by Vicki Delany
I let myself into the cottage, exchanged effusive greetings with the dog, and got down her leash. She did her happy dance; she knows what the leash means. She’s well enough trained to come when I call, so I didn’t need to fasten the leash to her collar, but I always carry it in case we encounter a wandering dog or a guest who’s frightened of dogs.
The lights lining the verandah of the B & B shone on patches of garden. Simon seemed to be doing a good job. I pushed thoughts of him aside. As I’d told Bernie, he was going back to England in the fall. Éclair and I strolled up the driveway as far as the road. Moonlight filled the tearoom’s patio, and the teacups hanging from the tree swayed and murmured softly in the warm wind. They reminded me I was far too busy to even consider embarking on a summer romance.
When we reached the road, I said, “Time to turn back. I’m bushed.”
We retraced our steps, but before going into the cottage, we walked to the edge of the bluffs looking over the moonlit bay. A few guests were scattered about, enjoying a glass of wine on one of the benches or taking the air. Éclair sniffed at the grass around my feet.
“Lovely evening,” a woman said to me. She was in her midfifties, short and slightly plump, wearing an attractive navy blue dress with white trim and white sandals. I guessed she’d been someplace nice for dinner.
“It is,” I replied.
“Can I pat your dog? He’s so cute. What’s his name?”
“Éclair, after the pastry, and she’s female.”
The woman crouched down and clicked her tongue rapidly. Éclair nuzzled her nose into the offered hand.
“I don’t have any treats for you. Next time I’ll try to remember to bring something.” She gave Éclair a final firm pat and stood up. “I’ll be sorry to leave tomorrow. It’s been a marvelous visit.” She giggled. “We’re on our honeymoon.”
“Congratulations,” I said. “Perhaps you’ll come again.”
“Definitely. I love the Cape, and this place is perfect.”
I remembered seeing her on Saturday morning at the edge of the bluff, watching the police activity. “I hope what happened on Saturday didn’t upset you too much.”
She shivered and wrapped her arms around herself. “You mean all the police activity? Oh, no. It was very exciting. Like being in a TV show.”
I thought that a bit insensitive, but I suppose to someone who didn’t know the people involved and wasn’t close to the events that brought about a man’s death, the death would feel remote. Like watching TV or reading one of Rose’s beloved mystery novels.
“Good night,” she said as she turned and walked away.
“Good night.” I didn’t go in immediately. I stood where I was, enjoying the caress of the soft breeze off the water on my face, the scent of salt in the air, and the rustling of the dog at my feet. An airplane flew overhead, heading east toward Europe.
I thought about our visit to Janice Ford. She’d been surprisingly honest with us. If, that is, she was being honest and not spinning a story in an attempt to shock us. Regardless, it was possible she hadn’t presented that side of herself to the police. I’d have to tell them what we learned, even if they didn’t want to hear from me.
That could wait until tomorrow. Right now, my bed was calling, and I didn’t want to take the chance Amy Redmond would want to talk to me in person, rather than over the phone.
Chapter 16
“What do you mean, we have no berries? How is that even possible? It’s berry season in New England.”
“Nancy called to tell me her son’s been ill, so he didn’t get out to the bushes,” Cheryl said. “I don’t think that’s true. I bet she got a better offer.”
I groaned. The aforementioned Nancy ran a berry farm. She was my main supplier for seasonal berries. The berries we used so many of in our scones, cakes, and tarts at this time of year.
“Maybe you can make lemon squares today?” Marybeth suggested.
“The menu says fresh Cape Cod berry tarts.”
“We can scratch that out?”
“Not an option. It’s berry season, and our customers want berries in their baked goods. I want berries in our baked goods. I’ll take a run to the supermarket. I can only hope no one sees me buying cellophane-wrapped strawberries. Maybe I’ll go in disguise.” I glanced at the clock on the kitchen wall. Ten thirty, half an hour to opening. “I should be back by eleven, but if I’m delayed, you can open without me. We have enough food prepared to last through the initial rush. I’ve made a good start on the sandwiches, and you can finish them.” I took off my apron. “I’ve faced worse emergencies in my time. Cheryl, can you call Nancy and tell her I need a firm commitment that the requisite number of berries will be here on time tomorrow?”
“Will do,” Cheryl said. “If she says she can’t be sure, she’ll be struck off my Thanksgiving dinner guest list.” Nancy was Cheryl’s cousin.
Manhattan native that I am, I don’t own a car and never have. Rose and I share hers. I called and told her I needed it for a short while, and then I ran to the B & B to get the second set of keys from the kitchen, and headed into town. The supermarket’s located on the far end of the North Augusta main street. Traffic was heavy, but it moved steadily, and I made good time. I ran into the market, swept up almost all their strawberries—enough to last me through today and provide some excess in case Nancy decided to have her Thanksgiving dinner elsewhere this year. If I had too many, I could always use them in muffins for the B & B or freeze them. I was pleased to see a sign over the berry rack announcing local produce. My menu wouldn’t be a lie. The tiny fruits were bright red, plump, and glistening with juice—each one a perfect tiny jewel.
I paid for my purchases and was back in Rose’s car in record time. I ripped open one of the packages, scooped up a single berry and tossed it into my mouth. I reveled in the marvelous sweet-tart flavor as I headed for the tearoom.
The main street of North Augusta is lined by huge oaks, some over a hundred years old, which provide a delightfully cool leafy canopy. North Augusta is a quiet town of good restaurants, trendy coffee shops, charming stores, and art galleries featuring local artists and crafters. Crowds of tourists browsed the shops, sipped coffee on outdoor patios, or read menus posted on restaurant doors.
The SUV ahead of me had a kayak strapped to the roof and two bikes mounted on the back. It made it through the town’s only traffic light in time, leaving me facing the red. I didn’t mind. I was making good time and should be back not long after the tearoom opened for the day.
A stream of people stepped off the sidewalk and crossed in front of me, heading for the other side of the street. Tourists, pink nosed from the sun, dragging ice-cream-licking children; shop clerks in casual summer wear; the occasional businessperson in a suit walking briskly, intent on their errand.
The walk signal changed from white to flashing red. A woman passed in front of my car, hurrying to make the safety of the sidewalk before the cars started moving again.
I blinked in recognition and surprise. That this person was on Main Street, North Augusta, at eleven on a Tuesday morning was nothing to be surprised about. But the way she walked was. She stepped onto the sidewalk, then hurried across the cross street and went into the coffee shop on the corner.
The car behind me beeped, telling me the light had changed and I was holding up traffic. I drove through the intersection. Every parking space was taken as far as I could see, so I pulled up beside a fire hydrant. Feeling very guilty indeed, I hopped out of my car. Hopefully, I’d be back before I got towed or, worse, the firefighters needed to use the hydrant.
I didn’t wait for the light but dashed across the street, dodging honking cars. I leapt onto the sidewalk, breathing heavily. Pedestrians gave me curious looks.
I ignored them and peered into the window of the coffee shop. The place was full, and there was a line at the counter. My quarry had joined the queue.
I ducked inside. It was a thoroughly modern coffee bar with hissing espress
o machines, granite countertops, glass-fronted display cases, polished wide-planked wooden floors, friendly young baristas, and patrons typing away on their various devices. And a lot of people waiting to be served. I fell in at the back of the line, which slowly edged forward.
“A large caramel latte,” Dorothy Johnson said when it was her turn to be served. Her voice was strong, strong enough to reach me at the other side of the busy room. I didn’t see her walker, and she hadn’t been using so much as a cane when she crossed the street.
The young man beside her grabbed his drink off the counter, turned suddenly, and bumped into her. He clutched his cup as Dorothy leapt nimbly out of the way.
“Can’t you watch where you’re going?” she snapped.
“Chill, lady,” he said. “No harm done.”
“No thanks to you,” she replied.
He shrugged and walked away.
“Large caramel latte,” the barista called, putting a cup on the counter. Dorothy picked it up. She took a sip and then put a lid on the cup and walked out of the coffee shop. I ducked behind the person in front of me, but Dorothy didn’t so much as give the other patrons a sideways glance.
I followed her, trying to make myself small and unnoticeable, but it didn’t matter. Dorothy paid no attention to what was happening behind her. She marched down the center of the sidewalk, making no move to get out of anyone’s way. Everyone else, clearly, was expected to move aside for her. She walked for a block and then stopped next to a Toyota RAV4 parked in a space clearly marked for the handicapped. She pulled keys out of her pocket and flicked the fob. The car’s headlights flashed in acknowledgment, and Dorothy got into the car. It started up immediately, and she pulled into traffic. The license plate had a handicapped sticker, and I caught a glimpse of a walker in the back.
Dorothy wasn’t as frail and feeble as she appeared at the retirement home. She was pretending to be so in order to take advantage of the kindness of the good people of the State of Massachusetts and park illegally. The rat!
If she could dodge coffee-bearing young men and walk briskly down the street, what else might she be capable of?
Knocking a man off a cliff?
I thought about that for a few minutes. We’d dismissed Dorothy as a suspect because she was frail and had trouble walking. In that, obviously, we’d been mistaken. I wondered if she ever used hiking poles.
Fortunately, I wasn’t too deep in thought that I failed to see the parking enforcement officer heading in my direction. I turned and ran. I found the car where I’d left it, with no ticket flapping on the windshield.
I drove back to Tea by the Sea, deep in thought.
Chapter 17
I made good use of the strawberries in the berry tarts, which make up an important part of our dessert plate and the sweet selection of the traditional afternoon tea.
By quarter to three, another batch of scones was in the oven, cupcakes were cooling prior to being iced, the icing was made, and tea sandwiches were resting in the fridge under damp cloths. I was putting the tops on the last of the day’s macarons and looking forward to a short break. I had my eye on a couple of those sandwiches and was taking some time to choose what cup and plate I wanted for my tea. My grandmother had taught me that cup and side plate don’t always have to match, but they do have to have a similarity in theme or appearance. Black and white would do for today, I thought. I was taking down a white cup and saucer with a pattern of intricate black filigree and a plate painted to resemble piano keys when Bernie came into the kitchen.
“Ready to go?” she said.
“Go? Go where? It’s the middle of the day.”
“To the baseball game. Rose told you about that. It starts at three. We can corner the mayor once she’s thrown out the first pitch.”
“I’m busy. You’ll have to go without me.”
“I can’t go without you. I need a wingman. Suppose she runs for it and we have to chase her?”
“Then you’re better off without me. I haven’t been to the gym since I moved to North Augusta.”
“Lily! Rose says you promised.”
“Bernie! Rose promised for me. That’s not the same.”
“Yes, it is. You can take your lunch with you and eat in the car.”
I’d been able to hold my own—to flourish even—in the tough world of the New York City restaurant business. But somehow, in pleasant little North Augusta, in the face of Bernie and Rose, I crumbled like a perfect slice of shortcrust pastry. “Okay. If we’re quick about it. Cheryl and Marybeth can manage for a while.” I took off my apron and dropped a couple of the egg sandwiches into a plastic baggie. “You owe me one hour of work this evening.”
“Can’t. I have to get back to my book. I’ve broken the logjam of worrying about historical accuracy and need to work on it.”
“If you’re writing a historical novel, Bernie, you need to worry about historical accuracy.”
“I can fix those details later. Right now I need to concentrate on character development.”
“Sounds to me like you’re making the bread without first taking into account what filling is going to go inside the sandwich.”
“You do that?”
“Of course I do. I wouldn’t make a pumpernickel loaf and then decide to have strawberry jelly with it.”
“Sounds good to me.”
“Which is why you are not the chef.”
Cheryl came into the kitchen. “One order of cream tea for three and a dessert plate for one.”
“I have to go out for a few minutes,” I said to her. “Everything’s pretty much ready for the rest of the day. Are you okay on your own for a while? I have my phone if you need anything.”
“We’ll be fine,” she said. “I’ll get Marybeth to finish frosting those cupcakes.”
“Thanks. The icing’s made and under that cloth.”
Bernie and I left by the back door and walked around the tearoom to the parking lot and her car. In the distance, Simon was hard at work with the secateurs, deadheading the perennials. He gave us a wave. I waved back. True to her word, Detective Redmond had sent someone first thing this morning to take down the police tape. The moment that was done, Simon put up a new gate and reinforced the steps and the fence.
“Anything happening on that front?” Bernie asked.
“What front?”
“The Simon front. He looks so good, doesn’t he, in those baggy overalls and the big boots? His hair tossed by the wind, his cheeks ruddy with fresh sea air.”
“Are you telling me you like Simon?”
“I like Simon fine. But not in that way. I’m merely pointing out to you that you could do a lot worse.”
“Anyone worse is not in the cards, as I’m not looking for a relationship right now, Bernie.” I usually told Bernie everything, and I trusted that she did the same with me, but I hadn’t told her about Simon’s and my impromptu pizza supper last night. She had intensely disliked Tim, my previous boyfriend—he of the meat cleaver. She’d never said, “I told you so,” but she hadn’t needed to. I could read it on her face.
* * *
A scattering of cars were parked at the ball field. The local team was in a tournament, playing host to the team from Sandwich. The North Augusta players wore yellow T-shirts, and the Sandwich ones were in red. The girls were around ten years old, all bouncing ponytails, smiling sun-kissed faces, scuffed sneakers, boundless energy and enthusiasm. Parents found seats in park bleachers or unfolded chairs on the grass.
The mayor was standing off to one side with two women in business clothes, a man in jeans and a Red Sox ball cap, and two women, whom I took to be the coaches.
As we crossed the park toward them, Bernie nudged me. “Her Honor doesn’t look too good.”
I agreed. Mayor Powers’s eyes were tinged red, and underneath the carefully applied makeup, her face was puffy. “She’s been crying,” I said.
“Looks like it.”
“What do you intend to do? You can’t just
walk up to her and ask about her relationship with Jack Ford.”
“Sure I can. But give me some credit here, Lily. A more oblique approach will work better.”
The coaches went to join their teams. The girls were sitting on the benches, and at an unseen signal, they jumped up and ran onto the field. They formed two neat rows along the baselines, and the mayor and the man with the cap joined them.
The man spoke first, introducing himself as the league organizer and welcoming the visitors to our town. He then asked the mayor to open the tournament.
Carla Powers spoke about the joy of youth sports. She mentioned her time playing ball in this very park when she was the same age as these girls. I’d heard her speak at the opening of my tearoom—from the kitchen, where I’d been trying to save my brownies—and thought her a good speaker. Today her heart didn’t seem to be in it.
Bernie trotted around the bleachers. I followed. We went up to the two women in business clothes.
“Hi,” Bernie said. “Nice day for it.”
“It is,” they replied.
“I’m Bernadette Murphy, and this is my friend Lily Roberts. We’re new to North Augusta.”
“Pleased to meet you. I’m Mia, and this is Jenny. We work at town hall.” Mia was in her twenties, tall and thin, with long shiny brown hair, perfect makeup, and manicured hands. She wore a dark skirt suit and ironed white blouse, along with patent leather pumps with one-inch heels. Jenny, on the other hand, was a lot older, somewhat rough around the edges, looking like she could no longer be bothered to make much of an effort. Her pants didn’t fit too well, and she had sturdy Birkenstocks on her feet.
“Do you have daughters on the team?” Jenny asked.
“We don’t,” Bernie said, “but we’re big supporters of girls’ athletics.” Bernie—the Warrior Princess—certainly looked the part.
I turned to look at the mayor, who was still talking. Out on the field, the rows of players were getting restless. Girls began shifting from one foot to the other. I saw one nudging another. “It’s nice of the mayor to take time out of her schedule to welcome the players.”