Coffee, Tea, or Murder? Read Online Free PDF

mysteries. She had invited me to her manor house outside of London when I was in England as a guest panelist at an international mystery conference. While I was there, she was brutally stabbed to death in her bed. First on the scene was George Sutherland, to whom I took an immediate liking, even though he viewed me as much of a suspect as others in the house that weekend. We ended up collaborating in solving Marjorie’s murder and—well, I suppose you can say that we developed a keen interest in each other beyond simply having worked together. George is widowed, as am I, and although neither of us is impatient to develop another full-fledged romance, I must admit that George has championed that possibility at times, and the temptation has been strong for me, too. But we’ve agreed the prudent thing for us at this stage in our lives is to go slowly and see where things naturally evolve.
    I’d called him prior to leaving Cabot Cove for the SilverAir inaugural flight and told him I’d be in London for only two days, and mentioned where I’d be staying. How sweet of him to have sent flowers. Among many wonderful attributes—he’s a handsome gentleman with a Scottish brogue modified by years of living in London—is a sensitivity not always found in men who spend their adult lives investigating the darker side of the human condition.
    I went to the window, parted the drapes, and looked down at the twinkling lights of boats on the Thames as they glided by. I suppose I was lost in a reverie of sorts because when the phone rang, it startled me to the extent that I flinched and knocked over the receiver as I reached for the phone.
    “Jessica? Are you there?”
    “Hello,” I said, fumbling with the phone. “Yes. I—”
    “I know I’m not waking you because I had the desk clerk at the hotel ring me when your party checked in.”
    “George!” I laughed, delighted to hear the voice of the man I’d just been thinking about. “How did you get him to do that?”
    “You might say I pulled rank,” he said, chuckling. “A nice young chap, very impressed that someone from the Yard called.”
    “The flowers are beautiful, George. Thank you.”
    “The least I could do. I realize you’re probably exhausted from the trip and the time change, your circadian rhythms thoroughly turned upside down, so I won’t keep you from getting some needed sleep. But tomorrow, I—”
    “Actually, I’m wide-awake,” I said, glancing at my watch. “It’s only five o’clock back home.”
    “That’s encouraging.”
    “It is?”
    “Are you up for a nightcap?”
    “I believe I am. Where are you?”
    “Downstairs in the lobby.”
    “You’re—?” I couldn’t help but laugh. “You are more devious than you let on, George.”
    “We shan’t make it a long drink, Jessica. The American Bar, say, in ten minutes?”
    “Make it twenty minutes. I need to unpack and freshen up.”
    “Take all the time you need,” he said. “I’ll secure us a proper table.”
    George sprung to his feet as he saw me enter the Savoy’s American Bar, which has its own history. Legend has it that it was where the martini was introduced, although that’s subject to debate. Certainly, it was where the cocktail was popularized in London. It was bustling with people as we smiled at each other, closed the gap, and embraced. Once seated, George said, “You look absolutely splendid, Jessica. Obviously, the long flight didn’t take its toll on you.”
    “Don’t be so sure,” I said, waving away his compliment. “I suspect that in a half hour I’ll be ready to fall on my nose.”
    “We can’t have that,” he said. “Much too pretty a nose to have that happen.”
    “You look wonderful, George,” I said, “very relaxed and at peace with the world.”
    He wore what could almost be considered a uniform for him: a blue button-down shirt, a Harris tweed jacket, a muted tie, tan slacks with a razor crease, and ankle-high boots shined to a mirror finish. A