Lemon curd killer, p.1
Lemon Curd Killer, page 1
Titles by Laura Childs
Tea Shop Mysteries
death by darjeeling
gunpowder green
shades of earl grey
the english breakfast murder
the jasmine moon murder
chamomile mourning
blood orange brewing
dragonwell dead
the silver needle murder
oolong dead
the teaberry strangler
scones & bones
agony of the leaves
sweet tea revenge
steeped in evil
ming tea murder
devonshire scream
pekoe most poison
plum tea crazy
broken bone china
lavender blue murder
haunted hibiscus
twisted tea christmas
a dark and stormy tea
lemon curd killer
Scrapbooking Mysteries
keepsake crimes
photo finished
bound for murder
motif for murder
frill kill
death swatch
tragic magic
fiber & brimstone
skeleton letters
postcards from the dead
gilt trip
gossamer ghost
parchment and old lace
crepe factor
glitter bomb
mumbo gumbo murder
Cackleberry Club Mysteries
eggs in purgatory
eggs benedict arnold
bedeviled eggs
stake & eggs
eggs in a casket
scorched eggs
egg drop dead
eggs on ice
egg shooters
Anthologies
death by design
tea for three
Afton Tangler Thrillers writing as Gerry Schmitt
little girl gone
shadow girl
BERKLEY PRIME CRIME
Published by Berkley
An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC
penguinrandomhouse.com
Copyright © 2023 by Gerry Schmitt & Associates, Inc.
Excerpt from Honey Drop Dead by Laura Childs copyright © 2023 by Gerry Schmitt & Associates, Inc.
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BERKLEY and the BERKLEY & B colophon are registered trademarks and BERKLEY PRIME CRIME is a trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Childs, Laura, author.
Title: Lemon curd killer / Laura Childs.
Description: New York: Berkley Prime Crime, [2023] | Series: Tea shop mystery; 25
Identifiers: LCCN 2022041577 (print) | LCCN 2022041578 (ebook) |
ISBN 9780593200926 (hardcover) | ISBN 9780593200933 (ebook)
Subjects: LCGFT: Novels. Classification: LCC PS3603.H56 L46 2023 (print) | LCC PS3603.H56 (ebook)| DDC 813/.6—dc23/eng/20220831
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2022041577
LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2022041578
Cover illustration by Scott Zelazny
Adapted for ebook by Kelly Brennan
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
PUBLISHER’S NOTE: The recipes contained in this book are to be followed exactly as written. The publisher is not responsible for your specific health or allergy needs that may require medical supervision. The publisher is not responsible for any adverse reactions to the recipes contained in this book.
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CONTENTS
Cover
Titles by Laura Childs
Title Page
Copyright
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Favorite Recipes
Tea Time Tips
Get Creative with Scones
Tea Resources
Acknowledgments
Excerpt from Honey Drop Dead
About the Author
1
When life hands you lemons, you’re supposed to make lemonade. Theodosia Browning had adopted a slightly more creative approach. She was smack-dab in the middle of hosting a fanciful Limón Tea Party.
Picture this if you will: Five dozen Southern ladies dressed in gauzy florals and wearing hats and gloves. All seated at elegant tea tables in the fairy-tale setting of an actual lemon grove strung with hundreds of white twinkle lights. Postcard perfect, yes? Now add in a delicate waft of lemon-scented tea, large glass bowls amply heaped with fresh-picked lemons, and lemon scones served as the first course. For the pièce de résistance, a fashion show was about to begin and a camera crew was on hand to capture all the highlights of the runway. Naturally, the usual gaggle of high-strung designers, stylists, and business partners paced about nervously in the background.
A lot to contend with. Almost too much for Theodosia. It was one thing to serve morning and afternoon tea at her charming Indigo Tea Shop on Charleston’s famed Church Street, another to juggle a major event such as this Limón Tea Party.
“Grab another pitcher of lemonade, will you?” Theodosia said to Haley, her young chef and baker. “And that silver ice bucket as well.”
Theodosia blew a wisp of curly auburn hair off her face as she stood in the kitchen of the Orchard House Inn, home to South Carolina’s only lemon orchard. All the food and beverages were being staged here with the help of Drayton, her tea sommelier, Haley, her chef, and two additional waitstaff. And each course was (thankfully!) going out on time. Seemed to be, anyway.
“That woman is driving me batty,” Drayton said as he measured out scoops of lemon verbena tea. A natural orator, each of his syllables was rounded and carefully cadenced.
“You’re talking about Delaine?” Theodosia asked. She gazed at him with crystalline blue eyes that were complemented by a peaches and cream complexion and an abundant halo of auburn hair. With her slender, athletic build, Theodosia always gave the impression that she was infused with energy and about to come uncoiled.
“Delaine always drives me crazy,” Drayton said. “That’s nothing new. No, I’m talking about her overbearing sister, Nadine. The woman is positively outrageous. Not only is she bullying the poor models, she’s been braying out orders to the film crew. And seriously ragging that dilettante of a film director whose name escapes me at the moment. My fear is that our lovely guests might pick up on the dissonance and frenzy wafting through the air.”
Haley looked up from where she was stacking lobster salad tea sandwiches on three-tiered trays. “You mean bad vibes?” Haley was sylphlike and blond, cute as a button, and in her early twenties—still easily impressionable.
“Precisely,” Drayton said.
Theodosia glanced out the window over the sink and saw Nadine rushing around, waving her arms, looking as if she were jacked up on an entire bottle of Ritalin.
“Tell you what. You and Haley make one more round with scones, tea, and lemonade, then carry out the tea sandwiches. I’ll go see if I can wrangle Nadine.”
Theodosia, ever the peacemaker, didn’t want trouble. She also didn’t want Drayton to lose his cool. He was her steadfast, sixty-something tea sommelier and right-hand man who rarely got ruffled. But today he was edging toward it. Not that you could tell. In his cream-colored silk jacket and pale pink bow tie he was the picture of a Southern gent dressed for a lovely spring afternoon. Not a wrinkle in sight, nary a hair out of place.
Walking across the grass, Theodosia tilted her face up slightly to catch the warm sun. This was such a fun idea to host a tea party in an actual lemon grove on Johns Island, just a few miles outside Charleston’s city limits. The Orchard House Inn was the perfect spot, a lovely pla ntation-style B and B with a chef’s kitchen and plenty of parking. And to think that the inn’s owners had actually imported all these trees, planted them, and then carefully nurtured them so that they were all producing edible fruit. Quite amazing.
Theodosia walked past the fluttering white tent that served as a temporary dressing room and where a dozen underfed models were squeezing their slim bodies into leggings and halter tops. She passed a small shed where a maintenance man in green overalls was stowing a rake and noticed the film director fidgeting with a camera on a tripod. Even though the day was warm, the director—she remembered his name was somebody Fox—wore a dark green Burberry blazer with a linen scarf looped lazily around his neck.
Theodosia smiled to herself. Like he was at the Cannes Film Festival ready to pick up an award instead of filming an afternoon tea and fashion show.
Finally, a few steps into the lemon orchard, she found the two sisters, Delaine and Nadine, locked in a heated argument. Delaine Dish was sputtering like a manic gopher, her face turning pink as she lectured her younger sister, Nadine.
“You always send the sportiest looks down the runway first,” Delaine shouted. “Then work your way up to the more fashion-conscious outfits.” Delaine was the high-maintenance owner of Cotton Duck, one of Charleston’s premier clothing boutiques. She was also a semi-socialite, confirmed gossip, and veteran of countless fashion shows. Today Delaine wore a flouncy rose-colored skirt with a matching, tight-fitting peplum jacket.
Nadine, grim faced and posturing awkwardly in her yellow dress, barely acknowledged her own sister.
“Ladies,” Theodosia said, breaking into their conversation. “Please don’t tell me we have a problem.”
Delaine spun to face her. “A problem? There’s always a problem when Nadine’s involved.”
Nadine’s expression turned even more sour. “You’re always accusing me of being stupid,” she sneered at Delaine. “Well, Lemon Squeeze Couture is my project and I’m creative director. So I’d appreciate it if you’d kindly back off!”
While Delaine was size zero skinny with flowing dark hair and a heart-shaped face, Nadine was her polar opposite. Light blond close-cropped hair, zaftig figure, and a temperament more mercurial than Delaine’s. If that was even possible.
“Please,” Theodosia said. “Let’s all take a deep breath here.” Yes, it may have been Theodosia’s tea party, but these two ladies had the potential to turn it into WrestleMania if they continued to go at it tooth and nail.
“B-b-but the timing,” Delaine began. “With so many moving parts . . . you want everything to be perfect. The food, the fashion . . .”
“Relax,” Theodosia said in what she hoped was a soothing tone. “For one thing, the tea party is nothing to worry about. Drayton and I have done this a million times. As far as the fashion show goes, it looks as if all the models are dressed, glammed up, and eager to strut their stuff.” She forced a smile. “Why don’t you both take a deep breath, sit down, and enjoy the show. I have a feeling it’s going to be terrific.”
Nadine’s waxed brows shot up as she fought to pull her pink-glossed, over-injected lips into an unhappy line. “So you say, but this is an enormous challenge for me. It’s not just the kickoff event for Charleston Fashion Week, it’s the very first time my partners and I have staged an actual Lemon Squeeze Couture Fashion Show!”
Theodosia sighed. Lemon Squeeze Couture was a new line of workout clothing, or as Nadine preferred to call it—athleisure wear—that was debuting today at the Limón Tea Party.
And just to throw a monkey wrench into things, adding a film crew had been a last-minute decision cooked up by Nadine’s two business partners, Harv and Marv. They suddenly had their hearts set on a fun, bouncy fashion video that could be set to music and played on the Lemon Squeeze Couture website. Not a bad idea entirely, just a little late in the game.
Theodosia consulted her watch and waved a hand as a bumblebee buzzed lazily past her head. “Tell you what,” she said. “We have ten minutes before the fashion show is scheduled to start. Delaine, why don’t you check on the models. And, Nadine, perhaps you could take a quick break. I know you have people from the press here, so before you speak to them maybe you could grab a glass of lemonade and . . .”
“Chill out,” Delaine snapped.
* * *
* * *
Nadine, her nose out of joint because of the confrontation with her sister, walked to the back door of the Orchard House Inn. Still steaming with anger, she hesitated for a moment, then pulled open the screen door and stepped into the empty kitchen. It was large with lots of metal shelves stocked with stewpots, stacks of fry pans, and sheet cake pans. Acres of counter space held what remained of today’s tea party bounty—extra three-tiered trays and pans mounded with lemon cream scones covered in plastic wrap. Six blue coolers that had recently held a myriad of tea sandwiches stood empty. There was also a scatter of tea tins, teapots, and tea accoutrements.
Nadine didn’t give a fig about tea or tea sandwiches. What she really wanted right now was a cigarette to help settle her nerves—and who cared if this was a no-smoking zone? Who was going to know? All the tea people were running around like crazy chickens serving the guests while her silly, domineering sister was trying to take over the show and ingratiate herself with her business partners. Hah. Delaine always had been the pushy one.
Dipping into her skirt pocket, Nadine grabbed a half-empty pack of Marlboro Lights, shook one out, and lit up. She inhaled greedily, then exhaled slowly. Tried to calm her jangled nerves as well as her intense worry over the fashion show. And just as her shoulders started to unkink, just as she was beginning to relax, she heard, on the other side of the door that separated the kitchen from a rather large parlor, two people arguing.
Curious now (Nadine was always curious), she wondered if it might be her erstwhile business partners, Harv and Marv, sniping at each other yet again. She tiptoed over, put an ear to the door, and heard . . .
More arguing. Insistent and growing increasingly heated with every passing moment. Still, the voices were pitched so low it was virtually impossible to make out actual words.
Could they be talking about me? Nadine wondered as her paranoia kicked in big-time.
She hadn’t been getting along all that well with Harv and Marv. They’d finally tumbled to her utter lack of knowledge concerning fashion and their new product launch. Once that had happened, once she’d been unmasked, it seemed as if they were constantly shouting and ranting at her about one thing or another. And it was upsetting to Nadine. Could she help it if she was a neophyte when it came to design and sales and marketing? Sure, she’d embroidered some of her résumé (okay, most of it), but for goodness’ sake, she was trying to contribute. Could she help it if she lacked actual know-how about manufacturing and distribution? What about all the sweat equity she’d poured in? Surely, that must count for something!
Listening harder, trying to discern exact words, Nadine leaned closer. And as she did, she bumped her forehead against the swinging door, causing it to emit a loud creak. At that exact same moment, Nadine lost her balance and—doggone high heels!—teetered hard against the door.
The door swung open, causing her to practically fall into the parlor.
Embarrassed, cartwheeling her arms to try and regain her balance, Nadine stared at the two people and recognized them instantly. “Oh jeez,” she sputtered. “I’m so sorry. I was just . . .” Before she got halfway through her apology, her eyes fell on a large black duffel bag stuffed with . . .
Oh no.
Realizing she was suddenly in serious trouble, Nadine spun about frantically, hoping to beat a hasty retreat.
Too late.
As she lurched back into the kitchen, legs churning, veins coursing hot with adrenaline, something sharp struck the back of her head. It was an exquisitely well-defined pain, almost like the sting of a hornet. The sudden assault made her cry out. Then, a millisecond later, the pain was excruciating, as if the entire back of her head were on fire. Nadine wondered what strange thing had just happened as a million jumbled thoughts spun crazily through her brain and she crashed to the floor.
And the very last thing Nadine was cognizant of before she winked out for good, for all eternity, was being dragged . . . dragged into a place that was cold and dark and sticky.
