Tea & Treachery

by Vicki Delany

  “Not a letter, but an op-ed article she wanted him to print.” Edna turned to my grandmother. “You can’t be libeling people, Rose.”

  “I speak my mind.”

  “You might, but my husband isn’t going to print it.”

  “Coward,” Rose said. “I thought better of him. Whatever happened to a free and independent press?”

  Edna looked at me. “I thought you should know, Lily, in case she . . . uh . . . tries another avenue to get her opinions out.”

  “Tell me,” Rose said. “Are your husband and his newspaper also getting kickbacks from this scheme?”

  “That’s ridiculous,” Edna said.

  “Is it?” Rose asked. “Didn’t the paper run an editorial recently saying the Goodwill property was too valuable to be allowed to fall into ruin? To continue to fall even further into ruin?”

  “A great many people in town think the same,” Edna said. “That doesn’t mean we’re all being paid to think so.”

  “You include yourself in that number?”

  “I do.”

  “Then you’re fired,” Rose said.

  Robert the Bruce hissed and leapt off Rose’s lap.

  “You can’t fire me,” Edna said.

  “You are not fired,” I said.

  “Yes, you are,” Rose said.

  “You can’t fire me, because I quit.” Edna spun on her heel and headed for the door.

  I threw up my hands. “Please, don’t leave mad, Edna. I need you. You work for me, not my grandmother.”

  “She pays my wages, not you.” Edna opened the door and stepped into the soft glow of early twilight.

  “I need you,” I repeated.

  “Good night, Lily.” Edna climbed the steps, her back straight and her head high.

  “Now you’ve done it,” I said to my grandmother. “Be here, in this kitchen, promptly at six thirty tomorrow morning. I cannot cook and wait tables at the same time. How many rooms do we have tonight?”

  “As it’s a Friday, we are full. Sixteen adults and five children.”

  “Twenty-one breakfasts. You’ll have to help.”

  “Really, Lily. I told you when I hired you, I do not wait on tables.”

  “Someone has to.”

  “Even if I wanted to, which I do not, I’m too unsteady on my feet to be carrying trays of hot tea and taking food from the oven.” She attempted to look frail.

  Whether that was true or not, Rose had made her point. She would not back down, not even to do so much as supervise the making of the toast. I turned to Bernie. “Six thirty. On the dot. We start breakfast service at seven.”

  “That’s early. I hope . . . Oh, you mean you want me to help?”

  “That’s right.”

  “I wish I could, but I can’t. Morning’s my best working time. That’s why I moved here, right? To get an early start. Sorry.”

  I took the pie out of the oven. It looked highly unappetizing. “You’re doing a historical novel, right?”

  “Yes. Parts of it, anyway. I’m thinking of weaving the present and the past together. It might have a supernatural aspect, as one woman tries to—”

  “Hold on a sec.” I tore open the bag of premixed salad ingredients and dumped the contents into a bowl. Equally unappetizing. “For a historical novel to have an authentic feel and atmosphere, you need insight into the lives of the common worker of the times. Your characters can’t all be from the upper classes. You need to bring maids, servants, kitchen workers to life. As they would have lived their working lives in a grand old house. Say, one built on Cape Cod Bay in the eighteen sixties. Be here at six thirty on the dot.”

  “I get the point,” Bernie said.

  “Excellent,” Rose said. “I told you not to worry, Lily. As Mrs. Harrison always said at Thornecroft, these things have a way of working themselves out.”

  * * *

  Despite the bad start—and the poor food—dinner was a pleasant affair. Rose chatted gaily about news of family members (every one of whom had told me I was crazy to even consider going into business with her) and told us she was considering taking a cruise over the winter.

  I told them I’d hired a gardener and he’d be starting tomorrow.

  “On a Saturday?” Bernie said.

  “One day blends into another around here. The only difference on the weekends is we’re busier in both the tearoom and the B & B. If he wants to work weekends, that’s fine with me.”

  “I hope you didn’t offer to pay too high a wage, Lily,” Rose said.

  “He’s getting the same as Gerry.”

  “That’s ridiculous. Gerald had been in the employ of this house for many years. Long before I bought it.”

  “Yes, and he treated it like his own private garden, so he didn’t mind that you paid what he probably made back in nineteen seventy-eight, when he started.”

  “He worked here that long?” Bernie said.

  “I’m guessing,” I said. “If we want a young, qualified gardener with seaside experience, at the height of the season, we have to pay accordingly.”

  “What’s for dessert?” Rose asked.

  “You invited us for dinner,” I said. “What did you make?”

  She pushed her nearly empty plate to the side of the table. Robert the Bruce made a flying leap across the room and landed nimbly next to it. He bent his head, and his little pink tongue flicked across the plate, scooping up the last of the beef and gravy.

  “You shouldn’t feed the cat on the table,” Bernie said. “The health inspectors won’t like it.”

  “Do I see any so-called health inspectors in my kitchen? I do not. I shall therefore continue to do what I want in my own house.”

  Robbie lifted his head and threw Bernie a self-satisfied smirk.

  The phone on the wall rang. It was an old-fashioned thing, bright pink with big square buttons and a receiver you shouted into at one end and listened from at the other. As Rose made no move to get up and answer, I did so.

  “Victoria-on-Sea Bed-and-Breakfast. Good evening.”

  “Oh, hi, Lily. It’s Cheryl here. I was calling Rose.”

  “I’ll get her.”

  “Hold on. It might be a better idea to run this past you first.”

  “Who is it?” Rose asked.

  I gave her a wave. “What’s up?”

  “My sister’s daughter Andrea works at the courthouse. She isn’t really suitable for that job, being somewhat of a gossip, but tomorrow it’ll be common news, anyway.”

  “What will be common news tomorrow?”

  “Who is it?” Rose shook her hand at me. “Give me that.”

  “Andrea knows I work at the tearoom,” Cheryl said, “and everyone knows you’re Rose’s granddaughter, and . . .”

  “And . . . ?”

  “Jack Ford has filed papers suing your grandmother for slander. ”

  Chapter 5

  Because I didn’t trust Bernie to remember she was supposed to be working at the B & B this morning or to not make an excuse if she did remember, I sent her a text as soon as I woke up.

  When I came out of the shower, towel-drying my hair and mentally inventorying the contents of the tearoom freezer, she’d replied: I’m up. Now. You owe me. Big-time.

  At five to six, Éclair and I made our daily commute across the yard toward the house. The property is perched on the west side of the long curving peninsula that makes up the Outer Cape section of Cape Cod, overlooking Cape Cod Bay toward the mainland. The sun doesn’t rise over the water, but the morning view is still spectacular when the long rays of light creep slowly across the bay. There was no wind this morning, and the surface of the water was as smooth and shiny as the surface of the glass tray we served breakfast muffins on. By Cape Cod standards, we’re pretty high here, about a hundred and twenty-five feet above sea level, giving me a nice view of the morning’s activity on the bay. Working fishing boats, charters, and sailboats dotted the calm blue water. In a few hours the whale-watching boats would pass by
, heading for the top of the Cape and the open ocean and the animals’ feeding grounds. I stood at the edge of the bluffs, and leaned on the fence protecting walkers from the sharp drop-off. I breathed the sea air and felt the soft, salty wind caress my face, while Éclair ran in circles, sniffing at the ground. I could think of no better place to start the day. Whenever I began to regret leaving Manhattan, I came here, stood still, and simply breathed.

  “Good morning. Hope I’m not disturbing you.” I turned to see Simon McCracken coming toward me, dressed in brown overalls, a white T-shirt, and high-laced brown boots. The wind ruffled his hair, a pale lock fell over his forehead, and he was smiling broadly. “Beautiful day.”

  “You’re not disturbing me,” I said. “When I can, I like to take a moment on my way to work to admire my surroundings. I’m happy to share the view with anyone who appreciates it.”

  “This high up, it must be one of the best views along the coast.”

  “It is.”

  Éclair sniffed at his boots, and he bent over to give her a hearty pat. “Nice dog. My parents are looking after my two chocolate Labs while I’m away. I miss them a lot. What’s this lady’s name?”

  “Éclair.”

  He laughed as he straightened up. “I should have guessed. She looks like one with that coloring.”

  I didn’t tell him I hadn’t named her. I inherited the dog from a roommate, also a pastry chef. My roommate went to Los Angeles on vacation, got a job, fell in love, and never came back to Manhattan. She asked me to pack up her clothes and mail them to her. I considered sticking a stamp on the dog’s nose and sending her by the US Postal Service, but that didn’t seem terribly practical. Rather than search for another roommate, I decided to rent a smaller place, and I intended to find another home for the dog. But somehow, slowly, she worked her wiles on me and wormed her way into my affections, and we’d been together ever since. My mother told me I was insane to keep a dog in Manhattan but, as usual, if my mother said it, I had to do the opposite.

  Which, come to think of it, was part of the reason I was here in Cape Cod, in business with Rose.

  “Come into the kitchen,” I said to Simon, “and I’ll get you the key to the garden shed. Everything you need should be in there. If you have to buy anything, keep the receipts and we’ll reimburse you. Gerry had me save coffee grounds and used tea leaves from the tearoom for him to use in the garden.”

  “I’ll take them, too. Plants love them. Plus any kitchen scraps I can use for compost.”

  “In exchange, if you can bring us fresh flowers in the morning to put on the tables, I’d appreciate it. Don’t decimate the plants. Just cut any extras they can spare.”

  “It’s a deal,” he said.

  “One more thing. You’re welcome to pop into the kitchen here and make yourself a tea or coffee at any time. The doors are only locked at night.”

  “Thanks, Lily. I know I’m going to enjoy working here. If you don’t mind my saying, that looks dangerous.” He pointed to the steep staircase leading down to the beach. Some of the boards were cracked or tilting ominously, and the railing had come unfastened in places. A few steps were missing altogether. The gate at the top of the steps rattled on its rusty hinges.

  “I know. It’s but another thing we need to get done. Gerry was supposed to fix it. He’d been saying for months he’d get around to it. He never did.”

  “I saw kids playing near here yesterday, when I was poking around. You don’t want any accidents. I’ll do it this weekend if you want. I can fix the gate for a start.”

  “That would be marvelous. Thank you.” The last thing we needed was a lawsuit. Another lawsuit, I should say.

  I smiled at him. He smiled at me.

  “Good morning!” Two women crossed the lawn, heading for the stairs. They were dressed in khaki shorts and sturdy shoes, with binoculars around their necks and hiking poles in each hand. They walked with firm, determined strides and looked as cheerful as only people on vacation could. They unlatched the gate, stepped through it, and carefully closed it behind them.

  “Careful on the stairs,” I called after them.

  “Let’s get that key, shall we?” Simon said.

  * * *

  By six thirty, I had two types of muffins in the oven—banana chocolate chip for the children and bran and walnut for the adults—and sausages sizzling on the stove. I was grating cheese for the herb and red pepper frittata, which would be an optional extra this morning, when the kitchen door opened.

  “Spot on time,” I said. “First, lay out the cereal with milk and the pots of yogurt in the dining room in case anyone comes down early, and then start cutting the fruit for the salad.”

  “I know what to do, Lily,” Edna said.

  I turned around. “Oh. Good morning. I wasn’t expecting you today.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because last night you were fired and then you quit. Or did you quit and then were fired? I forget the exact order of events.”

  She shrugged and took her apron down from the hook. “Life goes on. Rose says things she sometimes doesn’t mean. I have to admit that I do, too, on occasion.”

  “I’m glad you’re here. Before you start, something upsetting happened last night I’d like to ask you about. Did your husband show Jack Ford the letter Rose sent to the paper?”

  She twisted her mouth into a moue of disapproval and took the cheese grater and the cheese from me. I started cracking eggs.

  “I assume by your question that someone did,” she said. “I can assure you it was not Frank. He wouldn’t have done that, particularly if he didn’t intend to print the letter, but he has a summer intern working at the paper, and I don’t approve of her. She’s far too ambitious and far too impulsive. I wouldn’t put it past her to have sent Rose’s email to Jack, hoping for a reaction.”

  “She got one. Why does your husband keep her on if she’s not working out?”

  “One, she’s free. And two, she’s our niece. Frank’s brother’s daughter Ilana.”

  “Oh.”

  “Oh is right. Ilana intends to be the next Rachel Maddow. Frank’s too kindhearted to fire her. I hope he does if he finds out she did what you think she did.”

  “Jack has filed papers to sue Rose over that letter.”

  “Sorry I’m late.” Bernie burst into the room. She wore a calf-length black dress with long sleeves and a stiff white collar, thick black stockings, and black flats. She’d tied her mane of curls into a severe bun at the back of her head, removed all the hoops from her ears, and her face was clear of makeup. “Hi. I thought you were fired?”

  “I unfired myself,” Edna said.

  “Why are you dressed like that?” I asked.

  Bernie held out her arms and twirled around. “Like it? I’m getting myself totally into the part. I want to feel the oppression of the working classes, so I’m dressed like a footman.”

  “Footmen are men.”

  “Not much I can do about that,” she said.

  “I guess not, but if you want to truly feel the oppression of the working classes, you should try running a restaurant in the tourist season.”

  “Or working for Rose Campbell.” Having grated a mountain of cheese while we talked, Edna took containers of yogurt out of the fridge, poured milk and orange and apple juice into jugs, and got down cereal boxes.

  I laughed. “I’m glad you’re here. We’ll be busy this morning, and Edna can use the help.”

  “I certainly can,” Edna said. “But what’s this about suing?”

  “Oh, yeah,” Bernie said. “That. You probably heard Rose yelling all the way in town. I learned some new English expressions last night.”

  “Jack has to have seen the email Rose sent to the paper,” I said. “He’s suing her.”

  “Have you seen this letter?” Edna placed everything on a tray.

  “Sadly, yes.” After Cheryl called last night, I’d insisted on Rose taking me to her computer. I searched the sent folder and fou
nd the email. It wasn’t, to say the least, flattering to the property developer. She didn’t actually come out and say he was working for the mob, but it was implied. She did more than imply that he was either accepting bribes from members of town council or bribing them.

  “Suing her over an unpublished letter seems a drastic step,” Edna said.

  “It’s a good way of ensuring everyone in town reads the contents of a letter that was going to otherwise remain unpublished,” I said.

  “Jack’s a local boy who’s done well for himself,” Edna said. “Some say not entirely by following the letter of the law. He has his enemies around here, for sure. Maybe he’s expecting someone else to come out against him soon, and he decided to send them a message.”

  “And Rose just happened to be the nearest target. She’s going to have to back down. We can’t afford to pay him a cent or to hire a lawyer to fight this for us.”

  “Do you think she will?” Bernie asked. “Fight it?”

  Edna snorted, and I said, “Rose back down? Not a chance. She’s going to push forward more than ever, guns blazing. What a mess. Nothing we can do about that right now. I’ll have a talk with her later and try to talk some sense into her. Last night she was almost gleeful at the thought of taking him on. Bernie, get to work. You can slice the tomatoes and mushrooms. If we’re lucky, the suit won’t go ahead. He’s only trying to intimidate her.”

  “Little does he know,” Edna said, “that Rose doesn’t take terribly well to intimidation.”

  “Guaranteed to rile her up and get her even more firmly on the warpath.” The sausages were perfectly browned, and I turned the heat off.

  “Has she come in yet this morning?” Bernie asked.

  “No. I hope she sleeps in until I can make my escape,” I said.

  “Good morning!” a voice called from the dining room. “Anyone there?”

  I glanced at the clock. Ten to seven.

  Edna picked up the tray. “And so the oppression of the working classes begins.”

  “What do you want me to do?” Bernie asked.

  “First, slice those mushrooms and tomatoes and toss them into that pan with a splash of olive oil and give them a light sautéing. Then be ready when Edna comes back with the breakfast orders and assemble the plates accordingly.”