Tea & Treachery

by Vicki Delany

  “You’re in luck,” Cheryl said. “I haven’t emptied the coffeepot yet.” Tea by the Sea is strictly a tearoom, but we have to make accommodation for guests who (shudder!) don’t care for tea. “How about two strawberry tarts to go with it? That’s about all we have left.”

  “Sounds good,” said the larger man.

  “Maybe the house needs—” Bernie started to speak, but I cut her off with a touch to my lips and a shake of my head. She opened her eyes wide but said no more.

  “Nice place you got here,” the smaller man said.

  “Thank you.” Cheryl poured the coffee into takeaway cups. “Cream? Sugar?”

  “Two of each,” the bigger man said.

  “Nothing for me, thanks,” the other one said. “You been here long?”

  “If you mean me, my entire life,” Cheryl said. “If you mean Tea by the Sea, this is our first summer.”

  “I bet the tourist ladies love it.”

  “They do.”

  Tea by the Sea specializes in traditional afternoon tea. In keeping with the theme of the menu, the restaurant’s decorated as though it were a drawing room in a castle in Scotland or a stately country home in England. Paintings of British pastoral scenes and horses at the hunt are hung on pale peach wallpaper with clusters of pink and green flowers. The wide-planked wooden floors are polished to a high shine; the chairs upholstered in peach and sage green; the tables laid with starched and ironed white cloths and either a single rose in a crystal vase or a lush flower arrangement, depending on what’s currently available in the garden. Several small alcoves, similarly decorated, are tucked into corners, providing space for small parties or intimate gatherings. In the main room, a large antique sideboard, bought at a good price and carefully restored with a lot of elbow grease on my part and advice on Rose’s, exhibits some of the china tea sets we use. The opposite wall has a real fireplace, at this time of year filled with flowers. A small room next to the kitchen displays items for sale—teapots and matching cups and saucers; tea accessories such as infusers and strainers, timers, and tea cozies; several varieties of prettily packaged tea bath salts I make myself from fragrant tea leaves; and locally made jams and preserves. The waitresses wear knee-length black dresses under starched white aprons and small white caps. As I stay strictly in the back, doing the cooking, I usually come to work in jeans and a T-shirt.

  “Do you do a good business here?” the larger man asked.

  Cheryl threw me a glance. “We do, Mr. Ford.”

  His back was to me, so I couldn’t see him smile, but I heard it in his voice. “You know me. Then you know I care about the success of small independent businesses, such as this one.”

  I sipped my tea and listened. Bernie filled her plate with more sandwiches and tarts.

  “If you’re a local,” he continued, “you must realize this place won’t get a lot of business over the winter.”

  “No,” Cheryl admitted.

  “You’re out here in the middle of nowhere. Nice location, close to the sea, fabulous views, but nothing much else around. Am I right?”

  Another flick of Cheryl’s eyes toward me. I still said nothing.

  “Same with the B & B next door. What capacity do they have? Five guest rooms? Maybe six?”

  “I’m not sure.” Cheryl put the strawberry tarts in a paper bag and handed it to him.

  The shorter man said, “Can’t be much more than that. Not enough, really, to keep the place going year-round.”

  He pulled out his wallet, but Mr. Ford said, “Put your money away, Roy. This one’s on me. I can buy you a coffee, I think, without anyone accusing you of taking a bribe.” He laughed heartily. The smaller man, Roy, didn’t return the laugh.

  “We do okay,” Cheryl said.

  “This is your restaurant’s first season,” Mr. Ford said. “Soon the novelty will wear off, winter will set in, and customers won’t be able to sit out in that nice garden.” He handed her a twenty-dollar bill. “You need to keep the customers coming in, isn’t that right, Roy? Keep the change. Nice talking to you. I’m sure we’ll be seeing a lot more of each other.”

  They walked away. As they passed my table, Mr. Ford turned his head and looked directly at me.

  He hadn’t been talking to Cheryl, I knew. But to me.

  Chapter 2

  “What was all that about?” Bernie asked after the men had left, Marybeth started stacking the chairs onto the tables, and Cheryl got out the vacuum cleaner.

  “The bigger man was the one Rose was talking about earlier I think. The house next door isn’t selling as a house. There’s talk that a hotel chain wants it.”

  “They want to use it as a hotel?”

  “They want to turn it into a hotel, which isn’t the same thing. Not just a hotel, but a hotel and conference center. Maybe even a golf resort.”

  “It’s big, but it doesn’t seem that big . . .”

  “It’s not, and that’s the point. Right now the property’s zoned residential and small business, same as Rose’s property. There’s some talk of rezoning, so the old house can be gutted and a big new extension added on.”

  “You’re talking as though that’s a bad thing,” Bernie said. “Is it?”

  I let out a breath. “To Rose, it is. I believe the phrase she used is ‘over my dead body.’ You see, what we have here . . .”

  “Nicest piece of private property in this part of the Cape.”

  “Precisely. Peace, quiet, serenity. I don’t know how much of that we’ll lose if they go ahead with the development, but I’m thinking a lot. Hotel, golf resort, conference center. All of which need parking and round-the-clock staffing. A full-service restaurant and bar means delivery vehicles up and down the driveway all day. No, Rose isn’t at all happy.”

  The vacuum cleaner started with a roar. I held up one hand, asking Cheryl to turn it off. “You know who those men are?” I asked her.

  “The one who did all the talking is Jack Ford. He’s a big-time developer. Does work all over the Outer Cape.”

  “Does he, now?”

  “Yup. And he’s as nasty and crooked as they come.”

  “Strong words.”

  Marybeth joined us. “People have strong opinions about him. The old-timers, like Mom and me and the rest of our family, hate him. The newcomers, the big property owners, and the developers love him.”

  Cheryl nodded. “He thinks he’s charming. They say some women fall for that.”

  “Who was the man with him?”

  “Roy Gleeson. He’s a town councillor,” Cheryl said.

  “Thus the comment about not offering a bribe. What do you suppose he was doing here?” I asked. “Not interested in supporting my small business, I assume.”

  When Tea by the Sea had its official grand opening in the spring, plenty of officials from North Augusta and other towns in the Outer Cape came, but Roy Gleeson hadn’t. The mayor of North Augusta had made a speech. Or so I’d been told. I’d been in the kitchen, frantically trying to save a batch of brownies burning in the unfamiliar oven.

  “If Jack Ford wants the property to be rezoned,” Cheryl said, “someone on council has to propose it. Roy’s checking things out. I bet Ford’s courting them all. He’ll be trying to find someone he can pay under the table for it.”

  “Roy’ll get a kickback if the property’s rezoned,” Marybeth said, “and the development project goes ahead.”

  “Do you know that for sure?” I asked.

  “No, but... ,” Marybeth said.

  “Everyone knows,” Cheryl said.

  “Meaning no one knows,” I said. “Not for sure.”

  Cheryl shrugged, and the vacuum started with a roar. Marybeth returned to stacking chairs.

  “I’ll take that as a subtle hint you’re closing.” Bernie tossed the last bite of her pistachio macaron into her mouth.

  “Yup. See you tomorrow night. You know Rose’s dinner invitation is a command appearance, right?”

  “I wouldn’t dare m
iss it.” She got to her feet, and I walked with her to the door. We gave each other enthusiastic hugs.

  “I am so glad you’re here,” I said.

  “I’m glad I’m here, too.”

  Bernie left, and I went into the kitchen. One thing I’ve learned in owning my own restaurant: service might be over for the day, but prep for the next day was always waiting to be done. And those dishes weren’t going to wash themselves.

  * * *

  I was at work again at six the following morning. My morning job isn’t at Tea by the Sea, but in the kitchen of Rose’s B & B, Victoria-on-Sea.

  My labradoodle, Éclair (so named because a streak of cream runs through the curly brown fur on her chest and belly), waited impatiently as I unlocked the back door. To my surprise, Rose was already seated at the cracked and fading Formica table, cradling her first cuppa of the day, with her big black cat, Robert the Bruce, curled up in her lap. Robbie gave me his habitual snarl of welcome.

  I like cats just fine, but I don’t believe they belong in kitchens. On that, as on many things, Rose and I disagree. On that, as on many things, she won the argument. Robbie knew I’d confine him to Rose’s suite if I had my way. But I didn’t have my way, and the cat enjoyed the run of the entire house. Guests occasionally complained that he got into their room, and sometimes into their suitcase, but they couldn’t protest too much, as the web site for the B & B plainly said a cat was in residence.

  More like boss of the place than in residence.

  As usual, Robbie ignored Éclair. I don’t believe dogs belong in kitchens, either, but as long as Rose’s cat was allowed in, so was my dog. So there!

  I didn’t, however, ever take her into the tearoom, and letting her have some extra time with me in the morning helped assuage my guilt at leaving her alone for a good part of the day, although I paid the housekeepers a bit extra to take her for a short walk and refresh her water bowl twice a day.

  Given that I was American, not English like my grandmother, my first task was always to put the coffeepot on. While I did that, Éclair greeted Rose, and my grandmother patted the dog lightly on the top of her head. Greetings over, Éclair settled herself under the table and watched me with her keen brown eyes. She’d already had her breakfast, and she was never fed in the kitchen, but she never gave up hope.

  Rose’s house is one of the gems of this stretch of the coast. A marvelous Victorian mansion—white, and multi-leveled, with a gray roof; numerous turrets and dormer windows, and lavishly adorned with gingerbread trim. A wide verandah running the length of the house; which had been built in 1865 by a wealthy Boston family who wanted privacy and sea views. Except for the bathrooms, every guest room and the public areas were lovingly decorated almost exactly as they would have been when the house was originally built.

  Every room, including, unfortunately, this kitchen. At least I didn’t have to cook over an open fire or pump water by hand. Somewhere back in the fifties, the owners had made some improvements. The kitchen was dark and tiny; the appliances old and dated. Back then, the well-being of the kitchen staff wasn’t considered worth putting a window in for, and whoever designed the kitchen clearly never worked in one: the sink was on the far side of the room from the cutlery drawers, and the island so close to the fridge no one could get past when the door was open. But these days, the only meal actually cooked in this kitchen was breakfast. Rose might have invited Bernie and me for dinner this evening, but she didn’t intend to cook. My grandmother didn’t cook—she reheated. The day after my grandfather’s funeral, following a lifetime spent over a stove, Rose hung up her apron forever.

  This morning she was dressed in her tattered red-and-purple-checked dressing gown and fluffy woolen slippers. Her thick gray hair stuck up in all directions, and she hadn’t yet put her makeup on.

  “You’re up early,” I said. “Problem sleeping?” She didn’t usually come down until eight thirty or nine, when she’d pass through the dining room, graciously greeting her guests. Even then she complained—if only to me—about early mornings.

  “I got an unwelcome phone call.” She rubbed the fingers of her right hand together, as she always did under stress.

  I hid a grin. My grandmother had smoked a pack a day every day of her life since she was fourteen, until five years ago, when she’d given it up under doctors’ orders after a heart attack scare. It hadn’t been her heart, just indigestion and heartburn, but her doctor had torn a strip off her. My mother said she’d never be able to kick the habit, but Rose had gone about it the way she did everything in life once she’d made up her mind: with determination and a will of iron.

  She hadn’t had so much as a puff since, although her hands obviously still ached to feel the thin, firm roll resting between her fingers.

  “Bad news?” I asked.

  This morning I was making bran muffins to go with the traditional full English breakfast—eggs, sausages, grilled tomatoes, sautéed mushrooms, baked beans, and toast—which was one of the features of the B & B. For those who didn’t want such a substantial start to the day or were watching their weight but still wanted a hot breakfast, I’d make an egg-white omelet. We also served an assortment of cereals and yogurt and a huge bowl of fresh fruit every morning.

  Rose didn’t answer my question, so I said, “As long as you’re up, you can start slicing the fruit.” I put a paring knife and a bunch of bananas on the table in front of her.

  She gave me a look. The very look that must have intimidated legions of young kitchen maids. “Really, Lily. I don’t employ you so I can work.”

  “If by employ,” I said, “you mean pay a living wage, you’re failing on that account.”

  “I allowed you to rent that old cottage, didn’t I?” she said, as though she’d done me a big favor by letting me save her from bankruptcy.

  “Whatever. What’s the bad news?”

  “Gerald has quit.”

  “Oh, no. That is bad news. What happened? You didn’t criticize the hostas again, did you? You know how sensitive he is about them.”

  “No, I did not criticize the hostas. I learned my lesson the last time. I didn’t say they’re a thoroughly common plant that anyone can have in their garden.”

  “Glad to hear it.”

  “I did think it, though. I considered mentioning that at Thornecroft we had—”

  “Yes, yes. I know all about Thornecroft. I also know Gerry refused to even attempt to re-create the Thornecroft gardens here. Not with all the sand in the soil. What made him quit?” I stirred muffin batter as I talked. Rose had pushed the knife and the bananas to one side.

  “Quit might not be the correct word. He decided to retire and move to Florida.”

  “Florida? He’s Cape Cod born and raised. He always says he’s never lived anywhere else in all his fifty-seven years and never intends to.”

  “It seems he met a lady.” Rose sniffed with disapproval.

  “Ooh, a lady. Do tell. I suppose this lady is from Florida?”

  “Yes. Highly inconsiderate of him, to my mind.”

  “When does he finish? I hope he gave you enough notice to have time to find someone else.”

  “Yesterday.”

  I stopped stirring. “Yesterday?”

  “His last day at work was yesterday. They’re driving to Florida this morning. He called me from the car.” Rose sniffed once again. “At least he was considerate enough to think of me at the last minute.”

  “Hardly considerate. We’ll never get anyone else in the middle of the season.”

  The gardens at Victoria-on-Sea are large and lush and beautiful and are one of the highlights of the place. It’s not easy maintaining an English country garden on the bluffs overlooking Cape Cod Bay, but Gerry and generations of skilled gardeners before him had accomplished miracles. The Victoria-on-Sea gardens occupy almost half an acre with neat hedgerows, carefully placed boxwoods and perennials, tall, swaying grasses, a rose garden, and the occasional statue or little folly scattered about to c
reate interest. Gerald, whom everyone except Rose called Gerry, had worked four days a week, eight months of the year, to keep it all under control.

  “Do you have much of a green thumb, Lily?” Rose asked.

  “If you’re asking me to take on the job of head gardener, along with everything else I do around here, the answer is a firm no. I grew up in an apartment in Manhattan, as you well know. Not much call for gardeners there. Mom didn’t even have herbs growing in a pot on the kitchen windowsill.”

  “Your mother didn’t do a lot of things.”

  “Why don’t we not go there? You might be able to get a landscaping firm to come out once or twice a week to at least keep the weeds under control and cut the grass.”

  “I hope that won’t be necessary.”

  I finished pouring batter into the muffin tins and popped them into the oven. This was a mighty big house, with eight rooms for B & B guests and a private suite for Rose. As she did every evening, last night Rose had left a note tucked under the saltshaker telling me how many to prepare breakfast for. We were almost full today, meaning fourteen meals.

  “Not necessary? You’ll be surprised how quickly a garden can get out of control. By tomorrow the foxgloves will be waging war on the portulaca.”

  “Portulaca. Such a lovely word, isn’t it? It feels nice in the mouth. Port-chu-laca.”

  Muffins in the oven, I got the sausages out of the fridge. Whenever possible, I try, here and in the tearoom, to feature locally sourced and produced Cape Cod ingredients. The sausages were handmade by a local butcher. Guests had their choice this morning of pork sausages with spices and hot pepper, hearty German bratwurst, or a mild chicken sausage. In case any of our guests were vegetarians, I kept nonmeat versions in the freezer. Rose’s instructions for this morning hadn’t said anything about special dietary requirements.