“I think you’re safe,” I said. “I’d like another one of those crab cakes, but the waiter seems to have disappeared.”

  “Robbie Ellis. I saw him lurking about in town the other day. He’s probably outside having a smoke.”

  Andy was passing at that moment, and he came to a sudden halt. “Robbie. Are you looking for him? He’s in the kitchen.”

  “I was only joking,” Irene said quickly. “It was nice of you to hire him considering …”

  “Considering what?”

  “Nothing.”

  “You had a crab cake, Gemma. How was it?”

  “Super,” I said.

  His eyes narrowed and he peered at me. “Not too spicy?”

  “Moderately spicy, just the way I like it. Is there a problem?”

  “No. No.” He hesitated. “My new sous-chef, he sometimes likes to do things his own way. I thought he was chopping too many jalapeños to add to the crab and told him so. He started to argue, but I cut him off. I didn’t see if he used them all once my back was turned.”

  “I liked them. Loved them, I should say.”

  “You need to trust your staff, Andy,” Irene said with a smile. “You wouldn’t have hired this new guy if you didn’t think he was up to the job, would you? I assume he has good references?”

  “Yeah, he does. He worked at a seafood place in New York City for a couple years. Has plans to open his own restaurant one day, and he thought the Cape was a better place to try to break in.” His eyes lit up and he grabbed his phone out of his pocket, all thoughts of overly spicy crab cakes forgotten. “They’re here!” He almost sprinted for the door, and then he turned and said, “Please enjoy yourselves and let our staff know if you need anything.”

  “Always the host,” Irene said with a laugh.

  “Which is why this is rapidly becoming known as the best restaurant in West London, if not in the entire Lower Cape,” I said. “Andy’s going to have to learn to give up some degree of control if he wants a pleasant married life and maybe a family someday.”

  “Goes for Jayne too. I can’t imagine the sort of hours she puts in at that bakery. Change that, I can imagine it and it gives me the shivers. His hours too. Oh, look. Ashleigh’s back and this time she has crostini. I love crostini.” Irene set off in pursuit.

  I was about to join her, but at that moment, applause began to spread through the room, and I looked toward the entrance to see Jayne, blushing and radiant. Her arm was tucked into Andy’s and his grin was so broad, the restaurant could have managed without all the candlelight. Jayne looked stunning in a low-cut dress of emerald green that swept her ankles. Tonight, she wore three-inch heels, which still didn’t make her reach my height. Her long blond hair was swept up behind her head, held in place by a sparkling clip. Then again, Jayne looked stunning in a hairnet and an apron covered in floury handprints. Her mother, Leslie, and her brother, Jeff, along with Jeff’s wife, Christy, followed her. Jayne’s father died a number of years ago.

  Someone bumped my elbow and I half turned. It was Robbie, clutching an almost empty tray of canapés. His brown eyes were on Jayne, but unlike everyone else in the room, he was not smiling. Instead, as he watched her, something dark moved across his face. He turned to look at Andy and the scowl deepened. His knuckles were turning white where he gripped his tray.

  “Careful there,” I said in a low voice. “We don’t want any food getting spilled.”

  He started, and then he realized I was talking to him and he turned toward me. His teeth flashed, but the smile contained no warmth. “She looks nice, Jayne.”

  “Yes.”

  “Woulda thought she’d want more out of life than marriage to a cook.”

  “Better a cook than a waiter.” I don’t often speak without thinking, and instantly I wanted to bite back the words. But it was too late, as it always is. Robbie studied my face for a long time. I did not look away.

  “Better get more of these things,” he said at last. “People seem to like them.” He took a step toward the kitchen, then turned. His words were almost lost in the chatter all around us and cries of “Happy birthday” as Jayne and Andy made their way across the room greeting their guests. “Watch yourself, Doyle. Accidents can happen in restaurants, or so they tell me.”

  Chapter Three

  “Was that Robbie with you?” Jayne said to me.

  “The one and only.”

  “He shouldn’t have run off like that before I got a chance to say hi.”

  “He’s working here now,” I said. “Part-time job. He’s home for the winter to help his mom.”

  “That’s so nice of him. I heard she was having health issues.” She smiled at Andy. With her heels on, the two of them were the same height. “And so nice of you to hire him. It can be hard finding work around here in the winter.” They moved off to greet other guests.

  “So Robbie’s back,” Leslie Wilson said to me.

  “Yup. I don’t dare eat another one of those crab cakes.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Nothing. Nothing. Hi, Jeff. Nice to see you.”

  Jayne’s brother greeted me and then asked his mother, “Can I get you something from the bar, Mom?”

  “A beer would be good. I’ll save the wine for dinner.” She looked around the crowded room. “Someone told me they’re calling this the social event of the season. I thought she was joking, but she might not have been. I can’t remember the last time I saw everyone so dressed up, outside of a wedding. Did Andy invite everyone in West London?”

  “Looks like it.”

  “I see some people I don’t know. Andy’s relatives, do you suppose?”

  “Probably.” I also recognized most of the guests, if not by name, then from them passing through my shop or the tearoom. Leslie was heavily involved in many charities and social groups, and her network of acquaintances would be even larger than mine. “He told me some of the wedding guests decided to make a winter holiday of the occasion and came early.”

  “I see Pete and Trish Whitehall,” Leslie said, referring to Andy’s parents. “I’ll go over and say hi. When Jeff gets back with my beer, tell him where I got to.”

  “Will do,” I said.

  I’m not particularly good at making small talk with people I scarcely know, so I looked around for someone I did know. Mrs. Ramsbatten had found a seat at a table and was deep in conversation with Fiona, who worked at Mrs. Hudson’s.

  I was delighted to spot Donald Morris, attired for the occasion in his best reproduction nineteenth-century menswear, and I headed toward him. He was talking to a man about his own age—early fifties—wearing a brown tweed sports jacket over a button-down blue shirt. Donald’s companion’s salt-and-pepper hair (more salt than pepper) was cut short at the back and sides and slightly longer at the front to flip back over his forehead. His gray beard was neatly trimmed. A tiny silver ring ran through the lobe of his right ear.

  “… an intense lifelong interest in spiritualism that was best—” Donald broke off as he saw me approach. “George, have you met Gemma Doyle?”

  “I haven’t had the pleasure,” George said. His deep brown eyes stared into mine as he held out his recently manicured hand. Maybe it’s because I’m in love with a cop, but I don’t entirely trust men with manicures. I took the hand anyway. His grip was surprisingly limp and cool. “Your friend here is telling me all about Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. Fascinating stuff.” His tone contradicted his words, and I smothered a smile. Once someone fell into conversation with Donald, they found themselves trapped in a tsunami of Doyle or Holmes trivia, unable to escape without being overly rude.

  “Gemma owns the Sherlock Holmes Bookshop and Emporium,” Donald said. George smiled politely, his vacant expression telling me (if not Donald) he was not the least bit interested. He made a valiant effort not to let his eyes wander around the room, seeking someone more interesting to talk to. “It’s at 222 Baker Street,” Donald continued. “Not entirely the desired address, but number 221 wasn’t for sale when Gemma’s great-uncle Arthur Doyle was looking to buy. You’re clearly wondering if Arthur Doyle is a relation of Sir Arthur. On that, opinions differ. Gemma insists—”

  Most people find themselves trapped by Donald’s enthusiasm because they’re too polite to change the topic or simply walk away. I myself have no such qualms. “How do you know Andy or Jayne, George?” I asked.

  His eyes refocused and a genuine smile touched his mouth. “I haven’t yet had the honor of meeting the lady, but Andy and I go way back. I own a couple of places in Hyannis, and Andy worked for me at one time. He was too good a cook to stay with me for long, and I lost him to your charming town. I’m giving some thought to opening a place near here.” His gesture took in the entire restaurant. “Gonna be hard to compete with this place, though. The setting alone can’t be beat. Not in summer anyway, when that deck’s open.”

  “Andy was lucky,” I said. “The restaurant here before this one was more of a hot dog and burger shack—”

  “I’ve often wondered,” Donald interrupted in an attempt to participate in the conversation, “what Sherlock Holmes would have thought of our modern fast food. I suspect he would have entirely approved. He enjoyed his formal dinners at Mancini’s restaurant, but generally he ate whatever he was given. When he bothered to eat at all. Mrs. Hudson, that’s his landlady—”

  “I know the story,” George said, not referring to Sherlock’s dining habits. “It was a good hot dog and burger shack. Very popular. It caught fire one winter’s night, and the owners didn’t want to rebuild, so they sold what was left of the building. Exactly when Andy was looking for a place for his own restaurant. Lucky for Andy.”

  “And …” I waved my arms in the air, taking in the crowd, the atmosphere, the laughter, the clink of glasses, the wonderful scents emanating from the kitchen, and the soft murmur of the sea beyond the windows, rushing to shore. “Here we are today.”

  “Rumor at the time said the fire might not have been an accident.”

  “I didn’t know that.”

  George shrugged. “Nothing but a rumor. No charges were ever laid.” His gaze left my face as his attention was caught by something happening behind me. I turned my head to see Andy and Jayne chatting with Irene. “Good timing for Andy, though.” George lifted his glass in a salute.

  * * *

  I wasn’t entirely sure what George was implying; I wasn’t even sure he’d been implying anything, but I took pity on the guy and pointed out to Donald that one of our shop regulars was arriving and searching for someone to talk to. My friend bustled off, likely to ask her if she’d read a good book lately. George muttered apologies and made a beeline for the bar.

  “Isn’t this a fabulous evening, Gemma,” Bunny Leigh said to me. “Reminds me of the time my manager—that’s Rupert, you remember meeting him—put on a surprise party for me at … goodness, the name escapes me at the moment. In my day, it was the hottest place in L.A.”

  I hadn’t exactly “met” the late Rupert. I had (entirely against my better instincts) once attended a séance at which the gentleman in question put in a (supposed) appearance via a fake medium. Not that there’s such a thing as a real medium. I didn’t bother to point that out, but I watched Bunny hail a passing waitress, who just happened to be her own daughter. “You look soooo adorable, honey,” she gushed. “Perfect costume.”

  “Thanks. Can I get you a drink?” Ashleigh asked.

  “A dirty martini would be wonderful, thank you, dear. Why are you carrying that tray?”

  “To serve drinks on. I’m working tonight, Bunny.”

  Bunny’s nose crinkled in thought. Once upon a time, the crinkling of that perfect little nose would have had teenage girls in fits of ecstasy. Bunny had been a major pop star in her youth, but her fame, along with her youth, soon faded and now she lived in West London, always planning the never-to-happen comeback. “You’re working here? But you work at Gemma’s store. Gale’s here as a guest, as are the women from the tearoom.”

  “I was invited,” Ashleigh said. “But when I heard Andy needed staff, I decided this would be fun. Make a few bucks too. I won’t work at the wedding, promise.”

  “If you’re short of money, honey …” Bunny said, a touch reluctantly.

  “I’m good. Thanks, Mom. One dirty martini coming right up.”

  Bunny blinked in confusion. She’d been discovered almost the day she stepped off the bus from Lincoln, Nebraska, and had shot straight to the top of the pop charts. She’d lost most of her money in the following years, a combination of bad luck, bad men, bad financial advice. She still had a small income, enough to get by on, if she lived modestly, which she did. The idea of working for a living was a nebulous concept to Bunny Leigh.

  “May I offer you some crab cakes, Miss Leigh?” Robbie held out his platter and gave Bunny a little dip of the head.

  “Thank you.” She took one. And then she took another. Robbie turned to me. He did not bow, nor did he smile. I wondered if someone had opened a window as a chill washed over me.

  “No, thanks,” I said.

  “You should be proud of your daughter,” I said, once Robbie moved on. “She works hard, she’s not afraid to get her hands dirty, and she’s learning the ropes at the shop. I have absolutely no doubt one day she’ll have that bookstore empire she’s dreaming of.”

  “I suppose.” Bunny soon lost interest in me and her gaze wandered around the room. “Good heavens, who is that adorable man over there? The one at the bar, talking to Irene Talbot?”

  “His name’s George. Didn’t get his last name. He’s a restaurant owner.”

  “A new man in West London. A handsome one to boot, and not a sign of a pack of kids begging to go to the beach. He’s not even wearing a wedding ring.” She abandoned me in flash.

  “Where’d Bunny go?” Ashleigh appeared at my side, her tray bearing a full martini glass with a single olive on a toothpick.

  “I’ll take that,” I said, as I did so. “Thanks.”

  I carried the drink across the room. Jayne was standing next to her tower of gifts, momentarily alone.

  “I know you’re rather fond of a dirty martini.” I handed her the glass.

  She accepted it with a smile. “The perfect bridesmaid. I didn’t even have to say I could use a drink and, poof, here it is.”

  “Where’d Andy get to?”

  “Some trouble in the kitchen.” She took a sip. “Yum. This is nice. And that, Gemma, is why I insisted on not having my wedding reception here. Andy promised he’d leave everything tonight to his staff, but I knew he wouldn’t be able to keep that promise.”

  “His attention to detail is what makes this restaurant such a success.”

  Her smiled died and she frowned. “I know that. I do. But … other chefs manage to let other people take over sometimes. Many of the best chefs in the world have several restaurants. They can’t be in all of them, all the time, so they hire the best people they can and trust them to get on with it. I mean … I just wish … I …”

  I put my hand on her arm. “Andy can do that too. And he will. He had a great time in England in the fall, didn’t he? He scarcely thought about the restaurant the entire time he was away.”

  She smiled at me. “He did keep thinking up new ways to cook fish when he was at that fancy fishing lodge, but other than that, you’re right.”

  “As I usually am. Tonight’s so very special to him, Jayne. That makes him nervous and overly protective. Cut him some slack.”

  “He’s not too happy with Martin, his new sous-chef. The guy came with great references, but Andy’s worried he’s the sort to do things his own way when Andy’s not looking. Some imagination is fine and Andy’s always open to suggestions, but he fears this guy’s fiddling with his cherished recipes.”

  “Tonight, none of that is your problem. Relax and enjoy yourself. Everyone here is here because they love you.”

  “That’s a nice thought, but not entirely true. I don’t even know some of these people.”

  “And once you get to know them, they will love you.”

  “To know me is to love me,” she said with a laugh.

  “I have no idea what you two are talking about, but I have to agree with it.” Andy slipped his arm around Jayne’s shoulders. “We’re ready, if you are.”

  “Ready,” she said.

  “Ready for what?” I asked.

  “The three best words in the English language,” Jayne said. “Time for dinner.”

  Chapter Four

  Andy stepped forward and clapped his hands. The room fell quiet as everyone turned toward him and all conversation stopped. From the kitchen came the clatter of serving dishes. Glasses clinked as the bartender put them on a waiter’s tray. I was standing next to Jayne, watching Andy. I half turned to give my friend a smile, but the smile died on my face.

  Robbie Ellis stood by the swinging doors to the kitchen. His eyes were fixed on Jayne, his face a picture of outright longing.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, and you too, Dad.” Everyone laughed politely, Andy’s father most of all. “Please take your seats for dinner.”

  Robbie’s attention left Jayne to focus on Andy, and his expression changed to one of pure rage. He caught me looking, gave me a glare, before he abruptly turned around and disappeared into the kitchen, barely avoiding colliding with Ashleigh, her tray covered with baskets filled with bread rolls.

  “Careful there,” she said, “I might have had something hot.”

  Robbie snarled at her and disappeared.

  “You okay, Gemma?” Jayne asked.