by Vicki Delany
“And so you came here.”
“Not right away. Rose wanted me to help her manage the B & B, but I had no interest in doing that. I was out of work, not sure if I wanted to stay in the restaurant business, when I came for a visit over the winter. When I saw this building, standing empty, with its own little garden—”
“You thought, Tearoom.”
“Immediately. Rose loved the idea, and here we are. To sweeten the pot, she turned the guest cottage over to me.”
“You’re happy here,” he said.
I smiled to myself. “I guess I am. When I have time to stop and think about it. But I’m worried she’s trying to hand more and more of the running of the B & B over to me. Even if I wanted to, and I don’t, I can’t do both.”
A rapid knocking sounded at the door, and a voice called, “Anyone here?”
“We’re in the kitchen, Bernie,” I said.
She came in, waving a pink cane high in the air. “Got it. Oh, you have help already. Hi. I’m Bernie. We met earlier, but not under the best of conditions.”
“Simon. I’d shake hands, but as you can see . . .” His were covered in dough.
Bernie leaned the cane against the counter and put a bottle of wine beside it. “I’m here to help. I figured you wouldn’t have gotten much done today with all the police activity happening. What can I do? I’ll do anything I can. Which, as you know, means no cooking. Why don’t I start by opening this bottle?”
The only wineglasses I have are flutes in which we serve champagne as part of our special royal tea. Bernie took three down, twisted the cap off the bottle, and poured. She handed one flute to Simon, who took it in his sticky hands, and put mine on the counter next to my workstation. Simon took a sip before putting the glass down and turning to reach for a baking sheet.
The moment his back was turned, Bernie jerked her head toward him and wiggled her eyebrows at me. She waved her left hand in the air, as though it were on fire, and mouthed, “A man who can cook!”
I ignored her. “You can start by washing up those dishes. And keep at it. There’ll be a lot. I need to not only make enough for tomorrow, but to replenish the freezer and make extra in case the police come back.”
“Do you think they will?” Bernie squirted dishwashing liquid into the big square sink. “What did they want earlier?”
“They searched Rose’s and my rooms, looking for the murder weapon.”
Bernie swung around, her mouth open. “Murder weapon? They think this was murder? I thought he’d tripped and fallen down the stairs.”
“They can’t possibly think you or your grandmother had something to do with it?” Simon said.
“It would seem so.” As I poured cake batter into cupcake papers, I told them Williams had first suggested Rose killed Jack Ford because he was suing her, and then he’d come back to accuse her of using her cane to whack him over the head before tipping him off the bluff. “Which is why,” I said, “Rose is presently without a cane. The police took it as evidence. I wish we hadn’t thrown away that black cane. It would be better if we could hand it over and they could see there isn’t any evidence on it, but she threw it in the trash weeks ago.”
“Never mind,” Bernie said. “He’s fishing. It’ll turn out to be an accident, and if not, the cops’ll soon move on to other suspects. Ford was in construction, wasn’t he? The mob’s heavily involved in the construction business, aren’t they?”
“I don’t know what the mob is involved in,” I said.
“Yeah, that’s it,” Bernie said. “A mob hit.”
“If so,” Simon said, “the crime might never be solved. The mob has a way of covering their tracks.”
“How do you know that?” I asked.
He grinned at me. “Not through personal experience, if that’s what you’re asking. I read the newspapers.”
I thought about the mob. And mob money.
And a cop rumored to be corrupt.
I didn’t like the conclusion I came up with.
Chapter 11
“I didn’t think much of that older cop,” Bernie said. “The woman seemed okay, though. At least she could think things through. He gets an idea in his head, and he sticks to it.”
“What makes you think that?” I’d had the same impression, but I’d spent a lot more time with Detective Williams than Bernie had.
“I’m a writer,” she said. “It’s my business to be an excellent judge of character.”
I refrained from commenting on Bernie’s past experiences of judging character. This wasn’t the right time or place to get into a discussion of her romantic entanglements. “This once, you’re probably right.”
“Writer?” Simon said. “What do you write?”
Bernie filled him in while I checked that the chicken had cooked properly. It had, and I set it aside to cool while I strained the tea leaves from the poaching liquid. Another batch of scones and the green tea cupcakes were in the ovens, and the kitchen was warming up and filling with the delicious scents of fresh baking. Outside, in the west, the sky was a portrait of gray, orange, and red streaks, and the shadows cast by the bushes lining the road were long. Headlights turned into the B & B driveway as guests returned from dinner.
Bernie threw down her dishcloth. “Look, there’s not much I can do here to help, and you obviously have things well in hand.”
“The icing for the cupcakes needs to be made,” I said. “I was going to ask you to do that while I start a chocolate tart.”
“My time would be better spent on the computer. I’m going to find out what I can about Jack Ford and who might have wanted him dead.”
“It’s not our business, Bernie,” I said. “Leave it to the police.”
“I’m starting to agree with her, Lily,” Simon said thoughtfully. “You’re dealing with a small-town police department and a possibly incompetent or even corrupt cop. You . . . we . . . need all the ammunition we can get if the police do decide to charge Rose.”
“I don’t want to think about it,” I said.
“Good thing for you, I do.” Bernie picked up the new cane. “I’ll take this to Rose on my way.”
* * *
Simon and I worked well together. He didn’t need any instruction once he’d been shown my recipes, and everything he made came out perfect. I appreciated the fact that he didn’t chatter away. Once Bernie had left, he got down to the task at hand and let me do the same.
By the time the last of the sun had drained out of the western sky, we had the chicken poached in Darjeeling deboned and shredded, the eggs boiled for tea sandwiches, a mountain of scones, piles of beautiful bright green macarons, green tea cupcakes, and a glistening Earl Grey chocolate tart.
I took off my apron. “A good evening’s work. Leave the dishes for tomorrow. Cheryl and Marybeth will do them when they get in. You’ve done so much, Simon. I don’t know how to thank you.”
“Don’t worry about it. I was happy to help. I’ve missed getting my hands properly stuck in a bowl of dough.”
I switched out the lights, locked the back door behind us, and walked Simon to his motorcycle.
“Good night,” I said.
He unfastened his helmet and twisted it in his hands. I took a breath. He gave me a soft smile, put the black helmet on his head, fastened the straps, shrugged into his leather jacket, and zipped it up. “Good night, Lily. See you tomorrow.”
He got on the big machine, revved the engine, and drove away. In the silence of a summer night, I could hear the sound of the engine, getting ever fainter, for a long time.
I walked slowly up the driveway toward the house. Stars twinkled overhead, and the sea murmured softly as it rushed to shore. The roof of the Goodwill house was nothing but a faint outline against the night sky. Lights were on in Rose’s rooms, but I didn’t bother to stop in and say good night. I was absolutely beat.
I’m accustomed to working long hours late into the night—I worked at a Michelin-starred restaurant, after all. Having also
had a job in a busy bakery, I was used to starting work early. But not both on the same day, and I certainly wasn’t accustomed to starting my day being questioned by the police.
* * *
The following morning, the police tape was still in place around the broken gate but, I was happy to see, no police officers appeared to be around. As I stood at the top of the bluffs, keeping well away from the broken gate, I saw a police launch approaching. It cruised along the shoreline, moving slowly.
I called to Éclair and went to work. I let myself into the kitchen, put the coffee on, and checked the requirements for breakfast.
Two empty rooms. Yesterday we’d been full, and in the busy season we accept only weekend reservations for two nights. Meaning two groups had left early.
I should mention that to the police. Perhaps the killer had booked a stay at Victoria-on-Sea, hoping for the chance to get close to Jack Ford. Maybe he or she had arranged for Ford to meet with them on the bluffs yesterday morning. A memory niggled at the back of my mind. I’d heard something in all the hubbub of the police activity and the guests gathering to watch, but it had fled, and now I couldn’t quite put my finger on it.
I got out the mixing bowls. Today I was going to do two coffee cakes. I never make scones for the B & B breakfast. If people could have my scones here, why would they come into the tearoom?
The sausages were sizzling and the cakes were rising nicely in the oven when Edna arrived.
“Morning, Lily,” she said. “I don’t suppose you’ve been on the computer yet today?”
Something in her voice made me look up from the tomatoes I was slicing. “No. What’s happened?”
“Word’s getting around someone was murdered here yesterday.”
“Have the police said it was murder?”
“No, and the paper isn’t reporting it as such. The paper is also not naming Victoria-on-Sea, just mentioning that the incident happened near the bluffs south of North Augusta. But you know how these things spread on social media.”
“Regardless of the truth,” I said. “Looks like a couple of guests left last night. I hope this doesn’t affect our business.”
Tap-tap-tapping from the hallway announced the arrival of Rose and her new pink cane.
“You’re up early,” I said. Robbie’s nose twitched as it caught the scent of sausages. On Sundays we served sausages and bacon; as soon as the cakes came out of the oven, the bacon would go in. He leapt onto the counter, next to where I was slicing tomatoes and mushrooms. I scooped him up and put him in my grandmother’s lap. He hissed at me before settling down to be petted.
“Didn’t sleep a wink,” Rose said as her fingers stroked the thick fur. “This horrid business is most upsetting. Have you heard from Bernie this morning?”
“It’s quarter to seven, Rose. Bernie’s unlikely to call me at this time of day. Why do you want to know?”
“No reason.”
I didn’t believe her, but if Rose wanted to play coy, I’d let her.
“Two guests left prematurely yesterday, and I’ve had two cancellations,” she said. “One was for the double suite for the entire week, tomorrow to Friday, and the other for two nights.”
“That’s not good.”
“No, it is not. I intend to charge them the full amount. It says right there on our web page that we require forty-eight hours’ notice of cancellation.”
“They’ll fight you,” I said.
“Let them.” Steel glimmered in her eyes. “As I was not sleeping, I spent some time in the wee hours consulting with the cursed Mr. Twitter.”
“I thought you liked Twitter.” Edna loaded her tray with butter, jam, fresh orange juice, and milk and cream.
“I love Twitter. When I first came to live in America, I had to wait weeks for a letter to arrive from home with the latest news. But I do not love it when it’s spreading rumors about us.”
“Is that why those people canceled, do you think?” I asked.
“I know it is. They wrote to tell me this establishment is not a safe place to spend their vacation. Pshaw. When did people become such cowards? In my day—”
“In your day, people didn’t like to be around crime scenes, either, I bet. Some people, anyway.” I remembered the eager crowd that had gathered at the edge of the bluff yesterday morning. “Others seem to love it.” I took out the nicely golden cakes, decided they were ready, turned up the heat on the oven, and popped the bacon in. “Nothing we can do about it, except hope it all blows over.”
“We’ll see,” Rose said.
“What does that mean?”
“I’ve changed my plans for today. I’m going to attend the duplicate bridge tournament at the community center this morning.”
Edna came into the kitchen in time to hear that last statement. “I thought you didn’t like duplicate bridge.”
“I don’t dislike duplicate, but I despise that bunch of old biddy-bodies who are constantly putting their hands in the air and calling for the director.” Rose sniffed. “As if I’d be caught cheating.”
I rolled my eyes.
Rose noticed. “I said caught cheating, love. If I cheat, I don’t get caught.”
Edna laughed and put the bowl of fruit salad on her tray.
“Why are you going, then?” I asked.
“No reason. I need to get back to the computer. Let me know when Bernie arrives.”
“What does that mean? I’m not expecting Bernie this—”
“Edna, I’ll have my tea in my suite this morning.”
“That’s fine,” Edna said. “The pot’s set out. Help yourself.”
“I don’t like the sound of that,” I said when the tap-tap-tap of Rose’s cane faded away.
* * *
Breakfast went smoothly, and everyone was served by nine o’clock. I called for Éclair and slipped out of the kitchen, leaving Edna to clean up. I was crossing the lawn, trying not to look at the yellow police tape waving in the wind or the police boat patrolling the shoreline, when I saw Bernie trotting toward me.
“Good morning!” she called.
“Hi. What brings you here so early?”
“I haven’t been to bed. Where’s Rose?” Bernie wore the same black shorts and red T-shirt she’d had on last night.
“What’s going on?”
“I found something. I’ll tell you and Rose at the same time.”
“What sort of something? Are you and my grandmother conspiring behind my back?”
“If it was behind your back, I wouldn’t be telling you about it now, would I? Before we go in, what’s the deal with you and Simon? He’s a real cutie. And the way he rolled that dough in his hands positively gave me the swoons. I’m assuming that bike parked outside the tearoom last night belongs to him. I love a man who rides a motorcycle almost as much as I love one who can cook.”
As if the gardener heard us talking about him, the Weedwacker came to life at the front of the house.
“There is no deal,” I said. “He works here. He’s my employee.”
“You don’t own the B & B.”
“No, I don’t. Rose does. I just work here.”
“Therefore, Rose’s gardener does not work for you.”
“Moot point,” I said, “as I’m not looking for a relationship with a handsome motorcycle-riding English gardener with excellent baking skills or anyone else.”
“So you admit he’s handsome.”
“Only if you like the big, gruff, soft-spoken outdoor type.”
“Who can cook,” Bernie said.
“I’ll admit,” I said, “that if I was looking for a relationship, he might be of interest.”
She opened her mouth, and I raised my right hand in the universal stop gesture. “Until summer’s over, I’ll hardly have time to breathe, never mind date. He’s leaving at the end of the season, anyway. He’s going back to England. He came to America for a summer job in New York, but that fell through, and he was at loose ends when his uncle Gerry told him about this
position.”
Bernie wiggled her eyebrows. “A lot can happen in two months.”
“A lot cannot. No. This summer is about getting the tearoom established and keeping Rose’s B & B open and earning her some much-needed income. I don’t have time for anything else.”
We’d walked as we talked, and we arrived at Rose’s suite. “I don’t have time for answering police questions, either, but I might not be able to get out of that one.”
“Which”—Bernie rapped loudly on the door—“is why I’m here.”
“Door’s open!” my grandmother called. We went in to find her sitting in front of the big computer in the corner of her sitting room that she used as the B & B office. She and my grandfather had owned a home-renovation firm in Iowa. For more than forty years, Rose had done the books, hired and fired the staff, placed the orders, and generally kept things operating. She now used all those skills to run Victoria-on-Sea. She hinted, often and loudly, that age was slowing her down and it would soon be time for me to think about taking over. I had absolutely no intention of doing so, and as for Rose slowing down, I’d seen no sign of that happening.
“What did you find?” she asked Bernie without lifting her head.
Bernie pulled up a chair. The only place left for me to sit was on the chintz-covered love seat, so I stood behind Rose and peered over her shoulder. The computer screen showed the bridge schedule for the North Augusta Community Center.
“If I arrive at eleven,” Rose said, “that should be perfect.”
Rose’s sitting room was neatly divided into office—steel desk, ergonomic chair, twenty-five-inch computer monitor, black filing cabinet, large calendar pinned to the corkboard on the wall—and ladies’ parlor—flower-patterned chair and love seat, Dresden china shepherdess figurines, hand-painted plates of English country gardens, sterling silver–framed family photographs on delicate piecrust side tables.
“Perfect for what?” I said.
They both ignored me.
“Jack Ford’s company is called Ford Properties,” Bernie said. “Most unoriginal. It’s owned solely, far as I can tell, by him. Some speculation on what will happen to it now, but no one really knows.”
