by Vicki Delany
“I’ve always been interested in what goes on behind the scenes in a restaurant,” she said. “Peaceful serenity outside, total chaos in the back.”
“This is nothing. If you want chaos, you should visit a Michelin-starred restaurant in Manhattan on a Saturday night in December.”
“I get enough chaos at crime scenes.”
I shook my head. “Doesn’t even begin to compare to some of the restaurants I’ve worked in. What can I do for you, Detective?”
“Tell me about Rose Campbell.”
I put down my spatula. “She’s my grandmother. My mother’s mother. She moved to the Cape three years ago, when she bought the house and turned it into a B & B. She’s exactly what she appears to be, an elderly widowed lady.”
Marybeth slipped into the kitchen. She peeked at Redmond out of the corner of her eye as she began emptying the dishwasher.
“Perhaps,” the detective said, “you’d prefer to talk in private.”
I’d have preferred not to talk to her at all. I guessed that wasn’t an option. “If you can wait one minute,” I said. “I’ll put these cupcakes into the oven, and we can go outside.”
While I filled muffin tins with batter, Redmond leaned one hip against a counter. Marybeth dodged around her, putting the clean dishes away.
Cheryl came in. “One traditional tea for four.”
“Can you take over for a couple of minutes, please?” I said.
Cheryl and Marybeth eyed Detective Redmond.
I put the cupcakes into the oven and set the timer and then led the way out the back door. Redmond followed me, and we stood on a patch of scruffy beach grasses next to a stunted oak tree. I checked the time on my phone. “I have twenty minutes before I have to check the cupcakes.”
“Rose Campbell,” Redmond said.
“Why are you asking?”
“That doesn’t matter.”
“I don’t know what else to say. She’s my grandmother. She owns the B & B. I own the tearoom.”
“She had a public altercation with Jack Ford the day before he died.”
“I wouldn’t call it an altercation. I wouldn’t even call it public. She objects to the proposed development of the property next door. She told him so, along with Mr. Goodwill, the owner, and Mr. Gleeson, who is some sort of town politician.”
“She was heard to say the project would go ahead over her dead body.”
“Just an expression.”
“Or someone else’s body.”
I gave the detective a sickly grin.
She studied my face. I shifted from one foot to another. I checked the time on my phone. One entire minute had passed.
“My grandmother cares about this place,” I said. “That’s all. She bought it with her life savings after my grandfather died, and this is where she intends to spend what years she has left. Can you understand that?”
“I can understand that perfectly. Which is why I’m wondering what she might have done to preserve it.”
“You can’t seriously think—”
“Rose Campbell has come to police attention before.”
“She has? Oh, that silly little dispute.” I laughed lightly. I suspect it came out more like a choked growl.
“She was escorted out of town council for disrupting the meeting on the proposed highway extension.”
I’d meant something else, but I decided not to point that out. “My grandmother cares about her neighbors and the environment. That’s called civic engagement. It’s considered a good thing.”
“Was it a good thing when she was arrested back in Iowa?”
“She was arrested?”
“More than once. For public disobedience. She participated in anti-fracking protests and blocked a public roadway.”
This was the first I’d heard about anything like that. “You’ve been checking up on her?”
“Did you doubt I would?”
“I guess not. I suppose you’ve been checking up on me, as well.”
She said nothing.
A seagull landed on a branch of the struggling oak. It cocked its head and watched us.
“I’ll admit,” I said, “that my grandmother cares about things deeply. She’s a passionate woman. She’s English, you know.”
Redmond cocked her head to one side. She might not have been deliberately imitating the seagull, but it looked that way. “The English are not exactly famous for displays of temper.”
“I’m guessing you didn’t grow up with an English grandmother. But temper is never a word I’d use to describe Rose.”
“That is precisely the word Roy Gleeson used. He said she had a temper tantrum and threatened him and Jack Ford.”
“You’re barking up the wrong tree. Rose is eighty-five years old. Ladies in their ninth decade do not go around murdering people.”
“Until they do,” Redmond replied.
“Why are you telling me this? If you’re expecting me to say something to incriminate Rose, I wouldn’t do that even if I knew such a thing. Which, I assure you, I do not.”
“I also have a grandmother, whom I love very much. Perhaps I’m suggesting you keep Rose out of trouble. More trouble.”
“Everything okay here?” Simon McCracken came around the corner of the building. His hair was tousled by the wind, and his cheeks were tinged red. His overalls were streaked with good Cape Cod dirt, as were his hands.
“Perfectly okay. Thanks for asking,” Redmond said.
“Good to hear. Lily?”
“We’re fine, thanks. I think we’re done, Detective. I have work to do.”
“I’ll let you get to it, then. Nice chatting to you.” She took a few steps. I let out a breath.
I’d relaxed too soon. Redmond turned quickly. “A word to the wise, Lily. If I’m not around, you need to make sure your grandmother doesn’t antagonize Chuck Williams. No more than she already has.” She walked away.
“You okay?” Simon asked me once the detective was out of earshot.
“Yeah, I’m fine. She had some questions, more questions, about my grandmother’s relationship with the deceased. Not that she had a relationship with him.”
“I heard some of the conversation. It sounded tense. Hope you don’t mind that I decided to intervene.”
I gave him a smile. “I don’t mind. I don’t know what to think of Detective Redmond. One minute she sounds like she’s on our side, and the next she’s almost accusing Rose of killing that man.”
“She’s on one side only,” Simon said. “Finding out the truth. Which is not what I’ve heard about the other cop.”
“You mean Detective Williams?”
“I called Uncle Gerry last night and asked for the local gossip. Williams has the reputation of being not exactly crooked but lazy. He’ll pursue the truth, if that’s the easiest route. If not . . .”
“Good to know,” I said.
“I suspect going after the Goodwill family, if it comes to that, will not be the easiest route. As Williams sees it, anyway. I don’t like that Redmond seemed to be saying she might not be on this case much longer.”
I sighed. “What a mess.”
The back door opened, and Cheryl called, “We have an order for ginger tea, but the tin seems to be empty. Is there any more?”
“I think so. Check the back of the cabinet. That one’s not very popular, so it gets pushed aside.”
The door closed, and I turned to Simon. “Better get back at it.”
“Me too. Talk to you later, m’lady.” He touched his forehead and headed back to his gardens.
I went into the tearoom, pulling out my phone as I walked. I pressed buttons and then tucked the phone between my shoulder and my ear and put on oven mitts.
“What’s happening now?” my mother said as I checked the cupcakes.
“Did you know Rose was arrested, more than once, back in Iowa? Over some sort of environmental protests?”
“Yes, I knew. You can be sure Ricky told me all about it.” Ricky is
Mom’s youngest brother. “After Dad died, Mom had a lot more time on her hands. She sometimes used that time in ways the family didn’t consider entirely appropriate.”
“Like getting arrested at protests.”
“Exactly. I assume you found out about it because of the current unpleasantness?”
“If by unpleasantness, you mean a man dying on Rose’s property, yes. The police happened to mention that my grandmother has a criminal record.”
“Not really a record, Lil. She was let off with a warning every time.”
“Every time? How many times were there?”
“I was hoping this B & B nonsense would at least keep her occupied and out of trouble. That appears not to be happening. You need to keep her under control.”
“Me? She’s your mother, and I don’t see that you were ever able to control her.”
“She’s older now,” Mom said. “Should be easier.”
“Yeah, right.”
“I have to run. If you need any help, let me know.”
My mother hung up before I could tell her I needed her to come to the Cape and try to “control” her mother.
Chapter 13
“A good day,” Cheryl said as she took off her apron.
“It was,” I replied. We’d been full to overflowing all afternoon, but everything had gone smoothly. Not a single complaint or spilled cup of tea. Smoothly, except for the visit from the police that is.
Cheryl and Marybeth had finished the washing up and set the tearoom back to rights, all ready for tomorrow. I planned to stay for a while and get some more scones and tarts baked.
“Good night,” my assistants called as they let themselves out. I heard them exchange greetings with Bernie, and a moment later my friend came through the swinging doors into the kitchen.
“Good,” she said. “You’re finished. I wanted to let you know where we’re going in case something goes wrong.”
I weighed the cold butter. Slightly short, so I added a thin slice. “Who’s we, where are you going, and what might go wrong?”
“Rose is back from the bridge tournament. I told her about Dorothy Johnson, and we’re going to pay a call on her.”
“Who’s Dorothy Johnson?” I threw the butter and shortening into the food processor, added flour combined with salt and a touch of sugar, and switched the machine on.
“The woman recently swindled by Jack Ford. Cheryl told me she’s living in a retirement home in North Augusta.”
I turned the food processor off. “That’s none of your business.”
“Sure it is. The man died on our . . . I mean Rose’s property. That makes it our . . . I mean Rose’s business.”
“It does not. It’s up to the police to investigate murders. Not you. And certainly not Rose.”
“You try telling your grandmother we’re not going. She’s waiting in the car. If I’m not back in a couple minutes, she’ll leave without me. Besides, I don’t like that Detective Williams. I think he has Rose in his sights and he’s not going to look much further.”
I thought about my conversation with Amy Redmond. The police did seem to be paying a lot of attention to my grandmother. I also thought about what Gerry had said to Simon about Williams being lazy and Redmond implying she might not be around much longer.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake.” I twisted the bowl off its base and put it in the fridge.
“What are you doing?” Bernie asked.
“Unfinished pastry keeps okay in the fridge. I’m coming with you, of course. I don’t trust either of you not to get yourselves into a heap of trouble.”
At that moment, a car horn sounded. I hung up my apron and ran after Bernie.
Rose was in the driver’s seat of her Focus, leaning on the horn in an attempt to hurry Bernie up. I clambered into the back. “I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to be interfering in the investigation.”
My grandmother ignored me. “Let’s go. Dinner’s served at that home at six. It’s after five thirty now. We want to catch her going into dinner.”
“Why?” I asked as we tore down the driveway and took the corner onto the main road on two wheels. I felt my side of the car dipping into the sandy shoulder and quickly fastened my seat belt as the wheels found the pavement. More than once we’d had to call a tow truck to haul the Focus out of the sand.
“The best time to interview suspects is when they’ve got dinner on their mind. She’ll be in a hurry and not minding her tongue.”
“How do you know about interviewing suspects?” I asked.
“Really, love. I’ve seen every episode of Midsomer Murders, haven’t I? I’ve also read all of Deborah Crombie’s books.”
“Don’t think I know those ones,” Bernie said. “What are they about?”
“Never mind fictional detectives,” I said. “Are you sure about this, Rose? Mrs. Johnson might not want to tell you her life story.”
“I don’t want to hear her life story, love. Just about her and Jack Ford.”
“Tell Lily what happened at the bridge tournament,” Bernie said.
“Did you learn anything?” I asked.
“This detecting can be a time-consuming process,” Rose said.
“You’re supposed to stop at a stop sign,” I reminded her.
“No one was coming.”
“I don’t think that matters.”
“Rose made what we call in the business ‘contacts,’ ” Bernie said.
I refrained from asking what business that might be. “Contacts?”
“It’s extremely difficult to talk at duplicate bridge,” Rose said. “If the director herself isn’t rudely shushing you, you can be sure some of the thin-lipped players will be. Those are usually the less capable players, I’ve found.”
“Whatever,” I said.
We whipped along the busy coast road. The blue waters of Cape Cod Bay sparkled in the distance.
“I managed to make arrangements for tomorrow,” Rose said. “We’ll be having tea at one o’clock, Lily. Have a table for six ready for us.”
“I will if you phone to make a reservation.”
North Augusta is a small town, located south of the better-known North Truro. The year-round population isn’t more than a thousand, but in the summer it swells to ten times that as the hotels and B & Bs and campgrounds fill up and day visitors stroll the tree-lined streets and pop in and out of cafés and shops.
The Augusta Retirement Home is located on the outskirts of town, so we didn’t have to fight the supper-hour traffic to get there. We arrived at ten to six.
Rose screeched to a halt at a taxi stand by the front door.
“You can’t park here,” I said.
She turned off the engine. “We won’t be long.”
What could I do but get out of the car?
I held the door for Rose, Bernie handed her the new pink cane, and the three of us climbed the steps.
It was immediately obvious that the Augusta Retirement Home didn’t spend a lot of money on upkeep. The flower beds were weed choked, and overgrown bushes intruded onto the pathways. A crack ran from one side of the glass pane in the front door to the other.
I pushed open the door, and we went in. The reception area was dimly lit, probably, I thought, in an attempt to hide the dirty carpet and dusty furniture. Beyond the entranceway, the room widened into what appeared to be a combination common room and dining area. Elderly people were gathering for dinner, some already seated and some heading for their seats.
“Good afternoon,” Rose said to the woman behind the desk, who looked about as worn as the carpet. “We’re here to see Mrs. Johnson. Dorothy Johnson.”
The woman didn’t bother to stifle a yawn, and I got a better view than I wanted of stained and chipped teeth. “Are you her guests for dinner?”
“No,” I said.
“Yes,” Rose said.
“She’s probably in the dining room. You can go on in.”
“Do you know what Dorothy looks like?” I whi
spered to Bernie.
“I can’t tell her from the Abominable Snowman.”
“The thing is, love”—Rose leaned over the desk—“my eyes aren’t quite as good as they once were. You know how it is.” She tittered in embarrassment. “I might not be able to pick dear Dorothy out in the crowd. And wouldn’t that be awkward?”
The receptionist looked at me. I shrugged.
She shoved herself to her feet, accompanied by an enormous sigh, intended to show us how much trouble she was taking. She walked to the entrance to the dining area, slowly lifted one arm, and thrust out a long, sharp red-tipped finger. I thought of the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come, pointing Ebenezer Scrooge to his doom. “In the blue sweater and glasses, crossing in front of the fireplace. She’s heading to the table in the far corner, near the piano.”
Rose peered myopically across the room. “Oh, yes. I do think that’s her. Thank you so much for your help. Let’s go, girls. Dorothy will be so thrilled to see me again after all these years.”
The woman in question moved with great care, using the assistance of a walker. As we watched, she reached her table, parked her walker against the wall, and settled herself slowly into her seat.
I couldn’t believe Rose’s luck. Dorothy was the only one sitting at a table for four. “Snag those chairs,” Rose ordered. “Quickly now, before anyone else gets them.”
I strode as fast as I dared across the room, dodging people, walkers, canes, and chairs. The room was clean, although the furniture was tired and the decor aged. The most modern thing in the room was the giant TV mounted on a wall, facing a circle of upholstered chairs. The fabric on the chairs was torn, and I saw stains on the seats and the arms I didn’t want to investigate. The tables in the dining area were covered in brightly patterned cloths, which went a long way—although not the whole way—to disguising the stains. The few potted artificial trees and plants scattered about needed a good dusting, as did the frames of the mass-produced pictures of various Cape Cod scenes. The whole place, I thought, was simply depressing.
“Mrs. Johnson?” I said.
