“Thanks.” My eyes wandered back to the Wedgwood. It was a gorgeous set, in the classic Wedgwood blue pattern with cream-colored grapes around the edges and footed cups. Eight cups and matching saucers for three hundred dollars. A steal!

  “We’re not here to buy,” Bernie said quickly. “Sorry, but we want to ask you about something that happened at that event.”

  “Shoot. What do you what to know?”

  I dragged my attention back to the matter at hand. “I bought a Peter Rabbit children’s set in a wicker box. Do you remember the piece I mean?”

  “I sure do remember that one. And not just because it was nice.” She chuckled. “I wish I had more of them. It turned out to be pretty popular.”

  “Popular?”

  “A couple of people have been looking for it.”

  “A couple? Can you describe them?”

  “Two women, but they didn’t come together. The first came to the show a couple of days after you. It was Saturday, probably in the afternoon as the hall was absolutely packed. It was a successful show. She was looking for that box in particular and described it perfectly. You gave me your card, so I told her where to find you. I hope I didn’t cause you any problems?”

  That was an understatement, but I said, “That’s fine. No harm done. She did track me down. Thanks.”

  “The second woman came in the next day. I didn’t say anything about the first woman, but I told her I’d sold the set. She was upset and asked if I remembered who’d bought it. As I’d already given the first one your info, I did the same for the second.”

  “Had you seen either of these women before?” Bernie asked.

  “Not that I remember. And I probably would have. The first one was a stuck-up little thing. She demanded to know where the box was and then turned outright rude when I said I’d sold it. I probably should have phoned you to ask if I could send her on to you, but I didn’t think of it. Sorry. Like I said, we were busy, and I had customers waiting. Maybe I hoped she’d return the favor by buying something. No such luck. I gave her the name of your tearoom and she stalked out without bothering to say thank you. I watched her go. She didn’t visit any of the other booths; she marched straight out of there like a woman on a mission.”

  “Which she was,” I said. “What about the second woman?”

  “She came in the next day, Sunday, not long after opening. She was also looking for that tea set in particular. She was few years older than the first one. Taller, with long black hair. A heck of a lot politer.” Rachel. “I gave her the name of your restaurant, too. I’d given it to the rude one, so I figured I might as well tell the polite one.”

  “I’m confused,” I said. “You said you’d never seen either of them before. But didn’t the first woman sell it to you in the first place?” Rachel told me Kimberly sold their mother’s things without first asking if Rachel wanted any of it.

  “I see a heck of a lot of people in this job. I’m sure you do, too, in your business. Much of the stuff I buy and sell is the same as all the rest. Silver cutlery and tea sets. Dinner dishes no one wants. Old medals from long-forgotten ancestors. But I do remember buying that tea chest because it was particularly nice. A man brought it in.”

  “Can you describe him?” I asked.

  “Early to midthirties, maybe. Skinny, on the short side for a man. Long, thin, twitchy fingers. The nervous type.” This had to be Stephen, Kimberly and Rachel’s brother. “He had a box of other stuff, too, good quality most of it. Silver photo frames that are worth something, a couple of vintage rings and a nice broach.”

  “Jewelry?”

  She laughed. “Not the valuable stuff, no. I don’t handle that.” She indicated a display case on the sales counter. Rhinestones and sequins and colored glass shimmered in the light above the counter. “Midcentury costume jewelry is hugely popular these days, so I do a nice business in it. And, yes, before you ask, I can recognize costume jewelry from the real thing. If he had good jewelry, I would have sent him to a jeweler who gives me a finder’s fee.”

  “Did the women tell you why they wanted the Peter Rabbit set?” Bernie asked.

  “They both said it belonged to their late mother and had great sentimental value, but it had been sold to me by another family member by mistake. I’ve heard that story more times than you’d believe, and I might have had some sympathy, except that the first one didn’t seem all that emotional about it. I wondered if that story was even true. The second woman was upset when I said I didn’t have it, yes, but she poked around a bit before leaving. She recognized a broach as one that had been in the lot the young man sold me, so she bought it. She seemed happy to have it. What happened to the set? Did one of them buy it off you?”

  “They ended up not wanting it after all.”

  “Weird. But no weirder than a lot of things I see in this business. You would not believe some of the things people will fight over.”

  The chimes tinkled and Darlene called, “Feel free to browse.” She then said to us, “If that’s all . . .”

  “Thank you, you’ve been very helpful. Let’s go, Rose. Rose?”

  My grandmother was admiring the items in the tallboy. “This is a lovely collection of Wedgwood. Reminds me of preparing tea in the kitchens at Thornecroft Castle when Lady Frockmorton was entertaining special guests.” Rose leaned over and peered at the price tag. “How much is it, dear?”

  “I’m asking three hundred dollars,” Darlene said, “but because I apologize if I caused any trouble by sending those women after you, I’ll give it to you for two hundred and fifty.”

  “That’s rather a lot,” Bernie said as Rose opened her purse.

  * * *

  “My Christmas present to you,” Rose said as I loaded the box of Wedgwood into the trunk.

  “Thanks, but it was too much to spend for items for the tearoom.”

  “You spent a hundred and sixty on the children’s set,” Bernie said.

  “And wasn’t that a mistake. Look at the trouble that caused us.”

  “Ms. McIntosh broadly hinted that Kimberly was rude because she didn’t buy something in exchange for information.” Rose settled herself into her seat and fastened her seat belt. “I don’t want her bad-mouthing us to the next person who comes calling.”

  “I hope no one will come calling on her or anyone else with questions about us,” I said.

  “Reputation is important. As Lady Frockmorton pointed out to Mr. Cairncross, the butler they employed for all of two weeks before he was caught rifling through the drawers in a guest bedroom. It turns out he forged his letter of recommendation and . . .”

  “A story for another day,” I said. “Looks like it was Stephen, not Kimberly, who sold the Peter Rabbit tea chest. Then Kimberly tried to get it back.”

  “Do you think it matters who sold it?” Bernie asked.

  “Probably not. But I was curious. It’s another piece of the puzzle. Kimberly would have been furious at him when she found out what he’d done.”

  “What next, love?” Rose asked once we were under way.

  “Tearoom and a day’s work for me. I don’t know what we achieved this morning, but I’m glad we came, even though it seems to have done nothing more than muddy the waters still further.”

  “The water is always muddiest before the clearing. Or something like that,” Bernie said. “I’ll see what else I can dig up regarding the affairs of the Smithfield family, as well as Wesley’s financial situation. Speaking of Wesley, I have an assignment for you, Rose.”

  Rose clapped her hands. “Excellent. What can I do? Scale the outside of the house to access his room in the dead of night? Tie him to a chair and hold him at gunpoint until he confesses? Use my feminine wiles to convince him to run away with me?”

  “That’s painting a picture I don’t want to see,” I said.

  “You’re closer than you know,” Bernie said. “He thinks himself a charmer. Stereotypically, no one can be charmed faster than little old ladies. Invite him for a drink on the veranda. Tell him you’re soooo interested in hearing all about his new restaurant venture. Maybe suggest a partnership—you’ll recommend his place to your guests in return for certain favors.”

  “Definitely not a picture I want to see,” I said.

  “Not that sort of favor,” Bernie said. “All I’m saying is, give him a chance to talk about himself and see what spills out.”

  Rose chuckled. “Mata Hari had nothing on me.”

  “That might be a nice angle for the book,” Bernie said. “I could introduce a femme fatale–type spy character to act as a nemesis to Rose and Tessa.”

  “No,” I said.

  * * *

  I hadn’t missed too much work time in my expedition to Chatham, and I dove straight back into it after dropping Rose and Bernie at the house.

  I was getting started on a batch of shortbread when, of all people, Rachel Morrison strolled into my kitchen. “You’ve done a good job decorating this place, Lil, but it could use a few discreet modernizations. I’m thinking Art Deco–style paintings of members of the royal family. Something to ground us firmly in the twenty-first century amidst the tradition of afternoon tea itself.”

  “I don’t want my tearoom to be grounded in the twenty-first century, thank you very much.”

  “Everything okay?” Cheryl asked. “I told this lady I’d see if you had time to talk to her but—”

  “Not a problem,” Rachel said. “I know my way. How about a consultation? Say an hour? I’ll do it for free to apologize for the trouble certain members of my family have caused you.” Her attitude today was bubbly and cheerful, and she’d dressed in plain, but nice, white jeans and a fresh bright yellow summer blouse. Her makeup was subdued, and her hair cascaded in sleek waves down her back. Something had happened to improve her mood since she’d been in here yesterday, when she’d been “on the lam,” so to speak.

  I added flour, cornstarch, and icing sugar to the butter in the mixer, switched it on, and spoke over the roar of the small motor. “It’s okay, Cheryl, thanks. How’s it looking out there?”

  “Full house on the patio, three quarters of the indoor seats taken. A couple of groups declined to sit inside and are wandering through the gardens, waiting for an outdoor table to come free.”

  “Sounds good. Why are you here, Rachel?”

  “To offer my professional services? No, I’ll admit that came as an afterthought. I wanted to let you know I showed my smiling face at the police station this morning and had a nice chat with your detectives.”

  I turned the mixer off and scraped down the sides of the bowl. “You obviously haven’t been arrested.”

  “They were a mite touchy at first, demanding to know why I never returned their calls. ‘Calls?’ I said sweetly, ‘Have you been calling me? I was so overcome by the news of my beloved little sister’s tragic and unexpected death, I turned my phone off.’ They calmed down eventually. That is to say, he did, the fat, old cop. I don’t think she lets anything ruffle her hair, does she? Oh, sorry, am I in your way?” She stepped to one side to let Cheryl pass with her tray containing two teapots. The smokey scent of Lapsang souchong filled the air. “You need a larger kitchen, Lily. That will be difficult, with the limited space you have and these old stone walls.” Rachel rapped her knuckles on the wall next to the back door. “Too bad. I was hoping this might be a façade, but nope, solid stone. You could reduce some of the area where you display that stuff for sale and knock out part of that wall. Open kitchens are all the rage these days. Maybe stop selling that kitsch all together. You probably don’t sell much, if any, of it.”

  I had not the slightest intention of ever working in an open kitchen. Never mind that we made a nice bit of extra income from the sale of fine teas, individual teacups and pots, and locally made preserves. Speaking of which, I might try to unload the Wedgwood set Rose had bought, which I hadn’t yet taken out of the car. I switched the mixer back on. “I’m pleased they didn’t arrest you, Rachel. Now, if you don’t mind, I have work to do.”

  “They didn’t arrest me because I have an alibi.”

  Despite myself, I switched off the mixer. “You do?”

  “Thanks to you, Lily, the time of Kimberly’s death is pretty much fixed. At that particular time, I was in a charming bar in your charming town, drinking away my sorrows. I spent most of my time chatting to a nice young man and, in case you’re interested, chatting is all we did. When we left, he gave me his number. Which I had no intention of ever following up on, but that’s irrelevant to the present situation. Fortunately, I didn’t simply toss the paper with his number in the nearest trash can. I wanted to talk to him before reporting to the police, to make sure he’d tell them he was with me. The bar was crowded, and I wasn’t sure the bartender would remember me or notice what time I left. Tracking the guy down took most of yesterday—he has a charter fishing boat and doesn’t switch his personal phone on when he’s out with clients. He agreed to come to the police station with me this morning. Wasn’t that nice?” She studied the desserts, ready to be arranged on stands for our guests, and helped herself to a hazelnut macaron. “Very nice.”

  “Thanks for letting me know. Were you here yesterday afternoon?”

  “No.”

  “At the B & B maybe?”

  “Funny you should ask that. The police did as well. I told them a slightly different version of what I’ll tell you. I was not, considering I was in hiding pending my interview with the forces of law and order. I prefer to do those things on my own terms. Did something happen here?” Rachel smiled at me around the macaron. “As good as anything I had in Paris.”

  “Thanks.” Had she been in the B & B yesterday while Wesley was out? Had she tossed his room, searching for the will? Had she found it? I might as well come right out and ask. “Have you located your mother’s third will?”

  Her face fell. “No, I’m beginning to fear it’s long gone. If Kimberly didn’t destroy it, Wesley would have.”

  “If she showed it to him. She might not have.”

  “True. Somewhere deep inside, she had to have known he only married her for her money. The money she thought she had.”

  “Does Kimberly have a will?”

  “I don’t know. I called our family lawyer, and he says he didn’t prepare one for her. No reason she wouldn’t have gone to someone else. I’d certainly never let him handle my affairs.”

  “Why not?”

  “I can’t stand him, and I never fully trusted him. My stepfather made some massively poor investment decisions in his later years, and I suspect his lawyer was the one who advised him on that. I didn’t want him handling any of our legal affairs after Julian died, and I told Mom so, but she seemed to think she should have some loyalty to him and his firm as they’d been the Smithfield lawyers for generations.”

  “I don’t know anything about the laws of inheritance,” I said. No one in my family has ever had enough for any of us to worry about. “If Kimberly died without a will, won’t her husband get it all?”

  “He’ll get whatever’s hers. He will not get what I can prove is mine. If I can prove it. Which is why I need to find that will. If it still exists.”

  “Royal tea for six. Full afternoon tea for two,” Marybeth called. All the while Rachel and I had been talking, Marybeth and Cheryl were in and out of the kitchen, going about their tasks. Trying, that is, to go about their tasks.

  “Good luck,” I said. “What will you do now?”

  “I truly do not know, Lily. Helen Chambers, that’s our family’s longtime housekeeper, as much a mother to me sometimes as my own mother, called me last night. She left a message, so I returned the call when I switched on the phone after leaving the police station. We had a nice, long chat. I missed her in the short time I was persona non grata in Kimberly’s house. Now that it’s not Kimberly’s house any longer, I’m welcome to come and stay as long as I like. My brother’s decided not to go back to California yet and has parked himself there.”

  I dumped handfuls of shortbread dough onto the counter and began rolling it out prior to slicing and baking. I probably should tell Rachel I’d been at the house earlier today, but for some reason I held my tongue. What Rachel was telling me about Helen was a sharp contrast to what Helen had said to me about her. I didn’t say that, either.

  “However,” she continued, “I’m reluctant to leave here until I know for sure that my mother’s last will is lost, or I finally give up all hope. I don’t suppose you have any spare rooms in your grandmother’s B & B?”

  “Sorry, no. Fully booked. One came free, but Wesley took it.”

  “He’s staying on?”

  “He seems,” I chose my words carefully, “to be more concerned about his business venture than preparing for his wife’s funeral.”

  Cheryl heard that last comment as she came into the kitchen. “No surprise there. For some of them, money’s the most important thing there is. It’s none of my business, and I don’t know you,” she said to Rachel, “but you are standing there, directly in my path, talking about your personal affairs, so I’ll give you a piece of advice for free. Let it go. Nothing good comes out of a family fighting over money.”

  “You wouldn’t fight for what’s rightfully yours?” Rachel asked her.

  “I wouldn’t destroy my family over it. No matter if we didn’t get along. Family’s still family.”

  “And my mom,” Marybeth said, “knows all about feuding families. Right, Mom?”

  “Enough lollygagging,” Cheryl said. “We have a full house out there, a lineup’s forming at the gate, and I don’t see anyone else making those cookies. Marybeth, dishwasher’s finished its cycle.”

  “I can take a hint,” Rachel said. “I’ll get out of your hair.”

  “’Bout time,” Cheryl mumbled.

  “I want to hear the story about this feuding family of yours,” I said as the door closed behind Rachel, “but now is not the time. Whatever you do, don’t tell Bernie. She’ll get it into her head that she needs conflict—more conflict—among her characters’ relatives, and then she’ll be off on another tangent.”