Murder in a Teacup

by Vicki Delany

  Simon and I walked up the long driveway to the big house together. Redmond had confirmed that the brakes on Rose’s car had been interfered with, but Simon wanted to check out the garage, anyway. “I really appreciate your help,” I said.

  “Anytime.” He cleared his throat. “Have you ever ridden on a motorbike?”

  “Heavens, no. Not a lot of call for bikes in Manhattan. They look dangerous.”

  His face fell and I added quickly, “Although you obviously don’t think so.”

  “Nothing like being on a bike. The feel of the open road. The speed. The freedom.” His eyes glowed with the sheer joy of the memory. “I haven’t had a chance to do much exploring since I’ve been here . . .”

  “Because we’re overworking you?”

  He chuckled. “Slave drivers that you and Rose are. I’m thinking of taking a day off next week and driving up the coast to Provincetown. See the sights, go to the beach, maybe have lunch in town.”

  “Sounds nice,” I said.

  “Would you”—he hesitated, then continued—“like to come with me?”

  “You mean on your bike?”

  “Yeah.” He was no longer looking at me.

  I hesitated. I was single; Simon was single. We were the around the same age. I liked Simon, and I got the feeling he liked me. But as I’d told Bernie, I wasn’t looking for a relationship. This summer needed to be all about getting Tea by the Sea up and running. Even if I was looking for a relationship, Simon was going back to England in the fall.

  Then again, maybe I was reading too much into his simple question. Maybe all he wanted was some companionship. He’d come to the Cape specifically to take the job here, so he didn’t know anyone other than us. Maybe he didn’t like eating in restaurants alone. Maybe he liked introducing people to his motorcycle. Maybe he wanted other people to love it as much as he did.

  A thought burst out of my subconscious. I sucked in a breath.

  “What?” Simon asked.

  “You said you love motorcycles, so you learned how they work.”

  “What of it?”

  “I bet you talked to your parents about your bike. Did you?”

  “I tried at first, but that didn’t last long. Mum’s terrified that I’m going to come to a bad end on it, and Dad told me it would be better just to pretend I gave the bike up, even though I drive it to their house for Sunday lunch most weeks. Why do you ask?”

  “People who are passionate about something—a sport, a hobby—usually encourage the people close to them to love it, too. To play the sport, to enjoy the hobby. So they can do those things together.”

  “Yeah, I guess. I went out for a long time with a girl who loved bikes. I didn’t like her all that much, but I loved her enthusiasm for bikes. She had a better one than mine, and she let me ride it sometimes. What of it?”

  “Heather’s late husband, Norman, was an antique-car enthusiast. From what little I know about antique cars, they require a great deal of highly specialized maintenance because regular garages can’t handle them. You can’t buy the parts the cars need; they have to be individually made.”

  I slowed to a stop. I looked toward the grand old mansion. It was still full daylight, but the sun was sinking over the bay ready for its nightly dip. The trees threw long shadows across the lawn, and birds darted between the bushes and buzzed around the flowers. A butterfly flew past my face, and the soft pounding of the surf against the shore sounded in my ears. At the house, the lights above the veranda hadn’t yet come on. I could see Rose in her rocking chair, but she was alone. Heather’s car and Brian’s rental were in the car park.

  “You think Heather knows cars?” Simon asked. “That’s possible. Doesn’t mean she fixed your brakes, though.”

  “No. It doesn’t.” Snatches of overheard conversations and fragmented thoughts flashed through my mind. “At the time of Norman French’s death, Ed was suing his brother for a share of what he’d earned from the sale of his company on the grounds that he was equally involved in the development of . . . whatever the company made. Norman died and the lawsuit died with him. Now, four years later, Ed came on this vacation at the invitation of Heather.”

  “That means nothing, Lily. Families fight and they get over it.”

  “Yes, they do. But Ed was expecting to come into some money soon.” What had Trisha said to Rose about Julie-Ann? She only wanted to get back with Ed, all these years later, because he was about to see an improvement in his financial situation. Surely, before breaking up two marriages, Julie-Ann would have expected a substantial improvement in Ed’s finances.

  “Maybe he and Heather came to an agreement, and she was going to cut him in?” Simon speculated.

  “That’s what I’m thinking. But now, I’m also thinking, what if, for some reason, Ed thought there was going to be an agreement, maybe an out-of-court settlement, but Heather had no intention of honoring it? Had she invited Ed and Trisha on this trip under the pretext of talking it over? If so, he died before that could happen.”

  “Convenient,” Simon said.

  “Very,” I said.

  “You have absolutely not one iota of proof that that’s what happened, Lily. I have to tell you, I don’t think you have much of a case, anyway, even if it did happen that way. Plenty of people can fix a brake line—I can, and I hope you’re not considering me for it—and plenty of people reconcile with estranged relatives. Some even come to legal and financial arrangements without going to court. My sister’s father-in-law didn’t speak to his brother for years after their parents died, because he thought the will wasn’t fair. They got over it. Without anyone killing anyone.”

  “But in this case, Simon, someone has been killed. Ed French. Why would Heather invite Ed and Trisha to come here, knowing the amount of bad blood between Ed and Brian and Lewis? Someone said that since Heather doesn’t live in Iowa anymore, she might not have realized everyone hadn’t moved on. That’s possible, but I don’t think Heather’s naïve. She wasn’t surprised when Ed and Trisha arrived to not a very enthusiastic welcome. If anything, she was amused at the others’ reactions when the Frenches checked in.”

  “If everything you’re saying’s true, Lily, Heather’s not going to confess to killing Ed. Even if you ask her nicely.”

  “So I won’t ask. I’ll tell. She’s going to be on her way home tomorrow, probably the second she gets word she’s free to go. Then she’ll be surrounded by a phalanx of New York lawyers, well out of the reach of not only me, but Detective Redmond also. I have an idea. Let’s go back to the tearoom.”

  Chapter 20

  Tea by the Sea was dark and quiet when we let ourselves in through the front door. We passed through the vestibule into the main room. The clean white tablecloths glowed in the golden evening light streaming through the windows, and the glass bowls full of flowers sparkled. The dining room smelled of tea and the end-of-day baking.

  My place. I loved it so. But tonight, I hadn’t come back to admire it.

  “You don’t have to stay if you don’t want to,” I said to Simon. “I can handle this.”

  “Of that,” he said, “I have no doubt. But just in case . . .”

  “Thanks. Now be quiet and let me talk.”

  I took a deep breath and placed a phone call.

  “What is it now, Lily?” Detective Redmond allowed a hint of impatience to creep into her voice. Maybe creep isn’t the right word. More like stampede.

  A car turned off the highway and drove slowly up the long lane to the big house.

  I got straight to the point. “I believe Heather French killed Ed because he had a claim to his late brother’s fortune. I intend to accuse her of that. I thought you might like to join us.”

  “Are you out of your mind? If you have proof of what you’re saying, come down and tell us about it and let me. . . I mean us . . . handle it.”

  “I don’t have proof, Detective. Not yet. But I intend to get it. I’m at Tea by the Sea now. Can you be here in ten minutes?”


  “Lily, this is a mistake.”

  “Ten minutes. I know what I’m doing. You can trust me. Park on the road behind the tearoom. You can’t see that spot from the house. Come in the back way. I’ll unlock the door for you.” I hung up.

  Simon eyed me warily. “It sounds as though Detective Redmond isn’t overly chuffed with this idea. I’m on her side.”

  “Trust me,” I said again. “Tea?”

  “Why ever not?” he replied.

  “I’ll be right back.” I went into the kitchen, unlocked the back door, and then filled a small kettle. One thing my grandmother had taught me: There’s nothing like a cup of tea in a crisis. I scooped leaves of English breakfast, strong and dark, out of a tin, pressed them into a tea ball, and set the timer. While the tea steeped for precisely three minutes, I took three of Simon’s strawberry tarts out of the fridge. Might as well reward the man for his patience with his own baking. I didn’t think the bribe would go very far toward mollifying Redmond, but it might lighten her mood a fraction.

  I heard the front door open and footsteps cross the floor. I was annoyed at Redmond for disregarding my instructions—orders? —and potentially ruining my plan by coming in the front way, where she could be seen. Then I recognized the tap of Rose’s cane and hurried out.

  “What are you two doing here?” Not only Rose, but Bernie had arrived.

  “I’m here for an end-of-the-day meeting,” Bernie said. “We wanted to ask if you heard anything from Detective Redmond about the car.” She glanced at Simon. “Sorry if we’re interrupting something.”

  “You are, but it’s not what you think. The more the merrier.”

  Rose pulled out a chair. Simon leapt forward to assist her.

  “Don’t sit down!” I said.

  “Why not?” my grandmother asked.

  “Because you’ll ruin everything. This is a highly delicate, closely timed operation.”

  “What is?” Bernie said.

  “You have to leave. Now.”

  “I’m not leaving until I know what’s going on,” Rose said.

  “Yes, you are,” I said.

  “No, I’m not.”

  “Yes, you are.”

  “This isn’t getting us anywhere,” Simon said. “Like it or not, you’re stuck with us, Lily. Where do you want us?”

  “In the kitchen. All of you. But first, Rose, have you seen Heather today?”

  “She and Sandra went for a walk along the bluffs earlier,” Rose said. “They’re back now, and as far as I know, they’ve gone to their rooms before going out for dinner. The police called earlier to say they could have their phones and iPads back, and Lewis went to the station to get them. He also picked up our computer, but I haven’t checked it yet. I hope they haven’t interfered with anything.”

  “Never mind that. Did Heather seem . . . surprised to see you?”

  “You think it was Heather who fixed the brakes?” Bernie asked.

  “Yes, I do. And that means she killed Ed French. Rose?”

  “She didn’t appear surprised to see me,” Rose said, “which might be, if what you suspect is true, because she would have heard me before seeing me. I spent most of the day in the office working on the accounts. Around six, I called Sandra and asked if she was ready to meet for our drink. Sandra and I had just settled ourselves on the veranda for a nice chat when Heather came out of the house. Heather asked Sandra if she felt like a walk and they left. I would have liked to have gone with them, but I was not invited. Just as well, as Bernie arrived a few moments ago and we decided to talk to you and find out if you have news of any developments.”

  “Off you go,” I said, “I’ve made tea and laid out some tarts in the kitchen.”

  “All this excitement is over a tea party?” Bernie said.

  “Redmond will be here any minute, and I don’t think I can keep her for long. She didn’t sound as though she was in the mood to linger over tea. I have to make my phone call now. Simon?”

  “Okay. Come on, ladies, I’ll explain when we’re in the kitchen. You have to keep your voices down.”

  “Why would I want to do that?” Rose asked.

  “By voices down,” I said, “he means shut up. And I mean it, too. Not a peep.”

  They left, Rose complaining that there weren’t any chairs in the kitchen, and Bernie still demanding to be told what was going on. Simon grabbed a chair as he passed and dragged it after him.

  I took a deep breath and placed my call. If Heather took the bait, fine. If not, then I’d look like a fool. That would be fine also.

  “Hello?”

  I didn’t bother with pleasantries. “I know all about it, Heather.”

  “Who’s this and what do you think you know?”

  “It’s Lily Roberts. You must have been surprised to see Rose home this afternoon, hale and hearty, and totally un-upset by her recent brush with death.”

  “You’re talking nonsense, Lily.”

  “You know I’m not, Heather. You cut a hole in the brake line in Rose’s car. You did it last night when the car was in the garage after you heard Bernie and me planning to take the car out this morning. You guessed, correctly, that we wanted to have a talk with Trisha, because I know Trisha didn’t kill Ed, and I’m wondering who did.”

  “As long as you’re on the line, Lily, I want to thank you for making my grandmother and my family so welcome. We’ll be checking out tomorrow. Sorry for any inconvenience over the bookings. You can move Trisha back here if you have the room, but I’ll no longer be paying her bills.”

  I heard the back door opening, the squeak of the hinges, the creak of the loose floorboard, and whispered voices in the kitchen. Detective Redmond had arrived. I clutched the phone closer to my ear. “My dad was a car mechanic.” I lied. “He was a big believer in girls learning nontraditional occupations, so he taught me a lot. Much to his disappointment, I became a pastry chef, but that’s neither here nor there at the moment. As soon as our car came to a shuddering halt mere inches from the edge of a cliff, I crawled under the car and had a look around before the police arrived. I found several threads of wool caught on a . . .” My nonexistent knowledge of the undercarriage of a car failed me. I cleared my throat to give myself a moment to think. “. . . protruding nail. Nice bit of cloth. Good-quality wool. Oatmeal with a thin blue thread.”

  I held my breath. The breeze off the bay had been cool last night. Anyone venturing out of their room under the cover of darkness would have been likely to throw on a sweater, particularly if they were wearing their pajamas. It was summer in Cape Cod. Not many people would bring more than one sweater and maybe a light jacket on a short vacation break.

  Heather, who seemed to have an outfit for every occasion, had worn that sweater twice. I was counting on her having brought only the one.

  “What do you want, Lily?” Her voice turned cold. Hard.

  “You could have killed my grandmother, never mind me. That’s bad enough, but that you did it can mean only one thing. You murdered Ed French, and you know Rose, Bernie, and I have been asking questions about that. I haven’t told Detective Redmond, who, by the way, is a close friend of mine, about the fabric I found. I will, if I have to, take it to Detective Williams. I’ll also show him the picture I took the other evening of Rose when we were having ice cream on the pier.” I hadn’t taken such a picture, but Heather didn’t need to know that. “You’re in the background, by the way, wearing that sweater, so if you throw it into the sea tonight, I still have proof it’s yours. I’ll make up some excuse about tidying the car after the near-accident and not realizing the cloth was important until later. Silly me. Williams isn’t that bright. He’ll believe me. The police will then wonder why you’d do such a thing. And they’ll come to the same conclusion I have. Eventually. A hundred thousand should do it.”

  “You want me to give you a hundred thousand dollars?”

  “Yup. I’m in the dining room of the tearoom. No one else is here. You can come over now. Y
ou give me the money, you can watch me burn the cloth.”

  “I don’t have a hundred thousand dollars in cash lying around my room.”

  “Don’t be a fool, Heather. I don’t want cash. I wouldn’t know what to do with a suitcase full of cash. A check will do. An online electronic transfer will do even better. You make the transfer in front of me, and I’ll hand over the fabric and you can watch me delete the photograph.”

  “You might have made copies.”

  “Yes, but without the cloth, the picture proves nothing. I’m here alone working late, as I usually do at the end of the day. Be here in five minutes or I call the cops. Come in by the main door.” I hung up. I breathed.

  She’d come or not. If I was wrong, if she had nothing to hide, she wouldn’t show.

  If I was right . . .

  Before putting my phone away, I switched on the recorder. “She’s on her way,” I called out. “Everyone stay quiet!”

  “What about this cloth?” Redmond called to me. “Do you have it?”

  “I lied. I don’t have any such thing. You told me you found no fingerprints. You have no proof Heather did it. I’m trying to get the proof for you.”

  “You’re nuts,” Bernie said.

  “Shush. If you won’t leave, at least be quiet.” I walked across the tearoom and stood at the window. A slight figure ran down the steps of the B & B and walked down the driveway at a rapid pace.

  Heather was on her way.

  I took a seat at the big table in the center of the main room, from where I could see the door. Only when I’d sat down did I realize this was the table at which the fatal tea had been served. I tried to suppress a shudder. I needed to look strong. Strong and ruthless.

  A woman in control.

  My mother was a singer and an actress. She’d achieved some success on Broadway and in Hollywood and still got a fair amount of work for a woman of her age. She wanted me to follow in her footsteps, but I’d had no interest and absolutely no talent. Even as a child, I’d felt a total fool trying to pretend to be something I wasn’t.