Murder with chocolate te.., p.1
Murder with Chocolate Tea, page 1
SOLVING A COLD CASE
Daisy waited a beat and let Stephanie take control of her emotions. She could see that even now, talking about Axel brought back bittersweet memories. “What do you think happened to Axel?”
“I don’t know,” Stephanie said. “But I do know two things.”
Tessa and Daisy both leaned in to listen.
“I know Axel didn’t run away. He cared too much for his family to even consider that. He loved his mom, and he respected his dad.”
“Then what’s the other thing?” Tessa asked.
“Something awful had to have happened to him. I know that for sure. He never would have wanted any of us who loved him to miss him and wonder what had happened. If he could have gotten back to us, he would have.”
Daisy was beginning to believe that Stephanie was right . . .
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 CINAMMON SCONES
MURDER WITH CUCUMBER SANDWICHES
MURDER WITH CHERRY TARTS
MURDER WITH CLOTTED CREAM
MURDER WITH OOLONG TEA
MURDER WITH ORANGE PEKOE TEA
MURDER WITH DARJEELING TEA
MURDER WITH EARL GREY TEA
MURDER WITH CHOCOLATE TEA
Published by Kensington Publishing Corp.
Murder with Chocolate Tea
A Daisy’s Tea Garden Mystery
KAREN ROSE SMITH
Kensington Publishing Corp.
www.kensingtonbooks.com
Table of Contents
SOLVING A COLD CASE
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 © 2023 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 and Teapot logo is a trademark of Kensington Publishing Corp.
ISBN: 978-1-4967-3848-6
ISBN: 978-1-4967-3849-3 (ebook)
This book is dedicated to my cousin Jane, who was like a sister to me in childhood and is a friend as an adult. Our shared history is a comfort, a bond, and a way of remembering those we love who have passed on . . . and those we love who make the future bright. To friendship and cousinhood!
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Thanks to Officer Greg Berry, my professional law enforcement consultant, who always provides the answers to my questions and as much information as I need.
CHAPTER ONE
Journalist Trevor Lundquist, his headphones mussing his brown hair, stared intently at Daisy Swanson as he asked his final interview question for his podcast, “Hidden Spaces,” on a Friday evening. “How does it feel to have been instrumental in solving nine murder investigations?” His eyebrows quirked knowingly, as if he could imagine what she was going to answer.
Daisy exchanged a look with her best friend, Tessa Miller, who was the kitchen manager for Daisy’s Tea Garden, housed on the first floor of a refurbished Victorian house. Tessa was now acting as assistant for her boyfriend, Trevor, in his podcast venture. Tessa’s spare room in her apartment above the tea garden had become his studio.
As if Trevor wanted to nudge Daisy’s hesitation, he leaned closer to the condenser microphone. “Daisy . . .”
All of Trevor’s previous questions had been mostly fact-based about the last murder case she’d fallen into. “That question’s not as easy to answer as it might seem,” she said.
“How so?” Trevor always expected answers and cut to the heart of whatever he wanted to know.
“I care about Willow Creek and my family, friends, and neighbors who live here. When I returned to Willow Creek with my two girls”—Daisy smiled wryly at Trevor—“who are now young women, I merely planned to run the tea garden with my aunt Iris and make a new start after my husband died. But somehow, life gave me all kinds of twists and turns.”
“But we’re talking about murder, Daisy. Murders don’t crash down on everyone like they’ve hit you.”
Tessa, who was sitting beside Trevor, nudged his arm so hard that her caramel-colored braid swung over her shoulder. Daisy suspected Tessa thought Trevor was being overly dramatic for his podcast.
“Yes, we are talking about murders,” Daisy said somberly. “I would never have chosen to be involved.”
“Would you say you’re overly curious?” he asked.
Now she frowned at him. She had a long fuse, and she hadn’t considered that Trevor could ruffle her. But he streamed his podcast for a reason—he was trying to find a new facet to his career.
“I don’t believe I’m overly curious, but I want answers when loved ones or friends need help.” She knew her blue eyes were drilling into him, as if telling him not to press too much harder. After all, she could end the interview.
He seemed to get her message . . . and Tessa’s. Trevor gave Daisy a mischievous smile as he asked, “Do you think the fact that your fiancé is a former detective has helped you ask the right questions when you talk to persons of interest?”
“I think the fact that Jonas is a former detective challenges me to keep the cases and our lives in perspective.”
“Can I ask you a personal question? I think our listeners might appreciate a tidbit or two about you,” Trevor said as if he knew exactly what his listeners wanted.
“That depends. Go ahead and ask. But remember, when you want me to bake you chocolate whoopie pies with peanut butter filling, I might forget the sugar,” she joked.
Trevor laughed. “I would expect no less.” After a second’s pause, he suggested, “Can you tell our listeners if it’s true that you and your fiancé connected over a concern with your teenage daughter?”
Daisy realized Trevor was trying to involve his audience in a part of her life that could interest them most. After considering the consequences, she decided her answer could be worthwhile to his listeners. “I know rumors run rampant in Willow Creek. I hear most of them at the tea garden. But this one is correct. My younger daughter is adopted, and Jonas helped me find her birth mother. I’m grateful for that and always will be.”
Making a motion to Tessa, who was sitting at the sound console, that he was ending the interview, Trevor thanked Daisy and gave his usual closing to the broadcast. “My podcast, ‘Hidden Spaces,’ is about what most of us don’t see, hear, or know. If you know a secret that involves our community or if you have evidence of a crime, call my tip line, and I’ll follow up.” He rattled off the number.
“This is Trevor Lundquist and ‘Hidden Spaces’ signing off.”
Daisy heaved a sigh of relief that the interview was over. She leaned back from the microphone setup and removed her headphones.
As Tessa worked at the laptop at the console, Trevor studied Daisy. “You really wouldn’t mess with my whoopie pies, would you?”
She smiled. “You were tough.”
Trevor turned serious. “I don’t want the podcast to be sensational, but it does have to engage ordinary people. My social media following is increasing. This podcast should really hike up the numbers and maybe gain me a sponsor or two.”
Turning to them, Tessa said, “All posted. Comments are already coming in.”
Standing, Tessa pushed back her chair and went over to the color-blocked shelf. In celebration of June and the warm evening, she’d worn a swirling tie-dyed, multicolored sundress. Her bejeweled sneakers went right along with it. The room reflected her as much as all the gizmos and equipment reflected Tre vor. A trio of her paintings, which she’d created in the Victorian’s attic, hung over the bookshelves. They were long and rectangular and comprised a set. The first depicted Willow Creek and the willows dipping into its banks. The second one always made Daisy stop and study it. An Amish girl, maybe in her late teens, stood at a busy intersection on her scooter bike. Her cardigan sweater was slipping over one shoulder as if the wind and the scooter had drawn it down. She stood at the light pole waiting to cross the street, her back to the viewer. The Amish wouldn’t allow photos to be taken if they could help it. In the third painting, Jonas’s dog, Felix, romped across their backyard. He looked joyful, ears flying, tail a golden brush against the blue sky.
Tessa picked up her cell phone and eyed Daisy. “Are you going home now?”
“No, I’m walking down to Woods. Jonas and Felix are waiting for me. He dropped me off this morning. Why?”
“Because we have no idea what kind of comments are going to come in from your interview. It might be better if you’re with somebody when you read them.”
“Do you have trolls already?” Daisy asked Trevor.
“Everyone has trolls on their social media feeds,” Trevor answered matter-of-factly.
Trevor’s phone lay on the bookshelf, too. He’d put it there before they’d started the interview. Now it was vibrating.
When Tessa handed it to him, her eyebrows were practically raised under her bangs.
As soon as Trevor glanced at his phone, he smiled. “I’ll put this on speaker. It’s from the hotline.”
Daisy expected this might simply be a comment about the podcast . . . yet it was a tip line.
“Trevor Lundquist here with ‘Hidden Spaces.’ How can I help you?”
Since Trevor had opened the speaker on his phone, Daisy and Tessa could listen in. The male caller kept his voice low. “I know about a crime.”
Trevor’s face became elated and then more reserved. Daisy knew he’d had tips before about damaged property, but not anything significant.
The journalist was wary as he encouraged the caller. “I’m listening.”
Silence pervaded the small room as they all seemed to be holding their breath.
“I need to remain anonymous.”
“I understand,” Trevor assured him.
And he did, Daisy knew. Tips weren’t about the caller. According to Trevor, they were about the secret or the crime. He protected his sources.
“You have to investigate,” the caller cautioned.
Daisy thought the voice sounded middle-aged or younger. It was hard to determine.
“I’ll look into the crime if you give me a significant lead,” Trevor informed the man.
“The lead is in an old chest. There are several chests, but one holds the secret.”
Tessa looked pensive as she passed a note to Daisy. Do you think this guy is legitimate?
Daisy shrugged. There was simply no way to know.
“Where can I find these chests?” Trevor wanted to know. He looked as if he half-expected the man to say, “at the bottom of Willow Creek.” But the caller didn’t.
“They’ll be auctioned off next weekend. They’re included in two storage compartments at Bonner’s Storage.”
Trevor jumped on that information. “But auctions only happen when someone doesn’t pay the rental fees for a few months.”
“That is what has happened. One of those chests holds the secret to a twenty-year-old murder.”
The line went dead.
* * *
Daisy left Tessa’s apartment and made her way through the back parking lot of Daisy’s Tea Garden and out onto Market Street. With each step she thought about what had just happened. The warm mid-June air with its slight breeze swirled around her yellow and white cap-sleeved top and yellow slacks. Taking a colorful note from Tessa, she’d worn neon-green clogs today.
A gray-bonneted Amish buggy drove down Market Street, its horse’s hooves clomping along the asphalt. Daisy glanced at it and smiled. The buggies always reminded her to slow down and enjoy the pace of the Amish community.
Still, she heard in her head the words of the caller—“One of those chests holds the secret to a twenty-year old murder.”
Passing shops on her trek to Woods, she saw that most of them were closed—Vinegar and Spice, Wisps and Wicks, and a few business offices. At Woods, the furniture store owned by her fiancé, Jonas Groft, she stopped in front of the main plate-glass window display, as she often did. This month, Jonas had placed a high cocktail table in the window as the main showpiece, with stools that he’d created on either side of it. In the same warm walnut of the table, a curio cabinet stood to one side. It was filled with wooden Amish toys, from a toy train to a toy pull-duck to blocks. A multicolored rag rug had been placed under the table and chairs. A small hutch fashioned from reclaimed wood was painted in a distressed green. Daisy had loaned Jonas several teacups and saucers to add a vintage touch to the piece. The whole setup would definitely invite her inside to look around. That was the point of the display.
The coolness of the air-conditioning met Daisy when she opened the door. Out of habit, she glanced at the giant cubicle shelves along one side of the store that stretched from floor to ceiling. Ladder-back chairs stood in each of the cubicles ranging in different finishes from blue to cherry to dark walnut. Customers could order whatever finish they desired and as many chairs as they needed.
Jonas was specializing in islands now and could hardly keep up with orders. Each was unique, made from reclaimed wood with a stone, granite, quartz, or butcher-block top. Other pieces, like jelly cabinets, bookshelves, pie safes, and hope chests, were made by local craftsmen. Jonas sold the pieces on consignment.
The shop smelled like orange oil, and she liked the scent. She knew Jonas used it to shine up furniture that might have fingerprints on it at the end of the day. That was the case as she watched him rubbing over a maple dry sink. Felix, the cream golden retriever Jonas had adopted, sat on his haunches, watching Jonas’s hand move back and forth and back and forth.
Jonas had large, kind hands that could convey love in the best type of way. It wasn’t the fact that in his forties—trim, tall, and fit—Jonas’s sexy appeal had drawn her to him. She knew she was prejudiced that he was the sexiest man she knew. But it was his loyal and compassionate heart that had coaxed her to let her walls down and let him into her life.
Jonas suddenly turned to look at her, as if he’d sensed she was there. His vibrant green eyes drew her to him almost as much as his smile. Jonas was a caring, forthright man with integrity. She had to admit, though, whenever she looked at him, an all-encompassing flicker of excitement danced through her. She could hardly believe that in six weeks he’d be her husband.
The scar down the side of Jonas’s face reminded them both of his former profession as a Philadelphia police detective. But it seemed to disappear when he smiled—especially when he smiled at her. This evening, a wave of his thick black hair dipped over his forehead. The silver threading in the hair at his temples enhanced the laugh lines around his eyes rather than reminding her he’d once been a homicide cop who’d seen enough misery to turn all his hair gray.
They met at the center of the sales counter. When he wrapped his arms around her, she could feel the beat of his heart. They kissed a long while.
When he leaned away, he murmured, “I wish we were at home.”
After Jonas had moved in with her last fall, the transition from dating to engaged couple had seemed seamless. They belonged together, and they knew it.
“We’ll be home soon,” she promised him.
Felix brushed against her leg in greeting, his fluffy tail wagging.
Stooping to the canine, she laughed. “I’m glad to see you, too.” After she gave Felix the attention he wanted, she straightened.
“How did your interview go?” Jonas asked.
“I’m not sure. We’ll have to check the comments on Trevor’s social media stream to find out. He sent me a curveball when we were closing.” She explained to Jonas about the personal question. “I answered because other families might have the same situation with adopted children.”
