by Vicki Delany
I knew about the meeting: Rose intended to go, and she’d ordered me to come with her. I was dreading it.
“The council votes on the matter on Wednesday,” Roy continued. “You’ll find out what I decide at the same time as everyone else.”
Lincoln threw up his hands. “I don’t understand what’s changed, Roy! You were on my side before Jack Ford died.”
“Speaking of Jack Ford,” Matt said, “are the police getting anywhere in discovering who killed him?”
“No,” Lincoln said. “Bunch of Keystone Cops, that lot.”
“That’s not fair. They’re doing their best. Not all murders are solved.” Roy glanced quickly at me. “Charlie says—”
“Whatever,” Lincoln said. “I don’t need Ford. Plenty of other developers out there. I have a prime piece of oceanfront property that’s begging to be put to use.”
“As I keep telling you, Dad,” Matt said, “I will put it to use. You have to give me time.”
“I’ve given you enough time,” Lincoln snapped.
“Where does the mayor stand on this?” I asked.
“She’s in favor,” Lincoln said. “Always has been. Nothing’s changed there. She knows what’s best for this community, but she’s only one vote on council. She’s not some Luddite who’s trying to preserve the glory days of North Augusta as a—”
“I assume you’re calling me the Luddite, Dad, so I’ll take my leave,” Matt said. “May I escort you back to your domain, Lily?”
“All of ten yards? Sure. Nice, uh, talking to you, gentlemen.” Not that they’d been at all interested in talking to me.
Matt escorted me to the kitchen.
“Your dad’s not going to let you have your way?” I asked.
“He can be stubborn like that. Always has been. I have some ideas. I’m working some angles, but I’m running out of time. To be fair to Dad, he’s getting desperate to unload that property. If that rezoning goes ahead before I’ve . . .” He broke off. “Not your problem, Lily. Have a nice day.”
He walked away, and I went back to my tea-, sugar-, and cinnamon-scented comfort zone.
I’d tried my best to put the death of Jack Ford out of my mind over the past few days and get on with life, but murder has a way of hanging over everything. As long as questions remained unanswered, my mind couldn’t stop trying to find the answers.
The one person who clearly didn’t stand to benefit from the death of Jack Ford was Lincoln Goodwill. He’d sounded confident that another developer would take on the project—if it went ahead—but I wondered if that was true. Developers didn’t like controversy, and some local people were opposed to the golf resort idea, Rose chief among them. I wouldn’t want to be building a resort against Rose’s wishes.
I wondered what sort of angles Matt had been talking about.
Had Matt Goodwill killed Jack Ford to delay the project long enough for these angles to happen?
Matt said he hadn’t been in North Augusta at the time of Jack’s murder. Didn’t mean he wasn’t. It’s easy enough for people to travel long distances and back without being discovered.
Ultimately, nothing had changed since the death of Jack. The rezoning debate was going ahead.
Nothing had changed....
But wait, something had changed. A thought flew through my mind. I grabbed at it. I almost had it....
I stuck my head out of the kitchen and peered into the dining room. Matt had left. Lincoln and Roy Gleeson were getting to their feet, leaving empty plates behind them.
They looked across the room and saw me watching. Lincoln lifted his hand and forced out a stiff smile. Roy stared at me through narrow eyes.
Something had changed....
“A bus tour’s just pulled up outside.” Cheryl ran up to me. “Sixteen people. They say they have a booking.”
“Sixteen! That can’t be right. We’re not expecting them.”
“The bus driver showed me the reservation request. I asked to see the confirmation, and he didn’t have one.”
“The reservation must have gotten lost last week, when the web page was down for a few hours. What are we going to do? I don’t want to turn them away.”
“We don’t have space inside for sixteen people, not right now, but the rain’s letting up and the clouds seem to be moving off. I told them to enjoy a stroll around the gardens while we get the tables ready. We can fit them outside. I’ll have Marybeth start wiping down the tables and chairs. They’ve ordered the traditional afternoon tea. Do we have enough food?”
I ran into the kitchen as I called over my shoulder, “I can manage if I raid the freezer.”
Sixteen unexpected orders of the full tea, just when I was getting ready to relax for the rest of the day. I could have turned the bus tour away, telling them their reservation request hadn’t been confirmed, but that was not the way to build connections in the community. If I did so, I’d never get business from that tour company again.
One of the complications in serving afternoon tea, as opposed to a regular restaurant menu, is that everything has to be ready at once: scones, sandwiches, and sweets go on the same tray and come out of the kitchen at the same time as the tea itself.
I had scones in the freezer and enough cupcakes, macarons, and tarts to make a nice presentation. Sandwiches were going to be a challenge, as some of my ingredients, including the poached chicken, were almost finished.
Simon ran into the kitchen. He was dressed in his gardening overalls and mud-spattered boots. Thick gloves dangled out of his pockets. “What do you need?”
“I need help, but how did you know?”
He washed his hands at the sink. “Cheryl waved me over. Something about an unexpected rush.”
“I need sandwiches made. Use the last of the chicken, and then use up the roast beef. I’ll get started thawing the cupcakes and icing them.”
Simon stuck his head in the refrigerator and began rummaging around. “Is this all the beef you have left?”
“Oh, dear. It is. Use what we have. I’ve plenty of cucumbers and cream cheese, so we can make that, and some cans of salmon are in the pantry. We can mix tinned salmon with mayonnaise, a splash of lemon, chopped celery, and chives and serve it on white bread.”
Marybeth and Cheryl came into the kitchen and began preparing pots of tea.
“I told them that with such a large group, we can’t take individual orders for tea, so I gave them a choice of Creamy Earl Grey, English breakfast, or jasmine green,” Cheryl said.
“Thanks.” I went to the freezer and got out containers of scones. We should have just enough. Hopefully, these people weren’t big eaters.
“What’s the age group of our tourists?” I asked Cheryl.
“Seventy and up. Only two are men, plus the driver.”
“Excellent.” I pulled out my phone and made a call.
“Hey,” Bernie said when she answered. “This isn’t a good time. I’m writing up a storm. I’ve had the best idea. Instead of Rose going to—”
“Drop everything. I need an emergency run to the store.” Without waiting for her to agree—or not—I rattled off my list. Aside from what I needed to prepare for our sudden influx of guests, I’d be working late into the night, restocking for tomorrow and the rest of the week.
“Got it,” Bernie said.
With Simon’s help, I soon had enough beautifully arranged trays of scones, a variety of dainty tea sandwiches, and tarts, cookies, and pastries to get us started. Cheryl and Marybeth served the tea and then began taking the food out.
Bernie’s car drove up, and she came in the back door, lugging bags of groceries. I grabbed a loaf of sandwich bread out of one before she’d put the bags down, and tore it open. Bernie helped Simon slap together more sandwiches, and I piped icing onto cupcakes.
When we were finished, I leaned against the counter with a sigh.
Simon grinned at me. He lifted his right hand, and we high-fived.
“Glad I could be of help,” B
ernie said. “Looks like you’ve got everything under control here. I have to get back to Rose. My Rose, that is.”
“Thanks. You really were a lifesaver. And you, too, Simon.”
Cheryl came in with teapots for refilling, and I glanced at the clock over the stove. “It’s quarter to five. If we get any new customers, tell them we’re closed. We’ve barely enough left to offer a family of mice a tea party. You can go, too, Simon. I’m fine here now.”
“Are you sure?” he said. “You must have more to make to get ready for tomorrow.”
I smiled at him. “Thanks, but I’m fine. Barring any more disasters. Bernie, would you mind checking on Éclair and letting her out for a couple of minutes? Maybe look in on Rose, my Rose, too.”
“Sure.” She and Simon left.
The bus tour departed precisely at five, and Cheryl and Marybeth tidied the dining room and patio, laid the tables for tomorrow, and cleaned up the kitchen. As they were hanging their aprons on hooks, I said, “You guys really are the best.”
Cheryl smiled. “We enjoy working here.”
“Never a dull moment,” Marybeth said. “See you tomorrow, Lily.”
By five thirty, I was alone in the tearoom.
I selected music off my phone to play through the Bose speaker, made myself a pot of English breakfast, which I poured into my personal Royal Doulton cup, and set to work. Scones were the most important item. I can make sandwiches out of next to nothing and can shuffle desserts around, but if there’s one thing that has to be perfect at afternoon tea, it’s the scones. The pastry for the tarts ideally needs time to chill before being rolled out, so I’d prepare the pastry first and do the scones while it was in the fridge.
I assembled the ingredients and set to work. My mind drifted.
It was nice to have friends. I never would have managed without Simon’s help, and we wouldn’t have been able to complete the last of the trays without Bernie’s emergency shopping trip. Not to mention that without her I’d have had to drive into town myself to shop before I could get started on the night’s baking.
Something had been on my mind before that busload of unexpected tea drinkers arrived. It was important, but I’d lost it in the rush and panic.
Something about Jack Ford. And changes.
I mixed the pastry dough and formed it into flattened disks, wrapped the disks in wax paper, and put them in the fridge to chill. I made raisin scones next, and while they were baking, I started on batches of cupcakes, one of which would be coconut and one vanilla. I worked quickly and efficiently, listening to music, occasionally licking the inside of an empty bowl or a mixing spoon. I’d hoped to get a chance to try some new recipes this week, but tonight was all about restocking, so I stuck to my tried and true favorites.
I spread a sheet of parchment paper on the butcher’s block and spread a light coating of flour on it to prevent sticking, took the pastry dough out of the fridge, and unwrapped the first disk. I laid it on the prepared surface, sprinkled the top with more flour and picked up my marble rolling pin.
I started at a knock on the back door. It wasn’t locked, so I called, “Come on in.”
I assumed it was Bernie, having another bout of writer’s block and needing to talk it through. Instead, a man’s voice said, “Hope I’m not disturbing you.”
I turned around to face Roy Gleeson, town councillor. The sun was low in the western sky, and the shadows behind him were long. More time had passed than I’d realized. I let go of the rolling pin and said, “This isn’t a good time. I’m very busy.”
He shut the door behind him. His eyes flicked around the kitchen. I saw them settle on the block of knives on the far side of the stove. He stepped farther into the room so he was standing between the knives and me. He kept one hand in the pocket of his pants, and he did not smile.
Chapter 23
All my fragments of scattered thoughts suddenly meshed together into one cohesive whole, and I knew.
Lincoln kept saying he didn’t know what had changed to cause Roy to no longer be enthusiastic about the rezoning proposal.
One significant thing had changed: Jack Ford had died.
Whereupon Roy immediately changed his mind.
Janice Ford had out and out told us that her husband paid kickbacks to Roy Gleeson, but we’d been focusing on reasons why she might have killed him. The first time I’d seen Roy, when he and Jack came into the tearoom, Jack had been quick to say a cup of coffee wasn’t a bribe. He’d made the comment sound like a joke, but it hadn’t been. He’d been reminding Roy who was the boss here.
“I’m busy.” My voice cracked, and I coughed to cover it. “What do you want?”
“Just a chat.”
“Sorry. Too busy. Why don’t you come back tomorrow?”
“It’s quiet out here,” he said. “When your restaurant’s closed and your staff have gone home.”
“Not so quiet. Cars drive past all the time on the road or going up to the B & B.”
“A few cars, yes. Your gardener’s motorbike’s gone, and I saw your red-headed friend drive away earlier. Most of the B & B guests have gone out to dinner.”
“You’ve been watching my house.”
He shrugged. “Let’s say I’m interested in what you’ve been up to.”
I reached into my pocket. I wrapped my hand around the solid case of my phone.
“Keep your hands where I can see them,” Roy said.
“Why would I want to do that?” My heart pounded. My hands were drenched with sweat.
“You shouldn’t interfere in things that don’t concern you.”
“The death of Jack Ford wouldn’t have concerned me,” I said, “if you hadn’t killed him on our property and caused the police to suspect my grandmother.”
“You’re not as dumb as you look, are you, with all that blond hair and that sweet, innocent smile? When I saw the way you were staring at me earlier, I knew you’d figured it out.”
I hadn’t actually figured anything out, although I had my suspicions, half formed and nebulous though they might have been. But as it says somewhere: The guilty run when no one pursueth. “There’s no point in threatening me, Roy. After you and Lincoln left, I called the police and told them everything I know.”
He shook his head. “No, you didn’t.”
“I don’t mean your pal Charlie. The man everyone else calls Chuck.” Charles . . . Chuck . . . Charlie. “Charlie told me,” Roy’d said earlier. He knew I’d been asking questions, because Chuck Williams—Charlie—had told him.
“Charlie’s what we called him in school,” Roy said. “When he grew up and joined the police, he decided Chuck was a tougher-sounding name. I never could get used to it.”
“I spoke to Detective Redmond.”
“You didn’t do that, either. Unlike my old pal Charlie, she’s not just filling in time until retirement. I might have hinted to Charlie that it wouldn’t look good for his high-profile murder case to be solved by a hotshot, big-city female detective. I arranged for a couple of minor break and enters to give him an excuse to keep her otherwise occupied.”
“Including creeping around in the night and trying to frighten my grandmother? That wasn’t nice.”
He blinked and shrugged. “I don’t know anything about that.”
Keep him talking. Keep him talking.
I didn’t know what Roy was fingering in his pocket, but it was unlikely to mean me any good. He stood between me and my knives, but there must be something else in here I could use as a weapon. A cast-iron frying pan would do the trick, but I don’t have one. This is a tearoom: I never fry anything.
My eyes flicked toward the door. No point in simply running. By the time I got the door open, he’d be on me. My only hope was to keep him talking until someone arrived to check on me.
Not that I was expecting anyone at this hour.
“You were a strong proponent of the rezoning application for the Goodwill property,” I said. “But when Jack died, your positio
n suddenly changed, and you told everyone you were undecided. What did he have on you?”
“Jack was a wealthy man, although most of that was his wife’s money, but he was not a nice one. I did him a few small favors over the years. In return, he hired my son, Grayson, to work at his company, and . . . well, let’s say he entertained me lavishly whenever I was out of town. I can manage, if I have to, without Jack’s largesse, but although Grayson means well, he’s not the most dedicated of workers. He’ll never get such a high-paying job anywhere else.
“Jack threatened to let Grayson go if I didn’t get the Goodwill property rezoned. I said I’d do what I could, but it wasn’t entirely up to me. That made him angry, and he said if the rezoning didn’t go through, he’d do more than just fire Grayson. He was going to tell the newspapers about our . . . arrangement. It was time for me to get out from under his thumb once and for all. I couldn’t risk the damage to my reputation, never mind a charge of bribery. When your grandmother’s letter threatened—”
“My grandmother’s letter? What letter?”
“The one she wrote to the newspaper. If she knew, soon everyone would know Jack had been paying me to make a few small changes to the environmental assessment in order to push his rezoning application through.”
I had no idea what he was talking about. Rose’s letter hadn’t said any such thing.
“I didn’t want to kill anyone,” he said. “And I really don’t want to kill you. But you and your grandmother just can’t stop interfering, can you?”
He pulled a length of rope out of his pocket. Tough, sturdy hemp rope, of the type a gardener would use to tie bushes in burlap for the winter or bring plants home from the nursery.
“Your gardener should learn to lock his equipment shed.” Roy stretched the rope between his hands and took a step toward me. The vacant look in his eyes sent a shudder down my spine.
“You’ll never get away with this.”
“I have so far.” His breath was sour on my face, and his eyes gleamed with madness.
I had nowhere to go. I leaned backward, pressing myself into the butcher’s block. All my lovely sharp knives were on the other side of Roy Gleeson. My phone was in my pocket, but I’d never get it out and call for help in time.
