I invited my next-door neighbors Nikki and Maddie to join us for the tea dress rehearsal, since I had promised Maddie a tea party when we first met. Recalling her request for cookies that sparkled, I picked up a roll of sugar-cookie dough from the market and baked a batch, adding pink sugar crystals to the top. Nikki had cautioned me that her finicky daughter did not like fish, so in place of Patricia’s salmon-salad, I made a PB&J sandwich without crusts for Maddie in the shape of a heart.
The tea committee arrived together in Patricia’s car. We all oohed and aahed over the three-tiered Old Country Roses cake stand Dorothy brought to display the food courses on. Patricia then showed us a photo on her phone of the classic white three-tiered fluted tray she’d snagged at Pottery Barn for the tea. “I loved it so much, I bought two,” she said. “And check it out”—she swiped her phone to the next photo—“Dorothy, Lottie and I found an old tarnished silver-plated tea stand at an antique store in Sutter Creek.” She swiped her phone again to reveal the formerly blackened stand in all its gleaming glory.
“Wow!” everyone chorused.
“All it needed was a good polishing,” Dorothy said. “Add a paper-lace doily to each level and it’s perfect.”
Susan then showed us a photo of the three-tiered clear glass serving tower she’d gotten from Target, and I contributed my two porcelain cake stands—one pink-and-green floral, one blue-and-white—I’d snagged from a Walnut Creek thrift shop years ago.
We arranged the cucumber, ham, and salmon-salad sandwiches on the two bottom layers of mine and Dorothy’s floral china stands, added the scones to the middle layer, and topped off both tiered towers with Dorothy’s lemon squares, Lottie’s petite brownies, and Susan’s fruit tarts. I placed Maddie’s sparkly sugar cookies on a separate floral plate with a paper doily. Then we covered all the food with plastic wrap as we waited for the water to boil and our next-door guests to arrive.
Meanwhile, I led the committee into the dining room to show them where we would be eating and to have them choose their favorite teacup. Not a fan of everything having to be matchy-matchy, over the years I had collected an assortment of English bone china to mix and match. Atop the lace-covered table gleamed a floral mixture of Royal Doulton, Royal Albert, Royal Worcester, Spode, and Wedgwood offset by a bouquet of pink, red, and yellow roses nestled in my thrift-store rose-patterned teapot, the lid of which had broken in my move.
“Hope, this is beautiful,” Dorothy breathed. “I feel like I’m back in England again.”
“So lovely,” Patricia said, admiring each place setting.
“Well, I may not be a cook, but I’m good with presentation.”
The doorbell rang as the teakettle whistled. Patricia and Lottie followed me to the kitchen while Dorothy answered the door. When we returned to the dining room with pots of steaming Earl Grey and my ubiquitous PG Tips, we found Maddie and her mother seated at the table in their Sunday best. Maddie looked adorable in a pink-and-white gingham dress dotted with tulips and daisies. A pink rhinestone tiara sparkled against her dark curls.
“My goodness, I didn’t realize we were entertaining royalty today,” I said. “Welcome, Princess Maddie.”
“I’m not a princess,” my young neighbor said imperiously. “I am the Queen.”
“Oh, I beg your pardon, Your Majesty,” I said, giving a slight curtsy. “Would you care for sugar in your tea?” I passed the bowl of sugar cubes and silver tongs to Nikki, who set them down beside her daughter.
Maddie peered into the china container. “Ooh, the sugar has frosting flowers on it,” she squealed.
“Nothing’s too good for the Queen.”
We all began noshing on the dainty tea sandwiches, chatting away, although Dorothy seemed unusually quiet. Everyone liked her classic cucumber and Patricia’s salmon-salad, but the hit of the day was the ham and apricot cream cheese. When it came time for the scone course, Dorothy showed us the proper English way to eat a scone—sliced in half horizontally, then spread first with jam or lemon curd and topped with Devonshire cream. “In Devon they put the cream on first and top it with jam,” she said, “but I prefer it the Cornish way with cream on top.” Her voice lacked its usual enthusiasm, however, and recalling her troubled look at the funeral reception, I decided to talk to her privately once everyone left.
Two hours later Nikki took a sleepy Maddie home while the rest of us debriefed. Everyone agreed the desserts were perfect.
“Your lemon squares melted in my mouth, Dorothy,” I said. “Yum. So delicious.” I turned to Lottie. “Those were definitely the best brownies I’ve ever had. You have to give me the recipe.”
Patricia raised an eyebrow. “I thought you didn’t cook?”
“I don’t. This is baking. And chocolate. That’s a whole different story.”
As we cleared the table and the women packed up their things, I asked Dorothy if she could stay a while. She begged off, saying she was exhausted and desperately in need of a nap. Noticing her leaning heavily on her cane reminded me that the sweetheart of Faith Chapel was eighty-one years old. Our talk would have to wait for another day.
Wondering if another eightysomething also took Sunday afternoon naps, I called Marjorie after my tea guests departed and asked if I could pop by for a quick visit. She demurred at first, saying she was in the middle of something, but when I told her it was important, she grudgingly agreed and asked me to give her an hour.
While I waited, I pulled out the charcoal sketch of the ringleted woman and examined it again. When I had shown it to James Brandon, he had admired the woman’s beauty but had not recognized her and said she didn’t resemble any of his grandparents.
More convinced than ever that the artist’s initials stood for Richard Chamberlain and that the drawing had remained in the attic, overlooked, when his great-granddaughter moved out, I felt a frisson of excitement about showing the sketch to Marjorie. Not only would I at last learn the identity of the unknown woman, but returning the sketch to its rightful owner might also lessen Marjorie’s antipathy toward me and allow us to start fresh.
Forty-five minutes later, I knocked on the front door of Marjorie Chamberlain’s Victorian in time to see Lottie scurry out the back gate. I waved, but Lottie was in too much of a hurry to see me. Marjorie answered the door moments later clad in a blue-and-white cotton caftan, which made the head of the altar guild look softer and less formidable than she did in her ubiquitous pantsuits.
I extended a peace offering of daffodils from my garden, which brought a surprised smile to Marjorie’s lined face. She ushered me inside.
“Lottie didn’t need to leave,” I said as I followed her down the hall and into a formal living room that bore a striking resemblance to the King living room. “She could have stayed.”
“Lottie?”
“Yes. I saw her leaving out back when I arrived.”
“I think it’s time for glasses, Pastor,” Marjorie said in a frosty tone. “That wasn’t Lottie. That was my housekeeper.” She sat down stiffly on a high-backed rose-colored sofa that looked as though it harkened back to Victorian times. Marjorie placed the vase of daffodils on the mahogany pie crust table beside her.
Let it go, Hope. The last thing you want to do is start this conversation with an argument.
“Thank you for seeing me on such short notice.” I sat down in the matching love seat across from Marjorie. “I’ve wanted to talk to you for a while, but with all that’s been going on, I haven’t had a chance.” I leaned forward and looked her in the eye. “I owe you an apology for the way I handled this whole ladies’ tea. I didn’t mean to be ungracious when you offered to take the helm for me. You obviously have much more experience than I do organizing a tea.”
Marjorie’s icy demeanor began to thaw. She relaxed back into the couch, a satisfied smile playing across her lips.
I lifted my shoulders in a shrug. “It’s just … being the new associate pastor, I saw the tea as a way of getting to know all the women of Faith Chapel. I gu
ess you could say I was trying to prove myself. To be honest, it’s not easy being the first woman priest at a church. You always have to prove yourself—especially to the men. Men like Stanley.”
Marjorie’s eyes flickered. I got the sense she was waiting to see what I said next.
This is it, Hope. Bring it home, baby.
“By taking charge of the tea, however, I didn’t mean to shut you out. I would really love to have you come to the tea, Marjorie. We all would. You are an integral part of not only Faith Chapel but also Apple Springs. The tea won’t be the same without you,” I said. “In fact, I wanted to ask if you would please consider being a table hostess. I understand you have some gorgeous heirloom silver and family china. Each table hostess is bringing her own china, silverware, and water goblets, and we’ll be awarding a prize for the most beautifully decorated table.” Glancing around the finely furnished room, I took in the lush Oriental carpets, antiques, original oil paintings, and classic blue-and-white porcelain vases. “Just seeing your lovely home, I have a feeling your table would be a top contender, if not the actual winner.”
Suck up much?
Marjorie preened. “Well, my great-great-grandmother’s Limoges, which she imported from France, has been in our family since the 1800s. I’ll venture no one else in town has china with such a provenance.”
“I certainly don’t.” I grinned at my—hopefully, former—nemesis. “Most of my china is thrift store or garage sale finds, although I do have a Spode teacup I brought back from England on my honeymoon.”
Her thin lips slid over her teeth in what looked like a grimace but was actually a smile. “I have some Spode also—the Blue Room collection.” Marjorie regarded me with a thoughtful expression. “For the tea, I could bring the beautiful Waterford goblets my grandfather brought back from Ireland years ago,” she said proudly.
Score. I did an inner fist bump. You made peace with Marjorie and got your final table hostess as well.
“That sounds perfect. Gorgeous, in fact. I can’t wait to see your table in all its splendor.” I reached down into my tote that bore Audrey Hepburn’s iconic Breakfast at Tiffany’s visage. “And now, I have a surprise I think you’re going to like.” I removed the rolled-up piece of brown paper with eager anticipation.
Marjorie sent me a curious look. “What’s that?”
“You’ll see.” Carrying the charcoal sketch over to her, I sat down next to Marjorie as I gently unfurled the old drawing and set it on the coffee table before us. “We found this in Stanley King’s attic—your former attic, actually.” I anchored the four sides of the delicate paper with crystal coasters to hold it in place. “I think this drawing was done by your great-grandfather Richard Chamberlain—see the initials in the corner? Is this lovely lady one of your ancestors? Your great-grandmother, perhaps?”
Beside me, Marjorie went rigid. She reached out and yanked the sketch from the table. Then she tore it in half and threw it at me. Flecks of the fragile brown paper dotted my clergy vest. Marjorie shot to her feet shaking, her eyes shooting daggers. “How dare you suggest my great-grandmother was some cheap dance hall floozy?” Her chest heaved with outrage, and she pointed to the door. “Get out of my house and take that piece of trash with you!”
So, I guess this means you’re not going to be a table hostess?
Chapter Twenty-One
I arrived at the diner just as Susan turned the sign to Closed. Unlocking the door, she ushered me in.
“What’s wrong? You look like you just lost your best friend.”
“Definitely not my best friend. I may have lost one of our parishioners, though.” Sliding into the first booth, I laid my head on my arms.
I had really stepped in it now. What if Marjorie left Faith Chapel because of me?
“I think someone needs a cup of tea.”
“Only if you put brandy in it. Or better yet, tequila.”
“Tequila in tea? Sounds not only disgusting but also a waste of good tequila. I’ll go start your tea water.”
“I don’t want any tea,” I mumbled.
“Now I know something is seriously wrong.” I heard Susan slip into the booth across from me. “Want to tell me what happened?”
I lifted my head. “I have no idea. One minute I was at Marjorie’s having a nice conversation and putting all that antagonism behind us, and the next minute she went all Anthony Perkins in Psycho on me.”
“Why? What did you do?”
Pulling the torn sketch out of my Audrey tote, I set the now-tattered pieces on the table. “All I did was show her this and ask if it might be her great-grandmother, and she flipped out.”
Susan stood up abruptly, returning moments later with a tape dispenser. She carefully taped the crumbling two halves of paper together. Then she looked at the drawing. “Well, whoever she is, she’s a hottie. What made you think she was Marjorie’s great-grandma?”
I explained about the drawing being found in Stanley’s attic and how the woman wasn’t from either Stanley or Lily King’s family, so I thought it might be Marjorie’s ancestor, seeing as how Chamberlains had lived in the house for more than a century before Stanley took ownership. Pointing to the faint initials in the corner, I said, “I thought RC might stand for Richard Chamberlain.”
“Seems logical.” Susan peered closer at the sketch. “Hey, that theater looks familiar. Particularly the balcony. I think it might be the one in Nevada City.”
“Where’s Nevada City?”
“About an hour and a half north of here.” She sent me a sly grin. “You want to take a field trip?”
“How soon can we leave?” I jumped up.
“Hang on there, Sloopy; I have a date with Mike tonight. The theater will still be there tomorrow.”
“But I won’t,” I pouted. “My schedule’s packed for the next three days.” We agreed to scope out the theater on Thursday, my day off, after the diner’s lunch rush.
Once I arrived home that evening, I called Christopher to inform him of the odd Marjorie debacle and to say I was concerned that, because of whatever I had done wrong, she might not darken our church doorstep again.
Father Christopher chuckled. “Don’t worry. Marjorie will never leave Faith Chapel.”
Relieved, I called Virginia and filled her in as well. As we chatted, I cashed in one of my best-friend chips and asked my sister-in-law to be my final tea-table hostess.
* * *
Monday morning, lost in thought and still musing over Marjorie’s strange behavior, I took Bogie on his walk. All at once, a terrible wailing assaulted my ears. Looking up, I almost ran into Dylan in sweats jogging past as he belted out the worst rendition of Journey’s “Don’t Stop Believin’” I’d ever heard.
Bogie’s ears splayed back and he sent me a pitiful look, which I translated to mean, Please make it stop, Mom.
The deputy grinned and pulled out his earbuds. “Pastor Hope.” He knelt down and scratched Bogie behind the ears. “Hi there, fella. Remember me?”
Bogie’s tail wagged now that the awful noise had ceased.
“Someone’s in a good mood today.”
“I got some good news. Doc Linden called the station this morning and said the female skeleton in your backyard is more than a hundred years old, probably closer to a hundred and fifty years.”
“Not Betsy Guthrie, then.”
“Definitely not Betsy.” A huge smile split his craggy face.
“That is good news. Albert Drummond will be happy to hear that.”
“Yep. And now people can stop dragging Harry’s name through the mud.”
I nodded. “I don’t suppose this means you and the chief will try to figure out who the woman was?”
“Not anytime in the near future. There’s no urgency in discovering her identity—not while we’re in the midst of an active murder investigation.”
“Of course.”
That did not mean I couldn’t continue my own investigation, though. Now that I had a tighter historical time
frame to work with, it should make my search a little easier. The first place I planned to look was the local paper. Since The Apple Springs Bulletin had been online for only the past decade, they were bound to have archival copies of past issues at the newspaper office, and I knew those issues went back more than a hundred years—as trumpeted by the banner under the masthead, which said, “Bringing You the News Since 1860.”
Look at you. Investigating not one, but two women of mystery, and trying to figure out Stanley’s killer as well. You should hang up your clerical collar and hang out a detective shingle instead.
Not a chance. I love my job. Although I have to admit, it is fun playing Trixie Belden on the side.
* * *
During our weekly staff meeting, I brought Father Christopher and Elizabeth up to date on the community tea. “We’ll have a full house Saturday with fifty women. Everything’s on track and going well. Harold’s got all his male servers in place.” I inclined my head to Christopher. “Thank you, Father, for volunteering.”
“I’m only coming for the scones with jam and cream,” he joked.
“The cream!” I pulled out my phone and began tapping a note on my to-do list. “I almost forgot. I have to drive to Sacramento Friday to pick up the jars of Devonshire cream from Whole Foods.” At seven bucks a pop and with one jar serving only four people, the cream did not come cheap. Dorothy had said that for a true English tea experience, however, clotted or Devonshire cream was essential. Not wanting to strain the church’s limited finances, I’d opted to donate the cream myself.
“I can pick up the cream on my way home from work and bring it to the church Friday night.” Elizabeth offered. “Whole Foods is near my work, and that will save you a trip to Sacramento.”
“You’re an angel.”
Hope, Faith, and a Corpse Page 20