I muttered something rude.

  “Whereas,” Bernie continued, “Scarlet and Claudia might be more the types to prefer a nice ladylike tea in a pleasant English-style garden. If Allegra had been counting on Tommy to swing votes her way, and then she saw him being friendly with Rose and enjoying Lily’s tea . . .”

  “She bumped him off,” Rose finished.

  “That makes not the least bit of sense,” I said. “There’s no guarantee the show will continue with our segment or, even if it does, that the replacement judge will have Tommy’s tastes.”

  “It doesn’t have to make sense to us,” Bernie said. “Only to the killer. Did Allegra overhear Tommy apologizing to Marybeth?”

  “I don’t know. I was outside. None of us heard what was said between them.”

  “I wonder if he told Marybeth he was giving you high marks as part of his apology. Or, even if he didn’t, if Allegra interpreted it that way. It would be worth knowing if Allegra has a history of . . . shall we say, overreacting. And if she considers Cheryl to be her enemy for any particular reason or just that everyone’s her enemy.”

  “Good thing I’ve signed up for tomorrow’s bridge tournament,” Rose said. “Bridge players can always be counted on to be up to date on the latest town gossip.”

  “Out you two get,” Bernie said. “I’m off home to see if any of my feelers produced results.”

  “I’ll make a call to some of my friends in New York,” I said. “Maybe we can learn something about Tommy himself.”

  Rose and I got out of the car, and Bernie pulled away, spraying sand and gravel everywhere.

  Josh and Scarlet watched us as we climbed the steps.

  “Good afternoon,” Rose said. “Is it still afternoon?”

  “For a while yet,” Josh said. “Please, won’t you join us. Can I offer you a glass of wine?” He indicated the bottle in the cooler.

  Scarlet’s smile stretched her dark red lips without reaching her eyes.

  “Not for me, thanks,” I said. “I have to get back to my kitchen and do some prep for tomorrow.”

  “A cook’s work is never done,” Josh said. “I learned that early, directing this show.”

  Scarlet studied her fingernails. The polish was bright red, and it matched the color on her toes as well as her lipstick. Her bare feet peeked out from beneath a floor-length blue-and-white beach dress.

  “Any news about the show?” I asked as Rose settled herself into a chair.

  “Nothing yet,” Josh said. “It can take the powers that be a long time to make a decision.”

  Scarlet drank her wine.

  “Aren’t you the lucky ones,” Rose said. “You’re able to bide your time in such a pleasant place.”

  “Your home is lovely,” Josh said.

  “Thank you, but I meant the Outer Cape. Is Claudia around?”

  “I invited her to join us, but she had some business to conduct. Unlike you”—Josh gallantly tipped his head in my direction—“Claudia no longer cooks at her own place, but she does have her restaurants and her line of cookbooks to manage.”

  “So nice to have a hobby in your old age,” Scarlet drawled.

  Rose’s eyes widened at the nastiness of the remark, but Josh gave Scarlet a smile.

  I excused myself and headed for my cottage. It was after four o’clock on a Wednesday in July, and not a chef in New York City worth his or her salt would be able to answer any of my emails, but I wanted to get them sent while I was thinking about it.

  Éclair greeted me in her usual overjoyed manner when I came in. I gave her a hearty rub and then let her into the enclosed yard, promising her a walk before I went back to the tearoom. I settled myself at my computer and sent texts and wrote emails to my restaurant friends. Briefly, I asked if they knew of any trouble Tommy Greene had been in, financial or otherwise, or if they’d heard any rumors surrounding his death. I didn’t have to go into any detail about why I was asking. His death was a big story in the national media. Twitter overflowed with tributes to the man. Tea by the Sea was, unfortunately, mentioned by name and location. I groaned and put my head in my hands. Word that a man had died in my place was all I needed after being closed for several days, and now the uncertainty as to whether or not the show would continue filming.

  I flipped quickly through the online papers, searching for the story. Several showed pictures of Tea by the Sea, including a couple that had obviously been grabbed off my web page. Detective Chuck Williams’s name appeared in many of the reports, some accompanied by a picture of him attempting to look tough and in command. He had nothing worthwhile to say. A shocking crime. North Augusta remains a safe place for your family’s vacation. An arrest is expected shortly.

  Neither Amy Redmond’s picture nor her name appeared anywhere, and that was the way she liked it. Let Williams have the spotlight.

  That done, I decided I’d better return the text my mother had sent me this morning. Words along the lines of Another murder! What sort of place is your grandmother running there? I assured Mom all was well and the police had the matter in hand.

  I was closing my computer and was about to call to Éclair when my phone rang. I answered immediately when I saw Cheryl’s name. “Everything okay?”

  “Depends on what you mean by okay, Lily.”

  “I don’t know what I mean by okay.”

  “Have you checked the reservations book?”

  “Not since I opened it up for tomorrow. Don’t tell me we’re going to be empty! I was afraid that would happen.”

  “Not exactly. As I was home early, anyway, I checked the voice-mail box this afternoon.” Because I’m occupied in the B & B kitchen in the mornings, Cheryl checks the voice mail once at night and again in the morning, before coming in, and she answers reservation inquiries.

  “And?”

  “It’s been ringing off the hook, if it had a hook to ring off. We’re completely full from online bookings. I’ve had trouble catching up to return calls turning down reservation requests. I tell people we leave some tables free in the garden in case of a change in the weather, and I fear there’s going to be a rush of walk-ins tomorrow.”

  “What brought this on? I thought the words murder and police would keep people away.”

  “One woman was in tears when I told her I couldn’t guarantee her a table, Lily. She lives in Rochester and is prepared to drive all night to get to North Augusta to see the place where Tommy Greene died. He was, she told me, her idol.”

  “Oh, dear.” I remembered the people I’d seen leaning over my garden fence, taking pictures. Perhaps I am naive. I’d thought they were admiring the plants on the patio.

  Chapter 12

  I heard nothing more from Josh or Reilly, so on Thursday morning I opened Tea by the Sea at the regular time of eleven o’clock. Cheryl, Marybeth, and I stood back to avoid being crushed by the rush.

  “I don’t know that I have enough baking on hand,” I whispered to my employees as I bolted for the kitchen.

  After getting off the phone with Cheryl yesterday afternoon, I’d called Rose and suggested she check the B & B reservations and emails. Fully booked for the foreseeable future, she told me, as well as a string of messages begging to be put on a waiting list.

  “What about Scarlet, Claudia, and Josh?” I asked. “Are they staying?”

  “They’ve said nothing about any plans to leave early. They’re booked here until next Wednesday.”

  “If they do check out early, remind them of our cancellation policy, and then you can fill their rooms with the desperate.”

  “Perhaps I should increase my prices,” Rose had said. “Let me think about that. I’ve thought about it. It would be unseemly to take advantage of a man’s death, although I am sorely tempted.”

  I’d then gone to Tea by the Sea and baked until almost midnight. I staggered out of bed this morning at the regular time and went to the B & B to get the breakfasts on. Victoria-on-Sea was full, but I didn’t have any special requests, and everyone was served by quarter to nine, so I had time to take a cup of coffee and a blueberry muffin to the privacy of my own front porch, kick off my shoes, and take a few precious minutes for myself. I read the emails and texts that had come in overnight with news from the New York restaurant scene, while Éclair checked under every bush and every blade of grass for the latest news from the neighborhood.

  Quite a few of my friends knew Tommy Greene or knew someone who’d worked with him over the years. “Tough but fair” was the general consensus. He had a reputation, well deserved, for forcing his employees to give their best and not letting them off the hook if they didn’t. But equally, he was quick to step in and help if a cook was having family issues or other personal or health problems. He paid well and gave generously of his time and money to mentor young chefs who showed promise. If you were tough enough to take the pressure, Tommy’s upscale English-style pubs were considered top-notch places to work and learn. In his personal life, there wasn’t a whisper of improper behavior, or so I’d been told. He didn’t go out drinking after work; he didn’t try to pressure his female staff into sleeping with him. He was devoted to his wife and their two young children and complained about missing them when he traveled. He didn’t live above his apparent means, which were now substantial but hadn’t always been, and there’d never been any rumors of funny money bankrolling his restaurants.

  That was that, and I believed it. I’m sure plenty of people have secret lives they manage to keep secret, but the New York restaurant world is a close-knit, gossipy one. No one I knew claimed to be a personal friend of Tommy, they said he didn’t have many real friends, but I was confident that if he was involved in things he shouldn’t be, someone—probably everyone—would know.

  It was a good thing I’d put in extra time in the tearoom kitchen last night. By early afternoon the line for tables stretched out the gate and down the driveway. Fortunately, it was a lovely day, so we could take full advantage of the seating on the patio. I spent all day in the kitchen, rolling, kneading, mixing, folding, stirring, tasting. Marybeth and Cheryl were whirlwinds of activity as they shouted orders, prepared pots of tea, poured prosecco and iced tea, arranged the food, and carried out glasses, teapots, and laden three-tiered stands.

  “No publicity is bad publicity,” Cheryl said to me at one point when she’d stopped to have a quick glug of water. “Isn’t that what they say in show biz?”

  “So I’ve heard.”

  “When I was cleaning a table on the patio a moment ago, I saw Simon chasing a couple of toddlers out of his flower beds. The parents were too busy taking pictures to notice what the little darlings were up to. Did you know Matt Goodwill’s helping out?”

  “Helping with what?”

  “Directing traffic.”

  “It’s that bad?”

  “Oh, yeah. People who don’t want to wait for a table or don’t want tea are poking around the garden. Several of our guests have asked me if I met Tommy or what Tommy had to eat or what type of tea he preferred. I’m playing dumb, like you told me, which isn’t all that hard. I say I’m a part-time waitress and I wasn’t working the days he was here.” She picked up a tray with fresh china and linens and left the kitchen.

  I returned my attention to the tarts I was assembling. This wasn’t a day to attempt anything new or overly complicated, and I was sticking to my tried-and-true favorites. Like these lemon tarts. Were Allegra’s tarts really better than mine?

  At last, the long, busy day came to an end. Marybeth and Cheryl staggered into the kitchen under the weight of trays full of empty teapots and plates containing not much more than a scattering of crumbs. I took a batch of mini coconut cupcakes out of the oven, put it on the counter to cool before packing the cupcakes into containers to go into the fridge overnight, and leaned back with a groan to give my aching muscles some relief.

  “A good day,” Cheryl said.

  “A hard day,” Marybeth said.

  “How were the tips?” I asked.

  “Better than normal,” Marybeth said. “I was reading up on Tommy Greene last night, and apparently, he was a vocal proponent of good tipping. If you can afford to eat at a Manhattan restaurant, he once said to an interviewer, you can afford to properly thank the person who ensured your evening was a success.”

  I was dead beat, but the reservations book was full for tomorrow, and I needed to put in a few more hours tonight, particularly if we had the number of walk-ins we’d had today.

  I started another batch of scones, while Marybeth and Cheryl quickly and efficiently tidied the patio, the main dining room, and the alcoves to get ready for another day’s service.

  “Knock, knock.” The back door opened, and Simon’s tousled head popped around the corner. “Is it safe to come in?”

  “Barely,” I said.

  “You must have been overwhelmed in here today.” He wore his gardening overalls, gloves poking out of the pockets, and heavy boots. Sand was trapped in his fair hair, and the T-shirt under his overalls was streaked with mud and sweat. He smelled of freshly cut grass, hard work, and good Cape Cod earth, with perhaps a slight overlay of compost.

  “Overwhelmed’s the word.” Marybeth threw her apron into the laundry basket with a sigh of relief and went to the storage room to get her purse. She came out with her mother’s tote bag, as well.

  “We were so busy, I scarcely had time to think about what happened last night,” Cheryl said, “which is a good thing, and when I was thinking about it, I didn’t have a chance to tell you.”

  “Tell us what?” Marybeth and I asked.

  Simon scrubbed his hands under the kitchen sink with vigor.

  “Chuck Williams paid a call on me at home yesterday. Not long after I spoke to you on the phone about the reservations, Lily.”

  “What did he want?” Marybeth asked.

  “To go over the same questions he’d asked before. Essentially, did I kill Tommy Greene? To which I replied, ‘No, I did not.’ He asked what I’d done after work that day, and if I could prove I hadn’t come back here. I can’t prove what I didn’t do, now can I?” Her voice rose, and a twitch started above her right eye. “He asked Jim where he’d been, and Jim said he’d been in Nantucket for a couple of days, working a charter. Jim’s no fan of Chuckie Boy, either, and he said if he’d known I’d need an alibi, he’d have stayed home.”

  “Then what happened?” Marybeth asked.

  “Chuck left, saying he’d be back.” Tears welled up in her eyes. “I hate this.”

  Marybeth put an arm around her mother’s shoulder. Simon and I exchanged glances.

  I shifted my feet. “Cheryl, it’s none of my business, but I have to ask. What’s the story with you and Allegra? It’s obvious you two have a history.”

  Before I could tell her that Allegra said I shouldn’t have hired her, she shrugged Marybeth’s arm away, wiped at her eyes, and said, “Nothing. Nothing that matters. It’s all water under the bridge.” A veil fell over her face, and she said, “See you tomorrow.”

  I wanted to ask her what Williams had meant when he’d said she’d been a troublemaker in her youth, but as her employer, I hesitated at stepping over that line. Teenage indiscretions and high school animosities were none of my business. I hesitated too long, and by the time I’d decided that a murder in my place of business and my employee being under suspicion for that murder made it my business, the door was swinging shut behind her.

  Marybeth gave me a look of apology and hurried after her mother.

  “I came by to offer to give you some help,” Simon said. “I would have earlier, but I had my hands full keeping future juvenile delinquents out of the shrubbery and politely asking well-dressed ladies not to cut the flowers, thank you very much. ‘And no, Tommy Greene hadn’t put his foot in that patch of soil, madam, so please don’t dig up the bulbs.’ I’d never even heard of the man before this week, but by the way some of those women were going on, you’d think he’d been one of the Beatles.”

  “What brought the Beatles to mind?”

  “My mum’s a big Paul McCartney fan and has been almost all her life. She has stacks of books about him and his former bandmates, and one of the pictures shows a girl weeping over a patch of grass she pulled out of the ground because he’d supposedly trod on it.”

  I laughed. It was a good feeling after the busyness of the day, on top of the tension of this week. “Any sign of police activity?”

  “Some. Williams and Redmond stopped by a couple of hours ago. They went in the house, came out about half an hour later. No one left with them.”

  “Probably talking to the TV people again.”

  “Are you planning on baking tonight?”

  “I don’t have a lot of time. I’m supposed to be having dinner with Rose at seven, but I’ll do what I can until then.”

  “I’ll go and change out of these things, shake off most of the dirt, and be right back.” He gave me a soft smile. “If you’d like some company while you work?”

  I returned the smile. “I would. Thanks.”

  He left, and I opened the industrial-sized fridge. When Simon meant providing company while I worked, he didn’t intend to pull up a chair, crack open a beer, and chat. Simon knew his way around a kitchen. His mother was a wedding and special events caterer, and Simon had grown up helping her. His father owned a landscaping company. Simon’s life choices, he’d told me, had been either cooking or gardening.

  I didn’t have a lot of time until my meeting with Rose, so I decided to make more scones and ask Simon to prepare sandwich ingredients. I took out a whole chicken and put it aside for him to poach for the filling. I put a large stockpot on to boil and then selected a smaller pot for preparing the eggs for curried egg sandwiches.

  I was dumping the wet scone dough onto the flour-covered butcher block prior to folding it and rolling it out when Simon returned. His face was scrubbed pink, his hair wet, and he wore clean jeans and a fresh T-shirt. He rubbed his hands together. “Okay, mate, let me at it.”

  * * *

  We worked comfortably together and talked mainly about the subject uppermost in everyone’s mind: the death of Tommy Greene. Unfortunately, we came to no conclusions. Simon had been in North Augusta for an even shorter length of time than I had, so he could provide no insights into the community and relationships therein.