A Scone To Die For (Oxford Tearoom Mysteries ~ Book 1) Read Online Free PDF Page A

and accompanied by a hot cup of tea, they were one of the ultimate comfort foods. I sat back with a contented sigh as I enjoyed my teacake and sipped the hot mug of tea that Cassie had placed in front of me.
    “Hey… Fletcher, sorry about what happened earlier,” I said.
    He nodded. “I saw Muesli. She’s okay.”
    “Yeah, I just looked in on her again and she’s curled up in her little bed, sleeping. I don’t think that guy actually touched her with his foot when he tried to kick her.”
    “Rotten swine,” Cassie muttered.
    “Let’s hope that’s the last we see of him,” I said with a sigh.
    “Didn’t he say he was coming back tomorrow morning?” Cassie made a face.
    “I’ll serve him,” I promised. “You don’t have to go anywhere near him.” I looked around the kitchen, noting the trays of freshly baked scones and butter crumpets. “Things are probably going to be quiet now for the rest of the afternoon and I can see that we’ve got lots of supplies.” I turned to Fletcher. “Why don’t you take Muesli and go home early today?”
    He thought a moment, then nodded and stood up, shuffling to the back of the room to collect his things and the cat carrier. I’d been meaning to speak to him about the feasibility of continuing to bring Muesli to work every day—especially after the disaster this morning— so I followed him as he went to get her.
    Muesli woke up as we entered the shop area and arched her back in a perfect cat stretch, then yawned widely, showing sharp white fangs in a little pink mouth. She looked none the worse for wear after her adventures that morning. She came trotting up to me with her tail in the air and rubbed herself against my legs. I wanted to be mad at her—if it hadn’t been for her, none of the fiasco would have happened—but looking down at that cheeky little face, with her bright green eyes and tiny, heart-shaped nose, I felt myself soften. Almost involuntarily, I crouched down and reached out to stroke her. Her fur was silky soft, a pale dove grey patterned with a series of darker grey stripes across her body, broken only by the white on her chest and paws. She climbed onto my lap, kneading with her front paws and purring like an engine.
    “She likes you,” said Fletcher.
    “Yeah, I like her too,” I said automatically. Then I realised to my surprise that I was actually speaking the truth. I did like the mischievous little cat. Friends had warned me that felines could worm their way into your heart, but I hadn’t believed them. How could you like anything as infuriating and contrary as a cat? And yet I had to admit that even in my short acquaintance with Muesli, her saucy impudence had won me over. It was ridiculous, but there was something very appealing about the way cats walked around, acting as if they owned the place.
    I lifted Muesli off my lap and deposited her gently into the carrier. She didn’t resist—used to the routine by now—and simply pressed her little face against the bars as we shut the door and latched it securely. Then Fletcher lifted the carrier and stood up.
    “I will see you tomorrow,” he said solemnly.
    I started to say something about Muesli, then changed my mind. Maybe I’ll talk to him about it tomorrow. I knew I was just being a chicken. The truth was, I was so grateful I’d found him—I didn’t want to do anything to rock the boat. Fletcher was the baking godmother to my tearoom Cinderella and, without him, my little business would never have had a chance. Cassie had been the one who had suggested him when I was looking for a chef for the tearoom. She taught occasional classes at the dance studio in the village—another of her many jobs—and she’d met Fletcher when he came in to fix the broken ceiling fan. He was sort of an unofficial handyman in Meadowford—helping the local residents with odd jobs—but he was also known for being a brilliant baker. Cassie had insisted that I consider hiring him for the