Scone Cold Murder: Penny Lane Book Club Mystery, #1

By Mary Ann Tippett

Murders at the Penny Lane Book Club were supposed to stay on the page. But after Jolee Lennon accuses its members of mistreating her friend and business partner, she's later found dead. Daisy wants to know who killed her best friend and owner of the hair salon where she works. As a part time law student, it's her only means for paying her tuition. But the salon's co-owner has disappeared. To make matters worse, Daisy suspects her own mother is hiding something.

 

Although distracted by Brett Harnette, a hunky officer assigned to the case, Daisy focuses on reopening the salon and identifying suspects. With Brett's help, she uncovers incriminating information relating to Jolee's presumed allergic reaction. Unsure about opening herself up to heartbreak, with emotions running high, Daisy's busy and predictable life is thrown off balance. Charmed by Brett's attention, Daisy entangles herself in a maze of suspects and motives. The closer she gets to solving her friend's murder, the riskier her safety becomes. Can Daisy identify the murderer before the killer closes in on her?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mary Ann Tippett
• Release date: Feb 17, 2023
• ISBN: 9781777940935

Mary Ann Tippett

MARY ANN TIPPETT is a writer living in Ottawa. She has a Doctor of Jurisprudence degree from Indiana University. Other published novels include Clara & Pig and Pairs With Pinot. For more information, visit her blog at www.maryanntippett.ca

Book preview

1

6 A.M. Thursday, September 16

Jolee Lennon was face down just inside Kensington Park.

Petra found her at 5:15 in the morning after baking several dozen scones at her coffee shop, Petra’s Pastry Café. She had to walk from one corner of Lockerbie Square to the opposite corner where she rents the top floor of a restored Victorian mansion called the Foote House.

The Kensington Park garden is just behind a gate that is unlocked sporadically by a groundskeeper. This morning, as Petra passed the Park she found the gate open, prompting her to step inside and reflect on her life choices. (Why she had not delegated the 3 AM scone making to one of her students, for example.)

She was now recounting these details (not the life choices part, she told me that later) to the officer at the scene. Mom and I were staring at the body’s sprawled out backside. Jolee’s purple-tipped blond locks were uncharacteristically askew, her dress was hiked up too high (it was the polka dotted dress she’d worn to the Salon the previous day), and she was laying face-down on the grass by a flowering shrub.

I found her and called 911 right away, Petra explained, before pointing at me. Then I texted Daisy.

The police officer cocked his head at me, a not-quite-smile at the corner of his smooth-shaven mouth. You always awake at, he glanced at the notebook in his hand, five in the morning, Miss…?

McCartney, I told him. Daisy McCartney. And yes. Petra knows I study off and on all night. My body wanted to squirm under his appraising stare. His eyes, brown and serious, appealed to the wrong side of me. The side I try to keep under wraps, lest I lose my footing and trip over my heart. I’m always up late studying, I added. His chocolate eyes searched mine, which made me nervous. I ramble when I’m nervous. I work all day at Jolee’s Salon. And I go to law school at night. Hence, the late night studying. I half expected Jolee to lift her head and explain the rest. She works too hard, this girl. Jo would say. I don’t know how you do it, Daisy. Don’t you want a social life? You’re all the social I can handle, I’d tell her.

I see, said the officer. And how do you know Ms. Lennon? He glanced at Petra, who was staring at the body, shaking her head.

She’s a good friend, I said, meeting his eyes and feeling a lurch in my stomach. I watched Petra walk over to the fountain, pausing in front of the trickle of water spewing over itself into the basin. We met at book club. She doesn’t go anymore, I added, thinking back to the early meetings, when I had time to kill.

And how do you two know each other? he asked, nodding over at Petra. She teaches near the law school. Sometimes I catch a ride. And she’s the best friend I have left, I didn’t add.

I don’t understand, Mom interrupted, gesturing to Jolee’s backside. How did she die? She was just at my house a few hours ago. Her eyes scanned Jolee’s body like she might find an encoded answer there. She was fine. She was… Mom’s voice trailed off. She and I both knew Jolee was not fine.

2

1 P.M. Thursday September 17

On Penny Lane there is a teacher of philosophy.

It’s a class that students drop more than they keep.

Their lack of faith has cut Petra deep.

She can barely sleep.

---

In the summer she bakes pastries for the coffee shop

Where my mom and her two clones go twice a week.

The chocolate maca scones are gluten free

And not too sweet.

(Not for me)

---

Penny Lane is partly old and partly new.

Neighbours that get along are oddly few.

(I have too much to do)

---

From Penny Lane I ride my bike to Jolee’s Hair Salon.

I do foils and sweep the floors from 9 to 5.

I’m late to Law School most every night.

(I don’t mind)

---

Behind our street there’s a museum that takes a lot of space.

Mom and Rita run the gift shop and the tours.

After work they go out for Dewars.

(Georgette demurs)

---

On Penny Lane we held a book club when we first moved in.

It was fun when pastry Petra used to show.

We would chat, eat cake, wine would flow.

(I no longer go)

---

On Penny Lane the book club dwindled down to five,

Then two dropped out and gathered on the side,

And no one said goodbye…

Then Jolee died.

---

It’s not exactly a normal way to handle grief. Writing a poem that feels like a song. And suggesting someone read it at the funeral. But I’ve never lost a friend before. And nothing feels normal at the moment.

---

Paula. That’s my mom. She said there will likely be a memorial, not a funeral. The body would probably be examined by a pathologist. Who I picture poking at bodies, and converting tissue samples and carpet lint into factoids. I was just two weeks into law school. All I knew about criminal law was mens rea. Which relates to the mind of the killer. Not the brain stuff of the victim.

---

I don’t think it’s appropriate for a memorial service, Paula said. She had one hand on the tear-stained piece of notebook paper on which I wrote said poem. The other was on my knee. I watched her reread the poem as I slumped on the couch and stared at memories framed over the mantle. "I don’t quite agree with your word clones. We look nothing alike."

---

I’m sorry. I had zoned in on the photo of Mom, Dad and me at graduation. The separation anxiety I felt from the divorce tugged at me anew. You three seem to beat to the same drummer. That’s what I meant by clones.

---

Mom stifled a sob and blotted an eye with her sleeve, leaving a smudge on the white ruffle. I think I may have killed her, Daisy.

---

No way. You loved Jolee, I said. As if that’s a perfectly normal response to your mom copping to murder.

---

Oh honey. Paula dropped my poem onto the marble coffee table and hugged me close. You loved her too. I’m so sorry.

---

I laid my cheek on her shoulder while she cried. I thought about the rift between my mom and Jolee. Jo, Mom always called her. I wondered how Yolanda was feeling right now. She was probably blaming Mom for Jolee’s death.

---

The doorbell rang. Actually, it buzzed. It’s one of those old time-y doorbells circa 1850’s that doesn’t work anymore. It has been re-wired, cleaned out and re-installed to no avail. Mom refuses to replace it because something new would be out of place in our vintage stick house. Pzzzzzt-uhh, it went again.

---

I left Mom snivelling into her sleeve and answered the door, which is maybe ten steps from the couch. Our tiny foyer is only slightly bigger than the tiny front porch. On that porch, I found Karen, our neighbor, holding a dish covered with foil. Her