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View this author's other titles LENGTH: Category Cover art (c) Eliza Black (s&h not included in price)
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Katherine Miller has retired from nursing and from her job as a church organist and has no desire for a third career. Very little happens in the Hudson River village where she lives without her knowledge. She is protective of her family and friends and her new tenant, Rachel, upsets the balance of the neighborhood. Rachel collects men and they all seem to be married. Katherine's son and the husband of a close friend are among her conquests. But when Katherine finds Rachel's body in the garden, her protective instincts come into play. Acting out of fear for those she loves, she throws the knife in the Hudson River. Now, she has to find the killer and hopefully, save someone she loves from being charged. RATING: A cozy mystery.
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"Four Stars! This most intriguing mystery was quite interesting. There were so many potential killers in this one and Janet Lane Walters keeps you guessing until the very end." Tracy's Book Reviews "I found this book to be very engagine and filled with the most wonderful cast of characters that you will love, especially Katherine who is gutsy even at 65 years of age." Pam Stone, reviewer "4 Stars! Janet Lane Walters makes you feel you know her characters so well that you're almost ready to murder the victim yourself for the pain she's causing others. Still, at the end, you're satisfied that justice has been served." Scribes World Reviews "Great 'who-dun-it' mystery. I enjoyed it thoroughly. Heartily recommend this one." Huntress Book Reviews. "4 stars! Murder and Mint Tea is an intriguing tale, rick in atmosphere and characterization. There has seldom been a villain as nasty as Rachel Rodgers, and she is so believable and instantly recognizable, that most people will be cheering on her murderer. Katherine Miller is a delight - thoughtful without being rash and a determined tea drinker as well!" Romantic Times Magazine "Murder and Mint Tea is an engaging and cleverly plotted mystery. Author Janet Walters uses all the traditional touches of a classic British "cozy" and with her own unique voice, transplants them to this side of the Atlantic. Murder and Mint Tea is a thoroughly enjoyable read that will keep you guessing to the last page." MysteryBuff Magazine "I enjoyed it thoroughly!" Murder and Mayhem Bookclub
Murder And Mint Tea
New Concepts Publishing
Chapter 1
The pale winter sun shone through the kitchen windows. Pete Duggan strode across the room and thrust a bouquet of multi-colored carnations into my hands. A red hue, almost as bright as his hair, stained his face. "Mrs. Miller, got to hand it to you. I've come to eat crow." To hide a smile, I buried my face in the flowers and inhaled the spicy fragrance. "How about chocolate chip cookies and mint tea instead?" "Sounds great." He straddled one of the chairs at the table and picked up the newspaper. "Local Resident Thwarts Robbers." His grin made him look like the ten year old who had moved into the corner house on my street twenty years ago. He cleared his throat. "The guys at the station sure ribbed me about this one. Did you forget the plan?" How, when the idea had been mine? The series of burglaries that had plagued the neighborhood for months had troubled me, especially when the police had decided two teenage neighbors were the culprits. I had disagreed and had set myself up as a victim. Then I let Pete know. "Did you forget?" he repeated. "When you walked up those stairs, I nearly had a heart attack." Heat singed my cheeks. "How was I to know my date would poop out early?" After filling two mugs with mint tea, I opened a tin of freshly baked cookies. How could I admit to a nagging doubt, or that I had wanted to be part of the action? In July, I had turned sixty-five and in September resigned from the nursing staff at Tappan Zee Memorial. Six months of placid existence had made me edgy. Lunch with friends, coffee with the neighbors, weekly bridge games with some old cronies had begun to bore me. These events held none of the challenge of meeting crises at the hospital. "You could have gone to the Prescott's." "They're away." I sipped the tea and savored the coolness on my tongue. "The Randalls' then." He pulled the other mug across the table. "The guys say the two of us make one perfect cop. Want to hire on?" He winked. "I've no desire for a third career." Until my husband's death twenty years ago, I had been the organist and choir director at St. Stephen's Episcopal Church. Then needing a way to support myself and my son, I had enrolled in the nursing program at the community college. "Besides, I'm too old." "Old, never. You look the same as you did when my family moved here." "It's the dye." His puzzled look tickled me. "Dyeing my hair makes me look younger. I came into this world a red head and I'll go out the same way." Laughter rumbled deep in his chest. "A worthy ambition you nearly fulfilled the other night." He reached for my hand. "Thanks again. You kept me from making a mistake that could have ruined those boys." I lifted the mug and inhaled the aromatic steam. The evidence against them had been strong. They had done odd jobs at all the houses that had been robbed. "I've known the pair since they were infants. Nothing I've ever seen made me believe they were guilty." Pete made a face. "I've known them just as long, but it didn't stop me from believing they were the ones. How could you be sure they weren't guilty?" "Forty years of living in the same place has attuned me to the rhythms of the neighborhood." "Twenty years didn't help me." There's living and living. Some people are so concerned with listening to the melody, they never hear the underlying harmonies. As a musician, I've learned to look for the supporting factors, and as a nurse, I know how to evaluate symptoms, often similar but caused by different diseases. Listening and observing have become a vital part of my nature. I put my cup down. "Don't blame yourself. You weren't the only one who blamed them. No harm was done." He finished the cookie he held, put his hand on the back of the chair and rose. "No harm and maybe some good. I've learned to look beneath the surface." "That's good." He grinned. "I'm out of here. On duty tonight." He pulled on his green down jacket. "Will you be my silent partner?" I laughed. "Get on with you." Just then, the cat door opened. Robespierre, my Maine coon cat made a grand entrance. Flakes of snow dotted his brown and black fur. His gait suggested a mission. He halted in front of Pete and butted the young policeman's leg with his head. Pete bent and scratched the cat's head. "Not my fault old man. She jumped in on her own." Robespierre's rumbling purr suggested he understood and accepted Pete's explanation. "He's been out of sorts since Thursday night." "Me, too." Pete hugged me. "Never again. Promise. We need you around here. Think about my suggestion. There are times when I need a sounding board." "I'll be here to listen when you have problems, but no more active involvement in crime for me." He strode to the door and clattered down the stairs. Until he left the house, I remained at the apartment door. Silent partner, no way. On Thursday night, I'd had enough experience with crime to last the rest of my life. I rubbed the tender spot on my head where one of the burglars had hit me.
When I had converted the small Victorian house into two apartments, The second floor and its view had been my choice. In the autumn after the leaves fall, the Hudson River becomes visible. River watching had always relaxed me. Today, the blur of white kept visibility to inches. No cars moved along the street, No people strolled down the sidewalk. I poured a second cup of tea and reached out to scratch Robespierre between the ears. Moments later, he yawned and stretched, arching his body with a suppleness that brought a sigh of envy. He leaped from the window seat and stalked to the kitchen. The doorbell rang. I hurried to answer. "Boy, Mrs. Miller, there's two feet of snow and it's still falling," Larry Randall said. "There'll be school tomorrow though," Jamal said. "Bummer." "Thought you liked school." He shrugged. "Not every day. I need a vacation." "You just had mid-winter break." "Yah." The boys arrived at the top of the stairs. Blond hair stuck around the edges of Larry's cap. His cheeks glowed apple red. The cold had burnished Jamal's coffee-colored skin. The boys jostled in the doorway, each trying to be the first inside. Most times, the pair of foster brothers act like they're twins. "If there's no paper, why are you here?" Larry held up an orange plastic bag. "We brought the part that came yesterday." "Besides, we have to shovel your walk and ask if you want to come over for dinner tonight," Jamal said. "I'll let your mother know." A glimpse of the New York Times Magazine in the bag pleased me. At least part of the Sunday routine remained intact. "Want some cookies to take home?" Identical grins spread across their faces. "You bet," they chorused. "About dinner?" Larry asked. "If you come, could you bring a chocolate cake," Jamal said. "I'll see." "All right!" He pumped his arm up and down. "You always say that when you mean yes." From the freezer, I took a bag of cookies and filled a medium-sized tin. "Share them with Becca and the twins." They dashed down the stairs and banged the door on their way out. After pulling the Times Magazine from the bag, I snapped on the radio. Instead of classical music, the announcer droned a lengthy list of church, musical and other event cancellations. Looks like no one's going anywhere. I tackled the puzzle. Some time later, the phone rang. "Mom, guess I won't be picking you up after church." "Not unless you've bought a snow mobile." "Even then, I wouldn't chance it." Andrew is thirty nine, a psychiatrist and cautious. He's never made a decision without weighing possibilities at least three times. "I'll be fine. Sarah's invited me over for dinner." "Mom's second family." Was there a trace of jealousy in his voice? Though he and Bob Randall had been friends since infancy, they had drifted apart, Sadly, their chosen lifestyles made the distance seem almost permanent. "Andrew!" "Tell Bob hello." "You could do that yourself." "And risk having Sarah snag me for one of those groups she's into. She'd want me to talk about the psychological effects of early potty training to a bunch of equally avid women. That's not my idea of fun." His dislike for Sarah puzzled me. The reason probably stemmed from Sarah's open and liberal nature. Andrew is the exact opposite. "Where were you yesterday afternoon?" His voice held a demanding quality. "Shopping." "All afternoon and most of the evening. I stopped calling at ten. You need an answering machine." "I had dinner with Lars. He left last night for New Mexico. Was it important?" "Since your recent encounter with those criminals, I've been worried about you. As you well know, you could still develop problems from the blow to your head. How could Pete let you become involved?" "He didn't. I've already explained at least three times. It was my choice to barge in." "I'd feel better if there were tenants in the first floor apartment." "I'll call the real estate agent Monday." My patience with his over-protectiveness thinned. Lately, he's been acting as though I'm hovering inches from senility. "Let me talk to Andrea." While I assembled the ingredients for a chocolate cake, my granddaughter chattered about her week's events. She had earned a role in the school play and had been chosen for a solo in the spring dance recital. Andrea had inherited my love of music, but instead of an instrument for expression, she uses movement. After saying goodbye four times, I hung up and called Sarah to accept the invitation to dinner. By four o'clock, the heavy snowfall had stopped. I stood at the bedroom window and watched the wind pull snow from one drift and drop it on another. After pulling on a pair of russet wool slacks and an ivory blouse, I slipped on an ivory wool cardigan. I tucked my slacks into a pair of knee high boots and put a pair of shoes in a bag. The boots are sturdy and warm, but the thought of clumping around in them for hours held no appeal. In the kitchen, I checked my jacket pocket for keys, shook some food into Robespierre's dish and picked up the cake container. Downstairs, I paused in the doorway to allow my vision to adjust to the endless blinding whiteness. The branches of a pair of dogwoods at the corner of the yard bowed beneath the weight of the snow. Rose bushes planted along the walk resembled small igloos. The boys must have recently shoveled the walk because only a thin coating of snow covered the walk. Each of my exhalations sent a cloud of condensed vapor ahead of me. The snowplows had left a trail down my side of the street. Someone had cut an opening in the high bank of snow at the curb. In the distance, I heard the peculiar scraping noise of the plow signaling its return. While grasping the shoe bag in one hand and the cake container in the other, I strode across the cleared area. Moments later, I plunged into virgin territory. The snow reached the top of my boots. Carefully, I calculated the distance to the curb. When I judged I had gone far enough, I stepped up. On the downswing, my foot hit something buried beneath the snow. I lost my balance. The shoe bag flew toward the curb. The cake container soared into the air. I hit the ground and learned how little cushion snow provides. "Not my hip!" I had seen too many older women deteriorate after a hip fracture and wanted no part of that fate. My leg folded under me. The cake container open. Chunks of chocolate cake showered on and around me. Snow seeped beneath my jacket collar and I shivered. "Help, oh, help." My voice sounded faint. Did snow absorb sound? The scraping noise of the snowplow increased in volume. Visions of being scooped up by the blade, loaded into a truck and dumped in the Hudson River evoked a scream. I pushed my elbows against the ground and tried to sit up. An exquisite jolt of pain brought tears to my eyes. My scream rose to ear-shattering heights. "Jamal, it's Mrs. Miller. Get Mom and Dad." Larry knelt beside me. "Bummer." Jamal made a face. "The cake is ruined. It's not fair." His expression and the realization I had been rescued brought a rush of tears mixed with laughter. "So am I. Tell them my leg's broken." The arrival of Bob and Sarah brought the same reaction a toddler must feel when his parents rescue him from an unpleasant situation. They made a chair with their hands and carried me to their house. "I'll call the police," Bob said. "They'll know which roads are clear and if I should make the trip myself." "My hair. I can't go to the hospital looking like a refugee from a food fight." "I'll wash it," Sarah said. "In the kitchen. "We'll push the table to the sink." "I don't believe this." As Bob shook his head, his lank brown hair flopped over his forehead. His body moved in concert. His jerky movements sent knives of pain through my leg. I bit my lip until the pain vanished. "Believe. It's vanity." "Shock," he said. "Shouldn't we make a splint?" "The boot acts as one." No one who wasn't trained in trauma care was going to touch my leg. Jamal, Becca, Larry and the two year old twins danced around and raised the noise level to cacophony. Jamal's cries of "Bummer. Not fair. Not fair. She gets all the cake and didn't even eat it," lodged in my thoughts. Forty-five minutes later, escorted by Sarah and the police, I arrived at the hospital. Two fat, wet braids hung down my back. Before removing my boot, one of my former colleagues gave me an injection. Then while drifting between pain and nirvana, I wondered if my beautician made house calls.
"You'll be fine," Beth Logan, one of the nurses said. "We'll take good care of you." I drank in the reassurance. "Just think of all the things that can go wrong." "Remember how few and far between they occur." Beth patted my hand. In that instant, I realized how important sympathy is for a patient. Finally the team arrived and wheeled me to the OR. The rest of the day passed in semi-oblivion. Drowsiness from the anesthesia and the pain medication scrambled my thoughts. Even Andrew's scolding about my foolishness for venturing out during a blizzard barely registered. By Wednesday, I felt caged and tired of pale green walls, gray tile floors and white sheets. The television, turned low and constantly switched from channel to channel, failed to divert me from an aching need to escape from confinement. Dr. Beemish had promised to discharge me once crutch walking had been mastered. By noon, the physical therapist hadn't arrived. I toyed with my lunch and prayed for mint tea and the serenity of my apartment. Lars, my friend and bridge partner, called from New Mexico where he spends most of the winter months. He hoped I would be better soon and grumbled about my clumsiness and penchant for solo adventures. When I hung up, I waved to Pete Duggan. He held a bouquet of yellow chrysanthemums. "More flowers. Why?" "It seemed the thing to do. You sure chose a dumb way to turn down my offer of a partnership." I laughed. "I didn't exactly choose to break my leg. His stories kept me chuckling. With the arrival of Edward Potter, pastor of St. Stephen's, my amusement faded. The small, dapper man's ringing tenor voice dripped with sympathy and gossip. While he regaled me with stories I would rather not have heard, Paul and Maria Prescott arrived. I eyed the thermos in Maria's hand and sighed in anticipation. At least half my wish had come true. "Mrs. Miller, I as so sorry you have the accident and I am not here to give you the help. When Paul and I come home last night, Mrs. Sarah, she tell us you have the misfortune. I have brought you the tea." Edward coughed. I made the introductions without mentioning Paul and Maria's last name. Edward's face bore a hint of disapproval and he stared at the gold hoop dangling from Paul's ear. He kissed my cheek. "Katherine, I'll keep you in my prayers and I'll stop by tomorrow." Would the prayers be for my healing or for my choice of friends? What I hadn't told Edward was that Paul owns the most successful antique store in town and also Prescott Furniture Reproductions. Or that Maria designs jewelry and has a growing reputation in her field. Paul and I had met the year I converted the house. He had come to evaluate the antiques I had decided to sell. We had become friends. Several years later, he had met Maria during a trip to Spain. After their marriage, he had bought the house next door to mine. Maria opened the thermos. Some people crave caffeine. My choice is mint tea. Like a starving woman, I reached for the cup, breathed the fragrance and sipped. The hint of camomile made me smile. "Heavenly. Thank you. How was your trip?" "We have the beautiful time. My mama and papa were so happy for us to be with them. Paul, he find many beautiful things for the shop. My niece, Bianca, she want to come and live with us so she can go to the school. Paul and I think on this." She sat in the chair beside the bed. Paul leaned against the door frame. His shoulder length blond hair had been pulled into a club at his nape. "I hear you nabbed the neighborhood thieves." "With an assist from the police." "Good show. Any hope they'll recover the loot?" "Call Pete. He might know." The Prescott's house had been the scene of the first robbery. A gold and emerald ring Maria had designed for a national show had been taken. Maria shook her head. "I do not know how you would let the robbers in your house. I would have scream and run away." "I didn't think." Paul crossed the room. "Now why don't I believe that? Have you ever done anything impulsive?" He shook his head. "You sort through options faster than anyone I know." He stood with his hands on Maria's shoulders. She looked up at him and the love in her eyes her made me sigh. Her dark coloring and near perfect features compliment his rugged handsomeness. Maria patted my hand. "I should never have go away. First the bad men, they hit you, and then you fall in the snow. What if no one have found you?" "Then I'd be an ice floe in the river." Her frown said she didn't understand and explaining the town's snow removal system was beyond me. "I'm fine, child." "When you come home, I take care of you. My house take just one hand." "We'll see." I looked up in time to catch Paul's nod. "When do you start remodeling the house?" "Late summer. Once you're sprung and on your feet, stop by the shop and check up on your investment." Three years ago when Paul started the reproduction workshop, he had needed a backer and I invested some of my savings. "I trust you." He laughed. "Could get you in trouble." "Maria would never let you cheat me." "Few people can get the better of you." Andrew stepped into the room. "Her trusting air is an act." "Is that a nice way to talk about your mother." He stood with his hands clasped behind his back like the presenting doctor for Grand Rounds. "Paul, Maria, good to see you." He acknowledged their greetings with a nod and walked to the bed. "Can't stay long or I'll be late for office hours. Ruth will be over this evening. Are you sure you won't consider a nursing home for a few weeks?" "Never." Paul clicked his heels and saluted me. Maria kissed my cheek. "Not to worry, Dr. Andrew. When you mama come home, I take care of her." Andrew sat on the chair Maria had vacated. "I'm serious. If not a nursing home, let me hire a nurse." "There's no need. With Sarah, Maria and Ruth's help, I'll manage very well." "You are the most stubborn woman in existence." He took my hand. "At least I've found a tenant for the apartment so I don't have to worry about you being in that house alone. A friend of Ted's. A widow with two children." He smiled. "She's a lovely woman. They'll move in the end of the month." Though I prefer to interview and select my own tenants, I decided to let him win this round. "And what is her name?" "Rachel Rodgers. Ted sent her to me for some therapy sessions. Her divorce was messy. For a time, she lost custody of her children. She needs a lot of support. You'll be good for her." Something about the way he said her name bothered me. For the past year, I have noticed an inner restlessness in him, both a searching for something illusive and a discontent with his life. Praying my uneasiness had been caused by the accident and the pain medicine, I sighed. He pulled a paper from his briefcase. "Here's the lease. Ted drew it up. Rachel's already signed." I found a pen, but first read the brief contract. "This is different than the last one." "It's simpler. Ted said it would protect both you and Rachel." "The terms favor the tenant." I scratched several items out and then signed. "Mom." "Tell Ted to have her sign the changes." "This is hardly fair to Rachel." Again, something in his voice released a flow of concern and raised a flood of questions. Before I had a chance to ask even one, the physical therapist arrived and Andrew left. For the next forty-five minutes, I embarked on an exhausting and sometimes shaky attempt to master my set of extra legs. Following the session, I slept until the nurse woke me for dinner. Shortly after the trays had been collected, Ruth arrived. "Mother Miller, you look so much better." "But bored." She smiled. "Andrea's in the hall near the elevators. Let me find a wheelchair and take you to see her." "I'll use the crutches. You can follow with the chair in case I falter." I slid to the edge of the bed and positioned the crutches. "I should be fine." "Of course you will be. I think you can master anything you try." "Thank you." My daughter-in-law isn't pretty, but she knows how to dress. She keeps her dark brown hair short and cut in a style that's perfect for her thin, narrow face. Though she graduated from college with honors and could have had a brilliant career, she's chosen instead to serve as Andrew's handmaiden. She never argues with him even when she disagrees with his views. "Ready?" Ruth waited outside the door with a wheelchair. Slowly at first and then with greater confidence, I walked toward he cluster of chairs at the end of the hall. A drop of perspiration slid down my back. Another made its way down my nose. A hundred steps, I thought. Fifty. Ten. The trip seemed longer than my daily two miles. "Grandma." Andrea bounced from a chair and dashed toward me. Her dark brown hair had been cut and curled around her face. "Crutches, how neat. When you're finished with them, could they be mine?" Hazel eyes like mine and Andrew's sparkled with excitement. After I eased into the wheelchair, Ruth lifted the leg rest to support the case. "Why do you want these old things?" "To put them in a dance." "Only if you promise I'll be in the first audience." "Sure." She kissed my cheek. "Can I write my name on your cast?" "I'd love that. You're the first to ask. Guess my friends consider me too old for cast decorations." "Not you. They are. When you come home, I'll stay with you and be your nurse. Daddy thinks you need one." "What about school?" She wrinkled her nose. "Guess I can't then." "Tell me what you've been doing." Those words released a spate of stories to which I reacted in the proper manner. After Andrea ran out of stories, Ruth pushed me back to my room. She held the wheelchair while I transferred to the bed. "Are you sure you can manage when you come home?" she asked. "You know I'll be glad to help as much as I can unless I'm tied up with Andrea's schedule." "I'll be fine." "Andrew blames himself for the accident." "If anyone's to blame, it's his fool mother. If I had waited ten minutes, the streets would have been scraped on both sides. He's much too serious." She sighed. "It's a phase." She usually read Andrew very well, but this time she was wrong. "Andrew's always been willing to assume more than his share of blame." "He'd feel better if he could do something for you. He loves you." "I know that." Her concern for my son brought a surge of guilt. My stubborn pride loosened its grip. "Why don't you suggest he hire a woman to come in every morning for a few hours? Not a nurse, mind you. Just someone to help me dress and do some light cleaning. Oh, have him get me a portable toilet." Ruth giggled and for an instant, she looked no older than her daughter. "You're wonderful. I can't wait to see his face when I tell him about the commode." My laughter joined hers. "I tried to tell him, but the words stuck fast. He has a view of me I don't deserve. I think he'd be embarrassed to think his mother has normal human functions." She patted my hand. "He does tend to put you on a pedestal." "You should laugh more often. See you tomorrow." After she left, I turned on the television. The program, one I usually watch barely registered. My thoughts were centered on my son and some nameless worry about him.
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