Trouble is brewing, p.1
Trouble Is Brewing,
p.1
Kensington Books by Vicki Delany
The Tea by the Sea mystery series
Tea & Treachery
Murder in a Teacup
Murder Spills the Tea
Steeped in Malice
Trouble Is Brewing
A Tea by the Sea Mystery
Trouble is Brewing
VICKI DELANY
National Bestselling Author
Kensington Publishing Corp.
www.kensingtonbooks.com
Table of Contents
Also by
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Recipes
Acknowldegments
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.
KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
900 Third Ave.
New York, NY 10022
Copyright © 2024 by Vicki Delany
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
Library of Congress Control Number:
KENSINGTON and the KENSINGTON COZIES teapot logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.
ISBN: 978-1-4967-4727-3
First Kensington Hardcover Edition: August 2024
ISBN: 978-1-4967-4729-7 (ebook)
To Alex, teatime companion
Chapter 1
I love my job. Like any job, like life, it has its ups and downs. It has its difficulties and problems, crises and disasters. Some days, I’ve been overwhelmed and wanted nothing more than to throw in the dish towel and walk away from Tea by the Sea, my tearoom.
But I never do. I take a deep breath, center myself, and ask what I should bake next.
Then there are days like this when everything comes smoothly together, and I do what I do best: make people happy.
And that makes me happy.
“When I get married, if ever I do,” Bernadette Murphy said to me, as she dumped a tray-load of used dishes onto the counter next to the dishwasher, “you’re going to cater it, Lily, and I’m going to have the reception here.”
“You’re going to have your wedding in my kitchen?” I grinned and looked around the small space. The Tea by the Sea kitchen is crowded when I’m the only one in it.
Today I was not the only one in it: as well as my two regular assistants, the mother-daughter duo of Cheryl and Marybeth, my friend Bernie had pitched in to help.
Bernie didn’t bother to reply.
“I hope,” I said, “I’ll be outside at your wedding, drinking tea and nibbling on scones, wearing a gorgeous dress and a fabulous hat, making polite conversation with interesting people, not stuck in here, working.” I leaned back against the butcher block in the center of the room, rotating my shoulders to give them a long, luxurious, welcome stretch.
“I might let you have a few minutes off,” Bernie said, “as long as you don’t take advantage.”
“Anything in particular making you think of your own wedding, Bernie?” Marybeth reached around my friend to get at the row of tea canisters on a top shelf, and Bernie ducked.
“Don’t we all think of weddings when we see other people being happy at theirs?” she said.“I don’t,” Marybeth said. “I think, sometimes, I might have been too hasty rushing to the altar, never mind having the kids so soon.”
“Marybeth—” I said.
“Ooops.” She let out a choked laugh. “Did I say that out loud? Don’t let my mom hear; she’ll launch into a round of I told you so’s.”
“Don’t let me hear what, and why am I going to say, ‘I told you so’?” Cheryl asked. She also carried a tray piled high with used dishes and empty teapots.
“Nothing!” Marybeth said.
“While you’re getting the tea, honey, can I have another pot of Darjeeling, please?”
“What’s happening out there?” I asked. “Are they almost finished?”
“They are. The food’s mostly gone, for now. Several tables have asked for another round of tea and some want top-ups of the wine. The bride’s about to open her gifts, and her mother sent me in to ask if you’d be so kind as to come out so she can thank you.”
“Me?”
“Yes, you, Lily. Simon’s already taken his bows as the provider of the floral arrangements, and he’s showing some of the guests around the gardens.”
“What about me?” Bernie said. “Do they want to thank me for putting the scones and sandwiches on the stands in such an organized fashion?”
“No,” Cheryl said with a grin.
Bernie laughed.
I untied my apron, pulled off my hairnet, and adjusted my ponytail. I never tire of being thanked. It doesn’t happen often enough in the restaurant business.
My name is Lily Roberts, and I am the proud owner and head baker of Tea by the Sea, a traditional afternoon tearoom located in the Outer Cape region of Cape Cod. I’m a culinary-school trained pastry chef, and I worked for many years in some of the best bakeries and restaurants in Manhattan before taking a deep breath and making the plunge to open my own place. This is our first summer and so far the venture has been a roaring success. My restaurant serves afternoon tea only, and I have some worries as to if that’s going to be enough to see us through the long winter when the gardens are bare and the tourists scarce. But I can adjust on the fly, and I’ll make additions to the menu, or even branch out into catering, if I have to.
Never mind that: today was all about enjoying the day and helping a young bride enjoy hers. Tea by the Sea had been taken over for a wedding shower. Twenty women were gathered on the patio to enjoy the best of my offerings and to celebrate love. In case of rain, the group booked the interior of the restaurant as well. Fortunately, the indoor refuge proved unnecessary.
They’d paid handsomely for the privilege of taking over my place, and I’d gone all out with the food and table settings. Our gardener, Simon, spared no effort in assembling individual floral arrangements for the tables and ensuring the plants in the pots scattered around the low stone walls and the flagstone paths were in their best shape.
Cheryl and I left the kitchen, followed by Bernie and Marybeth. The main room of the restaurant was empty, lights turned low, tables laid for tomorrow.
“Was it the bride’s mother who asked for me?” I said to Cheryl, “or the groom’s?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t catch any names. Early sixties, silver pantsuit, tons of jewelry?”
“Sounds like Mrs. Reynolds. She’s the groom’s mother. She’s the one who paid for it all. The bride’s mother was part of the Zoom call when we made the arrangements, but she didn’t have much input.” In fact, she had pretty much no input at all. Every time she hesitantly tried to get a word in edgewise, Mrs. Reynolds laughed lightly and carried on talking.
“The guests are a mismatched lot,” Marybeth whispered behind me.
I knew what she meant. I’d been outside when the mothers arrived, wanting to greet them and ensure everything was in order. Sophia Reynolds, mother of the groom, pretty much screamed money, with her Boston Brahmin accent, slightest hint of Chanel No. 5, silver designer suit sized in the low single digits, rows of pearls, Jimmy Choo stilettos, perfectly cut and dyed blond hair, equally perfect make-up and manicure. Whereas Jenny Hill, mother of the bride, wore a perfectly nice off-the-rack pink dress with a black belt cinched too tightly around her ample middle, pantyhose that bunched around her ankles, and solid black flats with laces. She, or someone else, had made an attempt with her makeup, but her eyebrows were overgrown, her lips cracked and dry. Her brittle brown hair, streaked with gray, was pulled behind her head and fastened into a tortoiseshell clip.
The smile Jenny gave me was warm and genuine, whereas Sophia Reynolds peered down her long nose at me and the edges of her lips turned up, ever so slightly.
“Thank you so much, Lily.” Jenny twisted her hands in front of her. “Everything’s been marvelous and Hannah is thrilled.”
“It’s all been perfectly satisfactory,” Sophia said. “Dear Jenny wasn’t sure about having a tea for this precious day, but I told her it would be absolutely perfect. Didn’t I, dear?”
Jenny let out a slightly embarrassed giggle. “And you were right, Sophia. As you usually are. I’ve never had high tea before, and I didn’t know what to expect.”
<
Jenny flushed. Behind me, I heard Bernie, never one to fail to express her opinion, mutter, “How kind of you to point that out.”
I spoke quickly. “My customers use the words interchangeably as do many Americans these days. Although, yes, afternoon tea is the correct term.”
Sophia waved her left hand. The diamond caught the sunlight. If the International Space Station had been passing at that moment, the astronauts might have seen the resulting beam.
“People are soooo uncultured here in the colonies.” Bernie stepped forward. “Bernadette Murphy. Of the Lower East Side Murphys. So pleased to meet you.” She shoved out her right hand. “I don’t actually work here. I’m a novelist by profession, but I offer Lily a hand now and again when she needs it.”
Sophia blinked and cautiously accepted Bernie’s hand. Bernie shook it as though she were trying to get a ball out of a dog’s mouth.
I stifled a groan. Bernie was not only not from the Lower East Side, she wasn’t a novelist. Not yet anyway, having not completed her first book. But Bernie, always one to make instant judgments, had instantly decided she didn’t like Sophia Reynolds.
I didn’t like her much, either, but she was paying me a lot to entertain her guests, and after years spent in the restaurant business I know being nice to the customers is part of the price.
Bernie, before taking time off to write her book, had been a forensic accountant at a major Manhattan criminal law firm. Being nice to the clients had never been in her job description.
“That lady’s waving her glass at us, Bernie,” I said, indicating a woman in her early eighties, overdressed, over-hatted, over-jeweled. “Why don’t you get her a refill?” Marybeth and Cheryl were busy refreshing teacups and clearing tables.
“Okay.” Bernie sauntered off.
I turned to the mothers and caught the tightness in Sophia’s lips and the shadow behind her eyes. She blinked and focused on me again. “That lady is Mrs. Regina Reynolds. My mother-in-law. She does enjoy a tipple in the afternoon now and again.”
Jenny raised her eyebrows at me but said nothing.
It was a spectacular Cape Cod summer’s day, warm but not too hot; a handful of fluffy white clouds slowly crossing the brilliant blue sky. All the tables on the patio were taken and the air was full of the scent of fresh baking, salt from the sea, and the lush English-style country garden beyond the low stone wall. Mismatched and cracked teacups hanging from the branches of the massive oak tree in the center of the patio tinkled cheerily in the soft breeze coming off Cape Cod Bay. Women cradled their fine china teacups or flutes of sparkling wine, leaned back in their chairs and chatted. A few of the guests had gone for a stroll in the gardens or down to the bluffs to admire the view over the bay. The first round of food, scones with butter, jam, and clotted cream; and delicate tea sandwiches, had been consumed. In contrast to the usual way of presenting afternoon tea, I’d been asked to bring the desserts out later, after the bride opened her presents. As well as an assortment of teas, we served guests prosecco. Bottles of excellent champagne were cooling in the fridge, to accompany the sweets course and to toast the happy couple.
At Sophia’s request, we’d dragged a wingback chair out of my grandmother’s drawing room to serve as the bride’s throne, and Bernie and Marybeth had draped the chair with yards of shimmering white and gold cloth. Jenny had brought an enormous bunch of cheerful balloons in primary colors and tied it to the back of the chair. The table beside the chair was buried in gaily wrapped presents.
The tea guests were all women. The groom and some other men would join us later for desserts and champagne toasts. They wouldn’t have far to come. The groom’s family and his best man were staying at Victoria-on-Sea, my grandmother’s B & B. Tea by the Sea sits at the end of the long B & B driveway, close to the road.
“I don’t believe you’ve met my daughter,” Jenny said to me. “Our guest of honor. Hannah!”
I didn’t need to have the bride pointed out to me. As she walked from table to table, chatting to her guests, exchanging some air kisses and some genuine hugs, she simply glowed. So much so I thought she might also be able to be seen from space. Hannah Hill wasn’t a beautiful woman, but she was lovely, in the way all young, healthy, happy women are. She was on the short side, as was her mother, at about five foot four; not overweight and not too thin. Her hair was almost jet black and fell in gentle waves to the center of her back. Most of the hair was held back by two pins glistening in the sunlight, but a few soft tendrils framed her lightly tanned face. She heard her mother’s call and turned to us with a sparkle in her warm dark eyes.
Jenny’s own eyes glowed with adoration as she watched her daughter cross the patio toward us. I glanced at Sophia and saw something very different there. Her face was tight and her jaw set. Her eyes narrowed with what might have been anger.
Then the young woman reached us, and Sophia wrapped an arm around her shoulders. “My son’s bride, Hannah. I suggested the ladies dress formally for afternoon tea, but dear Hannah always prefers to go her own way, don’t you, my darling.”
“It’s a summer afternoon in Cape Cod, Sophia,” Hannah said with a smile, as she shrugged the arm off. “I don’t have a suitable tea dress.”
In my opinion, Hannah was dressed perfectly for the day in a simple yellow sundress with a thin black belt and low-heeled black sandals. Gold studs were in her ears, a plain gold chain around her neck. The diamond in the ring on the third finger of her left hand was small and discreet, but the ring was beautifully designed.
“My congratulations,” I said. “I’m Lily, the cook here, and I hope you enjoyed everything.”
“It truly was marvelous, thank you. You couldn’t possibly have arranged a better day, weather-wise. Can you make sure we have the same on Saturday?”
“Lily’s a miracle worker.” Assigned task complete, Bernie rejoined us. “But even she can’t do everything. Congratulations.”
“Thank you,” Hannah said.
“I’ll try my best,” I said. “But I suspect you don’t need any luck from me. You’re having your reception at the yacht club, I hear. It’s a beautiful setting, and they know how to accommodate whatever weather comes their way.”
“It is lovely there. I’d never even been to Cape Cod until I met Greg. His family loves it so much, Sophia persuaded us to have our wedding here.”
“My family had a vacation home not far from Provincetown for many years,” Sophia said. “A long time ago. To my intense disappointment, my parents sold the property shortly before my own marriage. They said they didn’t get enough use out of it. Ralph and I have often discussed buying a similar place for our family, but the time never seemed right. I don’t suppose it will ever come. Not now the children are grown and with the constant pressure of the family business. You know how it is.” “I so do,” Bernie said. “My own real estate ambitions are being held back until I can get that leaky roof fixed.”
Sophia threw Bernie a look, suspecting she was being insulted. Which she was.
Another young woman joined us. She was about the same age as Hannah, with the same gym-toned body and flawless skin of Sophia. She’d dressed for afternoon tea in a calf-length beige dress with three-quarter-length sleeves trimmed with white lace. A fascinator in the same shade as her dress, topped with three blue feathers, was arranged in her sleek golden hair. She was the same height as Hannah and her mother, but today she towered over them in her four-inch heels. “Are we ever going to get this show on the road, Mom? Jack keeps texting me to ask if I’m finished yet.”
“Well pardon me if Jack’s getting inpatient,” Sophia snapped. “I told you you could invite him to join us when Greg and the rest do.”
“Well pardon me if Jack doesn’t want to hang around with this lot any more than necessary.” Her tone and accent were exactly the same as Sophia’s, and it was obvious they were closely related. “Tea and gardens aren’t exactly his thing.”
