Dead as a Scone (23 page)

“By the way,” Flick said, “I didn’t get the chance to thank you yesterday. I’d probably be packing up my office today if you hadn’t jumped in the way you did.”

“Marjorie Halifax’s bark is worse than her bite.” Nigel returned the jar to the shelf. “She fancies herself the vice-chair of the trustees. She assumes that she will replace Archibald Meicklejohn when he moves on to greener pastures.”

“Maybe so, but I really appreciate you standing up for me. You showed lots of courage.”

Nigel felt a surge of embarrassment. He had been anything but courageous at the trustees’ meeting or earlier with the Kent police. Fortunately, Flick didn’t press the point or expect a response. Instead, she turned back to the preserves shelf and said, “We can’t go wrong with good-old apricot preserves.”

“Choose two aprons before you leave.” Nigel pointed to a collection of chef ’s aprons hanging inside a tall, wardrobe-sized gap in the shelving on the right side of the pantry. “And grab an apple from the bin—I promised Earl the parrot a snack.”

“That’s an odd place to put a clothes closet.” Flick gazed at a three-foot-wide gap. “Why waste prime real estate inside a crowded pantry?”

“One will never know. The carpenter who built these shelves is probably long dead.”

“Unless…”

“Unless what?”

“Forget it. What’s next?”

“Mixing, kneading, shaping, and baking. We’ll make the scones first.”

Once back in the kitchen, Nigel donned his apron and helped Flick tie hers. She seemed eager and ready to help. A good egg, after all.

We may have a lot more in common than I once thought.

He filled a large aluminum scoop to the twelve-cup mark with baking flour and emptied it into the dough mixer.

Perhaps I need to rethink an idea or two about Dr. Adams.

Flick pressed the button marked 1 with her elbow. The door slid shut, and the three plates she clutched in her hands and arms infused the small elevator with delectable aromas. She looked down with satisfaction at two fully baked scones, two lemon curd tarts, two iced fairy cakes, and a miniature chocolate pound cake.

I helped every step of the way.

Cha-Cha sat obediently at her feet, sniffing the air, occasionally yipping for a treat.

“Maybe later,” she said, “if anything is left when the grown-ups are finished.”

Flick felt astonished by what she had just seen. Nigel had described himself as a journeyman; in fact, he was a better baker than Alain Rousseau. His scones seemed lighter than Alain’s, with a better texture. His cakes looked too pretty to eat. He had thrown dough around with seemingly wild abandon, had stamped out scones like a punch press, and had stuck “wings” on fairy cakes in dizzying succession. In only four hours, they had made forty-eight lemon curd tarts, two sheets of chocolate pound cake, forty-eight fairy cakes, and ninety-six prebaked scones—half plain, half cinnamon raisin.

“I’m slowing down in my old age,” he had said. “You should have seen me at age twenty. A veritable baking machine. It’s ironic, but I’m not especially fond of scones.”

Most of Nigel’s apparent pomposity had vanished as they worked together and she got to know him better. He also had shown himself to have a good sense of humor and had even responded cheerfully to her “I know more than you do” answer to his question about scones. And then the biggest surprise of all: Nigel had done an utterly unexpected thing when they began to clean up the kitchen.

“Let’s sample our handiwork when we are finished,” Nigel had said. “I’ve made us our own private assortment of goodies.”

“In that case, I suggest we adjourn to the Tea Tasting Room on the first floor. I’ll brew a pot of tea for me and perk a pot of coffee for you. It seems silly to fire up the big kettle and the big coffeemaker for just the two of us.”

“Upstairs. Yes. That’s a fine idea.” Nigel seemed to hesitate.

“However, perhaps I can do without the coffee.”

Flick had been sponging down the preparation table. She froze in midswipe. “You? No coffee?”

“It seems only fair that I learn more about the beverage that currently pays my rent and supports my lifestyle.” He glanced at his watch. “It’s not late, only fourteen thirty”—he smiled again—“two thirty, I mean. If you have no pressing plans, I’d like to sample a reasonable cross section of teas and find the one I like best.”

“You’re saying you want me to set up a personal tea tasting for you?”

His sudden nervous chortle intensified her surprise. “Well, yes—but with normal strength tea. I doubt that I’m ready for the extra-strong brew you tea tasters drink. And, of course, I won’t promise that I will like any of them. I am, however, willing to try what you suggest.”

“I’d be honored to help you find a tea you will really enjoy.”

“Tell you what. You go upstairs and work your magic. I’ll finish putting the bowls and pans away and join you in about fifteen minutes.”

The elevator arrived at the first floor. Flick toted her cargo of samples through the Tea at Sea Gallery, around the staircase, and into the Tea Tasting Room. Visitors to the museum often commented on its most distinctive feature: a glass wall in the rear that overlooked the Tea Blending Room, the one exhibit that visitors had to watch from a distance.

The Tea Tasting Room was the least furnished room in the museum. There was a large, square slate-topped table in the middle of the floor, several tall storage cupboards and a refrigerator on the wall opposite the windows, and a long row of waist-high cabinets built next to the windows. The wood cabinets were painted white and looked like a cross between kitchen cabinetry and laboratory equipment. The slate countertop had a sink at each end, both equipped with filters that eliminated chlorine and other impurities. The only chairs in the room were eight tall stools arrayed around the central table.

Afternoon sunlight streamed through the westward-facing windows. Flick mused for the hundredth time that the Tea Tasting Room was on the wrong side of the museum. The color of brewed tea, an important evaluation factor, was best evaluated in uniform daylight away from bright sunshine. Cool northern light was ideal.

Flick tugged a cord to close the floor-to-ceiling translucent draperies that offered a partial solution, then went next door to the Tea Blending Room. She browsed among more than two hundred canisters on the shelves and made six selections. She would serve four representative teas to Nigel
—
and have a bit of fun with two other “unusual” teas. She put two tablespoons of each tea into a small paper cup. She decided not to label the six cups; her experience made it easy to tell by appearance which tea was which.

Flick had an idea as she carried the paper cups back to the Tea Tasting Room. Maybe she should serve Nigel a cup of her favorite tea. The tea leaves were in her office, but she had more than enough time for a quick trip to the third floor. She made a snap decision:
I’ll do it.

A soft yip caught her attention.

Uh-oh. There’s trouble waiting to happen.

Cha-Cha sat a few feet away from the central table eyeing the baked goods intently. He seemed especially interested in the miniature chocolate pound cake. Flick didn’t think he could manage a leap to the top, but she also knew that Shiba Inus were the most catlike of dogs.

Better safe than sorry.

His lead was in her coat pocket. She clipped it to his collar.

“You are coming along with me.”

She jogged up the stairs, Cha-Cha trotting close behind.

The tea canister was atop the credenza behind her desk, on a tray that also held an electric kettle made of black plastic, a four-cup teapot, and three ceramic mugs. She had remembered to bring another paper cup with her. She dipped it inside the canister and scooped up a few tablespoons of tea leaves.

Flick glanced at the electric kettle. Elspeth’s little black book, wrapped in a black plastic bag, was hidden in the bottom. It was virtually invisible, even if someone were to lift the lid and look inside the tall, narrow appliance.

Should I show the notebook to Nigel?

She remembered his skeptical expression in the pantry. He still had his doubts that Elspeth had been poisoned. Would Elspeth’s notebook help to convince him otherwise?

Probably not.
And anyway, this isn’t the right time to talk about murder.

Back in the Tea Tasting Room, Flick took three full-sized electric kettles from a cupboard, filled each to the brim, and plugged the trio into power points recessed in the top of the central table. She lined up seven clear glass teapots
—
Nigel might enjoy watching the tea leaves steep—and fourteen white teacups: a fresh cup for Nigel and her for each tea they sampled.

She thought about wheeling in the tall stainless-steel spittoon, but decided against it. When Flick participated in a real tea-tasting session, she rolled hefty sips of tea around in her mouth, then spit them out.

She surveyed the table. Was anything missing?

Rats! I forgot milk, sugar, teaspoons, and the most important utensils of all: tea strainers.

Flick was sitting at the table, beaming happily, when Nigel came in.

“Look at all this clobber,” he said. “Tea tasting is as bad as baking.” He peered at the row of paper cups. “What kind of teas are these?”

“I’ll tell you as you drink them.”

“Fair enough. Bring on the first candidate.”

Flick emptied the first paper cup into the first teapot, then poured the boiling water.

“Hey, that’s interesting,” Nigel said. “The tea leaves move around as they brew.”

“It’s called the ‘agony of the leaves.’ The dried tea leaves relax and uncurl in the hot water. Some people prefer to say the ‘ecstasy of the leaves.’ ”

“I am one of them.” He gazed into the teapot. “That’s a pretty color. A lovely deep red.”

They watched in silence as the tea brewed.

“Three minutes,” Flick said. “Your English Breakfast tea is ready, sir.”

She filled a cup for Nigel, pouring the tea through the strainer to filter out the tea leaves that traveled through the spout, and then another for herself.

Nigel took several demure sips, then said, “Hmm. A pleasant bouquet that prepares one for the fruity tastes to come. A bit overambitious, but one is quickly amused at its presumption.”

Flick snickered. “You sound like a wine taster. ‘Fruity’ is not necessarily a term of praise for tea. It can mean that the tea has an overripe taste and may have been oxidized too long when it was processed. If I were wearing my tea-taster hat right now, I would describe this as a hearty, full-bodied, full-flavored tea.”

“What kind of tea bush makes English Breakfast tea?”

Flick struggled to keep a straight face. She had heard the silly question a thousand times before. “English Breakfast tea is actually a blend of different teas from India and Sri Lanka,” she said evenly. “All true teas come from a single plant. Its Latin name is
Camellia sinensis.
It’s a tropical evergreen, with glossy dark-green leaves. There are three major varieties
—
and lots of minor variations—of
Camellia sinensis
found in different parts of the world. Teas, of course, will also taste different depending on soil, climate, the amount of sunlight
—
all the usual growing factors.”

Nigel nodded. He took another sip, then frowned. “Hang on a mo. My mother often drinks teas made of chamomile and rose hips.”

Flick sighed. “It drives me bonkers when herbal infusions are called ‘tea.’ I wish we followed the French and called them tisanes.” She shrugged. “I know it’s a losing battle, so let’s get back to English Breakfast tea. Did you know that adding a little milk may enhance a hearty tea? It actually can improve the taste. Some people even like sugar.”

“I know about milk, but is it legal to put sugar in tea?”

“Lots of Americans do, the Chinese usually don’t, the Brits are ambivalent, even though they came up with the idea first. George Orwell, the novelist who wrote
1984,
wrote a famous essay on tea that condemned the use of sugar.”