Tea with Milk and Murder (Oxford Tearoom Mysteries ~ Book 2) (14 page)

“That girl, Fiona—I saw her using nicotine patches,” I said suddenly.

“When was this?”

“At the party. I went out to get some fresh air and I saw Fiona come out and start smoking a cigarette, then she changed her mind and applied a nicotine patch instead.”

“Hmm…Very interesting. Nicotine patches have one of the highest concentrations of nicotine,” said Devlin. “I think I’m going to have another little talk with Miss Stanley tomorrow.”

“There was something else…” I said hesitantly. “When I was in the garden that night… I overheard something.”

“You didn’t mention this before.” Devlin said, a tinge of reproof in his voice.

“I… I wasn’t sure it meant anything and I didn’t want to upset Cassie…”

“It’s something to do with Kelsey?”

“Well, I’m not sure it was him. They were whispering so it was hard to recognise voices. But I thought it sounded like him…”

I repeated what I had heard to him, then added with a sheepish laugh, “It sounds so cheesy, doesn’t it? Like some kind of bad B-movie dialogue. That was one reason I didn’t mention it before now. It sounded so ridiculous, I didn’t think it could really mean anything serious… And besides… Well, I know I don’t like Jon and I wondered if my own bias against him was colouring my interpretation. You know, sometimes you hear what you
want
to hear.”

“You should still have come to me with the information,” said Devlin sternly. “You should have trusted me to be sensible and discreet.”

“I know… I’m sorry. I just… you don’t know how sensitive Cassie is about Jon. I didn’t want to throw suspicion on him unnecessarily. If I’m wrong, Cassie will never forgive me…”

“Better that she gets mad now than find out later that she’s with a potential murderer,” said Devlin.

“Are you seriously considering Jon a strong suspect?”

“I had my suspicions about him from the start. Oh, he’s got a very good story, but… call it sixth sense if you like. I don’t trust Jon Kelsey. And in my experience, when it comes to murder, the killer is often someone who knew the victim. Whatever Jon might say, I think there was more to his relationship with Sarah Waltham than he let on.”

I thought suddenly of the lace thong that the Old Biddies had found under Jon’s bed.
Should I tell Devlin about that?
But if I did, Devlin would probably want to claim it as evidence.
No, I’ll check with Cassie first
, I decided. It was only one more day. She’d be back from Italy tomorrow. It would be terribly embarrassing if it turned out to be just part of her lingerie wardrobe.

“And what about any other boyfriends? Last time you mentioned that you were checking that out.”

“We haven’t turned up anything so far—but I’ve sent off Sarah’s laptop and phone to our IT department to see if they can find anything of interest in her emails and other files. They have a bit of a backlog at the moment, but I’m hoping to hear back from them soon.”

There seemed to be nothing more to say and I expected Devlin to ring off but he surprised me by asking suddenly, “Are you free tomorrow night, Gemma?”

“Tomorrow night? Me?”

He sounded amused. “Well, there’s no one else on the phone. Yes, you. Would you like to go out to dinner with me?”

My heart gave a leap. I could feel a silly grin come over my face and was glad that he couldn’t see me. “You mean… to discuss the case?”

“No, I mean to have dinner.” I could hear him smiling. Then his voice changed. “Unless you’re busy again with Lincoln or something.”

I grinned to myself. Was that jealousy I heard in Devlin’s voice?

“No, I’ve got no plans tomorrow night. I’m all yours.” I realised what I’d said and flushed, stammering, “I… I mean…”

Devlin laughed. “I’ll remember that the next time I see you with the eminent doctor,” he said lightly. “So… that’s a yes?”

“Yes… Yes, I’d love to.”

“Great. Fancy Thai? We could go back to the Chang Mai Kitchen,” said Devlin, naming one of our favourite haunts from student days. Chiang Mai was a sophisticated Thai restaurant that was always saved for special occasions. “I’ll come and pick you up at 7:30.”

As soon as he had hung up, I grabbed a cushion and hugged it hard, twirling in a circle. I couldn’t get that silly grin off my face. Then I skipped up the stairs, my mind already busily dissecting my wardrobe, wondering what I should wear. A date with Devlin O’Connor! I felt like I was eighteen again, my head dizzy with anticipation and excitement.

I didn’t want to admit it—even to myself—but I couldn’t help thinking that this might be a second chance, a new beginning for Devlin and me…

My spirits were still soaring the next morning and I hummed a happy tune as I opened up the tearoom. Even the sight of the huge purple elephant in the corner couldn’t vex me—in fact, I fancied that the elephant’s grin was matching mine at the moment. Every time I thought of the date with Devlin that evening, my heart skipped a beat. I couldn’t remember the last time I had looked forward so much to something.

Then Cassie arrived and my spirits plummeted as I remembered that I had to speak to her about Jon and that lace thong. She was looking wonderful after her trip: her eyes were shining, her cheeks flushed, and she looked the epitome of a girl happily in love. I shrank from the thought of being the one to dampen her happiness. She had bought back presents for everyone—a pretty terracotta Florentine bowl for my mother, little gift bars of soap for each of the Old Biddies, and a beautiful set of Chiaverini jams for me. Her thoughtfulness made me feel even worse.

“Oh, Gemma! It was amazing—we did the Uffizi and then Jon took me to the Belmond Villa San Michele and the restaurant there had the most incredible views of Florence… and then we walked along the Arno River and it was
so
romantic! And then we had dinner in this gorgeous little
trattoria
down this side street where they served the most delicious little
bruschettas
…” She laughed. “I told Jon that I was really jealous he got to stay there and sample more delicious Italian food…”

“Didn’t Jon come back with you?” I said, surprised.

“No—he was supposed to, but there was a change of plan. He had the chance to set up a meeting with a fellow art dealer and he said it was too good an opportunity to miss. So he’s delayed his return ’till tomorrow. But he organised a car to pick me up at Heathrow and bring me back to Oxford. He’s just so thoughtful!” She fished a bottle of lotion out of her handbag. “Look, he’d even got me something from that new range at L’Occagnes before we left Heathrow, because I’d mentioned that I love their stuff… and then when we were in Florence, he bought me the most beautiful gold filigree brooch from a local artisan shop. Ohhh…” She sighed dreamily. “It was just absolutely wonderful…”

I stared at her bright happy face and cringed again. For a moment, I thought about putting off asking her about the lace thong—but it wasn’t going to get any easier later.

Taking a deep breath, I said, “Uh… Cassie? Can I have a word with you?”

“Sure,” she said, giving me a quizzical look as she reached for her apron.

“Why don’t we go outside? There’s more privacy there.”

“Okay, Gemma, you’re starting to scare me,” Cassie joked, as she dropped the apron back on the counter and picked up her coat instead. She put this back on and followed me out into the tearoom courtyard.

I leaned against one of the wooden trestle tables and licked dry lips, not sure how to start.

“For heaven’s sake, Gemma—what is it?” Cassie said.

I stuck my hand in my pocket, pulling out the flimsy piece of black satin and red lace. I held it up. “Um… Is this yours?”

Cassie furrowed her brow. “No, it looks like something a prostitute would wear! I wouldn’t be seen dead in something like that. Why? Where did you get it?”

I swallowed uncomfortably. “In Jon’s bedroom. Above the gallery.”

Cassie stared at me, then she demanded, “What were you doing in Jon’s bedroom?”

“We… we were just checking it out, you know…”

“We?”

“The Old Biddies and me,” I said sheepishly.

Cassie’s face started going red. “Are you telling me that you were snooping in Jon’s private quarters with the Old Biddies?

I shifted uncomfortably. “Well, it wasn’t exactly like that—”

“What was it like then?” Cassie’s voice rose with anger. “What the hell did you think you were doing, Gemma? Going behind Jon’s back and sneaking into his bedroom! That’s bloody despicable!”

“We were worried about you, Cassie! I mean, what do you really know about Jon?”

“I know he’s the most wonderful man I’ve ever met,” Cassie snapped.

“But you don’t really
know
anything about him!” I put a hand on her arm as she began to turn away. “Cass—please—you’ve got to listen to me! I mean, what if…” I trailed off, unable to say it.

“What if what?” Cassie demanded.

“What if he’s not telling the truth about his relationship with Sarah Waltham? What if he
is
somehow connected to her murder?”

She stared incredulously at me. “I can’t believe you just said that, Gemma! It’s bad enough that the police would even consider Jon a suspect, but I never expected you to be so dirty-minded too!”

“But, Cassie, you have to admit—it does look very suspicious—”

“It doesn’t look suspicious at all,” she said fiercely.

I could feel my own temper rising. “Oh, come on, Cassie! Why are you being so blind about this? If this was anyone else, you would have been hounding me to report him to the police by now! I never thought that you’d be the type to lose your brains over some stupid infatuation!”

“How dare you!” shouted Cassie. “It’s not a stupid infatuation!”

“Well, you haven’t offered any explanation for that lace thong! Why was it in Jon’s bedroom? If it’s not yours, then whose is it?”

Cassie threw her hands up. “I don’t know whose it is and I don’t care! I’m sure there’s a perfectly good explanation and I’m not going to let your sordid imagination ruin my feelings for Jon!”

“You’re just scared!” I said angrily. “You don’t want to face the truth: that the man you’re going out with might actually be a womaniser, if not a murderer! It’s not like you Cassie; you’ve never been afraid of facing up to anything. Why are you being so pathetic this time?”

“I don’t have to listen to this,” said Cassie icily. She leaned towards me, her eyes cold and furious. “I know we’ve been friends a long time, Gemma, but you’ve really overstepped the mark this time. You had no right to go and check up on Jon behind my back and you’ve got no right to suspect him either! If I’m happy with him, then that’s all that matters!” She jabbed a finger in my chest. “I know you never liked him—yes, I know you try to hide it, but I could tell. You’re completely biased against him and just want to think the worst of him. You might think that being my friend gives you the right to interfere with my love life. Well, let me tell you—it’s none of your sodding business!”

She whirled and stormed back into the tearoom. A moment later, I heard the front door slam, footsteps hurrying out onto the street, and then the creak of a bicycle rolling away.

I sat down slowly on one of the outdoor benches. I was shaking. Cassie and I had never had such a bad fight before. Sure, we had our little differences and arguments—what friendship doesn’t?—but never anything like this. I felt a mixture of anger, hurt, and frustration. Why was she so quick to believe Jon but so reluctant to see my side of things? Did our years of friendship mean nothing to her? Why couldn’t she give my doubts and suspicions some credit too?

I went back into the tearoom and dropped dejectedly down into the seat by the counter. The Old Biddies drifted over to me. They had come in early to help out again and had obviously seen Cassie’s stormy departure.

“Never mind, dear, I’m sure she’ll come round,” Ethel said, patting my shoulder.

Mabel nodded emphatically. “Yes, she’ll be grateful to you later—you’ll see.”

I nodded miserably, not convinced that Cassie would ever forgive me. I wondered if I might have just lost my best friend forever.

The rest of the day was quiet and subdued. I tried not to think about Cassie and threw myself into the work. We were inundated with customers and it was a great sign for the business, but it did little to lift my spirits. My mother’s new Velvet Cheesecake was once again the top seller and she was rushed off her feet, baking more to replace the ones that were rapidly being depleted. The Old Biddies were very kind and I was grateful for their presence—their bustling around and gentle gossiping stopped me from brooding too much and they were a huge help in relieving the workload. Otherwise, without Cassie there, I would have been swamped.

The vet nurse rang around lunchtime to let me know that Muesli was fine and ready to go home. I could collect her any time it suited me. The little cat had shown no symptoms of chocolate poisoning, but she had kept herself busy trying to dismember every dog who came into the veterinary clinic, including a Great Dane who had been traumatised for life.

As the afternoon tea rush was dying down, my phone rang again and I pulled it hurriedly out of my pocket, hoping that it might be Cassie. It wasn’t. It was Devlin.

“Hi,” I said.

“Hey Gemma… something the matter?”

“What do you mean? Why should anything be the matter?”

“Your voice. I can tell. Something’s upset you.”

I was touched by his perceptiveness, but I didn’t want to go into it now on the phone. “It’s nothing. I mean, it’s not nothing, but it’s not something I can explain right now.”

“Maybe you can tell me tonight, then. Actually, that was the reason I was ringing… can we make it eight instead of seven-thirty? I have a feeling I might be held up at the station.”

“Yes, sure… Has something come up in relation to the case?”

He hesitated, then said, “It’s not official or anything but we’re bringing Fiona Stanley in for questioning, with a view to arresting her.”

“Fiona!” I saw the Old Biddies prick their ears across the room. I turned my back on them and walked into the little shop area adjoining the dining room, where I could have some privacy. “Why? Have you found new evidence against her?” I asked.

“IT found something on Sarah’s computer. A bunch of hostile emails between Sarah and several people. Most of it is tame stuff—you know, the kind of sniping and petty nastiness that you see on Facebook and online forums sometimes, but there was one set of emails between Sarah and Fiona which stood out. Fiona’s in particular. She wrote a long, ranting message blaming Sarah for ruining her life and vowing to get revenge. In her own words, she said, ‘You’ll be sorry!’ Now, that might just be a melodramatic cliché, but given the other factors it would be enough to bring her in for questioning—even if we didn’t have the information from the pharmacy.”

“What information?”

“Well, following your tip last night about Fiona’s nicotine patches, I had my sergeant go out and check all the chemists around Oxford this morning. He found a place in Cowley where the clerk remembered Fiona, because she had bought a bulk pack of nicotine patches last week and then came back a few hours later and asked for another. She claimed that the first box got nicked with the rest of her shopping from the basket of her bicycle and that’s why she had to replace it so quickly. The clerk remembered it because they rarely sell such big packs and so many in one day.”

“You think she was trying to extract nicotine?”

“It wouldn’t be the easiest method—but nicotine patches do contain the highest amount of nicotine per mg and you could do it with a solvent extraction. Fiona might have college friends who are chemistry students who could help her. At any rate, it’s worth questioning her about it.” He paused. “Of course, that still leaves the question of
how
she administered the poison to Sarah. If she didn’t do it at the party, then she must have done it earlier in the day…”

I thought back to the day I had gone to the Art School and the way Sarah’s workspace had been cluttered with art equipment, half-filled mugs, and food packets.

“Sarah was at the Art School on Saturday afternoon, before she went to the hospital and the party,” I said. “Do you know if Fiona was there on that day too?”

“Yes, she said she had popped in briefly earlier in the day. Why?”

“Well, it wouldn’t have been that hard to slip something into Sarah’s drink or food unnoticed. That girl was a total slob and the area around her workspace was littered with stuff. And the Japanese girl I spoke to told me that she saw Sarah eating her lunch at the school that day. There’s a communal room where students make hot drinks and stuff. Maybe if Fiona was at the school too, she could have put something into Sarah’s drink or sandwich filling or whatever.”

“Yes… it sounds possible. Something else to question her about,” Devlin agreed. “I might speak to her tutor and some of the students again too—see if they remember seeing the two girls interacting on Saturday afternoon.”

“Sounds like you’ve got a lot to do. Are you sure you’re still okay for tonight?”

“You’re not getting out of the date that easily,” Devlin teased. “I’ll be done here and on your doorstep at eight o’clock.”

I put my phone down and stared into the distance, feeling both better and worse. Better because just talking to Devlin had lifted my spirits a bit. Worse because it seemed that Jon Kelsey might not have been involved in the murder after all, which meant that I may have had the fight with Cassie and possibly ruined our friendship for nothing.

Suddenly I wanted to talk to my friend again, to apologise and try to make up. I could barely wait for the day to be over and, as soon as the tearoom was closed, I hopped on my bike and cycled to Jericho, the trendy, bohemian Oxford suburb where Cassie lived. She rented a studio flat in one of the converted Victorian work houses near the canal, but as I pulled up outside, I could see that the windows were dark. It looked like nobody was home. I rang the bell for good measure. Nothing.

I heaved a sigh of frustration. Where could she have been? Jon wasn’t back from Italy yet so she couldn’t have been at his place. I had tried calling but she wasn’t answering my calls. I thought for a moment, then turned my bike around. I had an idea where Cassie might have gone: to her parents’ place, just around the corner. She always used to retreat into the warm, rowdy bosom of her family whenever she was upset about something.

I made my way to the 19th-century Victorian terrace where Cassie’s parents lived and ran up the path to the front door. The old-fashioned doorbell echoed hollowly, and a moment later the door opened to reveal Cassie’s mother in a woolly smock.

“Gemma! How nice to see you,” she said, stepping forwards and enveloping me in a hug. She smelled of incense and turpentine, and made me think of my schoolgirl days when I used to come over to play.

“Mrs Jenkins—is Cassie home?”

“Yes, she is, but… well… I’m not sure it’s a good time at the moment.”

“I really need to speak to her.”

Mrs Jenkins looked uncomfortable. “Well… Actually… She said that if you were to call, she didn’t want to see you.”

I drew back, hurt. It felt like a slap in the face. Cassie had never refused to see me before. Even in our worst fights, she had always agreed to see me, if only to scream at me some more.

“Can you please talk to her and try to get her to change her mind?”

Mrs Jenkins sighed. “I’ll try. Would you like to come in?”

I shook my head. “I’ll just wait here.”

She gave me a troubled look, then turned and went back into the house. The wait wasn’t long. Mrs Jenkins was back in less than five minutes, looking even more uncomfortable than before. I could see from the expression on her face even before she said anything that the answer was no.

“I’m really sorry, Gemma,” she said, reaching out to squeeze my hand. “I don’t know what’s happened between you girls but it’s not like Cassie to be so stubborn.” She gave a sudden laugh and rolled her eyes. “What am I saying? Being stubborn is Cassie’s specialty! But I’ve never seen her like this before. Was it something very serious?” She looked at me anxiously.

I gave her a wan smile. “It was a… a bit of misunderstanding between us. I said something that upset Cassie. I just wanted to see her to apologise.”

She patted me on the shoulder. “You know Cassie’s temper. It’s that artistic temperament of hers.” She gave a weak chuckle. “Maybe you’d better let her cool down a bit, eh? Give it a few days. Once she’s calmed down, she might be more amenable to reason.”

I sighed and stepped back. “Okay, thanks, Mrs Jenkins. But can you please tell her that I’d really like to make amends and if she… if she feels like talking to me, to give me a ring? Anytime.”

“I will, Gemma. Take care of yourself.”

I walked back to my bicycle, feeling even more dejected than before. As I was about to get on again, however, I suddenly remembered something. I glanced at my watch and gasped. Oh heavens—Muesli! I was supposed to pick her up from the vet! I jumped on my bike and pedalled as fast as I could to North Oxford, hoping that the vet clinic wouldn’t close before I got there. As it turned out, the waiting room still held a few dogs and their owners when I ran into the reception.

“I’m here to pick up Muesli,” I said, panting slightly.

The girl behind the reception grinned. “Oh, Muesli! She’s such a little personality! Everyone’s in love with your cat.” She rose from her chair. “I’ll just go and grab her for you.”

She returned a few moments later with Muesli in her cat carrier. I saw the little cat’s tail go up when she saw me and she let out a loud “
Meorrw
!” in greeting.

“Hello, Muesli,” I said dryly. “Enjoyed your stay?”

Muesli kept up a running commentary as I paid the bill, then I carried her out of the clinic. Twilight had fallen and the streets were in darkness, the activated street lamps still not at their full strength yet. I had originally intended to cycle home with Muesli’s carrier balanced on my basket, but now, in the fading light, I changed my mind. Safer just to wheel the bicycle.

I placed the carrier as securely as I could in the basket—it didn’t quite fit but I managed to squeeze it in tilted at an angle—and then grasped the handlebars and began wheeling the bicycle down the pavement. It was only a short distance to my parents’ house anyway. We were almost there—just passing the corner with the Walthams’ residence—when Muesli surprised me by suddenly letting out a hiss and a menacing growl.

I stopped and looked at her in astonishment. She was staring into the darkness of the lane leading down the side of the Walthams’ house and all her fur was standing on end. Another growl erupted from her, accompanied by angry spitting. I followed the direction of her gaze, straining my eyes to see in the darkness. I couldn’t see a thing.

Muesli growled again and hissed, narrowing her eyes. She could obviously see with no problems at all in the dark and whatever she saw was not making her happy. I wondered if there was a dog down there setting her off. Then, as my eyes began to acclimatise to the dim light, I suddenly made out the shape of a man. He was skulking down the narrow lane, keeping his head down, but I recognised the set of his shoulders and that long, handsome profile.

It was Jon Kelsey.