Tea Shop Cozy Mysteries - Books 1-6 Page 3

  Small towns were terrific to live in, Willow thought, but boy, they didn’t let you forget anything.

  “Instead of hauling me in here and asking me questions, you should be out on the streets finding the real killer.” Willow sat on her hands to stop them going anywhere they shouldn’t.

  “And what if I say I think I have the right killer sitting in front of me?”

  Some measure of logical thought finally penetrated through the confusion clouding Willow’s mind.

  “Go and ring my doctor,” she said confidently, sitting back in her chair. “He’ll tell you I faint at the sight of blood.”

  “Hardly a medical condition, I would have thought.”

  Willow frowned again before she could catch herself. Those wrinkles would be deepening for sure. “It became a medical condition the first time I cut myself while gardening and ended up cracking my head on the way down. It’s in my file.”

  “Not conclusive.” The sheriff shook his head. “That’s the kind of thing you could fake.”

  The ridiculousness of that answer made Willow burst into laughter. “You’re saying I’ve been fainting for fifty-four years just to get it on record so I could kill someone without detection.” She shook her head, still smiling. “I’m such a criminal mastermind that I could lay the groundwork for an alibi for five decades and then be stupid enough to kill a man in my own back yard?”

  “Maybe you didn’t look?” The sheriff placed a hand over his eyes. “Blind people can be murderers, too. You have to see the blood to faint from the sight of it, right?”

  “Don’t be stupid. How would I know where to stab?”

  Sheriff Wender sat back in his chair. “I don’t have to come up with the explanations, you do.”

  Willow shook her head, squeezing her eyes tight in disbelief. “That is literally your job. To explain what happened. That’s the only reason this county pays your salary at all.”

  “Hey, I’ve explained this murder to my satisfaction. You stabbed your boyfriend with a pitchfork in the garden. Case closed.”

  “For goodness sake, Jacob.” Willow leaned forward and stabbed her forefinger into the table for emphasis. “You know full well I didn’t do this terrible thing. Now stop persecuting me and go out there—” she pointed to the door “—and get the real killer.”

  She sat back, expecting some reaction, but upon receiving none, Willow leaned toward the sheriff again. “I had no reason at all to kill Roger. I didn’t owe him money on my house, it was a reverse mortgage, so he only stood to collect on it when I was dead. That’s a motive for my murder, not his. I couldn’t physically have done the crime. Forget about the blood for a moment, do you really think I have the strength to shove a pitchfork into a grown man’s chest?”

  When Jacob started to nod, Willow held up a hand to cut him off.

  “No, you don’t. Not if you thought about it for a minute. I don’t have a motive, I don’t have the ability, and even if I did, I’m not so stupid as to do the entire thing in my back yard. My daddy also taught me how to look after my tools. If I were going to stab someone through the chest, I would’ve pulled that pitchfork out, rinsed the blood off the prongs, dried it with a soft cloth and hung it back in its rightful place!”

  As Willow went through the explanation, she became more and more wrought up. Then she remembered about the time that had shown on Roger’s watch—seventeen minutes past eight in the evening. Exactly when Willow was watching her favorite show.

  “Not to mention,” she said, stabbing the table with her forefinger as though it had done her a grievous wrong, “this all happened when I was watching television. I can recite the entire episode I was watching if you need further proof.”

  Sheriff Wender looked unimpressed. “There’re such things as DVRs, you know.”

  “I don’t know. I have no idea what that abbreviation means, but I’m quite sure I don’t have it. Why don’t you go out and start to question someone who actually did have it in for Roger Randall? If you were doing your job instead of mucking me about, you’d have Jimmy Niko in here with his sandwich board and make him give you his alibi.”

  Willow sat back, glaring at Sheriff Wender, who’d miraculously turned into little Jacob Wender, the grade below her in school, right in front of her eyes.

  “You let me out of this room and this station house right now, or I’m laying a formal complaint.”

  As the sheriff did just that, Willow thanked her lucky stars she’d been paying attention to Miss Walsham Investigates, season two, episode eight. Miss Walsham is arrested.

  Life imitating art.

  Chapter Four

  Although the sheriff released her on her own recognizance, it wasn’t quite that easy to leave the station. For a start, there was the matter of a little kitten who’d been brought along as evidence at the pathologist’s request.

  “I need to know what hairs belong to this little beastie so I can check to see if there’re any others clinging to our victim. I’d also like to type the blood on its feet to prove it belongs to the deceased.”

  Willow wasn’t at all sure she’d ever get used to hearing Roger described that way, but her immediate concern now was getting the wee creature out of custody. Having suffered herself in the airless rooms of the sheriff’s office, she had no desire for the kitten to endure the same fate for a second longer than was warranted.

  Luckily, the medical examiner’s office was a lot more hospitable than the sheriff’s office had been, and the staff there readily turned over the kitten. While it stared up at her with large blue eyes, Willow tried to ignore how cute it was.

  “I’m taking you straight back to the pet shop,” she whispered into its ear, getting close despite the havoc that played with her eyes and nose. “And that will be the last I ever see of you.”

  However, the pet shop had other ideas.

  “I’m afraid we can’t accept returns of animals,” the girl behind the counter at Fowler’s Pet Store said when Willow handed the kitten over.

  “But it just came from here yesterday,” Willow protested. “Roger Randall brought the cat, but—” she lowered her voice and looked around to ensure no one else in the shop was listening “—he’s died. So, you see, the kitten has no home to go to.”

  The girl sniffed and pulled across a massive ledger. “It says here we had to ship this one in special.” She pointed to the page and turned the book to face Willow, as though she could interpret the scrawled writing, let alone judge what the codes meant. “We never stock Maine Coon cats in here because the town folk don’t go for them. Too big or something.”

  “I don’t see—”

  “If we have to get the pets in special, then we can’t accept returns.” The girl shrugged. “It’s store policy. Otherwise, we spend a lot of money getting special breeds and end up losing money when we can’t sell them to our usual customers.”

  When Willow continued to stand, staring at her with a mulish expression on her face, the girl behind the counter crossed her arms and pooched out her lower lip.

  “I can’t do nothing about it. It’s the rules.”

  “Then I’d like to speak to your manager.”

  The effect of Willow’s stern tone of voice was somewhat dissipated by the flurry of sneezes that followed it. But Willow was a far older and a little bit wiser version of the steadfast young woman in front of her—she was more than capable of returning a glare with a fiercer one.

  Finally, the girl shrugged and turned to her side. “Mom!” she shouted at the top of her lungs. “There’s a customer wants to see you.”

  Willow closed her eyes as a woman bustled out from the back, anticipating defeat. Family businesses were wonderful, joyful, a boon to the community. They were also independent, fiercely defended their bottom line, and never strayed away from the primary purpose of putting food on the table.

  “It’s our policy, I’m afraid,” the senior version of the counter girl explained with exactly the same expression. “If we had a ki
tten in stock, that’s one thing, but ordered in special…?”

  She trailed off, and Willow nodded. “What am I meant to do, then? I can’t keep the kitten, I’m allergic.”

  “You could try to get some antihistamines from the drug store in town. That’ll stop you sneezing.”

  Willow rolled her eyes. “Hardly a solution. I’m not taking drugs for the rest of my life to keep a cat I never wanted.”

  As though it knew she was talking about it, the kitten stared up at her with its large eyes. Willow smiled. The tips of its ears poking up made it look a bit like a lynx or another large cat—she’d once told Roger how much she loved that look.

  But that thought just brought along a boatload of sadness, and Willow cut it off at the knees.

  “I don’t need a refund or anything,” she explained. “It’s just that I can’t look after a cat. Not when it makes me sneeze, and my eyes water worse than pollen season. Isn’t there anything you can do?”

  “Not here.” The woman and her daughter folded their arms across their chests in unison. “You could maybe take her to the shelter? They’re always open to cats.”

  “The pound?” Willow’s face creased in concern.

  The woman shrugged. “Sure. They might have trouble moving cats, but a kitten should be adopted within a day or two. That’s what everyone is looking for. Something cute and small.”

  She reached out a hand and chucked the kitten under its chin. The tiny cat closed its eyes and purred, and Willow felt a pang of betrayal stab her in the stomach.

  How dare you enjoy this woman’s touch more than mine!

  What a stupid thought. Willow wrinkled her nose against another sneeze. Given the circumstances, it was no surprise her head would be full of silliness today.

  “Okay.” Willow sighed deeply and picked the box containing the kitten up into her arms. “I’ll try the animal shelter, then. Thanks for your help.”

  Given the smile with which the woman accepted the compliment, Willow must be losing her touch with sarcasm.

  The animal shelter wasn’t far from the center of town. Willow thought one advantage to living in such a small place was that nothing was far from anything, even when you were on foot. When you were trying to keep something secret, it was a nightmare, but most of the time the closeness was reassuring rather than suffocating.

  It only took a few minutes until Willow walked through the door of the shelter. This time, the woman behind the counter looked genuinely happy to see someone, although her face fell when she spied the kitten inside the box in Willow’s arms.

  “Are you looking for a companion to your pet?” the woman asked hopefully, replacing her initial smile with something far more hesitant. “Lots of people find that their pets aren’t happy until they have another animal for company.”

  “Sorry,” Willow said, placing the kitten down on the countertop. “This isn’t mine. The owner just died, and the pet store that sold it to him won’t take this little cutie back.”

  Even though the itching sensation spreading on her forearms was probably a precursor to hives, Willow couldn’t resist giving the kitten another quick pat.

  “Have you tried a private sale?” the woman asked. “It’s a much more assured way of getting your pet into their forever home. I can help you with a listing if you’d like to do that.”

  “How long would it take?”

  “Oh, just a few minutes.” The woman’s face brightened, and she pulled the keyboard and computer closer to her. “I can set up an account for you online, and then it’s just a matter of filling in a few details.”

  Willow shook her head. “No, I meant how long would it take for someone to respond to an ad?” She held out her wrists, where a rash of red bumps was now growing. “I’m afraid I’m allergic to cats, so I can’t really keep it in my home.”

  “Her,” the woman replied, puffing her lips out as she looked at Willow’s arm. “Your cat’s female.”

  “It’s not my—”

  “Yeah.” The woman held up a hand. “Sorry. I’ll try to remember. I’ll just go out the back and get a few forms. We require them for the state when we’re not collecting the animals directly off the street.”

  Willow turned to look at the row of cages near the entrance as the woman dragged her feet out to the back. A few dozen faces stared back at her. Despite the assurance of the Fowler’s Pet Shop owner, half of them were kittens. Not as cute as hers, of course, but if there was a market for quick adoption, Willow thought there shouldn’t be quite so many.

  The kitten mewed and batted at Willow’s hand, who immediately sneezed again, staring at the ball of fluff through her increasingly watery eyes. If it stayed in the conservatory, then perhaps her allergies would clear up and they’d both be happier.

  Not it. Her.

  Mavis. That was what the kitten looked like to Willow. Her Auntie Mavis, who’d always been a barrel of laughs. Where Mom was strict—probably because she needed to be, Willow wasn’t under any illusions that she’d been a perfect child—her aunt Mavis had been overflowing with generosity and love. When Willow went to stay with her—a more frequent occurrence the older she got—there was always a new game to be played or a fun prank to try out.

  You’re not really going to leave Mavis here, are you?

  Willow sighed and shook her head. Of course, she wasn’t. That would be an unfathomable act of cruelty. She looked again at the caged animals, their sad eyes pleading for rescue.

  In a flash, she scooped Mavis’s box up under her arm and stalked across to the door. The kitten’s head poked up immediately, paws on the cardboard edge as she balanced herself, ready for the adventures ahead.

  As Willow walked out of the door, setting the bell tinkling, she sneezed again and pulled a tissue out of her handbag. Since it appeared the kitten was staying with her, perhaps the drug store should be her next port of call.

  Chapter Five

  “Okay, I’m coming,” Willow called out as the knocking started on her front door again. She’d been out the back in the conservatory, attempting to teach Mavis it was now her home when a fist started pounding to be let in.

  “Honey, are you okay?” Harmony said, enveloping Willow in a hug as soon as she got the door open. “I heard the news down in the library and just had to come and see you as soon as I could.”

  “I’m fine.” Willow returned the hug as best she could, then pushed Harmony away as she heard the distinctive bell from Mavis’s new collar. “Get back in there, little miss!” She shooed the kitten back toward its room.

  “Who on Earth is this?”

  “Quick, close the door behind you,” Willow said as Mavis easily evaded her outstretched hands to run over and greet the new arrival.

  Harmony shut the door just as the kitten seemed to realize there was a chance at escape. The cat pawed at the door and turned with an indignant stare, shaking her head until the bell dinged again.

  “It’s Roger’s kitten,” Willow said. “I tried to give it back to the pet shop, but they wouldn’t take it, and I couldn’t bear to leave her at the pound.”

  Her voice was rough, half from a quiet weep she’d had over Roger and half from the bouts of sneezing that had continued, despite the application of copious antihistamines.

  “What’s her name?” Harmony bent over, clicking her fingers. Willow experienced a small thrill of joy to see that Mavis ignored her friend to the same extent that the kitten had been steadfastly ignoring her.

  “This is Mavis, and she’s refusing to stay in her room, even though I’ve given her the run of the whole conservatory.”

  Harmony laughed. “I’m not surprised. She seems to have become quite attached to you already.”

  Willow turned with raised eyebrows and saw that the kitten was following in her footsteps. She pursed her lips as she considered the animal. “Hm. She certainly hasn’t shown me that same obedience when I’ve tried to get her to do anything.”

  Harmony laid her handbag—about the size of
a decent piece of luggage—down on the bench in the kitchen and put on the kettle. “How are you coping, aside from keeping a new cat?”

  “I’m fine,” Willow lied. “Right now, I’m more worried I’ll die from allergies than about the fact that a dead man was lying in my garden.”

  Her voice cracked on the last part of that sentence, and she pressed her forefinger to her upper lip to keep back the sobs threatening to erupt.

  “I’m not worried about the fact that it was a dead body,” Harmony said. “I’m worried about you losing your new boyfriend. Reg and I were so happy that you’d finally found someone. I can only imagine how devastating it’s been.”

  “Roger wasn’t my boyfriend,” Willow said, using mock indignation to hide her tears.

  “Sure. However, you like to phrase it.” Harmony offered her friend a one-armed hug as she brought the kettle over to the table. “It was a delight to see you so happy.” For a moment, she looked utterly bereft. “I don’t know what to say.”

  Willow stared at her friend for a second, dumbfounded. Harmony was never short of words. It was as though they stuffed her head full to overflowing, so she talked about anything unless distracted with a book. Half of the novels and manuals lying around the house were there just in case Willow needed a quick respite from her friend’s constant conversation.

  “I’ll be all right,” Willow said, pausing for thought between each word. Although she’d hidden her relationship from the sheriff’s office, she couldn’t keep up the façade with her best friend. Especially since it seemed Harmony and Reg had already seen straight through her. “Although I miss Roger already.”

  Tears started to flow down Willow’s cheeks, and she wiped them away with the back of her hand.

  “Don’t do that,” Harmony remonstrated, grabbing hold of her wrist and pulling her into another hug. “Have a good cry and let it out. Sometimes it’s the only thing that can go any way toward making you feel better.”

  Willow followed her friend’s advice and cried until she felt empty.

  * * *

  “Now, how are you going to keep this bundle of mischief in the room where she belongs?” Harmony had turned around after Willow’s bout of weeping to find Mavis investigating the contents of her handbag. “Since you’re obviously allergic to the thing, you can’t have it roaming around your house. At the very least, you need to keep one room completely clear of cat hair so you have a sanctuary if things get really bad.”