My phone had buzzed with an incoming text while I’d been talking to the police, but I’d refrained from checking it. As soon as they left and I’d examined the volunteers’ aprons, I pulled it out of my pocket. Grant, telling me the police said he could leave and he’d made a reservation at the Blue Water Café for eight thirty.
I found Jayne standing with her mom on the patio, watching the police activity. Most of the guests had left, and the police were taking statements from the few remaining stragglers. I didn’t see any of the theater people. Yellow crime scene tape fluttered in the breeze, sealing off the entrance to the woods.
Jayne and Leslie turned as I opened the French doors and stepped onto the patio. Leslie’s face was very pale and her eyes, so like those of her daughter, were rimmed red. Jayne had her arm around Leslie’s shoulders. They gave me identical sad smiles. “Can we go now?” Jayne asked.
“Yes.”
“Thank heavens,” Leslie said. “I don’t remember when I’ve last been so exhausted. Rebecca was kind enough to let me sit with her, but I couldn’t stay still so I came back outside.”
“They’ve taken the Sherlock tea set,” I said.
“Who has?” Jayne asked.
“The cops. They want to check for poison or something in Nigel’s cup. They’re also going to analyze every one of the champagne flutes. I told them that’s a waste of time. All the food and drink came from shared sources, and nothing Nigel used was separated ahead of time. Still, it’s their time to waste.”
Leslie lifted a hand to her mouth.
“He wasn’t poisoned,” Jayne said. “He jumped off a cliff, isn’t that obvious? He made a fool of himself in front of a hundred of Cape Cod’s most influential people. Are you okay, Mom?”
Leslie didn’t look okay. If anything, she’d turned even paler and fresh tears threatened to flow.
“Did you come on your own?” I asked her.
“What?”
“I asked if you drove here.”
“Oh, yes. I did.”
“I’ll drive you home. Jayne can follow us and pick me up.”
“It’s out of your way,” Leslie said.
“I don’t mind.” I will admit I had an ulterior motive. I wanted to get Leslie on her own and find out what happened between her and the late Sir Nigel Bellingham.
She shook her head and gave me a weak smile. She pulled a tattered tissue out of her pocket and wiped at her eyes. “I’m perfectly fine. Heavens, Gemma, you were the one who found the body. You need someone with you more than I do. Jayne, be sure you look after Gemma. As for me, a hot shower followed by a glass of wine on the back deck will be just the ticket. I won’t even cook tonight. I have some things in the freezer I can reheat.”
The issue had been so neatly deflected, I couldn’t have done better myself. I couldn’t now continue to argue that Leslie needed me to accompany her.
Jayne called to Fiona and Jocelyn. “Let’s get our things and get out of here.”
“Uh . . . about that,” I said. “The police said we’re not to remove anything except our personal bags.”
“What?” Jayne said. “I need my teapots.”
I shrugged. “Detective Ashburton’s orders.”
“He can’t do that.” Jayne looked around. “Where is he? I need to talk to him.”
“Leave it,” I said. “I have a couple of teapots at my house. I’m sure we all do.” Fiona and Jocelyn nodded. “We can manage with borrowed pots for a day or two.”
“I’m not using that ugly Brown Betty of yours in my tea room, Gemma Doyle.”
“It’s a teapot, Jayne. It will suffice to serve tea. Let’s not stand here arguing. We do not want any more police attention directed our way.”
We went into the house, gathered up the last of our personal belongings, and left by the back door. Leslie Wilson swept up her tote bag containing the aprons.
Jayne walked her mom to her car and then we drove off. Police cars, cruisers and unmarked, filled the wide driveway in front of the house. Officer Johnson was stationed at the front gate, preventing the curious from entering. She gave us a wave as we drove slowly past. We turned left, back to town. In the rearview mirror, I watched Leslie Wilson peel off to the right.
“That was fun,” Jocelyn said.
“You think?” Jayne said. “A man died, I’ll remind you.”
“Well, it was fun up until then. I didn’t get much of a chance to have a look around the house, but what I saw was absolutely fabulous. What an amazing kitchen. I’d love to have a garden like that.”
“And have garden parties,” Fiona said.
“Too much work keeping up a place that size,” Jayne said.
“If you can afford a house and garden like that, Jayne,” Fiona said, “you can afford to hire staff.”
“Instead of being the staff.” Jocelyn sighed. “Like me.”
“Like us,” I said. “We all work for a living.”
“All except for Moriarty,” Jocelyn said. “In my next life, I want to be a shop cat.” In this life, Jocelyn was a young mother with two kids and a husband known to be a frequent visitor to McGillivray’s Irish Pub.
“Anyway,” Jocelyn said. “It was fun until the end. I hope we can get more gigs like that.”
“Rebecca was pleased,” Jayne said. “She’s going to pass our name on to some of her friends.”
Jocelyn squealed in delight. I was delighted too, although I refrained from squealing. Jayne had worked hard to make Mrs. Hudson’s a success, and referrals among the well-connected, afternoon-tea-party-giving set would be a nice bonus. As long as she didn’t try to rope me into helping.
“It was great meeting the actors too,” Fiona said. “They were so polite and friendly, even to us. They didn’t have to be nice to us.”
“It’s too bad that guy, Sir Nigel, died,” Jocelyn said, “but he wasn’t nice.”
“No,” Fiona agreed.
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“He smiled at the guests and was oh-so-charming,” Jocelyn said, “but the minute they walked away, he’d have something snarky to say about the way the women were dressed or the men talked. I heard him call that woman in the red print dress and matching shawl a fat cow.”
“She wasn’t fat,” Fiona said, “but her dress was way too tight. I wasn’t there when he insulted that actress by saying she was too old, but I heard all about it. I wasn’t surprised. He was sure rude to me. He snapped at me to get him a glass of wine, and when I said we were serving tea and the wine was self-serve at the bar, he made a crack about not getting good help in the colonies. The people at his table laughed, but you could tell they were embarrassed.”
“Rebecca Stanton kept her eye on him all afternoon,” Fiona added. “She looked absolutely furious most of the time. He was drunk. I bet he’d been drinking before he even arrived.”
“Come on, guys,” Jayne said. “The man’s dead. Give him some respect.”
Jocelyn and Fiona were momentary chastised, and then they went on to gossip about the other guests.
I cursed Jayne under my breath. What’s wrong with speaking ill of the dead anyway if you’d have no problem speaking ill of them in life? I wanted to hear more about Nigel Bellingham’s last hours on this earth, and it seemed as though not much of it was going to be favorable.
We pulled into the alley behind the bakery.
“I cannot believe you let the cops take my Sherlock tea sets,” Jayne said.
“What was I supposed to do, throw myself on them? Grab them and take off, pursued by a pack of howling dogs? I’d have been unlikely to get far, running down the street lugging a box of bone china teapots and cups while taking care not to break them. The police take whatever they want from a murder scene. They didn’t need my permission.”
Jocelyn and Fiona whirled around. “Murder!” Jocelyn said. “We thought it was an accident. He was so drunk, I figured he’d walked off the cliff without noticing it right under his feet.”
“Or rather, not right under his feet,” Fiona said. “Kinda like Wile E. Coyote.”
“I only mean they’re investigating all possibilities, as is normal procedure in a suspicious death,” I said. Was it murder? I was pretty sure it was. Unlikely Nigel would have headed off into the woods for a solitary walk, not in his state. The woods were too far from the bar, for one thing. He had to have been lured there, by someone wanting a private chat perhaps. Someone like Leslie Wilson? I shoved that thought aside. The possibilities were just about endless. Nigel had not been a popular guy.
Then again, perhaps I have a suspicious mind, and it had been an accident after all.
“I sure hope I get my pictures back,” Jayne said. “I had a quick peek at the ones you took, Gemma, and they were great. If we ever want to expand into catering parties, pictures from today will be good promotion.”
“Why’d they want them?” Fiona asked. “Do the cops want to learn the proper setting of afternoon tea?”
“They asked everyone for their photos,” I said. “In case someone caught an image of something significant. Maybe without knowing what they were seeing.”
Fiona and Jocelyn bade us good-bye, and Jayne headed for the kitchen to do whatever she had to do to get ready for opening the tea room tomorrow. I went into the Emporium.
By now it was half seven. I’d phoned to tell Ashleigh I was delayed, although I hadn’t said why. Obviously, that hadn’t been necessary. She greeted me by saying, “Wow! Sir Nigel Bellingham died at your high tea thing.”
Moriarty jumped onto the counter. His ears were up, and his intelligent amber eyes shone with interest. Even the cat wanted to hear all the details.
“Afternoon tea,” I said, “is not the same as high tea.”
“Whatever. Do the cops know what happened?” Her eyes opened wide. “Do you think that piece of paper he signed for my granddad will be worth something now? It might be the last time he wrote his autograph.”
“I don’t know, but I wouldn’t go around suggesting his death has been to your advantage, if I were you.”
Her mouth snapped shut.
“Not until it’s all cleared up, anyway.”
“What are the cops saying?” she asked. “Do they think he was murdered? Who do they think did it?”
“I don’t know. Have you been busy?”
“Do you think they’ll want to interview me?”
“Why would they do that? Do you know anything?”
“I was here Wednesday when he came in. I can tell them how the other people around him acted. Like his PA, that skinny guy? You could tell that he and Sir Nigel were really close.”
“You could tell that, could you? How has business been today? The bookshelves look quite undisturbed.”
“A lot of people came in between when you left and dinnertime. They bought plenty of books. I found more upstairs and put them out. I hope that’s all right?”
“Perfect. Thank you. I’m dead beat, and I want to go home. Do you think you can close up by yourself tonight?”
“Sure! No problem.”
Moriarty nodded his agreement.
I dragged myself the few blocks home. Not only had it been a long day and I’d been kept on my toes serving tea, but I find sparring with the police not a relaxing activity. The West London Police Department and I have what might be called a history. A professional one in addition to my personal relationship with Ryan Ashburton. Ryan and I had met a few years ago—before Uncle Arthur, Jayne, and I opened the tea room—when a string of arsons plagued the shops on Baker Street. I attempted to help the police by telling them the minor details I’d observed among my fellow business owners, one in particular. West London’s finest had repaid the performance of my civic duty by marching me down to the station, fingerprinting and photographing me (in highly unflattering light), and accusing me of being the guilty party because apparently I knew too much about details the police had not released to the public.
All I knew was what I had observed and the logical conclusions I had come to.
I’d been able to persuade Ryan, if not his superior officers, to act on my tip, and the next time the arsonist attempted to burn down a store, he was caught red-handed.
Thoughts of the past faded as I turned onto the path to my house. It was coming up to eight o’clock, but even in my tired state, I felt myself smiling. I share the house with Great Uncle Arthur, and it’s big enough for the two of us to lead separate lives when we want to. He keeps a private apartment on the second level, and I fill the much larger ground floor. It’s far too much house for the two of us, but we love it. Built in 1784, it’s a classic colonial saltbox, meaning two stories at the front and one at the back. The exterior of the house could be used on the set of a historical movie, but the interior is thoroughly modernized, although the renovations had maintained many of the house’s best features: the wide-planked redwood floors, foot-high baseboards, and a dramatic, sweeping oak staircase. The yard is small, and the lovely garden is maintained by a friend of Arthur’s who moved into an apartment when her husband died but then found she missed her favorite hobby.
I went around the back and through the mudroom as usual, to be greeted by a wildly enthusiastic Violet.
Now I was home, the last thing I wanted was to go out again. One of Uncle Arthur’s rich beef stews with thick gravy and plenty of plump mushrooms, pulled out of the freezer and reheated, followed by a long read curled up in the den, was exactly what I needed tonight. I’d brought The Whole Art of Detection by Lyndsay Faye home from the bookstore and was eager to dive into it. I’m not a Sherlock Holmes fanatic. I can’t discuss at length every bit of minutiae of the Great Detective’s (fictional) life or debate (with quotes from the books) whether he was a woman in disguise (I thought that highly unlikely), but I do enjoy a well-written novel, and many of the pastiche books were just that.
Now that I was home, I only wanted to stay home. But I’d accepted Grant’s dinner invitation, and it would be impolite to cancel at the last minute.
I didn’t have time to take Violet for a walk, so I promised her one later and let her into the enclosed backyard. I kicked off my trainers, took off my black clothes suitable for serving tea and tossed them into the laundry hamper, and hopped into the shower. I didn’t worry too much about what to wear for dinner. Summer in Cape Cod is very casual, and we were dining alfresco.
My phone rang, and Irene Talbot’s name popped up on the display. I let it go to voice mail. She’d want the scoop on what I knew about the death of Sir Nigel Bellingham, and what little I did know, I wasn’t planning on telling anyone, particularly not the newspapers.
Irene’s call reminded me: I dug through the laundry basket and pulled out the trousers I’d been wearing this afternoon. I took the scrap of pink ruching out of the pocket and placed it in the palm of my hand. Any one of the six volunteers could have worn the apron it belonged to. They appeared to be identical, and all were the same size. The aprons themselves had been mass-produced and store-bought: plain white, knee length with a bib and a sash that tied at the back. Leslie had bought the aprons and added the pink trim to make them more attractive. The aprons were plain cotton. It might be possible to get fingerprints off the surface, perhaps even some DNA. Leslie’s fingerprints would be on all the aprons, as would many others. I’d seen some of the women tying each other’s sash or helping to adjust the bib. The police would have no way of knowing who’d worn the damaged apron. At the end of the party, the volunteers took off their aprons and left them in the kitchen, where anyone passing would have had access to them.
I thought back over the volunteers. Highly unlikely Mrs. Franklin and her walker had gone for a stroll to the cliff, never mind shoved a man over. That left, aside from Leslie, four others. I’d not seen any of them interacting with Nigel or showing any undue interest in him. They’d done their jobs efficiently and had seemed to be enjoying themselves. Only one apron-wearing woman had argued with Sir Nigel: Jayne’s mother. The same woman who was the last person I’d seen with him before his death. Leslie had been distracted and upset most of the afternoon.
I did not believe Leslie had killed Nigel. Therefore my reasoning was sound: this scrap of pink cloth torn from a mass-produced white apron could not provide a clue to the identity of Nigel’s killer. Assuming, that is, he had been murdered.
My reasoning was sound. But the police were highly unlikely to agree with me. They tended to want to draw their own conclusions.
I decided to look at it this way: I’d be helping the police by not allowing them to get distracted by a triviality that would lead nowhere. I wasn’t, however, prepared to destroy the evidence. Not yet.
I went down the hall to my office and found a plain white envelope. I slipped the cloth into the envelope, took it to the den and locked it inside the safe. Uncle Arthur and I don’t have anything that needs to be protected by a safe, but it had come with the house, embedded in the thick brick walls. We’d hung a portrait over it.
I fed Violet, told her not to wait up, and walked down to the harbor. The summer night was approaching, and the sky over the ocean to the east was inky black; behind me, it was streaked with shades of red, pink, and gray.
The Blue Water Café sits on the edge of West London’s small boat harbor close to the fish pier. In the off-season, it’s warm and cozy and small. In summers, it more than doubles in size when the doors are thrown open to a spacious deck resting on pylons jutting out over the water. I pride myself on being punctual, but tonight I’d been delayed, debating what to do about the pink cloth, and arrived five minutes late to find Grant already seated. He jumped to his feet with a wide smile as I made my way across the deck. The restaurant was full tonight, as it would be most evenings for the next few months. Lights shone from tiny bulbs wrapped around the railing, and on the tables, white candles flickered in hurricane lamps.
“Quite the exciting afternoon,” Grant said as I took my seat.
“More excitement than we would have liked.”
“The tea was great though. Everyone I spoke to enjoyed it very much. As they say, there’s a silver lining in every cloud, and in this case, you can be sure people will remember you when they’re planning an event.”
“It has also been said, there’s no such thing as bad publicity. About that, I disagree. We don’t want to be remembered as people who catered an event where someone died.”
The water arrived and we placed drink orders. Grant accepted a menu but I waved it away. I always have the same thing at the café. The fish doesn’t get any fresher than here: from the restaurant’s deck, you can watch the day’s catch being unloaded and the sleek gray fur of seals bobbing through the water searching for scraps. “I thank you for the sentiment and for trying to cheer me up.”
“Do you need cheering up?” Grant asked.
“No. I didn’t know Nigel, and I didn’t much like what little I did see of him.”
We leaned back to allow the waiter to place our drinks on the table. A frosty mug of Nantucket Grey Lady for Grant, a New Zealand Sauvignon Blanc for me. Grant ordered Caesar salad followed by a steak, medium rare. I asked for clam chowder and the stuffed sole.
We clinked glasses and said, “Cheers.”
“I heard the word murder bandied about this afternoon,” Grant said. “What do you think happened?”
“I have no idea.”
“Are you going to get involved?”
“Involved in what?”
“In the case. You did those other times.”
“The first time, I was directly affected. Detective Estrada thought I’d done it. The second time, Donald Morris asked me for help. This time, I’m not even a witness. Merely the person unfortunate enough, as were you, to come across the body. No, it has nothing to do with me. If you don’t mind, I’d rather not talk about it.” I was thinking of little else, but talking was another matter altogether. The pink ruching would remain in my safe, tucked away in the wall behind the portrait of a glamorous opera singer I believe had been Uncle Arthur’s one true love. I remembered Leslie’s words to Nigel: “It’s time.” Plenty of people spoke to Nigel that afternoon, and not all of them were friendly. It meant nothing. So I told myself. Nothing other than the pink ruching connected Jayne’s mum to the dead man; I had no reason to get involved.
“There’s Jayne now,” Grant said. I turned to see my friend crossing the deck, following the hostess. To my surprise, she was with Eddie Barker, the actor. I knew they’d arranged a date for tonight, but I would have expected him to cancel it after what happened this afternoon. I wasn’t happy to see him out with my friend. He had a lot to gain from the death of Sir Nigel, and that put him pretty high on my suspect list.
Not that I was keeping a suspect list.
Jayne saw us and waved. She said something to the hostess, and they changed direction to come our way. The people at the table for two next to ours were fumbling with their wallets and laboriously calculating the tip.
“Mind if we join you?” Jayne said. She looked lovely and fresh in a blue dress the color of her eyes with a thin white belt and low-heeled sandals.
Grant hesitated. He obviously didn’t want the company but didn’t know how to say so politely. Understandable if he thought we were on a date. Were we? I didn’t know. In order not to have to make a decision about that, even to myself, I waved to the nearly vacated table. “Good timing.”
“I’ll get this cleared away,” the hostess said.
The other couple left and Jayne sat down. Eddie looked about as thrilled as Grant at the change in seating arrangements.
“How’s everyone handling the death of Nigel?” I asked him.
“Gemma,” Jayne said, “that’s a bit blunt.”
“It is? It’s what we’re all thinking about.”
“I’m not thinking about it,” Eddie said.
“Sure you are,” I said.
“Gemma,” Jayne said in that warning voice I know so well.
“I’m thinking it’s a nice night in a beautiful place, and I’m with a beautiful woman.” Eddie smiled at Jayne. She smiled back. I mentally rolled my eyes. “Two beautiful women,” he added politely.
“You’re not really from California,” I said. “Mississippi would be my guess. Louisiana, maybe.”
Grant smothered a laugh with a mouthful of beer.
“You’ve a good ear,” Eddie said. “I’ve worked hard to get rid of that accent.” His smile didn’t reach his eyes.
“Sorry about your marriage breaking up,” I said.
“What the . . . ?”
“Gemma’s observant,” Jayne said quickly. “I bet she noticed a tan line on the ring finger of your left hand or something.” She involuntarily glanced across the table; Eddie slipped the guilty hand into his lap. Guilty because his marriage wasn’t entirely over?
“Good evening,” the waiter said. “Can I get you something to drink?”
“Will the play go on?” I asked once the waiter had left with their orders, as well as a request for another round for Grant and me.
“Pat wants it to,” Eddie said, “as a memorial to Sir Nigel, and Rebecca agrees.” He lowered his eyes for a moment in a gesture of respect.
“With you in the lead role,” I said.
He lifted his head, and his eyes bored into mine. The carefully arranged length of sun-kissed (in a hair salon) blond hair moved in the breeze. “That will be up to the director. She knows best.”
“Have you been to Cape Cod before, Eddie?” Grant asked. “If not, I can recommend some places worth a visit on your days off.”
“We won’t be getting many days off, I’m afraid, but I’d like that. No, I’ve never been here. I’m from the west”—a glance at me—“I mean, the south.”
“Where are you staying?” Grant asked.
Eddie sighed. “We’re at a B and B for the duration. The Sailor’s Delight. What a chintzy name. Nice enough, I guess, but I hate B and Bs. You’re expected to make friendly with a bunch of strangers over breakfast. Nigel and Gerald got themselves put up at the Harbor Inn. Now that Nigel’s not using it, I might ask if I can move in.”
“Did he get a particularly nice room?” I asked.
“Nothing but the best suite. With an adjoining room for Gerald. I’m surprised they bothered with that.”
“Why?” I asked.
“I’d have thought they’d roll out a camp cot in the hallway for Gerald. Guy’s a wimp if ever I saw one.”
“I’m sure you’ve seen a lot of them in your time.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing.” I sipped my wine.
Jayne stood up. “I’m going to powder my nose. Gemma?”
“What?”
“Do you need to come also?”
“No.”
“Yes, you do.”
“I do?”
She glared at me and jerked her head toward the back.
“Oh, right. I need to powder my nose. I totally forgot to do that before leaving the house.” I pushed myself to my feet and followed the angry tap of Jayne’s heels on the wooden deck.
“Why don’t you just say you’re going to the loo?” I said to her back. “They know we don’t need to apply face powder in unison.”
The moment we walked into the building itself, Jayne turned on me. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“Doing? In regards to what?”
“I’m used to you deducing things about people they’d rather you didn’t know, but tonight you’re being out-and-out rude. If Eddie wants people to think he’s from California, what does it matter? Why did you challenge him on it? Never mind that bit about being divorced.”
“I don’t think you should be going out with him.”
“Why on earth not? And why on earth should I care what you think?”
“For one thing, I doubt he’s divorced. Easy enough to check. He’ll have a bio on IMDb. I’ll look him up on the Internet when I get home.”
“You’ll do nothing of the sort, Gemma Doyle. I like him, and he seems to like me, and I want it to lead where it might. I do not want your interference. Do. You. Understand?”
“Jayne, he’s a possible suspect in a murder.”
“He’s not a suspect. Yes, he was there, but so were a lot of people. I was there. You were there. Even my mom was there.”
“Uh, right. I don’t think it’s wise for you to get involved with an actor.” We were standing in the hallway leading to the restrooms, close to the open kitchen. Staff passed us with trays piled high with food. I saw my clam chowder and Grant’s Caesar salad sail past. “There’s Andy.” I called out, and he glanced up from a sizzling frying pan. I gave him a wave. He waved back. When he saw Jayne with me, his face lit up. He said something to a young woman, and she took over the frying pan. Andy wiped his hands on his apron and came out of the kitchen.
“Nice to see you, Gemma. Hi, Jayne. Are you here for dinner?”
“Why, yes,” I said, “we are. I bet you could use a break right about now. Why don’t you and Jayne take a few moments for a quiet drink? We’re here with a couple of friends; they won’t mind.”
Andy looked hopeful. Jayne looked shocked.
“Don’t try to change the subject.” She turned to Andy. “Will you take a rain check? I hope you don’t mind, but Gemma and I are having an important business meeting here, and she’s trying to weasel her way out of it.”
Andy tried not to look too downcast. “Rain check it is. Any time at all.” He slunk back into the mysterious depths of his kitchen.
I hadn’t been changing the subject at all. I simply thought Andy a far better match for Jayne than some passing actor, who may or may not be divorced.
“Gemma, please don’t get involved in my love life.”
“Would I do that?”
“Repeatedly and constantly. I’ll admit Robbie might have been a little bit of a mistake.”
“A little bit.”
“But Eddie is not Robbie. He’s sooo good looking for one thing, and he’s doing really well as an actor. He’s met all sorts of great people. Leonardo DiCaprio, Johnny Depp, Kristen Stewart.”
I considered pointing out that his career wasn’t exactly on the path of DiCaprio and Depp if he was playing the understudy for a summer repertory theater in Cape Cod, and that “met” didn’t mean “working beside,” but I bit my tongue. Jayne didn’t often get angry with me, but she was heading there now, and at a rapid clip.
All I had at heart were her best interests, particularly if Eddie was going to be involved in a police investigation. “Okay,” I said.
“What?”
“Okay. You win. I’ll let you make your own mistakes. I mean, your own decisions.” I smiled at her.
She did not smile back. “I don’t know what you’re doing here with Grant, anyway. Suppose Ryan sees you.”
“What would that matter?”
“If you don’t know, Gemma, I am not going to tell you.” She headed back outside. Apparently her nose didn’t need powdering after all.