Till Death Do Us Tart (Oxford Tearoom Mysteries ~ Book 4) Read online

  Till Death Do Us Tart

  Oxford Tearoom Mysteries ~ Book 4

  by

  H.Y. Hanna

  When Oxfordshire tearoom owner, Gemma Rose, enters her little tabby, Muesli, in the cat show at the local village fair, the last thing she expects is to stumble across a murder.

  And when her meddling mother and the nosy Old Biddies decide to start their own investigation, Gemma has no choice but to join in the sleuthing. She soon finds there’s something much more sinister sandwiched between the home-made Victoria sponge cakes and luscious jam tarts …

  But murder isn’t the only thing on Gemma’s mind: there’s the desperate house-hunting that’s going nowhere, the freaky kitchen explosions at her quaint English tearoom and an offer from her handsome detective boyfriend that she can’t refuse!

  With things about to reach boiling point, can Gemma solve the mystery before the killer strikes again?

  ** Traditional Victoria sponge cake recipe at the end of the story!

  Books in the Oxford Tearoom Mysteries:

  A Scone to Die For (Book 1)

  Tea with Milk and Murder (Book 2)

  Two Down, Bun To Go (Book 3)

  Till Death Do Us Tart (Book 4)

  ~ more coming soon!

  Sign up to my mailing list to be notified about new releases, exclusive giveaways, early reader discounts and other book news: http://www.hyhanna.com/newsletter

  DEDICATION

  For my mother, who is as inspiring, lovable—and exasperating!—as Gemma’s mother… and I wouldn’t want her any other way.

  Copyright © 2016 by H.Y. Hanna

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN-13: 978-0-9945272-5-7

  www.hyhanna.com

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  EPILOGUE

  Muffins and Mourning Tea (Oxford Tearoom Mysteries ~ Book 5)

  BOOKS IN THIS SERIES

  GLOSSARY OF BRITISH TERMS

  VICTORIA SPONGE CAKE RECIPE

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  CHAPTER ONE

  Author’s Note:

  This book follows British English spelling and usage

  There is a Glossary of British Terms at the end of the story.

  ***

  If there was one person who could go to an English village fête and end up stumbling on a murder, it would be me.

  To be honest, murder was already on my mind even before I started for the village fair—the murder of my mother, that is. I stood in my parents’ front hallway, weighed down with litter tray, food bowl, water bowl, blankets, salmon treats, vaccination certificate, toy mice, and baby wipes… and wondered how I’d got myself into this mess. I had been looking forward to a rare weekend off—the first holiday I’d had since opening my little tearoom in the nearby Cotswolds village of Meadowford-on-Smythe over six months ago—and, in particular, to spending some time with my long-lost, recently-found-again boyfriend, Devlin O’Connor.

  Devlin was in the Oxfordshire CID and, like most detectives, worked all the hours that God sent—and then some. And I wasn’t exactly a 9-to-5 office girl either. The Little Stables Tearoom was my pride and joy, but it was also a black hole that ate up all my free time and energy. With the coming of the warmer spring weather and tourists flooding into Oxford and the surrounding Cotswolds countryside, business had boomed and I could barely keep up. Aside from the usual serving hours at the tearoom, there were now catering orders which kept me busy well after closing time. Oh, it was wonderful that business was growing like this—it was what I had dreamed of when I’d left my high-flying corporate job to sink all my savings into the tearoom—but it did mean that I barely had a moment to catch my breath, never mind think about a romantic assignation with my boyfriend.

  So what with Devlin’s long work hours and mine, we’d hardly spent much time together since we’d “found each other again” (long story!) and you can imagine how delighted I was when he told me a few weeks ago that he had put in for special leave to take this weekend off. Ooh! I’d instantly started daydreaming of romantic escapes together—a weekend in Paris, maybe? Or a visit to Tuscany? Or wasn’t Copenhagen meant to be really nice this time of the year? Honestly, even just two days ensconced in a cottage somewhere here in the Cotswolds would have been heavenly!

  And then came the blow. Earlier this week, Devlin had rung me and, even before he had said anything, I could tell from the tone of his voice that it was going to be bad news. He had been asked to do an extra shift this weekend and we had to cancel our plans.

  “But why can’t you just tell them to sod off?” I asked, my temper getting the better of me. “You put in for that leave ages ago and it was all approved and everything! They have no right to ask you to do this now!”

  “Gemma…” Devlin’s deep voice was regretful. “I could have said no but I decided it was better to accept.”

  “What? Why?”

  “The Detective Superintendent specifically asked for me. You see, there’s been an increase in ‘agri-crime’ lately. It’s something that’s been getting worse in the past few years and we seem to be having an epidemic of it in Oxfordshire in particular.”

  “Agri-crime? What’s that?”

  “Agricultural crime. Thefts from farms and rural properties. Livestock, equipment, fuel, tools… it’s quite a serious problem. Costs the country tens of millions of pounds each year.”

  “What does that have to do with you?” I demanded. “You’re CID! You don’t deal with petty crime like theft!”

  “No, we don’t normally, but in this instance, one of the recent victims was Julian Greco.”

  The name stirred a memory. “Julian Greco? The actor?”

  “The multi-billionaire top Hollywood actor. He’s also a personal friend of the Superintendent and he decided that he wasn’t happy with just Uniform branch dealing with it. He wanted the best man in the CID to be put on the case and he’d heard about me after the recent murder investigations, especially that stabbing of Professor Barrow in Wadsworth College. That was a pretty high profile case.” Devlin paused, then added, his voice dry, “And you know, when rich, famous people want something, they usually get it.”

  “I still think it’s stupid and unfair,” I grumbled.

  “Well, sometimes in life, you have to remember which side your bread is buttered on. This could be a huge point in my favour when it comes time for my promotion to Chief Inspector. In any case, it’s an honour to be selected as ‘the best man in the CID’—and it’s a matter of ‘face’ for my Superintendent. I can’t let him down, Gemma.”

  “So you decided you could let me down?” I said sharply.<
br />
  Devlin sighed. “You know I’ve been looking forward to this weekend as much as you. I’m just as disappointed as you are. But there will be other weekends, sweetheart. In fact, I’ve already spoken to the Super and he’s promised me a weekend at the end of next month. It’s only a few weeks more and the weather will be even better in May.”

  He was right, I knew, and I was probably being childish and unreasonable, but I couldn’t help the feeling of bitter disappointment. I had been looking forward to this weekend so much and now it was being snatched away from me at the last minute.

  Wait… at the last minute…

  Suddenly I thought of something else. “I’ve given everyone this weekend off,” I said. “So now I can’t even open the tearoom—”

  Devlin groaned. “Can’t you ring Cassie and Dora and asked them to swap around to a weekend next month?”

  “Cassie might but Dora can’t. She’s gone off to visit her sister in Bournemouth. I can’t ask her to change her plans now and we can’t do without our baking chef because we haven’t got any supplies for this weekend. In fact, I asked her to bake less this week so we wouldn’t have too much leftover food. Oh, and actually, Cassie is going to be busy too. There’s the annual village fête in Meadowford this weekend. When Cassie heard that I was closing the tearoom, she decided to get a stall there to sell her paintings.”

  Devlin groaned again. “I’m sorry, Gemma. I really am. I wouldn’t be doing this if it wasn’t important.”

  I heard the genuine contrition in his voice and my heart softened. It wasn’t as if Devlin didn’t want to spend time with me. I knew the importance of a promotion at this stage in his career. Wasn’t I being selfish not to support him?

  “How about if we go out to dinner on Sunday night?” said Devlin. “I should be free by six. I know it’s not the same… but I promise I’ll make it up to you, Gemma. We’ll go somewhere nice next month—make it a really special weekend.”

  I softened even further. “All right,” I said at last. “I’ll see you on Sunday then.”

  I hung up, still feeling a bit peeved, and my mood was not improved when I told my mother the change in plans.

  “But that’s wonderful, darling!” she said. “You can come to the village fête with me and Muesli!”

  I looked at her in surprise. “What are you and Muesli going to do there?”

  “Don’t you remember? I told you—Audrey Simmons from the village fête committee has been telling me all about the Show.”

  “The Show?”

  “The Cotswolds Cat Fancy Club Show, darling! It’s held every year at the Meadowford village fête. There’s a marvellous cash prize donated by English Country Pets, that big pet food manufacturer, and it’s such an honour to be picked as ‘Best in Show’. Anyway, I’ve entered Muesli.”

  I gaped at her. “You’ve what? But, Mother, cat shows are for pure breeds. Muesli is a moggie and—”

  My mother waved a hand dismissively. “I’m sure they’ll never know, darling. Muesli is so pretty, the judges are bound to fall in love with her.”

  “But they’ll be looking to see what kind of breed she is—”

  “Oh, I’m sure Muesli can lay claim to all sorts of breeds in her heritage. In fact, Audrey was telling me about some of the cat breeds and I’m sure I can see all the traits she was describing! Muesli is remarkably clever and loves to explore, just like an Abyssinian… she has the white ‘gloves’ on her front paws, just like a Birman… she loves talking back to you, just like a Siamese … and her lovely stripes and spots are just like a Bengal’s…” My mother indicated my little tabby cat who was sleeping on her lap. “And there’s even a bit of curl to her coat, just like a Cornish Rex! Don’t you think?”

  What I thought was that my mother was completely delusional. Muesli looked like nothing more than a common farmhouse moggie. A very pretty farmhouse moggie but a moggie all the same. Still, my mother was not to be dissuaded. Once she got an idea into her head, it set like cement.

  “And now that you’re free this weekend, darling, it’s ideal! You can come and help me at the show.”

  So that was how I found myself being dragged out of bed early this morning to help my mother wash, groom, and primp Muesli in readiness for her big day. After the bath and blow dry—which left me more traumatised than my cat—my mother brushed Muesli’s short, plush coat until it gleamed and even I had to admit that the little cat had never looked so good. Her dove-grey fur looked almost silver and her beautiful dark stripes spiralled out in perfect symmetry on either side of her spine.

  “Meorrw…!” said Muesli, regarding herself with smug satisfaction in the mirror of my mother’s bathroom.

  “Now, I will just have time to get dressed and do my hair…” My mother looked at me with disapproval. “You’re not going to wear that to the village fête, are you?”

  I looked down at my comfy old chenille sweater and faded jeans. “Yeah, why not?”

  My mother tutted. “Girls are so slapdash these days, with no sense of feminine pride. Presentation is everything! One must always make the effort to look one’s best at all times.”

  “I think I look fine.”

  “Nonsense! You look like something even a cat wouldn’t want to drag in. Why don’t you wear that nice wool dress I bought you, darling—such a lovely style and suits your colouring so admirably.”

  “Mother—”

  “What will the judge think if he sees you looking like that? Such a lack of proper respect for the occasion. We must do everything to improve Muesli’s chances.”

  The only thing that would have improved Muesli’s chances at this point were genetic mutation and total body transformation but I kept my mouth shut and took myself off to my room to change. With mothers, sometimes it was easier to give in than to argue. Besides, I had already written the day off in service of “making my mother happy” so why not humour her all the way?

  But now as I stood waiting for her in the hallway, pulling at the scratchy collar of my “nice wool dress”, I was feeling irritable and peeved. I should have been strolling hand-in-hand with Devlin through some gorgeous European city. Instead, I was going to be staggering hand-in-hand with my mother and sixteen kilos of cat paraphernalia through some smelly community hall.

  Then my mother’s elegant figure appeared at the top of the stairs and she came down slowly, carrying Muesli in her cage. I had to grudgingly admit that they made a very smart pair. Okay, I admit—I might have also begun to feel a pleasant anticipation for the show. In fact, as we drove out into the countryside and approached the quaint, picturesque village of Meadowford-on-Smythe, I found it hard to stay in a grumpy mood any longer.

  It had been years since I’d been to a proper village fête, although I remembered them vividly from childhood: the egg-and-spoon races and tug-o-war games, the Home-made Cake and Jam stall where I stuffed my face, the coconut shy, where I could never hit the coconuts on the poles, no matter how hard I tried, the shaggy Shetland ponies offering rides around the village green… I smiled to myself as the memories came rushing back: how excited I’d been, running from stall to stall, eagerly trying everything!

  As we stepped out of the car, I breathed deeply of the fresh country air and felt my smile widen. Yes, this weekend might not have turned out the way I’d planned, but maybe coming to a traditional English village fête wasn’t such a bad substitute after all.

  ***

  “Oh good, there’s our spot,” my mother said as she led the way across the pavilion.

  Contrary to my bad-tempered musings earlier, the cat show was not being held in some faded community hall but in a large medieval-style pavilion erected in one corner of the village green. I looked around with interest as I followed my mother between the long tables, all draped in white cloth and holding rows upon rows of cat cages, containing every conceivable type of cat. Big cats, small cats, fluffy cats, sleek cats, spotted cats, striped cats, cats with eyes like huge sapphires, and cats with faces like s
quashed teddy bears… I never realised cats came in so many shapes, colours, and sizes!

  My mother stopped in front of an empty cage at the end of a row and began unpacking our things. I transferred Muesli from her carrier to the show cage and the little tabby peered eagerly around, her whiskers quivering with excitement. The cage to her right seemed to be empty except for a large, fluffy white cushion, but in the cage to her left, two biscuit-coloured Siamese cats untangled themselves from their bed and came over to stare at her insolently.

  “Meorrw?” said Muesli, giving them an inquisitive sniff through the bars.

  The larger Siamese narrowed his blue eyes and gave a hiss. “Maaa-ooowww!” he snarled.

  I didn’t need to speak Cat to know that it was something very rude. Muesli stiffened, then flattened her ears and puffed up.

  “Meeeeorrw!” she said indignantly.

  The Siamese gave a contemptuous twitch of his tail and let out an even louder: “MAAAA-OOOWWW!”

  Not to be outdone, Muesli puffed herself up even bigger and thrust her little nose in his face.

  “MEEOOO—” she started to say but I cut in hastily.

  “Er… NICE kitties! Nice kitties… come on, now… let’s be friends…” I raised my hand towards the Siamese’s cage and made a cooing noise.

  “What are you doing to my cats?” a voice snapped behind me.

  I jumped and turned around. A thin, middle-aged woman, with a pinched face and wispy brown hair escaping from a dishevelled bun, stood in front of me, glaring.

  “Nothing,” I said in surprise. “Nothing… I was just saying hello.”

  She gave me a suspicious look. “I saw you put your hand in their cage. Were you adding something to their water?”

  “What? No—why would I do that?”

  She narrowed her eyes. “Don’t think you’ll get away with it.”

  “Get away with what?” I said, exasperated.