“That is worth knowing,” I said. “So Scarlet was sleeping with Tommy.”

  “Not necessarily him. Don’t jump to conclusions. Jean said his bed had been slept in the first two nights they were here.”

  “Who else could it have been? He’s married, as we know, and supposedly it’s a close, loving marriage. He wouldn’t want word to get out if he was fooling around. I can’t see Scarlet sneaking a boyfriend in by the back door when everyone else was in bed.”

  “I can,” Bernie said. “People have all sorts of reasons for keeping relationships secret. I’ll admit Tommy’s the most likely suspect, but there are other possibilities. Josh. Maybe even the notorious Gary Powers.”

  I thought over the sequence of events. “Highly unlikely to be Gary. Scarlet and the rest arrived here on Sunday. Jean said Scarlet had company Sunday night, but the first day of filming was Monday, and by all appearances, Gary hadn’t met Scarlet yet.”

  “It might not have been a man, you know.”

  “There is that. Interesting that the police never asked Jean the right sort of questions.”

  “I’ll bet you anything she was questioned by Williams, not Amy Redmond. He seems to me like the sort who assumes the rooms are cleaned by the cleaning fairy. And cleaning fairies, as we all know, don’t notice things like who slept where or with whom.”

  “Have you discovered anything interesting about Scarlet?” I asked.

  “Nothing other than that she’s a former Miss Louisiana, a former mid-level model, and now a reality-TV star with a reputation for being quite the prima donna. She was married at one time, to a strictly bit-part actor, but that ended a couple of years ago. No children. She now lives in California. I’ll speak to my accountant friend and ask him to widen the focus of his search to include her. What room’s Scarlet in?”

  “Why do you want to know?”

  “No reason.”

  I shook my head firmly. “No. You are not breaking into her room and searching for clues. That would be illegal, and the reputation of Victoria-on-Sea can’t risk it.”

  She gave me a bright smile and fluttered her eyelashes. “Pretty please?”

  “Bernie. No.”

  She deflated. “Oh, all right. I’ll find another way of uncovering Miss Scarlet’s secrets.”

  Guests came down the stairs, ready for a day on the water, and Bernie and I said no more.

  * * *

  Speak of the devil and she will appear.

  But first, Bernie found me a short time later relaxing on my porch, having my coffee and watching the bay come to life before I went up to the tearoom to start that part of my day.

  “That was quick,” I said.

  Bernie leaned on the fence. “Rose didn’t have much to report. We decided last night what she’d do today, but she wanted to talk it over again. She’s meeting her friends for lunch and will dig for more dirt about Cheryl, Allegra, and Chuck Williams. I must say, the idea of Detective Williams being a young man with . . . romantic inclinations gives me a shiver up my spine.”

  I laughed.

  “Are you going to tell Redmond what we learned from Jean?” Bernie asked.

  “I’ve been thinking it over, and yes, I have to. It’s not up to us to decide what’s significant in a police investigation and what’s not. I’ll give her a call when I get to the tearoom. She’ll be annoyed that we’re interfering in her case, but I’ll inform her that I’m simply passing on local gossip that might be of interest.” I stood up and called to Éclair. “Are you leaving?” I asked Bernie.

  “Yup. I have some calls to make and some . . . other things to do . . . once business opens in the city.”

  “Do I want to know what other things those might be?”

  “No. You do not. But I’m going to tell you, anyway. Gary Powers. He was, if you remember, mighty angry at Tommy Greene on Monday. Angry enough to kill? Who knows? I don’t know enough about the man to say. Rose will dig for the local gossip, but I want to see what I can find out about his business affairs. As for his wife, Mayor Powers, I wonder if she has any financial interest in North Augusta Bakery.”

  “I can’t see the mayor being involved in the murder. She might have a shaky marriage, and everyone in town knows it, but she’s a popular mayor, and she’s considered to be fiercely loyal to the town. Tommy’s death brought all his groupies flocking to the area, but the long-term reputation of North Augusta as a family-friendly holiday destination won’t be helped by an unsolved murder.”

  “You never know,” Bernie said sagely. “Until you do.”

  I called to Éclair, put her in the cottage, told her to have a nice day, and walked around the house with Bernie.

  Who did we see sitting on the veranda but Scarlet McIntosh. She was alone, her head bent over her phone as her thumbs flew. I made to slip past, but Bernie changed direction and bounded up the steps, calling a cheerful “Good morning, Scarlet.”

  Scarlet started and put her hand to her chest. “Goodness, you frightened me.” She was fully made up, and her hair fell in sleek waves around her shoulders. She wore capri-length white jeans, fashionably shredded, and a white T-shirt under a cropped blue linen jacket. I glanced at her phone as she put it on the table. The screen showed a photograph of Scarlet herself standing on a beach at sunset.

  “So sorry,” Bernie said. “Lovely day, isn’t it?”

  “It is. I guess.” Her eyes wandered to her phone.

  Bernie dropped into the chair on the other side of the small table. “I realize it must be so difficult for you hanging around, waiting to see what happens. On top of the shock of Tommy’s death, of course. Were you two close?”

  “We were colleagues rather than friends. But . . . I admired him a great deal. He did so much for the welfare of the average low-paid restaurant worker in America. He worked tirelessly on their behalf.” The words rolled out of her lipsticked mouth, stilted, rehearsed. Was she grieving the death of a lover? I couldn’t tell. If the woman had an ounce of warmth, she’d never shown it to me.

  “Lily and I were thinking it would do you good to see the sights of the area,” Bernie said.

  “We were? I mean, yes, we were thinking just that.” I threw Bernie a questioning look. She ignored me.

  “Have you been to Cape Cod before?”

  “No,” Scarlet said.

  “Lily, why don’t you take Scarlet inside and show her the tourist brochures you keep at the reception desk. Perhaps you can help her organize a whale-watching expedition or a fishing trip or something.”

  “I don’t want—” Scarlet began.

  “It’s no bother. Is it, Lily?”

  “Uh . . . right,” I said. “No bother at all.”

  “Off you go, quickly now. Lily’s happy to help, but she has to get to the tearoom soon.” Bernie made fluttering gestures with her hands. “Won’t take but a couple of minutes. So many wonderful things to see and do.”

  Scarlet slowly, reluctantly, got to her feet. She reached for the purse on the floor beneath her chair, but Bernie lifted a hand. “I’ll wait here and watch your things. Not that there’s ever any danger of anything going missing. Not at Victoria-On-Sea. Hurry up, Lily. Don’t keep Scarlet waiting.”

  “I don’t want to go whale watching,” Scarlet said. “And I certainly don’t want to go fishing. I didn’t much like the spa I was at the other day. Maybe there’s a better one?”

  “Let’s see what we can find.” I ushered her inside.

  * * *

  We soon returned to the veranda, Scarlet’s arms laden with tourist brochures she’d shown not the slightest interest in. I hadn’t been able to find any for spas.

  Bernie leaned back in her chair, eyes closed, the picture of comfortable relaxation. Her eyes fluttered open when she heard the door, and she gave us a bright smile as she leapt to her feet. “All settled? How nice. Have a pleasant day, Scarlet.”

  Scarlet dropped into her chair, tossed the brochures to one side, and picked up her phone.

  Bernie bolted for her car, and I followed. “What on earth was that about? Scarlet’s not going to book herself a whale-watching trip or a fishing charter, of all things.”

  “Not Tommy,” Bernie said. “Josh.”

  “Josh what? Oh, you think she’s sleeping with Josh?”

  “Yup.”

  “How do you . . . ? You read her phone.”

  “Yup. That’s why you had to get her out of the way and fast, before the screen locked me out.”

  “Is that legal?”

  “If people don’t want other people to read their text messages, they shouldn’t leave their phones in a public place, unlocked.”

  “I don’t think it works that way.”

  “Regardless, it works my way. I had time to quickly scan a string of text messages between her and Josh. Last night he said he’d missed her the night before and would be coming to her room when, and I quote, the coast was clear. She replied she had a headache. The oldest excuse in the book. Various messages of a personal nature, which I won’t burden your innocent ears with, all from him to her. Her replies aren’t exactly enthusiastic praise of his manly charms, but she isn’t telling him to get lost, either. Sunday, shortly after they arrived here, he said he’d missed her and couldn’t wait to see her again. Followed by a bunch of pink hearts and other silly emojis. The guy probably thinks using emojis makes him look young. Instead, as I could tell him but won’t—”

  “I shouldn’t ask, plausible deniability and all that, but was there anything between her and Tommy?”

  “A week ago Tommy sent her directions to where they were meeting for lunch. Reilly and Claudia were included in the distribution list. I found nothing private between Tommy and Scarlet. Some texts to her from Reilly, but they were updates about where to go and when to be there. One told her to . . . and I paraphrase . . . wipe that scowl off your face before it freezes in place. I didn’t have time to read them all. Reilly’s most recent message was sent to a long list of people, who are probably the crew, telling them to sit tight until further notice.”

  “So Scarlet’s having an affair with Josh. He’s not married, is he? She’s not. What’s the problem? Why all the secrecy?”

  We stood by Bernie’s car, keeping our voices low. I could see Simon in the rose garden, bending and straightening as he nurtured the plants. At Tea by the Sea, Cheryl raised the big, colorful umbrellas above the tables, while Marybeth wiped dust and sand and dew away. Two seagulls, arguing by the sounds of it, flew overhead.

  “Maybe Scarlet’s not a very expressive person,” Bernie said. “She’s cold enough to me, but then again, I’m not her lover. The tone of her messages to Josh is basically tolerating him and not much more.”

  “It’s the time of #MeToo,” I said. “If he’s coercing her into a relationship, or even if she’s going along with it to further her career, if word got out, the fallout would be heavy.”

  “It could put an end to the show,” Bernie said.

  “What a fool. Josh, I mean.” I glanced across the yard toward the veranda. Scarlet had returned her attention to her phone. A sudden gust of wind lifted the topmost brochure and blew it over the railing. Scarlet watched it go but made no attempt to catch it. Simon, I thought, would not be pleased at the litter. I was not pleased at the litter.

  “Do you think this has anything to do with the death of Tommy Greene?” I asked.

  “It might. Josh would have a great deal to lose if word of what he’s been up to gets out. Did Tommy threaten to expose him?”

  “My take on Tommy, which admittedly isn’t worth much, is that he wasn’t the threatening type. If he’d wanted to expose Josh, he would have. He would’ve been fully aware of the potential impact of the story getting in the papers, meaning the cancellation of the show. I wonder . . .”

  “What do you wonder?”

  “I’m not sure how committed Tommy was to America Bakes!” I thought back to the night he and I walked in the gardens and along the bluffs. He’d talked about leaving TV and returning to his cooking roots. If he’d wanted to quit, he could have. He hadn’t needed to threaten blackmail. “Detective Redmond needs to hear about this.”

  “Whatever you do, do not tell her how you know,” Bernie said firmly.

  * * *

  It was half past ten when I got to Tea by the Sea. I put my earbuds in and tucked my phone into the pocket of my shorts while I gathered equipment and ingredients necessary for a day of baking. “This is a private phone call,” I said to Marybeth, who was starting on the sandwiches, using the fillings Simon had prepared last night, while Cheryl finished laying the patio tables.

  Marybeth rolled her eyes. “I promise I won’t listen, seeing as to how we’re so far apart. Excuse me, can I get to the fridge?”

  I sucked in my stomach and wiggled a couple of inches to one side to give Marybeth room, and then I called Detective Redmond.

  She answered right away. I could hear the sounds of a busy office, or maybe a busy coffee shop, in the background. “Good morning, Lily.”

  “Detective. I’ve learned one or two things about the . . . situation surrounding the TV people I thought you might like to know. If you don’t know them already, I mean.”

  Marybeth leaned so far toward me she was in danger of toppling over. I turned my back to her and decided to begin the day’s work with a batch of orange scones. Made with a touch of orange zest and cream rather than the usual milk, served with marmalade instead of the usual jam, they were a popular accompaniment to our more expensive royal tea.

  “Where are you now?” Redmond asked me.

  “At Tea by the Sea.”

  “Put the kettle on. The coffee in this place is beyond dreadful.” She hung up.

  I was putting the orange scones in the oven when the detective arrived. We couldn’t talk in the kitchen, not with Marybeth and Cheryl constantly coming and going, so I led the way to a small table on the patio. We opened at eleven, and so far, only a handful of customers were knocking down the gates, trying to get in.

  I’d had Redmond to tea before, and I had a pot of tea steeped and ready, along with a plate of scones (not the special orange ones) and an assortment of sandwiches left over from yesterday. Today I used my second-best china. I’d enjoyed teaching the detective about the traditions around a proper afternoon tea, as well as watching her appreciate my offerings.

  “No tarts?” She eyed today’s spread.

  I started to stand, but she waved me back down. “Just kidding, Lily. This will do. More than do.”

  I poured the tea, and she added a splash of milk and half a teaspoon of sugar to hers and took a sip. “I like this one. What’s it called?”

  “English breakfast. One of the most popular teas. As I pulled you away from your morning coffee, I thought you’d appreciate something full bodied.”

  “Thanks. Okay, what’s up?”

  “We’ve learned two things that might be of interest.”

  “By we I assume you mean you and Bernadette Murphy and your grandmother.” She sipped her tea. “The very people who were instructed not to get involved but somehow always manage to do so, anyway.”

  “Uh . . . yes.”

  “Only because you’ve helped us in the past did I come out here, Lily. That and for tea and scones, of course. I can’t believe what I’ve been missing all my life.” She sliced a scone in half and spread butter and strawberry jam on it and added a dab of clotted cream.

  Detective Redmond had automatically taken the seat with her back to the garden wall, so she faced the outdoor room. Behind me I could hear Cheryl welcoming the first of the guests and showing them to their tables. I realized Redmond was watching Cheryl. Then she focused her attention back onto me and said, “What do you have to tell me?”

  “First, Josh Henshaw, the director, is sleeping with Scarlet McIntosh, and they are most definitely trying to keep that relationship secret.”

  Her face didn’t react. I couldn’t tell if my bombshell came as news to her or not. “How do you know, if it’s such a secret?”

  “We run a hotel. Like downstairs staff of historical dramas, no secrets are safe from us. Whoever interviewed our housekeeper should have asked better questions. Staff notice things. Lots of things.”

  “Fair enough.” Her face tightened in a flash of anger. “I might mention that to . . . certain of my colleagues. What else?”

  “Gary Powers, husband of the mayor, is a half owner of North Augusta Bakery.”

  “I understand you wanting to tell me the first piece of info, but not the second. Why does it matter?”

  “First, Gary got into an argument with Tommy Greene on Monday. He was being difficult, Gary was, and Tommy put him in his place. Did he want to get back at Tommy for the humiliation? We also considered he might have another reason to kill Tommy Greene—to help out the bakery. In the competition, I mean.”

  “When I last spoke to Josh Henshaw about an hour ago, he was whining about not knowing if there would even be a competition. I’m afraid you’re off base there, Lily. No one at the bakery would have wanted America Bakes! to cease production.”

  “Still,” I said, “it’s a connection.”

  She finished her scone and reached for an herbed cucumber sandwich.

  “Otherwise,” I said, “how’s the investigation going?”

  She lifted one eyebrow.

  “Just wondering,” I said.

  “Early days yet. The autopsy report will be public soon enough. Mr. Greene died somewhere between eleven p.m. and one a.m., the result of a cerebral hemorrhage caused by a blow to the back of his head.”

  I thought of my marble rolling pin and regretted taking a big bite of a chicken sandwich.

  “You told me you spoke to him around eleven o’clock that night. Is that correct?”

  I nodded.

  “No one has come forward to say they’d seen him or spoken to him after he left you. His phone records show that he did not make or receive any calls or texts since much earlier that evening. He died almost instantly, where he was found. Meaning in your kitchen. What he was doing in your kitchen at that time of night, and with whom, is the question. It’s highly unlikely he would have gone there with a stranger. You still maintain that you can’t remember if you locked the door or not?”