by Vicki Delany
“You educated them, I trust.”
“Exactly as you taught me. They came in and ate every crumb. Left a big tip, as I recall.” Cheryl carried her laden tray through the swinging doors.
Afternoon tea, as invented by Anna, Duchess of Bedford, and served at Tea by the Sea, is not to be confused, as it often is in America, with high tea, which is a working family’s or children’s evening meal. In the past, afternoon tea was occasionally called “low tea,” meaning served at a low table in a drawing room, as opposed to the high table in the kitchen, around which a family would gather to have their “high tea.” Just to confuse things more, some places in America refer to afternoon tea as “high tea” when it comes with an additional, more substantial course, such as a soup or salad.
Marybeth ran into the kitchen, interrupting my thoughts about Duchess Anna and the proper serving of tea. “You’re not going to like this, Lily.”
“Today there’s not much I like. What’s happened now?”
“The cops are back. They’ve just pulled up outside the house. They brought a forensic van with them.”
“Keep an eye on those scones and take them out when the rooster crows. Then close the tearoom. No more customers. We can’t cope any longer.”
I ran through the restaurant. Curious guests had once again taken position next to the windows.
I found Cheryl in the patio, laying a fresh place setting. “We’re closing early. Finish serving the ones who are here, but no new customers.”
I flipped the sign on the gate to CLOSED and ran up the driveway.
Rose was standing on the verandah, holding a piece of paper in her hand. Williams faced her while she read. His arms were crossed over his chest, and his feet planted widely apart. Three people, wearing the white overalls of a forensics team, watched. Mrs. Zagorsky’s rusty van was gone.
I ran up the steps. “What on earth do you want now?”
“Pardon the inconvenience,” Williams said. “I would have thought you’d want us to get to the bottom of this, Ms. Roberts.”
“Of course I do. What have you got there?”
“A warrant to search your and Mrs. Campbell’s private residences.”
“What? Let me see that.” I ripped the paper out of Rose’s hand and read quickly.
“I tried to argue that we need to search the whole house, but the judge didn’t go along with that. Something about guests’ privacy.”
“This says you’re looking for a black cane?”
“Earlier today, Mrs. Campbell told us she has only one cane. The one with the leopard-print pattern.”
“That’s right.”
“We found a picture in the North Augusta Times of her at a bridge tournament about a month ago. You were accepting a trophy, Mrs. Campbell. And holding a black cane. A solid-looking cane with a heavy brass base. Did you forget to tell me about that one?”
“I am not totally senile,” Rose said. “Not yet, anyway. I didn’t mention that one, because I no longer have it.”
He raised one eyebrow. “Really?”
“Really,” Rose said. “You remember, Lily.”
“I do. That cane wasn’t nearly as solid as it looked. It got a crack in it, and we didn’t trust it anymore. We threw it out weeks ago and bought the new one. The one you took away.”
“So you say,” he said.
“So I say. Because it’s the truth. Where’s Detective Redmond?”
“Not that I have to tell you, but I will. She’s investigating another matter.” He waved to the people gathered on the driveway to join us on the verandah. “We’ll see to your rooms first, Mrs. Campbell. Why don’t we wait in the front room?”
I needed to be with Rose to ensure she didn’t insult Detective Williams again or say something he would interpret as incriminating, but I also wanted to supervise the search. Not that I didn’t trust the North Augusta Police Department not to plant evidence, but . . .
We went into the house. The few guests back early from the beach or an expedition stood in the hallway, watching.
“I’m checking out,” a woman said. “Right now. I can’t have my children staying in this house a moment longer.” Three children were gathered around her on the stairs, looking as though they wanted nothing more than to stay and watch.
“As you like,” I said.
“You can leave whenever you want,” Rose said, “but you have to pay for the entire weekend.”
“I don’t think this is the time—” I said.
“The safety of my children is more important than money.” The guest turned with a huff and marched upstairs, dragging three reluctant children behind her.
“Once again, you’re the talk of the town, Rose Campbell.” Edna came into the house. “I thought you might need me. What can I do?”
I let out a sigh of relief. “Can you show these people to Rose’s suite, please? And then can you stay and . . . uh . . . ?”
“Make sure they don’t plant evidence?” Edna held out her hand. Rose dug her key out of her pocket and passed it over.
Edna led the way down the hall, and Rose and I went into the drawing room with Williams.
We didn’t have to wait long. If all the police were allowed to search for was a cane, they wouldn’t have to leaf through pages of books or search small drawers.
“Nothing,” a man said from the doorway.
“Your room next, Ms. Roberts,” Williams said.
“Edna,” I said. “Will you wait with Rose?”
“Happy to.”
I led the way through the dining room and out the French doors. We crossed the lawn to my cottage as curious guests watched. I unlocked the door and stood back to let the police in. Éclair is normally a very friendly dog, but perhaps today she sensed my attitude toward these people and set up a round of furious barking, complete with bared teeth.
“Control your animal please,” a man said.
I scooped my dog up and carried her to the backyard. I put her down, gave her a quick pat, and shut the door before she could slip past me. She continued barking.
The search of my place took less time than Rose’s. Other than under the bed or in the closet, there was no place large enough to hide a four-foot-long cane.
“Satisfied?” I said to Williams when we were once again all gathered in the drawing room.
“For now,” he said.
And then they left. When I shut the door behind them, all I wanted to do was lean against it and let out a long sigh. Instead, I forced a smile and turned to the honeymooning couple standing in the hallway. “Do you have plans to do something special this evening?”
“We have reservations at the restaurant on the pier.”
“You’ll love it. If the sky stays clear, you’ll get a lovely sunset.”
Gradually, the guests began to disperse.
“The family in room two-oh-five left,” Rose said. “I saw them stuffing their cheap suitcases and unruly children into their car. Make sure you charge them for two nights.”
“Me? I don’t do the billing.”
“I’m far too tired to worry about that now. Most distressing, all this fuss. Edna, you can take me to my room.”
“I can, can I?” Edna said.
“Yes, you can. A cup of tea would help me relax.”
“It would help me relax, too,” Edna said with a glance at me.
I pretended not to have heard that.
The guests had returned to their rooms or gone out for a walk in the gardens, leaving the three of us alone in the foyer. I stepped closer to my grandmother and spoke in a low voice. “I don’t like this, Rose. Williams seems to be fixated on you as a suspect.”
“As I didn’t do anything, I have nothing to worry about,” she said.
“I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” Edna said.
“What do you know?” I asked.
“Chuck Williams has a reputation of not always being one to follow the rules, if you know what I mean. Frank and the paper have had their eye
on him for a long time, but he never quite goes over the line.”
“What sort of not following the rules?” I asked. “You mean like planting evidence?”
She nodded. “If that’s what’s necessary to keep his friends out of trouble and land their enemies in it, yes.”
“I am hardly anyone’s enemy,” Rose said.
“But you are,” Edna said. “Your opposition to the development plans for next door puts you smack-dab at the top of Lincoln Goodwill’s enemy list. He has to get that land sold, and he has to get a lot more than the house itself is worth, being in the condition it is. The Goodwill family is on their last legs financially and going down fast. Lincoln made some bad investments with the money he inherited from his father, and he’s in a lot of trouble. If he can sell the property and reinvest the proceeds, he has a chance of recovering. If not . . .”
I let out a long breath. “Sounds like he might not be averse to greasing a few palms.”
“Police palms, you mean,” Rose said. “I’ll be in my rooms. I’ve some research to do.”
Chapter 10
I made my weary way back to the tearoom. I found it hard to believe Detective Williams would openly try to frame Rose for the murder, but I had to face facts: Edna’s husband, in his role as editor in chief of the newspaper, would know more than most people what went on in the police station. He probably knew more about what went on than most of the people who worked there.
I tried to tell myself that Amy Redmond, at least, seemed like an efficient and honest cop. It was obvious she and Williams were butting heads. Surely she’d put a halt to any mischief Williams might get up to? I could only hope.
A lone motorcycle was parked in the tearoom lot, and Simon had taken a seat in the garden, a pile of supermarket bags at his feet. He stood when he saw me approaching. The light, salty breeze ruffled his fair hair. He’d cleaned up very nicely indeed. “Everything okay?”
“Yeah,” I said. “For now.”
“I got what you need, so let’s get to it.”
“Let’s. Those scones won’t bake themselves.”
He laughed. “That’s what my mum always says.”
Deep in my pocket, my phone buzzed to announce an incoming text.
Bernie: I’m in town, writing in coffee shop. Heard someone say cops are back at your place?
Me: Gone now. All okay.
Bernie: On my way.
Me: Can you stop at the drugstore and buy a cane for Rose?
Bernie: Okay.
The tearoom was dark and quiet. Before leaving, Marybeth and Cheryl had set the tables with clean linens, swept the floor, washed and put away the dishes, and tidied the kitchen.
“What’s first on the list?” Simon said.
“Can you make the scones?”
“Yup.”
“I’ll get you the recipe I use. Make half with raisins and half plain, please. We need several batches. While you’re doing that, I’ll poach the chicken and start on green tea cupcakes and a chocolate tart. Then macarons. They’re always hugely popular.”
“You’re only a tearoom, right? You don’t do breakfast or lunches?”
“All we serve is afternoon tea. I’ve been open only since early spring, but so far we’re busy enough I don’t need to consider expanding the menu. I might have to in the off-season, but for now, all our customers get is some variation of afternoon tea as it would be served in the Orangery at Kensington Palace.”
Simon took butter out of the fridge and flour down from the shelf. He set about weighing and measuring, while I filled a stockpot with water and set it to boil, unwrapped and seasoned the chicken breasts he’d bought, and measured a quarter cup of Darjeeling leaves, which would be added to the water when it boiled. I then checked my recipe for green tea cupcakes and gathered the necessary ingredients.
“My mum would love this place,” Simon said. “It’s like a proper English tearoom.”
“That’s what Rose and I wanted.”
He cut butter into the flour and said, “I’ve not exchanged more than a word or two with your grandmother, but I’d recognize that Yorkshire accent anywhere. How’d she end up here?”
I put butter in the stand mixer and switched it on. “She began life as a kitchen maid in a stately home called Thornecroft Castle. That was back in the fifties, when many of the grand old houses were being demolished or turned into museums, but the Earl of Frockmorton, who owned the place where she worked, wasn’t the sort who minded getting his hands dirty. Between the wars, he’d worked hard, had a lot of luck, and made tons of money. Something to do with shipping, Rose thinks. He and his wife loved to entertain . . . the grander the better. Lavish dinner parties, country house weekends, hunting parties. All terribly nineteenth century. To achieve all that, they kept a full staff. Maids, footmen, cook, kitchen workers, gardeners, the lot.”
“Rose was a kitchen maid?”
“She started when she was fourteen and worked there for eleven years, eventually rising to become the cook’s chief assistant. Lady Frockmorton loved to have guests for afternoon tea. All dreadfully formal and stuffy.”
“Pinkies in the air,” Simon said.
“Yup. Royal Doulton china, hand-embroidered linens, flowers picked in the garden or greenhouse that morning, everything arranged exactly so, a little bell on the tea tray to summon the maid, the lot. Rose grew up knowing how to prepare and serve afternoon tea. To this day, the whole tradition around it is important to her. My grandfather, Eric Campbell, was in the American army. He was stationed in England at the end of the fifties, and one day he was in Holgate, not paying attention to where he was going, and he was knocked flying by a young cook’s assistant coming out of the butcher on the high street. Feeling bad about it, Rose visited him in the hospital whenever she could get away from work.”
“And here you are today,” Simon said.
“And here I am today. Poaching chicken for sandwiches.” I added the tea leaves to the boiling water and carefully dropped in the breasts.
“I guess your grandfather’s passed away?”
“He died four years ago. When he got out of the army, he and Rose moved to Iowa, where he was from. They loved each other to pieces until the day he died.”
I thought about the rows of photographs in silver frames laid out on Rose’s dresser, the ones she dusted herself every morning. In one of those pictures, the one of Rose and my grandfather standing on the church steps after their simple village wedding, as the rain fell in torrents, the bride might be mistaken for me posing in old-time clothes. My mother takes after her father, Eric, dark and Scottish. My siblings most resemble our father’s maternal Italian ancestors. I’m the only one clearly carrying Rose’s English genes: fine, straight blond hair, pale skin, small chin, light blue eyes, and a thin frame (lucky me!). Perhaps our shared appearance is part of the reason Rose and I have always been so close. But whereas Rose is very short, the one thing I inherited from my father is my height.
“My mother, Tina, is the oldest of their five children.”
“So you’re from Iowa? A long way from home.”
“No, I was born and raised in Manhattan. My mom moved to New York as soon as she could get out of Iowa, became an actress and singer, and married a guy from the Bronx. That was my father. They divorced years ago, but he and I are still close. When my granddad died, Rose took their life savings and bought this place.”
“A big move for a lady of her age.”
“She loved my grandfather and the life they’d made together, but she hated Iowa. An Englishwoman, she always told me, needs to be by the sea.”
Simon went to the sink and poured himself a glass of water. “I’ll drink to that. I sometimes think my blood is made of seawater. When I’m away from it, I can feel the tides pulling at me.”
“When my mom and her siblings were little, the family came to Cape Cod a lot on vacation, and Rose loved it here. She always wanted to come back permanently. She kept up with the goings-on in the Cape, and
when she saw this house was for sale, she bought it.”
“I can see why she’d want to do that, but why such a big place? Why’d she take on all the work and responsibility of a B & B?”
I pointed in the general direction of Victoria-on-Sea. “Because that house looks exactly like the stately home of Earl and Lady Frockmorton. Thornecroft Castle itself is nothing these days but a pile of moss-covered stones, but the family named their house after it when it was built by the first earl in the early days of Queen Victoria.”
“Really?”
“Really. I don’t fully understand it myself. Rose has had a good life. She had a strong and loving marriage to a good man, and together, they raised healthy and successful children and grandchildren. Most of them, anyway. I guess at heart she’s still that little kitchen maid, dreaming she’ll someday be lady of the manor.”
Simon’s big hands folded the dough in silence.
“The problem,” I said, “is that she used every penny of her savings, plus what she got for the house in Iowa, to buy it. She can barely afford the upkeep and the taxes, never mind her own living expenses. She needs to earn income from the house. Thus the B & B.”
“And you, Lily?” he asked. “What brings you here? You obviously know your way around a bowl of batter.”
I saluted him with a wooden spoon. “I’m a culinary school–trained pastry chef. I worked in Manhattan, first at a bakery and then at a one-star Michelin restaurant.”
“Impressive,” he said.
“Maybe. But that’s a high-stress life. Horrible hours, demanding people, customers as well as bosses and coworkers. Even in the world of celebrity chefs, the head chef at our restaurant—you’d recognize his name if I told you—was famous for his temper. I was the brunt of that temper one too many times. So I quit.” I didn’t bother to mention that that chef had also been my boyfriend. And that he’d come at me with a meat cleaver.
