“Where’s my dad? And why are the police here?” She stabbed a finger toward Williams and Redmond. “Is that who you two are?”

  Amy Redmond nodded and introduced herself.

  McKenzie bolted for the drawing room. She threw the door open and screamed, “Dad! What’s happened to my dad?”

  Chapter 9

  “The wedding has been postponed,” Rose said.

  “That’s too bad, but it’s completely understandable,” Marybeth said. “I hope the family isn’t going to lose the money they’ve already paid for the reception and everything.”

  “I don’t know about that.” Rose said. “It is late notice.”

  I chopped dark chocolate prior to preparing the ganache for the always popular Earl Grey chocolate tart that would be a feature of today’s menu. “Did Regina have any more accusations to make against Sophia?”

  “Not in my hearing,” Rose replied.

  After Sophia had swept McKenzie into her arms and taken the weeping girl upstairs to her room, I slipped away and went to the tearoom to get to work. We had a full reservations book for today, including a bus tour of twenty people due to arrive at three o’clock.

  Early in the afternoon, a plain black van pulled into the driveway and drove slowly up to the house.

  “The coroner’s arrived, Lily,” Cheryl told me a few minutes later. “They’ll be bringing the body out soon, I suspect.”

  I grimaced. “Not something people want to see as they relax over their tea and scones.”

  “No. But they know how to be discreet, and not many of the tables on the patio have a direct view of the front of the house.”

  I desperately hoped the autopsy would show that Ralph died of natural causes. I’ve been involved in police investigations before and, for one thing, they have a way of interfering with me going about my job.

  The coroner’s van had departed by the time the bus tour arrived. One of the best things about having an afternoon tea–focused restaurant is customers don’t order individual meals, with all the complications that involves. We offer a traditional afternoon tea made up of a selection of scones, sandwiches, sweets; the royal tea, served with a glass of sparkling wine; a children’s menu; a dessert-only course; sandwiches only; and a cream tea, which consists of scones and accompaniments. Along with an extensive tea menu, iced tea or lemonade for children and those who want something cold, and coffee for the non-tea drinkers. I can make gluten-free and/or dairy-free items on request, and keep some on hand in case of unexpected demands, but I find when people make reservations they generally specify that sort of requirement up front.

  Meaning, I am rarely hit by surprises. Which, after working in a Michelin-starred restaurant in Manhattan under the ownership and supervision of a celebrity “bad boy” chef, frequented by the rich and famous (and spoiled), is like being in food-service heaven.

  Marybeth and Cheryl prepared tea and ferried three-tiered stands of food out to the patio. A light tap at the kitchen door, and Bernie’s head popped in. “Can we come in?”

  “No. I’m busy.”

  I don’t know why she bothered to ask, and I don’t know why I bothered to answer. She came in anyway, followed by my grandmother.

  Because my kitchen is so small, there are no chairs in it. Bernie dragged an unneeded chair (I hoped it was unneeded and one of my guests hadn’t found themselves drinking tea and munching on sandwiches while standing up) from the main dining room for Rose, and my grandmother had plunked herself down to give us the news from the house.

  “I saw the coroner’s van arrive a while ago,” I said. “It left not long after.”

  “Mr. Reynolds has departed,” Rose said.

  “In more ways than one,” Bernie said.

  “Bad taste, Bernie,” I said.

  “Sophia and one of her sons, Ivan, I believe his name is, the elder one at any rate, followed,” Rose said. “Jenny and her mother are in the drawing room with Greg, attempting to contact people to tell them the wedding’s been postponed.”

  “What about Regina and McKenzie?”

  “When we left, they were in their room.”

  “Rose filled me in on what happened,” Bernie said. “The old lady . . . pardon me, Rose, the distinguished matriarch of the family, accused her daughter-in-law, straight to the cops no less, of bumping her husband off. That’ll add a whole new dimension of tension to the family table next Thanksgiving.” She chuckled. “Wish I’d been there to see it.”

  “I saw it, and I would rather not have,” Rose said. “I politely mentioned to Regina that I could call some of my hotelier contacts and find her alternate accommodations. She looked quite confused and asked why I’d do that. Was she no longer welcome? When I said I assumed she wouldn’t want to stay under the same roof as Sophia, she informed me she would not be driven out of her home, no matter how temporary a home that might be, by, and I quote, ‘the likes of her.’ ”

  “Bus group’s settled and happy. One order for full tea for four. It sounds to me”—Cheryl sucked in her stomach and wiggled around Rose’s chair to get to the shelf of tea canisters—“like those two have clashed before over living arrangements. Often happens between the generations, doesn’t it?” I thought of my mother, telling me I’d be insane to go and live with her mother. I refrained from saying so. “It was kinda the opposite in my family,” Cheryl continued. “My grandma wanted to move into a retirement home when my grandfather died, and my parents insisted she come and live with us. Which she did, for a short while. It didn’t exactly work out, probably because she sabotaged the living arrangements, and then she happily moved into the place she’d wanted to go to all along. Where, I might add, she’s still the star of euchre night and the reigning jigsaw puzzle queen. Speaking of reigning queens, Rose, my aunt Josephine tells me you haven’t been at bridge much lately.” As she talked, Cheryl scooped leaves of fragrant, deliciously smoky Lapsang souchong into a teapot, added hot water, and set the timer for the proper steeping time of the leaves. Without being asked, Bernie, who knows the routine by now, began laying food on the platters. Sandwiches on the bottom tier, scones in the middle, desserts on top, in the traditional pattern.

  “I’m getting bored with it,” Rose said. “The players are becoming increasingly unimaginative. And then they changed the time of the regular meetings to Monday evening, rather than afternoon. I don’t like going out after supper these days. I prefer an evening of good telly.”

  “If we can get back on topic,” I said. “Is Sophia the one checking out then?”

  “No.” Rose said. “When I spoke to her, she said much the same as her mother-in-law.”

  “Awkward,” I said.

  “If I had to choose between the two of them who to keep,” Bernie said, “I’d take the grandmother. That Sophia is a piece of work.”

  “Regina, I suspect,” Rose said, “keeps her head down and her thoughts to herself, as women of that age . . . our age . . . were taught.”

  “She didn’t keep her thoughts about her son’s murderer to herself,” I pointed out.

  “True. Even women of a certain age, some women at least, know when it’s time to speak up. Although,” she added almost to herself, “sometimes it’s better not to be quite so vocal.”

  “The situation is awkward. To say the least,” I said. “It’s not helped by having crime scene tape draped dramatically across the door to room two-oh-one, directly opposite Sophia in two hundred and Regina and her granddaughter in two-oh-two.”

  “At least the body’s gone,” Bernie said.

  I suppressed a shudder. “I’m surprised any of them are going to continue to stay with us.”

  “They’ve taken five of my best rooms. I don’t offer refunds when people depart prematurely. Whatever the reason,” said the ever-practical Rose. “In other news, McKenzie collapsed weeping and had to be escorted to her room by her brother’s friend, whose name escapes me.”

  “Dave,” I said.

  “Shortly thereafter a young man arrived I’d not met before. He said his name is Jack and he claimed to be McKenzie’s boyfriend. Dave took him up to McKenzie’s room. From where I then heard a renewal of copious amounts of weeping.”

  “Not that you were listening at doors or anything,” Bernie said.

  “Of course not. I had matters to attend to on the second floor, at that end of the hallway.”

  “You’re an astute observer of human nature, Rose,” Bernie said. “I like to think I am, too, but I wasn’t there. Was McKenzie truly shocked, do you think, or playing for the room? Can’t say I thought much of her and her oh-so-dreadfully-bored act at the shower.”

  “Perhaps a touch of the latter,” Rose said. “Although that might have been nothing but force of habit. I do think she was genuinely overcome by news of her father’s death.”

  “Like mother, like daughter,” Bernie said. “It wouldn’t surprise me if that Sophia had offed her husband after all. I didn’t like her one tiny bit.”

  “Being unlikeable doesn’t make someone a killer,” I said.

  “I guess not,” she begrudgingly admitted.

  “What’s happening with Jenny and Hannah?” I asked.

  One of the nice things about being a baker is that I can work and talk at the same time. Hard to do if I was an accountant or bank clerk. Being a baker, I can also rope people into helping. “Bernie, boiled eggs are in the fridge. I need them made into sandwich ingredients.”

  “Cheryl,” Bernie called. “Lily needs the eggs peeled.”

  “Most amusing,” I said. “Get to it or you have to leave. And take Rose with you.”

  Grumbling, but not meaning it, Bernie edged around Cheryl to get to the sink to wash her hands. I strained the creamy chocolate mixture to get the tea leaves out prior to filling the sweet tart shell cooling on the counter. Next, I turned my attention to making always-popular chocolate chip cookies for the children’s tea. I always love the look on our littlest customers’ faces when they taste a home-baked cookie for the first time, if all they’ve had before are those served straight from a supermarket box.

  “Full tea for two and children’s tea for three,” Marybeth called. “Bernie, can you get out of the way. I need to get into the fridge.”

  “I’m looking for eggs. Where are the eggs?”

  “About two inches away from your nose.”

  “Oh, right. There they are, the pesky little things.”

  I stifled a groan. It would be faster, and easier, to do it myself, but as long as Rose and Bernie were intent on discussing recent events, I knew I wouldn’t be able to get rid of them until they were finished.

  “I don’t know what Hannah and her mother are going to do now,” Rose said in answer to my question.

  “That’s a weird situation there,” I said. Okay, I’ll confess, I enjoy a good gossip as much as the next person. “Jenny told me she’d known Ralph for a long time. She’d been engaged to him at one time, and she left him to marry Hannah’s father.”

  “That would have been decades ago. Surely, you’re not thinking Jenny killed him?” Bernie’s long slim fingers moved fast as she peeled the eggs.

  “Not at all. Just commenting on the strange personal dynamics at play between them all.”

  “Never mind whatever’s between Sophia and her mother-in-law,” Bernie said. “Rose, you sat with Regina at the shower. What was your take on her?”

  Rose thought for a long time while the business of a busy kitchen swirled around her. And the busy kitchen workers tried to squeeze themselves past her and her cane and her chair. “Our acquaintance was obviously brief,” she said at last. “We chatted about our families, mostly. Ralph, incidentally, is her only child. She’s been widowed for a long time. If I have to comment, I’ll say I didn’t care for her overly much. She clearly doesn’t like her son’s wife, and that is entirely their business.” She cleared her throat. “One of my own daughters-in-law comes to mind. But Regina let that feeling show, by expressions rather than deeds, at the shower. In front of me, a complete stranger. I can’t say she has . . . had a lot of time for her son, either.”

  “What does that mean?” Bernie has made sandwiches for me before, and without having to be told, she reached for the pots of fresh herbs growing on the sunny windowsill and selected dill, chives, and basil to add to the egg mixture.

  “Hold that thought until I get back.” Cheryl hoisted her tray bearing a teapot of fragrant, smokey Lapsang souchong, along with matching jug and sugar bowl, and four tea sets. “I want to hear this.”

  “If we keep holding thoughts,” I said, “they’ll never get finished.”

  Marybeth came in. “I’ll cover for you, Mom. We can tag-team the conversation. One of the women in the bus tour examined the offerings and then told me she’s on a nonfat diet and do you have any fat-free scones?”

  I suppressed a shudder. “No, I do not have any fat-free scones.”

  “What’s a fat-free scone anyway?” Bernie said. “Might as well eat a pile of raw flour.”

  “For heaven’s sake,” I said. “Tell her to pick the raisins out of her scone and eat those. I can offer her a bowl of raspberries, and that’s about it. But it will be an extra charge as raspberries are not on the menu.”

  “You want me to say that?”

  “No. Please explain that we’re generally unable to accommodate individual requests such as hers at such late notice. However, I can do some toast with . . . I don’t know what I have that’s completely fat-free. Afternoon tea is not known for being diet friendly.”

  “Want me to run out to the garden and collect some dead leaves?” Bernie added a spoonful of mayonnaise to her chopped eggs. “Is compost fat-free?”

  “I can do toast with an egg-white omelet made with fresh herbs,” I said. “Ask if she’d like that. And no, no extra charge. I’m not making anything special for anyone else, though.”

  “People today are far too fussy,” Rose said. “In my parents’ house you ate what you got and you were happy to have it.”

  “You walked ten miles to school every day. Uphill. Both ways,” Bernie said.

  “Something like that.” Rose grinned at her. “Although, as I recall, the village school was situated next door to our house. And, even in my time, the sons and daughters of the rich could be as fussy as they liked, although Lady Frockmorton was always conscious of not letting her children take undue advantage of the kitchen staff . . .”

  Marybeth slipped out and Cheryl returned. “What did I miss?”

  “Nothing,” Bernie said. “We were discussing the dining habits of the various classes in England in the mid-twentieth century.”

  “What?”

  “As for Regina . . .” Rose said. “I wouldn’t want to have to spend any more time in her company than is necessary. She thought she was being witty when she was simply being catty. And she was very catty indeed about some members of her own family. Other than her granddaughter, the one with a surname as her first name. Ridiculous modern habit. Regina’s very fond of her.”

  “Isn’t Mr. Darcy’s first name Fitzwilliam?” Marybeth asked. “You know, the Pride and Prejudice guy? That sounds like a last name to me.”

  “She’s got you there, Rose,” I said. “Sophia made a crack about Regina’s drinking. Did you think she was overdoing it?”

  “Not that I noticed,” Rose said. “She had a glass of prosecco in front of her while the gifts were being opened, but she didn’t down it in record time, if that’s what you mean.”

  “What about Hannah, the bride?” Bernie asked. “Did Regina express any opinions on her?”

  “If anything, I got the impression she thought Hannah joining the family was a good thing. Put some long-missing backbone into the Reynolds gene pool, is what I believe she said. Greg, the groom-to-be, is an artist. Regina most definitely does not approve of that as a career choice. Hannah’s a schoolteacher, and that, according to Regina, is a suitable occupation for a young, soon-to-be-married woman.”

  “Speaking of the shower,” Cheryl said. “Anything happen about that creepy doll gift?”

  “I completely forgot about that.” I dropped spoonfuls of cookie dough onto a baking sheet. “I didn’t think to mention it to the detectives when I spoke to them earlier. Do you think it might have something to do with what happened later? About Ralph?”

  “Unlikely.” Bernie cut slices of white bread into circles. “I wouldn’t rule it out completely, though. Hasn’t Redmond told you before to let them do the thinking?”

  “Me? It’s you two always thinking about these things.”

  Rose pushed herself to her feet. “No more thinking for me. The poor man died of heart disease. Far too young, but such is life. I’m going up to the house to do some much-needed work on the accounts.”

  “Any turnover in the house today?” I asked.

  “One room only. A couple from Quebec are leaving, and another couple, this time from New York City, are taking their place. Otherwise, the bridge group will be here for a few more days. They’ve taken two rooms. I mentioned to them that I am a bridge player of some competence myself, and I’d be happy to join them in a game if one of them doesn’t feel like playing at any time. The Reynolds party has taken five rooms until next Tuesday. Other than the single room Greg is in, which is due to be vacated tomorrow, presumably, it was planned that he would go on his honeymoon. Hum . . . I don’t know what to do about that. If they want to stay as booked, I’ll be a room short tomorrow. Unless the police free Ralph’s room.”

  “You can’t put his son in there,” Bernie said.

  “No, perhaps not.”

  “Someone should tell Amy Redmond about the shower doll,” Bernie said.

  “I agree,” Rose said. “Take care of that, will you, love?” She opened the kitchen door.

  Bernie indicated her platter of perfectly prepared egg sandwiches on circles of soft white bread. “My work here is done, and I’ve got a book to write. Take care of contacting Amy, will you, Lily. I’ll escort Rose up to the house.”

  The door shut behind the both of them.

  “Why,” I asked my staff, “is it always up to me?”