Death in a Budapest Butterfly (A HUNGARIAN TEA HOUSE MYSTERY)

Death in a Budapest Butterfly (A HUNGARIAN TEA HOUSE MYSTERY)

Hana Keller serves up European-style cakes and teas in her family-owned tea house, but when a customer keels over from a poisoned cuppa, Hana and her tea-leaf reading grandmother will have to help catch a killer in the first Hungarian Tea House Mystery from Julia Buckley. Hana Keller and her family run Maggie's Tea House, an establishment heavily influenced by the family's Hungarian heritage and specializing in a European-style traditional tea service. But one of the shop's largest draws is Hana's eccentric grandmother, Juliana, renowned for her ability to read the future in the leaves at the bottom of customers' cups. Lately, however, her readings have become alarmingly ominous and seemingly related to old Hungarian legends... When a guest is poisoned at a tea event, Juliana’s dire predictions appear to have come true. Things are brought to a boil when Hana’s beloved  Anna Weatherley butterfly teacup becomes the center of the murder investigation as it carried the poisoned tea. The cup is claimed as evidence by a handsome police detective, and the pretty Tea House is suddenly endangered.  Hana and her family must catch the killer to save their business and bring the beautiful Budapest Butterfly back home where it belongs. Praise for Death in a Budapest Butterfly “Hana is a smart and engaging heroine with just the right amount of sass.” —Bailey Cates, New York Times bestselling author of Cookies and Clairvoyance   “Julia Buckley's delightful new series debut... includes three generations of strong, intelligent women, craving-inducing discussions of food, and a fascinating background of Hungarian culture along with a dandy mystery.”—Miranda James, New York Times bestselling author of the Cat in the Stacks Mysteries Julia Buckley is the author of the Undercover Dish mysteries and the Writer's Apprentice mysteries. She is a member of Sisters in Crime, Mystery Writers of America, and the Chicago Writer's Association. She has taught high school English for twenty-nine years. ***This excerpt is from an advance uncorrected copy proof*** Copyright © 2019 Julia Buckley   Chapter One The Butterfly I sat polishing teacups with my mother and her cat. The latter wasn’t so much helping to polish as he was regarding me from his chair with a stern expression that he wore only when I had disappointed him. I tried reason. “Major, I will feed you right after we finish. Isn’t this a pretty teacup?” I held up a beautiful specimen of pale green with pink-painted flowers. Major scowled and twitched a whisker at me—a sure sign that he was irritated. “It’s past his lunchtime,” my mother said mildly. “You know how he likes to keep to a schedule. Hana, hand me that dish.” I did so, still contemplating the cat. Major licked one of his elegant gray paws. “Yes, I know.” I paused my polishing to scratch his head. “He runs this place, and you are just under the illusion that you do.” With a sigh I got up, stretched, and said, “I’ll feed him, then, so I can finish up without his judgmental eyes on me.” I went to the counter and got a whiff of my grandmother’s cooking; I closed my eyes to fully appreciate the aroma. There is nothing like the smell of a Hungarian kitchen. The pure sensual experience is one that a visitor cannot forget, any more than she can duplicate it. If these aromas were to be compared to music, then the song would begin with bass notes of sautéed onions and paprika. (There is always paprika on the shelf of a Hungarian cook, and not the kind that you can buy cheaply at your grocery store.) Above these bass notes is the melody—perhaps the deep, satisfying aroma of chicken soup filled with kis négyzet tészta, square noodles made of only flour, eggs, and salt—or the mouthwatering fragrance of pork, beef, and Hungarian sausage stuffed into boiled cabbage, called töltött káposzta—or perhaps even the soul-filling incense of gulyásleves, known here as goulash. Above all of the wonderful scents that work on the soul like melodies floats a sweet descant known as Hungarian dessert. There is the deep-fried wonder of fánk, a bismarck-like doughnut stuffed with delicious jam; or the thin Hungarian pancakes known as palacsinta, filled with jelly and covered with sugar; or the deep, dark, and delicious plums baked into cakes called szilvás lepény. To those who have never experienced this synesthesia of sights and smells that somehow become a symphony, it is hard to understand why these food memories would follow you wherever you go. I closed my eyes for one second, appreciating the aromas that permeated the house, partly because of my mother’s cooking, but mostly because of my grandmother, who cooked whenever she came to her daughter’s house to “make sure you got all you need.” I prepared Major’s food and set it down for him. He strolled over, still glaring slightly, and began to pick delicately at the meat in the bowl. I laughed and looked back at my mother. “If we’re set up by three, that should be plenty of t