“Nothing, thank you.”

  Mrs. Ramsbatten nibbled on her salad, but Audrey’s crab cakes sat untouched. I refrained from asking if I could have one.

  “No, not blackmailed,” she said at last. “No threats were made, no money or favors requested. I was asked not to report what I knew of the incident. So I did not.”

  “By Julien Best, I assume.”

  “His wife, actually. Sandra McCaskill. A powerful person in her own right.”

  “I don’t recognize that name.”

  “Few would. She doesn’t act, doesn’t direct. She simply moves the money around. Sandra is one of the people Tina understood she needed to get to know. If Tina hadn’t been in that accident and the long stay in the hospital following, she would have become a star, if she had Sandra’s help.”

  “And now her death changed the odds for you. You think the book will be worth enough, you don’t have to concern yourself about … being influenced not to write it.”

  “Tina’s story—leaving Hollywood after her injury, forgotten by people she thought her friends, only to end up selling real estate in Cape Cod, and then the shock of her premature death—provides the tragic finale to the story. I need to make it a bigger book than it would be otherwise. The book will mostly be about my many years in Hollywood and all the people I knew over those years. Some long-held secrets will be revealed, but few that will do any damage these days. Julien Best, however, is still news. His name, and Tina’s story, will guarantee the success of my book. My agent is saying it has bestseller written all over it.” She smiled.

  “You’re prepared to discard what you owe to Sandra, Julien’s wife?”

  Her face tightened. “I owe her nothing. Promises were made. Promises which did not come to pass. I intend to take this opportunity so conveniently presented to me.”

  The waiter returned and flourished a bottle. He offered Audrey a taste and she accepted. “Delicious, as expected.” She nodded; he filled their glasses, then slipped away.

  “Now, please allow me to enjoy my dinner with my new friend in peace.”

  “I doubt very much you’re at all bothered by my being here,” I said. “Talking about this stuff is your life blood. But as long as I am here, did you notice a waiter the other night at the party? Late-thirties, middling height, on the pudgy side, short dark hair, goatee?”

  “I believe I saw such a person, but I noticed nothing in particular about him. Why do you ask?” She picked up her fork and poked at a crab cake.

  “Name of Robbie Ellis. West London native. An artist.”

  “I don’t know any more about art than the average person. Obviously, he is not a very successful one if he’s waiting tables in West London.”

  Noticeably, Audrey referred to Robbie in the present tense. Because she didn’t know he was dead or because she was covering up that she knew more than she should?

  “He died last night. Murdered.”

  Mrs. Ramsbatten gasped. “I saw something about that in an online newspaper article. I didn’t realize—”

  “I heard about it on the radio,” Audrey said. “Another murder in your peaceful little town. Positive Cabot Cove you have here. I can be of no help. I didn’t even recognize the gentleman’s name.”

  “Does his death have anything to do with Tina?” Mrs. Ramsbatten asked.

  “That,” I said, “is what I’m trying to find out.” I stood up. “Have a nice evening, ladies.”

  I started to walk away and then abruptly turned around. They were both watching me. “By the way, Madison was in my shop earlier. We had a nice talk about the Sherlock TV show. She’s a big fan.”

  “I didn’t know that,” Audrey said. “No reason I should.”

  “She seems bored here in West London in the winter. Not much for a single young woman to do. Did you invite her to accompany you to Jayne’s wedding or was it her suggestion?”

  “Madison is not a blood relative of mine. Her grandmother and I were very close for many years, although my dear friend scarcely recognizes me anymore. Madison’s life is not progressing as she might have hoped, so I thought the break would do her good. I might have been mistaken. She is, as you noticed, not having a good time. She is not one to disguise her feelings to make an old woman feel better.”

  “What did she do last night? Did you have dinner together?”

  “No. Leslie Wilson had a few of the people in town for the wedding over to her house for an early dinner. Madison wasn’t interested in coming. I don’t know what she did.”

  “Did you see her when you got back here?”

  “No, but no reason I should. We are not sharing a room.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  As I drove back to the Emporium, I called Leslie to ask about last night’s dinner guests. Audrey came, she told me, and Keith and his wife, as well as a few people whose names I didn’t recognize. They were mostly relatives of hers or Andy’s on the elderly side, so dinner had been early and everyone gone by nine. I thanked her for the information and hung up before she could ask why I wanted to know. No clues to be found there, and no suspects to eliminate.

  As for Audrey herself, she’d given me a lot to think about. Qui bono. Audrey benefited from the death of Tina. Audrey lost no time in grabbing the opportunity she thought she needed to get a story to center her book around. A big enough story to make the book a standout from other Hollywood memoirs.

  Had she realized such when she heard Tina had died? Or had she decided to be proactive and create the opportunity herself? The speed with which she started writing made me wonder if the idea had been in the back of her mind all along.

  It was possible Audrey killed Tina. Audrey smoked; she might have seen Tina outside alone in the dark and joined her on the deck, the two of them sharing a moment, watching the sea roll in. She wouldn’t have been able to lift Tina and toss her over the deck railing, but if she somehow lured Tina to the open gate and the top of the steps, a solid push might have accomplished what was needed.

  Not a guaranteed method of killing someone. But Tina had a substantial amount to drink before and at the party, and the ocean was very cold. If Tina managed to make it to shore, her assailant could claim the shove had been an accident. Why they didn’t call for help immediately was another matter, but if they acted on impulse, that detail might not have occurred to them.

  Regarding Robbie, however, not the slightest trace of recognition, guilt, or even understanding of what I was getting at crossed Audrey’s face when I described him or mentioned his name. They had not met, but it might be possible, if he’d seen Audrey kill Tina and decided to blackmail her over it, he sent her an anonymous letter.

  Tina died Tuesday night. Robbie died Thursday. Audrey didn’t have any connections in West London other than a scattering of distant relatives, certainly no one of the sort that could summon up a private investigator to trace the source of the anonymous letter so quickly. Had Robbie kindly provided his address in the letter?

  I didn’t think even Robbie could be quite that stupid.

  Even if he had, Audrey, elderly, walking with the assistance of a cane, hadn’t been the person running from me last night.

  Madison?

  Possibly, but for what reason? She and Audrey were clearly not at all close. Nowhere near close enough for Madison to murder someone to save Audrey from going to jail.

  Had Madison for some reason killed Tina and then Robbie?

  My head spun. Too many theories, not enough data.

  It was almost nine. Time to close the Emporium for the night. I parked the car and let myself in through the back door. Moriarty popped out from under a shelf. I wondered if he’d been chasing mice. He looked disappointed to see it was only me and disappeared back under the shelf.

  My phone rang. Jayne.

  Before she’d even said a word, a sob came down the line.

  “Jayne, what’s happened? Are you okay? Andy?” My first thought was Andy had been arrested and formally charged. Had there been a new development? Had evidence been found to put Andy firmly in the frame for one or both murders?

  “He wants to call off the wedding,” Jayne sobbed.

  “Calm down. Calm down.” Maybe my idea that they spend a casual, romantic afternoon together hadn’t been the best one. “Are you home? Have you just got in?”

  “Yes. Yes. We had a … nice day. We went to … a nice place for dinner. And then he said—”

  More sobs.

  “I’m on my way,” I said. “Hold tight.”

  Another journey made in record-breaking time, and I pulled up in front of Jayne’s apartment building. I parked under the fifteen-minute maximum sign and ran in. I pressed the buzzer, to be instantly admitted.

  Jayne lived in the same sort of midcentury, low-rise apartment block as Robbie had, but hers was larger and nicer with an attractively decorated foyer and freshly painted walls. Her tear-streaked face was waiting for me when I emerged from the stairwell. I wrapped her in a hug. “Don’t worry. We’ll sort this.”

  “Come on in,” she said.

  Moving boxes, both full and empty, were stacked in all the corners. Pictures had been taken down from the walls, ornaments removed from tabletops. Pieces of furniture Jayne didn’t want to keep had been thrown away, sold, or donated to charity, leaving the small living room mostly empty.

  “Tea?” Jayne sniffled.

  “The true Englishwoman’s solution to every problem. I have you well trained.”

  “You do.” She cracked a weak smile.

  We went into the near-bare kitchen, and she put on the kettle, and took milk out of the fridge, almost as bare as the high Arctic in February.

  “First things first,” I said. “Did something scare Andy? Did the police call him or pay him a visit again?”

  “No. Not that he told me.”

  “Then why does he want to call off the wedding? I absolutely refuse to believe he’s changed his mind about you.”

  Another weak smile. “It’s not that. With this … murder case up in the air, he doesn’t want to … have me commit to him if he might go to jail.”

  I snorted. “Foolish man. Does he think you’re going to say, ‘Cheery-O, Andy old chap. Sorry you’ve found yourself in a pickle. I’m off to find another man.’ ”

  “Maybe he does, Gemma.” The kettle came to the boil, and she added the hot water to the teapot in which she’d already placed a ball of tea leaves.

  “I trust you told him such is not the case.”

  “I did. He said he doesn’t want me involved if things get … unpleasant.”

  “As though you can cut off your feelings for him like a thread hanging from a hem. He’s not thinking straight, Jayne. He’ll soon realize how ridiculous this all sounds.”

  “Maybe, but my wedding is three days away! The dress is hanging in the closet, the minister and church are booked, the yacht club’s been paid in full. Some of the out-of-town guests are already here!” She extended her arms, taking in the bare countertops, the empty spaces in the living room, the stack of boxes. “Not to mention that as of next week, I don’t have any place to live! The movers are coming while we’re on our honeymoon. Our supposed honeymoon. That trip’s been paid for too! When we get back, we’re moving into a house we’ve bought and paid for.”

  It would be somewhat awkward, them owning a house together, if the wedding failed to take place.

  It was not going to come to that. “Tea should be ready.”

  “What?”

  “You used Earl Grey. You don’t want to let it steep for too long.”

  “Oh, right.” She opened the cupboard doors to reveal two mugs, two bowls, and two plates. She took the mugs down and poured the tea. Fragrant steam rose into the air. She added a splash of milk to mine and handed it to me.

  “Cheers,” I said. “Do you want me to talk to Andy?”

  “No.”

  “Glad to hear it. I don’t want to. He needs to make this decision on his own. When did he drop this bombshell?”

  “We had a fun day, Gemma. At least, I thought we were having fun. We drove up the coast to North Truro, poked around the shops, stopped for coffee. We had a walk on the beach but didn’t stay long as it was too cold. We went for dinner at a place in Eastham, where Andy knows the chef. He came out of the kitchen to say hi. He mentioned he’d heard about the death at Andy’s place and that he’d been closed by the police for the investigation. Andy didn’t say much, and for the rest of the meal and the drive back to West London, he was quiet. He pulled up outside, told me he didn’t want to stay overnight, and then he said …” Jayne swallowed. Fresh tears filled her eyes. “He said the wedding was off.”

  “Off? Or postponed?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “Probably not. Not right now.”

  “I was so shocked, I scarcely even heard the words, Gemma. He doesn’t want to marry me!” She wailed and burst into another round of tears.

  I put my hands on her shoulders and looked into her lovely face, now red and swollen and blotchy. “He wants to marry you very much, Jayne. He’s scared. He’s scared he’s going to be dragged into something he doesn’t want to be. You and I know Andy didn’t kill Tina or Robbie. Andy knows it, but Andy also knows miscarriages of justice do happen. He’s trying to protect you, if it should come to that.”

  She sniffled. “I don’t want to be protected.”

  “Precisely. Officially married or not, you’re in this for the long haul. Right?”

  She nodded.

  “My advice, for what it’s worth, is to let him have the night to think it over. He said what he said on impulse. He’ll regret it by morning.”

  “And if he doesn’t?”

  “Then you go and see him in person and tell him he can’t get rid of you that easily. Tell him you intend to be in church on Monday, in that excessively expensive dress, with your mother and brother at your side. Tell him if he fails to show up, he’ll have Ryan and me to deal with. I also bought a dress I can’t afford, and Ryan took his good suit to the cleaners.”

  “You think?”

  “I know. He’s scared, Jayne, and he has the right to be. Tell him you intend to be scared along with him.”

  She gave me a weak smile. “Thanks, Gemma.”

  I hugged her. “You can also tell Andy, for what it’s worth, I’ve been asking a few questions here and there.”

  “Are you getting anywhere?”

  “Yes,” I lied.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  When I arrived in the tearoom at quarter after nine the following morning for my regular order, Fiona told me Jayne wanted me to come straight into the kitchen as soon as I could. I accepted a takeout cup of tea and a muffin and went to see what was up.

  It was a Saturday and preparations for afternoon tea were well under way: scones browning nicely in the oven, miniature cupcakes on racks waiting to be iced, lovely pale-green macaron shells cooling. Jocelyn was at the stove, one eye on a pot poaching a chicken for sandwiches, the other on a second pot boiling eggs. As well as all that, the regular morning muffins, croissants, Danishes, and breakfast sandwiches filled the display counters.

  I didn’t have to be Sherlock Holmes to deduce something happened (aside from all that baking) since we talked last night. And that something was good.

  Jayne grabbed me and whirled me around. Flour dusted the tip of her nose, a smear of chocolate was on her chin, her skin glowed from within, and her eyes sparkled.

  “Let me guess,” I said to Jocelyn when I’d freed myself. “The croissants came out perfectly.”

  “That too,” she replied.

  “The wedding is on again,” Jayne said. “You were right, Gemma.”

  “As I usually am,” I said modestly.

  Jocelyn smothered a snort as she took a tray containing rows of gorgeous lightly browned scones out of the oven. I breathed deeply. No nicer scent in all the world than fresh baking.

  “Andy called me this morning, first thing,” Jayne said. First thing, for Jayne, was the middle of the night for everyone else. “He said he was sorry, and if I still wanted him, he wanted to go ahead with the wedding.”

  “Sensible man.”

  “He said he could face anything as long as I was with him. Jocelyn, those muffins should be cool now. Can you take them out front.”

  “Sure.” Jocelyn arranged blueberry muffins on a serving tray and departed with them. The doors swung closed behind her.

  Jayne let out a long breath. “One worry out of the way, but only for now. You said you were making progress on the case. The cases. What have you learned?”

  I dodged the question and asked one of my own. “What’s happening about Andy’s alibi? The cook he spoke to Thursday night, around the time of Robbie’s death?”

  Some of the joy in her face slipped away. “He can’t be contacted. His phone’s switched off. I’m sorry to say, even that doesn’t look good for Andy. As though he made up an alibi that can’t be confirmed.”

  “Kyle Jackman isn’t an imaginary figure, Jayne. He lives in West London. He has a job here. He’ll show up eventually. Some people like to take themselves out of touch now and again.”

  “Even though he and his wife are separated, he has two little kids, so that makes the police suspicious about why he turned off his phone.”

  “I don’t know, Jayne. As for the case, as you call it, I have a few lines of inquiry on the go.”

  “Anything you can tell me?”

  “Not yet.”

  Jocelyn came back, carrying the empty tray. “A man outside wants to talk to you, if you have a moment. He says his name is George Friedman.”

  “I don’t know anyone—” Jayne begin.

  “He was at your party,” I said. “He owns a couple of restaurants, and Andy worked for him when he was starting out. He’s now attempting to charm our Bunny Leigh.”

  “I guess it’ll be okay if he’s fine with coming back here. I don’t have time to stop work right now. We have more reservations for tea this afternoon than I was expecting.”

  Jocelyn left, and a moment later she returned with George. I’d been about to take my leave, but I decided to hang around and hear what he had to say. The tearoom kitchen is extremely small, and George, along with Jayne, Jocelyn, and me, filled it. He gave Jayne a big smile and looked around the little room with approval. “Small space, but you use it well.”