Tea with Jam and Dread by Tamar Myers

Magdalena,’ Sebastian sneered.
    ‘Shut up,’ Celia said. ‘I don’t suppose you need to be rude all the time, do you?’
    ‘That’s telling him, isn’t it?’ said Aubrey. She turned back to me. ‘I loved how the press gave each of the murders a title, almost as if they were books.
‘Too Many Crooks Spoil the Broth
,
Parsley, Sage, Rosemary and Crime
– the list is endless, and each one more clever than the last.’
    ‘What did the papers call the last one again?’ Celia asked. ‘Mother particularly liked that one.’
    ‘
The Death of Pie
,’ Sebastian interjected just to be mean.
    ‘Listen, dear, you needn’t worry about any murders taking place while you’re here on holiday. Nobody here knows you, therefore nobody dislikes the admittedly unlikable personality of one of you notable nobles, so the only motive could possibly be to keep you from talking after an armed robbery, seeing as how you’re filthy rich, but an armed robbery is simply out of the question because first your presence in Hernia and environs has got to even make it on our radar screen – so to speak. So far I haven’t told a soul about you titled la-dee-dahs or your valises bulging with tiaras, coronets, ermine capes or what have you – well, except for the two hundred and forty-three members of my church; the eighteen ladies of the Mennonite Women’s Sewing Circle; my double first-cousin once removed, Sam Yoder, who owns Yoder’s Corner Market; the cashiers at Miller’s feed store; and possibly my banker up in Bedford whom everyone calls Mr Busy Lips.’
    Although Agnes is a kind, Christian woman and my best friend, that didn’t stop her from giving me the evil eye. ‘Magdalena, how could you!’
    ‘It’s actually fairly easy,’ I said. ‘Although all that talking did get me a little bit hoarse, but, oh my dear, it certainly is satisfying. At the moment, I am the envy of virtually everyone in the county.’
    Agnes made ripping motions above her head, which was not a good sign. Not every woman is blessed by good hair after a certain age, and Agnes, I hate to say, falls into that category. Heaven forefend that the dear girl hastens the day when, like her nudist uncles, she fails to sport any hair at all. I am not gossiping, mind you, merely reporting the facts: given the rather odd shape of Agnes’s head, and her peculiar colouring when aroused by food, there was a good possibility that Agnes, while at a church potluck supper, would have her head mistaken for a peeled cantaloupe by myopic Irma Berkey, who would then attempt to stab it with a plastic fork.
    Again, the Babester, the ‘big’ man in my life, came to my rescue. ‘What about you, Miss Goody Two Shoes? How many people did you brag to? We wouldn’t have royalty staying here if it wasn’t for you, so I’d bet that half the county knows. I’m surprised there wasn’t a news crew here to film their arrival, or do you have them scheduled to do a morning talk show in Pittsburgh?’
    Agnes dropped her hands and slapped her cheeks; she probably wanted to slap Gabe’s cheeks for being so cheeky. ‘How many times do I have to explain to you, Gabe, that the Grimsley-Snodgrass family are not royalty, they are merely aristocrats?’
    ‘Whatever you say,’ the Babester said, and slipped into the kitchen to answer his cell phone.
    Aubrey surprised me by raising her slim pale hand like a tentative schoolgirl. ‘You are correct, Agnes; however, I dare say that both Peregrine and I have more
English
royal blood flowing through our veins than our beloved reigning monarch, Queen Elizabeth the Second does.’
    ‘Harrumph,’ Agnes said, proving that she is, if anything, a quick learner.
    ‘Never mind the bloodlines,’ I said somewhat impatiently. ‘You’re not horses. Agnes, how many people have
you
blabbed to?’
    ‘Harrumph,’ Agnes said again, ‘a bump and a horse’s rump. I did all the work arranging this visit, so why shouldn’t I brag? And yes, I did brag: I