop on Main Street, like me, my mom and Ivy did, we knew more than most.

  The uncomfortable part, however, was being in the center of the town's attention —because if you worked in a shop on Main Street, everyone knew who you were.

  “It wouldn’t be so bad if he did have a thing for you, would it?” Ivy said and started me out of my reverie.

  “What? Who?”

  “Malachi the wreath donor. Who else?” Ivy said and beamed.

  My stomach twisted again, but before I could answer, the bell at the door chimed and our least favorite customer hobbled in, old Jenny Walker.

  She stared at us under her bushy white eyebrows. Her long curved nose hung over her lips like a fishhook. Her hair was pulled into a tight bun, white and wispy like that of a corpse. She looked like a witch, albeit one in a black velvet tracksuit and tennis shoes. She jutted her impressive chin out as she approached the counter, and her bun looked as though it had given her a face lift.

  I plastered a smile on my face and nudged Ivy to do the same. We both had difficulty with not being able to hide our true emotions well enough. It was especially difficult with this woman.

  “I want the usual, and it better be fresh,” she said, her voice stronger than her appearance let on. “And the tea better be hot. And I don’t expect to be left waiting longer than three minutes. I’m timing you!”

  “Of course, Mrs. Walker. Jasmine oolong and two strawberry scones,” Ivy chirped and moved toward the row of loose tea that lined the back of the counter.r />
  Jenny settled herself in a deep armchair near the front window and pulled out her crossword puzzle book. Her ‘spot’ was the only area in my entire shop that wasn't decorated for Christmas. No matter what I proposed, Jenny had insisted that she was allergic to the tinsel and the window stickers stung her eyes. They probably just made it harder for her to glare at people on the sidewalk.

  I moved to get the strawberry scones. Buttercup, who had been headed in her direction, put her ears back and trotted away. That said something about a person when a cat didn't even like them.

  Jenny Walker, also known as the Hagjex in our family, looked a good three decades older than she was. Our mom had gone to school with her, and they’d been rivals for a time. The name Hagjex wasn’t just a running joke; between us, it was the truth. According to my mom, a Hagjex was a mythological creature (who she made up) drained of all her life essence and left nothing behind but a withered old hag that clung to utter bitterness.

  Decades later, her attitude hadn’t improved any, of course. If anything, it had gotten worse.

  I plopped the two scones on a plate with a side of jam and clotted cream, and Ivy settled the porcelain kettle next to it with a cup. I raised my eyebrows at her as she lifted the tray.

  “Do you need me to do it?”

  “I can manage,” Ivy said, “I’m not going to trip over my own feet.”

  It wouldn’t be the first time, and I flinched as she carried it across the room. She made it without spilling a drop, and Jenny’s timer went off as Ivy set it down on the small table.

  “You’re late! But what should I expect of the service in a place run by the likes of you?” she said and glowered at her puzzles.

  “If you don’t like it, go someplace else,” I muttered under my breath.

  Ivy giggled and returned to the counter, wiping her hands on a dish towel.

  “What was that?” Jenny said and turned her evil gaze toward me.

  “Is the tea to your liking?” I asked, my face deadpan.

  “Hmph. It’s too hot to drink, and it hasn’t steeped properly yet. I assume it’s the same cat pee you always serve here.” Then she pulled out the little container of liquid stevia she always brought. I only carried real sugar and honey, so she provided her own. She poured it into her tea cup and set the empty container aside.

  Buttercup wound around my ankles, and Ivy leaned her shoulder against mine. “Do you think she’d notice the difference?”

  I snorted and kept my thoughts to myself, for the moment. We complained about her enough once she left. Like always, I could bide my time.

  As soon as the clock hit eight a.m. the shop filled quickly. We didn’t get a huge morning rush like Latte and Me down the street, but there were a surprising number of people who wanted tea over coffee each morning. It kept us busy until the biggest rush in the late morning and early afternoon arrived.

  With Jenny Walker momentarily subdued, Ivy and I settled into our regular routine of making tea and grabbing pastries from the display case. The cakes were still cooling in the back. I got up early to bake those, and wouldn’t frost them for another hour yet. I made the scones, pies, cakes, and cookies in-house, but the rest of the rolls came from the bakery down the street.

  Many of the regulars moved through that morning, including Maggie White, the head marine biologist at the aquarium. She smiled as she approached the counter, wearing her typical jeans and sweatshirt. Her short brown hair was windblown and speckled with gray, though she was only a few years older than I was at thirty-three.

  “Lady Grey and a cinnamon roll, I think,” she said and pushed her glasses up her nose.

  “How’s that orphaned otter coming along?” I asked and readied her order.

  Her eyes sparkled despite the heavy bags under them. “Much better. He’s learning to swim and break shells, but we’re still not sure if we’ll release him. Without a family, he doesn’t stand a chance in the ocean on his own. We might have to keep him in the otter exhibit.”

  “The town would love that,” I said.

  They would. That baby otter, Ollie, had made national news. And it would draw even more tourists to the aquarium, which wasn’t bad for anyone’s business.

  Maggie shrugged at the comment. “They would, but I’m more interested in his wellbeing than what the town can get out of it.”

  I smiled. And that’s why I liked Maggie. She cared more about what was good for the animals in her care than how to make money from them.

  Of course, not everyone agreed with me.

  As Maggie turned to leave, tea and roll in hand, Jenny Walker stood in her way. For such a short woman, she sure took up a lot of space.

  “Some people eat otters, you know. The babies are the softest. Nice and fatty before they get too much muscle. You would know about that, wouldn’t you, with your thighs like an elephant?”

  Maggie looked down and tried to push her way past, but Jenny moved to block her again. “It’s rude to ignore your elders.”

  “Jenny. We talked about this. You can’t harass my customers,” I said and stepped around the counter. “Maggie’s thighs are fine.”

  And no one would think about eating otters but you, you crazy old bat.

  Everyone else in the room stopped and stared.

  Jenny Walker glared for a long moment, and I noticed Maggie’s hands tremble on her take away tray.

  I had no idea why Jenny insisted on harassing Maggie, but it wasn’t the first time she’d done it. If she tried anything again, I swore I’d ban her from the shop forever.

  Finally, Jenny turned and slumped back into the armchair, muttering under her breath.

  I gave Maggie a tight, apologetic smile and went back to the counter, ready to wait on the next customer, when the terrible crash of breaking porcelain filled the air.

  Chapter Two

  “It wasn’t my fault!”

  The words poured from Ivy’s mouth before the teapot had even touched the ground. Of course, it wasn’t Ivy—this time—because I had seen Maggie herself trip and drench the old hag in a generous amount of freshly brewed, Lady Grey tea. Jenny Walker had screamed and pushed back from her table, shattering her own ceramic teapot against the dark wooden floorboards. Slices of porcelain had slipped between the minuscule cracks and I knew it’d be a pain to retrieve them, once everyone had gone.

  A deafening silence filled the Maritime Teashop, and every customer turned to face the commotion. Then came Jenny Walker’s scream, her unfiltered insults, followed by an outpour of curses. Before things turned really ugly, I forced myself between Maggie and the old hag, who had stood nose-to-nose to each other.

  “Ivy, grab a dustpan, mop, and bucket. Mrs. Walker, my apologies about this.” I glanced at Maggie, who smiled smugly at Jenny’s purpling features. “I’m sure this was all just a misunderstanding and slip of the wrist, right, Maggie?”

  “Yeah,” Maggie said, taking a calm sip of what was left of her tea. “Just my silly butterfingers getting in the way. My apologies, Mrs. Walker.”

  “Apologies,” the old woman spat, her husky voice a scathing croak. “Say that to my best outfit! And my shoes—they are now drenched!” Her hackles rose like that of a feral cat, and her brown-spotted complexion pulled into a ghastly snarl. She picked up her puzzle book, which had become a dripping wet pile of papier-mâché, and waved the pages in the air. “You tried to kill me, you did!”

  “Mrs. Walker, I assure you that nobody was trying to intentionally hurt you. Please calm down.” I placed a hand gently on her shoulder, but she shrugged it away, as if the mere thought of touching me was unthinkable. “I’ll arrange for another tea pot and table for you,” I said calmly. “How does that sound?”

  “You can shove that offer where the sun doesn’t shine, girl! I am not to be sitting here like a saturated sponge. I am old and frail, and this could very well be the death of me!”

  My own features darkened, and I lowered my voice. “Mrs. Walker,” I said, tone firm and green eyes
pinched. “Try to calm down. Maggie knocked into you by accident, but she apologized. Now, I can hang your jacket upstairs until it’s dry. Meanwhile, Ivy will arrange fresh tea for you. So, let’s try to put this all behind us and have a pleasant morning, okay?”

  “A pleasant morning indeed,” old Hagjex snarled under her breath, as I turned to face Maggie.

  It was more common than it should be for me to be settling the tension whenever Jenny Walker paid my shop a visit. It was a miracle I hadn’t banned her long ago, and if not for her sweet, librarian husband, I probably would have.

  I watched Ivy trot toward us, various cleaning utensils at hand. I left her to clean up the mess. Nodding to Jenny, then Maggie—who shrugged her shoulders, mouthed sorry, and then left the shop—I made my way back to the counter. Luckily, the busiest part of rush hour was nearly over with, which meant my regulars had been spared the drama. The last thing I wanted was for Mrs. Walker to make another spectacle of my business.

  When I walked by the glass cake display, I saw that my long, auburn hair had frizzed outward from the drama. It often did that whenever I dealt with Jenny Walker. You know, things that tested my mettle. I adjusted the loose strands poking out from my braids, then pulled aside the counter door and occupied myself with the remaining customers, who had been waiting patiently in line.

  A few teacups later, I ran the side of my hand over my forehead, and glanced at the stained-glass window at the door. Jenny Walker was now nowhere to be seen and my sister busied herself with cleaning up what was left of the mess. While I couldn’t blame Maggie for reacting, pouring tea over my customers wasn’t particularly my favorite brand of advertising.