Chapter 18

And so it’s back down to earth at the supermarket. Well I say that . . . This being Newport, even the Stop & Shop has a certain kudos, positioned but a lob away from the International Tennis Hall of Fame.

All the greats have squeaked sneakers on these courts—Billie Jean King, Steffi Graf, Pete Sampras and, my personal fave, John McEnroe.

“You used to be so into tennis when you were a little girl,” Pamela gazes wistfully at Ravenna, no doubt imagining her in little pink pom-pom socks. “Remember when I took you to the finals at Wimbledon and you had your heart set on getting Goran autograph—”

“Are you deliberately trying to embarrass me?” Ravenna cuts in.

“Some would call it reminiscing,” Gracie observes.

“And really, there’s nothing embarrassing about fancying Goran ,” I note.

“Oh my god! Will you all stop?”

“Ravenna,” I caution.

She glares back at me. Then at her mum. “Just once I’d like you to be the one dying of mortification.”

Before I can say, “You don’t think she feels that every time you open your mouth?” she has stomped ahead of us into the shop.

Pamela shakes her head. “It seems like everything I say is a trigger . . .”

It’s not what you say, I want to tell her, it’s just you. But I don’t think that will help.

“So, exactly how many Marble Cakes are we planning to make?” Now it’s my turn to gloss over the awkwardness and act as if everything is tickety-boo.

We load up on extra flour, eggs, butter and sugar, adding in vanilla extract and baking powder.

“Do you know the rest of the story?” I ask Gracie as Pamela weighs up her cocoa powder choices.

“I think she just had a massive red-faced tantrum when he chose the winner’s trophy over her.”

“Oh right,” I say, all too easily imagining Ravenna blaming her mother for his lack of indulgence. “Good to know that was just a passing phase.”

Pamela returns to us. “Laurie, could you grab me some cases for the Dark and Stormy cupcakes while I get the ginger? Nothing too flowery.”

“Will do!” I find some gold ones I think are perfect—symbolic of pirate treasure. These are going to be so yummy! “Anything else?”

“I think that’s everything.”

Ravenna is already at the other side of the till, having made a few purchases herself, though it’s doubtful they are a) from the food aisle or b) going to make any contribution to teatime at the Seaman’s Church Institute.

(Though I’m certainly proved wrong about the latter.)

•   •   •

After a quick bowl of clam chowder at the Black Pearl’s deck café (where we also purloin our dark rum), it’s back to Marble House.

Unloading all the Stop & Shop bags from the car, we decide to leave our own safely locked within.

“Aside from the hygiene issues, they’ll only get all covered in flour and grease,” Pamela explains as she dumps her embroidered slouchy bag.

Ravenna looks most distressed at the prospect. Just when you think she didn’t have it in her to care, she’s certainly very protective of her bag. Anyone would think she had paid for it with her own money.

“I just need to get my phone,” she says, turning away to burrow within.

I think I hear a clinking of glass but say nothing—if she’s acquired a couple of Bailey’s miniatures to take the edge off, so be it.

“Let’s ditch the plastic bags and packaging pronto,” Pamela instructs us as soon as we get into the kitchen. “We want to look as authentic as possible as the tour groups come through.”

It’s good to see her taking charge. She gets a further boost when several of the English tourists recognize her and ask for an autograph, which in turn ignites the curiosity of the Americans, giving her the opportunity to explain about her upcoming book.

“Wish we could taste your baking,” they salivate.

“We’ll be at the Seaman’s Church Institute at three P.M.,” I tell them. “If you’d like to make a donation, I’m sure we could come to an arrangement . . .”

“Laurie! We need some more cupcake cases laid out.”

We each have our task to perform, mine being equal to my skill level. Pamela and Gracie focus on the measurements and getting the right combinations in each bowl, while Ravenna has actually offered to do the beating and stirring and is doing so with surprising vigor for one with such spindly arms.

“Good outlet for her anger,” Gracie notes as Ravenna batters the wooden spoon in circles while pacing the room.

“Oooh, Pamela, what are you up to there?” I ask as she drains the syrup from a tin of pineapple rings.

“Well, you know the motif of the Newport Preservation Society is the pineapple, which is also the symbol for hospitality?”

“Yes.”

“I thought I’d do some individual Pineapple Upside-Down Cakes!”

“Oh my god. I know it seems like I say this every day, but Pineapple Upside-Down Cake is one of my favorites!”

I love the way the base takes on a caramelized texture but is still so juicy from the fruit.

“Do you know why pineapples are the symbol of hospitality?” Gracie asks as she measures out the last of the sugar.

“Do tell!”

“When a captain returned from a long voyage, his household would stick a pineapple on the front gatepost to let everyone know he was home and open to receiving visitors.”

“Well whattayaknow?”

This is fun. Working together as a team. Chatting as we go. At one point Pamela decides she wants to go one better than paper plates for the presentation, and she sends me to the gift shop to source some china. I come back with some brightly colored “Chelsea” bird designs copied from an original set found at The Elms. I also present Pamela with a local cookbook featuring such enticing gems as Brandy Black Bottom Pie.

We flick through it as we sit outside, waiting for our cakes to bake.

“There’s something not quite right about that smell,” Pamela frowns at one point, sniffing the air.

“Well, those ovens are ancient,” Ravenna opines.

“It’s not the ovens.”

We convince her there’s nothing to worry about, but when the cakes are removed she insists on doing a thorough taste test.

“Really, Mum, there’s no need.” Ravenna tries to hustle her on but Pamela stands firm.

She takes her first bite. Her face instantly sours.

“What is it?”

“I don’t know,” she shakes her head. “There’s something very wrong here. Mum—you try . . .”

Gracie steps in. “Oh no,” she spits her mouthful into the bin. “That’s not good.”

My mind jumps to all those expectant tummies at the wharf. We can’t let them down.

“All set?” It’s Avery, the woman who so kindly made the arrangements for us to cook here, needing us to move on.

I look back at Pamela, now frantic, tearing through batch after batch, dismissing them as inedible. “I don’t know what it is.” She’s starting to cry now. “It’s the same awful sourness with them all. What did I do wrong?”

“Why don’t you go and have a cup of tea?”

I usher the Lambert-Leighs outside and tell them I’ll clear up and don’t worry, I’ll think of a solution.

I can’t help but feel this is my fault. Perhaps there’s something toxic in these old pans. Some metal base that has long since been outlawed—

“Oh damnit!” I just leaned too far over the giant bin and my mobile has fallen in, along with a heap of sticky pineapple gloop. Great, now I have to reach into all the gunk. Spiky, slimy eggshells, drippy milk cartons and multiple tiny bottles—what are these? I’m fairly certain we didn’t use any food coloring. I pull one out.

Tabasco. Pepper sauce. I sniff the opening and recoil at its spicy vinegary waft—the exact tang that has tainted all the cakes.

And then I think of Ravenna chinking as she took what she needed from her handbag, the eagerness with which she joined in the baking process, how she paced as she held the mixing bowls.

That little—

“Nearly done?”

“Yes, yes.” I turn to Avery, wiping off my hands. “I’m sorry there’s such a lot of waste. It seems we had a little saboteur among us.”

She looks concerned. “Anything I can assist you with?”

“Well, it would be great if you could recommend a cake shop near the wharf.”

I take her suggestion and vow to deal with Ravenna later—if I expose her now, Pamela will just be even more upset and there will be a lot of tears and drama and the Seaman’s Institute teatime will be ruined. I have to set aside my urge to dangle her over the cliff edge and handle the most pressing aspect first.

But then, as I reach into the boot to retrieve my bag, I see Ravenna’s precious Mulberry handbag. And that’s when I get an idea . . .