Fillet of Murder by Linda Reilly Page A

teacups, each one in a different pattern. Two fragrant pots of tea rested on brass hot plates. Tiny paper containers of individual cream portions sat in a circle around a china bowl filled with raw sugar. At one end of the counter was an ornate silver tray stacked with an array of finger sandwiches. Talia squeezed in her own tray next to the sandwich platter.
    â€œHey, there, glad to see you!” Jill emerged from a back room carrying a plate of lemon slices sprinkled with a fine layer of powdered sugar. Her raven-colored hair had been pulled into an elegant French twist, and her eyes were exquisitely made-up. Her cobalt-blue dress—knitted mohair, Talia thought—caressed her soft curves. She looked at Talia for a long moment, as if to convey a silent message. Then she rested the plate near the sugar bowl and turned to Bea. “Bea, I think you’ll enjoy some of the snacks I put out, especially the blends of teas I’ve chosen.” With a teasing smile, she winked at her. “You Brits all love your tea, right?”
    Bea returned the smile with a saccharine one of her own. “Yes, I suppose we do.”
    Talia moved past Bea to survey the goodies so her face wouldn’t betray her amusement. If Jill only knew how fiercely Bea despised tea. She was a coffee person, straight to the bone. Even in her native England, Bea often claimed, she had never enjoyed tea. There wasn’t a tea on Earth that ever pleased her, and for sure there never would be.
    â€œSuzy, will you help me bring out some chairs?” Jill said. “We’ll set up near the checkout counter.”
    Suzy trailed Jill into the storeroom, and they returned lugging a half dozen folding chairs. They were placing them in a half circle near the rear counter when the door swung open. A lanky, fiftyish man clad in a thin sweater and wrinkled navy chinos strode in, his shoulders hunched over his sunken chest. His face had a yellow, unhealthy cast, and he gawked at Talia through pewter-colored eyes as if he’d spotted an alien life form.
    Bea nodded at him. “Good to see you, Cliff. I don’t think you’ve ever met my colleague, Talia Marby. Talia, this is Cliff Colby. He owns the Clock Shop across the way.”
    â€œOh, of course. Nice to meet you, Cliff.” Talia held out her hand. “I’ve been meaning to pop into your shop and have a look around, but I haven’t had the chance.” Lord, could she have sounded any lamer?
    With a glassy stare, Cliff shook Talia’s hand. “Yeah, whatever.” He dipped his thick eyebrows toward his nose. “So you’re working for Bea and Howie?” His ragged fingernails raked her palm as he pulled his long fingers from her grasp.
    â€œYes. For now, at least.” She avoided looking at Bea.
    At least a foot taller than Talia, Cliff glanced over her head. His strange gray eyes shone when he spotted the food trays. Talia couldn’t help comparing him to a bird of prey on one of those nature programs, gearing up to spring on some poor, unsuspecting mouse. “Those up for grabs?” he said. “What’s under the foil?”
    Bea excused herself and strolled toward the back of the shop. Talia reluctantly lifted the foil on the fried pickle tray so Cliff Colby could have a peek. “They’re deep-fried pickles,” she said, intercepting the question she knew was forming on his lips.
    â€œHuh,” he said. Without being asked, he stuck a hand toward the tray and grabbed three pickle rounds at once. He popped one in his mouth and chomped. “Geezum!” he said with a noisy swallow. He helped himself to two more.
    While his hands were otherwise occupied, Talia quickly tucked the foil over the platter. “I don’t want them to get cold before everyone arrives,” she said.
    Cliff assessed her with another hawkish look. When he turned his attention to the finger sandwiches, Talia saw her opportunity to escape.