Wesley, well I knew, loathed being called Wessie.

  He released me, and I edged toward the door, trying not to rub at my arm.

  “Bernadette Murphy,” he said. “I should have known you’d pop up soon. As interfering as ever.”

  “I try. I heard about your loss. My condolences.”

  He said nothing.

  “If you two are done talking, I’m here and ready to pitch in like we arranged, Lily.”

  “Yeah. Right. Good. Let’s get to it, then.”

  I bolted into the kitchen. Wesley called after me, “You will be very sorry, Lily Roberts.”

  Bernie slammed the door shut behind us.

  “Seems as though I arrived in the nick of time. As usual. What was going on out there?” Bernie asked.

  My heart was pounding, and I fought to control my breathing. “I scarcely know. He started by asking me to work for him in his new restaurants, and then he was telling me he missed me and wanted us to pick up where we’d left off. Personally.”

  “Weird.”

  “Very weird. I mean . . . Kimberly? And then, when I said a firm no to both those things, he got . . . angry.”

  Marybeth had taken over finishing the poached chicken sandwiches and had sliced them into neat triangles. She was now assembling roast beef on crostini, adding a touch of Dijon and a handful of bright green chopped herbs. Her ears were almost flapping as Bernie and I came into the kitchen.

  “Royal tea for four,” Cheryl called.

  I got four champagne flutes down from the shelf. My hands were shaking.

  “Are you okay, Lily?” Cheryl asked me. “You’ve gone very pale.”

  “I’m fine. Now. Thanks to Bernie.”

  “I’ll accept this as my reward.” Bernie helped herself to a scone. “Any jam?”

  “Jar on the second shelf,” Cheryl said. “Lily, you’ve gone pale. Do you want to sit down? We can manage for a while.”

  “No need. I need to get started on the chocolate chip cookies for the children’s tea. Are you okay working on sandwiches, Marybeth?”

  “Yup.”

  “Thanks. We’ll need peanut butter and jam pinwheels next.”

  “I’ll get out of your hair, then.” Bernie slathered jam on her scone.

  I smiled at her. “Thanks for your intervention. And I mean it. I’d have been okay, I think, but it was getting mighty tense out there. I don’t know what came over him.”

  “Ego came over him, Lily. Ego, arrogance. He left here humiliated, and his injured pride won’t let him forget it. I’d like to see him gone completely. Can I tell Rose to kick him to the curb?”

  “Not necessary. He’s supposed to be checking out tomorrow. He’ll go on to bother someone else. What brought you here, anyway?”

  “I’m taking a break, and I thought I’d drop by to see if there’s been any developments. When I drove up, I saw you and him talking, and I thought I’d . . . uh . . .”

  “Eavesdrop?”

  “Offer him my condolences. Obviously that turned out not to be necessary. Jerk. Now that I’m here, I see Matt’s car in his driveway. I’ll pop over and say hi.”

  Matt Goodwill was our neighbor. He and Bernie seemed to be becoming quite fond of each other. I grinned. “Shouldn’t you be getting back to the book?”

  “All work and no play makes Bernie a dull girl,” she said with a twinkle in her eye. The twinkle disappeared. “Marybeth, I’m leaving you in charge of Lily. Any more signs of trouble, you have my number.”

  Marybeth leapt to attention and saluted. The effect was somewhat spoiled by the peanut butter–covered knife clasped in her hand.

  Bernie waved her scone in the air and left.

  * * *

  My next callers were Detectives Redmond and Williams. Bernie popped her head back into the kitchen to tell me the police had arrived at Victoria-on-Sea, but more than an hour passed before they appeared in the tearoom asking for me. I assumed they’d been talking to Wesley and interviewing B & B guests who might have heard last night’s disturbance or who’d seen someone Kimberly had been talking to shortly before she died.

  “What’s it like in the dining rooms?” I asked Cheryl as I took off my apron and shook out my hair. “The detectives will want to talk to me in some degree of privacy, and I don’t want them getting the idea of hauling me down to the police station.”

  “The patio’s full, but we have some space inside. The small alcove’s free. Do you want me to bring you a cup of tea?”

  “That would be great. Tea for me and Redmond. Coffee for Williams. Anything you can spare to eat would be great. But not too much.”

  I met the detectives in the vestibule and showed them to a table for four in one of the alcoves. Redmond greeted me politely, but Williams gave me such a sideways look, I wondered what was up. Surely they were here only so I could tell them what I’d heard from Rachel?

  We sat down. Marybeth brought tea and coffee and a plate of shortbread cookies.

  “Did you find Rachel?” I asked when my assistant was out of earshot.

  “She’s not answering her phone,” Redmond said. “We’ve put a BOLO on her car, but she’s either parked it in a garage somewhere or is keeping to the back roads.”

  “She won’t get far.” Williams added three heaping spoons of sugar to his coffee. My teeth ached just watching him.

  “What did she have to tell you?” Redmond asked me.

  I repeated Rachel’s story as best I could, painting a picture of motives for murder: money, hatred, sibling jealousy, revenge. I didn’t think she’d killed her sister, but I didn’t say so. My impression would count for nothing with the police. Heck, it didn’t account for much with me. I’m not known as a shrewd judge of character.

  As proof of that, I’d dated Wesley Schumann for a long time, hadn’t I?

  While I talked, Redmond sipped her tea and Williams drank coffee and ate most of the shortbread. Conversation flowed into the alcove from tables in the main room. Cheryl greeted new arrivals, showed them to their places, and thanked people for coming. Chairs were pulled up or pushed back, tea was poured, silverware clinked, people laughed.

  “Rachel Morrison didn’t say anything about where she might be going next?” Redmond asked.

  “No. She asked me not to call you, but . . .” I shrugged. “Obviously I did. Her family home is in Chatham. You could try there.”

  “We sent someone around. The housekeeper told them she hasn’t seen Rachel for several weeks. The sisters didn’t have a good relationship. Kimberly moved into the house more or less permanently after the death of their mother, and Rachel stayed away.”

  “What’s your connection with the dead woman’s husband?” Williams asked me.

  “Wesley? I worked at West Steak House, his restaurant in Manhattan. I told Detective Redmond about that last night. We dated for a while. We broke up when I moved here.”

  “Why did you break up?”

  “Because I didn’t want to be with him anymore.”

  “Who ended it?”

  “Why are you asking me that?”

  “Just answer the question.”

  “I did. If you want further details, I ended it after he attacked me with a butcher’s knife.”

  “Were you hurt?” Redmond asked.

  “No. And in fairness to him, it was more a matter of screaming at me and waving the knife in the air than intending to use it to harm me. We were in the restaurant kitchen, surrounded by kitchen workers. One of the sous chefs intervened, no harm done, but the entire incident was a matter of the straw that broke the camel’s back, and I realized I’d be better off without him. I quit my job on the spot and left him at the same time.”

  “That’s not what he says,” Williams said.

  “What does he say?”

  “Mr. Schumann told us he ended things with you because you were clingy and increasingly demanding.”

  My mouth flapped open. Redmond studied me over the rim of her teacup.

  “He says you wanted to get married and he didn’t,” Williams continued. “You were getting pushy about it. When he ended things with you, you lost your temper and told him you’d never give him up. He said he reluctantly had to fire you because the quality of your work was slipping as the personal relationship deteriorated.”

  “That’s . . . that’s not right.”

  “Mr. Schumann also told us you were angry when you found out he’d married Ms. Smithfield. Did you kill Kimberly Smithfield, Lily?”

  I stared at him. I looked at Redmond. Her cool gray eyes studied me.

  “That’s beyond preposterous,” I said when I could speak again. “Wesley was in my kitchen only this morning asking me to work for him at his new restaurant. Asking me also, if you must know, to get back with him personally. I turned him down flat. On both matters.”

  “He told us he came to see you this morning wanting to reconnect with an old friend, thinking you’d have gotten over your anger at him and would offer him condolences on his grief.”

  I sputtered.

  “Did anyone overhear this morning’s conversation?” Redmond asked.

  I thought. Marybeth and Cheryl had been in and out of the kitchen constantly, but did they actually hear what Wesley said? Maybe not. Bernie would tell the police what I told her, but she hadn’t heard Wesley’s exact words. She had seen him grabbing me, though. “When did he tell you all this?”

  “Just now,” Redmond said. “We had further questions about his wife’s activities and whereabouts yesterday, as well as her business and personal relationships.”

  Wesley had told the police these lies about me after he’d asked me to get back with him. What had Bernie said? He left humiliated, and I’d better watch out.

  He’d been in a rage when I turned him down. Had he truly been angry enough to want to hurt me? Did he think he could frame me for Kimberly’s murder that easily? Did he think I’d be so grateful if he changed his story that I’d agree to get back with him in thanks?

  Or had Wesley himself killed Kimberly and leapt at the chance to get revenge on an old girlfriend while at the same time turning suspicion onto someone else?

  “He’s lying,” I said. “There were witnesses to the previous incident in his restaurant I told you about, and witnesses to his and my conversation this morning. Even if Marybeth, Cheryl, and Bernie didn’t hear the exact words, it would have been obvious he isn’t exactly mourning his wife. I’d say his attitude borders on the blasé.”

  “We all grieve in our own way,” Williams said.

  “Don’t give me that, Detective,” I snapped. “Some of us grieve in public, some quietly. Some show emotion, some don’t. No one truly grieving tells an old girlfriend he should never have married the dead woman.”

  “Did he say that?” Redmond asked.

  “Words to that effect.”

  She stood up. “If you hear from Rachel again, or if you remember anything that might be of help to us, give us a call.”

  Williams made no move to also get up. He kept looking at me.

  “Detective?” Redmond said. “Are you ready to go?”

  “Yeah.” He lumbered to his feet. “I’d advise you to think things over and come clean, Lily. You’re the only person who heard this so-called argument between the dead woman and another.”

  He walked out of the alcove. I stared after him. When I looked back at Redmond she gave me an encouraging nod. “Forget it. Schumann’s an open book. It was obvious to me last night that he cares for you. And then this afternoon he does a one-eighty and tries to paint you as a vicious harridan who won’t leave poor innocent him alone. Not hard to guess you turned him down flat.”

  “Your partner doesn’t seem so sure.”

  “I’ll handle him,” she said.

  Once they were gone, I leaned back in my chair and stretched and tried to work some of the kinks out. My neck was a ball of tension. Amy Redmond had tried to sound as though I had nothing to worry about, but I wasn’t so sure. If Wesley managed to convince Chuck Williams that I had reason to kill Kimberly, would Williams bother searching for the real killer, or spend all his time trying to find proof against me? The police had more than one case on their plate at a time, and Williams was the senior detective. If Redmond was assigned to something else, would I be left hanging in the wind?

  “You okay, Lily?” Cheryl asked as she cleared the used dishes off the table.

  “No, I am not. About the last thing in the world I wanted was to get wrapped up in another murder case. Seems like what I want doesn’t much matter.”

  Chapter 11

  We were busy enough for the rest of the day I managed to put Wesley Schumann out of my mind as I made scones and pastries and small cakes and put together sandwiches. Marybeth and Cheryl passed on a good deal of praise from happy customers and told me tips had been exceptionally good today, which pleased me a great deal. They were both marvelous employees, loyal and hardworking, and I wanted them to do well out of my venture.

  A bus tour of twenty people arrived at four o’clock, giving us a frantic ending to the day, but by six the last of the well-fed guests were out the door. Marybeth was clearing off the patio tables, and Cheryl hummed softly to herself as she unloaded the dishwasher.

  I slipped the day’s final tray of scones into the oven and set the rooster timer. Bernie had called me from Matt’s place, suggesting we go out for dinner and invite Simon to join us. I was looking forward to the evening. I’d have just enough time to get the scones out of the oven and into the freezer, run home to let Éclair enjoy a short romp, and change.

  I hadn’t forgotten that I’d earlier decided I might have to get involved in the situation regarding Kimberly’s death; I was planning to talk it over with my friends, see if anyone had any ideas as to what might have happened. Because I certainly didn’t.

  Marybeth came in with her laden tray and dropped it next to the sink. “Some fancy convertible just drove up to the house,” she said. “That guy got out, the handsome one who was in here earlier.”

  “Wesley,” I said. “I was hoping he’d gone.”

  “No such luck.” She left the dishes to her mother and dragged the vacuum cleaner out of the closet.

  I opened my iPad and checked the reservations list for tomorrow. Another busy day. Busy was good. Next, I called up the weather report. Hot and sunny. Hot and sunny was also good. It brought the tourists out in force and allowed us more seating space when we could use the patio.

  My phone rang. Rose.

  “Lily, love, can you come up to the house?” Her voice was strained.

  “What’s happened? Is something wrong? Are you okay?”

  “I’m perfectly fine, but we have an . . . issue, and I need your support.”

  “On my way.” I shoved my phone into my pocket.

  “What’s wrong?” Cheryl asked.

  “I don’t know. I’m going up to the house. Can you take those scones out of the oven when the timer sounds, please? Give them fifteen minutes to cool and then put them in the freezer. If I’m not back when you leave, lock up.”

  “You’ll call and tell us if you need anything?”

  “I will. Thanks.” I tossed my apron and hairnet onto the butcher block and ran through the restaurant. Marybeth glanced up from her vacuuming, but I kept going and broke into a run. Rose hadn’t sounded more than irritated, but she could sometimes take English stiff upper lip to extremes. Particularly if guests were with her.

  I ran down the driveway, heading for the big house.

  Victoria-on-Sea is a true beauty and I could see why Rose loved it so much. Perched close to the cliffs, framed by the blue sky and the sparkling waters of Cape Cod Bay, it was painted a clean fresh white with a gray roof. Numerous turrets and dormer windows added interest to the exterior, as did copious amounts of gingerbread trim. A wide veranda, roof supported by white pillars, ran the length of the house. The steps and railing were accented with terra-cotta pots and iron urns containing variegated hosta, multihued coleus, trailing sweet potato vines, and red and white geraniums.

  A couple of cars, including Wesley’s Mercedes, were in the guest parking area, but most people would still be lingering at the beach, returning from their fishing or whale-watching trips, or have gone out for an early dinner.

  The door to the garden shed tucked against the southern edge of the property was closed, and Simon’s motorcycle wasn’t in its regular place next to it. The shed had been in use for a long time. A remnant of the days before prefabricated buildings, it was still in good shape, handcrafted out of whole logs with a shingle roof. The small windows on either side of the double-hinged wooden door contained boxes overflowing with tumbling ivy and purple fuchsia.

  Even in my haste and my worry, I was able to enjoy the beauty of the gardens in the long soft light of early evening. They’d been laid out many years ago in a traditional English cottage garden format, with neat hedge rows, curving flagstone paths, benches for relaxing, statues to provide points of interest, a formal rose garden, herb and kitchen gardens. The scent, mixed with traces of salt off the sea, was intoxicating.

  I ran up the steps to the veranda and through the front door.

  Rose was seated behind the reception desk. Robert the Bruce stood on the desk, his ears up and his back arched. A woman and two teenagers lingered on the stairs eavesdropping, and an angry Wesley loomed over Rose. Her face was calm, her posture relaxed. She realized he meant her no harm. Not physically, anyway.

  “. . . entitled to my privacy.” He whirled around when he heard me come in. He was dressed in the clothes he’d had on when he came to the tearoom earlier; a laptop bag thrown over one shoulder. “What do you know about this, Lily?”

  “Considering I have no idea what’s going on,” I said, “I know nothing about it. Rose, are you okay?”

  “Perfectly fine, love. It seems we’ve had an . . . incident.”

  “More than an incident,” Wesley snapped. “I’m calling the police.”

  “Cool,” the teenage girl said. “I want to be a cop, but it was my bad luck that I missed what happened last night.”