Death at the Cafe Read online

  Annabelle laughed. “Well, perhaps I was a little overzealous.”

  “I’ve not seen your cousin Josh since he drove us to that concert.”

  “’The Jacksons’! Oh yes, I remember that well. You danced so wildly you nearly poked somebody’s eye out!”

  “How times change,” Mary said, wistfully, as they stared into space.

  As they waited, a man sitting on a bench tossed a free newspaper onto the seat beside him. Mary glanced over twice before mustering up the courage to walk over.

  “Excuse me, are you finished with this paper?”

  The man nodded curtly and turned his gaze back toward the darkness of the tunnel. Mary picked up the paper and walked back to Annabelle.

  “I had forgotten how rude Londoners can be,” Mary said in an almost silent whisper.

  Annabelle shrugged sympathetically as the train rolled up to the platform. They entered a carriage and sat once again. Mary opened the paper and perused it solemnly, turning pages only after she had cast her eyes upon each headline at least once. Annabelle glanced curiously at her friend’s intense focus.

  “Are you always so interested in the news, Mary?” she asked.

  Mary shook her head. “No. I’m just wondering if there’s something here that could be connected to the woman who handed me the note.”

  Annabelle shifted her head, bemused.

  “Such as?”

  “Well, look here. A serial killer has been roaming the streets of Lewisham.”

  “That’s nowhere near the café. And look here,” Annabelle said, pointing to the top of the article, “it says he’s been caught.”

  Mary turned the page, almost disappointed at her poor sleuthing skills.

  “What about this! Russian spy poisoned in Notting Hill! She could have easily been poisoned!”

  Annabelle leaned over the paper, scanned a few paragraphs, and then relaxed her brow.

  “It says the actual poisoning happened last year – if it happened at all.”

  Mary turned the page again, deflated once more. Annabelle checked her watch while Mary continued to study the newspaper for clues.

  “Shall I read you your horoscope, Annabelle?”

  “Mary! You’re a Catholic nun! You shouldn’t be indulging in such poppycock!”

  “Oh, it’s just a bit of fun to pass the time.”

  “It’s nonsense and dangerous at that if you take it too seriously.”

  “Don’t be such a spoilsport!”

  “I’m not!” Annabelle gasped, with mock offense. “Look at us. We have the same sign, and we’re entirely different.”

  Mary smiled mischievously. “And we’re also incredibly alike, wouldn’t you say?”

  Annabelle rolled her eyes in defeat. “Okay. Go on then.”

  Mary folded up the paper eagerly, as if better to read it, opened her mouth to recite the words, then lowered her brow in an expression of both shock and befuddlement.

  Annabelle leaned forward, waiting for her to speak. “Well?”

  Mary adjusted herself, before speaking in a slow, serious tone. “’Today will be a day of dramatic events. Stay alert, because somebody you know will be full of surprises.’”

  The two women looked at each other for a few seconds, sharing their feelings of confusion. Annabelle broke the silence with a snort of derision. “Nonsense. That’s so general, it could apply to almost anyone, or anything, on any day. Here’s our stop. Let’s go.”

  Though they were both already moving quickly through the busy London streets, the shock of the newspaper’s words seemed to spur just a little more speed out of the two women. They exited the Baker Street station like a pair of scampering dogs, and after stopping briefly to ask for directions to Glentworth Street, maintained a quick pace all the way to the entrance of the large property whose address they had been given over the phone.

  Annabelle pressed the bell eagerly, looking at Mary. When the door buzzed without a word from the intercom, she grabbed the handle and pushed quickly. Somehow, Mary managed to keep up with Annabelle’s long strides up the stairs leading to the doorway of the apartment. By this time, they were out of breath from both the climb and the excitement but intent on their purpose of finally meeting the mysterious Teresa.

  Mary raised her hand, fist ready to knock, but the door opened slowly before she could even begin, revealing a short lady who was no doubt the Teresa they had come to see. She was well-dressed in khaki slacks and an intricately-knitted cardigan in duck egg blue. The wrinkles on her face seemed well earned, and the deep brown of her eyes hinted at having seen many adventures. Her white hair was still thick enough to frame her face elegantly, and when she spoke, her voice had the strong, aged woodiness of a classical instrument.

  “Hello. I’ve been waiting for you. Do come in,” she said slowly.

  “Thank you,” Mary said, stepping into the house. Annabelle followed, politely nodding her appreciation at the invitation.

  The apartment was lavish, and though it was open and large, everywhere the two visitors looked seemed to be filled with ornately-carved sculptures, powerfully evocative artwork, and ornaments of unimaginable shininess. Mixed among the relics and artifacts were crucifixes, elaborate carvings of the Virgin Mary, and diamond-encrusted plates that depicted scenes involving the saints.

  They stepped carefully forward, as if in fear of spoiling what seemed like one of the most incredibly intimate and packed museum exhibitions they had ever seen. Teresa walked past them slowly, with a slight limp in her gait and led them toward a living room packed with just as many objects of delicate craftsmanship as the entrance.

  “Please, take a seat. I’ve laid out some tea.”

  Though her instincts still told her that something was incredibly strange about both this elderly woman and the situation itself, Annabelle caught sight of the table and found a note of familiarity in which to ground herself. Laid there was elegantly sculpted china with detailed patterns painted tastefully upon each piece. Annabelle’s eyes immediately focused upon a plate which held small, bite-sized pieces of cake that her connoisseur’s eye could tell would be delicious. Whatever was causing the peculiar suspicions stirring in Annabelle’s chest could wait.

  “Oh, this looks delightful,” Annabelle smiled.

  Teresa held Annabelle’s eyes as if judging her, a pleasant, if slightly reticent smile upon her face.

  Once Annabelle and Mary had seated themselves, Teresa leaned over the table and began pouring tea. Though both the visitors would have liked to offer help, they were well aware of the customs such elderly ladies liked to uphold and chose to sit back.

  “Please do try the cake,” Teresa said, with a curiously tentative tone.

  Annabelle glanced at Mary, and they each took one of the pieces from the plate. Mary nibbled the edge slightly, while Annabelle popped the entire thing into her mouth.

  “Mmm!” Annabelle hummed, as she swallowed the creamy, soft texture. “Absolutely magnificent! Oh my!”

  Teresa finished pouring the tea and set the teapot down.

  “It’s my niece’s favorite. I call it ‘Teresa’s Surprise Cake’. She does so much for me, it’s nice to repay the favor by baking one for her occasionally.”

  Annabelle was still sifting her tongue around her mouth, as if trying to capture every remnant of the extraordinary flavor. “Gosh! That might be one of the most scrumptious things I’ve ever eaten!”

  Teresa raised an eyebrow as if she fully expected this reaction. Suddenly, her eyes widened slightly, and her smile was less tentative. When she spoke again, it was with an almost expectant sureness.

  “I’m so glad you like it. I have some more in the kitchen. You’re welcome to take some with you.”

  Annabelle’s eyes lit up, all thoughts of danger and death had disappeared from her mind the moment she had tasted the stunningly tasty treat.

  “That would be wonderful! Thank you ever so much!”

  Teresa merely nodded her appreciation and left br
iefly through a doorway Annabelle assumed led to the kitchen. She was still smiling so much at the thought of enjoying the cake once again (something she believed she had thoroughly deserved after the morning’s events) that she barely noticed Mary’s persistent nudging of her elbow.

  “Annabelle!” Mary whispered, as aggressively as she could muster – which wasn’t very aggressive at all. “You should tell her what happened! I can’t! This is all too much for me.”

  “Yes, yes!” Annabelle said in similarly hushed tones, her friend’s anxiety refocusing her thoughts upon the task at hand. “Don’t worry.”

  Teresa returned clutching two zipped clear plastic bags with the cakes wrapped in foil visible inside them.

  “I hope you don’t mind,” she said, “wrapping them up like this is all I could manage at short notice.”

  “Oh, of course,” Annabelle said, gleefully taking the two bags and handing one to Mary. “They smell wonderful!”

  “I call them ‘Teresa’s Surprise Cakes’, because they have a very rare, very secret, ingredient.”

  Annabelle’s eyes lit up as if in the presence of a fireworks display. “That sounds utterly thrilling! Doesn’t it Mary?”

  Mary nodded eagerly, but her face was still consumed by anxiety. Annabelle saw it, and her expression changed to one more appropriate for the subject she was about to bring up.

  Annabelle and Mary watched carefully, as Teresa slowly moved to sit in her obviously favored chair by the open window.

  “I like to sit here,” she said, as if reading their thoughts, “and keep watch. I very rarely leave the house. My niece runs most of my errands.”

  “Oh,” Mary said, “well, it’s a wonderful house. I could find myself quite happily occupied among so many delightful things.”

  “Thank you,” Teresa acknowledged. “My ex-husband was one of the greatest antiques dealers in the world. He dealt in only the most beautiful and rarest objects.”

  Though Annabelle was loathe to interrupt such an obviously pleasing reminiscence for Teresa – particularly with such dreadful news – her sense of duty rose within her.

  “Teresa,” she began, announcing her intent with her serious tone, “we believe you may be in danger. As I imagine you’re aware, you were supposed to meet Sister Mary today to discuss funding, I believe. Instead, a person handed her a note that said you were in danger, along with your telephone number. A person who then died.”

  Teresa listened to Annabelle speak with a smile of knowing on her face until Annabelle uttered the last sentence, at which Teresa’s smile turned into an expression of pure pain.

  Teresa clutched the arms of her chair and looked wildly around her. She opened her mouth and closed it again, without speaking.

  Then, in an act of apparent defeat, she slumped as if all the life and fight had gone out of her.

  “I… know that I’m… in danger…” she said, as if woozy from the news. “I… know… something… danger—“

  Suddenly, her smooth, firm voice began to crackle wildly, and her sporadic speech was accompanied by an increasingly wild swaying to and fro. Annabelle and Mary watched in rapt attention at the sudden and bizarre change in Teresa’s manner.

  Before one of them could even offer help, Teresa let out one last broken syllable and clattered forward out of her chair onto the Persian rug beneath it.

  “Teresa?” Annabelle gasped, before looking at Mary, who had resorted to her familiar pose of clasping her hand over her mouth. The two of them held each other’s shocked gaze, until Mary’s nursing instincts kicked in, and she sprang into action.

  “Teresa, are you okay?” she said, as she knelt beside the fallen woman and gently pressed a hand to her shoulder. When she failed to receive a response, she looked once again at Annabelle, who stood up, cake still in hand, and looked around the room for some answer as to the woman’s collapse.

  With all the gentle, yet firm care of a well-practiced nurse, Mary lifted Teresa a little and placed two delicate fingers to the crease of her neck. Her lips pursed as her worst fears were confirmed.

  “Annabelle! She’s dead!”

  “Are you sure?”

  “The way she collapsed… It was almost exactly like the girl at the café today. I was just about to say som—”

  Mary stopped herself abruptly, and her expression changed as she seemed to fumble for something in the woman’s neck.

  “What is it?” Annabelle asked.

  Mary pulled out a tiny, hair-like sliver of something clear and sharp, just short of two inches long.

  “It’s… cold… Like a shard of ice,” Mary said, twisting the fragment in her fingers as she searched for some explanation.

  Annabelle stepped forward and leaned over her kneeling friend to get a closer look at the curious object.

  “It appears to be melting,” she said, before suddenly opening her eyes wide in terror.

  Without thinking, Annabelle smacked the object out of Mary’s hand with all the force of a heavyweight boxer.

  “Ow! Annabelle!” Mary screamed, clasping her sore hand in her other.

  “I’m awfully sorry, Mary, but a thought just occurred to me.”

  “What kind of violent thought would cause you to hit me!?”

  “Check Teresa’s neck,” Annabelle said, stepping to other side of the woman and kneeling down. “Where you found that shard.”

  Mary cast one more scowl of hurt at her friend, before obliging.

  “Well the skin is rather pockmarked anyway… But look here,” she said, indicating the very side of Teresa’s neck. “There’s a little redness around this tiny dot. It’s somewhat similar to a puncture wound.”

  As if surprised at her own words, Mary and Annabelle once again shared a look of horror. Annabelle took to her feet, turned her head toward the open window that the old woman had sat beside, and hurriedly gestured for Mary to get up.

  “Come on, Mary! We have to leave immediately!”

  Mary nodded her understanding of the situation and stood up quickly. They ran through the apartment without any of the care and delicacy they had exhibited upon entering. Suddenly, Annabelle almost slid to a stop before quickly turning back the way she came.

  “Where are you going, Annabelle?” Mary called.

  “The cakes!” she cried, emerging from the living room seconds later carrying the two bags aloft. “We’ve left them behind!”

  * * *

  Once the two friends had scampered out of Glentworth Street and back out into the populated safety of Baker Street, Annabelle found a phone booth and called both the emergency services and DI Cutcliffe.

  The detective told them to meet him outside the apartment in half an hour. He needed to investigate the area and ensure that it was safe for them to enter. Annabelle and Mary secreted themselves in a small café, clutching each other and casting glances around them as if surrounded by wolves. When the aforementioned time was up, they locked arms and slowly made their way once more into Glentworth Street. Their nerves jangled with a sense of danger until the sight of multiple police and ambulance vehicles afforded them a feeling of security.

  As they drew close, joining the dozen or so onlookers who watched the covered stretcher being wheeled into the back of the ambulance, Cutcliffe appeared before them as if rising from the ground itself – pen and notepad already in hand.

  “So, ladies,” he said in his gruff voice, “you should know the drill by now. From the top, if you please.”

  Mary looked at Annabelle in the hope she would take the lead, which she promptly did.

  “Mary received a note from the woman who died at the café earlier this morning,” Annabelle said, pulling out the slip of paper and handing it to DI Cutcliffe. “One that said Teresa, the woman now in the ambulance here, was in danger. Along with a number—”

  “You didn’t think that was worth mentioning when I questioned you this morning?” Cutcliffe directed toward Mary, with more than his usual amount of intensity.

  “I c
ompletely forgot about it! It was only when I later found the note that I remembered it!” Mary pleaded, exasperated and overwhelmed by both herself and the situation. “Oh Detective! Please, I know it sounds terribly negligent, but this is all happening so fast! I’m a nun, Detective. I am used to solemn worship. Slow, deliberate thought. All of this is much more intoxicating and confusing than anything I’m accustomed to!”

  The detective’s stern face remained still throughout Mary’s speech, as if ignoring the content of her words, and instead studying her manner for clues.

  “But you found the note, and instead of deciding to call me, visited Teresa yourself,” he said, calm but forceful.

  “When the note mentioned danger,” Annabelle said, stepping in to offer some clarity on behalf of her stressed and frazzled friend, “we never interpreted it to mean immediate, fatal danger. Surely, it would have been easier to go to the police herself had it been so. Instead, the woman at the café handed it to Sister Mary, a nun. We had every intention of telling you, Detective, but we had hoped that we could discover more about the situation before placing the task at your door.”

  The detective shifted his eyes toward Annabelle, though his face remained pointed toward Mary, as if reminding her he was still suspicious of both.

  “It was my idea, Detective, and I’m incredibly regretful about it,” Annabelle added.

  The detective offered a barely perceptible nod, before proceeding to scribble into his notebook in his angry fashion.

  “So you visited the house, and then what?”

  “She invited us in,” Mary said, eager to answer a question that didn’t depict her as worthy of suspicion, “and we sat down to take tea. We told her what had happened in the morning, and then she collapsed in almost the exact same manner as the girl at the café.”

  The detective raised an eyebrow so heavy it almost seemed to require effort.

  “You didn’t say anything to each other?”

  “We exchanged pleasantries,” Annabelle said, looking at Mary for confirmation.