It was almost time for me to head into to the kitchen to start the breakfasts, when Kimberly was finally taken away. I rose to my feet to watch her go, and I hushed Éclair into a respectful silence.

  Neither Redmond nor Williams had spoken to me again, and I didn’t see Wesley. Redmond hadn’t asked me if I knew Rachel. I should have voluntarily told her what had occurred when Rachel came to the tearoom in search of her sister, but something held me back. Maybe, I told myself, it would be better for Redmond to hear Rachel’s side of the story first.

  * * *

  “Twitter is abuzz,” Edna said as she tied her apron strings behind her.

  “You heard what happened here last night?” I used an ice cream scoop to drop thick muffin batter dotted with fresh blueberries into tins. As I hadn’t slept last night, I hadn’t needed to get up early to replace the baking used last night. A tray of apple and cinnamon muffins were already in the oven, and the sweet scent, mixed with coffee freshly brewing in the pot, filled the small kitchen.

  “Of course I heard, but no specific details.” Edna’s husband, Frank, is the editor in chief of the North Augusta Times. “What did happen?” She laid a bunch of bananas on the cutting board and rummaged in the fridge for melons and pears.

  The door flew open and Bernie rushed in. She was dressed in baggy sweatpants and a T-shirt in need of a wash and hadn’t taken the time to comb her hair. “Is it true? You’ve had another suspicious death here?”

  “You’re up early,” I said.

  “I had a good writing day yesterday and wanted to get an early start. I’m thinking of turning Rose’s interfering, stuck-up blue blood brother into the killer. What do you think?”

  “That’s not in your outline.”

  Bernie helped herself to a cup of coffee. “Never mind the outline. A writer has to go where inspiration leads her.”

  I said nothing. Bernie’s problem was that inspiration led her everywhere. And often at the same time.

  “As long as you’re here.” Edna pushed the cutting board, knife, and big glass bowl across the table. “You can work. Make the fruit salad. But first, enough of your Rose character and her troubles. The Smithfields are a well-known family on the Cape. They’ve been here for generations and have tons of money, although rumor says they haven’t been doing so well lately. They own a big house and property near Chatham, as I recall. Natural enough that Kimberly’s death would be major news, among the locals, anyway. Can you tell us what happened?”

  “I don’t know what happened,” I said. “I heard people arguing outside my cottage last night, and when I went outside to see what was going on, I found Kimberly. Dead. Before you ask, I didn’t see or hear who she’d been arguing with.”

  “Whom,” Bernie corrected. “Do you think it was her sister? She has a screw loose. They both do. Did.”

  “I don’t know, and I’m not speculating. Wesley told the police about the fight between them yesterday, and the detectives will take it from there.”

  “What fight? Wesley? You can’t possibly mean Wesley Schumann?”

  “Sadly, I do. He’s staying here, and not only that, he recently became Mr. Kimberly Smithfield. Very recently. They were on what he called a working honeymoon.”

  “I didn’t see that one coming,” Bernie said.

  “Who’s Wesley Schumann?” Edna asked.

  “Lily’s ex. A truly nasty man, in my humble opinion. Fabulously handsome, and thus proof that you can’t tell a book—or a man—by its cover. He’s a big-name chef, and thus also proof that not all men who cook are a good catch. I never liked him, but I never let on how I felt to Lily while they were together.”

  “You never stopped telling me you didn’t like him,” I said.

  “Perhaps I wasn’t as subtle as I thought I was. I celebrated the day you left him. Jerk.”

  I smiled at her. Maybe I’d stayed with Wesley longer than I should have precisely because Bernie was so dead set against him. But I finally saw the light. Sometimes our closest friends know us better than we do ourselves.

  “Mornin’, all.” Simon headed directly for the coffeepot. “You’re not usually here this early, Bernie.”

  “Exciting things have been happening. Tragic, yet exciting. Did you hear?”

  “Hear what?”

  “That fruit isn’t going to slice itself, Bernadette,” Edna said.

  Bernie picked up the knife and waved it in Simon’s direction. “Lily was about to tell us all about it.”

  “You remember the fight in the dining room yesterday at breakfast?” I asked.

  “How could I forget?” He plucked the knife out of Bernie’s hand before she could do damage to more than the fruit, sat down, and began slicing bananas.

  “One of the participants in that kerfuffle died last night,” I said. “The police suspect murder, and I’m inclined to agree. I was an auditory witness.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I overheard part of the disagreement, but I didn’t see it, nor can I say who else was involved.” I went on to explain what had happened, ending with Wesley accusing Rachel of killing her sister.

  “You attract trouble everywhere you go, Lily Roberts,” Edna said.

  “That’s only since I arrived in North Augusta. I used to live a calm, uneventful life.”

  “As a pastry chef at Wesley Schumann’s restaurant. Not,” Bernie said.

  “What’s the name of that restaurant?” Simon said.

  “Are you thinking of going there?” Bernie asked. “The food’s nowhere near as good as its reputation suggests. I figured he bribed the reviewers.” She winked at me. “Although the desserts were mighty good.”

  “I’m wanting to know, so I can avoid it. If I’m ever in Manhattan wanting to dine at a Michelin-starred place. Which, I’ll admit, is unlikely.”

  “West Steak House. West, from Wesley, and steak because that’s his specialty, although he was starting to feature more seafood, as I recall,” Bernie said.

  “Which might be why he’s wanting to open his new place, or places, on the Cape,” I said. “Concentrate on the seafood part of the menu.”

  Éclair had taken her usual spot beneath the kitchen table, and she leapt to her feet. A fraction of a second later, I heard the tap-tap of Rose’s cane in the hallway. The door opened and Robert the Bruce flew across the room to land on the table next to Simon. I picked the beast up and put him on the floor. That a cat was in residence, and had the run of the place, was prominently mentioned on all our advertising and booking information. Nevertheless, I didn’t want cat hair in the fruit salad. I didn’t want cat hair anywhere, but I’d lost the argument about allowing Robbie into the kitchen the day I arrived.

  Robbie snarled at Éclair; Éclair yipped in response.

  The cat, as could be expected, was followed by Rose, still in her nightwear. She dropped into a chair, and Robbie leapt into her lap. He might have given me a supercilious smirk as he did so.

  “You’re up early,” Edna, Simon, and Bernie said at the same time. Then they laughed.

  “I didn’t sleep well,” Rose said. “I often don’t these days. Last night in particular with all the comings and goings. Any developments, love?”

  “Not that I’ve heard,” I said.

  “Is the tea ready, Edna?” Rose asked.

  “I have no idea, Rose, as I never make tea unless one of our guests requests it and so far today, no one has.”

  Rose and Edna engaged in a never-ending, ongoing battle. Rose had never had servants in all her life—in her youth she’d been one—and she wanted to enjoy being the boss of Edna now. Edna had taken the job of B & B kitchen assistant to help out her bridge club companion, Rose, mainly because she was a high-energy woman and she wanted something to do in her retirement along with her many charity gigs. She was my assistant, she maintained, not Rose’s lady’s maid.

  Neither of them would ever give an inch, so I took it upon myself to fill the kettle. Then, muffins in the oven, I began tossing ingredients into the blender to make gluten-free pancakes. Every evening before retiring, Rose leaves me a note telling me the number of guests we have and if any have special dietary requirements. Last night’s note said we had two gluten-intolerant guests this morning.

  “Do you think Kimberly’s death has something to do with that envelope they were both so desperate to get their hands on?” Simon asked.

  “What envelope?” Rose and Edna asked.

  I quickly gave them the bare bones of the story. “I don’t know, and I don’t want to speculate. This has nothing to do with us. I intend to keep well out of it.”

  Bernie and Rose exchanged a look.

  “We will keep well out of it,” I said. “That includes you two.”

  “Whatever you say, love,” Rose said. “Edna, I trust you’ll keep us informed as to what the members of the fourth estate learn. In the meantime, I’ll have my tea now.”

  “Kettle’s starting to boil.” Edna carried the boxes of cereal and individual containers of yoghurt into the dining room. I poured the hot water over tea bags in a sturdy brown betty pot and left it to steep. In true Yorkshire working-class fashion, Rose likes her tea strong enough to support a spoon. Along with an excessively large amount of sugar. “I mean it, Rose. We are not getting involved.”

  She sighed and continued stroking Robbie. “Probably for the best.”

  “I agree with Lily,” Bernie said. “This time. The less you have to do with Wesley Schumann, the better.”

  “I’m not about to be tempted to go to back to him,” I said.

  “Glad to hear it.”

  “Go back to him? You mean to work at that restaurant?” Simon asked.

  “Surely not,” Rose added.

  “Fear not,” I said. “I’m not looking for another job.” I was saved by a ringing in my apron pocket from having to tell them I meant go back to him relationship-wise. I pulled my phone out and saw Amy Redmond’s number. I lifted my eyebrows and formed my mouth into a round O for the benefit of the people watching me as I answered. “Good morning, Detective.”

  “Lily. I haven’t been able to get in touch with Rachel Morrison. She’s not answering her phone at the number Mr. Schumann gave me. We have people calling the hotels and motels this morning, and officers watching for her plates. If she contacts you, I need to know about it.”

  “No reason she should.”

  “Perhaps not, but Mr. Schumann told me you and she were friends when you lived in Manhattan.”

  “Not friends. Business acquaintances.”

  “Irrelevant. I’m asking you to let me know if you hear from her, or if she returns to your place under the pretext of wanting another talk with her sister. Will you tell your grandmother that also?”

  “I will.”

  “Thanks. I’ll be around later to talk more about what you might have seen or heard last night, but I have some leads to follow up this morning first.”

  “Has it been confirmed that Kimberly was murdered?”

  She didn’t bother to say good-bye before hanging up.

  Chapter 9

  Breakfast finished in good time, and I was able to get away promptly at nine. Edna told me Wesley had not come in. Rose went to her suite to get ready for the day, and Bernie headed back to the world of “her” Rose and Tessa. I didn’t feel much like sitting on my porch watching the bay come alive this morning, so I took Éclair home, told her to have a nice day, and headed up to the tearoom to get an early start. I felt a touch of guilt at the look on the dog’s face when she realized she wasn’t going to get her morning romp in the yard, but I gave her an enthusiastic scratch behind the ears in an attempt to compensate and promised an extra-long walk this evening. She didn’t look entirely placated.

  I let myself into Tea by the Sea via the front door and walked through the dining room, flicking on lights and checking that everything was as it should be. It was dim and quiet and so very peaceful. The tables were laid, everything ready for a busy day. The calm before the storm.

  Afternoon tea, as invented, so the story goes, by Anna, Duchess of Bedford in 1840, and eagerly enjoyed in the twenty-first century, is not an everyday occurrence for most people. It’s a treat, an indulgence. Something to be enjoyed as a special outing when on vacation or to mark a birthday or anniversary. It’s not cheap, but it doesn’t attempt to be. Here at Tea by the Sea, the tables are set with fine china, polished silverware, ironed linens, and fresh flowers. The food is prepared by hand, from scratch every time, using the freshest available local ingredients. The tea selection is individualized and sourced from tea specialists, not bought in bags of a couple of hundred at the supermarket. When I first had the idea of opening my own restaurant specializing in afternoon tea, this was exactly what I’d dreamed of. I was so proud of it.

  We cater mostly to tourists, and I knew the off-season months would prove challenging. I might have to expand the menu or even start catering (shudder), but I’d cross that bridge when I got to it.

  I went into the kitchen, put on my apron and hairnet, and began getting out mixing bowls and ingredients. As always, I made scones first. We can run out of most other things, except for tea, but at a tearoom we must never run out of scones.

  I had a batch of currant scones in the oven and was folding the dough to make plain ones when someone began rapping on the kitchen door. Thinking Cheryl had forgotten her keys, I fumbled to unlock the door and open it with sticky hands.

  Rachel Morrison stumbled in.

  “What on earth are you doing here?” I asked.

  “Lily. Lily. You have to help me.” Her long hair was tucked into an enormous straw sun hat, and huge sunglasses hid her expressive eyes. She held out both her hands to me, palms up. I glanced at my own, covered in scone dough, and ran for the sink. I washed my hands and dried them on a dishcloth while I kept one eye on Rachel. She pulled off her hat, propped the glasses onto the top of her head, and leaned against the butcher block in the center of the room, breathing deeply. “Thank heavens you’re here.”

  “Never mind me, I belong here. What are you doing here?”

  “Do you have any coffee? I’m desperate, but I’ve been afraid to go into a coffee shop.”

  Even in a tearoom we have to have coffee on the menu. Hard to believe, I know, but some people don’t care for tea. I began to prepare a pot.

  “It smells nice in here,” Rachel said. “Sugar and spice and everything nice.”

  “Do you know the police are looking for you?” I asked.

  She nodded.

  “Do you know why?”

  “I’m guessing it’s because they think I killed Kimberly.”

  “Did you?”

  “No. I didn’t even know, not for sure, it was about Kimberly until now. You just told me, Lily.”

  “Please don’t play games with me.” I’d been trapped in this kitchen before by a killer, so I like to think I’ve developed an instinct for that sort of thing. Maybe I’m naive, but I felt no danger from Rachel. “Would you like something to eat? I can offer you a sandwich.”

  “Coffee’ll be fine.”

  “How did you hear?”

  “Twitter, of course. Not that Kimberly’s name was mentioned, but it says a woman on her honeymoon, guest at a North Augusta B & B. Some indeterminant, grainy pictures taken with a phone of police moving around in the dark. I might not have thought anything of that, plenty of B & Bs in North Augusta, and plenty of honeymooners, but I got a call, a bunch of calls, from some detective demanding I call her back. Immediately. I put two and two together and . . . here I am. I noticed some sort of yellow tape fluttering in the wind at the side of your property, but I don’t see any cops.”

  “They’ll be back.”

  I served the coffee, took one for myself, and put cream and sugar on the butcher block. Rachel picked up her mug with a muttered, “Thanks,” and took a long drink. She wrapped her hands around the mug and studied my face. I said nothing. “I need your help,” she said at last.

  “The only help I’m going to give you is to tell you to call Detective Redmond. She’s a good cop. Tough but fair.”

  “Not yet. I need to know what’s going on.”

  “The police aren’t saying Kimberly was murdered.”

  “What else could it be? She was young, healthy. She had a pure black heart, but only figuratively speaking, and figuratively never killed anyone. More’s the pity.”

  The rooster timer crowed and I took the scones out of the oven. I then returned my attention to finishing the next batch. “My assistants will be here soon, followed by hordes, I hope, of hungry people knocking down my doors. You can’t stay here, and I wouldn’t hide you, anyway.”

  Rachel sighed. She studied the coffee in her mug. “Okay. Not your problem, right?”

  I said nothing. I was about to get out my phone and call Redmond, when Rachel said, “You probably want to know what all that stuff about the Peter Rabbit tea set was about.”

  I have to admit, I was curious. I decided to delay the phone call. “If you want to tell me.”

  “No reason not to. As I told you, my father died when I was very young, and my mother married Julian Smithfield. Shortly thereafter they had Kimberly, the bane of my existence. A couple of years after that they had a son, Stephen. My mother loved all her children equally, but Julian and I—I never called him Dad—never got on. I suspect I reminded him of my father, and that my father was my mother’s one true love. My father was tall and handsome, Julian short and dumpy and a lot older than Mom, so maybe he was jealous of a dead man and took it out on his daughter—meaning me. Hard to say. Mom and Julian didn’t have a good marriage, far as a kid can tell, anyway. We were provided with everything we could want, and there was never any abuse, to us or to my mother, but it wasn’t a loving house to grow up in. It might not be a real memory, but I believe I remember more laughter, more affection, between Mom and my dad than between her and Julian. That’s my sob story, anyway.”

  I rolled and folded scone dough, patted it into a thick rectangle, and then reached for my cutter. One thing about being a baker—I can work and listen at the same time.