by Vicki Delany
“Tea is a highly varied beverage,” I said, “although it all has its origins in the plant Camellia sinensis. I’d educate you on what goes into making and serving the different varieties, but we’d be here all night, and that’s not why I called. But I will tell you that Creamy Earl Grey is based on the traditional Earl Grey, with an added hint of caramel for a boost.
“This place is a labor of love for you, isn’t it?”
I smiled at her.
Redmond helped herself to a scone. She cut it in half and spread it with butter, then added a spoonful of jam and a dollop of clotted cream. I put a macaron on my plate and put a splash of milk and a half spoon of sugar in my own tea. I was glad I’d thought to serve tea. This felt a lot more comfortable than a police interrogation should.
“So,” Redmond said, around a mouthful of scone, “what did you want to tell me?”
“Do you know a local woman by the name of Dorothy Johnson?”
“That name has come up in our inquiries. She and Mr. Ford had a public dispute over the sale of her property to him. She claimed he cheated her, but as far as we can see, he did nothing illegal. He paid her less than her property was worth, but the onus is on the seller to ensure they get a good price, unless they’re mentally incapable of taking responsibility for what they’re doing, and there was never any suggestion Mrs. Johnson was in such a state. Why do you ask?”
“You said she’s mentally competent. What about her physical condition?”
“Again, Lily, you need to tell me what you’re getting at.”
I sighed. “Okay. My grandmother and I paid a call on Dorothy.”
“Why did you do that?”
“My grandmother isn’t happy at being the suspect in a murder investigation. She thinks she can get to the bottom of things herself. She’s like that.”
“So I gathered.”
“We heard through the North Augusta grapevine about Mr. Ford’s business practices in general and his dealings with Dorothy Johnson in particular. So we checked up on her.”
“And . . .”
“And . . . she appeared to be a feeble little old lady. Strong willed and bluntly spoken but quite frail.”
Redmond nodded and drank some of her tea. Her eyes widened. “Wow, this is good. You say she appeared to be. That was my impression also. Do you know something to the contrary?”
“I saw her in town this morning, running across the street, standing in line for coffee, jumping out of the way of a man who accidentally bumped into her. No walker, even though she has a handicap license plate and she gets around her residence with the aid of a walker. I’d be willing to bet good money she plays up being disabled for the sympathy factor and to get in front of lines. Also helps when the police come to call. Seeing as to how she’s perfectly mobile, she might even enjoy the occasional walk along the oceanfront, maybe with the assistance of hiking poles.”
“Do you make all the food served here yourself?”
That was an abrupt change of topic. Had she even heard me? Might as well answer the question. “I do, and everything’s made completely from scratch. Nothing purchased and nothing out of a package. More than once, people have complained when they saw the prices. We never apologize. Good food, well prepared with excellent ingredients, much of it sourced locally, costs money. Not to mention fresh flowers on the table and real china and silver and linen at every place. Afternoon tea isn’t an everyday thing, not even in the UK and certainly not in America. It’s a treat, an indulgence, and I believe it needs to be presented accordingly.”
Scone finished, Detective Redmond helped herself to a macaron and sipped her tea.
I decided to plow on. “I also just happened . . .”
Redmond peered at me over the top of her cup.
“Just happened to run into Carla Powers today. The mayor?”
“I know who Carla is. Between running this busy restaurant and spying on Dorothy Johnson, you also talked to the mayor?”
“I took a break from the tearoom. I have good staff.”
“So it would seem. Okay, I’ll bite. What did you learn from the mayor?”
“She was having an affair with Jack Ford.”
That, I could tell, came as a surprise to her. For the first time, Redmond’s composure cracked. Then the mask fell back into place, and she said, “Is that so? She actually told you that?”
“Believe it or not, she did. On Friday she informed her husband she was leaving him for Jack Ford.”
Redmond’s hand hovered between another macaron and a slice of chocolate tart. She settled on the tart.
“Which means,” I said, “Mr. Powers and Mrs. Ford, if she knew about this, can be considered suspects. As can Carla herself. It’s possible, isn’t it, that she told her husband she wanted a divorce and then Jack said he wasn’t serious, after all? Humiliation can be a powerful motive.”
“How do you know that?”
“I’ve had bad relationships, and I’m sure you have, too. I didn’t actually kill the guy, but I might have wanted to.”
“Anything else you think I need to know?”
“There is Jack Ford’s marriage. It’s rather odd, wouldn’t you say?”
“I’ve seen odder.” She smiled at me. “I’ve been in an odder one.”
“Oh. Okay. Janice Ford says she was in Boston when her husband died. Were you able to find out if that’s true?”
“I’m not going to tell you the results of a police inquiry, Lily.”
Oh, well. It was worth a try.
“You and your grandmother have been busy. I can’t say I’m surprised. Your grandmother’s a strong-minded woman.”
“You don’t know the half of it,” I said.
She pushed her chair back. “Thank you for the tea. I enjoyed it enormously. I’ll be back, as a paying guest, I mean.” Her face twisted. “I have a lot of free time on my hands right now.”
“What case are you working on? I didn’t hear about another murder in North Augusta.”
She stood up. “Not a murder. A vacation home was broken into last night.”
“Was much taken?”
“Some bottles of alcohol, but according to Detective Williams, we have to take it very seriously. Nip this sort of thing in the bud, he says.”
“You’re working on that rather than a murder?”
“Detective Williams likes to allocate resources effectively. Meaning he likes to work his cases his own way. That should be the chief’s job, but I’m beginning to suspect the chief does whatever Detective Williams suggests.”
“Should I have been telling him what I’ve learned, then?”
“You can talk to me. I’ll pass your information on to Detective Williams.” She looked me straight in the eye. “Thank you, Lily. The police don’t always appreciate civilian interference, but on occasion it can be useful.”
I walked her to the front door, stepped outside, and locked up after us. All the food I’d laid out had been eaten, and I could leave the dishes until tomorrow.
“Good evening,” Detective Redmond said. “Are you looking for me?”
Simon McCracken and Matt Goodwill were seated at a patio table. They stood up and shook their heads.
“Nope,” Matt said.
“Just having a chat,” Simon said.
“Nice evening,” Matt said.
“Sure is,” Simon said.
“Right.” Redmond turned back to me. “Call me if you learn anything more, Lily. I’ll see that your information is acted upon.” She walked to her car and drove away.
Simon and Matt let out a collective sigh.
“What’s all that about, then?” Simon said.
“What did she want?” Matt said.
“What are you two doing here?” I asked.
“I saw her drive up,” Simon said. “I was getting ready to leave for the day, but I thought I’d stick around in case you needed help.”
“I came back to check out a few things at the house,” Matt said. “I also wond
ered what was going on. She was in there for a long time.”
“We were having tea and talking over the Jack Ford case.”
Two pairs of eyebrows rose.
“They don’t think you or Rose had anything to do with it, do they?” Simon said.
“Or Bernie?” Matt added.
“I don’t know what the police are thinking. Detective Redmond isn’t exactly chatty. But I hope they get to the bottom of it soon. You knew Jack Ford, Matt. Can you think of anyone who might have wanted to get rid of him?”
“I didn’t know him. I’d heard of him in passing over the years, but we’d never met. We hadn’t exactly moved in the same circles. These days I don’t even move in the same circles as my parents do. I live in Chatham and came up here when Dad called to tell me about Ford’s death.”
“Are your siblings also wanting to keep the house in the family?” I asked.
“I have one sister. She lives in California and couldn’t care less one way or the other what happens to the house. I’ll be off now.” He lifted a hand in farewell and sauntered away.
“Thanks for looking out for me, Simon,” I said. “As you can see, all is well.”
“Catch you tomorrow, Lily. Have a nice evening.” He put his helmet on and fastened the straps.
I watched him hop on his motorcycle and roar away. Matt Goodwill’s BMW convertible came up the rutted and pitted driveway and turned onto the road after Simon.
I walked across the lawn to Victoria-on-Sea, deep in thought. Nice to have two handsome men checking in to make sure I was okay.
But, I had to ask myself, was that what they were doing? Matt in particular. Was he trying to help or wanting to keep tabs on what was happening with the police? He’d said he didn’t know Jack Ford. Doesn’t mean he didn’t. Doesn’t mean he’s not protecting his father, either. He’d said he was in Chatham on Saturday morning. Doesn’t mean he was.
And what about Simon? He’d been on the property at six Saturday morning. He’d said he was at the front of the house, working in the garden, when Ford went over the bluff.
Doesn’t mean he was.
I shook my head. This investigating was getting to me. Next, I’d be wondering where Robert the Bruce had been at the time of the murder. I was no detective. I needed to leave the detecting to those who were.
I stopped next to the neatly trimmed boxwood hedge that enclosed the rose garden. I’d told Amy Redmond all I’d learned. What had she said? Sometimes the police find civilian assistance useful?
Had Detective Redmond been telling me to keep investigating? Did she not trust Chuck Williams to do the job properly?
Why had Redmond, an experienced major crimes detective, been taken off a murder case to investigate the theft of a couple of bottles of booze, anyway?
Because Williams didn’t want her to find out the truth?
If so, why might that be?
Chapter 19
The problem, I thought as I cracked farm-fresh eggs into a pan of sizzling butter, was that I had too many suspects. Not many people had liked Jack Ford, and even those who had, such as Carla Powers, might have had reason to want him dead.
“She’ll be glad to hear it,” Edna called over her shoulder as she came into the kitchen, balancing a tray piled high with dirty dishes.
Glad to hear it. Where had I heard that recently?
“What are we glad to hear?” I asked.
“Our guests like your cooking. A man told me he’ll be back next year just for the breakfasts.”
“Always nice to be appreciated. Tell Rose that, will you? Maybe she’ll give me a raise.”
Edna roared with laughter.
“Looks like we’re going to have a full house for the weekend,” I said, “now that our murder has dropped off the front pages of the nonlocal media.”
“Have the police told you it’s murder?” she asked.
“Not in so many words, but they’re investigating as though it is.”
“That’s normal, Lily. The man died under mysterious circumstances. The police always consider the worst-case scenario until they have reason to believe otherwise. Jack fell through the gate and down the bluff. No one saw it happen. It might have been an accident. He might have done it on purpose. Maybe he was mad at something and he gave the gate a good kick. It broke, and his momentum threw him over the edge.”
I cheered up a fraction. “I hope that’s it. I hate to think someone deliberately killed a man right outside our door. Do you think that’s what happened?”
“Not on your life. Someone did him in, all right.”
I deflated.
“I have one order of the vegetarian breakfast, two full English, and one for muffins and juice. Two rooms are checking out today, so we’ll have a smaller group tomorrow, before the weekend rush.” Edna cut a slice of the vegetable frittata and arranged it on a plate. She then added some salad greens, a handful of heirloom cherry tomatoes, and a sprinkling of sunflower seeds and lightly drizzled balsamic vinegar on top, while I served up two plates of hot food. She carried it all into the dining room.
I switched the stove off with a sigh. That was the last of it. For today, anyway. We’d do the same thing all over again tomorrow.
Tap-tap-tap in the hallway, and the door opened. Robbie darted in, followed by my grandmother. “Good morning, love. Did you sleep well?”
“Yes,” I lied. When I got home after closing the tearoom, I’d called Bernie and told her what I’d learned—precious little—from Amy Redmond.
“It’s interesting she’s been taken off the case,” Bernie had said.
“Isn’t it?”
“That might have a perfectly logical explanation. Maybe she’s not a good cop and Williams is trying to keep her out of his way.”
“Do you think that’s it?”
“No. More likely she objected to his methods or his attitude and he sent her off to do something else. Sounds like she wants you on her side, Lily. Good work.”
“She doesn’t want me on her side,” I said. “She wants to find out the truth about what happened to Jack Ford.”
“As you, meaning we, do, too. We are each other’s side. Unlike Detective Williams, who I suspect is not on our side.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning he’s not on Rose’s side. Do you know he got a warrant for her bank records?”
“No. How do you know that?”
“I have my sources. When Rose moved from Iowa to Massachusetts, she transferred her accounts to a bank where a college friend of mine is an executive.”
“I can’t imagine Williams found anything incriminating in Rose’s bank account.”
“Probably to the contrary, which would be why he hasn’t confronted her over anything he found. It would be to Rose’s financial advantage—the tearoom’s, too—if a fancy resort went up next door. You’d get the overflow. After the noise and mess of construction is over, anyway.”
“I suspect Williams, like too many people, can’t look beyond a monetary advantage. Rose is opposed to the development because she bought Victoria-on-Sea precisely because it is quiet and remote. For Cape Cod, anyway. Thornecroft Castle doesn’t have any neighbors for miles in all directions. It didn’t in her day, anyway. She’s never been back.”
“Williams will have to look elsewhere for his suspect.”
“And we, with almost no effort, have found several.”
“When I die,” Bernie said, “I hope the list of people who wanted me dead won’t be too long.”
We said good night. I took Éclair for a walk and then watched a bit of TV and read for a while before turning out the light. I lay awake for a long time, thinking about all that had happened with the Jack Ford case and getting increasingly angry about it.
I wasn’t a detective. I was a pastry chef. I didn’t want to be a detective. I wanted to make the very best afternoon tea in all of New England.
This morning I was occupied making the very best breakfast in all of New England.
“We have guests leaving today,” I said to my grandmother. “You might want to go out and say good-bye.”
“If I must,” Rose said.
“You must.”
She passed Edna on her way into the dining room. “I’ll have my tea when I return, Edna.”
“Pot’s on the shelf,” Edna replied. “And milk’s in the fridge. Help yourself.” She put the dirty dishes on the counter. “Not even a crumb left for the birds.”
“Glad to hear it,” I said. Then I remembered where I’d heard that phrase recently: Saturday morning, as B & B guests had gathered on the edge of the bluffs to watch the police activity.
I took off my apron and washed my hands and went into the dining room. The morning sun streamed through the large windows and the open French doors. A few guests remained, chatting over the last of their tea or coffee, planning their day.
“I do hope we’ll be seeing you again next year,” Rose was saying to a table for two.
“Guaranteed,” the man said.
Rose crossed the room to a table by the windows. The carpet in this room was thick, and her cane didn’t make a sound. “Good morning. Please don’t get up. Don’t let me disturb you. I wanted to check that everything has been as you expected.”
She should have been on the stage, my grandmother. No doubt all that training at Thornecroft Castle taught her to act the perfect hostess regardless of her feelings.
“Just great.” The woman who replied was the one I’d chatted to Monday evening. I didn’t know how long they’d been staying here—I didn’t usually come into the dining room—but she’d been at the top of the bluffs Saturday morning, watching the police activity. When someone said the dead man was Jack Ford, she’d replied, “Glad to hear it.”
Now that I was remembering that, I also remembered I’d seen her on another occasion: on Friday, a short plump woman running through the garden, her long skirt flowing behind her, heading for the Goodwill property when Jack Ford’s car was the only one there.
Coincidence? Unlikely.
She smiled at the man sitting opposite her. He placed his hand on hers and returned the smile. “We’re on our honeymoon,” she said with a giggle.
