Murder in a Teacup

by Vicki Delany

  “We’ve checked into him,” Redmond said. “He’s never come to the attention of the police in Grand Lake. He doesn’t run with a bad crowd, what there is of one in that town, anyway. More likely, a case of the killer waiting for the right moment. And it conveniently presented itself. Enough foxglove to kill a man would easily fit into a pocket or small purse. I have to ask you again, Lily, did you see anyone paying any undue attention to Ed’s teapot?”

  “No,” I said firmly. “I did not.”

  “They must have been one mighty cool customer,” Simon said. “To walk around with that in their pocket, waiting for a chance to use it.”

  Despite the warmth of the tiny room, I shivered.

  “What happens now?” Simon asked.

  “We keep investigating. Will you let me know what, if anything, you find out about foxglove in gardens around here?”

  “Sure,” he said.

  “Are you going to tell the family what you’ve told us?” I asked.

  “Yes. I’m heading up to the house next. I wanted to ask Simon if the plant grew on this particular property before I did that.”

  “Does it make a difference?” I asked. “If it had been growing here?”

  “Malice aforethought,” she said. “As there isn’t foxglove readily at hand, our killer picked it ahead of time and brought it with them. Yes, that makes a difference.”

  Chapter 11

  On my way back to my macarons, I sent Bernie and Rose a text: Tox analysis done. Foxglove in Ed’s tea. Redmond on way to the house with the news.

  Rose: I’ll be with Sandra.

  Bernie: Good to know. See you at six.

  * * *

  “As no one broke down and confessed,” Rose said, settling herself comfortably at the kitchen table, “our work continues. What did you bring for our supper, love?”

  Robbie had followed her in. He perched on the countertop next to the fridge and eyed Éclair, sitting at my feet. Éclair eyed Robbie. They weren’t exactly enemies, but they did live in a state of mutual distrust.

  “You’re lucky I brought anything at all,” I said. “I found a chicken in the freezer and a loaf of bread only slightly past its best date. We’re having toasted chicken sandwiches.” I put the chicken, which I’d thawed over the afternoon, on the counter, took a butcher’s knife out of the drawer, and set to carving the thing up. I’d separate the breasts and grill them for our dinner. The rest of the bird would go back to the tearoom to be poached in Darjeeling liquid to make tea sandwiches.

  “I’m opening tomorrow. Business as usual. I called all the people who’d left messages asking about reservations to let them know, and I reopened the web page to accept online reservations. I phoned Marybeth and Cheryl to tell them to come in and to expect a regular day.”

  Marybeth had pretended to be disappointed at not getting another day’s vacation, but I knew she needed the money and I was glad for their sakes I could tell them their jobs were safe.

  While my macaron shells were baking, I’d checked Twitter and Facebook and had seen that the social media references to Tea by the Sea being the site of a brutal murder and deadly poison in the tea were down considerably. As Redmond had said, public interest moves on. “You’re not having any B and B cancelations because of Ed’s death, so this is no longer any concern of ours. You can leave it in the capable hands of the police and we can enjoy our dinner—”

  “As plain as it is,” Rose said.

  “—and talk about other things.”

  Bernie snorted. “Capable, indeed. Williams obviously checked the contents of Heather’s bank account and is now tripping all over himself, tugging his forelock and saying he’s sorry to inconvenience her. Man’s a fool.”

  “So he is, but Amy Redmond is not.” I separated the two breasts from the chicken and sprinkled salt and pepper over them. I switched the oven broiler on, and while it heated, I took a sip of the wine Bernie had brought. “Were you there when the police told the family the results of the tox reports?”

  “Williams came to the house while Redmond was talking to you and Simon.” Rose had brought her nightly gin and tonic with her and sipped at it. “He spoke to Sandra as though she was addled. Talking sloooooowly and care-fullllly and taking great pains to explain what digitalis is.” If Rose wasn’t a lady of a certain age, and if she wasn’t in her own house, she would have spit on the floor. “As though anyone our age isn’t thoroughly acquainted with digitalis. Sandra’s husband had a heart condition, that’s what he died of. The drug would have been in their house while he was alive.”

  “What about the rest of them?” Bernie asked.

  “Only Sandra and Trisha were here. The others had gone out. Whale watching, I believe. They were able to reschedule the departure, as Heather had booked an entire boat for their party. I was with Sandra when Williams told her, but I wasn’t allowed to come to Trisha’s room with him.” She sniffed in disapproval. “Thus the rest of the group learned it second- or thirdhand. Sandra phoned Brian, and he would have told the others. Not a good thing for analyzing people’s reactions.”

  “As for giving up our investigation,” Bernie said, “not going to happen, Lily. I’ve learned quite a lot since we last spoke, and I don’t think that information should go to waste. Unless you want to forget about it, Rose?”

  “Perish the thought,” my grandmother said. “Do you want to go first?”

  “Why not?” Bernie took a sip of her wine, then put the glass on the table and opened the iPad she’d brought with her.

  I laid the seasoned chicken breasts on a tray and put them in the oven. Once those two got an idea in their heads, nothing on earth—certainly not my feeble protests—would move them.

  They were determined to involve themselves in the police investigation, and all I could do would be to listen politely and hope they wouldn’t try to rope me into helping.

  “As we know,” Bernie began, “Heather’s husband, Norman French, made a lot of money when he sold his Internet start-up five years ago. Heather and Norman moved to New York City, and he died a few months after.”

  “Remind me how he died,” Rose said. “Something about being hit by a car, as I recall.”

  “He was a pedestrian. Stepped into a busy intersection on the Upper East Side directly in front of a cab. No indication of foul play. The cabbie stopped on the spot and told police the man suddenly appeared in front of him and he didn’t have time to avoid him. He was quite shaken up about it.”

  “Happens all the time in Manhattan,” I said. “Even worse now that people are paying more attention to their phones than to oncoming traffic.”

  “Right.” Bernie said. “The one thing of interest I found is that Norman’s brother, Edward—”

  “The late Edward French, the reason we are gathered here,” Rose said.

  “The very one. Ed had threatened to sue his brother before Norman died.”

  “That is interesting,” Rose said.

  Bernie was a forensic accountant. Until recently, she’d worked for a big Manhattan criminal law firm and she had an extensive network of contacts in the financial world to tap into, as well as an uncanny ability to dig through vast amounts of data in search of one small salient detail. She’d been a computer whiz in high school and college, and I sometimes wondered if her data-gathering efforts were entirely aboveboard. I thought it better not to ask.

  “Sue him?” I said. “On what grounds?”

  “Ed claimed that he’d worked alongside Norman in the development of Norman’s software product, albeit unofficially. Meaning he wasn’t on the payroll. But even though Norman officially owned the business, as the two men were brothers, Ed believed they were partners.”

  “A foolish assumption,” Rose said. “Nothing destroys families faster than money.”

  “To be fair, when they started, no one could have guessed Norman would get sixty-five million bucks for his idea.”

  “Ed should have.” Rose stroked Robbie. Robbie yawned. Éclair was s
niffing around the floor between the fridge and the stove, hoping to find some previously undiscovered scraps.

  “How far did this lawsuit get?” I asked.

  “Not far enough,” Bernie said. “It was prepared by a lawyer, but never filed. Norman died, and according to his will, his widow, Heather, got it all.”

  “Ed didn’t try to go after Heather for his share? Or what he thought of as his share? Just because he claimed to have helped develop the product doesn’t mean he did. Although Ed’s in the computer business, someone told me his business in Iowa was selling and servicing computers. Did he provide any evidence he worked alongside his brother?”

  “I have no way of knowing,” Bernie said. “I couldn’t see the actual details of the proposed suit.”

  “Fancy that,” I said.

  Bernie gave me a look. “Even I have my limitations. The suit was never filed, meaning it’s not a matter of public record.”

  “Probably irrelevant,” Rose said. “Edward thought he had a case, and that’s all that mattered. He didn’t try to get money out of Heather after his brother’s death?”

  “Not that I can find. No more was said. Legally speaking, anyway. He might have spoken to her directly, meaning there’s no legal trail to follow. But as he doesn’t appear to have come into money, I’d say nothing came of it.”

  “Heather invited Ed and his wife on this trip,” I said. “Do you think she was trying to make up with him?”

  “Could be. Let bygones be bygones, and all that. It’s entirely possible Ed felt bad at Norman’s death and decided not to harass the young widow. And so he let it go.”

  “Was there any suggestion Ed might have had a hand in his brother’s death?” Rose asked.

  “Not a whisper. Ed was in Iowa at the time.”

  “That’s all interesting,” I said, “but I don’t see that it has anything to do with Ed’s death. He and Heather made up. The financial affairs of the French family would have had nothing to do with the McHenry family.”

  “And that’s where I come in,” Rose said.

  “Do tell,” Bernie said.

  I got up to take the chicken out of the oven. I sliced the breasts into strips, dumped them into a bowl along with chopped onion, celery, chives, salt and pepper, mayonnaise, and a sprinkle of paprika. While I fixed the sandwiches, Rose said, “I have more than a few good friends back home in Grand Lake. I made a few phone calls today. Just catching up, you know. In many cases, I didn’t even have to say more than ‘hello’ before my friends demanded to know what had happened to Ed French.”

  “Are they a well-known family?” Bernie asked.

  “Very. They’re longtime residents and are involved in several local businesses. Norman and Ed’s mother, now deceased, was a fund-raising force to be reckoned with. I remember more than once ducking down alleys and side streets when I saw her marching determinedly in my direction. And that was before Norman made all that money and became even more the talk of the town.”

  I laid the sandwiches on a platter, put the platter on the table, and sat down.

  Bernie helped herself, but Rose looked around. “This is it?”

  “Your dinner? Yes, this is it,” I said. “I’ve been cooking all day. You invited us, remember?”

  “I thought at least a bowl of soup to accompany a chicken sandwich.”

  “Did you make soup, Rose? No? Then we have no soup.”

  “ ‘No soup for you,’ ” Bernie quoted.

  “You know I don’t cook, love,” Rose said. “That’s why I employ you.”

  I opened my mouth to point out once again that Rose might think she employed me to help around the B & B, but considering she didn’t actually pay me a wage, that concept was nebulous at best. I stuffed a sandwich into it, instead. What was the point?

  “It’s a hot night,” Bernie said, “and I don’t mind not having soup, as long as there’s something fabulous for dessert. What did you make, Lily?”

  “I don’t know which one of you is worse,” I growled around a mouthful of chicken sandwich. It was too bland. I should have added some curry powder.

  “I guess that means no dessert, either,” Bernie said. “Back to the goings-on, according to the gossip mills of small-town Iowa.”

  “That the French brothers fell out when Norman sold his company is well-known,” Rose said. “I heard about it myself at the time. Norman moved away, and then he died. Heather stayed in New York, and as far as the locals were concerned, that was the end of that. I didn’t know until today about any pending lawsuit, so perhaps Ed had the good taste to keep it under wraps. Their mother would not have been happy to see her sons fighting.”

  “What happened to her?” Bernie asked.

  “She moved to Arizona at the same time Norman and Heather went to New York. I heard they bought her a house. She died two or three years later.”

  “What about the McHenry family?” Bernie asked. “Are they also prominent citizens?”

  “Again, yes. Sandra’s husband was the mayor for many years. Sandra was also a force to be reckoned with in charitable circles, and many people said she was the motivation behind her husband’s political career. It was rumored for some years that he had ambitions at the federal level. Nothing came of that, and people said those ambitions were more hers than his. Which I can believe. Sandra and I were friends, but many people didn’t like her.”

  “Why not?”

  “They consider her to be overly full of herself. Sandra enjoys being a big fish in the small pond that is Grand Lake, Iowa. At one time, her son, Brian, owned several new and used car dealerships, but he sold all but one over the years. Lewis now manages that, I believe. All of which is background. However, I did hear something of interest that I didn’t know.” My grandmother’s eyes glittered with excitement. She smiled at Bernie and me.

  I turned to Bernie. “As there’s no dessert, do you feel like going into town for ice cream after?”

  “Sure,” Bernie said. “That would be good. I’ve hit a sticky plot point in the book I want to run by you. Do you think Rose—my Rose—and Tessa need to bring a man into their detecting agency?”

  “Are you thinking that would give it more historical accuracy? Maybe they should. He could go places they can’t and—”

  “Most amusing,” Rose said. “Do you want to hear what I learned or not?”

  “Clearly, you want to tell us,” I said, “so go ahead.”

  “When you’re ready,” Bernie said.

  Rose huffed. “You heard Trisha accuse Julie-Ann of wanting to get back with Ed?”

  “Everyone heard that,” I said. “But so much was going on, it slipped my mind.”

  “Didn’t slip mine,” Bernie said.

  “Like old sins, good gossip is never forgotten,” Rose said. “All it needs is new developments for everyone to bring it up again. Julie-Ann was engaged to Ed French at one time. Ed unceremoniously dumped her when he met Trisha, so everyone says. Julie-Ann married Lewis on the rebound.”

  I got up, took the bottle out of the fridge, and poured Bernie and me another glass of wine. “So, what? That had to have been decades ago. Lewis and Julie-Ann have teenage children.”

  “It might have been decades ago,” Rose said, “but obviously the matter remains fresh in Trisha’s mind.”

  “Why? In the battle for Ed French, Trisha was the winner. Why would she hold a grudge?”

  Rose grinned. “Because the battle, it would appear, had recently reopened on a new front. Julie-Ann told one of her friends that she regretted marrying Lewis, and Ed regretted marrying Trisha. Only days before her wedding to Lewis, Ed spoke to her. He said he was sorry, he’d made a mistake and he hoped they could get back together. But by that time, Ed and Trisha had started a family, and Julie-Ann was pregnant with Amanda, and so she reluctantly turned Ed down and went ahead with the wedding to Lewis.”

  “Rubbish,” I said. “You can’t seriously be suggesting that sixteen-year-old gossip is relevant to a murder.”
<
br />   “It can be highly relevant,” Bernie said, “if the people still have those feelings all these years later.”

  “Some friend,” I said. “I assume this friend Julie-Ann confided in, in the strictest of confidence, told everyone in town.”

  “Something like that,” Rose said. “There’s not a lot to do in an Iowa farming community in the winter. The gossip, however, is not sixteen years old, but much more recent. Julie-Ann said this quite recently.”

  “I wonder if Lewis, Julie-Ann’s husband, knows,” Rose said.

  “What if he does? This isn’t Victorian times. People get divorced all the time. They don’t have to kill to”—I made quotations marks in the air with my fingers—“be free.”

  “True, but people still get jealous. And vengeful,” Rose said.

  “Even when there isn’t a lot of money involved,” Bernie said. “Although maybe there is money involved if Ed was still wanting a cut of what his late brother did him out of. Maybe that’s why Julie-Ann wanted to get back with him.”

  “And why,” Rose said, “Trisha might have objected to any divorce.”

  “You two,” I said. “Each one of you is as bad as the other.”

  “Someone did kill Ed French, love,” Rose said. “We didn’t make that up.”

  “I guess not,” I admitted.

  Rose took the last bite of her sandwich and then finished her gin and tonic. “An ice cream sounds nice. Get the taste of that bland chicken out of my mouth. But before we go, I learned one other thing of interest in my telephonic trawl of Grand Lake, Iowa. Brian McHenry and Ed French had once been in business together. They owned several car dealerships. Ed, so I’ve been told, was a mostly silent partner, while Brian ran the day-to-day. Their partnership ended badly when Brian accused Ed of cheating him. He sued, but the case was thrown out of court because Brian couldn’t prove his claim. Brian accused Ed of bribing his lawyer to fumble the case. Again, that’s something I vaguely remember from when I lived in town, but I’ve been reminded that the bad blood lingers. Only a few short months ago, Brian and Darlene walked out of a friend’s retirement party when Ed and Trisha arrived. That, as you can imagine, had the phone lines humming for days.”