Murder in a Teacup

by Vicki Delany

  “He’s not happy cooling his heels in the hallway,” Bernie said when she returned. “He’s standing in front of the drawing-room door all puffed up with importance, snarling at anyone who walks by to keep on moving and attempting not to look like he’s getting ear strain from trying to hear what’s being said inside.”

  “Is there such a thing as ear strain?” Rose asked.

  “If there isn’t, there should be.”

  “Interesting about Julie-Ann and Ed,” Bernie said. “I wonder if there’s anything to Trisha’s accusations.”

  “It does make things look bad for the both of them. A secret lover. A wronged wife. The stuff classic detective novels are made of.”

  “Did you notice,” Rose said, “how they referred to any relationship between Ed and Julie-Ann with words like still interested and again. Something lies in their past. Whether or not that something also existed in the present is the point right now.”

  “If it was up to Williams,” Bernie said, “they’d never get to the bottom of it. But Redmond seems competent.”

  “Detective Redmond quite niftily took over the questioning,” Rose said. “Williams was outside facing a closed door before he knew he’d been dismissed.”

  “We can’t count on that happening all the time,” Bernie said. “Now that he’s been outmaneuvered once, he’ll be on his guard.”

  “If there’s one good thing about this mess,” I said, “at least he’s not considering you, Rose, to be a suspect this time.”

  “Oh, I’m sure he’ll remember me eventually.” She sipped daintily at her tea. She’d added a splash of milk to her saucer and Robert the Bruce was on the table, licking it up. If the health inspectors saw a cat eating on the table, they’d shut us down fast enough.

  That, I’d worry about another day. I had enough to worry about at the moment. “I don’t know how long I can stay closed without going under. It’s coming up to what I expect to be the busiest time of the year, when I need to make enough money to see us through the winter. The longer I’m closed, the more it will look as though the police have ordered me closed for a reason. I might not get many customers when I do reopen. And even if I do, I’ll have lost my staff by then. Cheryl and Marybeth can’t go long without being paid, and I can’t pay them if I don’t have any income.” I rubbed Éclair’s nose and she snuffled happily. “Have any of the other guests complained about the police storming around in here?”

  “No,” Rose said. “Some of them seem to think it dreadfully exciting. All fine and good when you’re not involved. Fortunately, the name of the B and B has been kept out of the press, unlike last time, so I haven’t had any abrupt cancelations.”

  “People aren’t afraid they’ll be murdered between their two-hundred-thread-count sheets with their heads resting on the feather pillows and covered with the embroidered white lace duvets?” Bernie asked.

  “Not this time,” Rose said dryly. “However, we have another problem.”

  “Oh, good,” I said. “More to worry about. Don’t tell me.”

  Rose sipped her tea. I drank my coffee and tried to bite my tongue. Eventually I gave in, as she knew I would. “I guess I need to know. What now?”

  “We’re fully booked beginning Friday, which is the day after tomorrow, right through the next two weeks.”

  “That’s a problem because . . . ?” Bernie said.

  “The police have asked the French family and Trisha not to leave North Augusta,” I said. “You’ll have to tell them to find another hotel, Rose.”

  “I can’t throw one of my oldest friends into the street, never mind her family.”

  “You’ll have to,” I said. “We can’t cancel guests with less than forty-eight hours’ notice. They won’t be able to find other accommodations, not this weekend, and our reputation will be ruined, probably permanently.” Visions of irate online comments and plunging satisfaction ratings flew across my eyes.

  “If they can’t find other accommodations, neither can Sandra and her family.”

  “They can pitch a tent on the lawn, for all I care,” I said.

  “Amanda and Tyler can do that,” Bernie said. “I don’t see Heather sleeping in a tent.”

  “Sandra can move into my place,” I said. “I’ll stay with Bernie. One of the others can have my couch.”

  Rose shook her head. “Thank you, love. But that still doesn’t account for them all. Maybe we’ll be lucky and the police will solve the case by tomorrow and they can go home.”

  “Trisha might want to leave,” I said. “If she thinks Julie-Ann or someone else in that lot killed her husband, she won’t want to stay under the same roof.”

  “I don’t know what she believes,” Rose said. “She spoke in anger. They all did. It’s a hard thing to think someone you know would have hated a man enough to murder him in cold blood.”

  “And poisoning his tea, if that’s what happened,” Bernie said, “is mighty cold.”

  “Indeed. Easier to accept it was an accident. Something added incorrectly to the so-called tea at its point of origin.”

  “Maybe we’ll be lucky,” I said, “and that’s what they’ll find. That the whole lot of tea was off, not just what Ed drank on Monday.”

  “Regardless of the sleeping arrangements,” Bernie said, “I’m not trusting to luck, and certainly not to Detective Williams’s investigative skills. You know what this means, Rose?”

  “Yes,” my grandmother said, “I do.” She put down her cup and lifted Robbie off her lap. “Time to get to work. I’ll start with the unsuitably named Grand Lake, Iowa.”

  “Why is that unsuitable?” I asked.

  “The lake outside of town is what they call in other parts of the world a puddle ,” Rose said.

  “I get it,” Bernie said. “The townspeople have delusions of grandeur. I’ll dig deep into the finances.”

  “What are you two talking about?” I said. “Are you going to Iowa, Rose? Isn’t this rather a bad time? I need you here. Whose finances, Bernie?”

  Bernie and Rose exchanged knowing glances. A bad feeling began to creep over me. “Oh, no. Don’t tell me . . .”

  “Someone needs to move this investigation along,” Rose said, “before you and I are both in the workhouse. And do it quickly. It’s up to Bernie and me to do our part.”

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” I said. “Remember what happened last time? Your amateur investigating almost got me killed.”

  “But it didn’t, did it?” Bernie said cheerfully. “And here you sit before us now, still hale and hearty.”

  Rose smiled at me. I didn’t trust that smile.

  I’m Rose’s granddaughter, physically an almost spitting image of her in her youth. But other than looks, Bernie’s far more like my mother’s mother than I am.

  Whenever I think of Rose and Bernie, I remember an expedition to Central Park when we were in fifth grade. We’d been caught by a sudden rainstorm, and while Mom and I cowered in the shelter of the Metropolitan Museum of Art, Rose and Bernie danced in the rain and splashed, roaring with laughter, through the puddles.

  I let out a world-weary sigh. “Okay, what do you want me to do?”

  They gave me identical patronizing smiles.

  “You bake, love,” Rose said.

  “It’s what you do best,” Bernie said.

  “We’ll let you know if we need you.” Rose checked her watch. “Shall we reconvene at six to report on our findings?”

  Bernie stood up. “Sounds good to me.” She disappeared through the back door without another word.

  Rose headed for the hallway. “There is one thing you can do, love.”

  “What?”

  “Have dinner ready for us, please. We private investigators need plenty of feeding.”

  Grumbling, I cleared up the dishes.

  * * *

  I was in my happy place—making pistachio macarons—but not feeling at all happy about life, when a knock sounded on the back door.

 
“It’s open,” I called. “Come on in.”

  The old hinges and the loose floorboard squeaked as Amy Redmond entered.

  “If you’re not here to tell me I can reopen, you’re not welcome,” I said.

  What might have been a trace of a smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. “Then I’m safe. What are you making?”

  “Pistachio macarons. I just finished a batch of toasted hazelnut and chocolate. Would you like one?”

  “I would. Thank you.”

  I opened the fridge. Redmond let out a low whistle when she saw the contents. “Wow, you have been busy.”

  “I have to do something. This is my livelihood, you know.” I took out the tray of macarons and put two onto a plate. “Would you like tea?”

  “No, thanks. I don’t want to take up too much of your time. I’m here to tell you that you can reopen tomorrow.” She accepted the offered plate.

  I let out a long sigh. Happy, once again. “That’s great. Thanks. What’s happened? Did you find the killer?”

  “No. Not yet. But we will. Have you had many people poking around today? Scene-of-the-crime groupies, I mean?”

  “That’s a thing?”

  “Sadly, yes.”

  “A couple. Someone was on the patio when I arrived this morning, taking a picture of the front door. She had the grace to scurry away when I told her we were closed.”

  “You shouldn’t get many more bothering you. They have a limited attention span. Once we’ve left and taken down our tape, they go on to the next thing. Is your gardener still around?”

  “Simon? I think so. I didn’t hear his bike go by.”

  She tossed a macaron into her mouth and chewed. Judging by the look on her face, she was enjoying it. A lot. “That is quite simply,” she said when she could speak again, “possibly the single best thing I have ever eaten.”

  “Wait until you have one of the pistachio ones,” I said, feeling ridiculously pleased at the praise.

  She snatched the second pastry up, as though afraid I’d change my mind and take it back. “Can you take a break?”

  “Your timing’s good. These have to sit for about half an hour or so before I bake them.”

  “Why do you do that?”

  “They need to dry out before being baked to get a nice crispy shell.” I washed my hands in the sink. “Where are we going?”

  “I need to talk to Simon and I might as well fill you in at the same time.”

  * * *

  We crossed the lawn together, heading for the garden shed at the far corner of the property. Simon kept his own hours, coming and going as he liked, but his motorcycle was parked by the shed and the door was open, so he hadn’t left yet. His bike had been returned this morning, as good as new. As we approached, he came out of the shed, carrying a saw with a lethal-looking set of razor-sharp teeth.

  “Hey,” he said. “What’s up?” He glanced between Redmond and me.

  “I have an initial toxicology report,” she said, “and a couple of questions for you. I know Lily’s interested, so I invited her to tag along.”

  “Happy to be of help,” he said.

  “Only because I’m the nervous sort”—she gestured at the saw—“can you put that down first, please?”

  He grinned at her. “Come into my office.”

  We stepped inside. The shed was clean and neatly organized. Rakes, brooms, spades, and pitchforks hung from hooks on the walls; vessels of all sizes and materials were stacked on shelves; bags of mulch and potting soil were piled on the floor. The enclosed space was warm from the sun hitting the roof. It smelled of the good clean earth of Massachusetts, and I breathed in deeply.

  Simon hung the saw on an empty hook and said, “I can’t offer you chairs. Sorry.”

  A single ray of sunlight poured through the small window facing west and lit up Redmond’s spiky, cropped blond hair as though her head were surrounded by a halo. Other than that, there was nothing at all saintly about her. She’d showed some signs of friendship toward me in the past, but I knew better than to regard her as anything but a cop. Not when she was working. And, I suspected, Detective Redmond was always working.

  “Not a problem,” she said. “I’m a city girl, born and raised in the suburbs of Boston. My parents had a house with a small garden that was mostly weedy grass with a few impatiens stuck here and there for color. When I moved away from home, I went into a college dorm and then an apartment. Why I’m telling you all this is so you understand that I know absolutely nothing about gardening.”

  “Okay,” Simon said.

  “Edward French died because of an overdose of digitalis.”

  “Foxglove,” Simon said.

  “So the pathologist suspects.”

  “What’s that mean?” I asked. “I’ve heard of digitalis. It’s a heart medication. But isn’t foxglove a flower?”

  “Yes, on both accounts,” Simon said. “Digitalis, which is a commonly prescribed heart medication, is an extract of foxglove, which is a popular garden plant. They’re tall and highly attractive and quite striking lining a border, so people like to have them in their gardens. As I said the other day, the average backyard garden’s full of poisonous plants. Foxglove’s one of the most dangerous.”

  “Simon’s right,” Redmond said.

  “I assume,” Simon said, “you want to ask me if we have foxglove growing here because you can’t distinguish it from a petunia.”

  “That’s about it. Although I have seen pictures.”

  “No. We don’t. Grow foxglove, I mean. As you know, I’ve only been working here a short while, but I know the garden pretty well by now. No foxglove. No oleander, either, or anything else I’d say is dangerous. My uncle Gerald worked this garden for a long time. He probably planted most of the things here. The garden’s open to the public, B and B guests, tearoom guests, anyone who wants to have a look ’round. People bring their kids here. You’d be asking for trouble to have poisonous plants on the premises.”

  “What about other properties in and around North Augusta?”

  Simon shrugged. “Likely quite a few of them have foxglove. As I said, it’s attractive and popular and grows well at Zone 7a.”

  “What’s that mean?” Redmond asked.

  “That’s the gardening zone for Cape Cod. Geographic zones are based on climate to help ascertain what plants do well where. As for foxglove, I can’t say I’ve noticed any in particular around here. I’ve joined an Internet chat room that discusses gardening in the northern Cape. A group of other professionals, gardeners who work at the hotels or for the towns, plus keen amateurs. I can ask about foxglove, if you like.”

  “Thanks,” she said. “I’d appreciate that, but only if you can do it without saying why you want to know.”

  “I’ll tell them I’m thinking of putting some in. They know I’m not from around here, so I’ve been asking a lot of basic questions.”

  She smiled at him. He smiled back. I felt a sudden, unexpected jolt of jealousy. Redmond was an attractive woman, slightly taller than me, slightly shorter than Simon, with smooth olive skin and deep dark eyes, and hair dyed a pale blond. She was thin, but the fit of her classically cut jacket and trousers indicated that she was a runner. She probably put in a couple of miles every morning before breakfast. Whereas I tried not to recall when I’d last been to yoga class or the gym. She was close to my age, but the stresses of her job, and no doubt the things she’d seen, were carved into the delicate skin around her mouth and eyes.

  “So,” I said, perhaps in a harsher tone than I intended, “what does this mean for me? You said I can reopen.”

  “I did. An analysis of Ed French’s supply of unconsumed tea provided to us by his wife, Trisha, showed that it contains nothing out of the ordinary. I might not want to drink that muck myself, but doing so wouldn’t kill me or even upset my tummy. But the lab found traces of foxglove in his stomach contents, among the tea sludge and in the compost we removed from here. The compost Simon told us containe
d kitchen residue from the tearoom.”

  “So you are saying the poison came from my kitchen!”

  “Relax, Lily. The only foxglove in the compost was mixed in with the residue from Ed’s tea.”

  “Someone actually went through all that compost and located individual particles?” Simon said. “Wow, I am impressed. Not a job I’d want to do, though.”

  “We were helped by the fact that Ed’s tea leaves weren’t nearly as finely ground as the tea Lily uses. They weren’t that difficult to find.”

  “Can I have my compost back?” Simon asked.

  I glanced at him. The twinkle in his eye indicted he wasn’t entirely serious.

  “Put in a claim,” Redmond replied with a grin. “In light of all that, I can conclude you served nothing deadly in your restaurant, Lily. Nothing other than what the deceased provided for himself. So you can reopen tomorrow.”

  Relief washed over me, but I couldn’t forget that a man had died in my tearoom. “If Ed French’s dry tea doesn’t contain foxglove,” I said, “but the tea in his pot did . . .”

  “Then someone added the foxglove after the tea was handed to your waitress.” Redmond’s smile had disappeared. “She says she took the bag containing the leaves into the kitchen, put a spoonful into a teapot, added boiling water, and put the pot on the table next to Ed French’s place. At the same time, she gave Trisha French back the bag of dry tea, in which a few spoonfuls remained. I’ve been assured that neither Cheryl nor Marybeth are anything other than the North Augusta mother-and-daughter team they appear to be.”

  “Meaning they’re not killers for hire,” Simon said. “Always good to know.”

  “We’re acting on the assumption that the foxglove was added to Ed’s pot when everyone was outside seeing to the motorcycle accident.”

  “Don’t remind me,” Simon muttered.

  “I see it parked outside,” Redmond said. “Is it fixed?”

  “Yes. Heather French picked up the bill.”

  “Was it a coincidence, do you think, that the tea was poisoned at the same time the bike was stolen?” I asked. “Or were there two people acting together? Although, that would mean Tyler’s involved, and I can’t see him keeping something like that to himself for long.”