Murder in a Teacup

by Vicki Delany

  “One order of traditional tea for four and one children’s tea for two,” Cheryl said. “Have a nice morning?”

  “Very nice, thank you.”

  “We have a bus tour of twelve coming in at four. Thirteen, including the driver.”

  “We’ll be ready.” The difficulty in running a restaurant serving afternoon tea is that unlike more traditional meals served in courses and individually, for us the food has to all be served at the same time for everyone, all at once. At least, with a large group booking, I know in advance what we’d be serving.

  I took a cooked chicken out of the fridge and slapped it on a chopping board. The chicken had been poached yesterday in Darjeeling tea and I’d mix it with mayonnaise, lemon juice, celery, grapes, and diced red onion to make sandwiches using whole wheat bread. Today’s other sandwiches were curried egg, smoked salmon on pumpernickel, and open-faced roast beef and arugula. For the children, we’d serve ham and cheese sandwiches sliced into fingers and peanut butter and jam pinwheels (after checking for allergies). For pastries, our little guests would be offered mini cinnamon buns, vanilla cupcakes, and chocolate-dipped strawberries.

  The children’s food was plainer, but served on the same quality china and linens as the adults got. If they didn’t want tea, their choice of iced tea or juice came in crystal flutes. Afternoon tea, I believe, is to be served properly or not at all.

  As I went through my daily routine, baking, making sandwiches, taking orders from Marybeth and Cheryl, I resumed my earlier train of thought and kept turning the events of this morning over and over in my mind.

  What had been the intention of whoever sabotaged our car?

  Assuming they had an intention and weren’t simply out to cause trouble—which, I had to remind myself, was a possibility. Someone had killed Ed French. If Trisha didn’t do it, and it hadn’t been a random attack or mob-contracted hit (which wasn’t even worth considering), then whoever did kill Ed was currently staying at Victoria-on-Sea.

  Whoever sabotaged Rose’s car had no way of knowing that when we needed the car’s brakes the most, we’d be driving down one of the few truly dangerous roads in North Augusta. More likely for us to have been in a fender bender on Main Street or to strike an innocent pedestrian in the crosswalk than to be plunging over the edge of the cliff to our doom.

  Maybe it didn’t matter what the end result was: The disruption was intended to be the end in itself. Rose was hale and hearty and as fit as a woman of her age could be. But she was a woman of her age, and even a minor car accident could put her in the hospital.

  With Rose in the hospital, all my focus would be on her.

  If we’d been involved in an accident with another car or a pedestrian, and it was clearly our fault, then we’d be tied up in legal complications.

  Even a small accident—if it ended with one of us injured or facing legal problems—would have taken over our concentration.

  That hadn’t happened.

  And, I thought as I rolled out chilled pastry to make tart shells, I was now focused more than ever on the case.

  I knew, or thought I knew, why Rose’s car had been sabotaged. To stop Rose and Bernie and me from asking questions about the death of Ed French.

  The big question, of course, was who did it.

  Who could tamper with brakes on a car? Not everyone. I wouldn’t have the faintest idea how to go about something like that. Not many women I knew would.

  Brian or Lewis? Brian and Lewis owned a car dealership. Did that mean they had some familiarity with basic mechanics?

  Possibly.

  Had Brian or Lewis taught Tyler?

  Possibly.

  The phone-obsessed Amanda? Unlikely, but I wouldn’t take anything off the table.

  Darlene and Julie-Ann? Highly unlikely, but, again, not impossible.

  Heather? With her designer clothes, fresh manicure, and flashy diamond rings? Even more unlikely.

  Sandra? Almost certainly not. Women of her generation simply didn’t learn how to maintain cars.

  How difficult was it to cut a brake line, anyway? It happens all the time in books and movies. Maybe that’s the sort of thing you can learn with a quick glance at the Internet. I made a mental note to check into it after work. I filled the shells with pastry cream and set them aside to be decorated later. Then I washed my hands and pulled my phone out of my pocket.

  “One order of Royal Tea for two.” Cheryl dumped a load of used dishes onto the counter next to the sink.

  I lifted a finger to tell her I’d be right there. She took a bottle of sparkling wine out of the fridge and two flutes off the shelf.

  Amy Redmond answered her phone. “Lily, what can I do for you this time?”

  “I have a . . . uh . . . suggestion.”

  “You mean instructions about how I might work my case?”

  “I . . . uh . . .”

  She chuckled. “Go ahead. You’re like a dog worrying a bone, and that’s not necessarily a bad thing when it comes to my line of work. What’s up?”

  “I don’t know anything about cars, other than how to drive them and how to tell when they need gas, but I’m wondering how hard it is to sabotage the brakes. Is that something you have to have the equivalent of an advanced degree in or can you look up how to do it on the Internet to find step-by-step instructions with pictures and everything?”

  “Why are you asking that, Lily?”

  “I thought maybe you could have a look at the search history on those phones and tablets you confiscated and . . . uh . . . check if anyone did. Search, I mean.”

  “That’s a good idea, Lily,” she said. “We didn’t specify something as specific as that, but if our techies had found such a search, they would have included it in their report. Probably they would have included it. I’ll check. Thanks for the tip.”

  “You’re welcome. Has the garage found anything yet?”

  “They’re scheduled to start on your car later this afternoon. I’ll let you know what, if anything, they find.”

  “Thanks.” I hung up. I was pondering what Redmond had said when a loud crash came from the dining room, a woman screamed, and someone cried, “Oh, no!”

  I ran out of the kitchen.

  I found Marybeth lying in the center of the main room, flat on her back, surrounded by broken china, sandwiches, and pastries. A pistachio macaron rolled across the floor toward me. A woman stood over Marybeth, wringing her hands together and saying, “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry. I didn’t see you there.”

  Marybeth grunted.

  I ran to her and dropped to my knees. Cheryl came in from the garden at a run.

  Marybeth blinked at me.

  “Are you okay?” I asked. “Lie still.”

  “I’m . . . okay.”

  “Don’t get up.”

  “No, I’m fine.” She struggled to sit.

  “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry,” the customer wailed. “It was all my fault. I didn’t look where I was going.”

  Cheryl took one of Marybeth’s arms, I took the other, and we carefully helped Marybeth get to her feet. She wobbled and gave us both a sickly grin. “Really, I’m okay.” She took one step and gasped in pain. Between us, Cheryl and I half carried her into the kitchen. As I passed the counter, I grabbed a chair it and dragged it after me. I shoved it beneath Marybeth, and her mother helped her lower herself onto it. Beads of sweat were popping up on Marybeth’s forehead.

  “Do you think something’s broken, honey?” Cheryl asked.

  “Is she okay?” The woman had followed us. “I can take her to the hospital.”

  “No. Really,” Marybeth said. “I just need a minute.”

  “You stay with her,” I said to Cheryl. “I need to clean up out there before we have another accident.” I turned to the customer. “Why don’t you come with me and give me a hand?”

  “I’m so sorry. I pushed my chair back the moment she was passing and . . . I’m sorry.”

  I grabbed the broom and dustpan
out of the corner and shoved them into the woman’s hands. While she swept up shards of my beautiful china and squashed pieces of my precious baking and scooped the fugitive macaron out from under a table, I assured the customers the waitress was fine and she only needed to rest for a few minutes. I’d have their tea and food out shortly. So sorry for the delay.

  Back to the kitchen.

  “I don’t think anything’s broken.” Cheryl was crouched in front of Marybeth, probing her ankle lightly.

  I let out a sigh of relief. That was excellent news, but Marybeth didn’t look too good. She was pale and dripping with sweat.

  “You need to go home,” I told her. “We can manage here.”

  “But—”

  “But nothing. I can’t have you fainting in the middle of the dining room.”

  “I came with Mom in her car.”

  “You shouldn’t be driving, anyway. I’ll call you a cab. Did you hit your head?”

  “No. I don’t think so.”

  “Good.”

  “I’ll pay for the cab,” the apologetic customer said. “It’s the least I can do. I feel so bad.”

  “Thanks. You’ve been very kind. Go and finish your tea. We’re fine here.”

  She hurried away and was soon back, waving two twenty-dollar bills. “Will this be enough for the taxi?”

  “Yes, thanks,” I said.

  She shoved the money at Marybeth and then left, still apologizing. Marybeth said, “I can’t just up and leave. We’re full for the rest of the day. A big group’s coming in at four.”

  “We’ll manage,” I said, wondering how I could possibly manage with only one waitress. Then I had an idea.

  I sent Simon a text: Other duties, as assigned. Drop everything and come to TBTS kitchen.

  The reply came almost instantly: On my way.

  I called the cab and it arrived at the same time as Simon. Cheryl told Marybeth to call her if she started feeling worse and helped her daughter into the taxi.

  “Scones,” I said after I’d told Simon what had happened. “I need scones in the oven and then cupcakes, and the strawberry tarts have to be assembled. I’ll make sandwiches, do dishes, and help Cheryl wait tables, particularly when big groups arrive.” I looked down at my jeans and well-worn sneakers. “Nothing I can do but put an apron on and hope no one notices.”

  He spent a long time at the kitchen sink, scrubbing good Cape Cod earth off his hands. He grabbed a tea towel, dried his hands, and then turned to me with a wicked grin. “I’m on it.”

  I smiled back. “You’re a lifesaver.”

  He tugged at an imaginary forelock. “I serve at m’lady’s pleasure.”

  “Ooh,” Cheryl said, “I love a man with an English accent.”

  Simon laughed and began measuring flour.

  For the next several hours, Simon baked scones, shortbread, tarts, and cupcakes. We had enough macarons at hand to last through the day. I prepared sandwiches and did the dishes, and helped Cheryl make tea and serve the guests.

  At one point, when all the tables had been served and she could take a brief break, Cheryl called Marybeth and then reported back to me. “She’s watching afternoon TV, eating an entire bag of salt and vinegar chips all by herself, and enjoying the rare quiet while the kids are at their day camps and Dave’s at work. She tells me she’s thinking of taking up the life of a lady of leisure. I told her I’d pick her up at quarter to ten tomorrow as usual.”

  “Glad to hear she’s okay,” I said. “She probably didn’t need to go home, but better safe than sorry.”

  “I’d like to take up the life of a lady of leisure,” Simon said.

  “To do that, you’ll have to snag a rich husband like Heather did,” I said. “Although, to be fair, he wasn’t rich when she married him. I don’t know if she has a job. She never said. I haven’t spent much time with Rose’s friends.” A memory flashed through my mind. “Although Heather did mention—”

  “Showtime.” Cheryl’s head popped into the kitchen. “The bus tour’s here.”

  “Once they’re seated, take their tea orders. I’ll start arranging the food.” I checked that the hot-water dispensers were full and took teapots and three-tiered trays off the shelf. The rooster timer my sister gave me, which I use only for timing scones, crowed and Simon slipped on oven mitts and lifted a fragrant tray out of the oven.

  I glanced at the scones. Sheer perfection made out of nothing more complicated than flour and butter and a splash of milk.

  I’d been about to say something, something about Heather. The thought was gone now. I arranged the sandwiches on the bottom tier of the trays.

  Chapter 19

  “I can’t thank you enough for this,” I said to Simon. “Cheryl and I never would have been able to do all that on our own.”

  “Sure you would,” he said.

  The last of the guests had finally finished lingering over their tea, and I’d locked the door with a contented sigh. A good day, and disaster averted. I told Cheryl she could leave early, as she was anxious about Marybeth, and Simon and I would clean up and prepare the tearoom for the next morning. He was making a final batch of tart shells as I loaded dishes into the dishwasher.

  “Do you know much about cars?” I took a leftover egg sandwich off a tray and popped it into my mouth. It was the only one left—clearly, everyone at that table had been too polite to take the last one.

  “I know as much about cars as the average bloke,” he said. “Why?”

  “I take that to mean you know way more than I do. Can you do basic maintenance on your car yourself, if you had to?”

  “I’ve never owned a car,” he said, “as I prefer motorbikes. I love bikes, so I learned how to look after them. The principle’s the same, so I can help Mum sort out small things on her car. Why are you asking?”

  “Just wondering.”

  “If you’re having a problem, I can have a look at Rose’s car, but don’t expect me to do much. I’d never attempt a major repair. Cars these days have too many computer components, and you can ruin a warranty by doing the wrong thing.”

  “Rose’s car is long past worrying about a warranty, but that’s not it. I’m helping Bernie with her book. We’re wondering how easy it is to cut the brakes on a car—so they stop working, I mean.”

  Simon put down my marble rolling pin and studied my face. “I thought Bernie’s book was historical. Horses and carriages and sailing ships historical.”

  “She keeps changing it.”

  “That’s quite the change. Lily, did something happen to your car?”

  I never was a very good liar. “Yeah. Brakes failed on Rose’s car this morning. We’re pretty sure it was deliberate.”

  His eyes opened wide. “What do you mean deliberate? Where’s the car now?”

  “The police have it.”

  “That’s good. Obviously, you’re unhurt, and Rose also, I’ll assume.” He picked up the marble pin and finished rolling out pastry. “I’ll get these in the oven and then have a look at the garage.”

  “What will the garage be able to tell you?”

  “Maybe nothing, but it won’t hurt to look. A brake line isn’t cut, per se, as in severed. Otherwise, the car would crash on its way out of the parking space. If the line providing the fluid to the brakes has a leak, once all the fluid’s leaked out, the brakes’ll stop working. A small hole isn’t easy to do, not if you don’t want the driver to realize immediately that something’s wrong, but it is doable. Let’s check the floor of the garage and see if any fluid leaked out overnight.”

  “How easy would it be to do that? For someone who isn’t a qualified car mechanic, I mean.”

  “Probably not all that difficult, not for someone with a basic knowledge of the workings of a motor vehicle. I’m sure you can find specific instructions on the Internet. There’s videos on how to do just about anything these days.”

  “Brian and Lewis McHenry own a car dealership. Do salespeople work on the cars?”

&nb
sp; Simon laughed. “I doubt that means anything. A lot of them can barely tell one end from the other without a map.”

  My phone rang. Amy Redmond.

  “This might be an update,” I said to Simon as I answered.

  “I thought you’d want to know what the mechanics found on your car,” she said.

  “I do.” I waggled my eyebrows at Simon.

  He popped the tart shells into the oven and came to join me. I held the phone so he could hear and we tilted our heads together.

  “Definite signs of interference with the brake fluid,” she told us. “The line was punctured within the last week, they assured me, probably less than that.”

  “Is it possible this was an accident?” I asked. “Or as a result of regular wear and tear on the old car?”

  “No,” Redmond said. “The puncture’s distinctive and clean. As for everything else, as you assured me, your grandmother keeps her vehicle in good condition. Our mechanics were impressed enough to say so.”

  “Detective, Simon McCracken here, listening in. Can you tell anything about who might have done this?”

  “Sorry, no. No fingerprints. The line’s clean. As in wiped down. No business cards dropped into the engine or scraps of clothing conveniently caught on a protruding nail.”

  “Thanks for letting me know,” I said. “What’s happening with the French investigation? The case against Trisha’s very flimsy. Do you have any other suspects? Are the McHenrys going to be allowed to leave?”

  “Heather French has a mighty powerful city lawyer who’s been on the phone yelling at our chief. She’s saying we can’t expect Heather to stay here indefinitely. Not now that someone has been arrested. The chief gave in and Heather will be allowed to leave North Augusta tomorrow. We couldn’t let her, the one with the big-bucks lawyer, go and continue to keep the others here. So they all, except for Trisha French, will be allowed to leave if they want. Other than that, you’ll know at a suitable time, Lily.” She hung up.

  “I was hoping,” I said with a discontented sigh, “that as she was sharing information, she’d keep doing so.”

  Simon grinned at me.

  * * *

  I finished setting the tables for tomorrow while Simon washed up the baking dishes and utensils and waited for the last batch of tart shells to bake. When they were out of the oven and packed away, and the kitchen was once again clean and tidy, I swept the floor, took off my apron, and left the tearoom.