Jenny nodded mutely. She swallowed. “Dear Max. I miss him every day. He was a good man. An honest man.” A sad smile touched the edges of her mouth.

  “I treasured that doll for a long time,” Hannah said. “Then, well, I grew up. I went to college; started work. I moved out of Mom’s house and packed away my childhood things. I haven’t seen the doll for a long time. Do you know where it is, Mom?”

  “I assume it’s in a closet somewhere,” Jenny said. “I haven’t thrown it out. I haven’t thrown any of your things out. Silly sentiment, I suppose.”

  “Obviously, with my wedding fast approaching and finally getting married to”—Hannah smiled at Greg—“the love of my life, I’ve been thinking about Dad. A lot. I hope he’d be happy for me.”

  “Happy, and so proud of the woman you’ve become,” Jenny said.

  Hannah leapt to her feet and enveloped her mom in a hug.

  I stood up. This was getting way too emotional and personal for me to be witness to. Greg watched his fiancée with a smile on his face. He did love her, I thought. How lucky they are.

  Jenny and Hannah rocked back and forth for a few minutes before Hannah broke away. She wiped fresh tears from her eyes. “Seeing that doll, such a powerful reminder of my father . . . like that . . . at such an emotional time. It was awful. I guess I overreacted.”

  “You reacted,” Greg said, “As anyone would. If I find out who did it . . .” He glanced out the window, to where his brother and his friends, laughing and drinking, were continuing with the party, and his eyes narrowed.

  I let out a breath, and wiped my hands on my pants. “I have to get back. Stay as long as you like.”

  “Thank you,” Hannah said, “but I’d like to go to the hotel and lie down for a bit. We have nothing on tonight, do we, Mom?”

  “Nothing until the rehearsal dinner tomorrow evening,” Jenny said.

  “Do you mind if I don’t return to the party? I don’t want to talk to anyone right now.”

  “Of course I don’t mind, dear. It’s not as though it’s our party anyway, is it?” She looked at me. “Greg’s parents sorta took over.”

  “Nor is it going to be the wedding we wanted,” Greg said. “But . . . my mom is a force of nature, and she loves a big party. It’s not likely McKenzie will be getting married anytime soon.”

  “I hope not,” Hannah said. “Imagine having Jack as a brother-in-law.”

  Samantha held up her phone. “Jenny, it’s Alice, wondering what’s going on. She said everyone’s leaving and asks if she should grab a cab.”

  “Tell her we’re ready,” Hannah said. “Thank you, Lily, for giving us a place of refuge. And such a lovely tea. I’m sorry if it didn’t end as we might have hoped.”

  “You are more than welcome. It was a pleasure having you.”

  “Sophia will be settling the bill,” Jenny said. “If the tip she leaves for your staff is . . . inadequate, let me know.”

  “What would you like us to do with the doll?” I asked.

  Hannah shuddered. “Burn it. I don’t want to ever see it again.”

  Chapter 5

  “That was an unexpected development,” Rose said.

  The party was over, the guests long gone, and we were gathered in the kitchen of Tea by the Sea. I’d be open for regular business tomorrow and had work to do tonight to get food prepared. Marybeth was taking dishes out of the dishwasher and putting them away while Cheryl put the patio to rights. Bernie was pretending to help me bake while catching up on the gossip of the afternoon, and my grandmother wasn’t even pretending to help.

  “Downright creepy,” Marybeth said. “Like something straight out of a horror movie. Who would do that?”

  “The whole thing was weird.” Bernie stopped cutting scones and waved the cutter in the air. “Like a gathering of the Hatfields and the McCoys. Each group kept strictly to themselves, trying to pretend the others weren’t there.”

  “You’re full of literary references today, Bernie,” I said. “Earlier it was Romeo and Juliet.”

  “Them too,” Bernie said. “Feuding families.”

  “Except for the bride and groom,” Marybeth said. “I thought they were both lovely. And so clearly in love, it was nice to see. I saw some of the guests sitting on the veranda at the house after. Are they staying with you, Rose?”

  “The groom’s family is, yes. They’ve taken five rooms until Tuesday.”

  “It was a strange bunch,” I said. “The two groups are so different, but the families are intertwined in a way none of them like.”

  “Except Greg and Hannah,” Marybeth said.

  “Young love,” Rose said. “I remember young love. Vaguely.”

  I smiled at her. No one ever had any doubt my grandparents had loved each other until the day my granddad died.

  “Anyone at home?” a voice called from the restaurant.

  “Speaking of young love,” Rose said in a whisper, with a glance at me from under her mascaraed lashes.

  “We’re in here,” I replied, trying not to blush too much.

  Simon came through the swinging door. “I knew that. Didn’t want to interrupt if you were talking about me.”

  “Now why would we do that?” I asked.

  He kissed the top of my head.

  “Earlier I saw McKenzie heading your way with an extra glass of champagne. Did she find you?” I tried to keep my tone neutral but I fear a touch of jealousy might have crept in.

  “That one. Yeah, she found me. She’s had a lifelong interest in gardening, she said. I asked her what was her favorite annual and she said roses.”

  Bernie laughed. “A trick question. Clever you. Did she then suggest you offer her private lessons in gardening?”

  “She might have, but I told her I had to go and turn the compost, so she suddenly remembered her boyfriend was waiting for her in town.” He kissed me again, and said, “Need a hand?”

  “As Bernie seems to have forgotten what she’s been asked to do, can you finish the scones please? Cut them out and lay them on that baking sheet. Careful, the sheet’s hot. What did you do with the doll?”

  Bernie handed Simon the cutter with a bow.

  “It’s in the shed,” he said. “Do they want it?”

  “Goodness no. Hannah, that’s the bride, told me to burn it. I’d like to have a look at it.”

  “Why?”

  “Curious, maybe? I have trouble understanding why someone would come to a wedding shower and do something like that to the bride. It was no joke.” I thought of the expression on Hannah’s face as she talked about what a similar doll had once meant to her.

  “Pure meanness.” Bernie turned on the tap and washed her hands. “I’d like to have a look at it too.”

  “Did you search it, Simon?” Rose asked. “Perhaps a message was enclosed?”

  “I haven’t opened the box.” He made quick work of the scones and once they were laid in neat rows, I popped the baking sheet into the oven and set the rooster timer. “Marybeth, take these out when the timer sounds, please. I’m going to have a look at this doll.”

  Simon led the way. Bernie and I followed him, and Rose followed us.

  It was not long after five, but in July that means full daylight still. The lovely century-old, handmade shed that used to house Simon’s gardening equipment had burned to the ground not long ago. A mass-produced, prefab structure had taken its place. The new one had absolutely none of the rustic charm of the original, but Simon had done his best to liven it up with bright red paint on the door and window frames and window boxes overflowing with colorful annuals and trailing vines. He’d built a trellis on the sunniest wall and planted clematis. Early days yet, but in years to come they’d go a long way toward brightening up the bland, unattractive building.

  We stood in a circle inside the shed, surrounded by bags of potting soil and fertilizer, hoses and water jugs, empty terracotta pots, hand tools hanging neatly on the walls, staring at the box.

  It was nothing but an ordinary cardboard box. Simon pulled the flaps back; as one we leaned over and peered in. The doll’s head lay on top, staring up at us. Even though I’d been expecting it, I shivered.

  “Creepy’s the word,” Bernie said. “Funny how something as innocent as a child’s toy can look, in the right circumstances, so evil.” She picked up the head, turned it over, and studied the bottom. “It’s been cut. Didn’t happen by accident, not that I thought it had.”

  Simon lifted up the body. “Likely cut with scissors, not a knife. You can see the fraying here. These cuts look fresh, from what I can tell.”

  “What does that mean?” I asked.

  “That it was done recently,” Rose said. “No doubt to make an impact on this specific occasion.”

  “It looks new,” I said. “Hannah told me she had one like that as a child, and it meant a lot to her. I’m glad it’s not the same one.”

  Nothing else was in the box. Not even any packing material.

  “What do you want me to do with it?” Simon asked.

  “Toss it in the garbage,” I said. “If we’d gotten it under less . . . weird . . . circumstances, I’d offer to sew the head back on and give it to the charity shop, but I also never want to see this horrid thing again.”

  * * *

  When we’d finished examining the doll, Rose headed back to the house. Bernie offered to walk with her, saying she had to get straight home. She had some great ideas for her book, which she wanted to get down while they were fresh in her mind.

  “Do you think,” Simon said to me as we watched them cross the lawn, heads close, arm in arm, “Bernie’s book will ever see the light of day? I don’t know anything about writing a book, but should she still be coming up with new ideas at this point?”

  “If we were talking about anyone else, I’d say no. But Bernie.” I shook my head. “If Bernie wants something, she usually gets it.” My friend had quit her job in the spring, cashed in her savings, and come to Cape Cod to pursue her dream of writing a novel. I’d lost count of the number of times she’d changed the characters, the setting, the time frame, the entire premise. She’d finally settled on a late-nineteenth-century mystery novel, intended to be the start of a series about two women who set up a detective agency in Boston (or was it New York?). Despite that, she kept heading off in all sorts of different directions. She might, eventually, finish the book, but I feared it would be a scrambled mess when it was done.

  Simon put his arm around me and said, “Need any help tonight?”

  “No. You go on. You were here early and you must be beat. It’s hard work having to chase off all those women wanting to admire more than your roses. Not to mention ones bringing you glasses of champagne.” The moment the last sentence was out of my mouth, I regretted it. Simon and I had only been together a couple of weeks. We were finding our way, slowly and carefully. About the last thing I wanted was to come across as the jealous type. But I couldn’t help thinking of that McKenzie Reynolds, beautiful, rich, spoiled. And the gleam in her catlike eyes when those eyes first spotted Simon. She was supposed to have come to the wedding weekend with her boyfriend. But I feared that wouldn’t stop her setting her cap for someone else.

  “Don’t work too late,” he said.

  “I won’t.”

  He held me close and we stood together for a while. Then, no doubt conscious that my grandmother and my best friend, not to mention a veranda full of B & B guests, might be watching, we separated.

  I watched him head around the side of the shed, and a minute later the powerful engine of his motorcycle started up. He’d blown me a kiss from underneath his helmet as he sped past.

  * * *

  I put in a late night in the tearoom kitchen, getting plenty of baking done and sandwich ingredients prepared for a regular day of serving afternoon tea tomorrow.

  Finally I finished my labors. The prepared food was in the fridge or freezer, the dishes stacked in the dishwasher. I switched out the lights, checked the ovens were off, and let myself out the back door, making sure to lock it behind me, and headed home.

  I live in a cottage at the edge of the B & B property, so my commute isn’t much. When my grandmother was in her early twenties, she hurried out of a butcher’s shop in the town of Holgate in Yorkshire, England, where she was visiting her sister, , intent on her errands, not looking where she was going, and collided with a passing American by the name of Eric Campbell. She sent him flying. They married not long after he got out of the hospital, and he brought her home to Grand Lake, Iowa, where they settled down to a long, happy, prosperous life. He died a couple of years ago, and to the consternation of her five children and numerous grandchildren, Rose sold their house and bought a Victorian-era mansion overlooking Cape Cod Bay. She had, she told my mother, missed the sea all those years she spent in Iowa.

  Having bought the house of her dreams, Rose immediately realized she couldn’t afford the taxes and the upkeep on such a large old property, so she turned it into a luxury B & B. A good part of the reason she can charge what she does for a night’s stay is the size and quality of the gardens. According to TripAdvisor the gardens at Victoria-on-Sea are the number-one garden attraction in North Augusta.

  There is, I must add, no number two.

  Even with the B & B income, she continued to struggle financially, so, against the advice of my mother and all my uncles, I moved to the Cape and opened a tearoom on the premises. So far we’re operating in the black, and even turning a small profit.

  As part of the incentive to get me to join her in the business, Rose turned over a small cottage on the property for my use. I live there, happily and comfortably, with my labradoodle, Éclair.

  It’s a quiet life but, so far at any rate, after the frantic bustle of the Manhattan restaurant world, it suits me.

  When I let myself into the cottage, Éclair greeted me in her usual over-the-top fashion, and I did the same for her. I pay Rose’s housekeepers a bit extra to pop in a couple of times during the day to let the dog out for a short romp and to refresh her water bowl when I can’t get away from the tearoom.

  Earlier, I’d poached a chicken to make Darjeeling chicken sandwiches tomorrow, and I’d cut off some of the meat, slapped it between two slices of bread, slathered on the mayonnaise, and ate standing up while cupcake batter whirled in the mixer. I didn’t need dinner and was looking forward to dropping into my bed, so I said to Éclair, “Just a quick one tonight, okay?”

  She indicated her agreement by letting out a single bark and running to the hook where her leash hung. I took it down, and we headed out.

  It was full dark by now. Lights shone from Rose’s ground floor suite and some of the bedrooms and over the long, wide veranda where four middle-aged women were playing cards. The sound of waves caressing the shoreline drifted toward us on the soft, warm night air.

  As I passed, one of the card players said, “Are you sure you want to do that, Karen?”

  “Yes, Sheila. I am sure.”

  “Okay then. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  One of the women called hello to me as I passed, and I waved. Éclair sniffed at the bushes lining the path, her stubby tail wagging with delight. She was a good dog, and I could trust her to stay with me when we walked and to come when called if she did wander off, but I always carried the leash in case we came across a guest with a fear of dogs or a child with no fear at all.

  We strolled down the driveway as far as the road and then turned back. The teacups decorating the tearoom patio tinkled cheerfully in the breeze, and the scent of good earth, salty water, and healthy flowers filled my senses.

  I work hard here, but no harder than at a restaurant in Manhattan, and at the end of the day I get to enjoy a few moments of peace such as this.

  The tearoom isn’t my only job. I make the breakfasts for the B & B, and I remembered I should take tomorrow’s bacon out of the freezer, so before going home, I climbed the steps to the veranda of the main house.

  The card players were still at it. The glasses of wine at their sides were almost empty and only a few crumbs remained on the platter of cheese and crackers. A woman chuckled as she shuffled and another said, “Really, Karen. I don’t know where you got the idea you could run diamonds.”

  “If my partner had bid suitably, I would not have, now would I?”

  “Whatever. That’s it for me tonight. I’m turning in, it’s been a long day.”

  I smiled as I let myself into the house. Those women were, Rose had told me, a bridge group from Jamaica Plain, who’d arrived today for four days of vacation and cards. I hoped they’d last until Tuesday.

  It was early for people on vacation to turn in, and the house wasn’t yet quiet. A floorboard creaked over my head; from the drawing room came the sound of someone laughing.

  All the rooms at Victoria-on-Sea are decorated as though Queen Victoria herself might drop in at any moment and feel at home. Except for the guest bathrooms and this kitchen. No money had been spent on the kitchen and it was decorated as though the characters from the 1950s TV show The Honeymooners would drop in at any moment and feel completely at home. I happen to know what the set of The Honeymooners looks like because Rose loves that show.

  I took the bacon out of the freezer, and then checked I had sufficient muffins available for tomorrow. Enough to get us started, and if we had an unexpected rush on them, I could always whip up more. Every evening before she retires, Rose prepares a list of dietary requirements and special requests for me. I glanced at it now: a request for gluten-free from room 104. That was never a problem. I took a small loaf of gluten-free banana bread out of the freezer, and I’d offer to do the guest pancakes when they came in.

  “Come on, Éclair,” I said. “Let’s go home.”

  I let us out the back door and we climbed the three steps to the ground level. This side of the house faces the bay, perched on the top of a cliff. Benches are placed at intervals along the fence so guests can relax and admire the view. A soft glow lit up the sky to the west and the lights from a charter fishing boat crossed the water, heading to harbor.