Murder Spills the Tea

Book 3: Tea by the Sea Mysteries

by Vicki Delany

Genres: Amateur Sleuth; Cozy Mystery; Female Sleuths

Synopsis

Lily Roberts pores over the clues in a piping hot new case when a confrontational celebrity chef is murdered at her Cape Cod tearoom during the filming of a popular baking show . . .



The country's hottest TV cooking show is coming to Cape Cod. Lily Roberts is entering America Bakes! with her charming tearoom, Tea by the Sea! Filming is already proving disruptive, closing the tearoom during Lily's busiest season. But tensions really bubble over when infamous bad-boy chef and celebrity judge, Tommy Greene, loses his temper with Lily's staff, resulting in an on-camera blowout with Cheryl Wainwright. Just as Lily thinks the competition can't get more bitter, Tommy is found dead in Tea by the Sea's kitchen . . . murdered with Cheryl's rolling pin.



Suspicion immediately falls on Cheryl, but the temperamental star has racked up plenty of culinary clashes in the past, both on- and off-screen. And nearly anyone associated with Tommy or the show could be the killer: be it one of Lily's fierce competitors, a member of the beleaguered film crew, or even one of Tommy's fellow judges—struggling cookbook maven, Claudia D'Angelo or beauty contest winner, Scarlet McIntosh. Now, while she's baking up a storm for the show, Lily must also whip up an impromptu investigation . . . before the murderer rolls someone else away.

Release date: July 26, 2022

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 288

Sample

I’m a baker, not a TV personality. This wasn’t my idea, and my doubts were growing steadily as the day got under way.

“Sit still,” the woman growled as she dabbed muck on my face.

“Is this going to take much longer?” I asked.

“It’ll take as long as it takes.” She took a step backward, tilted her head to one side, furrowed her brow, and narrowed her eyes as she studied me. I tried to smile. It wasn’t easy. “You’ll do,” she begrudgingly admitted. “At least you have camera-friendly hair.”

“Thanks,” I said. “I think.”

I eyed myself in the mirror. I’d never seen so much makeup in my life, never mind worn it. Thick black lines were drawn around my eyes, my lashes were caked with mascara, dark pink blush outlined my cheekbones, and my lips were a slash of crimson. My naturally blond “camera-friendly” hair cascaded around my shoulders in soft waves.

“You do know this isn’t at all what I look like at work,” I said.

The makeup artist began packing up her pots and brushes. “That’s what they all say. I’ll say, as I say to them all, if you want to be on TV, you have to look the part.”

“That’s the point,” I said to my reflection in the mirror. “I don’t want to be on TV.”

“They all say that, too.”

A rap sounded on the trailer door, a voice called, “Knock, knock,” and the door flew open before Bernadette Murphy came in without waiting for an answer. She stopped in her tracks when she saw me. “Oh my gosh, Lily Roberts. Is that really you?”

“No,” I said.

The makeup artist chuckled.

“Can you do me?” Bernie asked her.

“Not on my schedule. But I’d love nothing more than to get my hands on that hair.”

Bernie tossed her head, and her curly red locks bounced.

“Off you go, and”—the woman glared at me—“don’t you dare rub your eyes, kiss anyone, or have anything to eat or drink.”

I stood up and gave her a salute. “Yes, ma’am. An important part of my job is tasting what I’m making, but I’ll do my best. Do you have a name?”

The edges of her mouth turned up just a fraction. “Thank you for asking. I’m Melanie Ferguson.” She was in her early sixties, tall and thin, with a heavily lined face and tired eyes that said she’d seen it all.

“How long have you been doing makeup, Melanie?” Bernie asked.

“Longer than you’ve been alive, honey. Probably longer than your mothers have been alive. Now, get out of here. Because you’ve been polite and not demanding, I’ll give you a tip, Lily. Josh Henshaw’s not a bad boss, as directors go, but he expects punctuality above all else, and I’ve known him to fire crew for showing up five minutes late.”

“Thanks,” I said. “But I don’t work for Mr. Henshaw.”

“Far as he’s concerned, this week you do.” She lowered her voice. “Josh was a big-time director once. Now he’s doing reality TV. Hard on the ego, and we all know how some men react when their ego’s hurt.”

“I’ve worked in Michelin-starred restaurants,” I said. “I can hold my own against men’s inflated egos. Women’s too.”

“Glad to hear it. Watch out for Reilly, the assistant director, too. He’s on his way up the career ladder, and that lot can be worse than the old guys on the way down. Here’s another tip for nothing. Tomorrow don’t wear red.”

“I like red.”

“Too harsh under the bright lights for that pale complexion. Now, run along and have fun.”

“That’s not going to happen,” I grumbled.

Bernie linked her arm through mine. “Always the optimist.”

We left the makeup trailer and stepped into the parking lot of my restaurant, Tea by the Sea. Although, if I hadn’t been aware of what was going on, I never would have recognized my own place.

Trailers and equipment vans lined the long driveway, and on the lawn and the patio thick black cables crossed all over themselves. Shouting men rolled cameras and sound equipment through the gate. As I watched, one of them hit his head on a cracked teacup swinging from a colorful ribbon tied to a branch of the ancient oak in the center of the tearoom patio. He rubbed his head with a muffled curse.

The patio was full, more than full, with TV people as well as guests here to enjoy afternoon tea at ten in the morning. It was a beautiful Cape Cod summer day, clear skies overhead, the blue waters of Cape Cod Bay sparkling in the background, a light breeze ruffling women’s hair and causing the teacups hanging from the single tree in the center of the patio to tinkle cheerfully.

My friends and my grandmother’s gardener had gone to a great deal of trouble to spruce up the space, and it looked great. Moss in varying shades of green and tiny blue and white flowers peeked from between cracks in the weathered stone of the half wall surrounding the patio and the flagstones that made up the floor. They’d refreshed the colored ribbons in the old oak, the ones from which hung a variety of teacups, repurposed after being damaged. The flowers in terra-cotta and stone flowerpots edging the patio had been deadheaded and trimmed and replanted if needed.

The people gathered here this morning either eyed the TV people with excitement or pretended not to notice them. Each table had been set with fine china, pressed linens, polished silverware, and a tiny vase of flowers selected personally from our garden by Simon McCracken, the gardener at my grandmother’s B & B, Victoria-on-Sea. Everything looked fabulous but at the same time strange, I thought, as not one person had a cup of tea or a plate of my baking in front of them.

My maternal grandmother, Rose Campbell, had taken a seat at a table for four. She saw us coming and lifted her hand in a wave. I grimaced in return. When Rose arrived at the beginning of the day to take her place, the assistant director told her to go home and change. He didn’t want extras dressing up for the camera, he’d said.

Rose genuinely didn’t know what the man was talking about. Her attire today—flowing black pants with a print of huge yellow sunflowers, purple T-shirt, red scarf, sparkly pink sneakers—was nothing more than her usual informal attire. As was also usual, she’d applied a heavy coat of blue shadow to her eyelids, dark red lipstick to her lips, and two slashes of blush to her cheeks. Her short gray hair stood straight up in a series of spikes. My grandmother is a woman who likes color. I wondered if she and I would look even more alike than usual today, considering I was almost as made up as she. If you didn’t know better, you’d think the bride in my grandmother’s wedding photo, the one sitting in pride of place on her dressing table, was me dressed in old-fashioned clothes.

“You there! Blondie. Yes, you.” A man broke away from a cluster of people and waved at me. “We haven’t got all day here. Come on.”

“Actually,” Bernie muttered, “I think they do have all day. I’ll go and join the peasantry. Enjoy your time in the limelight.”

I growled at my best friend.

“You know you’re loving it,” Bernie said as she skipped off.

The man sitting at Rose’s table politely got to his feet as she approached. Rose had invited Matt Goodwill, our closest neighbor, to join them. I thought the TV people would be pleased about that. Not many handsome young men go to afternoon tea. Simon, our gardener, had also been invited to participate, and he’d flatly refused.

I was not enjoying my time in the limelight. Not one little bit. I hadn’t expected to. But Bernie can be very persuasive when she wants to be; combined with Rose, they’re an unstoppable force.

I went to join Josh Henshaw, director. I hadn’t met three of the four people with him, but I knew who they were. The older woman was Claudia D’Angelo, legend of the New York City baking world. The man was Tommy Greene, famously temperamental English chef and star of many a TV cooking show. The younger woman was Scarlet McIntosh, who didn’t seem to do much in life other than be on TV. I’d met Josh’s assistant director, Reilly Miller, several times as the plans for this show came together.

Rain was expected to move in later in the week, so the decision had been made to film on the garden patio today and move inside the restaurant later if necessary.

“Good morning, Lily. Are you excited?” Reilly asked me as I approached the group.

“You could say that,” I said.

Reilly introduced me to everyone. I gushed over Claudia D’Angelo and told her, truthfully, she was a hero to me. She smiled and thanked me. Tommy Greene gave me a wink and said, in his working-class English accent, that he was looking forward to what I had to make for him. He was in his early fifties and not a good-looking man by any means, but there was a certain presence about him. He was around my height, five feet eightish, thin to the point of scrawny, with a prominent nose, too-large and too-white teeth, thin lips, and pale blue eyes. His hair was an unnatural shade of yellow, except for the section at the front, whose tips were dyed a solid black and which stood straight up to frame his bony face.

Scarlet smothered a yawn as she limply put her hand in mine and said, “Delighted, I’m sure.” I got the feeling she expected me to be the delighted one, not her. She looked exactly as you’d expect a former beauty queen to look: tall and far too thin, except for the augmented breasts, with dyed blond hair tumbling halfway down her back in sleek waves, sharp cheekbones, plump lips, wide brown eyes, and red fingernails resembling talons. In contrast, Claudia, who I knew to be sixty-five, was considerably shorter than me, slim, and elegant. Her thick black hair was heavily streaked with gray and styled in a chic chignon, her makeup was subtle, and the nails on her manicured hands were clipped short and painted a light pink. Her olive skin was good, but the fine lines around her eyes and mouth were showing. She was, I thought, the sort of woman content to age naturally.

Formalities over, Josh turned to face the onlookers. “Okay, everyone. First, thank you for coming today. Filming out of doors can be tricky, what with weather and all, but this garden is a highlight of your place, so we need to feature it on the show.”

I glanced at the assembled guests. Edna Hartwell, who helped in the B & B with the breakfasts, was here, accompanied by her husband, Frank, editor in chief of the North Augusta Times. I recognized Susan Powers, mayor of North Augusta, sitting with her husband, Gary, and a smattering of town councillors, along with some of our neighbors, B & B guests, and tearoom customers, who’d called to make a reservation for afternoon tea and been told what would be happening today. We hadn’t served breakfast at Victoria-on-Sea, because the breakfast chef, aka me, was otherwise occupied, so Rose had offered guests either vouchers for a restaurant in town or a chance to be on TV and enjoy a full afternoon tea, albeit at ten in the morning. To no one’s surprise, every one of them had joined us.

My assistants, Cheryl and Marybeth, both of whom had been given a pared-down version of the full makeup and hair experience, fidgeted in the doorway. Cheryl wiped her hands on her apron, looking as though she wanted to flee. As for Marybeth, I hoped she’d be able to control that manic grin. They both wore their regular work clothes of white blouse with lace collar, black knee-length skirt, and a bibbed apron featuring the name Tea by the Sea. Earlier Cheryl had asked me if her earrings were okay: silver with a stream of sparkling red stones. “One of my grandchildren gave these to me for my last birthday. She said they were good luck earrings, and she’ll get a kick out of seeing them on TV.” I’d told her the earrings were fine with me.

“All I need from you,” Josh continued, speaking to the guests, “is to act naturally. Can you do that?”

No one said anything.

“Can you do that?” Josh yelled.

The guests yelled back, “Yes!”

“Okay then. The servers will bring out your food, and you’ll eat it. Servings will be paced so the judges have time to visit each table to ask how you’re enjoying it. Remember to be totally honest, and try to avoid grandstanding or lecturing. Say hello and answer their questions. Now let me introduce you to our judges.” He then did so. Claudia D’Angelo smiled modestly, and the older women in the crowd clapped with enthusiasm. Tommy Greene gave everyone a wave, and many of the women squealed with excitement. “Now, remember, ladies and gents,” he said, “I know you Yanks like to be polite—”

“No we don’t,” Susan Powers’s husband yelled. Big grin in place, he glanced around at the people at his table, checking for their reaction.

“Don’t speak until you’re spoken to,” Reilly said.

“My bad,” Gary Powers shouted. His tablemates tittered in embarrassment, and his wife threw him a poisonous glare.

Josh and Reilly exchanged a glance, which I took to mean they’d keep their eyes on Mr. Powers.

“And last but not least,” Josh said, “our third judge is none other than the pride of Louisiana herself, Scarlet McIntosh.”

Scarlet took a step forward and waved her fingers. Gary Powers whistled. His wife’s face tightened still further, but Scarlet gave the man a smile.

“Now, remember,” Tommy said, “America Bakes! is all about frank and fair criticism, as well as praise when it’s warranted.” He turned his bright eyes and toothy grin on me. “You can take it, can’t you, Lily?”

I nodded.

He gave me a genuine smile before shouting, “We’ll see about that.” Everyone laughed. Everyone except Bernie, who leaned across the table and whispered something to Rose. I don’t know what she said, but Rose threw me a worried glance.

“As filming progresses, you may talk quietly amongst yourselves,” Josh said.

“My wife’s never spoken quietly in her life,” Gary shouted. He laughed, but no one else joined in, and Susan Powers shifted uncomfortably in her seat. I’d met Susan before, but not her husband; however, I’d heard things about their marriage. He’d been called an anchor around her political ambitions. I could see why. It was ten o’clock in the morning. They’d been here since nine. I wondered if he’d been drinking.

“If,” Josh said sharply, “I may continue. I want no shouting, and no one’s to stand up without raising your hand for permission first. One crew will be out here filming, while the others are in the kitchen with Ms. Roberts. You can assume the camera’s on you at all times, so don’t be talking with your mouth full, no sneezing into the linen napkins, and for heaven’s sake, people, no mugging for the camera. Do you get it?”

Everyone shouted, “Yes.” Rose’s accent, full of memories of Yorkshire, rose above them all. My grandmother clapped her hands. Gary opened his mouth to grace us with another charming bon mot, but Susan grabbed his arm and hissed at him.

“If the judges stop to talk to you,” Josh continued, “speak clearly and distinctly. Answer their questions and that’s all. I don’t want to hear about your new grandchild or what you’re doing on your summer vacation. Get it?”

“Yes!” nearly everyone chorused.

“Do you get it, sir?” He stared at Gary Powers, who for once only nodded.

“No eating while you’re being spoken to.” Josh turned to face me. “You’re with me. Reilly, you have the show out here. Let’s do this.”

He stalked into Tea by the Sea. Marybeth and Cheryl scrambled to get out of his way.

America Bakes! is currently the country’s hottest cooking show. One bakery each season has the honor of being crowned America’s best. Restaurants and bakeries are judged not only on the quality of the food by the three star judges but on the ambiance of the restaurant, the friendlessness and professionalism of the staff, and the opinion of the “average” customer.

When word got out that CookingTV would be bringing the third season of America Bakes! to Cape Cod, I wanted nothing to do with it. I’m a baker, and all I want to be is a baker. I’m a culinary school–trained pastry chef, and I hadn’t been joking when I said I’ve worked at Michelin-starred restaurants. I’d moved to the Outer Cape from Manhattan last winter to set up my tearoom on the grounds of my grandmother’s B & B, and I’d worked hard renovating the crumbling stone cottage by the road, creating a patio oasis, planning my menus and testing recipes, and getting the word out. We opened in the spring, and I needed to devote all my concentration to getting the restaurant up and running, as well as helping my grandmother with the B & B she’s bought, in the opinion of everyone in the family, on a foolish whim. Obviously, the publicity generated by being on the show would be valuable, but we’ve been satisfyingly busy all season both in the tearoom and the B & B. I decided the disruption from having several days of filming at my place wouldn’t be worth the exposure.

Bernie and Rose, however, had other ideas. They’d applied to the show without telling me, advance scouts had been dispatched to check us out, and before I knew what was happening, Tea by the Sea had been accepted. Imagine my surprise when Rose gave me the “good news.”

Six bakeries in Cape Cod had been selected for this year’s competition. Two of them were located in the Lower Cape, the Mid and Upper areas of the Cape had one each, and two were in the Outer Cape: Tea by the Sea and the simply named North Augusta Bakery. I’d never been to any of them, but Rose and Bernie had checked out my nearest competition.

“A coffee shop,” Rose had sniffed. “Totally common.”

“Best donuts I’ve ever had,” Bernie said. “You’d better up your game there, Lily.”

“I don’t make donuts,” I’d said.

I’d be competing with North Augusta Bakery in the first round. The winner would then be matched against the winners of the other two rounds, and one bakery would go on to complete in the Northeastern US division, then the quarterfinals and, if they were lucky, the grand finale, titled All-America Bakes!

I was secretly hoping not to continue. If we kept winning, I’d be tied up all summer with TV crews and special guests. I don’t think of myself as a competitive person—I leave that to Rose and Bernie—but I have far too much pride to throw the competition. Now that I was in the show, I’d do the best of which I was capable.

I led the way through the restaurant. No one would be served inside today, as everything was happening on the patio, so the tables weren’t set, and our footsteps echoed around the empty rooms. Sunlight streamed through the east-facing windows, but the alcoves were dark. The trays of food to be served outside had already been assembled and waited on a counter near the kitchen, along with china teapots, airpots to heat the water, and a selection of canisters containing a variety of loose teas.

“Eddie.” Josh pointed to the cabinet of things we offer for sale. “I want shots of those teacups and stuff. Adds to the atmosphere.”

“All the jams and preserves we sell,” I said, “are made in Cape Cod with locally grown produce.”

“Whatever,” he said.

My kitchen’s crowded when I’m the only one in it. Today I was not the only one. The cameraman and his camera, the sound guy, the woman who clapped the clapper board, and the director somehow managed to stuff themselves in.

I’d spent almost all of last week baking extra scones and pastries to put in the freezer to serve today, and I’d been up most of last night fixing sandwiches and other things that couldn’t be frozen, with the help of Simon and Bernie.

Marybeth and Cheryl had come in early this morning to help me prepare the presentation. Fortunately, everything served at afternoon tea is served at room temperature and brought out at the same time. We normally offer some variety in our menu—traditional afternoon tea, cream tea, light tea, royal tea, and children’s tea—but unlike a restaurant where everyone gets their own selection on their own plate, the food is served on platters or stands, from which guests help themselves. That makes it far easier to plan and prepare for an event such as this one than if we had to fill individual orders.

Marybeth and Cheryl would appear to be taking orders, but the camera wouldn’t show them picking up the prearranged stands. We simply couldn’t function with the three of us working in the kitchen as well as the camera crew.

While all that was going on outside, I’d be happily baking away in here. I’d be filmed rolling and slicing and mixing and stirring and peering anxiously into the ovens, all the while chatting to the camera about what I was doing and why. My plan for today was to do two types of scones, plain and orange, and pistachio and hazelnut macarons. Macarons always look lovely on camera. I normally make a lot more food than that in a day, but Reilly’d warned me things would take a good deal longer under the relentless eye of the camera. The judges wouldn’t come into the kitchen today to watch me work and talk to me about it. That was on the schedule for tomorrow.

“Okay,” Josh said. “You do whatever you normally do, Lily. Pretend we’re not here. Talk about what you’re doing, but don’t talk too much. And don’t try to tell any jokes. People are nowhere near as funny as they think they are. Okay, let’s go. I want lots of close-ups of her hands, but she’s younger and prettier than most of the old bags we get on this show, so give me plenty of close-ups, too. Tomorrow, honey, wear a tighter sweater, will you?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Don’t get all offended. You look good, so I want you to look even better for our fans. Most of the cooks we get on this show have enjoyed far too much of their own baking, if you know what I mean. A lot of men watch our show, so let’s make everyone happy.”

“Careful, Josh,” the clapper-board woman said.

He waved his hand in the air. The clapper board clapped.

The first thing I always do when I start work is put on my hairnet. I reached for it.

Josh yelled, “Cut, cut. What are you planning to do with that thing?”

“Cover my hair. It’s a public health measure.”

“I’m not covering up that hair. It’s your best feature. Forget it.”

“But—”

“No buts. If someone gets hair in their food and complains, we’ll cut it out.”

I wasn’t so sure, but I decided not to argue about it. Not only do I wear a hairnet when I’m cooking, but I tie my long hair back. Melanie, the makeup artist, had insisted on leaving it loose.

Baking is my happy place, and as I got out my ingredients and utensils, I tried to put myself there. It wasn’t easy, not with the camera in my face, Josh saying either “Speak up” or “Don’t yell,” the makeup itching my face, and my hair falling over my eyes and into my mouth.

I thought I was going to be allowed to bake as I normally do. Wasn’t that what I was being judged on? Instead, I had to keep stopping and starting. I weighed my butter on the kitchen scale, as I always do, but Josh wanted m. . .