by Vicki Delany
“Children?” Rose asked.
“Three. Two sons from his first marriage, a daughter from his second, and none from his third. Which is his current. Current marriage until yesterday, I suppose. None of the children appear to be involved in the company, and both his divorces were bitter and expensive. The current wife is around his age and comes from family money of her own.”
Rose held out her hand. “Pictures.”
Bernie dug in her bag, pulled out sheets of computer paper, and handed them over. Rose flicked through them.
“I’ve never seen any of these people.” She passed them to me. “Lily?”
“No one I recognize. Are you two going to tell me what’s going on?”
“In due course,” Rose said. “What did you learn about his business practices?”
“Shady but not openly illegal,” Bernie said. “As far as I can find, anyway. I have some feelers out, so I might be able to come up with the dirt.”
“Excuse me,” I said. “Can we have a time-out here? I’m guessing Bernie spent most of the night looking into Jack Ford and his business. May I ask why?”
“Because,” Rose said, “if we are going to find out who killed him—and we’ll be proactive by assuming someone did, until we’re notified otherwise—we need to know what enemies he had.”
“Why are we getting involved?” I asked.
“We talked about it last night, remember?” Bernie said. “Simon and I agreed we can’t trust the North Augusta PD not to railroad Rose.”
“You involved Simon,” Rose said. “Excellent idea.”
“I thought you meant we were going to be careful of what we said. Not run a parallel investigation.”
“I’m having trouble with the plot of my book. The Cape Cod fishing families idea isn’t working out so well. If I think about something totally different, that will allow a separate part of my mind to divide itself off and work independently.”
I didn’t bother to point out that that didn’t seem to have happened over the previous two years, when Bernie worked as an accountant while trying to write her book.
“Shady businessman means shady business contacts,” Rose said. “Which means enemies. Keep digging, Bernadette. What about Roy Gleeson, the councillor? More opportunity for graft and corruption. My money’s on him.”
“He seems to be clean,” Bernie said. “Clean enough, anyway. Councillor is a part-time position, and his real job is a high school teacher. He lives, far as I can tell, on what a high school teacher makes. One point of interest . . . His son, Grayson, is an executive at Ford Properties.”
“His son’s name is Grayson Gleeson?” I said. “How did he ever survive high school?”
“That is worth knowing,” Rose said. “A possibility of conflict of interest perhaps?”
“If the son’s directly involved in the Goodwill project, then maybe,” Bernie said, “but he lives in Boston and works on the industrial side of the company. Meaning factories and warehouses and the like.”
“Keep digging.” Rose checked her watch. “It’s past nine now. People will be arriving in their offices. You can make some calls.”
“I’ll try,” Bernie said, “but as I told you, most of my contacts are in Manhattan, not in Massachusetts.”
“One thing leads to another,” Rose said. “And nothing spreads faster than gossip. In that, I assume accountants are no more discreet than any other profession. We learned a few things about Lincoln Goodwill yesterday. He has money problems. Big ones. Yet another case of an heir squandering his inheritance. Rags to riches to rags in three generations, isn’t that what they say? Too bad more of them can’t be like the fourth Earl of Frockmorton, who saw the writing on the wall and set about learning how to do business. At Thornecroft—”
I pointed to the computer screen. “In the middle of all this, you’re going out to play bridge? I hope you’ve updated the web page to show that we have vacancies for the coming week.”
“We’ve had another vacancy since I spoke to you,” Rose said. “Another cancellation. Unfortunately, it was for later in the week, so they got in under the forty-eight-hour deadline. Drat.”
“You didn’t hear from the police again, did you?” I asked.
“No. It’s unfortunate the younger detective is a woman. Otherwise, I could set Bernie to working her wiles on him.”
Bernie wiggled her eyebrows at me. I stifled a groan. I wasn’t sure if Rose was joking or not.
“Then again,” my grandmother said, “Detective Williams is a man.”
“There are some things I wouldn’t do, even for you, Rose,” Bernie said. “In answer to Lily’s earlier question, while I’m poking around on the Internet, Rose will be heading directly for gossip central. You want to know what’s going on in town? Try the bridge club.”
I stifled another groan. “As you two seem to have everything under control, I’m going to work.”
Chapter 12
At ten to eleven I glanced out the window to see Rose’s battered old Ford Focus station wagon bouncing down the driveway. I wasn’t entirely happy about her interfering in the police investigation. Not that she, or Bernie, called it interfering. It was one thing to gather gossip, as Bernie and Rose were doing, but I couldn’t see them stopping there. If they learned something they thought important, they’d act on it.
And that would be interfering.
I’d tried to bring that up when we’d been in Rose’s sitting room earlier, but neither of them would listen to me.
What did I expect? They never did.
Rose’s car turned right, heading toward town. A sleek red two-seater BMW convertible passed it and turned into our driveway.
I returned to the task of assembling chicken-poached-in-tea sandwiches. Scones were baking in one oven, and strawberry tarts in the other. We had enough reservations to have a full house today. More than enough; we’d had to turn people away.
I hate doing that. I hate it even more when we turn people away and then the reservations don’t bother to show up. It was difficult juggling space on rainy days, but today promised to be another beautiful, sunny day, and we could always squeeze a few more into the patio.
“One children’s tea for two,” Cheryl said. “And one traditional for four.” She put fresh water in one of the air pots and set it to boil, then got down two teapots, selected the appropriate tea for each from the canisters on the shelf, measured the leaves into tea balls, and put the balls in the pots. She placed cups and saucers and side plates on a tray while I arranged the food.
The children’s tea was served on a two-tiered stand, the china as fine as any other and their choice of apple juice or iced tea in champagne flutes. The food consisted of peanut butter sandwiches cut into pinwheels, and ham and cheese on squares of alternating white and brown bread that resembled a checkerboard. For the desserts, I laid out miniature cinnamon buns with white icing, chocolate brownie bites, and chocolate chip cookies, and tucked chocolate-dipped strawberries and green grapes around the food.
“A single man’s come in,” Cheryl said. “That’s unusual. He’s taken a seat inside and ordered a cream tea.”
“Maybe he’s on holiday by himself.”
“Not bad looking, either. About your age. No wedding ring.”
Is everyone trying to fix me up?
The air pot reached the boil, and Cheryl poured water into the teapots. She set a small timer for each, as different teas require different water temperatures and steeping times. When the tea was properly steeped, she lifted the balls out of the pots and carried her laden tray out of the kitchen. The rooster timer crowed, and I checked the scones. I was slipping on oven mitts when Cheryl came back.
“He’s asking if he can speak to you.”
“Who’s asking?”
“The single man.”
“I’m kinda busy here.” I placed the hot baking sheet on the cooling rack. The second batch of tarts was ready to go in. “He’s probably a salesman. Tell him I have enough insuran
ce and I’m satisfied with my regular suppliers.”
“Okay.”
She was soon back.
“He says it won’t take long and it’s a personal matter, and he’d appreciate a moment of your time. No hurry. He’ll enjoy his tea and scones while he’s waiting.”
“Did he say that?”
“Yes.”
“Let me get these cupcakes iced, and then I’ll pop out for a moment. If I sit down, bring me a cup of tea. English breakfast.”
“Will do.”
I finished piping icing onto the green tea cupcakes I’d made last night. I took a moment to admire them—I don’t believe anything in this world is more beautiful than a perfectly decorated cupcake—before taking off my apron. I quickly checked my face in the mirror over the sink for flour or green icing, pulled off my hairnet, shook out my hair, and went into the dining room.
Our day was just beginning, but the place was already satisfyingly full. Outside in the garden, most of the tables were occupied. Cheryl and Marybeth were busy taking orders and serving refreshments.
I spotted the man immediately, sitting quietly in a small alcove, at a table for two under a window, a pot of tea and a plate of scones in front of him. Sunlight streamed through the window, illuminating the handful of silver threads running through his dark hair. As Cheryl had said, we didn’t often get men coming in here (like never) on their own. As I watched, he raised his teacup to his lips. Then he lifted his head and caught sight of me watching him. He put the cup down and got to his feet. I crossed the room.
He had exceptionally dark eyes, prominent cheekbones, and a strong jaw, and was dressed in jeans and an untucked blue shirt. He held out his hand. He was quite a bit taller than me, lean and fit and tanned. “Ms. Roberts, I assume. Thank you for agreeing to meet me. I’m Matt Goodwill.”
“Oh,” I said.
“Please, take a seat.”
“I don’t mean to sound rude, but I’m very busy. What’s this about?”
“As we’re neighbors of a sort, I wanted to meet you.” He gestured to the chair. “I understand you’ve met my father already. Please? I’m sure you need a break.” He looked around the busy room. “Nice place you’ve got here. I like it a lot.”
I sat down slowly. He took his seat and picked up his cup. It was white with a pattern of pink roses and a thin silver rim. It looked small and fragile in his hand. “I’m not normally a tea drinker, but this is making me think I’ve been missing something all these years.”
I felt myself relaxing. It was nice to sit down. “That’s because you’ve never had a properly made cup of tea.”
Marybeth slipped a full cup onto the table next to me.
“I won’t beat about the bush,” Matt said. “I know there’s been some . . . disagreement between your grandmother and my father.”
“To put it mildly.” I added a touch of milk and half a spoonful of sugar to my tea and stirred.
“My father wants to sell the house.”
“We have no objection to him selling it—it is his house, after all. My grandmother’s opposed to the property being developed beyond what the current zoning allows.” I sipped the tea. English breakfast: sturdy, hot, and delicious, with the slightest touch of sweetness. “Zoning exists for a reason.”
“So it does,” he said.
“You should be speaking to my grandmother, not to me. She owns Victoria-on-Sea, not me.”
“I’m looking forward to meeting her.” He smiled at me. “I was hungry, so I came in here first.”
At that moment, Bernie walked into the tearoom. She started when she saw me sitting at a table, drinking tea in the middle of the day. Her face broke into a grin when she saw that my teatime companion was a handsome man.
“I wanted you, and your grandmother, to know—” Matt broke off when Bernie arrived at our table.
“Hope I’m not interrupting anything,” my friend said.
“You’re not,” I said. “Bernie Murphy, this is Matt Goodwill.”
The teasing sparkle disappeared from her eyes, and her face hardened. Color flooded into her cheeks. “Goodwill? Surely you’re not related to the family that wants to build a monstrosity of a golf resort on this lovely, quiet, largely undeveloped stretch of the coast?”
“I have to confess that I am, but—”
“You’ve got a nerve,” Bernie said, “coming in here and acting all friendly and neighborly.”
“It’s okay. Bernie.” I attempted to smooth what was rapidly becoming turbulent waters. “It never hurts to talk things over.”
“My sentiments exactly.” Instead of taking offense at my friend’s rudeness, Matt’s eyes twinkled with amusement. “Why don’t you join us?”
Bernie harrumphed.
“I was about to explain to Lily that—”
“As long as we’re talking, where were you yesterday morning, say, around six o’clock?” Bernie asked.
Matt’s eyes opened wide.
“Bernie!” I said.
“I don’t mind the question,” he said. “If you must know, I was at home in Chatham, enjoying a good night’s sleep.” He glanced at me. “Although, I have to confess I have no alibi, as I was alone.”
I blushed, but Bernie didn’t. “So you say,” she said.
“So I say.” He took a big bite out of his scone. “These are good.”
“If you’ve finished your tea, Lily . . . ,” Bernie said.
“I’m not.”
“You can finish it in the kitchen.” She snatched the cup out of my hand. “I’ve discovered something important I have to tell you about.”
“You can talk in front of me,” Matt said.
“We cannot. Let’s go, Lily.” Bernie practically lifted me to my feet.
“Uh,” I said, grabbing at the saucer to take with me. “It was nice meeting you, Matt.”
“It was not.” Bernie dragged me away.
“Could you possibly have been any ruder?” I asked her once we were safely behind the kitchen doors.
“Yes, I could have been.”
“He’s a customer, for one thing. He was having tea and scones.”
“At worst, he’s a potential murderer, and at best, a framer of innocent old ladies.”
“At best, he’s a friendly neighbor. You have to admit he’s rather nice looking.”
“I hadn’t noticed. Besides, I thought you liked Simon the gardener.”
“No, Bernie. You like Simon the gardener for me.”
“There’s a difference?”
“A considerable difference. What do you need to tell me?”
“Royal tea for four,” Marybeth said as she came in. Bernie touched her fingers to her lips and jerked her head toward Marybeth. I refrained from rolling my eyes. While Marybeth prepared the pots of tea and got a bottle of prosecco out of the fridge, I arranged the food trays. Bernie snatched a chicken sandwich off the platter and tossed it into her mouth.
“Hey,” I said. “I need that.”
“You’ve got plenty more.”
“All of which are required to help provide me with an income.”
“Charge it to my account. This one, too.” She took another.
Marybeth left with the flutes of sparkling wine. I finished arranging the food.
“Jack Ford—” Bernie stopped talking when Cheryl came in. Cheryl took the canister of Creamy Earl Grey off the shelf, measured leaves into a silver tea ball, popped the ball into the pot, and added hot water. While she waited for the appropriate amount of time, she unloaded the dishwasher. Earl Grey ready, she removed the tea ball and took the pot into the dining room.
“Is . . .” Bernie took up exactly where she’d left off. “Or I should say Jack Ford was . . . as crooked as a three-dollar bill.”
Marybeth came back to get the food tray I’d arranged. Once she’d left again, Bernie said, “We can’t talk here.”
“You can talk in front of Cheryl and Marybeth. If you don’t want to, nothing I can do about that. I’ve al
ready had my break.”
“Drinking tea with the enemy,” she said.
“Drinking tea with a friendly neighbor. Which, until he’s proved himself to be my enemy, is all he is.”
“I’ll talk quickly. I’ve had a productive morning digging around on the Internet. Jack Ford had been skirting the edges of the law his entire business life. He never quite went over it, meaning the police couldn’t nail him for anything, but he made a lot of enemies around here. He was known for sweet-talking elderly widows into selling their property to him at cut-rate prices and—”
“Two orders of traditional afternoon tea for four and one order of light tea for two,” Cheryl said.
Bernie threw up her hands.
“Cheryl,” I said, “do you know anything about Jack Ford and his business practices?”
“Nasty piece of work. Not a lot of people in North Augusta are mourning his passing.”
“Anyone in particular?” I asked. “Can you think of anyone he recently cheated or offended?”
“Dorothy Johnson would have done him an injury if she could have.”
Marybeth came through the swinging doors. “Where’s that order of Palace Chai, Mom?” She was referring to one of our supplier’s special blended teas, made with Assam tea, Jaipur roses, and green cardamom.
“Coming, coming,” Cheryl said. “I can’t do everything at once.”
My two helpers left the kitchen.
I smiled at Bernie. “Anything else you need to know?”
* * *
It was coming up to four o’clock and I was elbow-deep in batter, making vanilla cupcakes for the children’s tea, when yet another person, a woman this time, needed to speak to me.
“Tell her I’m busy,” I said to Marybeth. “She can make an appointment. I’ll be free January the tenth, at two p.m.”
“I have no intention of waiting that long.” Detective Redmond came into the kitchen.
Marybeth scurried away.
Amy Redmond checked out the small, crowded room. She didn’t look all that impressed. When we renovated the building to turn it into the tearoom, in order to save money, we’d left the kitchen pretty much as it was after installing two professional ovens, a big fridge and freezer, and a butcher’s block island. Redmond was looking at cracked linoleum flooring, chipped laminate countertops, and cheap plywood cabinets.
