“A moment of your time.”

  “I am rather busy.”

  “You’re a baker. You can bake and listen while I talk.” She leaned against the butcher block and gave me a crooked smile. She was nicely dressed in a cheerful summer dress, her makeup was fresh, her hair twisted behind her head in a loose, perfectly arranged chignon, and she’d had a manicure since I’d last seen her. “I need some advice, Lily.”

  “Advice? From me?”

  “From you. I don’t have anyone else to talk to. I called Stephen a short while ago, and we had a good long talk, but he’s not in a position to hear about my dilemma.”

  “Okay. Advice about what? I find it helpful to keep your hands busy when you’re wrestling with a decision, so here’s the piping bag. Those cupcakes need icing. Put a swirl on each, please.”

  She took the bag out of my hands. “I might not be a cook, and I’m definitely not a baker, but after all these years I do know my way around a kitchen. Wesley called me late last night, asking for a meeting this morning.”

  “Did you go?”

  “Yes, we had coffee at a bakery in town at ten.”

  That would explain the trouble she’d gone to over her appearance. She needed to look like a woman in control of herself. “As you’re asking my advice, Rachel, I’ll give you some information in exchange. Your family lawyer got here around nine last night. He and Wesley were in the B & B drawing room for a long time. I . . . uh . . . don’t know what it was about.”

  “I figured as much. Wes wants to come to a deal. Settle the dispute about Mom’s will. He’ll give me two million bucks after the house is sold if I agree to drop my claim.”

  “What do you think about that?”

  “The house is worth around twenty mil. Say a couple mil to fix it up to get the best possible price. So fifteen mil, minimum, after renovations, agents’ fees, taxes, etcetera, etcetera. I was good at math in school, and from what I remember, half of fifteen is not two.”

  “No, but two is also not nothing. Which is what you’ll get if the new will cannot be found.”

  “Thus I have a decision to make. What would you do?”

  I began chopping chocolate prior to blending it with butter for the start of an Earl Grey chocolate tart before turning to face her. “I’ve never had to consider sums like that. To me, two million bucks is beyond imagining. Maybe it’s not to you.”

  “It’s a lot for me, too, Lily. My stepfather paid for my education, so I never had to worry about student loans, but I never had a trust fund or anything like that. I worked hard to make it as a designer and decorator, and I make my living the same as you do—I work hard. So yeah, two million bucks in my bank account would allow me to do some of the things I’d like to do—travel more, take risks with my career. But that wasn’t my mother’s intention. My mother left the house to Kimberly and me, equally. End of story. ”

  “Rachel, you’ve asked me for my advice. I’m not going to give it to you, because I don’t have any to give, but I will point out that your mother could have given the new will to her lawyers, even to her nurse or the housekeeper for safekeeping. Or to you, with a copy to Kimberly. Instead, she put it in a child’s Peter Rabbit tea chest.”

  “I told you how important that tea set was to her.”

  “You did. And because you’re talking about the intentions of people I don’t know, I can’t advise you.”

  Marybeth was behind Rachel, preparing curried egg sandwich fillings. She gave me an exaggerated wink and made the universal sign for money, rubbing the thumb of her right hand and first two fingers together. I pretended not to notice. Marybeth was indicating that Rachel should take the money and run. If it were my decision, I’d probably do the same. How long did Rachel think she could keep searching for the lost will? She couldn’t abandon her career for much longer. Apart from her needing the income, restaurant designers, like celebrity chefs, fall in and out of fashion. If she disappeared, even temporarily, she’d risk being forgotten.

  It might be one thing if Rachel knew for certain the will still existed, but assuming that’s what was in the envelope hidden in the tea set, Kimberly’d had it. She had the opportunity to destroy it, and no reason not to do so. Rachel also had to consider who might have searched room 202. Had that person found the will and destroyed it? Had that person been Rachel herself, and she was playing a game of her own with Wesley? Was she talking to me in an attempt to deflect any suspicions I might have about her?

  “You know Wes better than I do.” Rachel kept her head down and her eyes on her task as she moved down the row of cupcakes, adding a decorative swirl of buttercream to each. “What do you think he’ll do if I play coy? Will he up the amount?”

  “It turns out I don’t know Wesley as well as I thought I did, but at a guess, I’d say yes. He wants this to be over as much as you do, Rachel.” Probably more, if he was going to be able to save his grandiose restaurant plans.

  “I’ll go in with seven million. I’m prepared to haggle down to five. Maybe as low as four if he begs enough. Thanks, Lily. You’ve been a doll. That’s that done.” She put aside the piping bag with a smile. The cupcakes looked gorgeous.

  “Anytime,” I said.

  “One more thing. Can you squeeze me and a guest in for tea for two this afternoon? Say three o’clock?”

  “Marybeth, do we have space then?” I asked.

  “Two people shouldn’t be a problem.”

  “See you then.” Rachel skipped happily out of the kitchen.

  “I’d like to have that decision to make,” Marybeth said once Rachel was gone. “Whether to take two million or hold out for half of fifteen.”

  “Or end up with nothing,” I said.

  “Money doesn’t buy happiness, but it makes being miserable a heck of a lot better.”

  I laughed and returned my attention to the tower of grated chocolate.

  * * *

  “In case you want to know,” Marybeth said promptly at three o’clock, “your friend’s here, and I seated her and her guest on the patio.”

  “You mean Rachel?”

  “Yup. They’ve ordered the royal tea and a pot of English breakfast and one of Lapsang souchong.” She got down the canisters of loose-leaf tea.

  “Go all out, will you, please?” I asked. “Use my personal china.” For my sixteenth birthday, my Campbell grandparents gave me a full set of Royal Doulton Winthrop china. I brought it out in the tearoom for the most special of special guests. “Make sure they get the prettiest desserts and the best-looking scones.”

  “All your desserts are pretty and your scones all look the same, Lily.”

  “Not to me. And they won’t to him, either.” If Wesley Schumann was going to have afternoon tea at my place, I’d make sure he had nothing to complain about.

  “Him?” Marybeth said. “What him?”

  “Rachel’s guest. It’s not a man?” I’d assumed Rachel and Wesley were meeting over afternoon tea to continue haggling about the dispersal of the Smithfield estate. It would be like Rachel, I thought, to want the perfect backdrop for negotiations.

  “It’s an older woman. I’ve never seen her before.”

  Once I had macarons out of the oven, a fresh batch of fruit tarts in, and a moment to grab a break, I took off my apron and hairnet, retied my hair, and slipped out of the kitchen. I was curious as to whom Rachel had invited to tea.

  As always, when I can grab a moment in the day to check what’s happening out front, I was glad I did. It’s one thing to work in the kitchen all day, every day, cooking and baking and cleaning up, and then starting all over again, quite another to observe your happy customers. Sometimes I forget the sheer pleasure of seeing how much people enjoy the fruit of my labors. Several tables had been pushed together to make a table for twelve in the main room. A couple who were likely in their nineties, if not more, sat at either end, resplendent in their best clothes. An assortment of children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren, and maybe even a great-great-grandchild, in the person of a baby in a highchair, were gathered around them, everyone also done to the nines. The baby had a pink bow stuck to her bald head. I’d had a request in the reservations book for flowers to mark an anniversary, and I asked Simon to put together the best bouquet he could. Red roses filled a glass vase. A hand-painted banner had been placed in the arrangement: Happy 75th Anniversary, Gran and Gramps.

  Seventy-five years married. Imagine that.

  The food at their table was almost all gone, and the teacups empty. I detoured to greet them. “Good afternoon. I’m Lily Roberts, the cook here, and I want to take the opportunity to extend my congratulations.”

  The baby burped. She held a piece of cupcake in her chubby hand. The rest of the cupcake was smeared across her face and down the front of her suit. The young man next to her wiped a touch of drool off her face.

  The elderly lady beamed at me. “Thank you so much. Hard to believe anyone could keep up with that old coot all these years, but I managed. Nothing better to do with my time, I suppose.”

  The family laughed. The elderly man at the other end of the table gave the old woman a smile so full of affection my heart turned over. I carried on my way with a spring to my step.

  My parents’ marriage hadn’t lasted much longer than it took for me to arrive, and my own relationship history isn’t anything to brag about. That might have made me cynical, except I’ve always known how much my grandparents had adored each other, to the day of my grandfather’s death. And after. Rose kept their wedding picture prominently displayed in her sitting room. Seeing the happy faces of the seventy-fifth anniversary couple reminded me that love did exist and it could last through all the ups and downs life had to throw at it.

  Every seat on the patio was taken. Cracked teacups tinkled cheerfully in the light breeze, and colorful umbrellas protected diners from the hot sun. People laughed and chatted, cutlery and china clinked as tea was poured and milk and sugar stirred in. The scent in the air was a delightful mix of the sea, tea, fresh baking, and flowers. On the other side of the low stone wall marking off the Tea by the Sea patio, a few people wandered through the rose garden, admiring the plants. Simon was pulling weeds out of a perennial border.

  Rachel and her guest had been given a table for two in a corner, tucked next to the drystone half wall. Brilliant green moss and tiny purple and white flowers spilled between the stones. Rachel was leaning forward, emphasizing a point to her guest. The other woman laughed and Rachel fell back, smiling broadly. Rachel lifted one of the teapots and filled her own cup. The other woman glanced around. She saw me and raised a hand in greeting.

  It was Helen Chambers, housekeeper to the Smithfields, dressed for the occasion in a lime green blouse and long white skirt with green trim. Her bare feet were in sandals, and gold hoops were in her ears.

  She said something to Rachel, and Rachel turned her head. “Lily! Get over here. Helen was just saying these are the best scones she’s ever had. Weren’t you, Helen?”

  “I was. Everything’s been good.”

  “Thank you. I’m pleased you like it. Can I ask the waitress to refill your teapot?”

  “I’ve had more than enough,” Helen said. “Although I hate to see this last treat go to waste. It looks like a perfect little jewel.” She reached for the remaining lemon square.

  Rachel smiled at me. She looked relaxed, content if not actually happy, cradling the last few drops in her prosecco flute.

  “Enjoy the rest of your day.” I left them, intending to scurry back to my kitchen.

  At the far end of the patio, near the gate, Cheryl was approaching a table of recent arrivals, bearing a tray with a large teapot, milk jug, and sugar bowl. The moment she reached the table, one of the guests let out a roar of laughter and flung her arms in the air, striking the edge of the tray. The woman’s friends yelled; the miscreant leapt to her feet, screeching her apologies, grabbing for the teapot, and hindering Cheryl’s attempts to keep not only her balance but everything in place on the tray. I crossed the patio at a run and grabbed the teapot before it could hit the ground.

  “I am so sorry,” the customer said. “Are you all right, hon? I can be so dreadfully clumsy sometimes.”

  “I’m fine.” Cheryl gave her a bright smile. She’d been waitressing for a lot of years and not much phased her. “Don’t give it another thought. Ms. Roberts saved the day.”

  I put the pot on the table and attempted to match Cheryl’s smile. “Enjoy your tea, ladies.”

  As I turned away from them, I caught a flash of movement as something slipped out of the sunlight to blend into the shadows at the side of the building.

  I opened the gate and went through. Stephen Smithfield stepped forward. “Hi. Thanks for letting me have a look around.” His face was red, and as I studied him he flushed more.

  “Have you been here all this time?” I asked.

  “No, I left.” He kept his eyes on the ground at his feet. “I had some . . . shopping to do. Then I . . . uh . . . decided to come back and say a last good-bye to Kimmy before going home.”

  “Rachel’s here. Are you looking for her?”

  He lifted his head and looked directly into my eyes. “Rachel? Here? I’d love to say hi, but I don’t have the time. Bye.” He walked as fast as he was able without breaking into a panicked run.

  I glanced toward Rachel’s table as I headed back inside. They’d finished their meal. Rachel was pulling out her credit card, while Helen drank the last of the tea. Their body language indicated they were relaxed in each other’s company.

  When Rose, Bernie, and I had been at their house, Helen had almost accused Rachel of murdering not only her half sister but her mother as well. And now she was here, relaxing in the sunshine, enjoying tea with the supposed murderer?

  Should I tell Rachel what Helen said to me about her?

  As for Stephen . . . he was a dreadful liar. Not only had he known his half sister was here, enjoying the best of afternoon tea at Tea by the Sea, he’d been watching her table, and doing so while trying to remain unobserved. The word that came to mind was spying. The question was, had he been watching Rachel or Helen Chambers? Or both? He’d not had anything good to say about the family’s housekeeper and he’d been outright rude to her when Rose, Bernie, and I visited the house.

  It was a complicated family, and I didn’t want to get any more involved in their problems than I already was. Hopefully Rachel would soon come to a deal with Wesley, and they’d both be on their way. The police would continue searching for the killer of Kimberly Smithfield, but I didn’t want any more to do with it.

  * * *

  Rachel and Helen finished their tea without saying good-bye to me. Marybeth told me Rachel had paid and had left a substantial tip. I didn’t see Stephen’s car leave, but when I peeked outside after closing, the Audi was not in the driveway.

  That, I decided, was a good thing. The sooner I saw the back of the entire family, the better. Now all I had to do was get rid of Wesley, who was still staying at Victoria-on-Sea. I feared I knew why. B & Bs run by elderly ladies and frequented by middle-aged couples on vacation were not the sort of accommodation Wesley Schumann preferred. He might have stayed here initially because Kimberly liked it, but now that he was on his own, I’d have expected him to flee. Wesley preferred high-end hotel chains with spacious lobby bars, twenty-four-hour room service, good restaurants, and a substantial wine list. It couldn’t even be argued he was economizing, as Victoria-on-Sea was more expensive than many nice hotels.

  He had to be staying because of me. Whether he wanted to be near me or because he was keeping an eye on me with the intention of causing me more trouble, I didn’t know. Maybe Wesley himself didn’t even know.

  I was putting the last batch of the day’s scones into the freezer, when Bernie texted: How about having that dinner in town we missed the other night? Matt’s idea. Simon’s in.

  Me: Sure. Can I have half an hour?

  Bernie: Matt’ll pick you up.

  At seven thirty I was standing on the veranda waiting for my lift. Rose had taken her customary chair and was enjoying her nightly gin and tonic. Her book rested on her lap, and Robert the Bruce rested on top of the book. Four people had pulled chairs up to a table at the far end of the veranda, and a pack of cards had been produced. Bottles of wine and bags of chips and nuts had also been produced.

  “I don’t dare hope Wesley said he’s leaving tomorrow?” I asked my grandmother. Today was Thursday.

  “He has the room until Sunday morning. We’re fully booked for the next two weeks, so he’ll have to leave as planned.”

  “I can’t help wondering what he’s up to. I assume there’ve been no more incidents of his room being broken into.”

  “You assume correctly. Have you considered, love, that all he’s up to is trying to get his business plans going? He always has that computer bag with him when he goes out, and he’s never dressed as though he’s heading for the beach. More like what I believe they call business casual these days.”

  “He could move into the Smithfield house if he wanted. In theory it’s now his house, partially, anyway, but I’ll admit even Wesley has the occasional sense of propriety and might realize that isn’t entirely appropriate. Not yet, anyway. Have the police been around to talk to him again?”

  “Not that I saw, but them coming here shouldn’t be necessary. If they have something to discuss, he can go to the police station as easily as them coming out here.”

  “I guess. Here comes Matt now.” The top was down on my neighbor’s shiny red two-seater BMW convertible as it navigated the sand- and weed-choked driveway of the house next to us and turned into our neat flower bed–and bush-lined lane.

  “I’m thinking of inviting Petunia for a visit,” Rose said.

  I paused at the top of the stairs. “Mom? Why, and why now?”

  “It’s been a while since I’ve seen her.”

  I never had any doubt that my mother loved her mother deeply, and the feeling was returned. But their relationship worked best when they kept a healthy distance. Both of them were headstrong to the point of stubborn. From what I heard from my uncles, my mother’s teenage years had been dramatic, to say the least. She’d left Grand Lake, Iowa, for the bright lights of New York City before the ink was dry on her high school diploma, and the only time she’d gone back had been for her father’s funeral. It had been up to Rose and my grandfather to keep the family together, and over the years I was growing up, they regularly traveled to New York City to visit.