Raisins and almonds - Poisoned Pen Press (UK)

Raisins and Almonds 1
‘Never mind, Yossi, Miss Fisher is investigating a mystery,
the death of Michaels in the bookshop in the Eastern Market.
My father has retained her.’
Yossi’s dark doe-like eyes had been examining Phryne closely,
though without offence; a strangely dispassionate gaze which
took account of her youth and undoubted sexual allure without
being personally affected in the least. Now he exclaimed, ‘Well,
then, if your father knows about this, Simon, it is all right. Of
course, please, lady, come in. There is only the kitchen to sit in,
or perhaps the yard, would you care for some tea? It is a hot day,’
he continued, leading the way down the hall, which was long
enough to play cricket, and down an unexpected step into a large
kitchen which was full of light, people and the mixed scents.
A plump woman in an apron turned from the stove, where she
was adding an onion to her stock. Two young women looked up
from the big table, where they were assembling sequin-covered
buttons next to a boy who sat in the corner, draped in a prayer
shawl, reading a thick book. A young man in his shirtsleeves
stopped in mid-pour of a glass of tea from a silver samovar and
stared. Three young men stood up in the yard outside, dropping
newspapers and hats at the sight of Phryne, bare-armed
and dusty.
‘Yossi, Yossi, you schlemiel, how could you bring me Mr.
Abrahams without any warning?’ exclaimed the woman furiously,
bustling forward to take Simon’s hands. ‘Come in, come
in, sit down—girls, put away the sequins and help me, find the
good tablecloth, the good glasses, quickly, quickly!’
‘Don’t trouble yourself, Mrs. Grossman, we just came by on
the off chance that Yossi was at home. This is Miss Fisher, she’s
working for my father, trying to find out who killed Michaels
in the Eastern Market.’
‘Miss Fisher,’ said Mrs. Grossman, raking Phryne with a hard
glare, then relaxing. Phryne wondered what Mrs. Grossman
had found in her face which reassured her. ‘Sit down, sit down,
please. This is an honour. Don’t trouble yourself, he says,’ she
grumbled, flinging a snowy tablecloth over the wooden table,