A Hole in the Plot: A Mackenzie Quinn Short Mystery by Jacquelyn Smith

Author:Jacquelyn Smith
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: WaywardScribe Press

Saturday, 12:13 p.m

I sipped at some kind of orange-infused tea from a delicate china cup printed with pink roses, trying to feel as if I fit in among the dressed up (mostly senior) Saturday afternoon crowd at Pure SimpliciTEA. I really wasn’t a tea person. (Or a coffee person, for that matter.) But the citrus-flavoured drink wasn’t that bad. Still, I was definitely getting some surreptitious looks from the men and women sitting at the other tables. The air of the tea shop was filled with the murmur of low voices between the clinking of spoons and tea cups being placed back in their matching saucers. (I resisted the urge to pull my trusty Moleskine notebook from my satchel and turn things around by people-watching the customers instead.)

‘Fusspot’ had definitely been the right word for Winston Talbot, and the tea shop reflected that. Each round table had been spaced an exact distance apart, and was draped with a pristine, white tablecloth, overlaid with a second one in a decorated pink and blue lace that matched the shop’s tea service. The tables were topped with a small arrangement of exactly three fragrant, pink roses that must have come from Ashwood Growers, the local flower shop. None of the tablecloths showed a single wrinkle or stain. Low, classical piano music played from hidden speakers, adding to the Victorian feel of the shop.

Winston himself stood behind the front counter, near a painted chalkboard sign in a flourishing font, requesting that patrons silence their phones before being seated. He shot me looks of disdain whenever he thought no one was watching. He practically radiated disapproval at my sweatshirt and jeans, and I couldn’t even imagine what my mop of hair looked like at this point. Still, he hadn’t turned me away when I’d sat down and given my order.

Winston was in his sixties, and towered over the polished, wooden counter with his tall, lean frame. As usual, his white hair had been slicked back from his face, making his beaky nose protrude from his gaunt face. He wore a pair of khaki dress pants that had been crisply ironed within an inch of their life, topped with a pale pink dress shirt, maroon sweater vest and dark blue tie that made him seem like an extension of the tea shop’s decor. His blue eyes bore into me from across the room like gimlets as I took another sip of tea. He definitely didn’t look friendly. Did he have something to hide? (It was kind of hard to tell, since he rarely smiled anyway.)

“Ignore him, dear,” a cheerful, female voice said, making me look up.

Winston’s sister, Dolores, hovered nearby with wheeled, silver cart that held a tiered tray of scones and finger sandwiches. Short and plump, she was a complete contrast to her brother with her wispy, white hair tied back in a loose bun and a bright smile on her face. She wore a tea dress with a cheerful daisy print.

“He’s just being a sourpuss,” Dolores continued.

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