A Catered Tea Party (11 page)

“Zalinsky's house?” Bernie said, going for the most obvious answer.

Casper shook his head. “No. He kept it under lock and key at The Blue House. He liked the idea of drinking the tea out of that stupid teapot. ‘An emperor's tea for an emperor, ' he used to say. He also told me he needed to get some more. That he was running low on the stuff.”

“That's not what I meant,” Libby said, interrupting.

Bernie and Casper stopped talking and looked at her.

Libby explained. “I meant where did he buy the tea?”

Casper shrugged. “I think he told me some store over in the next town. Maybe Wycliff?”

“It's Tea Time,” Bernie and Libby exclaimed in unison.

“I don't want any tea, thank you very much,” Casper said crossly. “I will never take a sip of that beverage again,” he declared.

Libby laughed. “It's Tea Time is the name of the shop,” she informed him.

“I think we should pay the store a visit,” Bernie said to Libby. “Like tomorrow. Maybe when they open.”

Libby nodded. “Works for me.” Then she watched as her sister walked over to the table, took the tin of tea, and dropped it into her tote bag.

“So we can show them what we're talking about,” Bernie explained. She'd explained because she'd expected Libby to object, which, to her surprise, she hadn't.

“Good idea,” her sister had said instead.

U
nfortunately, the next day didn't go exactly as planned. First, the shop's credit card machine went down, which meant that Libby had to spend an hour and a half on the phone while she futzed around with it before getting it back online. Then they got a rush order from a good customer for three trays of mint brownies, two trays of chocolate chip cookie bars, a red velvet birthday cake, and two dozen chocolate cupcakes with mocha frosting for an impromptu birthday party.

After that, Bernie had to run to the store for more paper goods, then despite the rain, the shop got swamped with an unexpectedly large noon rush, and to cap things off, Amber had an emergency at home, so it was a little after four by the time Bernie and Libby got out of the shop and headed over to Wycliff.

The drive took about twenty minutes. Bernie could have chosen the shorter, more direct route, but she decided to go through town instead because a small coffee house had opened up a couple of weeks ago on the outskirts of Longely and Bernie wanted to check out their window. Plus, it didn't hurt that Michelle's shop was down the block from the coffee place since Bernie wanted to see how that was coming along as well.

It had stopped raining, and the sun was out when Bernie passed Grind's and headed toward Michelle's new place. Bernie had been distinctly underwhelmed by Grind's window, and she was thinking about what she would have done with that display space had the shop been hers when she looked off to the left and spotted the new sign in Michelle's place
. It must have just gone up today,
Bernie thought as she hit the gas, hoping that she'd get by it before Libby saw the sign. But she wasn't fast enough.

“Oh my God,” Libby screeched, pointing at sign. “Did you see that?”

“It's not so bad,” Bernie said, trying to calm her sister down.

“Are you kidding me,” Libby cried. “It's called A Taste of New York.”

“I know what it's called. I can read,” Bernie replied.

“And our place is named A Little Taste of Heaven. Michelle even used the same type face we did.”

“It's a pretty common one,” Bernie pointed out, trying to pacify Libby.

Libby snorted. “Close, but no cigar.”

“I don't smoke cigars,” Bernie said.

Libby ignored Bernie's comment. “I told you Michelle was copying us. I told you. I bet she's going to serve our brownies there too.”

Bernie made soothing noises. “Relax. We don't know she has the recipe, and even if she does, it's not worth getting upset about.”

“Not worth it?” Libby shouted, her face now red. “Not worth it?”

“Okay,” Bernie said, pausing for a stop sign. “Maybe it is worth it, but we can't do anything about it.”

“Watch me,” Libby said as she reached over and grabbed her cell out of her backpack.

“Who are you going to call?” Bernie asked.

“Michelle. Who else?”

“And tell her what?”

“For openers, that she has to stop copying us and get a new name for her place, or I could simply tell her that she's a lying, conniving bitch.”

“Very laudable. And that will accomplish what, Libby?”

“Well, Bernie, it'll make me feel better, for one thing.”

Bernie held out her hand. “Think for a minute. Do you really want to give Michelle the satisfaction of knowing how you feel?”

Libby scowled at her sister. “And I should care, why?”

“Remember what happened in the kitchen the other day?”

“Of course I do. So what?”

“Remember how Dad reacted then? Think what will happen when Michelle tells him what you said.”

Libby clicked her tongue against her teeth as she ran through the scenario Bernie had suggested. “You're right,” she concluded. “I'm not going to give Michelle a chance to spin her version. This time I'll go straight to Dad.”

“And say what?” Bernie challenged.

“Duh. Obviously, I'll tell him what Michelle's doing. I'll tell him our side of the story before she gets to him.”

Bernie didn't say anything. She just kept driving.

“What's wrong with that?” Libby demanded in the face of Bernie's silence.

“Libby, don't you think he already knows?” Bernie asked quietly.

“No, I don't,” Libby answered.

“Are you sure?”

“You think he'll take her side, don't you? Don't you?” Libby repeated.

Bernie sighed. “I just don't want to give her any more ammunition.”

“So you
do
think he will take her side,” Libby stated, correctly interpreting her sister's lack of an answer.

Bernie took her eyes off the road and looked at Libby. “Honestly?”

“Yes, honestly.”

“I think it's a definite possibility.”

“I don't get it,” Libby exclaimed.

“What's to get?” Bernie retorted, bringing her eyes back to the road. “Dad likes her.”

“So?” Libby said. “He's liked other women.”

“Not this way. He really, really likes her. He and Michelle could even get married. Do you really want to start a feud with your possible stepmother?”

Libby's eyes flew open. She clutched her chest. “They're not going to get married. That's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard.”

“What if they do?” Bernie asked. She considered it a real possibility. “What then?”

Libby sucked in her breath. “So are you suggesting we do nothing?” she demanded. “That we just sit there and eat it?”

“No. I'm suggesting we do what Brandon suggested until we devise some sort of coherent strategy to counter the Michelle effect.”

“And that strategy would be?”

“I don't know yet,” Bernie confessed. “Believe me, though, I'm working on it.”

“Well, work faster,” Libby told her.

Bernie tapped her fingernails on the steering wheel as she mulled over her options. “I think the first thing we have to do is find out more about Michelle.”

“It's true. We don't know a lot about her, do we?” Libby observed.

“No, we don't,” Bernie said. Up until this point she'd considered Michelle her dad's passing fancy, not someone worth firing up her intelligence network for. “I think I'm going to ask Brandon to ask around and see what he can find out, while we do some asking around as well.”

Suddenly something Michelle had said when they'd first met popped into Libby's head. “Didn't she say something about having a shop in Syracuse a couple of years ago?”

“I think you're right,” Bernie exclaimed. “Don't you know someone who runs a cookie shop up there?”

Libby nodded. “Yeah. Marsha. Her place is on Westcott Street.”

“Excellent. Talk to her. Maybe she knows Michelle.”

Libby started reaching for her phone.

“But in the meantime,” Bernie warned, “please try not to say anything negative about Michelle to Dad.”

“Nothing?” Libby asked.

“Nothing,” Bernie said firmly. It felt good to be the voice of reason for a change. “We don't want to make Dad defensive about her.”

“He already is,” Libby pointed out.

“This I know,” Bernie replied. She was just about to reiterate that they didn't want to make the situation any worse than it already was when her cell started ringing. “God, I hope it's not the shop,” she said as she answered it. There'd been enough problems there for one day.

It wasn't. It was one of Casper's friends, calling to inform Bernie that Casper had been taken into custody. Bernie cursed under her breath. Not that she was surprised. She had just been hoping that this would come later rather than sooner.

“Forget Michelle and Dad for the moment,” she told Libby after she hung up. “We need to put all our energy into finding out who killed Zalinsky.” Then Bernie told Libby why.

Libby wasn't surprised either. Unlike Bernie, she wondered why it had taken Lucy as long as it had.

F
ive minutes later, Bernie and Libby arrived at the strip mall that housed It's Tea Time. It had been built twenty years ago and was showing its age. There was a big box store on either end, and between them was a random selection of mid-level shops ranging from a jewelry store to a shop that specialized in lacrosse equipment to a baby boutique.

It's Tea Time sat between a cobbler and a consignment shop, and as the sisters entered the store, Bernie couldn't help wondering whether a shop like this wouldn't fare better on the main street of the town, where the wealthier people shopped.

The thought had occurred to her because at the moment she and Libby were the only people in the place. There were no customers, and whoever was manning the counter—Bernie guessed she or he was in the back attending to something or other—wasn't there either.

“Not good,” Libby observed.

“Not good at all,” Bernie agreed.

For several reasons. The obvious one was the risk of robbery, but the more cogent one was that a customer who walked into an empty store was likely to turn around and walk out. The word that came to Bernie's mind as she looked around the shop was
nice
—that was nice with capital N. Or the N could also stand for
neutral
, Bernie decided. As in gender-neutral, to be specific. The walls were painted a cream color, while the floor was done in an unobtrusive light-blue linoleum tile. The photos on the walls were the only things that stood out. Bernie took a moment to examine them. They showed a large, lush flower garden through the various stages of the year.

Most stores have a definite vibe to them. That's part of the reason people come in to shop, especially these days when you can get everything online. But from what Bernie could see, this place had no personality. It wasn't a ladies' tea parlor with frills and flourishes. It wasn't a hipster joint. It didn't have a Zen feel to it. It looked cold and uninviting. A minimum of time, money, and thought had been lavished on its decoration. Bernie decided she would be surprised if It's Tea Time was in business next year.

On the other hand, the store was well stocked. Bernie had to give it that. One side of the shop was devoted to a broad selection of tea paraphernalia, while the shelves on the other side of the place were packed with an impressively large array of loose and packaged tea. There were teas from England, Ireland, Russia, India, Japan, and China. There were herbal teas and green teas and black teas and oolongs, as well as teas to help you go to sleep, teas to wake you up, and teas to help you lose weight.

A blackboard tacked on the wall above the counter announced the tea menu for the day, with the day's specials highlighted in red chalk. Next to the cash register was a small display case offering a selection of foods, mostly cookies and muffins, all of which Bernie could tell had been bought at BJ's even though the sign proclaimed they were homemade.

Over to the left, toward the back, was a small alcove. Clearly even less thought had been given to its furnishings. The walls were bare. Three rickety-looking wooden tables with paint peeling off their tops and six chairs that looked as if they would collapse at any moment were the sum and substance of the furniture.

What a waste of space, Bernie thought. If the shop had been hers, she would, at the very least, have switched out the florescent light for a hanging lamp, gotten rid of the tables and chairs, and put in a love seat, a few easy chairs, some small tables, and a colorful area rug instead.

She was wondering why Alla Feldman had made the choices she had made and about whether she and Libby should expand and put more seating in their place, when a woman Bernie assumed was Alla Feldman came out of the back.

Alla was of medium height. Her dark hair was pulled back into a bun, which emphasized her aquiline nose. Her eyes were ringed with heavy black eyeliner and her lashes beaded with mascara. The rest of her makeup consisted of a pale foundation that was too light for her olive skin and scarlet lipstick. Bernie put Feldman in her early thirties, and as she walked toward them, the way she carried herself made Bernie wonder if she'd studied dance at some time in her life.

“Can I help you?” Feldman asked in lightly accented English.

“Nice photos,” Bernie said, pointing to the pictures hanging on the wall.

Alla Feldman smiled. “Thank you. They are of my garden.” She gestured to five large glass jars on the back counter. “I grow the chamomile and lavender and the comfrey that I sell here.”

“Excellent,” Libby said. She cleared her throat and smiled back. “We're looking to buy some yellow tea,” she said, following the script she and Bernie had rehearsed in the van coming over.

The woman's penciled eyebrows lifted. “Yellow tea? Are you sure you don't mean green.”

“I'm positive,” Libby said emphatically.

The woman toyed with one of her gold bangles. “I'm sorry, but this is not something we sell here.”

“Are you sure?” Bernie asked, wondering where Alla Feldman hailed from. She was having difficulty placing the accent. Israel perhaps? Somewhere in the Middle East?

The woman sniffed and drew herself up before turning to Bernie. “Of course, I am sure. I am the owner. I know what is in my place.”

“I don't understand,” Libby said, feigning puzzlement. “A friend of ours told us he bought it here.”

Alla looked bored. “Then your friend gave you the incorrect information.”

“Ludvoc, Ludvoc Zalinsky,” Bernie said, mentioning the name. She thought that she saw Alla Feldman startle before she went back to her bored expression, but she wasn't positive. The shift in expression had happened too fast.

Alla corrected Bernie. “Ah. I know of him. I read about him in the papers.”

“But you don't know him?” Bernie asked, repeating her question.

“That is what I said,” Alla repeated firmly. “He is the dead one, correct?”

Bernie and Libby both nodded.

“He was murdered,” Feldman added. “I read this in the newspaper.”

“Yes, he was,” Bernie agreed.

“It is too bad. Then you could have asked him where he got the tea.”

“Too bad that's not a possibility now.” Libby stifled a cough. “So you're saying he never came in here and bought yellow tea from you?”

“Why you keep asking me the same question?” Alla demanded. “I already tell you the answer. I don't sell it. This is my shop, and I know what is in it and who comes in and buys things. This Zalinsky,” Alla sniffed, “he never . . . how you say . . . darken my door.”

“Well, perhaps the person that told me made a mistake,” Libby conceded, even though she didn't think that Casper had. “Is there any other place around here that sells it?”

Alla Feldman shook her head and made an impatient noise. She was turning to go when Bernie took the tin out of her tote, opened it, and placed it on the counter in front of her.

“What is this?” Alla asked.

“This is the yellow tea he supposedly got here,” Bernie told her.

Alla knitted her brows together and tapped the writing on the tin with a blood-red fingernail. “This says green tea.”

“That's not what's in there now,” Bernie said.

“This,” Alla said, nodding toward the tin, “is a brand we do not carry here at It's Tea Time. You buy this at the supermarkets,” her tone indicating that that was the same as buying it at the Dollar Store. She looked from Bernie to Libby and back again. “I do not understand,” she said.

“Neither do we,” Libby replied. “That's why we're here.”

Alla was silent for a moment while she thought. Then she reached out her hand. “May I look?” she asked.

“Please do,” Bernie replied.

The sisters watched as Alla took the top off the tin and looked inside. Then she lifted the tin up and smelled it, after which she took a pinch of the tea and put it in the palm of her left hand.

“This tea has been bleached,” she announced, pointing to it.

“Bleached?” Libby echoed.

“Yes, bleached, and then color has been added. Yellow dye.”

“So it is not yellow tea?” Libby asked.

“That is what I have just said. Yellow tea is very expensive. It is very rare. I do not sell things like that in my shop. There is no market for something like that here.”

“If I wanted yellow tea, where would I get it?” Libby asked.

“Maybe over the Internet,” Alla replied. “Maybe down in the city. Flushing. Lots of Chinese there. Many places.”

As Alla talked, Bernie noticed that her gaze was focused on the parking lot. Bernie turned to look at what Alla was looking at. It was Stan walking across the lot.

“You know him?” she asked Alla.

“Who?” Alla asked.

Bernie pointed. “Him. Stan Holloway.”

Alla gave a casual shrug. “He comes in and buys a cup of tea once in a while. All he does is talk, talk, talk. He a very angry young man.”

“Why do you say that?” Libby asked.

“I hear him on the phone. Sometimes he is yelling, saying he's going to kill his boss. He gets red in the face. He is so loud I have to go over and tell him to be quiet.” She shook her head. “He is not good for business.”

“Did you tell the police?” Bernie asked Alla.

Alla looked at her like she was crazy. “Why I do that?”

“Because Zalinsky was Stan's boss,” Libby told her.

“Ah. This I did not know.”

“Maybe you should,” Bernie suggested.

“I think maybe this is not my business,” Alla told Bernie. “I think you should talk to this person yourself.” And with that she turned and marched into the back of the store, leaving Bernie and Libby standing there.