Murder and Mint Tea [Book 1 of the Katherine Miller Mysteries] Read online

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  DiskUs Publishing

  www.diskuspublishing.com

  Copyright ©Janet Lane Walters

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  NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Making copies of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email, floppy disk, file transfer, paper print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines or imprisonment.

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  CONTENTS

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

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  Murder and Mint Tea

  Copyright (C) 2010 By Janet Lane Walters

  Ebook ISBN 978-0-7572-0121-9

  Electronically published in arrangement with the author

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  No portion of this book may be reprinted in whole or in part, by printing, faxing, E-mail, copying electronically or by any other means without permission of the publisher. For more information contact DiskUs Publishing

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  DiskUs Publishing

  PO Box 43

  Albany, IN 47320

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  This is a work of fiction. All names in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to any person living or dead is coincidental.

  Murder and Mint Tea

  Chapter 1

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  Preparing The Ground

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  The pale winter sun shone through the kitchen window. I cleaned up the last of the mess from my adventure. The caper hadn't gone as planned. How many do? In my many years of life, most of my plans had taken an unexpected turn.

  "Merup.” Robespierre, my Maine Coon cat, announced a visitor on the way. He's almost as good as a doorbell. The firm rap on the door told me this wasn't one of my female friends. “Come in."

  Pete Duggan strode across the room and thrust a bouquet of bright carnations into my hands. A red hue, almost as vivid as his hair, stained his face. “Mrs. Miller, got to hand it to you. I've come to eat crow."

  To hide a smile I buried my face in the flowers and inhaled the spicy fragrance. “How about chocolate chip cookies and mint tea instead?"

  "Sounds great.” He straddled one of the chairs at the table and picked up the local newspaper. “Local Woman Thwarts Robbers.” His grin made him look like the ten-year-old who had moved into the corner house on my block. He cleared his throat. “The guys at the station ribbed me about this. Did you forget the plan?"

  How, when the idea to catch the real thieves had been mine? A series of burglaries had plagued the neighborhood for months and had troubled me. Especially when the police had decided two teenage neighbor boys were the culprits. I knew the pair and had disagreed strongly enough to set myself up as a victim. Then I informed Pete.

  "Did you forget?” he repeated. “When I crept up the stairs and saw you grappling with one of the men, I nearly had a heart attack."

  Heat singed my cheeks. “How was I to know my date would poop out early?"

  After filling two mugs with mint tea I opened a tin of freshly baked cookies. How could I admit to a nagging doubt, or tell him I had wanted to be part of the action? In July I had turned sixty-five and in September retired from the nursing staff at Tappan Zee Memorial Hospital. Six months of placid existence had made me edgy. Lunch with friends, coffee with the neighbors and weekly bridge games with old cronies bored me. These events held none of the challenge of meeting crises at the hospital.

  Pete scowled. “You could have gone to the Prescott's house."

  "They're away.” I sipped the tea and savored the cool mint flavor.

  "The Randal's’ then.” He pulled the other mug across the table. “The guys insist the two of us make one perfect cop. Want to hire on?"

  "I've no desire for a third career.” Until my husband's death twenty-five years ago I had been the organist and choir director at St. Stephens Episcopal Church. Needing a way to support myself and my son, I enrolled in the nursing program at the community college. “Besides, I'm too old."

  "Old, never. You look the same as when we moved here."

  "It's the dye.” His puzzled look tickled me. Dyeing my hair makes me look younger. “I came into the world with red hair and I intend to leave the same way."

  Laughter rumbled deep in his chest. “A worthy ambition you nearly fulfilled last night.” He touched my hand. “Thanks again. You kept me from making a mistake that could have ruined those boys."

  I lifted my mug and inhaled the aromatic steam. The evidence against the pair had been circumstantial and strong. They had done odd jobs at all the houses that had been burglarized. “I've known them since they were infants. Nothing I've ever seen in their actions to make me believe they were guilty."

  Pete made a face. “I've known them just as long. Didn't stop me from suspecting them. How could you be sure?"

  "Forty years of living in the same house has attuned me to the rhythms of the neighborhood."

  "Twenty years hasn't helped me."

  "There's living and living.” Some people are so concerned with the melody they never hear the underlying harmonics. As a musician I've learned to listen. As a nurse I know how to evaluate symptoms that are sometimes similar but are caused by different diseases. Those traits are a vital part of my nature.

  I set the mug on the table. “Don't blame yourself. You weren't the only one to suspect the boys. No harm was done."

  He finished the cookie he held and rose. “No harm. Maybe some good. I'll try looking beneath the surface."

  "That's a great idea."

  He grinned. “I'm out of here. Work tonight.” He zipped his green down jacket. “How about acting as my silent partner?"

  I laughed. “Go away with your nonsense."

  Just them the cat door opened. Robespierre made a grand entrance. Flakes of snow dotted his brown and black fur. His gait suggested a mission. He halted in front of Pete and banged the young policeman's leg with his head.

  Pete crouched and scratched the cat's head. “Not my fault, old man. She jumped in on her own."

  Robespierre's rumbling purr suggested he understood and accepted Pete's explanation.

  "He's been out of sorts since the thieves visited."

  "Me, too.” Pete hugged me. “Never again. Promise. We need you around. Think about being a silent partner. There are times when I need someone to listen."

  "If listening is all you need, I'll be here. No more active involvement in crime for me."

  "See you.” He clattered down the stairs.

  Until I heard the front door close I remained at the top of the steps. Silent partner, no way. I rubbed the tender spot on my head where I'd been bashed. I had enough experience with crime to last the rest of my life.

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  During the night, Saturday's few snowflakes became a blizzard and prevented an early morning walk. Though I could have returned to bed, habits formed during my years of being at the hospital before seven AM were hard to break. I sat on the window seat in the living room and stared through the glass at a white world.

  When I converted the small Victorian house into two apartments, the sec
ond floor with its view had been my choice. In the autumn after the leaves fall, the Hudson River is visible. River watching has always relaxed me. This morning the heavy snowfall kept visibility to inches. No cars moved along the street and no people strolled on the sidewalks.

  I poured a second mug of tea and scratched Robespierre's head. Moments later he yawned and stretched, arching his back with a suppleness that brought a sigh of envy. He leaped from the window seat and stalked to the kitchen. The doorbell rang and I went to answer. The young boys from across the street stood at the top of the steps. They stomped snow from their boots.

  "Boy, Mrs. Miller, there's two feet of snow and it's still falling.” Larry Randal grinned.

  "But there'll be school tomorrow,” Jamal said. “Bummer."

  "Thought you liked school."

  He shrugged. “It's okay but I need a vacation."

  "You just had mid-winter break."

  "I know."

  I chuckled. Blonde hair stuck around the edge of Larry's cap. His cheeks glowed apple red. The cold had burnished his foster brother's coffee-colored skin. The boys jostled in the doorway each trying to be first inside.

  "If there's no paper, why are you here?"

  Larry held up an orange plastic bag. “We brought the part that came yesterday."

  "We have to shovel your walk.” Jamal grinned. “And invite you to dinner this evening."

  "I'll let your mother know.” A glance inside the bag showed the New York Times magazine was there. Part of my Sunday routine remained. “Want some cookies to take home?"

  Identical grins spread across their faces. “You bet,” they chorused.

  "If you come, could you bake a chocolate cake?” Jamal asked.

  "Brownies,” Larry said.

  "I'll see."

  "All right.” Two hands pumped in the air. “You always say that when you mean yes."

  I took a plastic bag of cookies from the freezer and filled a middle-size tin. “Share them with Becca and the twins."

  "Yes.” They dashed downstairs and banged the door on the way out.

  After pulling the magazine from the bag and opening it to the puzzle, I snapped on the radio. Instead of classical music, a lengthy list of cancellations poured from the speaker. Looked like no one was going anywhere. I tackled the puzzle until the phone rang.

  "Mom, guess I won't pick you up for church."

  "Not unless you bought a snow mobile."

  "Even then I wouldn't chance the trip."

  Andrew is thirty-nine, a psychiatrist and cautious. He's never made a decision without weighing the possibilities at least three times.

  "I'll be fine. The boys have shoveled the walk and Sarah invited me to dinner."

  "Mom's second family."

  Was there a trace of envy in his voice? Though he and Bob Randal had been friends since infancy they had drifted apart. Sadly their chosen lifestyles made the difference seem almost permanent and I had no solution.

  "Andrew.” A note of chiding crept into my voice.

  "Tell Bob hello."

  "You could do that yourself."

  "And risk Sarah snagging me to speak to one of the groups she champions. I've no desire to talk about the trauma of potty training to the development of a child's personality."

  His dislike of Sarah puzzled me. Perhaps the cause was Sarah's open and liberal nature. Andrew is exactly the opposite.

  "Where were you yesterday afternoon?” His voice held a demanding tone.

  "Shopping."

  "All afternoon and most of the evening. I stopped calling at ten. You need an answering machine."

  "I had dinner with Lars. He left for New Mexico last evening. Was it important?"

  "Since your recent encounter with those criminals I worry. As you well know, you could develop problems from the blow to your head. How could Pete allow you to be involved?"

  "He didn't. Barging in was my choice."

  "I'd feel better if there were tenants in the apartment."

  "I'll call the real estate agent Monday.” My patience with his over-protectiveness thinned. Lately he's been acting as though I'm hovering inches from senility. “Let me talk to Andrea."

  While I assembled the ingredients for the chocolate cake my granddaughter chattered about her week. She had earned a role in the school play and had been chosen for a solo in the spring dance recital. Andrea had inherited my love of music. Instead of an instrument for expression she uses movement. After saying goodbye four times I hung up and called Sarah to accept the dinner invitation.

  By four o'clock the heavy snowfall had stopped. I stood by the bedroom window and watched the wind blow snow from one drift and drop it on another. After pulling on a pair of russet wool slacks and an ivory blouse with a matching cardigan, I reached for my boots.

  I tucked the slacks into the knee-high boots and put a pair of shoes in a bag. The boots are sturdy and warm but the thought of clomping around in them for hours held little appeal. In the kitchen I checked my jacket pocket for house keys, shook some food into Robespierre's dish and picked up the cake container.

  Downstairs I paused in the doorway to allow my vision to adjust to the blinding whiteness. The branches of a pair of dogwoods on the corner of the yard next to the driveway bowed beneath the weight of the snow. Rose bushes along the walk resembled small igloos. Since only a skim of snow covered the walk the boys must have recently shoveled the walk. Each of my exhalations sent a cloud of condensed vapor into the air.

  The snowplows had left a cleared trail along my side of the street. Someone had cut an opening in the high bank of snow at the curb. In the distance I heard the scraping noise of the plow signaling a return.

  While grasping the shoe bag in one hand and the cake container in the other, I strode across the cleared area. Moments later I plunged into virgin territory. The snow reached the top of my boots. With care I calculated the distance to the curb. I stepped up. On the downswing my foot hit something buried beneath the snow.

  I lost my balance. The shoe bag flew toward the sidewalk. The cake container flew into the air. I hit the ground and learned how little cushioning snow provided. “Not my hip.” My cry echoed above the scraping snowplow sound. I'd seen too many older women deteriorate after a hip fracture and wanted no part of that fate.

  My leg folded under me. A sharp pain resulted. The cake container opened. Chunks of chocolate cake showered on and around me. Snow seeped beneath my jacket collar and brought shivers.

  "Help! Help!” My voice sounded faint. Did snow absorb sound? The scraping noise increased in volume. Visions of being scooped by the blade, loaded in a truck and dumped in the Hudson River evoked a scream. I pushed my elbows against the ground and tried to sit. The exquisite jolt of pain brought tears to my eyes. My screams rose to ear-shattering heights.

  "Jamal, it's Mrs. Miller.” Larry knelt beside me. “Get Mom and Dad."

  "Bummer.” Jamal made a face. “The cake is ruined."

  His expression and the realization that I'd been rescued brought a rush of tears. “So am I. Tell them my leg is broken."

  The arrival of Bob and Sarah brought a reaction a toddler must feel when parents rescued him from an unpleasant situation. They made a chair with their hands and carried me to the house.

  "I'll call the police,” Bob said. “They'll know which roads are cleared and if I should drive you."

  "My hair. I can't go to the hospital looking like a refuge from a food fight."

  "I'll wash it,” Sarah said. “In the kitchen. We'll pull the table to the sink."

  "I do not believe this.” Bob's hair flopped onto his forehead. His body moved in concert.

  The jerky movement sent knives of pain through my leg. I bit my lip. “Believe. It's called vanity."

  "Shock,” he said. “Shouldn't we make a splint?"

  "The boot acts like one. No one not trained in trauma care was about to touch my leg.

  Jamal, Becca, Larry and the two-year-old twins danced around raising the n
oise level to cacophony. Jamal's cries of “Bummer. She gets all the cake,” lodged in my thoughts.

  Forty-five minutes later, escorted by the police I arrived at the hospital. Before removing the boot, one of my former colleagues gave me an injection. While drifting between pain and nirvana I wondered if my beautician made house calls.

  * * * *

  Monday was a day of learning truths. Other than to give birth to Andrew I had never been a hospital patient. I'll admit I liked being on giving not receiving side of care. As I waited for the transport team to take me to the OR for the insertion of a pin in my left leg, my thoughts focused on all the dire complications I could remember. Some were the product of an imagination out of control. My heart thundered. My mouth was dry. Tears filled my eyes.

  "You'll be fine,” Beth Logan, neighbor and nurse said. “We'll take good care of you."

  I clung to the assurance in her voice. “Just think of all the things that can go wrong."

  Beth patted my hand. “Just remember how seldom they occur.” In that moment I realized how important sympathy is for a patient. Before we could say more, the team arrived and wheeled me away.

  The rest of the day passed in semi-consciousness. Drowsiness from the anesthesia and the pain medication scrambled my thoughts. Even Andrew's scolding about my foolishness barely registered.

  By Wednesday I felt caged and tired of pale green walls, gray tile floors and white sheets. The television turned low and switched from channel to channel failed to divert me from an aching need to escape confinement.

  Dr. Beemish had promised to discharge me once crutch walking was mastered. By noon, the physical therapist hadn't arrived. I toyed with my lunch and prayed for mint tea and the serenity of my apartment.

  Lars, my friend and bridge partner, called from Santa Fe. He spends most of the winter months at his home there. He hoped I would heal quickly and grumbled about my penchant for adventure.

  When I hung up I waved at Pete Duggan. He held a bouquet of yellow mums. “More flowers. Why?"

  "Seemed the thing to do. You chose a dumb way to turn down my offer of a partnership."