In Cold Chamomile Read online

  In Cold Chamomile

  A TEA AND A READ MYSTERY

  Joy Avon

  Acknowledgments

  As always, I’m grateful to all agents, editors, and authors who share online about the writing and publishing process. A special thanks to my amazing agent, Jill Marsal; my wonderful editor, Faith Black Ross; and the entire talented crew at Crooked Lane Books, especially cover illustrator Brandon Dorman for the heartwarming cover. And of course to you, reader: thanks for picking up this story and spending time in Heart’s Harbor.

  Chapter One

  “One red heart for the day of love.”

  Callie Aspen attached the red heart badge with her name to the lapel of her jacket and checked in the car’s rearview mirror that it was in the right spot. Then she threw a regretful look at the empty passenger seat where her Boston terrier Daisy normally sat, strapped in her basket. But the Valentine’s event today would pull in so many visitors that it would make the quiet little dog uncomfortable, and Callie had decided to leave her at Book Tea, where the regular helpers would look after her.

  She got out of the car and took a moment to soak up the sunshine slanting across her face. It shone down from a pale blue winter sky, streaked with errant clouds, and turned the frost left on Haywood Hall’s lawn into little twinkles, as if someone had strewn diamonds across it. The house itself looked cozy, with smoke coming from the many chimneys, indicating the hearths were well fed, and welcome warmth would wrap itself around Callie as soon as she stepped inside.

  But it wasn’t just warmth waiting for her behind the broad front door, which was the exact reason she stood a little while longer to breathe the crisp air and listen for the sound of birds in the nearby trees. It was so wonderfully quiet. And inside it would be hectic, full of the bustle of furniture being moved around, people shouting orders at one another, panicky last-minute discussions about the best place for a buffet table or about a notebook with important directions that had been mislaid. And as one of the organizers, most queries would be directed to her, demanding an instant solution.

  Their Valentine’s event consisted of six main themes, which had seemed manageable when Callie and her great-aunt Iphy had thought it up, but as it had started to unfold, more and more people had gotten involved, and at last count they had over a hundred. Everybody was anxious that his or her part in it would go off without a hitch, and they all called Callie at every hour of the day with new ideas or old concerns. The leader of the baroque orchestra that would perform in the old ballroom had proven to be especially difficult, having at first praised Haywood Hall’s acoustics, then deemed them disastrous for his group’s performance. His violinist had complained about a draft on her neck, and the singer who was supposed to perform with them hadn’t even shown up for rehearsals. There was no shortage of big egos around, and Callie could feel a headache forming just thinking of dealing with all of these people.

  She took a deep breath and walked up to the front door, taking a moment to touch the railing along the steps, which was also adorned with a layer of frost. It felt cold under her fingertips but melted instantly, betraying that the heart of winter was past, and spring was on its way.

  Callie found the front door ajar and pushed it open, ready to face the attack of voices and noises, hunt for the first notes of discord and the need for her to step in and soothe.

  But to her surprise, music filled the air, and several people stood listening to it, their clipboards clutched under their arms. A flute played a haunting solo, and then the entire orchestra joined in, sending waves of beguiling music through the house.

  Callie closed her eyes and hummed along, thinking it would indeed be easy to fall in love with this wonderful performance.

  “Callie! There you are, at last. You’re at least five minutes late.”

  Callie cringed and snapped her eyes open to face a frail elderly lady sailing down on her with indignation in her every step. Gray curls peeked out from under a snug felt hat adorned with a diamond hatpin. The curls trembled on her narrow shoulders as she marched up and put her hands on her hips. “I called you several times.”

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Forrester. I was driving and couldn’t answer the phone.”

  Mrs. Forrester gave her a long hard look, as if she saw right through that thin excuse. She had been a teacher all of her life and still treated people like they were squirming kids who hadn’t done their homework. Iphy had warned Callie in advance that including a secondhand book market would mean bringing in Mrs. Forrester, but to be honest, Callie had wondered how bad that could be. They needed books to be a part of the event, first because Haywood Hall had an amazing library that was being catalogued as part of the house’s conservation program; second because her great-aunt’s business, Book Tea, was all about the combination of books and tea; and third because if there was an object in the world you could easily fall in love with, it had to be books. Callie could remember so many lazy afternoons as a girl lying in the grass reading. Or late at night in bed, reading until she fell asleep with the book beside her. That was the life.

  As Haywood Hall’s book collection was rather precious, they had decided that a secondhand book market would be an amazing complement, and the library and adjacent study were now divided into several areas for bookworms: a swap corner, where you could trade your own book for another, a blind date corner where you could buy a mystery book wrapped up in colorful paper, and a “find out the value” corner where old books could be offered for an appraisal by an expert in old books and antiques.

  The expert had been brought in by Mrs. Forrester, who knew him from another occasion, and she had also supplied most of the books for the swapping as she was a volunteer at the local library and had convinced them to donate to the event part of what they were getting rid of from the collection. Without her input and persuasiveness, the book-themed part of the event would have been much smaller. Callie should be very grateful to Mrs. Forrester, she knew, and honestly she was, but she did wish deep down that the woman’s helpfulness would be wrapped up in more kindness. She was so prompt and abrupt and to the point all of the time that it felt rather unpleasant to have to deal with her.

  “What could be so urgent?” Callie asked Mrs. Forrester, who widened her eyes as if she was appalled at the question.

  Mrs. Forrester stretched out her arm so that her silver watch became visible on her slender wrist, and checked the time ostentatiously. “The Valentine’s event is scheduled to begin in three hours, and you ask me what could be so urgent?”

  She raised both her hands and waved them in a dramatic fashion. “All the things that are not done yet, not provided for.”

  Her emphasis stoked Callie’s nerves, and she asked, “What is not arranged for? I thought we had the whole thing worked out.”

  Mrs. Forrester gave her a scorching look. “For instance, the expert who is to evaluate the value of the books people bring in, Mr. King ”—she spoke the name with a sort of hushed awe—“who will bring him coffee?”

  Callie blinked. “I thought one of you would have a thermos stashed somewhere and could pour him a cup if he wants some.”

  “He is not a local you can fob off with a plastic cup full of powdered coffee. He is an expert whose time is extremely valuable. He appraises books on television! He could be anywhere this afternoon, but I persuaded him to come here, for free, as this is a charitable event. That doesn’t mean, however, that we can treat him like his services aren’t worth anything.”

  “Of course not,” Callie said, rather shocked that her practical solution was being viewed in this manner. “I only thought that—”

  “You own a tearoom,” Mrs. Forrester said, stabbing at Callie with a French-manicured fingernail. “You are supposed to serve people th
e best mocha and the most exquisite treats.”

  “We are,” Callie said, straightening under the censure. “The drawing room is our Valentine’s salon, where we serve—”

  “He can’t leave his table. You will have to come and serve him.”

  For a moment Callie saw a scene where she entered the room dressed in a black gown with a little white apron, like you saw in old-timey TV shows, and made a curtsey as she put the coffee down for his lordship, the book evaluator, asking him in a deferential tone if he needed anything else.

  But she didn’t dare laugh at the idea, as Mrs. Forrester seemed to be completely in earnest.

  “I will mention it to Iphy,” Callie said demurely. “Anything else?”

  Mrs. Forrester sighed and let her gaze wander the hallway. “I think it could all have been done more professionally. Those signs …” She stared hard at a nearby cardboard placard, white with red lettering, reading “Fall in Love with Books,” with an arrow pointing up the stairs. Hearts of all sizes in bright red and pink danced around the letters. Callie agreed that it might be a bit much, but after all, this was a Valentine’s event, and people did expect to see some sort of heart theme, she supposed.

  “It should have been black with golden lettering,” Mrs. Forrester declared. “A little more class and style, as befits these elegant surroundings. So much history within these walls, and you fill the place with heart-shaped balloons.” She stared in disgust at the helium-filled balloons that floated gently above the stairs’ railing.

  Callie didn’t know quite what to say to that, and she was glad that at that moment she caught movement out of the corner of her eye and saw Iphy coming in with Peggy and two other Book Tea helpers, carrying coolers and cartons full of supplies.

  Breathing a sigh of relief, Callie excused herself to Mrs. Forrester and rushed to help Iphy navigate the enormous box she was carrying. Callie knew it held part of the cake for the event, and her heart beat nervously at the idea that the heart-shaped macarons would come off or the delicate sugar work crowning it would somehow be damaged. People didn’t appreciate just the sweet taste of Iphy’s creations but also her decorative imagination, and often took photos of her treats that they then shared online, bringing new visitors to Book Tea and new reservations for bookish tea parties.

  As they put the box down on the table in the drawing room, Peggy said to Callie, “Was Mrs. Forrester throwing a fit again?”

  She whipped back a lock of her blonde hair. When Callie had first gotten to know her, Peggy had just been to the hairdresser’s for a perm, but these days her hair was straight, pulled back from her face into a ponytail. It made her look younger, carefree, almost like a student again. She was also wearing a new dress today, with high heels, and Callie wondered if she was hoping to run into anyone particular at this Valentine’s event.

  “Mrs. Forrester isn’t that bad once you learn to see past the obvious,” Iphy said gently while placing muffins with red frosting and tiny fondant teddy bears on plates. Her two helpers were setting up the coffee machine and stacking cups, mugs, and glasses.

  No plastic cups here, Callie thought with a sour look, recalling Mrs. Forrester’s critique. But she supposed it was too late to appease the irate volunteer now.

  “Oh, there’s Quinn,” Iphy exclaimed, pointing at the door. Callie didn’t look in that direction first, but at Peggy, who was suddenly completely engrossed in rearranging the ginger letter cookies people could use to spell names or words, laying out a message of love for someone with them at the event. Peggy’s cheeks were suspiciously red, but then it was rather hot in the room, especially if you had just come in from the chill outside.

  Quinn seemed to be gesturing to them, so Callie headed over. Quinn was wearing a neat white shirt with a tie and jeans, and he had his border collie, Biscuit, by his side. Callie saw the dog was also wearing a red bow tie attached to his collar. She had to smile, as the bow tie symbolized what a true gentleman the dog had become in the past few months.

  Quinn had adopted Biscuit the previous summer, after his elderly owners had decided he was too much for them at their age and wanted to return him to the rescue where they had found him. But Callie had believed Biscuit’s trust in people might be damaged if he was returned to the rescue again, and had arranged for Quinn to take care of him for a while. The two of them soon bonded and were inseparable. The idea of him ever going back to the rescue was long forgotten, and Biscuit was a welcome face in his new hometown, with people stopping Quinn in the street to pat Biscuit or ask if Quinn could show them something new the dog had learned.

  These days Biscuit was perfectly well behaved and even an example to other dogs Quinn worked with at the local shelter.

  “One of the heaters in the stables isn’t working,” Quinn explained to Callie. “The temperatures are rather chilly for the animals to be there all afternoon. Do you have a toolbox around so I can see if I can fix it?”

  “Sure, in the conservatory closet, I think. Follow me.” Callie was glad Quinn had proven to be handy, doing repairs on the cottage she had rented when she had come to live in Heart’s Harbor. Not only had he fixed what was broken, but he had also painted and wallpapered, turning the rather sparse little place into a brand-new home for her.

  Smiling at the recollection, she led the way through the hallway, past the sign reading “Fall in Love with Plants,” down a corridor and into the conservatory, which had once been the domain of Haywood Hall’s gardener, Mr. Leadenby.

  Callie felt a stab of sadness as she recalled his sudden death and the events it had put into motion. It was difficult still to think about his death, but they had all banded together to solve the murder and save the house. That was something that would have meant the world to Leadenby. Yes, a day like today, with people flocking in to admire his orchids on display and swap plants and seeds, would have been something after his own heart.

  Biscuit had his head up at the many strange scents assaulting his sensitive nose, and he turned this way and that to look at the gardening enthusiasts who were setting up shop.

  Callie greeted a few people as she made her way to the large wooden closets against the far wall and opened a door to search inside. The metal toolbox should be on one of the shelves. She recalled it was bright blue.

  Yes, there it was. She breathed an inaudible sigh of relief that she had found it in a single try and didn’t have to hunt for it elsewhere in the large house. Mrs. Forrester’s insistence that there was too little time to get everything done before the event had started to make her jumpy.

  “There you are.” She pulled the toolbox out of the closet and handed it to Quinn. It was quite heavy, but he carried it in one hand. “I hope you can fix it. I don’t think we can bring in another heater on such short notice.”

  “I’ll have a look, and if I can’t fix it, I’ll call around and see if anyone can help out.” Quinn smiled at her. His quiet confidence that locals would help him was a testimony to how well he had integrated into his new hometown. Callie knew he had only planned to spend a few weeks in Heart’s Harbor that summer, but work offers had kept him around, and these days she believed Quinn was about as much a resident as the rest of them. His volunteer work at the shelter and the meal project for lonely elderly citizens had enabled him to meet lots of new people in a short period of time, and she knew some of the ladies considered him to be almost like a grandson.

  Callie smiled as she watched him walk out the conservatory door that led into the garden, to round the house to the stables, where the animal portion of their event would be. Quinn had made the suggestion himself that they should have a “Fall in Love with Dogs” event, where people could meet some of the shelter’s dogs currently looking for new homes and get information on how to adopt them. “It’s not meant as a sentimental moment where people are tricked into getting a pet because they feel sorry for the poor doggy,” he had said with conviction. “I want people to understand what they’re getting into. I don’t want to hand out our c
harges and then get them back within a few days because it doesn’t turn out the way the new owners expected.”

  They had agreed that the event would focus not just on finding the eligible dogs a new home but also on engaging people with the shelter, perhaps getting some new volunteers or donations. “A win–win,” Iphy had called it with a smile.

  Callie rolled back her tight shoulders and looked around her, sniffing the scents of the tropical plants. The warm damp air folded itself around her, and she longed to linger a bit with people who were not rushing or scolding one another, but rather quietly putting things in place and chattering about how much they looked forward to the afternoon’s visitors. Someone passed around lemonade in plastic cups, and Callie noted, with a wry thought of Mrs. Forrester’s demands, that here nobody seemed to feel above drinking from a plastic cup.

  Still, the reminder of the honored expert with television credentials who was about to arrive at the Hall sent her darting back into the hallway, determined to treat the man with all due respect. After all, he was offering his time for free. Callie had gotten the impression from a quick look at his website that he had become a celebrity overnight, after a TV appearance, around Christmas of the previous year, on a show where people bring in their flea-market and garage-sale treasures to see if they happened to be worth a fortune.

  In any case, Mrs. Forrester had insisted on advertising their event in the local paper, with the man’s name and photograph prominently on display, and several regional papers had also run it, claiming a “TV star” was visiting Heart’s Harbor. It was good promotion for the event, and Callie kept her fingers crossed that the star wouldn’t have an attitude that turned people off.

  Just as she was about to turn into the drawing room again, a tall, gray-haired man came through the front door. He walked very upright and looked about him with keen brown eyes. There was a certain joie de vivre about him, an energy that immediately captured attention. He took in the decorations, the heart-shaped balloons, the signs with the red lettering that Mrs. Forrester had deemed inferior, and smiled. The warmth of that smile made his features even more attractive, and Callie concluded with a grin that in his younger years he had probably been a regular heartbreaker. Why, even now ladies were turning their heads and poking one another with their elbows.