“She didn’t look like a salesperson,” Cheryl said. “But I’ll check.”

  The rooster timer I use to measure the cooking time of my scones crowed, and I put aside my piping bag, wiped my hands on my apron, and opened the oven door. A wave of heat, along with the delicious scent of perfectly made teatime scones, washed over me. I put the hot tray on the cooling rack and peeked into the second oven to check the condition of the pistachio macaron shells. They were coming along nicely, so I returned my attention to the cupcakes. Once I had them iced, I needed to get to work on the next batch of sandwiches. Cheryl and Marybeth were hopping in the dining room, and I wouldn’t be able to rope them into helping in the kitchen.

  Cheryl returned. “She says it’s a personal matter and it won’t take long. To be honest, Lily, she’s quite insistent. I think if you don’t go out there, she’ll—”

  “Hi, there. Hope you don’t mind my barging in like this.” A woman came through the swinging doors. She was in her midthirties, short and slim and quite pretty, with large dark eyes and dyed blond hair cut in a blunt line at her chin, dressed in white capris and a sleeveless blue shirt, with flat white sandals. Her makeup was heavy but well applied, gold hoops were in her ears, and a thin gold necklace disappeared into the gap at the top of her shirt.

  “I’m sorry, but this isn’t a good time,” I said. “We’re very busy.”

  She waved her hand in the air. “Won’t be long. I got your name from Darlene McIntosh.”

  “Who?”

  “McIntosh Antiques? You bought some items from her a couple of days ago.”

  Cheryl was standing next to the fridge, watching. I gave her a nod, telling her I’d take care of this. She slipped past the woman.

  “Yes, I did.”

  “You bought something of mine. I’d like it back.”

  “Something of yours? You mean it had been stolen?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “I didn’t get your name.”

  “Sorry. I’m Kimberly Smithfield.” She gave me a dazzling toothy smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “I’m happy to give you what you paid for it.”

  “This isn’t a good time,” I said once again. “As I said, we’re very busy.”

  “No problem. I’ll take it and leave. A Beatrix Potter tea set in a wicker box.”

  “I remember the one. If you come back at closing time, I’ll see what I can do.”

  The smile on her face died, and her black-rimmed eyes narrowed. “I don’t see why you can’t give it to me now.”

  “I can’t give it to you now because I have guests using it.”

  A large group had arrived not more than fifteen minutes ago. Four adults and five children. The adults had ordered the royal tea, which comes with a glass of prosecco, and for the children I’d been delighted to have the chance to use the Peter Rabbit tea service. Marybeth told me the children had been charmed by it, as had their parents.

  “You can explain to them there’s been a mistake,” my unwelcome visitor said.

  I put down the piping bag. “I cannot and I will not. My customers are enjoying their tea. I’m not whipping their cups out from under them.”

  “Give me the box, then.”

  “I’m sorry, but I’m not giving you anything. Not right now. I’m not even sure where the box is.” That wasn’t entirely true: the box was in the pantry. I’d decided to store the Peter Rabbit set in the wicker container it had come in. The pieces would be safe there, and the charm of it appealed to me. “It’ll take time to look for the box, and I don’t have the time right now.”

  She took a step toward me. I took a step toward her, not to get closer, but to be in reach of the long, slim, wooden French-style rolling pin on the butcher block in the center of the room where I’d earlier been rolling out pastry. I didn’t care for the look in this woman’s eyes.

  What, I thought, is her problem?

  She must have read something in my face, and she made an attempt to wipe the hostility off her own face. She made the attempt—but it failed completely. Her smile was forced and her eyes full of anger. “Okay. I’ll come back in a little while. Say an hour?”

  “I shouldn’t have to keep saying this, but it appears I do. I’m busy, and I will be busy all day. I paid a fair price for the tea set. If McIntosh Antiques acquired it illegally, I’m happy to discuss returning it. Did they?”

  “Did they what?”

  “Acquire the tea set illegally?”

  “It was sold to them by a person who had no right to do that.”

  I thought I understood. A grandparent or great aunt had died, the will was being disputed, and one party had taken the deceased’s possessions without waiting for the court’s decision. The Peter Rabbit tea set had been important to Kimberly, and she wanted it back.

  Fair enough. All she had to do was ask politely, and I’d give it to her without question. But politely didn’t seem to be part of her vocabulary. “If you come back at closing time, I’ll talk to you about it then.”

  “I’m not hanging around until five o’clock.”

  “Sorry, but it’s seven tonight.” We usually close at five, but Susan Powers, the mayor of North Augusta, had made arrangements for a visit by a special group from a major tour company. They had a fully packed day and couldn’t get here until five. I’d been happy to accommodate them. Getting a spot on their tour schedule would be a major boost for the tearoom. Marybeth and Cheryl were happy to stay late and earn the overtime.

  “Seven!” Kimberly protested. “The sign on the gate says five.”

  “Special event tonight.”

  Her lips tightened and her brows moved even closer together. “Look, I’m not here to make trouble.”

  “Glad to hear it, because I don’t want trouble. I’d like you to leave now, please.”

  “I want that tea set. I don’t even need the dishes, just give me the box.”

  “As I said, I’ll discuss it with you later. When I’m not so busy. Better phone before coming back. My schedule can be erratic.”

  “I’ll give you—”

  “Everything okay here?” Cheryl stood in the doorway, her arms laden with a tray piled high with used dishes.

  “Can you give Simon a quick call, please, and ask him to come over.”

  “Got it. We’ve just seated two tables of four.”

  “Call Simon first and then get their orders ready.”

  Cheryl slipped away, heading, I hoped, for the phone in the front vestibule.

  The easiest thing to do, by far, would be for me to go into the pantry, get the blasted box, shove it at Kimberly, and tell her I’d leave the dishes on a patio table after closing for her to pick up. That would take far less time than standing here arguing, but my back was up now, and I wasn’t going to be bullied by this woman in my own place.

  “Does this Simon have the box?” Kimberly asked.

  “No.”

  “Look, I don’t want any trouble, but I want what’s mine and I want it now.”

  “It’s not yours. It’s mine.”

  She kept her eyes fixed on me and reached into her purse. I swallowed. Okay, this had gone far enough. I didn’t know what she was after in that purse, but I wasn’t going to die for a Peter Rabbit tea set.

  I picked up my rolling pin and balanced its weight in my hands.

  “Everything okay here?” Simon came into the kitchen. Cheryl stood in the doorway behind him, watching. Dressed in his gardening overalls, short sleeved T-shirt, hands coated with good Cape Cod soil, he dominated the space. He was six feet tall, tanned, fair hair streaked by the sun. Broad chested, arms heavily muscled as a result of days spent working in the garden. A pair of gardening sheers was shoved into a chest pocket of his overalls, and heavy, soil-encrusted boots were on his feet. Obviously Cheryl had told him why I needed him, as he’d changed his usual soft, upper middle class English accent into something straight out of a Jack the Ripper movie. He made the three simple words drip with menace.

  Kimberly gave me one last long look and then broke eye contact. “Everything’s fine, thanks. I’ll be back at seven and we can talk then.”

  My eyes flicked to Simon.

  “You can talk to me,” he said. “At seven.”

  “If I’m going to have to stay in this town overnight, do you know a nice hotel?”

  “The Seabreeze Motel usually has rooms free.” I didn’t bother to mention that that was because the Seabreeze Motel was often shut down by the town health department due to their rodent problem.

  Kimberly headed for the door. Simon stepped to one side to let her pass, but then she stopped abruptly and slowly turned to face me. “I won’t forget how . . . helpful . . . you’ve been.”

  There isn’t room for a stool in this kitchen, but if there had been I would have collapsed into it. Cheryl ran after Kimberly, to make sure she left without making a fuss.

  “What was that about?” Simon asked.

  I put my rolling pin down. My hands were shaking, and I rubbed them rapidly together. I gave Simon a smile of thanks.

  I hated having to call on the strong male for help, but as long as I had a big, tough-looking, tough-talking gardener on the premises, I thought I should use him. And it had worked. Rolling pin or not, Kimberly Smithfield was never going to be frightened off by anyone who looks like me.

  “I have absolutely no idea,” I said. “I bought a tea set at the antique fair the other day, and she stormed in here saying it’s hers and demanding I give it back. Estate dispute, I suspect. I don’t know why she had to get so hostile, though. I’m happy to sell it to her, but she refused to wait until I had time.”

  “She’s gone,” Cheryl said. “You okay, Lily?”

  “Yeah, I’m fine. Let’s get back to work. What orders do you have?”

  “Full afternoon tea for four. Light tea for two and dessert plate for two. Creamy Earl Grey, English Breakfast, and Darjeeling.”

  “Make that another full afternoon tea for four.” Marybeth came through the swinging door. “Mom, can you do me a big pot of English Breakfast while you’re at it?”

  As if the incident had never happened, Marybeth, Cheryl, and I swung into our rhythm. I took the macaron shells out of the oven, Cheryl prepared the tea, and Marybeth arranged the food trays.

  My kitchen is crowded when I’m the only one in it. Simon ducked and dodged and tried, unsuccessfully, to stay out of our way.

  “Fridge,” Marybeth said.

  “Sorry.” Simon stepped aside to allow her into the fridge. “Can I see this tea set?” he asked me.

  I cleared a space for the macarons to cool. “It cost more than I probably should have spent, but it isn’t anything exceptional. The pieces are in use right now, but we should be able to have a peek.” I ran my hands under the sink and took off my apron and hairnet.

  Tea by the Sea occupies an old stone cottage on the B & B property. Built circa mideighteenth century, about a hundred years before the main house, it had been abandoned and allowed to fall into genteel ruin over the years. The moment I saw it, I knew it would be the perfect setting for the restaurant I wanted to open. I’m a culinary school–trained pastry chef; I’ve worked in Manhattan bakeries and Michelin-starred restaurants. I came to Cape Cod over the winter to try to help Rose run the B & B she’d bought on a ridiculous whim and to open my dream of a tearoom. I’d repaired the cottage, modernized the kitchen and restrooms, furnished and decorated the dining rooms, and installed a garden oasis on the patio.

  I’d taken great care in decorating the restaurant so it resembled a drawing room in an English castle or a grand country home. The walls were a pale peach; the paintings showed English pastoral scenes or horses at the hunt. The chairs were upholstered in peach and sage green, the tables laid with starched and ironed white cloths. An antique bookcase stood against one wall, filled with old volumes, and a chest of drawers painted white displayed many of the tea sets we used. A display area near the hallway to the restrooms showed items we offered for sale: canisters of tea, teapots and cups, and locally made jams and preserves.

  The tables were all adorned with fresh flowers. The smaller ones held a single rose in a crystal vase and the larger a full glorious arrangement. All the flowers came from the B & B gardens. I gave Simon kitchen scraps, coffee grounds, and used tea leaves for compost; he and his plants gave me beautiful flowers in return.

  The guests who’d been served with the Peter Rabbit tea set had been seated in a small private alcove, large enough for one good-size table. As it was midsummer, the working stone fireplace was occupied by a chipped and faded terra-cotta pot overflowing with purple lobelia.

  “Whale watching,” a woman was saying as Simon and I popped our heads around the corner. “Alison Monroe said it was the highlight of their trip.”

  The sparkling wine was finished, the glasses whisked away, and a few crumbs of food remained. The adults were sipping the last of their tea out of the blue china we use for the royal tea; the children had pushed the Peter Rabbit cups to one side and were getting bored and restless.

  “Hi,” Simon said. “Checking to see if you need fresh flowers in here.”

  The woman who’d been talking about whale watching twisted in her seat and gave him a broad smile. “You must be the gardener. Your flowers are absolutely gorgeous, as are the grounds. Thank you so much, everything’s been perfect.”

  “That’s what I like to hear,” he said, and we backed out of the alcove.

  “Don’t know what I was expecting,” Simon said as we walked back to the kitchen. “But those look like ordinary cups and saucers to me.”

  “Which they are. That woman didn’t seem entirely . . . well-balanced. I suspect the set has some emotional significance she’s blown up all out of proportion in her head. I told her to come back at seven. We’re open late tonight for the mayor’s party. Would you mind . . .”

  “Putting in an appearance? Doing my bouncer act? Happy to. Are you going to give her what she’s after?”

  “Immediately. I should have done so earlier, but she was so annoying she got my hackles up. I could haggle over the price and try to get more than I paid for it, but I can’t be bothered. I just want to be rid of her and Peter Rabbit.”

  Chapter 3

  Kimberly Smithfield returned well before seven o’clock. She didn’t barge into my kitchen, fortunately for her, but Cheryl told me she’d taken a seat in the garden, where she sat scrolling through her phone, occasionally glancing up from the screen to scowl at the mayor and her party.

  “Do you want me to tell her to leave and come back when the guests are gone?” Cheryl asked.

  “No. If she’s not creating a scene,” I said, “let it go.”

  “Simon’s lurking around the corner, watching, waiting to pounce.”

  “That I’d like to see,” Bernie said.

  “Let us hope fisticuffs will not be necessary,” I said. “Otherwise, how’s it going out there?”

  “Well,” Cheryl said. “Everyone seems happy.”

  Bernie had called me shortly before five to invite me around to her place for pizza and a bad movie when I finished work. I’d explained about the mayor’s group and because we’d had such a busy day, I needed to stay and do some baking after closing. So she brought the pizza for us to eat here when the last of the guests had left. In the meantime, I set her to making sandwiches. As long as she followed my carefully laid out instructions, complete with illustrations, she couldn’t go too far wrong. While we worked, I filled her in on the excitement of the afternoon.

  “Sounds like the woman has a screw loose,” Bernie said.

  “Which is why I want Simon as backup.”

  Bernie’d laughed while Marybeth carefully hand washed the Peter Rabbit dishes and tucked them into their box.

  I’d gone all out for the mayor and her guests. It was a lovely evening and we’d set a table on the patio with blue and white china, blue linens, and a fresh Simon-provided arrangement of peach roses and trailing ivy. We served glasses of prosecco in crystal flutes, orange scones with marmalade made by Edna Hartwell, who helps in the B & B in the mornings, roast beef on crostini, salmon on thinly sliced white bread, and curried cucumber pinwheels. The desserts were pistachio macarons, mini coconut cupcakes, lemon squares, and slices of delicate buttery shortbread.

  At ten to seven, Cheryl dumped a tray load of dishes onto the counter. “Susan would like you to come out and say hi, Lily.”

  “She’s not going to complain, I hope.”

  “Nothing like that. As you can see, they ate every scrap and drank all the tea and seemed to be enjoying themselves.”

  I started to take off my apron, but Bernie said, “Leave it. The hairnet, too. Makes it look like you’ve been hard at work.”

  “Which I have.”

  “Do they want to meet me, too, Cheryl? The hardworking kitchen helper?”

  “No,” Cheryl said.

  The mayor’s guests thanked me profusely and said they’d be recommending Tea by the Sea as a stop on organized tours. Susan looked pleased, and I assumed the rest of the day had gone equally well.

  Praise accepted, I headed for the kitchen. Kimberly Smithfield, who’d been sitting at a table near the gate, stood up. “Okay, I’m here now. Give it to me.” She didn’t bother to keep her voice down, or keep the hostility out of it, and I was conscious of conversation at the table behind me dropping off.

  I heard the scrape of Susan’s chair. “Is everything all right, Lily?”

  “Perfectly fine.” I reminded myself that all I wanted was for Kimberly to go away. About the last thing I needed was to get into a brawl, verbal or otherwise, in front of scouts for New England tour companies.

  Simon marched through the gate. He’d cleaned himself up after work, shaken the sand out of his hair, and changed into jeans and a close-fitting dark T-shirt. He stopped in front of Kimberly and looked down at her. “Why don’t we go inside?”

  I led the way into the restaurant. The lights were low, the rooms empty, the tables set for tomorrow.

  Kimberly opened her purse. I stepped back, regretting not having my rolling pin on me. Simon straightened his shoulders, but all Kimberly produced was a plain envelope. “I’ll give you what you paid for it. One hundred dollars.”