Sir Geoffrey Guilfoyle winked at me before he bit into one of the hot cross buns I baked that morning. His ring, with his family crest, sparkled in the light as if to emphasize the gesture.
I nearly swooned, foolishness for a woman three-quarters of a century old. Even if Sir Geoffrey was bona fide English nobility—and handsome to boot.
I probably should explain myself. I’m Evie Holland, owner of Tea by the Sea in the town of Sea Side on the beautiful Maine coast. I’ve lived here all my life and wouldn’t move to Britain even if Sir Geoffrey asked me.
At the time, the tea shoppe was still in my name, although I’d handed daily operations to my granddaughter, Georgina Quin. She has a good head on her shoulders. Look at the way she handled the murder of the mayor last Christmas.
Between Georgina and our permanent waitress, Diane Little, we kept things running smoothly. Diane played an important role in our success. Why, she can charm a lobsterman into ordering a cucumber sandwich.
With Georgina’s help, I’d been able to devote myself to adding a “proper British tea” to our tasty combinations of sandwiches and muffins. Sir Geoffrey’s patronage inspired me to research original recipes, and he’d become my official taste tester.
The traditional British hot cross bun was the glue holding our March and April menu together, and I wanted to get it right.
Georgina was more concerned about the cost. The ingredients in the recipe I used cost more than the alternatives. We’d devised a plate that added “all the trimmings” for a dollar more. People thought they were getting a bargain.
“It looks genuine.” Sir Geoffrey’s face didn’t move a muscle. “Nicely plump, evenly glazed.”
I hoped he noticed that I had formed the cross on the bun out of flour and water instead of drizzling white icing across the top.
If he sounded like a food critic, it’s because he’d been judging baking contests ever since he was a boy, attending local fairs with his mother. I often wondered how he kept his perfect physique, given his penchant for our pastries. My pleasantly round figure testifies to my fondness for my own product.
He cut into the bun, one of those proper gentlemen who wouldn’t eat with his bare hands. He held the plate at eye level and studied the texture of the bread. “The leavening is even.”
I’d learned not to hurry him. He liked to put on a show. Anything I said would slow down his examination. Only one thing ever distracted him from the task at hand.
And here it came. Marshfield, Sir Geoffrey’s bulldog, raced through the door left open by our delivery person. Before I could snatch the tray out of the dog’s way, he gulped down a bun in one bite.
I groaned.
Marshfield was as fond of our pastries as his owner. The problem is, several baking staples make dogs sick. In the case of hot cross buns, raisins can be deadly.
Sir Geoffrey always took his dog’s side. “You don’t begrudge Marshfield a taste, do you?”
I tolerated it, up to a point. “It doesn’t matter what I think. If the health department finds that dog in here, eating our food, they could shut us down.”
“You worry too much.” Sir Geoffrey rubbed the dog’s head.
“For someone who loves his dog, you have a funny way of showing it. Raisins can be toxic to dogs. He’ll probably get sick. Is that what you want?”
“Nonsense. I don’t believe it.” He patted Marshfield’s head again. “Now sit down like a good boy so the bad lady will stop scolding you.”
The dog settled at Sir Geoffrey’s feet, his expression shouting, Who, me?
The dog didn’t fool me, but I didn’t say anything more. Time would prove my point. When the inevitable happened, I would offer my help.
“Let’s finish before Marshfield decides he wants seconds.” Sir Geoffrey plopped the bite into his mouth and chewed. After he swallowed, a smile leapt to his face. “Now that is a proper hot cross bun.”
I grinned. I couldn’t help it. Sir Geoffrey’s approval was as good as a Paul Hollywood handshake, the closest I would get to The Great British Baking Show here in Sea Side, Maine.
Georgina held up the design for our spring menu with Now THAT’S A PROPER HOT CROSS BUN! written across it. “May I quote you, sir?”
“With my pleasure.” Sir Geoffrey liked the attention. “Americans don’t bake with sultanas very often. Why did you use them?”
“I used Paul Hollywood’s recipe.” I didn’t admit that I had just found out what sultanas are, golden raisins made from small white grapes.
He grunted. “These taste like you’ve sat in his master class.”
An ugly gurgling sound interrupted our conversation, and a second later an unpleasant stench spread across the room. The raisins had created havoc on Marshfield’s system more quickly than I would have expected.
Sir Geoffrey rushed to his dog’s side. The bulldog was as pugnacious with me as his heavy jowls threatened, but Geoffrey treated him like a much beloved son. My scolds of “Naughty dog! You know you can’t eat table food!” interrupted murmurs of “Poor dog, those raisins will get you every time. Maybe we should ask Miss Evie to bake pet-friendly treats from now on.”
“I can’t make a proper hot cross bun without raisins.” I couldn’t help it—the words gushed out.
Sir Geoffrey’s head whipped around, and he glared at me. “Then you should keep them where my dog can’t reach them.”
“I refuse to change my menu because of a dog. You know I make pet-friendly treats, but it’s up to you to control your animal.”
Marshfield came into the shop only because Sir Geoffrey insisted. I hoped that after today he would recognize the wisdom of keeping his pooch at home.
He huffed. “I’d best get Marshfield home and get him cleaned up before my company arrives tonight. Send me the bill.”
“That’s not necessary,” Georgina said immediately.
She should have agreed. I know the customer is always right, but in this case, I doubted it. I always worried that the health department would show up around the same time the dog was having one of his episodes. But as the heir apparent, Georgina earned the right to make her own decisions. I wouldn’t question her in front of our customers.
My best option was to speed Sir Geoffrey out the door. “Let me get your—” I stopped myself before I said “cookies.” To Geoffrey they would always be—“‘biscuits’ you ordered for your guests tonight.”
He checked out the contents—gingersnaps, lemon-thyme thins, chocolate macadamia crunch. “They smell tantalizing. I’ll have trouble leaving them alone until tonight.”
Knowing Sir Geoffrey the way I did, I had expected him to say that. “Here’s some extras to tide you over. Just keep them away from Marshfield. Chocolate is even worse for dogs than raisins.”
At the mention of his name, Marshfield looked up at me hopefully. He really was a sweetie, and I was a softie. I went to the tin where I kept specially baked dog treats. Sir Geoffrey wasn’t our only doggone customer.
“Package the chocolate separately next time.” Sir Geoffrey was more upset than usual about my scolding Marshfield. Maybe he was secretly worried about the family reunion. The dog had scarfed up the dog treat and come back for more. I handed him another one. “No more. I’m sorry you got sick. If you had asked politely, I would have given you something delicious, made especially for you.”
He drooled as if he understood me.
I counted out six of the dog biscuits for Sir Geoffrey. “These are on the house, since Marshfield got sick.”
We did want to keep him in our good graces.
He nodded, but his attention was focused on the box of cookies. “These are all so very British.”
“I gave it my best effort.” I was pleased he’d noticed.
“I’m sure they’re delightful. But I would also like to enjoy American ‘cookies’ as well. How about three dozen of those—what do you call them—chocolate chunk cookies? And something with peanut butter.”
“Chocolate is bad for dogs,” I reminded him.
Georgina caught my eye. I could read her thoughts. Why are you turning away business? She baked the cookies. I mostly experimented with new recipes.
“We’ll get right on it.” She made a note on her order pad. “I bet you’ll be glad to see your family again.”
Sir Geoffrey’s smile faltered, and my antenna went up.
“It’s just my sister-in-law, Daisy, and her son. They called last night to say they were flying in.”
I thought I understood. The way he told the story, they hadn’t parted on the best of terms when he’d chosen to make his home in America.
Georgina raised her hand in a Girl Scout salute. “I promise, we’ll make the best American cookies you’ve ever eaten, sweet delicacies to linger on your tongue and not in your gut.”
He laughed. “I have yet to see a biscuit that will soften Daisy’s demeanor.” Once Marshfield had recovered, Sir Geoffrey grasped his walking stick in his right hand and called the dog to heel before heading out the door.
“I’m surprised he asked for chocolate chunk and peanut butter.” Georgina watched him walk to his car. “Brits usually complain they’re too sweet.”
“Maybe he’s developed a sweet tooth.” We’d know soon enough, when his family arrived. If I timed my visit well, I might get to meet them. It would take quite a woman to make Sir Geoffrey tremble. Daisy seemed an unlikely name for a harridan.
Perhaps Sir Geoffrey felt guilty for leaving his family behind. I’d often wondered why a man with a respected, comfortable life in England would come to our small coastal town. I’d finally decided he had wanted to see the New World like his ancestors before him, hundreds of years ago.
Georgina had our driver deliver the cookies that evening, but the next morning I decided to take him a gift box. Fridays were Sir Geoffrey’s regular days to go fishing with his neighbor Roland Whitaker, a professional fisherman by trade and a good friend. I often went to Geoffrey’s house while they were out to drop off something sweet to enjoy when they returned. This time I’d also packed a bag with Marshfield’s favorite treats as an apology.
It takes twenty minutes to drive from Tea by the Sea to Sir Geoffrey’s house, even though it’s only three miles away across the inlet between the two buildings. But since I need the land to get from here to there, it’s easily an eight-mile trip.
My watch had just passed seven when I stopped. I saw no sign of Sir Geoffrey’s car. Perhaps they had all gone fishing or out to breakfast, saving our baked goods for later. I knocked on the door just in case someone was there.
Marshfield answered my summons with a loud bark. Strange. Sir Geoffrey never went anywhere without his dog.
Not that Sir Geoffrey’s habits were any of my business.
I rapped on the door, and it swung open. “Hello? Is anybody home?” An unpleasant smell assaulted my nostrils, different from the pungent ocean air that invades our homes with the fog. Marshfield greeted me warmly, and silence reigned through the rest of the house.
I decided I’d look through the house to see if everything was okay. No one responded to my hails. Through open doorways I spotted suitcases in both guest bedrooms. Apparently the company had arrived, but I saw no evidence of their presence in the house at the moment.
The unpleasant smell grew stronger as I approached the kitchen, reminding me of the butcher shop where I’d gone to do my shopping as a young wife. I knew what that smell meant, but I didn’t want to acknowledge it. Maybe it was just an accident and everyone had gone to the hospital. I built up my hopes as I walked into the kitchen.
Sir Geoffrey lay face up, spread-eagled in a pool of blood, a surprised look on his face. A six-foot long fishing lance protruded from his chest, right around where his heart would be.