Tea & Treachery

by Vicki Delany

  He’d heard about the trouble we’d had in the night and came over to check on us, like a good neighbor should.

  Cheryl came back to replenish a teapot. I finished cutting the individual pastry shells and laying them on baking sheets. I’d bake the pastry blend, and then, when the shells were cooked and cooled, I’d add a puree made of the fresh berries, a touch of sugar, and a drop of lemon juice and top each tart off with a single perfect strawberry.

  “Get the strawberries out of the fridge for me, will you please?” I asked Cheryl. “I might as well wash them while I’m thinking about it.”

  She turned around. Bernie ducked in barely enough time to avoid getting a teapot in the ribs.

  “You need a bigger kitchen,” Bernie said.

  “Yes, I do,” I replied. “But until I get one, I need fewer people in this one.”

  “I can take a hint.”

  I popped the tart shells into the oven and set the timer. “What have you got planned for the rest of the day?”

  “I’m going to see what I can dig up about Matt Goodwill. I don’t like that all my searching is not finding any source of income for him. If he’s in need of money, I’ll find out. Cheryl, do you know anything about Matt Goodwill?”

  “Other than that he’s Lincoln’s son? Not really. He grew up around here but moved away some years ago.”

  The back door opened, and Simon’s head popped in. “Sure is crowded in here.”

  We all laughed.

  He looked from one of us to the other. “Everything okay, Lily?”

  “All under control.” I waved my hand around the kitchen. “Although it might not look like it.”

  “I meant about . . . uh . . . other matters.”

  “You know what’s been going on?” Bernie said to him.

  “What’s been going on?” Cheryl asked.

  “Don’t you have customers waiting?” I said to her.

  “Okay, okay.” She left the room with a shake of her head.

  “I know some of it,” Simon said. “I’ve been keeping an eye on the house this morning. Rose sat outside for a while after breakfast on one of the benches overlooking the sea. The adjacent bushes are now pruned to within an inch of their lives.”

  “Thanks, Simon,” I said. “But I’m sure we’re safe during the day. People who sneak around in the night, making spooky noises at an elderly lady’s window, aren’t the sort to attack in broad daylight.”

  “I wouldn’t be so sure of that,” he said. “Catch you later.”

  He left, and Bernie grinned at me. “Nice! He’s pretending to be worried about Rose, but that’s just an excuse to pop in here and see you, Lily.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. He’s not pretending about anything.”

  “Whatever you say.” Bernie headed for the door and then hesitated. She turned to face me. “You’ll take care, won’t you, Lily?”

  “Don’t I always?” I said.

  “No, you don’t. But you know what I mean.”

  I nodded.

  “And take care of Rose. It’s nice that Simon’s watching out for her, whatever his reasons might be, but he can’t be there all the time. Do you think I should move in with her?”

  “Move in? You mean into her rooms?”

  “Yeah. Like a bodyguard. At least until this is all over.”

  “It might never be over. We might not even know when it is over if the killer slips away undetected. Other than that, Rose’ll refuse to allow you to put yourself out, you know that.”

  “Offer’s there if you need it.”

  I crossed the floor and gave her a hug. “I know. Rose knows, too.”

  She hugged me back. When we separated, I said, “You can have another piece of shortbread if you want it.”

  “Don’t mind if I do,” she said.

  “Cheryl,” I asked after Bernie had gone, “how long has Carla Powers been mayor?”

  “Six years. She’s in her second term now. She was a town councillor for several years before that. Why do you ask?”

  “Just wondering. Has there ever been suspicions that she’s in the back pocket of any developers?”

  “As much as some people believe all politicians are crooked,” Cheryl said, “I’ve never been one of them. My brother was on town council for a lot of years. He served the town of North Augusta because he cares about it. And he cares about the people who live here. That doesn’t answer your question, but I’ll say no. I’ve never heard any rumors of that sort about Carla. She won both of her elections by a good margin and got an even larger share of the vote the second time around. Now, if you were to ask me about her romantic entanglements, that’s another story.”

  “I heard she was having an affair with Jack Ford.”

  “Jack Ford. John Doe. There’s always someone. You could make a soap opera about Carla and her husband. She threatens to leave him. He threatens to leave her. He moves out. She throws him out. He comes back. And then it starts all over again. They don’t have any children, so I say it’s no one’s business but theirs. If she was having an affair with Jack, people would be watching her voting record on development issues pretty closely. Tell you the truth, Lily, I hope Carla stays on as mayor for many more years yet. She’s honest, and that’s not something you can say for all of them. Despite what I said earlier, plenty of politicians are out there who are eager to jump into developers’ pockets. Enough talk. If I don’t get this tea served, we’ll have customers charging the kitchen.”

  She left, and I went back to my strawberry tarts and my thoughts.

  * * *

  I put my hands against the small of my back and leaned against them, trying to work some of the kinks out.

  It had been an exceptionally busy day. The weather continued to be good, hot and sunny, perfect tourist conditions. At three o’clock, a line began forming. While waiting for a table, people toured the gardens or admired the house. Rose called to tell me she’d had several drop-ins: people inquiring if she had rooms available. Starting with tonight, the B & B was completely booked for the next three weeks.

  “You won’t believe who’s here,” Cheryl said to me at one point.

  “Who?”

  “Janice Ford.”

  “Jack’s wife?”

  “Yeah. I was serving tables in the patio when I saw her arrive. She left her car here and walked up to the house.”

  “Did she go inside?”

  “Not that I saw. She went around the back. To where . . . well, to see where Jack died, I guess. She’s now taken a seat in the patio and ordered a cream tea with Darjeeling. She’s by herself. Just staring across the lawn at the house and the sea. Sad.” Cheryl gave her head a shake and hefted her tray.

  I briefly considered going out front and paying my respects to Janice but decided to leave her in peace. When I met her, I hadn’t thought she was grieving for her husband, but people can be full of surprises. Perhaps she was remembering the good times. Presumably, she and Jack had had some good times together.

  I hadn’t heard from Detective Williams about the threatening note I’d found. I spent a lot of time wondering if I should call him to ask if they had any ideas about that or about last night’s intruder.

  I finally decided not to waste my time. For some reason, Williams was actively trying to discourage my interest in this case.

  Which might be because he didn’t like interfering civilians.

  Or it might be something more sinister.

  The oven timer dinged, and I turned my attention to more immediate matters.

  At five minutes to five, I said to Marybeth, “I’m stepping out for some air. How’s it looking out there?”

  “Two tables on the patio are lingering over their tea, and that’s it for today. Looks like we’ve been pretty much cleaned out.”

  “Which is a good thing,” I said, “meaning money in my pocket. Not a good thing, as I have to spend this evening baking.”

  “I’d stay and help if I could.”

  “I kn
ow. Don’t worry about it. I’m fine here on my own.” Which was true. After all these years, I still love to bake. I don’t love it so much when my staff are clamoring for orders, the dishwasher is overflowing and the pile of dishes in the sink is about to topple over, and I’ve just discovered the flour bin is almost empty.

  But alone, by myself, in a neatly organized kitchen, surrounded by good, fresh ingredients waiting to be combined into something delicious?

  Still my happy place.

  I left Marybeth filling the sink with a fresh batch of hot, soapy water and went out the back door. I called Amy Redmond, and she answered.

  “I heard about what happened at your place last night,” she said. “The report says no one was harmed and nothing appears to have been taken.”

  “That’s right. Rose had a fright, but nothing major. Unless you consider that any shock to a woman of her age can threaten to become something major.”

  “If you’re calling me to ask what’s happening, I have to tell you to talk to Detective Williams.”

  “I called Williams this morning. I left a message for him to contact me about the new development, and he hasn’t.”

  “What sort of new development?”

  “I found a note by the back door when I went to the B & B to start breakfast. It was a clear threat, telling me to mind my own business. I can only assume it had been left by last night’s intruder.”

  “Where’s this note now?”

  “Detective Williams sent a uniformed officer around to get it.”

  “This is news to me,” she said. “Although, I have to point out that as I am not on this case, there’s no reason information would be shared with me . . .” Her voice trailed off. “But detectives shouldn’t be keeping information to themselves. I’d like to see it.”

  “Then you’re in luck,” I said. “I took some pictures.”

  “Did you now?” she replied. “Are you at the tearoom?”

  “Yes, and I’ll be here for hours yet. I have to get tomorrow’s baking started.”

  “I’ll be around when I can.” She hung up without saying good-bye.

  * * *

  When I bake things I’ve made a thousand times before, I have plenty of time to think. This evening, I thought. Bernie had drawn up her list of suspects for the murder of Jack Ford.

  She’d missed one name.

  Detective Chuck Williams.

  I didn’t believe, not yet, anyway, that Williams had killed Jack. I had no reason to suspect him, but it seemed to me his investigation into this case was on the sloppy side. I don’t know anything about how police work, other than what I’ve read in mystery novels or seen on TV, and I’ve been told those are not always entirely accurate.

  But reading between the lines, I guessed Amy Redmond was thinking along those same lines.

  She, with more experience in major crimes than Williams, had been assigned to investigate trivialities. Williams wasn’t interested in what Bernie found out or what Rose and I suspected. He still seemed to be focusing, despite the other suspects, on Rose herself as the killer.

  I had to ask myself why.

  Did he kill Jack Ford himself? Was he covering for someone else? Someone like Lincoln Goodwill, whom he’d known for many years? Or for Carla Powers, who was ultimately his boss?

  Or was he simply as incompetent as he appeared to be?

  Chapter 22

  Over the next few days, we heard nothing more about the police investigation. Bernie continued checking into the records of all concerned, but if she came up with anything new, she didn’t tell me. I asked her to find out what she could about Chuck Williams, and her eyes lit up.

  “You think he’s on the take?”

  “I think it’s worth looking into.”

  She found nothing of interest. He’d been born and raised in North Augusta. He’d lived in the same house for thirty years, and the mortgage had been paid off five years ago. Despite recent rumors to the contrary, he was still with the woman he married shortly after finishing high school. Mrs. Williams was a bookkeeper at an insurance company; they had three children, one of whom was a cop in Boston, one a commercial fisherman, and one a primary school teacher. Williams and his wife had gone on a very posh Caribbean vacation last year, but it hadn’t been so expensive as to be totally outside the means of someone who’d saved hard for the trip. Bernie asked if I wanted to see pictures of Williams in his bathing suit, cavorting on the beach, and I assured her, with a shudder, that I did not.

  She couldn’t, she told me, find out anything at all about how Matt Goodwill made his living, and he had an almost nonexistent profile on social media. “Didn’t I consider that interesting?” she asked. I did not. Even Bernie couldn’t find out everything about everyone, and some people (probably wisely) stayed far away from social media.

  Every day, Simon could regularly be seen creeping through the shrubbery, secateurs in hand, keeping an eye on Rose. If Rose noticed, and she almost certainly did, she didn’t say anything to discourage him.

  I wasn’t sleeping well, and I could often be found in the gardens late at night, walking the dog and watching her carefully to see if she detected anything out of place.

  She never did.

  Williams didn’t bother to tell me if they learned anything about the message that had been left in the geraniums, but Amy Redmond did.

  The note, she told me, had been made by a cheap mass-produced printer on cheap mass-produced computer paper with standard ink-jet ink. No telltale watermarks or distinctive monograms to reveal the identity of the sender. One set of fingerprints had been found on it—mine.

  Likewise, no identifiable prints had been lifted from Rose’s windows or the windowsills.

  Williams had concluded, Redmond told me, it had been a prank. Bored teenagers getting up to mischief at the location of a killing. She didn’t say so in so many words, but her tone of voice told me what she thought of that.

  The branch of the North Augusta grapevine that runs through Tea by the Sea via Cheryl told me that Mayor Carla Powers and Mr. Powers had recently been seen at the most expensive restaurant in town, staring deeply into each other’s eyes and holding hands. Janice Ford had put her house up for sale. Bernie’s digging revealed that Janice did indeed have a considerable amount of money in her own name, even after Jack had squandered much of it. Dorothy Johnson had been asked to move out of her retirement home after getting into a heated argument with the other residents over the placement of chairs around the stage for a musical evening.

  Life carried on. I made breakfast in the B & B, had time for coffee and a quick walk with Éclair, and then baked all day and sometimes into the night in the tearoom. Another walk with the dog along the bluffs and to bed.

  All very boring, but for the time being, I enjoyed the regularity of it, and I was happy in my new life.

  * * *

  The pattern broke on Monday, a little over a week since the death of Jack Ford, when after another glorious weekend, the sky darkened and rain moved in.

  Some of the tables in the patio are protected by umbrellas, so they can be used in the rain as long as it’s not too windy, but the bad weather reduces our available seating. Fortunately, the rain held off until Monday, after the weekend tourists had headed for home. The dining room was full most of the day, but we didn’t have a line waiting outside.

  At quarter after two, Cheryl told me Lincoln and Matt Goodwill had taken a table. “You should go out and say hi.”

  “Why?”

  “Be neighborly. We’re busy these days, but over the winter you’ll need to rely on locals to keep business going.”

  “I’m thinking of expanding the menu in the off-season,” I said. “Lunches, soup and salad, that sort of thing, along with desserts and afternoon tea. What do you think?”

  “Good idea. North Augusta folk aren’t likely to come out for a fancy, not to mention expensive, special tea in the middle of winter.”

  I took off my apron. “You’re right.
I’ll make friendly.”

  I slapped a smile on my face and went into the dining room. I stopped in the entranceway for a moment, enjoying a brief pause to simply take it all in.

  My place.

  People were chatting, drinking tea, and nibbling on sandwiches and pastries while the rain beat steadily against the windows. The scent of hot, fragrant tea filled the air, good china clinked, and a man laughed.

  I should, I thought, get out of the kitchen more. Sometimes I got so busy baking, I forgot to stop and take a moment to appreciate the end product: satisfied customers enjoying my food.

  Lincoln Goodwill, his son, Matt, and Roy Gleeson had taken a table in one of the alcoves. They’d ordered coffee and the light tea: sandwiches and pastries.

  Lincoln and Roy were leaning close together, talking in angry whispers. Their posture was stiff, and both men’s color was high. In contrast, Matt leaned casually back in his chair, cradling his coffee mug, glancing idly around the room.

  He leapt to his feet when he saw me approaching. Lincoln and Roy stopped arguing and half rose.

  “Lily!” Matt said. “Nice of you to join us.” He gestured to the one empty chair at their table. “Please have a seat.”

  “Thank you, but—”

  “I’m sorry,” Lincoln said. “Don’t mean to be rude, but this is a business meeting.”

  “That is rude, Dad.” Matt gave me a smile. “Don’t pay any attention to him. Everything’s business to my father, all the time. I haven’t seen you around for a few days. Is everything okay? You seem to be busy in here. How’s your friend?”

  “My friend?”

  “The one with the red hair. What’s her name again?”

  As if he didn’t know.

  “Bernadette. We call her Bernie.”

  “The nickname suits her.”

  “I have to get back. I just wanted to say hi.”

  “You might as well sit down if you want,” Roy said, not at all graciously. “I came here because Lincoln asked me. I didn’t know we were going to keep going over the same ground one more time. I told you, Lincoln, I’m still hearing arguments for and against your rezoning. The public meeting is tomorrow night, and you’re welcome to attend and say your piece like anyone else.”