Steeped in Murder: Tea Time Troubles

By Aubrey Elle

Naomi and Ella have embraced many firsts since moving to the small town of Fayette. Now that school's out, the mother-and-daughter duo stays busy helping their neighbors prepare for their tea shop opening on Main Street. Delays and obstacles pop up from the beginning—competition for the building, deliveries showing up too soon, and Barbara and Ingrid disagreeing on the details. But nothing throws a wrench in the plans like the health inspector being poisoned on site.

 

Owen Zenna was supposed to help them plan renovations for the second floor. Now that he's dead, the enigma of his murder complicates Naomi's efforts of getting Tea Time ready. Most of all, the women are pressed with the urgency to identify who would poison one of their own. If such a crime could happen before they open, what would they do if it occurred on their watch, with their drinks?

 

Chief Mooney and his officers try to crack the case, following the tips and leads from everyone within proximity of the drugged beverage. Despite so many people being near it, no one seems to have a clue. Without an answer, Naomi can't help but feel Tea Time is doomed.

 

Among love spats, quarreling neighbors, old grudges, and family disagreements, plenty could have had a motive to poison the know-it-all health inspector. When another person is found dead among the renovation debris at Tea Time, it seems Naomi needs to consider the possibility this new adventure of managing a tea shop might be over before it even starts.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Aubrey Elle
• Release date: May 8, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223240242

Book preview

Chapter One

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As we waited around in the renovation mess of what would soon be Ingrid and Barbara’s tea shop, I wondered how we could pull it off on time.

Can we pull it off on time? So many things were delivered daily, I wasn’t sure where we’d store them all if we couldn’t.

What about these? Paul asked. He strolled up to me, halting my pacing as we waited for a meeting about the renovation.

Since school was out for the summer and his running camps hadn’t begun yet, Paul made good on being a friend rather than my employer as the assistant principal at Fayette High. He’d shown up daily to help us get Tea Time closer to opening. Whether it be as a handyman assistant, moving boxes, prepping for paint, or, in this instance, searching for different tables to order.

Let me see, Barbara said, bustling over from where she and my teenage daughter Ella were arguing—again—about the vibe the peachy paint gave off. Barbara thought it was retro but maybe too much like an ice cream shop, while Ella insisted it was a weak symbol of too much pep.

I was staying far, far from that discussion. Call me practical. Ella excelled in the advanced placement art theory class she’d signed up for over the spring, and Barbara told us she was the one with an eye for aesthetics. They could both be the artsy experts as far as I was concerned. I’d been preemptively hired to manage the tea shop, so I’d let them haggle about the color schemes ’til they turned blue.

I cast one more glance at the front windows, checking for Mr. Barnet to show. We were waiting on him—and the health inspector—but so far, we had a few more moments of downtime. Scooching over as Paul stood next to me, I rose on my tiptoes to look around his shoulder until he sat. Barbara crossed her arms, looking at his phone from his left.

Oh. She grimaced. No! Those are awful.

Now what? Ingrid muttered, coming up behind the long counter the contractors had yet to finish. The shop space on Main didn’t have many accommodations ready for a tea shop or any sort of eating and drinking establishment. Which made sense. Before Mr. Barnet let this corner shop sit vacant for years, his father ran a video rental place here. Those had gone out of business years ago, and the interior was cleared out to offer nothing. No long counter stood waiting for us. No abundance of seating arrangements to take advantage of.

When our neighbors homed in on renting this site, they hadn’t realized how they’d literally be starting from scratch.

What’s wrong with those? I pointed at the bistro tables Paul had found on a wholesale restaurant website. Black material would be easy to retouch for painting, and simple to clean too. Sturdy-looking legs. Not too fancy to stand out. And most importantly, per the search requirements Paul had known to look for, wide sides to make it ADA compliant. Maybe? I couldn’t read the fine lines in the small font of the specs.

For one, they’re ugly, Barbara insisted.

Ingrid leaned over the bright, unfinished plywood of the beginning of the counter bar. Let me see.

Paul slanted back, leaning his elbow on the wood to show her his phone too. They’re simple, but...

Ingrid dismissed us with a wave. Eh, they’re fine.

Barbara slitted her eyes at her best friend. You hardly even looked at them!

Ingrid rolled her eyes and shook her head. They might not be pretty, but they’ll work.

They’re plain. Barbara looked at the small image of the tables again. And so boring. No life, no character.

Paul swiped his thumb to show the suggested chairs to match the table.

Ugh! No. She leaned in to swipe too, quickly browsing the chair options. No. No. Oh, heck no.

Ella joined us too, peering at Paul’s phone from the front. She ducked her chin to her chest to glance at the screen upside down. I like that one, she said, pointing at the plainest chairs that looked more like low-back stools.

Hmmm. I winced. "Those low backs might look chic but they’re uncomfortable to sit on for long."

They’re the cheapest, too. Probably low quality, Ingrid said. You get what you pay for.

"And we don’t want chic, Naomi, Barbara argued. It’s a tea shop! Not another coffee place."

Ella huffed and stalked off, muttering under her breath. I give up.

I narrowed my eyes at my only child. Oh, no, she wasn’t giving up. She’d be here for a summer job if it was the last thing I did. After a childhood of wealth with my ex and his toxic family, I was eager to have Ella learn the experience of something other than being spoiled rotten.

But I knew it was a figure of speech. Deep down, she was just as excited about this shop opening as the rest of us. We all hummed with the excitement of a new project this big.

Our neighbors debated and hem-hawed so long about even opening this place that it was no surprise their indecision would continue as they tried to make Tea Time a real deal. Butting heads and sticking to contrasting priorities made for interesting arguments.

Ingrid worried more about the behind-the-counter operations and the selections of tea. She’d spent the most time researching ingredients and sourcing drinkware. Meanwhile, Barbara spoke whimsically about what she’d like to bake and offer on the menu—already a complicated changing system according to seasons. She was also more concerned about appearances. Her goal was for this to be a true tea shop. Where customers could buy tea, drink it and gossip, or snack on baked goods.

Tea Time wouldn’t be a coffee shop. Nor would it be a duplicate of Fayette’s one and only café in town, just across the street. It would be a tea haven.

Which was where I came in. The levelheaded manager to smooth out the details before they got carried away.

Unfortunately for me, those details added up to complications. First, some Erica woman argued that Mr. Barnet should consider renting the place to her—as family. Ex family, really, since she was his son’s ex-wife. She couldn’t manage a loan without a business plan, resulting in an unnecessary delay.

Then getting Buck, the contractor, to start renovations.

And then the constant arguments between Barbara and Ingrid that popped up every single day.

Paul came to my rescue. They do look like they’d be uncomfortable.

Don’t they have any prettier ones? Barbara asked. "Something that doesn’t scream made from IKEA?"

Hey. I smiled at her. Why didn’t we think of that? IKEA was only a couple hours’ drive away...

"I want authentic," Barbara pleaded, enunciating each syllable with a gesture of her hands.

This counter sure will be authentic, Buck said as he strode in, carrying another piece of wood. He slapped the wood. No pressed pine or composite junk here.

I huffed. I’d say so, too. The lumberyard receipt proved he was carrying fancy and expensive oak there. Perhaps I wasn’t only the level-headed manager-to-be. More like a penny pincher.

Someone has to step up and be it!

You got that right, Buck, Ingrid said. She nodded at the piece, likely envisioning how the grains would show once they were stained. It’ll be gorgeous.

"Oh, so you can splurge to get the stained-wood countertop, Barbara argued. But I’m being silly to want decent, attractive tables and chairs?"

B. Frustrated, Ella slapped the color swatches for paint against her thigh. Ingrid’s right to insist on high-quality, natural wood for the counter. It’ll hold up and also be neutral so as not to detract from the tea junk cluttered all over—

Not junk, Barbara interrupted.

—and who cares about attractive tables when you’ll have tablecloths covering them? And attractive chairs? People park their butts there and hang their coats over the backs. Ella widened her eyes with an emphasis on an unspoken duh! and shrugged theatrically.

We all glanced at each other for a moment. Paul smiled, nodding. Ingrid laughed once in triumph. Barbara smirked.

Good point, El, I said as I pulled out my phone and added coat hangers or hooks? to the never-ending list of things I didn’t want to forget.

However, Ella said, "the wall colors do matter, so I suggest..."

Oh... Barbara grumbled, hurrying over to her to resume their debate.

Honestly, it’ll depend, Paul commented, bookmarking the website on his phone. Some of these tables and chairs have an asterisk for ADA compliance criteria in their specs, so I’ll need to go through and really look at them. Or maybe I can see what Owen says, if he’s got measurements memorized. It was kind of nice of him to offer to come today and talk about the upstairs.

Oh, sure. Nice of him. I shook my head. The health inspector would need to check off Tea Time before opening. We all knew and expected that. Owen Zenna happened to be the inspector who would be signing off on the final check, though, and I couldn’t help but think the man got a power trip doing his job.

He’d popped in casually, nit-picking already. The way he saw it, we’d have plenty of issues. He stopped by without an invite when he just happened to be near to spout his insight. We intended to do everything by the book. Of course, we did. We wanted Tea Time to be a success. Yet that man was a thorn in my side. The way he adopted such authority and reveled in it even this early in the process. Like a nagging parent sounding so cocky in an I’m older and wiser and I know better than you do tone.

It would be nice if the government website for accessibility requirements wasn’t down. Then we could avoid Owen for now and simply look up the measurements and dimensions necessary to ensure everything would be approved.

Ingrid giggled. More like it was kind of nice his common sense prevailed with what Barbara first envisioned.

Which was to hit up garage sales and antique fairs to selectively choose an artful and tasteful variety of tables and chairs. I was all for saving money when possible here. It seemed like all they did was spend! Capital investments, yes. I knew. But I doubted mismatched furniture would have turned out well.

Speaking of Owen... Paul sipped his coffee from the Styrofoam cup the café used.

I frowned. Those weren’t an environmentally conscious option. Did those cups ever break down? I pulled my notes up on my phone again. Look into eco-friendly cu— I sighed, seeing that very entry four lines up and deleting the repeat.

Where is he? Ingrid asked, leaning around Paul to glance out the front windows. He was supposed to be here ten minutes ago with Mr. Barnet, Gin, and Buck to chat about what to keep in mind if we renovate the second floor, too.

That was the biggest delay in all of this. The last-minute idea that instead of renting the first floor from Mr. Barnet, he could sell us the whole building.

Everyone was excited about the chance to expand, to have more seating upstairs. This first-floor space was limited. Yet when he signed rental papers with Ingrid and Barbara, Mr. Barnet hadn’t explained that he actually owned the whole building.

I was pragmatic. Wait for Tea Time to open and be successful. Then expand. Ingrid agreed. Ella and Barbara though, operated with a giddy go big or go home mentality.

Just at that moment, through the wide windows, we spotted them both crossing the street. Mr. Barnet and Owen exited the café at the same time, holding to-go cups. Next to them, Gin, Fayette’s trusted HVAC man, seemed to tell a joke, sending the others to laughter.

About time. It seemed I ran at a nonstop impatient pace to get this tea shop open and running. Who could fault me? It was my neighbors’ dream and I wanted them to succeed. But it would also be my job and sole income to support Ella. We needed to make this work on schedule.

I went to the door to let them in.

Sorry we were late, Mr. Barnet said in greeting. I thought it wasn’t until 10:30 to meet and I had time to get coffee.

Owen smirked at his watch, then jerked his thumb toward the café. And their cash register was out. Couldn’t read cards. Couldn’t open the cash drawer...

I almost thought they’d get a crowbar to pry that thing open, Gin joked.

Well, we’re all here now, I said cheerily as I led them inside before calling out to Barbara and Ingrid.

As we walked through the construction-riddled space, Gin and Mr. Barnet set their drinks down. I followed Barbara and Ingrid. In the lead were Mr. Barnet and Owen. Buck and Gin, coming along to discuss the construction part of this idea, trailed after us. Together, we wove through the renovation mess, leaving Ella with Paul to further consider the colors.

Everyone who needed to be included in the discussion about the second floor headed toward the back door, where an old but surprisingly wide staircase would take us up to what Mr. Barnet belatedly explained was an empty floor.

He limped up the steps, and I couldn’t remember the story behind his handicap. A medical mishap? A dog attack? I felt like someone had told me, and it seemed like a sad story of misfortune. Ella and I hadn’t lived in Fayette for a full year yet, but I was slowly but surely getting to know everyone in the small town.

As he climbed, though, I listened to Owen’s comments about making sure the stairs could be compliant. Mr. Barnet was living proof of the need for accommodation. He reached for the wall where a handrail should have been.

I almost thought about having it remodeled back after...well... Mr. Barnet glanced at Owen, who grunted. After I came into some money, Mr. Barnet finished.

Hey, I remember that, Buck piped in.

That’s right. I spoke with you about it, Mr. Barnet said, pausing to catch his breath.

I frowned, worried the steps were too much for him.

Buck chuckled.