Read Online A Scone To Die For (Oxford Tearoom Mysteries ~ Book 1) by H.Y. Hanna - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: H.Y. Hanna
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and leave the rest of the tearoom as normal?”
He shook his head.
“But… but weekends are our busiest times! I can’t shut the tearoom!” I glanced out the windows. Already, I could see a crowd of curious bystanders forming outside. If anything, it looked like I would have even more business than usual.
“I’m sorry. I’m afraid you have no choice.”
I opened my mouth to argue, caught the look in his steely blue eyes, and thought better of it. Instead, I asked: “So you’re sure that this is murder?”
“We think there’s been foul play, yes. The pathologist is certain that it was not death by natural causes. He’ll know more after the post-mortem.”
“Did… did someone force a scone down his throat and choke him to death?”
Devlin’s expression was guarded. “That’s one theory. It’s certainly what it looks like.”
To my frustration, he refused to divulge anything further, and five minutes later I found myself being hustled out into the street by the cocky young sergeant. Devlin followed us out and was immediately accosted by Mabel Cooke, with Florence Doyle and Glenda Bailey right behind her. I noticed that Ethel was missing.
“Now, young man, what’s going on here?” demanded Mabel, arms akimbo as she stared up at him.
To his credit, Devlin didn’t flinch under that ferocious gaze. Perhaps it was easier to face bossy little old ladies when you were six foot one and all lean muscle. I expected him to deliver more of that curt detective attitude but, to my surprise, he put on a pleasant expression and addressed the crowd. He gave them a brief account of the situation—simply saying that an American tourist had been found dead—and appealed to anyone who might have information. He was as smooth and charming as a politician working the polls and I could see the crowd instantly responding to him.
This was a side of him I had never seen before—the Devlin I’d known would have barged into the crowd with hot-tempered impatience, but this Devlin was cool and quietly authoritative. He was also incredibly good-looking, I thought sourly. I could see several of the women in the crowd eyeing him with open appreciation. Glenda Bailey actually fluttered her eyelashes at him and giggled when he asked her to answer some questions. To my disgust, in less time than it takes to describe it, Devlin had a line of people eagerly queuing up to be questioned by him and his sergeant.
I turned to go. There was no point in me hanging around. As I made my way to the back of the crowd, I bumped into Nicky Wilcox, a pretty young mother who was one of the locals and a new regular at my tearoom. She had her baby with her in a stroller and she gave me a sympathetic smile.
“My goodness, Gemma… what a nightmare for you.” She gave a little shiver. “Is it the American who was in the tearoom yesterday?”
I nodded.
Nicky lowered her voice. “I suppose I shouldn’t really say this—not speaking ill of the dead and all that—but I have to say, I’m not really surprised. He was so… well… he seemed like the type who would provoke people…”
“And how!” I agreed fervently. “I kept telling myself yesterday that all sorts of tourists pass through the Cotswolds every day and I just had to grit my teeth until he moved on to the next place in his itinerary.”
“Well, I hope things get back to normal for you by Monday. I’m dying to bring my sister in to show her the tearoom. I’m sure she’d love it—and she loves scones.”
“Does she live locally too?”
“Yes, but she doesn’t go out much. She suffers from chronic fatigue syndrome,” Nicky said with a sad smile.
“Oh, I’m sorry.”
“Her doctor’s just started her on a different medication and we’re hoping that she responds well.”
“Well, tell her there’s a plate of scones waiting in the tearoom with her name on it,” I said with a smile.
“I will,” Nicky promised, returning the smile.
I left her and hurried
He shook his head.
“But… but weekends are our busiest times! I can’t shut the tearoom!” I glanced out the windows. Already, I could see a crowd of curious bystanders forming outside. If anything, it looked like I would have even more business than usual.
“I’m sorry. I’m afraid you have no choice.”
I opened my mouth to argue, caught the look in his steely blue eyes, and thought better of it. Instead, I asked: “So you’re sure that this is murder?”
“We think there’s been foul play, yes. The pathologist is certain that it was not death by natural causes. He’ll know more after the post-mortem.”
“Did… did someone force a scone down his throat and choke him to death?”
Devlin’s expression was guarded. “That’s one theory. It’s certainly what it looks like.”
To my frustration, he refused to divulge anything further, and five minutes later I found myself being hustled out into the street by the cocky young sergeant. Devlin followed us out and was immediately accosted by Mabel Cooke, with Florence Doyle and Glenda Bailey right behind her. I noticed that Ethel was missing.
“Now, young man, what’s going on here?” demanded Mabel, arms akimbo as she stared up at him.
To his credit, Devlin didn’t flinch under that ferocious gaze. Perhaps it was easier to face bossy little old ladies when you were six foot one and all lean muscle. I expected him to deliver more of that curt detective attitude but, to my surprise, he put on a pleasant expression and addressed the crowd. He gave them a brief account of the situation—simply saying that an American tourist had been found dead—and appealed to anyone who might have information. He was as smooth and charming as a politician working the polls and I could see the crowd instantly responding to him.
This was a side of him I had never seen before—the Devlin I’d known would have barged into the crowd with hot-tempered impatience, but this Devlin was cool and quietly authoritative. He was also incredibly good-looking, I thought sourly. I could see several of the women in the crowd eyeing him with open appreciation. Glenda Bailey actually fluttered her eyelashes at him and giggled when he asked her to answer some questions. To my disgust, in less time than it takes to describe it, Devlin had a line of people eagerly queuing up to be questioned by him and his sergeant.
I turned to go. There was no point in me hanging around. As I made my way to the back of the crowd, I bumped into Nicky Wilcox, a pretty young mother who was one of the locals and a new regular at my tearoom. She had her baby with her in a stroller and she gave me a sympathetic smile.
“My goodness, Gemma… what a nightmare for you.” She gave a little shiver. “Is it the American who was in the tearoom yesterday?”
I nodded.
Nicky lowered her voice. “I suppose I shouldn’t really say this—not speaking ill of the dead and all that—but I have to say, I’m not really surprised. He was so… well… he seemed like the type who would provoke people…”
“And how!” I agreed fervently. “I kept telling myself yesterday that all sorts of tourists pass through the Cotswolds every day and I just had to grit my teeth until he moved on to the next place in his itinerary.”
“Well, I hope things get back to normal for you by Monday. I’m dying to bring my sister in to show her the tearoom. I’m sure she’d love it—and she loves scones.”
“Does she live locally too?”
“Yes, but she doesn’t go out much. She suffers from chronic fatigue syndrome,” Nicky said with a sad smile.
“Oh, I’m sorry.”
“Her doctor’s just started her on a different medication and we’re hoping that she responds well.”
“Well, tell her there’s a plate of scones waiting in the tearoom with her name on it,” I said with a smile.
“I will,” Nicky promised, returning the smile.
I left her and hurried
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