She ran to the door. I washed my teacup and went to brush my teeth and put on my pajamas. When I came out, Éclair was still at the door. Her barking had turned into a low whine, and she’d lowered the front of her body to scratch at the door with her forepaws. She cocked her head at me when I came in. No doubt thinking, and not for the first time, that I’m mighty stupid.

  I finally got the message. I scooped my phone off the coffee table. I threw open the door, and Éclair shot out. She flew down the porch steps and ran to the gate, where she continued whining. I stepped onto the porch. I could see no one. The bay was a dark, shifting mass; clouds covered the moon and stars; a handful of lights glowed from behind curtains in some of the bedrooms in the big house and above the door to the kitchen.

  A few feet from my gate, an unmoving shape lay on the grass. It looked to be a small bush or a large boulder, but I walked next to or across that spot several times a day, and I knew nothing should be there. I ran through the gate, fumbling for the flashlight app on my phone. I flicked it on and focused the light on the ground.

  Kimberly Smithfield lay at my feet, her eyes staring up into the night sky. The neatly cut grass beneath her head glimmered with moisture, and she did not move.

  Chapter 7

  I leaned on the railing of my porch watching the activity on the lawn. Éclair had been confined to the cottage, and she was letting me know she wasn’t happy about that. My grandmother had taken a chair close to me. The night was warm, but she’d wrapped a blanket over her lacy white nightgown. Bright lights illuminated the scene, and guests, most of them in their own nightwear, clustered at the edge of the police circle, also watching.

  I had called 911 immediately on finding Kimberly. While waiting for help to arrive, I did what I could to try to revive her, although I feared my attempts were useless. Her eyes were open and unseeing, and I could detect no pulse. Then I was surrounded by men and women in uniform, as well as my grandmother, and politely asked to get out of the way.

  “Do you know this woman, Ms. Roberts?” Officer LeBlanc asked me.

  “Yes, but not personally. She’s a guest here. At the B & B. I heard her arguing with someone not long before I found her. I . . . you might want to call the detectives.”

  He fingered the radio on his shoulder and turned away.

  With a pang, I thought of Wesley. Someone had to tell Wesley. How long had he and Kimberly been married? Not long: she’d earlier said something about a honeymoon. The poor man would be devastated.

  Detectives Amy Redmond and Chuck Williams soon arrived. They spoke briefly to the officer protecting the scene from curious onlookers, pulled back the blanket the medics had placed over Kimberly’s face, studied her silently, replaced the blanket, and then climbed the steps to my porch.

  While waiting for them, I’d been glad of the chance to slip inside and hastily change into yoga pants and a big loose T-shirt. Far more suitable for giving evidence to the authorities and trying to calm guests than in my summer pajamas.

  “Good evening,” Rose said in her haughtiest English accent. My grandmother had been a Yorkshire kitchen maid in her youth—that upper-class accent didn’t come naturally to her, but she employed it on occasion to put people in their place. I really, really wished she wouldn’t. She and Detective Williams had butted heads the first time they met, and she now went out of her way to antagonize him.

  “You again,” Williams replied.

  “I fear it is us, once again, Inspector.” Rose knew full well Williams did not have the rank of Detective Inspector, as though he were a character in a British mystery novel or TV show. She used it simply because it annoyed him.

  “Lily,” Redmond said. “We’ve been told you called this in. Is that right?”

  “I did.”

  “Do you know this woman? Do you know what happened here tonight?”

  “She’s a B & B guest by the name of Kimberly Smithfield. She’s here with her husband, Wesley Schumann. I was inside, watching TV, when I heard her arguing with someone, but I didn’t see who that person was. The argument ended . . . abruptly. Éclair, my dog, set up a heck of a fuss, so I came outside to see what was going on. Whoever had been here with Kimberly had gone. I found her”—I pointed—“lying on the ground. Before you ask, I can’t identify the person she was with. I can’t even say if it was a man or a woman. Kimberly was angry, yelling, but the other person kept their voice low and I had the TV on.”

  “You say she’s here with her husband? Our first order of business is to speak with him. Mrs. Campbell, do you know if he’s in their room at the moment?”

  “No.” Rose began to stand, and I gave her my arm. She smiled her thanks. “Lily called me after she’d called nine-one-one to let me know you people would soon be arriving.” She indicated her nightwear. “I was enjoying a last cuppa before bed. I didn’t see anyone in the hallway when I left my rooms, or outside. I’ll check their registration information for you.”

  “I can do that,” I said. “I should come with you when you speak to her husband, Detective. I have to tell you that although I’d not met Kimberly until this week, I know Wesley. We were . . . coworkers and . . . friends when I lived in Manhattan.”

  “That won’t be necessary,” Williams said. “I . . . We’ll handle this case ourselves. This time.”

  “What sort of friends?” Redmond asked, ignoring her partner. As she did regularly.

  I grimaced. “We were in a relationship.”

  “When did that end?”

  “Over the winter. Before I moved here.”

  “Then you can come with us.”

  While we talked, Chuck Williams scowled at Rose, who smiled sweetly in return, but Redmond kept her eyes on the activity on the lawn. An older man carrying a large black bag was allowed to pass the yellow tape. “Detective Williams,” Redmond said. “The pathologist’s here. Why don’t you check with him while I notify the husband?”

  “Yeah, okay.” He lumbered away.

  Williams was in his late fifties, overweight, a few strands of greasy hair pasted to his scalp, flabby face, loose jowls, tired eyes. Tired of work, tired of life. He’d spent his entire career in North Augusta, and these days he wanted nothing more than to ease his way into retirement. Redmond, in contrast, was in her early thirties, recently arrived on the Cape from Boston. She was tall and lean and muscular with cropped hair dyed bright yellow and possessed of all the energy her partner lacked.

  “Can I walk you back to the house?” I asked Rose.

  “You may, but I won’t be seeking my bed. The guests need to be assured we don’t have a serial killer running amok. Perhaps coffee and pastries laid out in the dining room? Detective, will you want refreshments for your people?”

  “Eventually, that would be good. Thanks, Mrs. Campbell. But first, I need Lily to come with me.” Redmond knew that when Rose offered her guests sustenance, she had no intention of providing it herself. That task would be up to me.

  I averted my gaze as we passed the body of Kimberly Smithfield. I hadn’t liked the woman much—okay, I’d intensely disliked her—but she didn’t deserve to die so young, and at the very beginning of a marriage.

  “What’s happening?” guests called when they saw us. “Mrs. Campbell, is it safe to stay here?”

  “Perfectly safe.” Rose had resumed her reassuring salt-of-the-earth, working-class Yorkshire accent. “A private matter. Highly distressing, but no need for you to concern yourself.”

  “Is that right, Officer?” a woman asked. “Have you caught the person who did it?” Amy Redmond was dressed in slim-fitting dark jeans, a bright red T-shirt under a blue leather jacket, and Converse sneakers. She was young and pretty with several piercings in her right ear and hair cropped so short it stood up. Despite all that, her bearing virtually screamed COP.

  “Why do you think someone did it?” she asked. “Do you know what went on here tonight?”

  “Well . . . no, but I thought . . . I mean, look at all these police. That means you believe it’s murder, right?”

  Whispers of murder spread through the crowd of onlookers.

  “The authorities respond to any report of a sudden unexpected death,” she said. “Don’t read too much into it.”

  “My granddaughter will have the coffee on in a tick,” Rose said. “And some of her delicious baking, too. We’ll serve it in the dining room.”

  “Can’t say no to that,” a man said.

  As we rounded the house, I quickly tallied up what baked goods I had on hand. I’d made a second coffee cake on Saturday, which I planned to serve tomorrow. That, plus the few blueberry muffins left over from this morning, would have to do. “Coffee cake’s in the freezer,” I said to Rose as we rounded the house. “Set the oven to 350 degrees and put it on a baking sheet.”

  “I’m sure you won’t be long, love. My guests need my comforting presence.”

  “They need the food you’ve promised them more.”

  Headlights washed the driveway as a car approached. “That might be him now,” I said. “Wesley Schumann.” The car was a bright red Mercedes-AMG. It was new since I’d dated Wesley, but perfect for him—expensive, ostentatious, impractical.

  His head turned as he passed the police cars and vans clustered at the side of the house, blue and red lights breaking the night. He parked the car and jumped out. Redmond and I headed toward him, while Rose went into the house, followed by most of the guests. A few hung back, perhaps hoping Redmond was about to bring down the “suspect” and they could capture the drama on their phones.

  “Lily? What’s going on?” Wesley’s handsome face was a picture of confusion, accented by a touch of concern. His eyes flicked to Redmond. “Who are you?”

  “Detective Amy Redmond. North Augusta PD.” She flashed her badge. “I wonder if I might have a few words. Are you Mr. Wesley Schumann?”

  “I am. What’s happening? Lily?” He glanced behind me. “Has Rachel been here again?”

  “Who’s Rachel?” Redmond asked.

  “My sister-in-law. Rachel Morrison. She and my wife had a minor disagreement earlier today.”

  “Is that so? Why don’t we go inside and talk in some privacy? Lily, can we use the drawing room again?”

  “Of course.” I touched Wesley’s arm lightly. I looked into his face. He blinked, and then the edges of his mouth turned up. He put his hand over mine. “Lily.” His voice was low and soft, full of something I didn’t want to understand. I pulled my hand away, turned around quickly, and led the way into the house.

  More guests had gathered in the front hall. “I don’t see Kimberly,” Wesley said. “Is she okay, Lily?”

  I said nothing as I shut the door to the drawing room behind us.

  “Please,” Redmond said, “have a seat, Mr. Schumann.”

  “I don’t want to sit. I want to know what’s going on.” He spread his legs and folded his arms over his chest.

  Redmond’s eyes flicked to me, telling me to go ahead. I said, “I’m so very very sorry to have to tell you this, Wesley, but Kimberly died earlier tonight.”

  He threw up his hands. “Died? What do you mean she died? Don’t be ridiculous, Lily. Did Lily tell you she and I were together until earlier this year, Detective? If you must know, she dumped me, out of the blue, and ran off to this provincial backwater. But I got over it. It wasn’t hard. I’m sorry, Lily, but I’m married to Kimberly now, and I’m not amused by your joke.”

  “She’s not joking, sir,” Redmond said. “Your wife suffered a fall and appears to have struck her head.”

  Comprehension slowly dawned, and Wesley dropped into Rose’s favorite wingback chair. “That’s . . . that’s . . .”

  “I am sorry,” Redmond said.

  “Are you sure? I mean, where is she now? Can I see her? Did anyone see what happened?”

  “At the moment the scene is secure pending our investigation. Your wife will be taken to the North Augusta Hospital in due course. If you want to go to your room and rest, I’ll call you when you can see her.”

  “I don’t want to go to my room and rest. I want to do something.”

  “You and your wife didn’t go out together tonight?” Redmond said. “Why is that?”

  “I had a business dinner. Kimmy’s bored by business. We’re on sort of a honeymoon, but we’re calling it a working honeymoon.”

  “What type of business are you in?”

  “Restaurants. I’m a chef. I own a Michelin-starred restaurant in Manhattan, and I’m interested in expanding onto the Cape. My wife is . . . I mean Kimmy was from this area and we intend . . . intended to spend much of our time here.”

  “From this area? You mean North Augusta?”

  “Her family home’s in Chatham, although she’s been living in New York City for the past couple of years.”

  “My partner and I will need to talk to you in more detail later, but first I need to check what’s happening outside. I trust you’ll remain here tonight?”

  Wesley nodded. “Nowhere to go.”

  “Do you have anyone you can call?” I asked. “To come and be with you?”

  “How about you, Lily?”

  “Me? I don’t think so. I’m needed in the kitchen.”

  “If you’re cooking, I’ll help.”

  “I’m reheating. Rachel needs to know about this. Can you call her?”

  “Rachel?” he said. “You haven’t told me exactly what happened, Detective. If you have reason to believe my wife was murdered, you won’t have far to look.”

  “Meaning?” Redmond asked.

  “Kimmy and Rachel had a falling-out recently. A falling-out that climaxed in Rachel physically attacking Kimberly only this morning. Lily herself was a witness to that.”

  Redmond glanced at me, and I said, “It wasn’t much of a deal.”

  “Only because I intervened and physically dragged Rachel away,” Wesley said. “I’d say she was mad enough to kill. I’ve known Rachel longer than I have Kimberly, Detective. It was through Rachel that Kimmy and I met in the first place. Rachel’s notorious for her temper.”

  That was news to me, but I said nothing. I didn’t know her all that well, not at all on a personal level, but I did know she had a solid professional reputation.

  “What was this argument about?” Redmond asked.

  “Money. Parental favoritism. All the usual stuff. A lifetime of grievances. They have different surnames because they have different fathers. Rachel’s the elder sister and she’s always resented Kimberly. That resentment only increased as they got older. Their mother died quite recently, and this morning all the animosity between the two of them came to the boil. Rachel’s not the sort to back down graciously. Being thrown out of a public place would have only made her angrier. If someone killed my wife, Detective, you don’t have to look far to find out who did it.”

  “Do you know where your wife’s sister is staying?”

  “No, I don’t. Their family home’s in Chatham, but, as I said, things aren’t good between them, so I don’t think Rachel would have gone there. Then again, she might have, knowing Kimmy was going to be away for a couple of days.”

  “Kimberly has occupancy of the family home, but the elder sister does not?”

  “Their mother’s will is . . . complicated.”

  “Do you have her phone number?”

  “Yeah, I do. We’ve done business together in the past.” His eyes widened and his face crumbled. “Oh, my gosh. I’ve just realized. It was me who told Rachel that we’re staying here. I didn’t realize how much she had it in for Kimberly, so when she called yesterday and asked where Kimmy was, I thought nothing of telling her. I should have realized that if Kimmy hadn’t told her, it was because she didn’t want Rachel to know.”

  “You can’t blame yourself,” I said. “We don’t know if Rachel had anything to do with . . . whatever.”

  “Thanks, Lily, but I do blame myself. I knew they didn’t get on, but I never realized how far Rachel would go.”

  “Number, please,” Redmond said.

  He gave it to her and she walked toward the windows and placed the call with her back to us. Wesley looked at me. I couldn’t read the expression on his face, but I didn’t see a lot of sorrow there. That, perhaps, was still to come.

  Rachel’s phone rang for a long time before going to voice mail. Redmond introduced herself and said she needed Rachel to contact her as soon as possible. When she’d hung up, she said, “Lily, you can make that coffee now. Mr. Schumann, what room are you in?”

  “Two-oh-two. But if Lily’s baking, I’ll stay here.” He gave me a quick wink that I considered totally inappropriate. But, I reminded myself, we all grieve in our own way. Flirting came as naturally to Wesley as breathing, and the death of his wife might not have fully sunk in yet.

  Chapter 8

  I didn’t get to bed that night. I served refreshments to guests who were more interested in police activity than enjoying a good night’s sleep. Wesley attempted to follow me into the kitchen, but I chased him off, and he gave in without too much of a fuss, saying he had calls to make.

  As well as serving our guests, I laid out a giant pot of coffee on the veranda, along with some of the muffins, and invited the police to help themselves. Which they did, eagerly. With all the activity outside my bedroom windows I didn’t even try to get some sleep. I felt it would be somehow disrespectful to crawl into my comfy bed while Kimberly lay in the dark. Éclair had calmed down, and she was taking the presence of all these people in stride, so we sat together on the porch, watching and thinking. That is, I was thinking. The dog soon fell asleep. Her legs moved as she dreamed she was chasing squirrels or romping along the stony beach. Redmond and Williams came and went. I assumed they were interviewing Wesley and other B & B guests, but I was not invited to listen in. I didn’t even try to sneak into the secret room next to the drawing room and eavesdrop. I could see no reason Kimberly’s death would threaten Rose and my businesses, and thus no reason to get involved. Word that a death (another death) had happened on our property wasn’t good, but Victoria-on-Sea and Tea by the Sea had weathered such storms before and business continued to boom.