Murder in a Teacup

by Vicki Delany

  “Once again, Heather had to remind us that she travels business class and goes clubbing in Manhattan. In the neighborhood I grew up in, clubbing meant hitting someone over the head.”

  “You grew up in the same neighborhood I did, and it did not. She doesn’t need to remind them. They’re quick enough to take her money. Not only is she picking up the bill for everyone’s stay here, but she seems to have paid for their flights and car rentals. And they’re expecting her to pay for all their excursions and dinners. She might have more money, a lot more money, than the rest of her family, but they could be polite about it and offer to pick up the bill for something. Anything. But what do I know? I gather she’s been estranged from her family for a long time.” I filled Bernie in on what Rose had told me this morning.

  “Yeah, I heard that crack about none of them coming to her wedding. I wondered about that.”

  “This is her way of trying to repair their relationship. Good for her for wanting to.”

  “Okay,” Bernie said. “So I now like her slightly better, knowing she was widowed so soon after her marriage. She still doesn’t need to throw her money around. I get it.”

  “Maybe she’s insecure.”

  “I’m insecure. I don’t make a big deal of it.”

  I stared at my best friend. “Are you really that unself-aware?”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Nothing.” A less insecure person I’d never met. When we were kids, I called Bernie “the Warrior Princess.” Come to think of it, I still did. Not only because she’s six feet tall, lean, and fit, with an always out-of-control mane of curly red hair, a complexion dotted with freckles, and huge green eyes, but because Bernie’s the bold one, the fearless one, the adventurous one. On the other hand, I’m more hesitant, shyer, less likely to rush into things without first checking that it’s safe. She encourages me to be brave, and I like to think I put the brakes on when she threatens to get too daring.

  “Those late arrivals came as a shock to the others,” she said. “I’d love to know what’s the story there.”

  “Not our problem, fortunately. As long as Sandra and Rose have a nice visit, and someone pays the family’s bill when they leave, and no one steals the towels, I don’t care what the others get up to. They’re all coming for tea tomorrow at two. You’d be welcome, as Rose’s guest.”

  “I might just do that. More fodder for my book.”

  “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”

  Bernie filled the coffee carafe and put it on the tray next to the cream jug and sugar bowl, teapot, and a plate with two bran muffins. “I’ll practice my servant skills for using in my book. Too bad I didn’t know to dress the part.”

  * * *

  I took Éclair home, told her to have a nice day, and headed for work. Rose and Sandra were sitting on the wide veranda, which runs the length of the house. They’d pulled two white wicker chairs next to each other and their heads were close together. I called to them as I passed and they waved to me. The sound of their laughter followed me down the driveway.

  Before joining Rose and her friends in the breakfast room, I’d called Cheryl and asked her to stop at the supermarket on her way into work to pick up a few oranges.

  I’d recently seen a recipe for scones made with fresh orange zest, which would be served with orange marmalade rather than the usual jam. Edna’s marmalade gave me a chance to try it. I tossed some grated orange zest into the dry flour mixture before cutting in the butter and then added raisins and cream. I rolled the heavy wet dough in my hands until it was the proper consistency, laid it on a flour-covered cutting board on the butcher block, kneaded the dough a couple of times to incorporate all the components, and then rolled it into one-inch thickness. I cut circles, laid them on a prewarmed baking sheet, and popped the tray into the oven. While the scones baked, I started preparing the filling for an Earl Grey Chocolate Tart.

  The scones looked so beautiful when they came out of the oven, hot and fragrant, sprinkled with raisins and tinged with a touch of orange zest. I pulled one apart with my fingers and spread butter on one half. I tasted it. I almost swooned.

  “Those look nice,” Cheryl said.

  “Try one.” I spread butter on the remaining half and pointed to it.

  “Don’t mind if I do.” She took it, broke off a piece, and tossed it into her mouth. She closed her eyes and moaned.

  “My reaction exactly. They’re a bit heavier than the scones I usually make, and cream is more expensive than milk, so I’m thinking of adding these to the Royal Tea rotation. They’re to be served with marmalade, not jam.”

  “Good idea,” she said. “I’d come here just to eat those. But right now, as I’m working and not dining—worse luck—I have an order for a traditional afternoon tea for two.”

  I was left with a whole orange minus its peel, which I put into the fridge to use for tomorrow’s juice at the B & B breakfast.

  The rest of the day passed uneventfully. The tearoom was full all day, both inside and on the patio. No drama. Always a bonus in any sort of restaurant.

  The tearoom closes at five. By the time the last of the guests left, the kitchen was cleaned, and the dining room cleared and set for tomorrow, it was five-thirty. I planned to stay behind to get some prep done for tomorrow, but before doing that, I went into the garden to catch a breath of air and give my body a good stretch.

  * * *

  In the city, I’d been a keen yoga practitioner, but somehow, since arriving on the Cape and opening the tearoom, I’d fallen out of the habit.

  Something about twelve- to fourteen- or sixteen-hour days, seven days a week.

  I was holding my right foot in my right hand, with my left arm extended to the side, trying to keep my balance, when Simon emerged from the shed at the far end of the garden and locked the door behind him. His motorcycle was parked in its usual place at the side of the shed, and he headed for it.

  By the time he drove toward the tearoom, I was standing at the garden gate, waving him down.

  He came to a stop, took off his black helmet, to which he’d stuck a Union Jack decal, shook out his hair, and gave me a lopsided grin. His sandy hair was, literally, sandy. Good Cape Cod earth was trapped deep in the folds of his hands, and a streak of dirt ran down his cheek. His jeans and boots were filthy.

  “Good day?” I said.

  “The best,” he replied. “The plants are absolutely loving all this sunshine and heat. If this weather keeps up, I’ll be worried about not getting enough rain, but we’re not there yet. What’s up?”

  “Speaking of plants, Rose’s friend and her family are coming for tea tomorrow. I’d like to do something really special with the table. Whatever you can give me in terms of flowers would be great.”

  “Roses?”

  “Perfect, but only if you can cut enough without decimating the plants.”

  “I think I can. I’ll make sure you get something nice, Lily. You know my price.”

  I smiled at him. “I do. Today’s bucket’s by the back door.” I saved coffee grounds, used tea leaves, and vegetable scraps for Simon to add to the compost or pour on the plants.

  He smiled at me. I smiled back.

  “Are you baking tonight?” he said. “I’d offer to give you a hand but . . . I have plans.”

  “Not a problem. It was a good day and I’m fully in control.” Simon’s mother had been a caterer and he’d grown up helping her. He knew his way around a kitchen, in particular how to make a proper English teatime scone, and had helped me in the past when I’d been in desperate straits. His father had owned a gardening business. To cook or to garden had been Simon’s career choices.

  “I want to get enough done tonight so I can concentrate on Rose’s guests tomorrow,” I said. “Have a nice evening.”

  “You too, Lily.” He put his helmet on, twisted the controls on his bike, and the powerful engine roared to life. He sped down the driveway and turned right at the highway.

  He had p
lans for tonight. I wondered what sort of plans those might be.

  I mentally kicked myself.

  Not my business.

  * * *

  Heather had made a reservation for the Royal Tea for eleven people for the following day at two o’clock. With Bernie, that would be twelve for tea. Our Royal Tea comes with a glass of sparkling wine and the best of my baking, and is served on our best china.

  For tomorrow’s guests, I decided to make the orange scones to serve with clotted cream and Edna’s marvelous marmalade. The sandwiches would be Darjeeling-poached chicken, curried egg salad, cucumber with cream cheese, and thinly sliced roast beef served open-faced with fresh arugula from our garden. For sweets, I’d do pistachio macarons, strawberry tarts, mini coconut cupcakes, and slices of buttery shortbread.

  I worked until almost nine, and then, satisfied with my day’s labors, and the fridge and pantry full, I hung up my apron, locked the tearoom, and headed home.

  The sun was setting over Cape Cod Bay in a sky the color of Edna’s marmalade. A flock of birds flew overhead, heading for their nightly shelter, fast-moving black shapes against the orange sky. The garden was wrapped in long shadows. White flowers glowed in the heavy dusk, and the scent of roses filled the air. A lone figure walked slowly through the garden, stopping now and again to bend over and examine a particular plant more closely. It was Trisha French, Heather’s sister-in-law. Her concentration was totally on her surroundings, and I don’t think she even noticed me pass.

  Rose and Sandra were sitting on the veranda. Rose had her nightly gin and tonic, and Sandra cradled a glass of wine.

  “Have you two not moved from that spot all day?” I said with a laugh.

  “I just got back from dinner,” Sandra said. “Rose waited for me before enjoying her nightly tipple.”

  Rose lifted her glass in a toast.

  “How was your dinner?” I asked.

  “The food was marvelous, the setting equally so. A lovely place on the pier overlooking the water. The company. . .” Sandra shrugged. “I’d have preferred a quiet dinner with Rose.”

  “Sorry to hear that,” I said.

  “Families. What can you say? They bicker. I sometimes think mine bicker more than most, but then everyone says theirs is the worst, don’t they?”

  Rose patted her friend’s arm. “True enough. But we love them, all the same.”

  “Tensions are compounded, of course,” Sandra said with a deep sigh, “when there’s such an enormous income gap in the family. I’m pleased for Heather’s good fortune, I truly am. Although I shouldn’t call it that. She did lose Norman far too early. If they’d stayed in Iowa, he’d still be with us.” She paused for a moment and took a breath. Rose and I waited. “I was about to tell your grandmother about our evening. Lewis ordered the most expensive bottle of wine on the menu, without even consulting with the others as to what we wanted. I thought that dreadfully rude of him. He doesn’t have those sorts of tastes, and I can’t imagine Julie-Ann has ever had filet mignon with lobster tails in her entire life. Never mind the brandy Brian enjoyed after dinner. Surprisingly enough, the only ones who didn’t go overboard enjoying Heather’s hospitality were Ed and Trisha. I can’t believe Heather invited them on this trip. She had to know they wouldn’t exactly be received with open arms. Then again, maybe she didn’t know. Even when she was a girl, Heather didn’t sometimes understand what was appropriate and what was not. She could be blind to other people’s opinions. And now she’s surrounded by people trying to influence her with flattery and attention. That can’t be good.”

  “What’s the story with Ed and Trisha?” Rose asked.

  I had little interest (more like no interest) in the feuds of the McHenry/French family, so I said, “I’ve had a long day. Good night.”

  “Good night, love,” Rose said.

  “Good night, dear,” Sandra said. “Now, remember, we’ll be having tea at your tearoom tomorrow.”

  “I’m looking forward to showing you my place,” I said.

  “At Thornecroft Castle,” Rose said as I turned to leave, “Lady Frockmorton always said she and her guests were taking tea. I often wondered why. You have breakfast or dinner or supper, but take tea.”

  “One of the mysteries of life,” Sandra said. “As for the French family, Ed was Norman’s older brother and they were close as children, or so everyone says. But when Norman met Heather . . .”

  I rounded the house and almost bumped into a woman coming the other way. We both leapt back. She let out a small squeal, and my heart sped into overdrive.

  “Oh, gosh. Sorry. I didn’t see you.”

  “I didn’t see you, either.” Heather was dressed in denim shorts and heavy brown hiking shoes. A thick oatmeal wool sweater shot with blue thread was thrown over her T-shirt. “I was down at the beach, enjoying a walk along the shoreline, but it’s getting too dark to be out on those rocks, never mind chilly. Have you had a nice evening?”

  “Me? Nice enough. I’m just finishing work.”

  “You’ve been at work? This late? I suggested we have dinner at your place one night, but Rose told me you only do afternoon tea.”

  “That’s right. We close at five. My staff clean up and are usually gone before six, but I like to stay and get as much prep done for the next day as I can. I stay late most nights and bake. It’s my busiest time of year, so it seems as though I’m always working, but I don’t mind. I like being alone in there, just me and my measuring spoons and my ingredients.”

  “I’ll have to take your word for it. My late husband always said the best thing I made in the kitchen was reservations.”

  I’d heard that many times before—almost every time I told someone I was a professional cook. But I laughed, anyway.

  “Good night,” Heather said.

  “Good night.”

  I let myself into my house with a sigh of relief. My cottage is small and it doesn’t have much of a kitchen, which suits me fine, as I don’t want to cook for myself after cooking for other people all day. I popped a supermarket-bought premade meal into the microwave, fed Éclair, and enjoyed a bit of a romp with her in the yard before settling down with my book, my rather tasteless dinner, and a glass of wine.

  I didn’t read for long, and before getting ready for bed, I took Éclair for a walk along the hiking trail at the top of the bluffs. It was fully dark now, and I used the flashlight attached to my key chain to guide our way. A couple of boats passed, lights blazing. More lights shone from the houses lining the cliffs, but none were on at Matt Goodwill’s place and his BMW convertible wasn’t parked outside. Éclair and I walked for a long time, until eventually I called to her to come back and we retraced our steps. As I approached the cottage, I heard voices coming from the side of the big house. They were low, so I couldn’t hear most of the words, but the anger in them came through loud and clear.

  “. . . and my agreement is absolutely none of your business,” a man said. “Stay out of it, you interfering busybody.”

  None of my business, either. I called to my dog and we went to bed.

  Chapter 6

  “One less for the Royal Tea,” Cheryl said.

  “What’s happened?”

  “Rose says the teenage boy had a blazing row with his father and he’s been confined to his room for the rest of the day.”

  “What was the argument about?” Marybeth asked.

  Cheryl shrugged. “Teenagers. Who knows? Who cares? Anyway, the rest of them are here. Even Bernie, who looks absolutely fabulous, dressed as though she’s at Buckingham Palace or Downton Abbey. Rose has also gone all out, although I don’t know that the queen would approve.”

  “Now you’ve got me curious,” I said.

  She grinned at me.

  While they talked, my assistants filled the air pots with fresh water, took down tea canisters, measured tea leaves into china pots, and got the chilled prosecco out of the fridge. In the main room, they’d pushed two of the largest tables together, covered
them with a stiffly ironed white tablecloth, and set the table with crystal flutes and the dishes I’d bought specifically to match the “by the Sea” part of our name: white china, with an edge of navy blue and gold trim. Blue linen napkins were at each plate, along with sterling silver teaspoons and butter knives.

  Simon had outdone himself with the flowers. The rusty hinges on the kitchen door had squeaked not long after I’d let myself into the tearoom, and he’d come in, huge grin behind an equally huge bunch of gorgeous pink and peach roses. He presented them to me with a flourish.

  “Sheer perfection.” I dipped into a curtsy and accepted them.

  “I’m glad you think so. Hope all goes well.” He took the pail of coffee grounds, sodden tea leaves, and vegetable peels waiting by the door in exchange.

  The stems of the roses weren’t long and their length varied, so I trimmed them and put them into a wide silver bowl that had been one of my grandparents’ wedding gifts, which I’d snatched from the drawing room at Victoria-on-Sea. Before our guests arrived, I’d gone out to inspect the table, and had been truly delighted.

  Of course, we had other guests to attend to, so I’d scurried back to my kitchen without waiting to greet Rose and her friends.

  While Marybeth and Cheryl prepared the various teas, I arranged the food on flower-patterned three-tiered trays. “One man gave me this.” Marybeth held up a small plastic bag filled with dried leaves, her mouth pinched in disapproval. “It looks like dead grass, but he said it’s his own special tea. Does it matter which pot I use?”

  “Kind of a gruff-looking guy? Short and big-bellied?”

  Marybeth nodded.

  “That’s Ed, Heather’s brother-in-law. He’s probably never had afternoon tea in his life. Give him a pot that’s not too fancy or feminine. Maybe the plain one with the green trim.”

  “That’ll do.” Marybeth took it down from the shelf, measured Ed’s tealike concoction into the pot, and then added hot water. “Smells like dead grass, too.”

  While Marybeth and Cheryl carried the teapots out, I finished arranging the trays and stepped back to admire my handiwork. The arrangement looked pretty darn nice, if I did say so myself. Plump orange and raisin scones in the middle, perfectly cut sandwiches on the bottom, delicious sweets on the top: a carefully controlled explosion of color, shape, and flavor.