Murder at the York Tea Room

By P. G. Roeder

The York Tea Room is an Edwardian-style teahouse located in Sonoma County, the heart of California’s fabled wine country. It is owned by three generations of York women: Hazel, Emma, and Lucille. In this elegant locale, no one would ever expect murder, but a dramatic murder occurs nonetheless, sending a wave of shock washing over the tight-knit community. The York tea ladies step in to solve the mystery and save their business.

In the classic manner of cozy English mysteries, Murder at the York Tea Room brings the genre to a new location with all the intrigue and ambiance of its very British sister works, as three strong, memorable women become the focal point of murder, intrigue, and local secrets.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Archway Publishing
• Release date: Aug 13, 2021
• ISBN: 9781665708050

P. G. Roeder

P. G. Roeder, author of Johnny Outlander, is a writer, editor, chef, intuitive communicator, and connoisseur of both mysteries and tea. She lives in the San Francisco Bay Area with her family and rescue animals, which include dogs, cats, and horses.

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Dramatis Personae

Chapter 1

HAZEL YORK WEIGHED HER options: taking the rolling pin out of her mother’s hands and beaning her with it, or continuing to plead to a deaf ear. She exhaled audibly. After all, she was a York and her mother was a York. They had both been raised by the matriarch of all Yorks, Lucille Sylvan York, and blood and breeding ran true. As a last resort, Hazel dealt her mother the trump card.

Emma, it is our duty.

Emma York glared at her daughter. And why is going to the 4H fund-raiser ‘our duty’? The pancake breakfast is inedible. Emma was the acclaimed chef at the York Tea Room, and the food at the 4H event insulted her to her toes.

That’s not the point. Hazel was unmoved by the culinary limits of the breakfast. We are supporting the kids.

This early morning standoff was taking place in the state-of-the-art kitchen of the York Tea Room in Oldenburg, California, some fifty miles north of San Francisco. It was a charming Victorian clapboard building, painted softly in federal blue and trimmed in the creamy white carved and scrolling gingerbread so typical of the period. The 19th Century building was set in lush green lawns, abundant gardens overflowing in flowers and herbs and vegetables, and the remnants of an ancient heirloom apple orchard. The kitchen and utility systems were the only parts of the old farmhouse that were thoroughly modern. The rest was more elegant Edwardian than rustic rural and, as tea rooms went, the York Tea Room was several cuts above the norm. This Sunday morning, a local community fund-raiser was disrupting the usual routine.

Mother and daughter glared at each other over a familiar chasm. The three generations of York ladies who lived in the house and ran the tearoom were as different from each other as they were fiercely loyal. Hazel, the youngest, tall and impeccably dressed in understated elegance, looked every inch the trust fund baby she was. Her petite mother, Emma, in contrast, wore her signature three-inch sling-back heels that no one believed she could cook in, and had tied her chef’s apron over designer jeans and a scarlet T-shirt that read, I’m not small, I’m funsized. Emma’s red lipstick and high gypsy coloring contrasted sharply with Hazel’s English rose complexion and imperceptible makeup. Their personalities, tastes, and interests were equally diverse.

The third York tea lady and undisputed matriarch was grandmother Lucille, affectionately known as Lulu. Now in her early seventies, the former hippie and Berkeley radical had perfected the persona of an elegant gentlewoman lost in an Edwardian time warp. As official hostess of the York Tea Room, she stood slim and erect in floor-length skirts, her long gray hair piled into an intricate upsweep. In her private moments, she was still known to don jeans and sandals, literally letting her hair down. Lulu had bestowed upon her descendants a generous heart and a deep sense of duty to both family and community. Her conservative upbringing and later years raising daughter Emma in a California commune had left their mark.

It was this sense of duty that granddaughter Hazel now invoked. The 4H fund-raiser was the single biggest annual money-making event for the youth group, and all three of the York tea ladies needed to make an appearance. The Yorks were prominent residents of Oldenburg and it was expected.

Emma made a face. All right, all right, I’ll go to the fund-raiser, but I won’t eat anything!

Fine! But don’t glare at the bake sale table again as if you are expecting something on it to start crawling around and bite you! It’s unnerving for the kids. Hazel consulted her smart watch. We need to be there in thirty minutes. Meet me at the car in fifteen. She turned away, then back again, asking casually, Are you going to wear that T-shirt?

Will it insult your sense of style?

Not at all. Hazel hastily assured her, with a fair show of nonchalance.

Emma gave her daughter a wicked smile.

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The York Tea Room had been Hazel’s brainchild. Located in a picturesque Victorian farmhouse on the outskirts of Oldenburg, it sat deep in the heart of Sonoma County, center of California’s fabled wine country. Wednesday through Sunday, 10:00 a.m.- 6:00 p.m., truly gourmet teas were served in the main floor’s former living room, dining room, parlor and library, as well as in the broad, screened porch that ran along the back (reserved for families with active children.) The great-granddaughter of two University of California-Berkeley professors who, in their spare time, had patented part of the wine-bottling process, Hazel had been born to generations of wealth. Grandmother Lulu, after her hippie and commune-living phase, had returned to the family’s elegant Berkeley hills home to take up a life of environmental and political activism. Lulu’s daughter, Emma, turned her childhood years spent cooking in a commune kitchen into a lifelong love of the culinary arts. Five ex patriot years in Paris, intensely training at the one and only true Le Cordon Bleu, had produced a stellar chef. And a baby daughter. Emma finally returned to Berkeley, little Hazel in tow, to take up residence with Lulu in the family home, and to practice her skills in Berkeley’s legendary Gourmet Ghetto.

Hazel, in turn, had grown up to become the fourth generation York to attend the University of California-Berkeley, affectionately known as Cal. Eschewing the history, art, and English majors of her mother, grandmother and great-grandmother, Hazel followed her greatgrandfather, Winston, into mathematics, then on to Cal’s Haas School of Business for her MBA. She emerged with both her master’s degree and a business plan: the York Tea Room. Firmly believing that living off trust funds was a long-term recipe for disaster, Hazel marshalled her extremely well-connected grandmother into becoming the tea room’s hostess, and her mother into being the country’s sole Le Cordon Bleu chef to cook for a tearoom. The York Tea Room had been an instant success. First came all of Lulu’s friends and associates, then hungry winetasters from the adjacent Xavier Vineyards and other wineries, and the entire town of Oldenburg. Finally, word of mouth had spread, and the York Tea Room was now becoming a destination of its own in the San Francisco Bay Area.

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Hazel checked her watch. Fifteen minutes. She entered her office at the back of the house, across from the kitchen, and sat down at her computer to re-check the day’s reservations. It still looked light for the opening hours. Usually most of the early birds were locals, but today they would all be at the pancake breakfast. Hazel nodded to herself. This was good, especially because Nora was helming the kitchen in Emma’s absence. Nora Talbot was one of the four tea room waitresses. She had shown such an interest in the cooking and baking end of the business, that Emma had taken her on in her free moments as a kind of student and sous chef. Today would be Nora’s first time solo, subbing for Emma. Hazel respected her mother’s judgment on all things cooking; the kitchen would be in good hands. Young Laura Richards, the newest of the waitresses, would be acting as hostess. That left Tina Olivera and Samantha Petrova, the two best workers, to man the tables. Satisfied that all was in order, Hazel again checked her watch. It was time to meet the others at the car.

Lulu was already waiting beside the white Tesla. In a tailored, dusty rose pantsuit and Liberty silk blouse, she looked, as always, elegant. Her eyes lit up at the approach of her granddaughter.

Good morning, Hazel dear

Good morning, Lulu. Hazel hugged her grandmother and gave her a kiss on the cheek.

How are you today?

Exceptionally well, as always. Where’s Emma?

Coming, I hope. I have been guilting her into joining us by appealing to her sense of duty.

Lulu smiled. Emma just resents bad food and any form of coercion. She was coming anyway.

Hazel raised one eyebrow. I’m not so sure about that.

Lulu patiently repeated, She was coming anyway. Why else was she in the kitchen at five o’clock this morning, shouting instructions at poor Nora? Now she’s just irritated with you, so watch out.

Emma appeared on cue at exactly 7:45. She still wore the heels and jeans, but had exchanged the T-shirt and apron for a flowing, scarlet blouse.

Morning, Lulu! she gave her mother a hug, and opened the passenger side door to help her in. Climbing into the back seat, she called to her daughter, C’mon Hazel, we don’t want to be late.

Hazel rolled her eyes and slid into the driver’s seat.

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It wasn’t a particularly long drive to Oldenburg Middle School. Despite the early Sunday hour, the parking lot was already three-quarters full. The blinding sun blazed in pale glory, casting light shadows as it flowed in at its deep morning angle, making everything too bright but promising beautiful weather for the 4H event. Hazel deftly steered the Tesla into one of the few remaining shaded spaces, between a blue pickup truck and a wine red Peugeot. The occupants of the latter were still in their vehicle, and Hazel recognized their neighbors, Jean Pierre (JP) Xavier and his wife, Yvette, of the vineyard and winery that bore their name. Even though the York tea ladies maintained their family home in Berkeley, they currently lived next door to the Xavier winery on the second floor of what had been the original farmhouse, the tea room and offices now taking up the entire ground floor. The hundreds of adjoining acres, once farmland and orchards, now comprised the Xavier Vineyards. An impressive new stone mansion and adjacent winetasting rooms occupied an area that had originally been a Duchess of Oldenburg apple orchard. The Yorks and their popular tea room lent added status to the vineyards and winery, and the Xaviers were good neighbors, serving only the de rigueur cheeses and crackers in their tasting rooms, so hungry visitors could dine at the York Tea Room.

Climbing out of the car, the Yorks greeted their friends. Both Xaviers were tall and slender, and wore clothes that were subtle, always tasteful, and quietly expensive. Americanborn JP was dark-haired and almost too handsome in tailored slacks and an open-necked Polo dress shirt, while his French-born wife, a natural ash blonde who preferred designer frocks over pants and who moved with the assured grace of her countrywomen, wore what had to be a casual Vera Wang original. Yvette greeted her neighbors with genuine warmth and a charming Gallic accent. It is lovely to see you, Madame York, Emma, Hazel. What a lovely day for the children’s breakfast!

It is that. Lulu agreed. "And may I take this opportunity to congratulate you both on your magnificent victory at the California State Wine Fair. I am so glad we purchased several cases of the Xavier Methode Vouvray before it won Best of Show and became so hard to find."

JP waved an admonishing hand. All you have to do is ask, and we will deliver another case.

You are too good. Lulu thanked him. It is an amazing wine.

"We owe it all to Yvette and her family. For years in France they have been blending Pineau de la Loire grapes into excellent vouvrays. We simply followed their lead with the best of our Chenin blancs."

They continued on together, joining the orderly line of people waiting to purchase meal tickets from the 4H members, who were scrubbed and wholesome in their iconic snowy white uniforms and bright green neckerchiefs. While waiting, Yvette asked, You have heard about our, our …? she glanced at her husband, who prompted,

Appreciation.

Appreciation party? We are just planning it.

No, Yvette. What is it? Hazel asked curiously.

Perhaps Jean Pierre could explain it more clearly than I. She smiled at her husband. Yvette was one of those enchanting people whose smiles were infectious. Everyone smiled back without a clue why they were doing it. It was a reflexive response.

Smiling himself, JP picked up the thread. We want to thank our all our workers and their families, our suppliers and vendors, plus all the town officials and their families. Everyone really went all out for us, getting this new wine produced and to the public. It’s our very first Best of Show.

What a charming idea! Lulu approved. And how appropriate.

Naturally, the York tea ladies are invited. Yvette spoke up, once again flashing her gracious smile. We have asked Ashley Fontaine to manage the party, but we would like your input to keep the ‘feel’ correct. Ashley Fontaine was the wine country event planner. She was almost as de rigueur as the tasting rooms’ cheese and crackers.

Are you getting Lombardi’s to do the catering? Emma asked, referring to the sole Michelin-starred restaurant in Oldenburg, and one of the very few in the wine country.

Well, yes, Yvette admitted a bit guiltily, but Emma just laughed.

Excellent choice. Emma approved.

"They do hors oeuvre and full dinner menus." Yvette explained hesitantly.

I know that, Yvette, and I meant what I said, excellent choice. We both know that the tea room doesn’t serve that kind of party food.

Ah, but you are the better chef, no? Yvette ventured with a shrug.

Of course. Emma laughed again, her dark eyes dancing. But Bruno Carpesi could give anyone a run for their money. He is no slouch in the kitchen, referring to Lombardi’s own celebrated chef.

They had finally reached the head of the line and could purchase their tickets. Lulu, Hazel, and the Xaviers continued on toward the tables to pick up their plastic cutlery and paper plates, and join the line for the scrambled eggs, pancakes, sausages and fruit cups. Orange juice, coffee and syrup awaited them on the school’s long, communal cafeteria tables. No one seemed to notice that Emma had wandered off toward the sign reading Plants for Sale, meal ticket still in hand.

Hazel secretly agreed with Emma on the quality of the food. As she ate hard, dry eggs and doughy pancakes with imitation maple-flavored syrup, she reflected on how spoiled they were with Emma’s cooking. Still, one couldn’t expect volunteer-cooked and donated cafeteria food to measure up to the York Tea Room. The 4H was well worth a minor culinary disappointment. Hazel briefly closed her eyes as she suddenly remembered she would need to purchase several items from the 4H bake sale. She usually opted for the lumpiest and most earnest efforts. A purchase from the York tea ladies was a coup for the baker, and Hazel, who loved baking herself, felt nothing but empathy for the most amateur of efforts.

Hazel half-listened, as Lulu carried out conversations with the Xaviers and greeted several of their nearby neighbors. The young 4H servers earnestly hovered with glass pots of regular and decaf coffees, repeatedly pointing out the carafes of orange juice and stainless steel jugs of syrup that sat in the middle of the cafeteria tables. Oldenburg residents young and old, recent and weathered, rubbed elbows with local shopkeepers and the occasional tourist. As people finished and left, new breakfasters would take their places. Everyone greeted each other and made room at the already crowded tables. The Yorks and Xaviers were in the middle of their meal when a booming voice greeted them. It was Quentin Lombardi, with his wife, Helena.

Good morning, good morning! Quentin exclaimed jovially as the pair approached the table. Great turnout, what, and it’s just 8:30! With any luck, they’ll have made piles and piles of money by noon! Animated and effusive, Quentin was almost too Italian to be true, but both the drama and heartiness were real. The restauranteur was a big man, dark, with a receding hairline and blunt features. Even his quieter Helena, beautiful in middle age, had something of the classical voluptuousness of the Italian Renaissance about her. Both their plates were fully loaded and remained pristinely untouched. They had come to support 4H; they did not intend to actually eat the food. Hazel wondered whose answer to the mediocrity of the food was less insulting, Emma’s or the Lombardi’s? She decided Emma won. People would just assume she had already eaten. With the Lombardis, there was no social deception provided. They just didn’t like the food, so it remained untouched on their plates. Hazel noticed with amusement that the Lombardi’s chef, Bruno Carpesi, was conspicuously absent.

Quentin Lombardi beamed at everyone around him. This is great, huh? Just great! What a good cause, these kids! Helena smiled warmly, as the Lombardis moved on to greet other tables.

Well, what do you think? JP asked, obviously picking up on an interrupted conversation.

About what? Hazel asked, startled, realizing she had been in her own reverie and hadn’t been listening. I’m sorry. What was the question?

Hazel my dear, Jean Pierre wants to know if the planning meeting for the appreciation dinner could be held at the York Tea Room. Neutral territory, so to speak. Lulu told her granddaughter. Our input is requested in case Ms. Fontaine waxes too grandiloquent in her preparations. Only Hazel caught the faint irony in her grandmother’s voice.

"Well, certainly we could arrange something at the tea room.