Chapter Twelve
At almost six PM, Daisy was ready to close. She was removing her apron, ready to look over the menu for the following day, when Jonas came in.
He looked as if he’d had a busy day too and needed dinner.
“I have a bowl of beef barley soup left,” she said. “Are you interested?”
“You’re determined to keep me away from a fast-food burger, aren’t you?”
“I am. It’s my civic duty,” she teased.
“How about orange pekoe tea to go with that?”
“Coming right up.” She went to the door and flipped the sign to CLOSED before she crossed to the kitchen.
Minutes later, after Daisy brought the soup to Jonas in a white ironstone bowl and the tea in a black cast-iron teapot, she sat across from him and slipped off her shoes.
He must have heard them clatter to the floor because he looked under the table. “Rough day?”
“A draining day.”
“Is Jazzi around?”
“No. She had a meeting after school. I have to pick her up in half an hour.”
“I wanted to give you a progress report.”
She felt her shoulders tense, and he must have seen that.
“I don’t have much to report,” he assured her quickly. “I’m still searching public records for Jazzi’s birth. You and your husband named her, which makes the search more difficult. Not impossible, just more difficult.”
He stirred his soup, letting the steam rise so it would cool off. “I’m also trying to trace down your lawyer’s records. I expect to have more luck with that, but that’s where I am. Have you told Jazzi I’m looking into it?”
“Yes, I have. She’s pleased. I told her your background, so she also realizes you know what you’re doing.”
He dipped his spoon into the soup bowl. “It’s not a matter of knowing what I’m doing as much as knowing what databases to use in order to search. But it’s tedious, Daisy. What I haven’t told you is that your lawyer died.”
She blinked. “Then how are you going to find the records?”
“I found information on him in the Florida newspaper. There was an ad about private adoptions. It listed his secretary’s name, so I’m trying to track her down. I’ll get something. It’s just going to take time.”
“I’ll tell Jazzi that, though teenagers aren’t the most patient beings on earth.”
He took a spoonful of soup, blew on it, then ate it. “This is good. I shouldn’t be surprised. Everything you make is good.”
The compliment felt nice. Ever since Ryan had died, she’d kept her guard up around men. It had been her way of protecting her love for Ryan, keeping her grief private, not giving off any signals so that a man would get the wrong idea. But with Jonas, she didn’t feel a need to have that guard in place.
So when he asked, “How was the funeral?” she felt comfortable discussing it with him.
“It was an ordinary funeral,” she began. “If you don’t count the security keeping the reporters out. Harvey’s wife gave Aunt Iris scathing looks, but his daughter actually came up to us and talked. She told Aunt Iris that she’d been good for Harvey. I think it made Iris feel a little better. Marlene also mentioned that her dad had brought her one of his coin books. He told her he wanted her to have it, that he wanted them to make a new start.”
“That’s interesting.”
“What’s even more interesting is that Detective Rappaport called me down to the police station again. That’s where I was this afternoon.”
“Alone?”
“No. Marshall Thompson went with me. I was glad he did. Detective Rappaport is proposing the theory that Aunt Iris and I colluded to kill Harvey.”
Jonas laid his spoon down, sat back, and just stared at her. “You are not serious.”
“Oh, I’m very serious. I’m not exactly sure what to do. Do I just sit back and let him suspect me?”
Jonas took another spoonful of soup, then poured a mug of tea. “Maybe I should talk to him.”
“About me?”
“No, not about you. Not directly anyway. As a former cop, maybe I can get a sense of the investigation because Rappaport might be more open with me. I wouldn’t mention your name. Maybe he’ll tell me what his next move is.”
“I suppose that would be all right. He scares me, almost as much as Marshall does.”
“Marshall? He acts tough, but he’s an old softie.”
“An expensive softie.”
Jonas nodded, “That’s because he’s good. Did he cut his rate for you?”
“Yes, he did. Thank you. That was your doing.”
Jonas finished his bowl of soup and then sipped at the mug of tea. “Has business still been on an upswing?”
“It has, and I think I know why. Bloggers who write about tea have gotten hold of this story. When they mention the murder, they mention the tea garden or vice versa. I checked on my phone and our website for page views, and they’ve ratcheted up by about a thousand in the past few days. But this isn’t the way I want the tea garden’s name to get around.”
Looking thoughtful, Jonas rubbed his thumb along the handle of the teapot; then he motioned to his mug. “If you really want to garner more business, you need to attack your social media following while the iron’s hot, so to speak. Or while the teapot’s hot. You should make a podcast on how to brew tea correctly and put it on YouTube and your website.”
When Daisy wrinkled up her nose as if the thought made her cringe, Jonas laughed. “You don’t want all that attention?”
“Not on your life.”
“Just because you don’t want to do it, doesn’t mean you can’t have Tessa do it, or even your Aunt Iris.”
“Jazzi would probably love to be on camera, but I’m not going there. It’s possible Tessa might want to. You really think that would bring us more customers?”
“It could, especially if your YouTube video goes viral.”
“And how would I make that happen?”
“You know how you can make that happen—give a tour of your garden where the murder took place.”
“Jonas! I would never do that.”
He reached across the table as if he were going to pat her hand, but his fingertips didn’t quite reach hers, and he pulled his hand back. “I didn’t think you would. So just stick to brewing tea, and I’m sure you’ll attract loyal followers. But, Daisy, this tea garden is named after you, so you’re really the one who should do the video. And you might want to enlist Jazzi’s help. Teenagers are great at shooting videos. Their smartphones have made them experts.”
As she thought about it, he took a last swallow of tea and set down his mug. Then he pushed back his chair and rose to his feet. “I don’t want to keep you any longer. And I have to tally the day’s receipts at Woods and close up. I’ll let you know if anything turns up in my searches. I promise I’ll keep you informed.”
She stood now too. “I’ll take your idea about making a video seriously, and not only for business’s sake. It’s something Jazzi and I can do together. Maybe we can get closer again.”
He didn’t ask why she and Jazzi had grown apart, and she didn’t volunteer the information. Maybe because she still did have her guard up. Maybe because she didn’t want to confide in Jonas too much. If she did, they’d be starting a friendship, and she didn’t know if mere friendship was all she wanted from Jonas Groft.
* * *
The following morning, Iris and Daisy were mixing cookie dough when Joachim Adler delivered produce at the kitchen’s back door. Daisy peered into the plastic bins of lettuce, broccoli, yellow and purple cauliflower, leeks, carrots, and celery, and gave him a wide smile.
“It all looks good, Joachim.”
He had a heavy beard and sideburns that showed mostly gray. He repositioned his felt hat and said, “You know mine’s the best.”
“I sure do. I wouldn’t buy it otherwise.”
“The bill will be coming next week for September. In the New Year, I’ll be sending out e-mails as bills instead of using the post office.”
“Stepping into the tech age?”
“What choice do I have? My daughter says it’s the only way to keep the business efficient.”
Daisy again said, “Thank you” and waved as he exited the kitchen. Then she and Eva started wrapping the produce to store it. She heard the front bell ring but didn’t pay any attention. Tessa was manning the front counter until Cora Sue arrived.
Tessa called to Daisy, “Can you come out front?”
Daisy hoped a reporter hadn’t barged in.
When she approached the counter, she spotted a young man talking to Tessa. He looked to be in his late teens or early twenties. He could be a reporter, though she imagined he could also be a blogger. Anybody could be a blogger.
The young man, who was wind-tossed with russet brown hair and rimless glasses, immediately held his hand out to Daisy. “Foster Cranshaw. You’re Mrs. Swanson?”
“I am. You wanted to see me?”
“I’d like to know if you’re hiring any help.”
Daisy and Tessa exchanged a glance. They were both sizing up Foster Cranshaw. Yes, they’d seriously thought about hiring temporary help, but did he fit the bill? Daisy decided she wouldn’t know unless she asked him a few interview-type questions.
She was honest with him. “With everything that has happened, we do have more customers. I don’t know if we’ll keep them, so I’m thinking about hiring more temporary help. But anybody who works here needs to be familiar with types of teas and how they’re brewed. Granted, we can teach you what you need to know, but it’s better if you have a basic foundation. Do you have any experience with tea?”
His smile was boyishly engaging. “You’re thinking I’m one of those college kids who go to Starbucks and order a latté. Yeah, I do that sometimes. But my mom had a pure appreciation for tea. She had a whole cupboard designated just for it, everything from cans of tea to bags of loose tea to tea bags. She even had those little metal tea balls, infusers, and filters. I helped her make her tea since I was about ten.”
“Do you drink tea?”
“I do now and then. I’m not a connoisseur, but I know the difference between white tea, black tea, and green tea. And tisanes too.”
Again Tessa and Daisy exchanged a look. “Are you in school?” Daisy asked.
“I’m a sophomore at Millersville. Many of my classes are in the evening or online. I can even work your afternoon tea shift if you need help then. And I’d be available all day on Saturdays and Sundays.”
His schedule sounded flexible to work around, and they really could use the help.
Foster gave her another ingratiating grin. “The holidays will be coming up before you know it. I’m sure you’ll need even more help then.”
“Your hours could fluctuate,” she warned him. “I might need you twenty hours one week and forty the next.”
He shrugged. “I don’t have any other commitments. Between school and this job, that would be it. I can be focused and single-minded when I need to be.”
That brought her around to the necessary component of this interview. “Do you have a résumé and references?”
Foster pulled a thumb drive from his windbreaker pocket. “Here you go,” he said. “Everything you need is on there. I gave you three references and their numbers, but if you need more, I have more.”
“I’ll examine the information tonight, and I’ll be in touch with you, one way or the other.”
“One way or the other?” he asked. “Jobs I’ve applied for and didn’t get . . .” He trailed off. “Those employers never contact me.”
“I’ll let you know. I promise.”
Foster took a look around the tea garden again, seeming to note the tables of men and women having conversations. He spotted the vintage china displayed on shelves on the walls. His gaze lingered on the knitted tea cozies that were handcrafted by residents of Willow Creek and were for sale.
“I know what happened here,” he said, “and I don’t care. I think it would be a great place to work.”
Did her customers feel the same way he did? Or would the new customers come back a second or third time? She saw repeat faces, but it was hard to keep track.
“I’ll be giving you a call, Foster. Thanks for dropping in. How about a cup of tea before you go back out again? Pick your pleasure.”
He looked delighted at the idea, and she had the feeling he didn’t have extra money for baked goods or cups of tea. He checked the board with the specials.
“The pineapple ginger green tea sounds good.”
“And I imagine you might like oatmeal cookies?” Daisy asked.
“Oh, I do.”
“All right. Find a seat, and Tessa will serve you.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Swanson.”
As Foster seated himself at a table near the front window, Tessa said, “I’ll brew his tea if you want to finish putting the produce away. Do you think he’s a good candidate for help?”
“I’ll know when I check his thumb drive and his references. He probably has teachers listed who can provide recommendations. They’ll tell me the truth.”
At least, she certainly hoped they would.
* * *
On Friday night, Daisy picked up takeout for dinner on the way home. She’d called Sarah Jane’s and ordered turkey potpie and the shoofly pie Cade had mentioned. Sometimes she and her girls appreciated the expertise of local bakers.
As she and Jazzi sat at the kitchen island with glasses of apple cider to accompany their meal, Jazzi talked about her classes and friends. Daisy was about to broach the idea of making the video Jonas recommended when her landline rang. Pushing away from the island, she stood and crossed to the counter. She picked up the cordless phone. Caller ID told her it was her Aunt Iris calling. This evening, after dinner with Daisy’s mom and dad, her aunt had intended to go back to her own place. Maybe she’d changed her mind.
“Aunt Iris. Are you back home?”
“Oh, Daisy. I don’t know what to do.” Her aunt’s voice shook, and she sounded panicked.
“What’s wrong?”
“My house was broken into. And not just broken into. It’s been ransacked. I didn’t know who to call. Can you come? I didn’t call the police or do anything yet. I just don’t know what to do.”
“I’ll be there as soon as I can. Lock your doors.”
“Apparently that didn’t do much good before,” Iris said dryly.
As soon as Daisy ended the call, she said to Jazzi, “Aunt Iris’s place has been broken into. I hate to take you with me because I don’t know what I’ll be walking into. On the other hand, I don’t know if you should stay here alone either.”
“Mom, I stay here alone a lot.”
“Yes, but—”
“No buts. I’m fifteen. Our house has an alarm.”
“I don’t know, Jazzi. I don’t like everything that’s been going on.”
“Mom, somebody murdered Harvey Fitz. They didn’t want to hurt you.”
“But they might want to hurt your Aunt Iris. What if she’d been at home?”
“Go help her. I’ll set the alarm. I promise. I’ll keep my cell phone right beside me. Pepper and Marjoram will be here too. I’ll be fine.” Pepper suddenly appeared and brushed against Jazzi’s foot with a soft meow as if agreeing to be a guard cat.
“You’ve got to start treating me like an adult,” her younger daughter insisted. “There are kids my age who are out on the street fending for themselves—”
Daisy held up her hand. “All right. You’ve convinced me. I might bring Aunt Iris back here with me.”
“That’s fine. Go help her.”
So Daisy did. The thing was, however, she didn’t know what help she was going to be.
Ten minutes later, she parked her PT Cruiser at the curb in front of Iris’s house. It was a charming little stone bungalow with about a thousand square feet of living space. It was located in an older section of town on a street with mature trees, other bungalows, ranch houses, and modest two-story homes. The single-car garage was located on the west side. A gable with a tall Palladian window was located on the east. Iris particularly gushed over the pretty oval window with stained glass that decorated the entrance, along with two white pillars and a gabled overhang.
Iris opened the door as soon as Daisy rang the bell. Her face was red, which meant her blood pressure was up.
“You just won’t believe this,” she said, “You won’t.”
Daisy walked into the foyer onto its ceramic tile floor. A doorway on the left led to the garage. She walked straight in, crossing in front of another door that led to the basement.
“Just look at this mess,” Iris said, waving to the master bedroom located on the right and the living room that was straight ahead.
The place was a disaster. When Daisy peeked into the bedroom, with its pretty lilac bedspread and curtains, she saw the dresser drawers all pulled out and dumped. The mattress had been slid to one side, and the bedroom chair cushion had been sliced open.
In the living room, the disarray was worse. Her aunt’s sofa cushions in a pretty green and yellow leaf pattern had been sliced open. Everything on the shelf under the coffee table had been swiped to the floor, and one of Iris’s crystal vases had been broken. Books had been tossed off the bookshelf, and photo frames lay flat and crooked on the bookshelves. Fortunately, the lamps hadn’t been touched, and none were broken. But peering into the small dining room, Daisy could see the doors to the hutch standing open and shards of broken cups inside. The kitchen was small, only about eight by twelve. Even there, all the cupboard doors hung open. Food and glassware had been tossed out. The same with the pantry closet beside the refrigerator. The second bedroom near the kitchen had seen the same angry ransacking.
“Someone even looked through my medicine cabinet,” Iris exclaimed with outrage. “All my medication bottles are on the floor.”
“Don’t touch anything. I’m going to call Jonas and then Detective Rappaport.”
“You’re going to call Jonas?”
“He told me to call him if I needed him, and I can certainly use his cop’s eye.”
Iris looked at all of it, and tears came to her eyes. She began to cry.
Daisy put her arms around her and gave her a huge hug. “It’s going to be okay. I’ll help you clear all this up. We’ll put everything back the way it was.”
“We can’t, Daisy. Some of those cups and saucers were irreplaceable. Oh, sure, I can get a new sofa, but am I ever going to be able to forget what this looked like?”
Daisy patted her aunt’s back. “Let me call Jonas and the detective, and we’ll go from there.
Iris had collapsed into one of the dining room chairs when Jonas arrived barely ten minutes after Daisy’s call. He gave a low whistle as he came inside. “Someone was looking for something, and they got really angry when they couldn’t find it.”
“But I don’t have anything,” Iris said.
The words were barely out of her mouth when Detective Rappaport was at the door. They’d left it open, and he walked right in.
“You’re all contaminating this crime scene.”
“He’s right,” Jonas said. “If he wants to call in the forensics team, our hair, fibers, and DNA could be here too.”
“We didn’t touch anything,” Daisy told the detective, almost defensively. And my fingerprints and DNA are everywhere because I come here often.” She really didn’t like his attitude.
“Great to know,” the detective said. “But you’d better step outside.
“Shouldn’t my aunt look around and see if anything’s missing?”
“I imagine you’ve already done that since you were here before me. Or—” He gave his pause emphasis with arched fuzzy brows.
“Or?” Jonas asked.
“Or . . . Miss Albright could have done this herself.”