Murder with Darjeeling Tea, page 1
WHEN MURDER CALLS
Daisy answered her phone and saw that Trevor was calling. Her instead of Tessa? She remembered when he’d called her before out of the blue. A shiver of foreboding made the hairs on the back of her neck prick up.
She answered, “Hey, Trevor. Does Tessa have her phone turned off?”
“No, I wanted to talk to you. She told me you went out to Wilhelm Rumple’s place to buy a birthday present for Jonas.”
“I did.”
He went on, “And I know Jonas volunteers at Four Paws Animal Shelter.”
“He does,” she responded warily.
She heard Trevor let out a breath and braced herself for what was coming.
“There was a death at Four Paws. Wilhelm Rumple was found dead in a dog run.”
Daisy swallowed hard. “Did he die from natural causes?”
This time, Trevor didn’t hesitate. “I’m afraid not. Someone bashed him in the head ...”
Books by Karen Rose Smith
Caprice De Luca Mysteries
STAGED TO DEATH
DEADLY DECOR
GILT BY ASSOCIATION
DRAPE EXPECTATIONS
SILENCE OF THE LAMPS
SHADES OF WRATH
SLAY BELLS RING
CUT TO THE CHAISE
Daisy’s Tea Garden Mysteries
MURDER WITH LEMON TEA CAKES
MURDER WITH CINNAMON SCONES
MURDER WITH CUCUMBER SANDWICHES
MURDER WITH CHERRY TARTS
MURDER WITH CLOTTED CREAM
MURDER WITH OOLONG TEA
MURDER WITH ORANGE PEKOE TEA
MURDER WITH DARJEELING TEA
Published by Kensington Publishing Corp.
Murder with Darjeeling Tea
KAREN ROSE SMITH
Kensington Publishing Corp.
www.kensingtonbooks.com
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
Table of Contents
WHEN MURDER CALLS
Books by Karen Rose Smith
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELE/EN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
EPILOGUE
ORIGINAL RECIPES
KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 2022 by Karen Rose Smith
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the Publisher and neither the Author nor the Publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”
The K and Teapot logo is a trademark of Kensington Publishing Corp.
ISBN: 978-1-4967-3398-6
ISBN: 978-1-4967-3400-6 (ebook)
To the men and women involved in animal rescue.
You make this world a kinder place.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I would like to thank Officer Greg Berry, my law enforcement consultant, who so patiently answers all my questions. His input is invaluable.
CHAPTER ONE
Daisy Swanson and her son-in-law, Foster Cranshaw, stood on a rural road outside the more bustling tourist area of Willow Creek, Pennsylvania. The small town was nestled deep in Lancaster County Amish country. Together, they faced a stone cottage that looked like something out of a fairy tale. With its red shutters, gabled roof, and arched wooden front door, it gave off a quaint air.
The September breeze, with notes of cooler days ahead, lifted Daisy’s blond hair and tossed it away from her face. Scents from the pine forest near the eastern side of the cottage lingered, wafting toward her.
“Have you ever met Mr. Rumple?” Foster asked as they headed toward the fence to the side of the house with its sign RUMPLE’S STATUARY.
“I don’t think he’s ever visited the tea garden, but so many of my clients have bought statuary here. They tell me he’s a little odd. I’m not sure what that means.”
“We’re about to find out,” Foster warned as the gate on the fence opened.
A dog trotted out. Daisy had seen photos of canines like this one. It was a Plott hound, probably weighing in at about fifty pounds. His brown coat was brindled—striped with tan.
Foster’s elbow nudged Daisy’s. “Stand perfectly still.”
They did, but Daisy soon realized there was no need for that.
After the hound stopped about three feet from them, a short man exited the backyard and smiled as he approached.
Foster leaned toward Daisy’s shoulder and murmured for her ears only. “He looks like a troll.”
“Foster,” Daisy chastised, though looking at the little man, she had to admit there was some truth in Foster’s description.
Wilhelm Rumple was a stumpy man with unusual features. His brown hair was curly, fuzzy, and stuck out around his head. His nose was large and his mouth wide. His ears were more pronounced because of the style of his hair. He wore red overalls with a long-sleeved black T-shirt underneath. His feet were bare as he stood on the concrete walkway that led into his backyard.
“Mrs. Swanson?” he asked with a tilt of his head and a smile, as he extended his hand to her. The dog stood at his side.
“Yes.” Daisy glanced at the dog who seemed stoic. “We spoke on the phone yesterday when I called to ask about your hours.”
“I never forget a potential sale,” he assured her with a wink. “This time of year, I don’t have many customers stopping by, so private appointments are good to make sure I’m around.”
Daisy introduced Foster, and he too shook Mr. Rumple’s hand. “I’m the manpower,” Foster said in a kidding tone. “In case whatever Daisy buys is heavy.”
“Come on into the backyard,” Mr. Rumple invited. “Hans, here, won’t bother you. I already told him you’re safe. Tell me what you’re looking for.”
Following Mr. Rumple and Hans, Daisy realized she’d had never seen so many concrete statues. There was a lion practically as huge as a real one. It was surrounded by smaller statues that were replicas of frogs, birds, toadstools, and children. They were lined up everywhere in no particular order.
When Foster gave her a wide-eyed look, she almost laughed. She answered the proprietor’s question. “I’m looking for a statue for my boyfriend. He adopted a golden retriever. I thought a lawn ornament depicting one would be nice.”
“I sell a lot of these,” Mr. Rumple said, waving his hand over his backyard. “But I have a collection of dogs if you’re considering a birthday gift for someone special.”
“More expensive than these?” Foster guessed.
Mr. Rumple grinned. “Exactly. I keep them inside if you’d like to see them. Then you can decide if you want a collectible for a shelf or something larger for the outdoors.”
Daisy wasn’t exactly sure about going into a stranger’s house, but Foster was with her, and after all, this was Rumple’s Statuary ... a business. As she’d told Foster, many of her clients at the tea garden bought from Mr. Rumple and seemed pleased with their purchases.
Foster gave her a shrug as if this decision were up to her. She’d come to love this young man as she would a son. He and Vi, her older daughter, hadn’t married under the best of circumstances because Vi had been pregnant. But they were doing their best to forge a life together.
The truth was that Daisy respected Foster more and more each day. His russet-brown hair had also been blown by the wind, and his rimless glasses were slipping down his nose. He was wearing jeans and a green windbreaker with the Millersville insignia—the college he attended. Like Daisy, he’d worn sneakers, not knowing where they’d be trekking.
“I’d like to see what you have,” Daisy responded to the man, curious about the inside of the cottage. Even the back entrance had a storybook quality with its little red gable that protected the back door.
“Come on then,” Mr. Rumple encouraged, leading them to the granite steps.
On her way, Daisy passed a four-foot alabaster statue of a boy with a fishing rod. Beside him was a two-foot concrete statue of a little boy reading to a dog. That one was cute. She didn’t see any replicas of cats. Her two felines would be insulted. Maybe Mr. Rump
They entered a kitchen that was compact and tiny. However, it was up to date with stainless steel appliances and granite countertops. The knotty pine cupboards, somewhat like those in her own kitchen, gave this space an old-world air.
“This is an unusual cottage,” she said to its owner. “When was it built?”
Rumple turned to them as he led them past a living room with a stone fireplace that had a wood stove insert and then into a room on the left. “The original house was built in 1934. When I bought it, I completely gutted and renovated it.”
“The millwork around the doors is beautiful,” Daisy noted.
“That’s oak. I did that all myself. I also used it on the walls in my office.”
In Wilhelm Rumple’s office, she studied what looked like a floor-to-ceiling gun safe. The room wasn’t large. There was a blond oak desk adorned with a small Tiffany lamp, but she noted the absence of a computer. Maybe there was a laptop in one of the drawers ... or elsewhere.
Mr. Rumple’s dog sniffed up and down the legs of Daisy’s jeans. Mr. Rumple asked, “Do you mind?”
“Not at all,” Daisy responded with a smile. “He probably smells my two cats.”
The man wrinkled his broad nose as if the idea of cats wasn’t attractive to him. Then he requested, “Can you and your son-in-law turn around while I open the safe?”
Now Daisy was intensely curious to see what was inside the appliance. From the interested expression on Foster’s face, she could tell he was curious, too.
Daisy heard the beep-beep-beep as Mr. Rumple tapped in digits. She counted six.
There was another second or two until the man said, “Okay, you can look now.” He set his thumb on a small square on the side of the digital pad. After another beep and a green light, he swung open the safe’s door.
That was some secure safe!
As the Plott hound finished sniffing Daisy’s legs and settled on the floor beside her sneakered foot, she peered into the safe. With a glance at Foster, she saw that his eyes behind his glass lenses were wide.
The shelves within the safe narrowed in height. There were six of them. Mr. Rumple began to explain what they were seeing. To that effect, he’d taken a pointer with a stiff felt tip from his desktop.
From her first glance at the dog figurines on the shelves, Daisy suspected they were all collectibles.
Mr. Rumple began with the lowest shelf, which was about five inches high. The first dog he pointed to looked to be primitive art.
“This is a paperweight,” he explained. “As you can see in the casting, it’s a Plymouth Foundry iron dog with the price of five hundred and fifty dollars.” He gave Daisy a wink. “Everything, of course, is negotiable.”
Daisy’s gaze traveled to the next dog, a replica of a Dalmatian.
Mr. Rumple carefully pointed to that. “That’s a Victorian bronze doorstopper. The price comes in at five hundred and ninety-five dollars.”
Foster stooped closer to the floor. “How can that be a doorstopper when it’s only as tall as a soda can?”
Mr. Rumple straightened to study Foster. “It’s very heavy ... small but mighty, and all that.”
Foster straightened, too, and arched his brows at Daisy. “Which is the most expensive dog you’re selling? Not that Daisy’s interested. But I’m curious,” Foster confessed.
Mr. Rumple didn’t seem put off by Foster’s question. “The priciest collectibles here are those.” He pointed to a pair of blue dogs on the center shelf. “Four thousand for these. Herend Reserve Sapphire Blue Chrysanthemum Foo Dogs, porcelain, made in Hungary with twenty-four-karat gold accents. They only made a hundred pairs. The folklore says these dogs keep away evil spirits.”
“They should, for that price,” Foster muttered.
Mr. Rumple just gave a short, almost cackling laugh. “You’d be surprised what folks value. I have an eighteen-karat gold pug pin on the way to me that will sell for six thousand dollars.”
Foster’s eyes almost glazed over. “I hope you have security on this place.”
“Oh, I do. And I don’t just show anyone this collection. But speaking with your mother-in-law yesterday, I had the impression she might appreciate it.”
“Oh, I do,” Daisy responded. “But I really am searching for something simpler.”
Mr. Rumple nodded. “Let me secure this, and we’ll go look for something out back.” Moments later, Mr. Rumple commanded his dog, “Outside, Hans.”
The dog headed out of the room towards the back door.
As Mr. Rumple led them through the house once more, Foster leaned close to Daisy. “There weren’t even any normal-looking dogs in that safe. Why would he think you were interested?”
“Maybe he thinks I’m a high roller,” Daisy teased. “Or ... I did mention I owned the tea garden. Maybe he thinks I’ll spread the word.”
Daisy again admired the stone fireplace and chimney as she walked through the living room. She preferred a real wood fire, and that’s why she hadn’t had a wood stove insert installed into her fireplace. But she supposed Mr. Rumple’s method kept the house warmer.
Outside again, Mr. Rumple said, “Come on. I’ll show you the section where I have the most dogs.”
They walked down a gravel path, turned right at a concrete bench, and entered an area where statues stood in an assortment of heights. She spotted a greyhound right away. Another statue, about two feet high, resembled a cocker spaniel.
Suddenly, there was a yell from the gate where Daisy and Foster had entered the property. A man called, “Rumple, I need to talk to you.”
Mr. Rumple didn’t seem bothered by the intrusion. To Daisy and Foster, he said, “You just look around. I’ll be right back.” Hans trotted after his master.
When Daisy checked the fence again and studied the man who’d come into the sales yard, she thought she recognized him. She’d seen his face more than once in the Willow Creek Messenger and on the local news. Leaning closer to Foster, keeping her voice low, she asked, “Isn’t that Stanley King?”
Foster took a look for himself. “You mean that CEO of the pet supplements company?”
“Yes, that’s the one. He has that large farm over near Possum Road.”
All at once, King’s voice raised enough in volume that both she and Foster could hear him. “My son’s wedding is costing me a mint. You’re just going to have to wait for this month’s payment.”
She watched as Hans took a step closer to King, but she didn’t hear him growl. Mr. Rumple nonchalantly kicked a stone at his foot, and it tumbled through the grass as he answered Stanley King. “No, I won’t wait. You’ll just have to scale down your flower order for the wedding.”
Mr. King studied the dog and growled something that Daisy couldn’t hear. Abruptly, he left the yard, slamming the wooden gate behind him.
As Mr. Rumple and Hans returned to the area where Daisy stood, she quickly turned back to Foster. They perused the statues once more. It wasn’t long before Daisy found one she liked. It was a two-foot-high concrete statue of a golden retriever and looked just like Felix, the dog Jonas had adopted. It would be perfect for his townhouse’s porch.
“Do you think he’ll like this one?” she asked Foster.
“That looks like something Jonas would appreciate. Vi told me that you were spending all your free time together. Felix sure likes your place, too.”
Daisy and Jonas Groft, who owned Woods—a furniture store down the street from Daisy’s Tea Garden—had been dating seriously for months. They’d had bumpy times over those months, but the outcome of each challenge was that they’d grown closer. They were serious about their relationship. They’d both said I love you. They hadn’t taken their relationship to a more intimate level, but Daisy was ready and expected that Jonas was, too. She was planning a surprise birthday party for him at a farm-to-table facility in an old barn. She was inviting friends and family, and she hoped he’d be pleased.
In the silence of the early evening, Daisy heard a car angrily start up outside the property’s gate. The car sounded angry because King revved the engine three times, and the tires squealed as he pulled away.
