by Tracy Kiely
Mrs. Pritchard bared her undersized teeth in a semblance of a smile. It wasn’t pretty. “Very well, then,” she said with exaggerated sweetness. “We’ll just have to wait and see.”
“Yes,” I replied just as sweetly, “we will.”
Gathering up our purchases, we said our goodbyes, fake smiles all around, and lugged everything out to Peter’s car.
“What got into you back there?” he asked.
“Nothing,” I said, surprised at the annoyance in his voice. “I was only trying to help you escape the clutches of that pubescent anemic vamp.”
“Who? Jessie?” he said. “Don’t be silly. She’s just a kid. I can handle her.”
“You didn’t seem to be handling anything, actually,” I said. “God help Maggie if that’s how you ward off unwanted attention.”
Peter’s dark brows pulled together and he took his time answering. “Maggie isn’t the jealous type,” he said. “We have a solid relationship. She’s very understanding.”
“Well, she’d have to be, wouldn’t she?” I said, before adding, “Look, I’m sure she’s just wonderful and you two are love’s ideal together. But my point back there,” I said crossly, jerking my thumb in the direction of Pritchard’s, “is that I’m not going to let that woman or her daughter anywhere near Longbourn just so they can snoop around and spread nasty rumors about Aunt Winnie. Don’t you see that more has been lost here than a life? Aunt Winnie’s reputation is also in danger. Let the Doris Pritchards of the town gloat at us from a distance and be happy with that.”
“I agree with you there,” he said. “But haven’t you ever heard the expression ‘You can catch more flies with honey than vinegar’?”
“That’s the most ridiculous expression!” I snapped angrily back at him. “Who wants flies anyway?”
Peter paused and burst out laughing. After a minute, he said, “Come on, we’ve got two more stops to make. Just try not to start a rumble or anything, will you? I don’t think I’ve got enough bail money on me.”
I consoled myself with the knowledge that I had to put up with Peter for only a few days. Somewhere out there was a poor girl named Maggie who surely had it far worse.
CHAPTER 13
Human nature is so well disposed towards those
who are in interesting situations, that a young person
who either marries or dies is sure of being kindly spoken of.
—JANE AUSTEN, EMMA
OUR NEXT STOP was the Flowering Teapot, a combination tea shop and bakery. It smelled of cinnamon, apple, and pumpkin. One side of the small room was clearly designated for tea service, where several small round tables draped in crisp white linen serenely awaited customers. The other side was dominated by a long glass case filled with every kind of tempting pastry and baked goods. Blue Wedgwood china plates, in various shapes and sizes, covered the back wall.
The shop was empty save for the two sisters who ran it. Both appeared to be in their late sixties. One was blond, the other brunette; otherwise they appeared identical. They reminded me of the tea cakes they sold—delicate, plump, and lightly powdered. Greeting Peter warmly, they leaned across the wooden top of the pastry case, their round faces expectant.
“Peter! How are you?” said the brunette.
“How is Winifred?” said the blonde.
“You could have knocked me over with a feather when I heard the news,” said the brunette in quick succession.
“Not to sound ghoulish, but I wish we had gone …” began the blonde.
“… but we had already promised to go to our niece’s,” finished the brunette.
“She always hosts the New Year’s dinner …” said the blonde.
“… such a wonderful time, really,” said the brunette.
“Of course, it must have been simply terrible for you,” said the blonde.
“Awful,” agreed the brunette. “So, how is Winifred doing?”
“Aunt Winnie is fine,” replied Peter. “She sent me here to place an order for ‘the usual.’ ” He smiled at them and added, “I assume you know what that means?”
“We do indeed,” said the blonde. She quickly recited the list. “Two loaves of lemon bread and pumpkin spice bread each, three dozen raspberry tarts, four dozen almond shortbread cookies, and one blueberry crumb cake.”
“Winifred is one of our best customers,” added the brunette. Both women glanced curiously at me. Peter turned my way and said, “Ladies, this is Elizabeth Parker, Ms. Reynolds’s grandniece.”
They both smiled at me. “Hello, Elizabeth,” said the blonde. “I’m Lily.”
“And I’m Pansy,” said the brunette.
“Our mother had a thing for flowers,” said Lily.
“Her name was Rose,” added Pansy. “This used to be her shop.”
“But now it’s ours,” Lily finished quickly. “It’s lovely,” I said, feeling a bit dizzy at their rapid back-and-forth manner of speaking. “And everything smells wonderful.”
“Oh, that would be the pumpkin spice bread,” said Lily.
“It’s fresh out of the oven,” said Pansy.
“Let me get you a piece,” said Lily.
“Oh, thank you,” I began, “but you don’t have to—”
“But I insist,” said Lily, disappearing into the kitchen.
“I’ll get you some tea,” said Pansy. “It’s terribly cold out there today.” In a flash, she had disappeared as well. As unnerving as their constant conversation was, the abrupt absence of it produced a similar sensation—I felt oddly disoriented.
“My head is spinning,” I whispered to Peter.
He chuckled. “I know. They take a little getting used to, but they are two of the nicest women you’ll ever meet. And they’re the best bakers on the Cape.”
Lily returned with a plate piled high with thick slices of warm pumpkin spice bread. “Pansy should have your tea ready in just a second,” she said, leading us to one of the empty tables. “Please have a seat.”
“Thank you.” Peter took a large piece of bread and popped it into his mouth.
We sat down as Pansy returned with our tea. She quickly filled four blue teacups and the two sisters sat down with us. “Now tell us everything,” commanded Pansy.
“Yes,” said Lily. “Don’t leave anything out. Lemon in your tea?” she asked me.
I nodded yes to Lily, while between bites of bread Peter told the sisters what had happened. They listened in enthralled silence.
“Well,” said Lily, “it’s just too amazing for words. Gerald Ramsey. Murdered.”
“Although if you were going to murder someone in this town …” began Pansy.
“… it would be him,” finished Lily.
“I remember Violet used to babysit him,” said Pansy.
“Our older sister,” Lily said as an aside to Peter and me.
“She used to dread having to go to his house,” Pansy said.
“Said he was a horrid little beast of a boy,” said Lily.
“Turned into a horrid beast of a man, if you ask me,” said Pansy.
“Not too surprising, really,” said Lily. “Rotten children usually do turn into rotten adults.”
At this damnation of horrible children, I snuck a look at Peter, but the remark was lost on him. He sat unaffected, happily eating his bread.
“Still, he managed to con a lot of people into thinking otherwise,” said Lily with a knowing tilt of her head.
“Especially the women,” said Pansy, returning the nod.
“Do you mean Mrs. Ramsey?” I asked, feeling that if I didn’t break into the conversation, I was going to get whiplash.
“Well, that depends on which Mrs. Ramsey you mean,” Lily said.
“How many have there been?” I asked, surprised.
“Three,” said Pansy.
“That we know of,” amended Lily.
“But it was the first one …” began Pansy.
“Polly’s mother,” said Lily.
“… t
hat I felt the sorriest for,” finished Pansy.
“What was she like?” I asked. Peter continued to munch his bread.
“She was a pretty little thing,” said Lily.
“She had the loveliest auburn hair,” added Pansy.
“What was her name again?” Lily asked.
“Tory,” replied Pansy. “She died so young.”
“What happened?” I asked.
“Car accident,” said Lily. “Although at the time there was talk that it wasn’t completely an accident.” Pansy had just taken a bite of the bread and so could only nod her head in agreement. “I was away at school when it happened,” Lily continued. “But I do remember Mother saying that Tory’s car had run off the road and the police were investigating reports that another car was seen speeding away from the area. Then it came out that Tory had been seeing someone else—but really, considering what Gerald was like, who could blame her? Anyway, Gerald behaved very oddly afterward. He got rid of practically everything that had belonged to her. Some people thought that he might have had something to do with it, but in the end nothing ever came of it. Poor Polly was only about four or five at the time.”
“I saw someone just the other day who reminded me of her,” said Pansy.
“Was it Polly?” I asked.
“Oh, no,” said Pansy quickly. “Polly is her father’s daughter. At least in looks. I don’t know what she’s like in person. Keeps to herself a lot. Can’t have had an easy life.”
“I remember her as a little girl,” said Lily. “Never saw a more determined child. Do you remember the time she wanted that bicycle from Fred Johnson’s toy shop?” she asked Pansy.
“Oh, that’s right!” said Pansy. Turning back to me and glancing at Peter, who was still stuffing his face with the pumpkin spice bread, she explained, “She couldn’t have been more than seven. There was this bright yellow bicycle in the front window of the toy store, one of those banana bikes. I remember it had a long purple fringe on the handlebars. Well, anyway, every little girl in town wanted that bike, including Polly. But Gerald said no. I forget why, probably just to be mean, but he flat-out refused. Now another girl might have thrown a tantrum or pouted, but not Polly. Instead, she talked Fred Johnson into holding a jump-roping contest. He would get the publicity and the winner would get the bike.”
“She outjumped everyone and got that bike,” said Lily.
“But wasn’t there some sort of incident with her friend?” asked Pansy.
“Yes, I’d forgotten,” said Lily. “That little girl—now what was her name?—Mary. That’s it, Mary King. Well, she and this Mary were playing tag the day before the contest—Mary was a pretty good jump roper, too. Anyway, Mary fell and twisted her ankle or something. She couldn’t jump in the contest. I remember at the time that some people said Polly had pushed her down on purpose.”
“I don’t believe that,” said Lily.
“Well, maybe so,” said Pansy, “but they weren’t friends after that.”
“Gerald remarried right around then,” said Lily. “He said he thought that Polly was turning into a tomboy and needed a woman’s influence.”
“Well, he certainly married an influence,” said Pansy. “Pamela was a real witch. Gerald found out that she was stealing money from him or something like that. He got rid of her in short order.”
“And now there’s Lauren,” said Lily. Again the sisters exchanged knowing looks.
“What’s she like?” I asked.
Pansy leaned across the table and lowered her voice. “Well …”
I eagerly leaned in, but the bell above the door sounded, announcing customers. Pansy jumped up from the table and went to wait on them.
Peter popped the last piece of bread in his mouth and stared sadly at the empty plate. “We probably should get going,” he said.
“I’ll just go and wrap up your order,” said Lily.
Minutes later, we collected three large white boxes, each wrapped with a blue bow covered with small white teapots. Customers streamed into the shop now for their afternoon tea and Pansy whispered to me to come back later so we could finish our conversation. Peter and I said our goodbyes and thanks, and stepped out again into the freezing air.
“That was informative,” I said to Peter.
“Yeah. I didn’t know that Gerald had been married three times. Do you think his ex-wife could have something to do with his murder?”
“I don’t know. Really, there are so many people who might have wanted him dead. It’s a bit overwhelming.” The wind picked up. “What’s next?” I asked Peter, trying to shield my body from the wind with the box of pastries. Next door was a clothing shop, with several outfits on display in the window. I wistfully eyed them and the heated interior.
“Butcher,” he replied. I stared longingly in the window. He read the shop’s sign and then turned back at me. “You’re not going to make me go in there, are you?”
“Well, I do need to get a few things …”
Peter sighed and shook his head. “I’ve never met a woman who didn’t.”
“That’s not fair!” I said. “I only packed for one weekend. Who knows how long I’m going to be staying!”
“Uhh-uh,” Peter said to the sky.
“Whatever,” I said. “I’m going in. Are you coming?”
“No offense, but I’d rather go to the butcher.”
“Coward. Don’t you go shopping with Maggie?”
“Maggie isn’t into material goods,” Peter said loftily.
“Then Maggie doesn’t know what she’s missing,” I retorted, handing him the box. “I’ll meet you here in an hour.”
Inside the store was quiet—that serene, tranquil quiet that permeates shops with expensive clothes. The salesclerk smiled vaguely in my direction as I wandered around the store. Forcing myself to keep a casual face, I peeked at some of the price tags. Dear God! Did they mark up the prices while they were drunk? Still, there were several outfits that I would give my eyeteeth for—or at least the better part of the contents of my checking account. I made some quick mental calculations. It seemed unlikely that I would be taking that ski trip to Vermont with Mark next month, which meant that I had a fair chunk of change to play with.
Assuring myself that it was healthy to splurge on oneself occasionally, I gathered up several outfits and headed toward the dressing rooms. The salesclerk, seeing that I was a serious customer, abruptly changed her attitude and now fawned over me. Her name tag indicated her name was Brooke. She was a tall, leggy girl in her early twenties, with long, straight brown hair. While I was predisposed to dislike her based on those facts alone, she actually proved to be very helpful. While she put together several outfits for me, we chatted politely until she discovered that I was staying at Longbourn.
“Oh, my God!” she yelped. “But that was where Mr. Ramsey was killed!”
“Yes.” I paused. “Did you know him?”
“I did! His daughter, Polly, and I are friends. How is she? I’ve been trying to get in touch with her all day.”
Not knowing if Brooke was really a friend or a gossip, I merely said, “She’s holding up okay.”
“Well, if you see her, please let her know that I’m thinking of her. We’ve been friends for years.” She added, “This must be such a nightmare for her. I just wish she had come away with us like we originally planned.”
“You were going away?” I asked.
“Yes,” said Brooke as she handed me a bright pink cashmere sweater. “Every year a bunch of us go to my parents’ ski house for New Year’s. Polly usually can’t wait to go—her dad is … was unbelievably strict. She didn’t get out much. He wouldn’t even let her do that graduate program at Oxford. She was furious about that. I can’t remember ever seeing her so mad. I thought she would have been dying to get away from him, even if it was only for a weekend, but Polly backed out.”
She handed me a green brocade skirt. “These look nice together. Especially with your coloring.”
&
nbsp; “Why did Polly back out?” I asked, taking the clothes.
“She didn’t say. She just said that something had come up and she wasn’t going to be able to make it after all.” Brooke added a pink silk scarf to the outfit and shook her head. “I bet she wishes she’d gone with us now.”
I wondered if that was true. I thought of what I knew of Polly—a determined young woman, by all accounts miserable living with her father. Now her father was gone and she was free to live her life without his interference. Brooke was dead-on with her fashion sense, but was she as perceptive about Polly?
One hour and several hundred dollars later, I left the store. Peter was just walking up the street toward me.
“I’m hungry,” he said by way of a greeting.
“I don’t see how you can possibly be hungry after eating all that bread.”
“Well, I am. Do you want to get something? I know a place that makes the best clam chowder on the Cape.”
“Is there anyplace on the Cape that doesn’t claim to make the best clam chowder?”
“You have a point,” he acknowledged with a tip of his head. “But this place actually does have the best. Are you interested?”
I was. I had only nibbled at my cranberry muffin at breakfast and Peter had eaten all the bread at the Teapot. It was now late afternoon and I was starving.
We put our bags in the Jeep and Peter drove us to the Captain’s Knot, a restaurant overlooking the harbor—a description that sounds much nicer than the reality. Since the temperature was well below freezing, we had no qualms about leaving the groceries in the car, as we hurried into the tavernlike restaurant. A few locals sat at the worn mahogany bar, sipping from large mugs of beer and watching football on the overhead television. To the right, several tables had a view of the water. The hostess waved to us to take our pick and we chose a table next to the large window.
As we sat down, an awkward silence descended between us. I busied myself by studying the laminated map that covered the tabletop. Peter stared out the window. Outside, a horn sounded and I turned in my chair. A large white ferry was slowly maneuvering its way out of the harbor. The wind slapped at the boat’s flags and at the few people who had decided to brave the cold and stand on the top deck. Proud of their hardiness, they waved manically to anyone who looked their way.