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

tearoom.
    I’d been doubtful at first: after all, Fletcher wasn’t a trained chef and I’d been thinking of getting someone with a proper qualification. But when I’d tasted one of his scones, I hired him on the spot. Cassie was right, his baking was divine. And funnily enough, giving Fletcher the job had won me brownie points with the villagers, who had been bracing themselves for some snooty chef from London.
    The arrival of a group of Chinese tourists put a stop to my reminiscing and I hurried to seat them and hand out menus.
     
     
     
    “Whew!” said Cassie, sinking down into one of the chairs at the tables. “I’m knackered.”
    I gave her a grateful look. “Thanks so much for helping out today, Cassie. It’s been really full on, I know.”
    She waved my thanks away. “It’s what you want! And tomorrow should hopefully be even busier because loads of local tourists come to the Cotswolds for the weekend, so we’ll have them on top of the internationals…”
    “As long as there aren’t any more visitors like that American today,” I said with a dark look.
    “Yeah, he was an obnoxious plonker, wasn’t he? Still, he made a good subject.”
    “You sketched him?”
    She shrugged. “You know I like to do quick sketches of interesting faces if I have a moment free. I’ve actually had a couple of customers ask me if they can buy theirs—maybe I should start a sideline business in portraits.” She grinned.
    “I’m surprised you want to remember his face,” I said.
    “Yeah, he’s got an ugly mug, all right, but quite interesting from an artistic point of view. I did one of him from memory this afternoon—look…” She got up and went to the counter, returning in a moment with a piece of paper.
    I took it and looked down at the sketch. Cassie was really talented. She had managed to capture the American’s likeness with a few swift strokes, from his block-like head to his jutting ears and fleshy cheeks. There was something hard and cruel about his eyes.
    I shuddered and pushed the sketch away. “He gives me a bad vibe.”
    “You mean, aside from being a lecherous old git?”
    I nodded. “There was something that just didn’t add up… I mean, he was trying really hard to put on this image of a hale and hearty American tourist but he seemed fake somehow.”
    Cassie laughed. “Fake tourist? Why would anyone want to fake being a tourist?”
    “That’s just it—I don’t know! It seems such a stupid thing to do, doesn’t it? And yet, I’m sure he was lying. For example, he asked me directions to Magdalen College.”
    “So?”
    “Well, he called it ‘Maud-lin’! Not ‘Mag-da-len’, which is how most tourists—especially American tourists—say it. Only locals and students who’ve been to Oxford know that it should be pronounced ‘Maud-lin’. It’s one of the first things that flags you as a foreign tourist—when you can’t say the college names correctly.”
    Cassie shrugged. “Maybe he read about the pronunciation in a guidebook somewhere. It’s hardly a state secret.”
    “I suppose so…” I said. “But it wasn’t just that. When we were talking about directions to Magdalen, he also mentioned Catte Street being opposite the bank.”
    Cassie looked at me blankly.
    “He meant an actual bank,” I explained. “Not the Old Bank Hotel, which is what’s there now. He tried to cover it up but I could tell that that was what he meant.”
    Cassie frowned. “So? Gemma, I really don’t see what you’re getting at…”
    I leaned forwards. “My point is, he wouldn’t have known that the Old Bank Hotel used to be a bank, unless he was actually here in Oxford when it was a bank— before they turned it into a hotel.”
    Cassie shook her head in exasperation. “Well, he could have read about that as well! I mean, there’s a reason it’s called the Old Bank Hotel, isn’t there? It would be logical to assume that there used to be a bank there.”
    “But it’s not the way