by Vicki Delany
“Maybe they didn’t want to speak ill of the dead,” I said. “If that’s what happened, I mean. That it wasn’t made clear. Not that I overheard anything like that. Or anything at all.”
“Are you trying to tell me something, Lily?” Redmond asked.
“Nope. Just trying to be helpful. As a good citizen should.”
“What sort of tension are we talking about?”
“The McHenrys were not happy when Ed and Trisha showed up here. More than not happy—they were angry. It sounds like a minor thing, but Julie-Ann McHenry took Rose’s cat to Trisha French’s room, knowing Trisha doesn’t like cats. You’ll have to ask them why.”
“I’ll do that,” she said, then added under her breath, “if I’m allowed to ask anyone anything.”
Chapter 9
“I bet her happy place is the basement of the police station before a suspect’s lawyer arrives,” Bernie said as we watched Redmond drive away. “Williams’s is the La-Z-Boy in his living room with a beer in one hand and a bag of chips in the other.”
“You’re probably right about him,” I said. “But not her. I trust her.”
“You’re too trusting for your own good, Lily.”
“Maybe. But I like it that way.”
“Which is why you need me to protect you from yourself.”
“Whether I want you to or not.”
“Right.” She hopped to her feet. “I’m off. While I’ve been waiting ever so patiently here, watching the police activity, I’ve had some great ideas. I want to get them down while they’re fresh in my mind. You will call me if anything happens, if you need anything?”
“Of course,” I said.
She wrapped me in a hug. “Try not to worry.”
I returned the hug, and I thought, but didn’t say, Easier said than done.
I went into my tearoom. It was, as Bernie had said, my happy place. My pride and joy. I’d been a pastry chef in Manhattan. I’d worked at several bakeries and then at a Michelin-starred restaurant and I’d always dreamed of having my own place one day.
I might not have always dreamed of being in business with my grandmother, or cooking the breakfasts at a B & B, but we have to make compromises sometimes. So far, Tea by the Sea was turning into everything I’d dreamed of.
Except for the not insignificant matter of people dying after drinking tea prepared in my kitchen and my place being closed by the cops.
* * *
To my relief, the restaurant didn’t look as though it had been tossed. In the vestibule, the long, high-backed wooden bench and the small antique dresser displaying our menu were undisturbed. The tables in the main room and the quiet alcoves were set with crisp white tablecloths, linen napkins, and silver cutlery. A bowl or vase of beautiful fresh flowers picked by Simon himself graced every table. A small side room near the kitchen is devoted to things we offer for sale: locally made jams and preserves and chutneys, collectable teapots and cups, a few souvenirs of Cape Cod. Everything there, I was pleased to see, was untouched.
I went into the kitchen.
It was not untouched.
Canisters of tea, flour, sugar, had been opened and the contents scooped out. The fridge was almost empty—not only of ingredients such as eggs, cream, butter, or berries, but of premade sandwiches, tarts, and cupcakes. The freezer was the same. Not a single scone remained.
I let out a long breath and reminded myself that nothing was irreplaceable. I’d simply make more. I took out my phone and started on a shopping list. As I typed, I decided to look on the bright side. Maybe I could get enough baking done before the tearoom reopened that I could treat myself to a half-day vacation. I hadn’t so much as had time to go to the beach since I’d arrived in Cape Cod over the winter and started work renovating the decaying stone cottage to turn it into my tearoom.
A knock on the back door. A loose floorboard squeaked as I crossed the room to open the door.
“Everything okay?” Simon said. “I saw the last of the cops leave.”
“Okay as can be. I have to go to the store. I can use my kitchen, even if I don’t have any customers to serve.”
He glanced around the room, at the open canisters and the bare shelves. “They took my compost bin.”
“They did what?”
“Took the compost. I hope they get some use out of it.”
“Looking for the remains of Ed French’s tea, I suppose.”
“Good luck with that. First thing this morning, I came around to get what you’d left for me last night. I dumped yesterday’s offerings into the composter and gave it all a big stir to get the older stuff aerated.”
Simon turns our kitchen scraps, coffee grounds, and used tea leaves into rich compost to feed his plants. In return, they provide us with beautiful flowers. A perfect relationship, and one that never ceases to give me joy and amazement.
His eyes darkened. “What do you think happened, Lily?”
I ran my fingers over the butcher block. “The police seem to think something deadly was in Ed French’s personal supply of tea. No one else got sick, not even any of the people at his table, but I guess they searched in here in case it was something he ate. Something I fed him. If it turns out that’s what happened, I’ll be ruined. No one will ever want to eat my food again.” I swallowed heavily and felt tears welling up behind my eyes.
Simon gave me a soft smile. “You’re worrying for nothing, Lily. You didn’t poison him, accidently or otherwise. Speaking of accidents, maybe he picked the . . . whatever it was . . . himself without knowing it was deadly. Gardens are full of lethal substances, if one knows where to look.” His mouth twisted in amusement. “I didn’t bother to point out to the coppers, as they hauled away my compost, that I do know where to look.”
I smiled back at him. For a long moment, neither of us made a move. We just stood there, smiling.
“I don’t suppose they’ll bother to return it,” he said at last.
“Return what?”
“My compost. Black gold. I could sue to get it back, but by the time the case winds its way through the courts, it’ll probably be thrown on a refuse heap somewhere.”
“You’d have to be able to identify your compost from the common and garden dirt at the back of the police station.”
“DNA tests might help,” he said. “You buy all your eggs from Willowbay Farm, right? And you crush the shells and throw them in with the vegetable scraps. We can order DNA testing on my compost and compare that to Willowbay’s chickens.”
I laughed at the absurdity of it and realized I felt a lot better. Simon’s bantering words had blown away the clouds gathering above my head. “I don’t know if you can get identifiable chicken DNA off the inside of an eggshell.”
“I’ll ask Matt and Bernie to look into it. Give them something to do they can call research.”
We smiled at each other some more until at last he said, “Better get back at it. If you need any help, give me a shout.” He touched his finger to his forehead and left.
I let out a long breath and returned my attention to my shopping list.
* * *
When I got back from the supermarket, I baked for the rest of the day and that went a long way toward putting me in a better mood. Not knowing when we’d be allowed to reopen, I made things that would keep in the freezer until needed.
By six o’clock, I had a healthy supply of tart shells, two types of scones, cupcakes, and shortbread, as well as chocolate chip cookies for the children’s tea all neatly stacked in the industrial-sized freezer next to the pantry.
I untied my apron, checked the ovens were off, switched off the lights, locked the door, and went home. Guests were strolling in the gardens or sitting on the veranda with their books and an evening glass of wine. We exchanged greetings as I passed, but no one stopped me to ask about the earlier police activity. I assumed Rose had done all she could to fill people in as to what was going on. When she wanted to, which wasn’t often, Rose was an expert at English under
statement. She would have done a good job of downplaying the visit from the police.
I took my dog for a long walk, reheated a frozen meal in the microwave, and was in bed with my book by ten o’clock. The late afternoon and evening had passed so peacefully and uneventfully, I dared to hope that the worst of the trouble was over and the police would soon solve the case and life would be able to return to normal.
But nothing is ever normal at Victoria-on-Sea.
* * *
“Has the paper learned anything more about what happened here?” I asked Edna the next morning. I was mixing batter for a coffee cake, and Edna was peeling fruit and chopping ingredients for the breakfast salad. Edna’s husband, Frank, is the editor in chief of the North Augusta Times.
“Not that I’ve heard,” she said. “Frank read Ilana’s story before it went to print and he ordered her to cut the line about being rushed to the hospital after eating at Tea by the Sea.”
“Thank heavens. Thank him from me.”
“I don’t need to,” Edna said. “Frank’s been in this business long enough to know about unfounded accusations and deliberate misstatements. At the moment, no link has been established between that man eating at your place and dying several hours later, but . . .”
“But if there is, the paper will report it. Fair enough. There won’t be.” In the bright light of early morning, some of last night’s optimism had faded, and I spoke with more confidence than I felt.
Edna glanced at the clock on the wall. “The autopsy should be under way by now. Hopefully, that’ll tell the police more.” She put down her knife and carried the finished fruit salad into the dining room. I used a thin wooden skewer to gently swirl the coffee mixture into the center of the cake to create a nice marbleized effect and then popped the cake into the oven. I took sausages out of the fridge and a package of bacon out of the freezer. We normally serve sausages and bacon only on Sunday, but I decided that today I’d offer our guests a small treat. They deserved something for not fleeing at the arrival of a full forensic team on the property.
The McHenry party and Trisha French were due to leave tomorrow. I wondered if their plans would change. I assumed Trisha would want to stay until her husband’s body was released, but I didn’t know how long that might be, and she might prefer to be at home with her family in the meantime.
The noise level coming from the dining room told me it was full, the frying pan was sizzling with a second batch of sausages, and the cake was warm from the oven and sliced for serving when Bernie came in. “Morning.”
“This is a surprise,” I said. “What brings you here so early?”
“I thought there might be developments. Are there?” She reached for a slice of coffee cake.
“Hands off,” I said.
She snatched it, anyway, and bit into it before I could snatch it back. “Sorry, I didn’t have breakfast.”
“Nothing’s happened that I know of,” I said, “except for the theft of one piece of cake. I might report that next time the police are here.”
She munched happily. “Umm. This is good. Nice crunchy cinnamon topping. I like that. Has Rose come in yet?”
“Not yet. It’s still early.”
“She called me and suggested I come over in case we have work to do.” She held the cake—missing one enormous bite—up. “Thus I need sustenance.” She poured herself a cup of coffee.
“What sort of work?” I asked, although I probably didn’t want to know.
Bernie didn’t answer. Instead, she took her coffee and cake and left.
“Keep your secrets,” I called after her.
“Table of four wanting the full breakfast,” Edna said. “Rose’s friend, Sandra, will have that also, but the younger woman with her wants only fruit and yogurt.”
“That’s probably Heather. Any sign of the others?”
“They’re all down. Even the teenagers. I’ve served them already. Two fried eggs over easy, and two sunny-side up. Sandra wants hers poached.”
I cracked eggs into the hot fat, and while they cooked, I laid sausages and bacon, grilled tomatoes and mushrooms, onto plates. When the fried eggs were ready, I plated them. As Edna carried the breakfasts into the dining room, I put the poaching water on the boil.
“That’s the last of them.” Edna came back as I carefully slipped one perfect farm-fresh egg into the hot water.
“Glad to hear it.” I leaned backward to give my back a good stretch, and then reached for my own coffee cup.
Tap tap tap. Rose, Robert the Bruce, and Bernie came into the kitchen as I was carefully removing the poached egg from the hot water.
“We’ve been summoned,” Rose said. She’d dressed for the day in an orange, pink, and purple ensemble that put me in mind of a sunset.
“We’ve what?” I asked.
“Inspector Williams has just called me. He requests that the friends and family of Edward French be gathered in the drawing room in ten minutes.”
“Did he say why?”
“No.”
“He’s probably going to do his Lord Peter Wimsey impersonation,” Bernie said. “Too bad for him, he’s not an English lord. Or smart.”
“It has to be to give us the autopsy results,” Rose said.
“Let me find out from Frank if that’s finished.” Edna pulled her phone out of her apron pocket.
“If it’s not, shouldn’t Williams be at it?” Bernie asked.
“Detective Williams likes to get out of anything that might be at all unpleasant,” Edna said. “He always has.”
“Why did he become a cop, then?” Bernie asked.
“He didn’t have much choice. His father was chief of police for many years, and Chuck was expected to follow in those distinguished footsteps. He would have been a lot happier if he’d become a kindergarten teacher.”
“A terrible thing to do to innocent little children,” Rose said.
“Instead, the innocent little citizens of North Augusta have to suffer,” Edna said as she called her husband. “Hi, honey, it’s me. I’m still at Rose’s place. Any news?” She paused for a moment, nodding her head, as Frank filled her in. “Thanks, hon.” She put her phone away. “Autopsy’s over. Results have not been released to the press.” She picked up Sandra’s breakfast plate and carried it into the dining room.
Rose caught my eye. She tilted her head slightly to the right and opened her eyes very wide. She was asking me if I wanted to go into the secret room.
In answer, I took off my apron. “As everyone’s been summoned as though we’re in a Lord Peter Wimsey novel and he’s about to make an accusation, I’ll join you.”
“No refreshments this time,” Rose said. “We want this to be as short and to the point as possible.”
Éclair had come out from under the table to greet Rose and she recognized the sign of me removing my apron. Stubby tail wagging, ears up, she ran for the door.
“Sorry,” I said. “We’re not leaving yet.” I pointed to the floor under the table. “Stay!”
Her ears dropped, her face crumbled, her tail drooped. Slowly, ever so slowly, she crawled under the table and sat down. She let out a mighty sigh and stared at me through enormous liquid brown eyes.
“Drama queen,” I said as I bent over and reached under the table to give her an affectionate pat.
I left Edna to finish cleaning up and followed Rose and Bernie into the dining room. Sandra and Heather occupied a table for two. Darlene, Brian, Lewis, and Julie-Ann sat together, and Amanda and Tyler were at a separate table, heads down, fingers flying over their phones. There was no sign of Trisha.
“Would you go and get Trisha, please, love,” Rose whispered to me. “Room 202. Tell her the police want to speak to her. I’ll tell the others we’re needed in the drawing room.”
“Will do,” I said.
Rose crossed the room and whispered in Brian’s ear. He looked up sharply, but nodded. Other guests were still lingering over their breakfasts and Rose didn’t want to distur
b them.
I ran upstairs and knocked on the door of room 202.
“Who is it?” answered a muffled voice.
“Lily Roberts. Rose’s granddaughter.”
“Just a minute.”
I heard the bed creaking, the sound of shuffling, and then the turning of the lock. The door opened and Trisha French’s head popped out. Her eyes were red and her nose swollen. Her hair stood on end and she was still dressed in her pajamas, which, patterned as they were with brightly colored cartoon characters, looked so out of place on a woman recently widowed.
“I’m sorry to disturb you,” I said. “The police are on their way. They want you . . . They want everyone in the drawing room.”
She blew her nose with a tattered scrap of tissue. “Must I?”
“I’m sorry, but I’m only delivering the message. Do you want me to make your excuses?”
“No. I’ll come down.” She lifted her chin and looked into my face. “I can face her. I can face them all.”
Her? “Who do you mean? Has Amy Redmond said something to you?”
But the door had shut in my face.
* * *
I arrived at the bottom of the stairs in time to see Detectives Williams and Redmond coming into the house.
“Hi,” I said. “I mean . . . hello. I won’t say you’re welcome, but come on in. Looks like the gang’s all here. Except Trisha. She’s on her way down, should be here shortly.”
I turned at the creak of a stair. Trisha had pulled a sweater over her pajama top and put on a pair of track pants. She twisted a tattered tissue between her fingers.
“Good morning, Mrs. French,” Redmond said.
Trisha muttered something and blew her nose.
The drawing room did look like a scene out of a Lord Peter Wimsey novel. Rose was in her favorite chair, with Robert the Bruce curled in her lap glaring malevolently at everyone. Sandra sat in the matching wingback chair next to the bookshelves. Brian and Darlene were on one leather couch. Lewis and Julie-Ann had taken the other couch, but rather than reaching for each other for comfort or encouragement, they sat about as far apart as was possible, facing straight ahead, their backs stiff. Bernie leaned against the wall, Amanda had taken a window seat, Tyler stood behind his grandfather, and Heather was perched on the edge of the desk chair. Detective Williams leaned against the mantel of the fireplace scowling. His expression, I couldn’t help but think, was a lot like Robbie’s.
