I’d paid a hundred and sixty but I wasn’t going to argue. It was worth the loss of sixty dollars to be rid of her.

  “Marybeth,” I said, “will you get the box, please?”

  Simon, Kimberly, and I waited in the dining room. From outside, I could hear the sounds of people getting ready to leave, and Cheryl inviting them to come again.

  Marybeth was soon back, cradling the wicker box, followed by Bernie. Kimberly threw the envelope at me and snatched the box from Marybeth. To my considerable surprise, she didn’t march out of the restaurant with it; she dropped it onto a table and opened it.

  “I can assure you,” I said, “it’s all there.”

  Even more to my surprise, she grabbed a knife from a place setting and began slashing at the box’s lining.

  “What are you doing?” Simon asked.

  The only knives we lay our tables with are butter knives. Nice for spreading butter and jam or slicing the last lemon square in half to share, not so good for ripping fabric apart. After a couple of useless attempts, Kimberly looked at me, her eyes narrow with anger. She brandished the butter knife in her fist. “Get me a proper knife.”

  “What? No, I’m not getting you a knife. Take what you want and get out of here.”

  “You,” she said to Bernie. “Get me a decent knife.”

  “Not likely,” Bernie said.

  Simon took a penknife out of his pocket. “I’ve got one, but I’m not handing it over to you. Tell me what you’re after and I’ll do it.”

  Kimberly pointed to the inner lid of the box. “What I want is in there.”

  I stepped closer and peered into the box. The lining was a lovely soft blue silk, the shade of Mother Rabbit’s dress and Peter’s coat, the color faded with age but otherwise in good condition. The fabric was attached to the box with machine-made stitches of blue thread, except for a couple of inches of white thread sewn in a rough hand.

  I ran my fingers across the fabric, and I could feel a slight bulge of paper beneath. “I think what she’s after is in here.”

  Simon threw a question at me. I nodded, telling him to go ahead. He’d also seen the fresher stiches and instead of simply ripping the silk, he cut the thread and folded back a section of the lining.

  Kimberly leapt forward and thrust her hand into the hole he’d made. When she pulled it back, she was gripping an unaddressed white envelope. “Got it. Thanks. You can keep the rest. And the money.”

  “What’s that?” I asked.

  “None of your business.” She ran out of the restaurant.

  “Uh,” Bernie said. “What just happened here?”

  “I have absolutely no idea,” I said. “It would appear she isn’t as emotionally attached to this children’s tea set as I’d thought.”

  “What do you suppose she was after? A treasure map? Deeds to a long-abandoned gold mine in the jungles of Borneo or a disputed family estate?”

  “Maybe we should go after her,” Simon said.

  I walked to the window and looked out. Kimberly was walking rapidly up the driveway, toward Victoria-on-Sea, not down to the road as I would have expected, but I paid that no mind, assuming she’d left her car in the B & B parking area.

  “I’ve had enough of her,” I said, turning away from the window. “Obviously whatever she was after was where she expected it to be, so the box must have been her property at some time. Or that of someone she knows. I have a lovely children’s tea set and I’m a hundred dollars richer. Let’s leave it. That pizza’s calling to me. Simon, staying for pizza?”

  “Never need to be asked twice.”

  Chapter 4

  As much as I might have wanted to, I couldn’t leave it. Or rather it couldn’t leave me. I found myself far more involved in Kimberly Smithfield’s affairs than I wanted to be.

  Sunday afternoon around one o’clock, Cheryl announced, “A woman’s asking to see you.”

  I looked up from the tart shells I was filling with pastry cream prior to adding fresh raspberries. “You are kidding me, right? Is this a joke?”

  “Nope. You’ll be happy to hear it’s not that strange woman again. This one says you know her. She gave her name as Rachel Morrison.”

  “Fortyish? Looks like a racehorse?”

  Cheryl laughed. “Good description.”

  “Okay, show her in. First, how’re things out front?”

  “Marybeth’s showing a party of six to a table. They don’t have a reservation, but it’s so nice outside, most people want to sit on the patio, so we have room to seat the new arrivals inside.”

  “Thank heavens for nice days.”

  “You got that right,” she said. “While I’m getting your visitor, can you start a pot of Creamy Earl Grey and one of oolong, please.”

  I took down the tea canisters and added the leaves to the pots and by the time the fragrant steam was rising, Cheryl was showing my visitor into the kitchen. Rachel crossed the floor in two long strides and wrapped me in a ferocious hug. I hugged her back, less ferociously. I hadn’t been aware we were on hugging terms.

  Eventually, she let me go, stepped back, and beamed at me. “Lily Roberts! Look at you. And look at this marvelous place. Aren’t you the clever one? No one could believe it when we heard you’d run off to small-town Massachusetts, but you’ve done wonders here. You should have consulted with me, of course. I would have given you my friends’ rate, but I’ll admit you’ve done a fine job. Can’t go wrong sticking with tradition.”

  Rachel Morrison was an interior designer specializing in restaurants, and her services were in high demand in the constantly turning-over Manhattan culinary world. Our paths had crossed several times, but I mainly knew her from when she’d done the décor for a new place where I’d been hired as a pastry chef. When I said to Cheryl that Rachel looked like a racehorse I wasn’t kidding. And I don’t mean that in a bad way. She was tall and thin with long, long legs, a graceful neck, sharp cheekbones, tawny skin, and enormous dark eyes framed by thick lashes. Her black hair hung almost to her waist in a smooth sleek river. She was dressed in pale-blue distressed jeans so tight they showed those legs to perfection and a crisply ironed white shirt under a red linen jacket. Her red sandals had two-inch heels, ensuring that she towered over me, and at five feet eight I’m not short.

  “It’s nice to see you, Rachel,” I said. “I’d love to chat, but as you can see we’re in the middle of service.”

  “It’s rather . . . tight . . . in here.”

  “We manage.”

  “A tearoom. How charming is that? I saw your hours posted outside. Eleven to five. What a great way to ensure you don’t have to work nights.” She gave me a broad wink. “Dare I hope you’ve found some incredibly handsome fisherman to take care of those nonworking nights?”

  “This isn’t a hobby business, Rachel. I work incredibly hard.”

  She waved her right hand in the air. The small diamond on her pinky finger caught the light. “I’m sure you do, sweetie.”

  While we’d been talking, Cheryl and Marybeth slipped in and out of the kitchen. Arranging food on stands, bringing in used dishes, making tea.

  The rooster timer crowed and I slipped on my mitts to take a tray of golden scones out of the oven and place it on the counter. Rachel squealed. “Those are absolute perfection. Can I try one?”

  Without waiting for me to give her permission, or not, she slid around me and helped herself. She broke the scone in half and examined the flaky interior. “Looks yummy.” She popped a piece into her mouth. “Tastes yummy, too.” She tossed the rest of the scone into the trash bin. “Do you see Wesley much?”

  “Never. You know we broke up, right?”

  “So I heard. Such a shame. I thought you two were a good match.” Her face twisted. “You were better for him than the horrid woman he’s with now.”

  “No concern of mine.” Wesley Schumann was the owner and head chef at the last restaurant I’d worked at, the one designed and decorated by Rachel. Some top chefs can be notoriously temperamental, and Wesley was one of the best. He was starting to move into the celebrity chef category, and the attention was going directly to his head. He came at me one night with a butcher knife. No harm done as his sous chef pulled him off, but at that moment, I decided I’d had enough of both Wesley and the Manhattan restaurant world. I took off my apron, threw it on the counter, and walked out on the spot, leaving cakes in the oven.

  “Did you hear he got married?” Rachel asked.

  “Married. No, I hadn’t heard. My . . . condolences to the lucky woman.”

  She laughed heartily. “It was a quickie affair, mere weeks, if not days, from meeting to engagement to wedding. Not likely to last long. Never mind that. As much as I’d love to get caught up, I have a reason for stopping by. My sister was here yesterday.”

  “Your sister? She came for tea?”

  “Not for tea. She was after a set of teacups in a wicker box.”

  “That was your sister? Kimberly Smithfield?”

  The expression on Rachel’s lovely face turned so sour, it wasn’t lovely anymore. “Sadly, yes.”

  “You don’t look much alike.”

  “Half sister. Same mother. My father was Mom’s first husband. He died when I was three, and she married again not long after. The product of that marriage was, I’ve had reason to regret ever since, Kimberly.”

  I wiped my hands on my apron and then ran them under the tap. “She was asking about a Peter Rabbit tea set in a wicker box.”

  “Yup. I’ve been looking for that box, and so it would appear was my dear sister. I got word she was in North Augusta, and when I heard an antique fair was in town, I figured I should check it out. Bingo.”

  “I assume someone at McIntosh Antiques gave you this address.”

  “She did. Did you give Kimmy the box?”

  “No.”

  Rachel grinned. “Great. I’ll buy it off you. Five hundred dollars for your trouble.”

  “She didn’t want the box. She only wanted what was sewn inside the lining.”

  The smile disappeared. “Did she get it?”

  “An envelope? Yes.”

  “You mean to tell me you gave it to her.”

  “I had no reason not to. It was obviously what she was looking for. She grabbed the envelope and ran. I have to say, she wasn’t very nice about it.”

  Rachel threw up her hands, barely missing clipping Cheryl, attempting to edge around her to get to the tea canisters, across the face. “She’s never been very nice. I cannot believe I came this close and you gave it to her.”

  “Don’t blame me. This has nothing to do with me. Now, I’m sorry, but I am very busy and you’re in the way.” Marybeth was trying to squeeze past Rachel on the other side to grab a stand I’d prepared for her to take into the dining room.

  “Did she open it? The envelope?” Rachel asked.

  “Not when she was here.”

  “Did she tell you where she was going next?”

  “No.”

  “Did she plan to stay in town overnight, do you know?”

  “She asked me for the name of a nice hotel. I suggested the Seabreeze Motel.”

  “Is that nice?”

  “No, it’s a rat-infested dump.”

  “Cheap, though,” Marybeth said.

  “She won’t stay there, then. My dear sister has no money of her own, but she likes to pretend she does. She might have gone there first, though, to check it out.” She whipped her phone out of her pocket. “I’ll give you my number, Lily. Call me right away if she comes here again.”

  I sighed and took out my own phone. We exchanged numbers before Rachel finally left.

  * * *

  Rachel went in search of her sister. I didn’t plan to search, yet I found Kimberly first.

  She’d taken a room at Victoria-on-Sea Bed and Breakfast.

  I finished work that evening at a reasonable time and went home to my dog while it was still daylight. I pay the housekeepers a small amount extra to check on Éclair during the day, refresh her water bowl, and take her for a short walk. Tonight I was home in time to give her dinner and to heat a frozen meal in the microwave for myself. I enjoy cooking, but after a day spent in the tearoom, and having only myself to feed, I don’t usually go to much effort.

  I took a glass of wine and my unappetizing meal out to my small porch and ate as I watched charter boats returning to harbor after a day fishing or whale watching. A few B & B guests passed, enjoying a stroll along the edge of the bluffs or through our justifiably famous gardens as the sun dipped into the calm waters of the bay.

  Dinner finished, I leaned back, stretched out my legs, and sipped my wine, content with my lot. I work hard here, but no harder than I did in Manhattan, trying to build a career in the tough, competitive cooking world. In the city I didn’t ever get the opportunity to take a deep breath and the time to simply enjoy being surrounded by peace, quiet, and fabulous views.

  As always, I took Éclair for a walk before turning in. She’s well enough behaved to be allowed to run free on the property, although I keep the leash with me in case we encounter a guest who’s afraid of dogs, and a sharp eye on her if she decides to leave anything on the lawn or in the flower beds. We walked up the driveway to the road, enjoying the warm night air, the gentle sounds of surf rushing to shore, the scent of the gardens, and the glow of the countless stars in the clear skies above. The interior lights of Tea by the Sea were off, but security lights shone over both doors. I turned at the road, called Éclair to come, and we retraced our steps.

  We were almost at the house when I heard a car engine approaching, and headlights lit up the path ahead of me. Éclair was sniffing at a rosebush, and I half turned to ensure the driver had seen us. The car was an Audi, with one person inside, going too fast for the narrow driveway. It came to a halt in the guest lot at the side of the house; the driver got out and headed for the stairs leading to the veranda and the front doors.

  Kimberly Smithfield herself. I wouldn’t have thought a car like that—expensive but not flashy—was her type.

  “Good evening,” I called. “I’m surprised to see you here.”

  Her lips tightened and she gave me a poisonous look. “That motel you sent me to is a dump.”

  “I didn’t know your budget.”

  “Whatever. This place is a B & B, and I had to come back, anyway, to get those papers, so I called and got a room. Do you own it, too?”

  “My grandmother does. Are you planning to stay long?”

  “What business is that of yours?”

  “None personally, but I help my grandmother run the B & B and I need to know about room availability.” I make the breakfasts, but that’s all I have to do with the day-to-day running of Victoria-on-Sea. I lied to Kimberly, but she didn’t deserve anything better from me. If I had my way, I’d kick her out. I doubled that would go down well with the North Augusta Tourist Association, so I held my tongue.

  “If you must know, I’ve taken the room for four nights. The old lady said there’s a two-night minimum on weekends, and then I decided why not. It would be fun to stay on. My husband”—she rolled the word around in her mouth and clearly liked the feel of it there—“was supposed to get here this afternoon, but he’s been delayed in New York. He has business to do in this area; he’s opening a couple of fancy new restaurants nearby. I’m helping him with that. It’s going to be so much fun. I figured we might as well stay here as go back to my place. Have a sort of a honeymoon. This place is nice enough. I guess.” Éclair sniffed at Kimberly’s shoes, but she ignored the dog completely. I believe you can tell a lot about people by the way they interact with friendly animals. Kimberly not only didn’t interact, she didn’t even seem to notice the happy little pooch.

  I hesitated, wondering if I should tell Kimberly her half sister was looking for her. My internal debate died without being resolved when Kimberly turned around and climbed the steps to the veranda without another word. Kimberly had finished talking about herself, so she had nothing more to say. She let herself into the house and the door slammed shut behind her.

  “Have it your way,” I said to the closed door.

  * * *

  I was unsure whether or not to tell Rachel that Kimberly was staying here. B & B guests do have a reasonable expectation of privacy. If Kimberly wanted her sister to know where she was, she would have told her. As I always do when I have a moral dilemma, I called Bernie as I crawled into bed.

  “What’s up?” she said when she answered.

  “Not much. I hope I’m not disturbing you.” Éclair leapt onto the bed and circled several times to make herself comfortable. I stroked the wiry curls. Her fur is mostly a light brown, except for a mocha streak across her belly. Thus her name, in honor of the pastry.

  “You are, but that’s okay,” Bernie said. “I’m working flat out on a vitally important scene between Rose and Tessa that will test the bounds of their friendship to the breaking point.” Rose, named for my grandmother, and Tessa were the main characters in the historical mystery novel Bernie had come to the Cape to write. She’d quit her job as a forensic accountant at a major Manhattan law firm, cashed in her savings, and rented a leaking, falling down shack for the summer to give her the time and the space to write. The progress of the book was, to say the least, not going as well as she might have expected. Bernie had trouble settling on one idea and was constantly haring off in all directions.

  “Sorry. It’s not important. We can talk in the morning.”

  “You’re on the line now. Tessa and Rose can wait. I might be having trouble with the testing friendship scene, as your and my friendship never has been truly tested, has it?”

  “There was the time you set your sights on Kyle Burken, but he liked me better.”

  “That’s not the way I remember it, Lily, but we were in fourth grade. Fourth grade doesn’t count.”

  “How about when Madison Greer invited me to her birthday party, but not you.”