Rose and her three sisters all had flower names, and following family tradition, Rose named her only daughter Petunia. Mom loathed that name and went by Tina. Rose pretended not to know that.

  “Seeing the strife and the animosity in your friend’s family,” Rose said slowly, “has reminded me of the importance of family ties. Your mother and I have had our differences, but she is my beloved daughter. Perhaps Christine could come at the same time.”

  “I’d like that,” I said. Christine was my half sister by my mom’s second husband, and she and I had always been close. She, notably, did not have a flower name.

  “I’ll call them tonight, then.” Rose wiggled her book out from under Robbie. He glared at me as though the disruption was my fault.

  * * *

  My friends and I had dinner at a burger joint near the pier in North Augusta before heading for the ice cream stand on the boardwalk. The night was warm, the air soft, and the pier and boardwalk were crowded with townspeople out for a stroll and tourists enjoying their holiday. Over our burgers and fries, I’d updated my friends on the goings-on of the Smithfield/Morrison clan.

  “Sounds exactly like the type of family that provides me with my living,” Matt said. “When I’ve finished the project I’m working on now, if this thing you’re telling us about is over, I might see what I can dig up.” Matt was a hugely successful true-crime writer. He used the pseudonym of Lincoln Badwell, believing Goodwill didn’t exactly suit the type of books he wrote.

  “Has anyone considered that the death of Kimberly Smithfield might not have anything to do with her family?” Simon asked. “Families fight over wills all the time without killing each other.”

  “Until they do,” Matt said. “It happens. Often in families in which there isn’t even much money, if any, to be divided. The real reason isn’t the money itself. It’s the old resentments stirred up when one child isn’t given what they think they’re entitled to.”

  “A lot of resentments are swirling around that family, all right,” I said. “Every one of them interprets things differently. Helen Chambers told me Julian tried to be a father to Rachel, and Rachel told me he never liked her. Rachel never accepted her mother’s new marriage, that’s for sure. But never mind all that, I heard what Simon said, and I don’t want to. If Kimberly wasn’t killed by someone in her family, the possibility that a random killer was wandering around our property—outside my own front door—in the dead of night, doesn’t bear thinking about.”

  Simon popped a fry into his mouth. “I didn’t mean random. I meant someone from another part of her life. Nothing to do with the sister and the will and the greedy new husband.”

  “It’s possible,” Bernie said, “but that would be way too much of a coincidence, considering she’d only just located the secret will she’d been hunting for. The one that restored her sister’s inheritance.”

  “Don’t discount it.” Matt sipped from his beer mug. “Coincidences happen.”

  “If I put a coincidence like that in my book,” Bernie said, “no one would believe it.”

  He’d grinned at her and lifted his glass in a toast. “Which is why I prefer to write non-fiction. Truth really is stranger.”

  Ice cream cones in hand, we strolled down the boardwalk heading for the pier. Matt and Bernie walked ahead of us, and Simon kept pace with me on my right side.

  “When’s Rose’s birthday?” he asked.

  I licked at my French vanilla cone. Simon had ordered the triple-size triple-chocolate blast. “January 26. Why do you ask?”

  He frowned. “That won’t work. We’re talking about expanding the rose garden, and I had the idea of getting something special, without her knowing, and making a big deal of planting it on her birthday.”

  “That’s very thoughtful of you,” I said. “I love the idea, but maybe not the idea of standing on a bare patch of ground in a winter storm trying to shelter a fragile new plant. My grandparents’ wedding anniversary is in August.”

  “That might work. Your grandfather was of Scottish heritage, right? Campbell. I’ll see what I can find out about the history of roses in Scotland.”

  I began to smile at him. That was such a Simon idea.

  The smile died when someone bumped my left arm. I opened my mouth to extend my apologizes, but the words never came.

  “I thought I recognized you,” the bumper sneered. “Can’t you watch where you’re going?”

  “I believe,” I said, “the sidewalk’s wide enough for both of us.”

  She bared her teeth in a move that reminded me of Éclair the time Robbie swooped in and snatched a slice of dropped sausage out from under the dog’s nose.

  “Allegra,” Simon said calmly. “Nice evening, isn’t it?”

  Her eyes flicked toward him and then returned to me. “Folks are saying you had another death at your place, Lily. I’m surprised the police haven’t shut you down yet. I suppose bribery goes a long way.”

  Simon placed his hand lightly on my shoulder. I kept my breathing steady and licked my cone. I didn’t have to say anything to her in reply, but I couldn’t help myself. “Guests stay with us and they bring their problems with them. Happens in any hotel. You weren’t poking around Victoria-on-Sea on Monday night, were you?”

  Her face tightened. Allegra Griffin was the owner and head baker at North Augusta Bakery. She could dish it, but she couldn’t take it. She and I weren’t in competition; our places offered vastly different food and experiences, but we’d been pitted against each other in an ill-fated reality TV show called America Bakes! Ill-fated because the show was canceled before our segment finished filming. Allegra had been counting on winning the grand prize and, with the money that went with it and the publicity the program generated, being able to sell the bakery and leave North Augusta permanently. She blamed me because she hadn’t won, because she and her bakery hadn’t even made it to TV. I had nothing to do with it, except that a person who was involved with the show had been killed at Tea by the Sea.

  “I have no need to sneak around your so-called restaurant or any other place.” Allegra lifted her chin. “I’m known for being straightforward. If I have something to say I say it.”

  Bernie and Matt had become aware Simon and I were no longer behind them and turned back to stand with us.

  “Why don’t you say it now, then?” Bernie said.

  Allegra ignored her. We were blocking the sidewalk, and people gave us curious looks as they circled our little group. “Quite the heroine, weren’t you, Lily? Fighting off the crazed killer, capturing them single-handedly? I saw your picture in the paper.”

  I hadn’t actually captured anyone, and I hadn’t been any sort of a heroine. Nor had my bedraggled self looked all that impressive in the picture that made it into the North Augusta Times.

  “Lily did what she had to do on that occasion,” Simon said. “I’m sorry the TV show didn’t work out for you, but it didn’t work out for Lily, either. I didn’t even get my moment of fame.” Simon had been filmed showing one of the stars around the gardens. “I was looking forward to me mum seeing me on the telly.”

  Allegra took a step toward him. Simon stepped back. He lifted his hands and held them up, palms out. Bernie and Matt exchanged worried glances. Allegra was a short, plump, middle-aged woman, not a match for the combined forces of Bernie, Matt, and Simon if it came to that. My friends and I most definitely did not want it to “come to that.” She was a fabulous baker, and her place did very well because of it, but her reputation in town was of a rude, angry, ill-disposed woman. She hated North Augusta, and she hated the bakery her mother had saddled her with. She spat her words at Simon. “The publicity around the arrest didn’t do the reputation of her silly little tearoom any harm, did it? Or her fancy grandmother’s B & B with the la-di-da name.”

  “Please, let’s go.” The taste of vanilla had turned sour in my mouth. Melting ice cream dripped off the cone and ran down my fingers. “I’ve done nothing to you, Allegra, and I don’t know why you don’t like me, but so be it. Good night.”

  I marched away. Simon followed me, and then Bernie and Matt.

  “Matthew Goodwill,” Allegra called after us. “You write about crime. Maybe you should think about writing a book about people who get a kick out of killing because they’re hooked on the publicity.”

  Chapter 19

  “Don’t let her get to you.” Bernie licked at her tower of bubble gum–flavored ice cream, her tongue tinged a lurid pink.

  “Easier said than done.” I’d tossed my unfinished cone into the nearest trash bin, and now I wiped ice cream off my fingers with a napkin. I’d been afraid Allegra would follow us, shouting accusations, but she hadn’t. We walked onto the pier to watch the seals playing in the cool waters below, but the mood of the evening had been ruined and we soon left. I knew I should feel sorry for Allegra—she was an unhappy woman, angry at life, angry at everyone and everything—but I found it hard to drum up any sympathy for her.

  I firmly believe that in a small community like North Augusta, totally dependent on the summer tourist trade, it’s in everyone’s interest to work together for the good of the town. If people came to Tea by the Sea and we couldn’t accommodate them, or if they decided the menu or our prices weren’t to their liking, we were happy to suggest they try North Augusta Bakery. I’d foolishly hoped the bakery would return the favor. No chance of that.

  No one liked or respected Allegra, so I shouldn’t have to worry she’d poison my reputation among the townspeople, but still . . . people did love listening to gossip, even if they didn’t like the gossiper.

  I eventually fell asleep, determined not to think about her again. As I drifted off, I wondered if she’d encountered us on the boardwalk by accident, or if she might have been following me. Spying on me. That was a thought I found hard to dismiss.

  * * *

  I was woken by the ringing of my phone. I groaned and rolled over. Surely it wasn’t time to get up already. I slapped at the alarm trying to find the snooze button. Finally, my befuddled brain realized that no sunlight was leaking through the curtains; it was my phone that was ringing, not the alarm, and Éclair stood at the window, barking into the night. I heard someone shout and then the terrifying scream of sirens coming closer.

  I grabbed my phone and shouted into it, “What’s happening?”

  “Come quickly, love,” Rose said, her voice high and breathless. “There’s a fire.”

  That got my attention. I leapt out of bed, stuffed my bare feet into flip-flops, and headed for the door, phone still in hand. Éclair charged after me, and I momentarily hesitated. I couldn’t leave the dog inside. If the main house was on fire, the flames might leap to my cottage. I called to her to come and hoped she’d stay close by me.

  The sirens were getting closer, turning off the main road and tearing down our driveway. Flashing blue and red lights broke the night, doors slammed, voices called, and others answered. To my infinite relief, I couldn’t see flames from my front porch, although I detected a trace of smoke drifting on the wind. Across the roof of the house, a red and orange glow rose into the night sky: too far away to be coming from the house itself and in the wrong direction to be the tearoom. That came as an enormous relief. In my panicked mind, I’d seen the house reduced to ashes, Rose homeless, my livelihood destroyed.

  People dressed in an assortment of nightwear lined the veranda of the big house; heads popped out of upstairs windows. Fire trucks and police vehicles were parked every which way on the driveway and across the lawn, and firefighters unrolled hoses and shouted instructions to one another. Rose stood on the veranda, one hand holding her phone and the other gripping the railing so tightly her knuckles were white. She gave me a wave when she saw me, and my heart settled into a slightly more normal rhythm. Rose was safe, the house wasn’t burning, and nothing else really mattered.

  A couple stood next to my grandmother, the woman’s hand on her arm, offering her emotional and physical support. My eyes swept across the watching faces. Wesley was also on the veranda, dressed in nothing but loose pajama trousers, held up by a string tied low over his slim hips. I pulled my eyes away.

  Éclair began to gallop toward the firefighters, eager to play with the newcomers in the wonderful-smelling clothes. I called her back, and she came, although reluctantly. I bent down and gave her a pat and words of praise. She would have preferred a dog biscuit, but I didn’t happen to have any of those on hand at the moment.

  Our garden shed sat on the far side of the lawn, near the south end of the property. Flames chewed through the roof even as I watched. Fortunately, no other structures were located near the shed, and the gardens were well watered, so they wouldn’t provide a source of tinder. Simon’s motorcycle was not in its regular place next to the shed. He keeps his hand tools, potting soil, bags of mulch and fertilizer, empty pots and urns, hoses in there. The heavy equipment, such as the lawnmower and the rototiller, are stored in the garage.

  I stood at the edge of the driveway, my heart in my mouth, watching the garden shed being rapidly consumed. The night sky was streaked red and orange. Éclair sat by my side, occasionally letting out a soft whine. I reached down and rubbed the top of her head once again, giving and taking comfort. The roof of the shed collapsed in a shower of sparks, and fresh flames leapt high, but they had no more fuel, nowhere to go, and the hoses did their work. It wasn’t long before the shed was nothing but smoldering wood and wet ashes, and the only light came from the headlights of the firetrucks, flashlights, lamps over the veranda, and shining from the bedrooms.

  “It’s over, Lily,” Matt Goodwill said. He’d come to stand next to me and put his arm lightly around my shoulders. I hadn’t even realized he was there.

  “Are you the owner?” a second voice asked us.

  “My grandmother is,” I replied. The firefighter was an older guy, and I took him to be the captain. “You can talk to me. I . . . I have no idea what happened here.”

  “I called it in.” A woman joined us. Her pajamas were a deep blue satin, her feet stuffed into beach sandals. “My name’s Joy Eastland. I often have trouble sleeping and tonight was no exception. I was reading in bed, using only the light from my e-reader because my husband was asleep. Our window faces in this direction.” She pointed to the south, toward the ruined garden shed. “I saw the light out the window change, and then I smelled smoke, so I got up to have a look. I called nine-one-one and then alerted Mrs. Campbell.” She bent down and greeted Éclair with a hearty pat. The dog thumped her tail in return.

  “Mrs. Campbell’s the owner?” the fire captain asked.

  “Yes,” I said.

  Two firefighters approached the smoldering ruin. They kicked aside debris and stepped cautiously into what remained of the building. I held my breath for a moment, dreadfully afraid of what they might find in there. But no one came running out, no one shouted for an ambulance or the coroner, and I relaxed with an enormous amount of relief. Matt must have been thinking the same; he squeezed my shoulder and gave me a soft smile.

  “I’m going to have a closer look,” the fire captain said to me. “If you take a seat on the porch, I’ll join you in a bit.”

  “Do you know what happened?” I asked. “We don’t keep anything flammable in there. I mean, I don’t think we do. I guess I don’t really know. You can ask our gardener.”

  “Is she around now?”

  “It’s a he, and no, he doesn’t live on the premises. Do you want me to call him?”

  “Let me have a look first.”

  “We use store-bought fertilizer in our gardens. Does that ever self-combust?” I half turned at the roar of a motorcycle tearing down the driveway. “No need to call. Here he is now. He might be able to tell you more about what is . . . was kept in there.”

  Simon leapt off his bike and sprinted across the lawn, pulling off his helmet as he ran. “Thanks for the call, mate,” he said to Matt. “What happened here? Was there someone . . . in there?”

  “No one harmed, thank goodness. You didn’t light a candle or leave anything burning, did you?” I asked Simon.

  “Nothing like that. Can’t have been caused by bad wiring. The shed’s not electrified. No need for it to be—I don’t use it after dark.”

  “When we’ve confirmed it’s safe, I’ll need you to have a look. See if you can spot anything out of place,” the fire captain said.

  “Sure.”

  The captain called to one of his crew, and they headed for the shed.

  “That wasn’t caused by any unattended burning candle.” Matt pointed to the smoldering ruin. “One of my earliest books was about a serial arsonist, so I know more than a small amount about how that stuff works. I’d be willing to bet an accelerant was used here, poured on the floor and the walls, most likely, and then a match tossed after it. Gasoline, probably. You can still smell traces of it.”

  “Nasty business,” Simon growled.

  “Who would do such a thing?” I asked.

  “That’s the question,” Matt said. “Far as I know there’ve been no reports of arsonists in this area lately. . . .” His voice trailed off. “Although they have to start somewhere.”

  “I’m going to suggest Rose and the guests go back to bed,” I told the men.

  “I’ll try and get closer,” Matt said. “Hear what they’re saying.”

  I called to Éclair to follow, and Simon walked with us toward the house. I was suddenly and embarrassingly aware I was wearing my shortie pajamas, the blue ones with cute cartoon characters on them. My grandmother had taken a chair, and someone kindly brought her a glass of water. Her short hair stood out in all directions, the skin on her cheeks and chin formed dark furrows, and her eyes were heavy with fatigue and worry. I expected to have to argue to get her to return to her bed, but she gave me a nod and allowed Simon to help her up.