Steeped in Malice

Book 4: Tea by the Sea Mysteries

by Vicki Delany

Genres: Amateur Sleuth; Culinary Cozy Mysteries

Synopsis

Afternoon tea isn't just about flavorful brews and delicious treats. It's also about presentation—fine china teacups (never mugs!), with carefully coordinated saucers and plates. With her fragile stock running low, Lily has an excuse to indulge in one of her favorite hobbies: visiting an antiques fair for replacements.



Lily snaps up a charming Peter Rabbit-themed tea set in a wicker basket, perfect for children's events. But a few days later, a woman named Kimberly marches into the tearoom, rudely demanding to buy it back—then later returns and removes an envelope hidden in the basket's lining.



An acquaintance of Lily's named Rachel is on the trail of the tea set too. Apparently, she and Kimberly are half-sisters, searching for their mother's final will. To her annoyance, Lily is dunked into the middle of this mess—especially when her ex-boyfriend turns out to be involved. But it's more than a storm in a teacup when one of the sisters is found dead on the grounds of the B&B owned by Lily's grandmother, Rose.



It'll take some savvy sleuthing from Lily, Rose, and their allies to find the answers before a killer shatters more lives . . .

Release date: July 25, 2023

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 288

Sample

At Tea by the Sea we take tea seriously. It is, after all, the entire reason for the business. As far as I’m concerned, mugs are for coffee and cups with saucers are for drinking tea, and I do not—shudder—serve tea in mugs. Presentation is a vitally important part of the image of a traditional afternoon tea.

The reason I mention this is that at the moment I was going through the Great Teacup Shortage. Every restaurant has a substantial turnover in crockery. Things get damaged: dropped by staff, chipped in the sink or dishwasher, sometimes even stolen or deliberately broken by customers. Only yesterday a gentlemen picked up his entire tea service—teapot, cup, saucer, side plate—and hurled it against the wall. Point made, anger abated, he paid handsomely for the damage before storming out and leaving his embarrassed family behind to enjoy their own tea selection, as well as the (fortunately) untouched arrangements of scones, sandwiches, and sweets.

“You can’t use mugs from the B and B?” Cheryl asked.

“I’m not serving oolong or Darjeeling in coffee mugs!” I replied.

“You might have to,” Marybeth said.

“Not gonna happen,” I said firmly. Then I added, less firmly, “I hope.”

As well as the aforementioned gentleman with a temper, it had been a bad week damage-wise. This is a tearoom, and we set every place with fine china, including when serving from the children’s menu. Slightly damaged cups are often relocated to the ancient oak in the center of the garden patio, where they hang from colorful ribbons and make a cheerful display, as well as a pleasant sound on a windy day.

“We’ll have to wash faster,” I said to MaryBeth and Cheryl, the mother-and-daughter team who were my assistants. The supply of fine china had been getting low over the past couple of busy weeks. I’d put off noticing until now, when I couldn’t not notice any longer. Marybeth had run up to Victoria-on-Sea, the B & B owned by my grandmother, Rose Campbell, to get extra cups and plates. She’d returned with not only teacups but coffee mugs. Mugs I refused to use on principle.

I folded and patted scone dough and glanced at the clock on the oven. Four o’clock. Unless we had a rush of customers without reservations, we’d make it to the end of the day.

Marybeth finished arranging food on a three-tiered stand in the traditional arrangement of scones in the middle, sandwiches on the bottom, and desserts on top and carried it into the dining room, while Cheryl scooped tea leaves out of canisters, added them to teapots, poured in hot water from the airpots, and set the individual timers. Different teas require different water temperatures and steeping times, and we adhere closely to their requirements. My English grandmother taught me not to bother making a cup of tea if you aren’t going to prepare it as it deserves.

The kitchen smelt of heaven itself—good tea, sugared pastries, warm spices, and fresh baking straight out of the oven.

“Once these scones are in the oven,” I said, “I’ll take over washing-up duty. I’ll do the cups and saucers that can go into the dishwasher by hand rather than wait for it to finish its cycle. We’ll be okay until closing, and I have a plan.”

“A plan.” Cheryl clapped her hands. “What plan?” I detected a note of sarcasm but decided to ignore it.

“Tomorrow’s Wednesday. Usually the quietest day of the week in here. If I stay late tonight and call in reinforcements, I can get enough baking done so I can take the morning off. By fortuitous coincidence a big antique show’s starting tomorrow in town. What do you find at antique shows?”

“Teacups?”

“Bingo,” I said.

I have to confess that I wasn’t making any sort of great sacrifice by going to the North Augusta Antique Fair in search of vintage tea sets. There isn’t much I love more in life than fine china, and browsing antique shows is my happy place.

Working alone in my kitchen after everyone has left for the day, making fragrant, delicious things, is also my happy place, and I didn’t mind working long into the night, preparing sandwich ingredients and baking cookies, pastries, and scones to have ready to serve tomorrow. I decided not to call in reinforcements, meaning the B & B gardener Simon McCracken, who knows his way around a kitchen, and my friend Bernadette Murphy, who does not. Better, I thought, to save the calling-for-help part for a genuine emergency.

It was coming up to midnight when at last I took off my apron and hairnet, shook out my hair, gave my shoulders and neck a good stretch, checked the stoves were off, turned out the lights, and locked the door of Tea by the Sea, highly satisfied with my night’s work.

The antique fair opened at ten o’clock, which suited me perfectly because although I was taking the morning off from the tearoom, I still had my other job to go to.

I was in the B & B kitchen at six, putting the coffee on and getting the breakfasts under way. Luck was on my side this week: we had no overly demanding guests, and everyone came down for breakfast in good time. I was finished by nine and left Edna, the breakfast waitress and kitchen assistant, to clean up. I had enough time to take a mug (not a cup!) of coffee and a slice of coffee cake with me to enjoy an all-too-brief period of relaxation before plunging into the next round of the day’s activities.

I live in a small cottage on Victoria-on-Sea property. My front porch overlooks the sparkling waters of Cape Cod Bay. It was a beautiful summer day, full of the promise of heat to come, and I made myself comfortable on the porch, sipping my coffee, munching on my own baking, and watching the activity on the bay, while my labradoodle, Éclair, explored the patch of yard she’d explored a thousand times before. At twenty to ten, I drained my coffee mug, licked my index finger to scoop up the last of the cake crumbs, pushed myself to my feet, and called Éclair to come inside.

Last night, I’d phoned Bernie and asked her if she wanted to join me today. She was waiting on the veranda when I rounded the big old Victorian house the B & B’s named after. My grandmother was with her. I hadn’t invited Rose to accompany us, as she’s anything but an early riser, but I should have known. I’m Rose’s granddaughter, but she and Bernie are as thick as the currants in my fruit scones. I might physically take after Rose, fine-boned with blue eyes, pale blond hair, and a complexion that’s sometimes called “English Rose,” but our personalities are totally opposite. She and Bernie, however—hotheaded and impulsive are the words that spring to mind. Whereas Rose doesn’t look the part, being tiny and demure, Bernie, at near six feet tall with wild red curls and flashing green eyes, does. We’ve been friends since grade school, and I’ve always called her The Warrior Princess.

“Are you joining us this morning, Rose?” I asked.

She tapped her way down the veranda steps, needing only a minor amount of help from her pink cane. “I thought a day of antiquing might be pleasant.”

“Hope it’s okay that I invited her,” Bernie said.

I smiled at them both. “Of course it’s okay. Now, remember, the purpose of going to this thing is to buy china for the tearoom. If you see me getting out of control, it’s your job to stop me.”

“As if,” Rose muttered. She was dressed for the outing in wide-legged purple pants, a bright yellow T-shirt, and a huge red hat topped with an orange flower. My grandmother is a woman who likes color. Her lips and cheeks were a slash of red and her eyes rimmed by thick black liner.

I went to the garage for Rose’s Ford Focus. Bernie helped Rose into the passenger seat, and then she jumped in the back and we set off. Tea by the Sea sits at the top of the B & B driveway, and as we passed I could see Marybeth raising the sun umbrellas prior to setting the patio tables. She turned at the sound of the car engine and gave us a cheerful wave.

“How’s the book coming along?” I asked Bernie as I turned onto the main road. Bernie was working on a historical mystery novel. Her progress was, shall we say, sporadic.

“Don’t ask,” she said.

“That well, eh?”

“That well. Which is why I agreed to come with you today. A change of scenery will do me good. Get the creative juices reenergized and flowing.”

“You must be in serious trouble if you think the North Augusta Community Center is a change of scenery.”

“I’m thinking more of antiques. Grandfather clocks going tick tick, silver tea services, wooden children’s toys, dolls with creepy faces. The sort of things my characters would have had around them in their daily lives.”

As I’d planned, we arrived as the doors to the community center were opening. I was a woman on a mission, and I wanted to be one of the first to get my choice of what good china was available.

The cavernous room was crammed full of vendors and their wares. People chatted and laughed, called greetings to acquaintances. The air was full of the scent of aging wood and silver polish and dust rising from old fabric, and the bright overhead lights sparkled on crystal glassware, ornate candlesticks, and colorful Tiffany lamps. For the next hour I wandered happily up and down the aisles, trailed by Rose and Bernie, exploring the booths, checking everything out before deciding what I wanted to buy. I was delighted to see a wide range of china, ranging from what would have once been everyday stuff in a middle-class home to some truly lovely pieces. Once I saw what was on offer, I eagerly plunged in. More than tea sets caught my eye, and it took all of my self-control, plus Bernie’s strong arm and Rose’s disapproving stare, to drag me away from the purchase of a rocking chair; a porcelain chamber pot; a set of silver salt and pepper cellars in a mouse-chewed, velvet-lined box; an antique log-cabin pattern quilt; and two china dolls with painted faces and hand-sewn clothes.

Many of the vendors had tea service items among their wares, but one in particular specialized in fine china, and that’s where I spent most of my money. The sign over the booth said D. MCINTOSH, FINE ANTIQUES, CHATHAM, MA. While I checked prices and quality and struggled to decide which pieces to get (I wanted them all), Bernie asked the vendor where she found her stock.

“Estate sales and the like mostly. I drive all over New England in the spring seeking out garage sales. Not many people want this stuff anymore. Used to be when Grandma kicked the bucket”—she peeked at Rose out of the corner of her eyes, realizing that comment was a mite indiscreet, “I mean, when the older generations passed on to their eternal reward, their silver and china would be cherished by their descendants. People these days want modern stuff.” She herself was probably in her midthirties, same as Bernie and me. “Unlike your friend,” she added, meaning me.

“I own a tearoom in North Augusta.” I dug in my purse for my business card and handed it to her. “We serve traditional afternoon tea, and I’m always needing china. Fine china, as you know, is fragile.”

She accepted the card and read it. “Tea by the Sea. Nice name. I might pop in while I’m here.” She slipped it into her apron pocket.

“How long’s this show going to last?” Bernie asked.

“Through the weekend. We break down on Sunday afternoon.”

I continued selecting china and putting aside the pieces I liked. There were few full sets, meaning matching teapot, cups, and side plates, but I didn’t worry overly much about that. I like to mix and match china to present an interesting and varied tablescape. When did I start using words like tablescape? I selected a good variety of things, adding some modern brightly colored or black and white geometrical patterns to the traditional flower designs and pastel colors.

“This is charming.” My attention had been drawn to a brown wicker box, cracked and worn with age. The lid was open, displaying a lining of faded blue cloth and a children’s tea set. Six teacups with matching saucers and side plates, teapot, milk jug, and sugar bowl. The china was half regular size, white with a thin gold rim, each piece illustrated with a scene from the Peter Rabbit books by Beatrix Potter. I examined it all carefully and found no chips or cracks.

Bernie and Rose came to stand beside me. “Reminds me of my youth,” Rose said. “A similar set was in the nursery at Thornecroft Castle.” She was referring to the English stately home where she’d been a kitchen maid before (literally) running into my grandfather, Eric Campbell, outside a Halifax tea shop, marrying him, and moving to America. “It also had illustrations from Beatrix Potter, although a different image.”

I read the price tag. Two hundred dollars for the set, including the box. “It’s a bit on the expensive side for the tearoom.”

“Moving right along,” Bernie called cheerfully. “Now that you’re finished, pay the lady and I’ll help you take this lot to the car.”

I ignored her. “I do like it, though. Children will love it. American children don’t often get to use lovely things designed especially for them.”

“Sure they do,” Bernie said. “My sister’s twins have their own dishes. Nice bright cartoon illustrations.”

“Your sister’s twins are barely weaned and are still throwing their food at each other. Their dishes are plastic, not fine china.”

“Lady Frockmorton,” Rose said, “was justifiably proud of her afternoon tea service. She had several sets of china. I wonder what happened to them all.”

I balanced one of the teacups in my hand. It was truly lovely, but it was expensive and impractical for children, for whom fine china has a high casualty rate.

“My job here today,” Bernie reminded me, “is to supervise your spending, Lily. That’s a lot for six teacups.”

I reluctantly put the cup down. Sensing she was about to lose the sale, the vendor swooped in. “Because you’re buying so much, and because I hope we can do business again, twenty percent off.”

“Sold!” I said.

Rose chuckled, and Bernie sighed.

My wallet was light but my car was heavy as we bounced down the road heading back to Tea by the Sea.

“A lady wants to talk to you, Lily,” Cheryl said.

“Did she say what about? I’m busy. If she has a complaint about her food, tell her to write a letter.”

“She’s not a guest. She hasn’t taken a seat, and she asked for you by name.”

“A salesperson, then. Take her card.” I continued pipping swirls of pale-pink buttercream onto miniature vanilla cupcakes. It was one o’clock on Saturday. When the tearoom opened at eleven, people had already been waiting in the garden, and we had a full reservations book for today, including a bus tour of twenty people coming in one hour.

“She didn’t look like a salesperson,” Cheryl said. “But I’ll check.”

The rooster timer I use to measure the cooking time of my scones crowed, and I put aside my piping bag, wiped my hands on my apron, and opened the oven door. A wave of heat, along with the delicious scent of perfectly made teatime scones, washed over me. I put the hot tray on the cooling rack and peeked into the second oven to check the condition of the pistachio macaron shells. They were coming along nicely, so I returned my attention to the cupcakes. Once I had them iced, I needed to get to work on the next batch of sandwiches. Cheryl and Marybeth were hopping in the dining room, and I wouldn’t be able to rope them into helping in the kitchen.

Cheryl returned. “She says it’s a personal matter and it won’t take long. To be honest, Lily, she’s quite insistent. I think if you don’t go out there, she’ll—”

“Hi, there. Hope you don’t mind my barging in like this.” A woman came through the swinging doors. She was in her midthirties, short and slim and quite pretty, with large dark eyes and dyed blond hair cut in a blunt line at her chin, dressed in white capris and a sleeveless blue shirt, with flat white sandals. Her makeup was heavy but well applied, gold hoops were in her ears, and a thin gold necklace disappeared into the gap at the top of her shirt.

“I’m sorry, but this isn’t a good time,” I said. “We’re very busy.”

She waved her hand in the air. “Won’t be long. I got your name from Darlene McIntosh.”

“Who?”

“McIntosh Antiques? You bought some items from her a couple of days ago.”

Cheryl was standing next to the fridge, watching. I gave her a nod, telling her I’d take care of this. She slipped past the woman.

“Yes, I did.”

“You bought something of mine. I’d like it back.”

“Something of yours? You mean it had been stolen?”

“Not exactly.”

“I didn’t get your name.”

“Sorry. I’m Kimberly Smithfield.” She gave me a dazzling toothy smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “I’m happy to give you what you paid for it.”

“This isn’t a good time,” I said once again. “As I said, we’re very busy.”

“No problem. I’ll take it and leave. A Beatrix Potter tea set in a wicker box.”

“I remember the one. If you come back at closing time, I’ll see what I can do.”

The smile on her face died, and her black-rimmed eyes narrowed. “I don’t see why you can’t give it to me now.”

“I can’t give it to you now because I have guests using it.”

A large group had arrived not more than fifteen minutes ago. Four adults and five children. The adults had ordered the royal tea, which comes with a glass of prosecco, and for the children I’d been delighted to have the chance to use the Peter Rabbit tea service. Marybeth told me the children had been charmed by it, as had their parents.

“You can explain to them there’s been a mistake,” my unwelcome visitor said.

I put down the piping bag. “I cannot and I will not. My customers are enjoying their tea. I’m not whipping their cups out from under them.”

“Give me the box, then.”

“I’m sorry, but I’m not giving you anything. Not right now. I’m not even sure where the box is.” That wasn’t entirely true: the box was in the pantry. I’d decided to store the Peter Rabbit set in the wicker container it had come in. The pieces would be safe there, and the charm of it appealed to me. “It’ll take time to look for the box, and I don’t have the time right now.”

She took a step toward me. I took a step toward her, not to get closer, but to be in reach of the long, slim, wooden French-style rolling pin on the butcher block in the center of the room where I’d earlier been rolling out pastry. I didn’t care for the look in this woman’s eyes.

What, I thought, is her problem?

She must have read something in my face, and she made an attempt to wipe the hostility off her own face. She made the attempt—but it failed completely. Her smile was forced and her eyes full of anger. “Okay. I’ll come back in a little while. Say an hour?”

“I shouldn’t have to keep saying this, but it appears I do. I’m busy, and I will be busy all day. I paid a fair price for the tea set. If McIntosh Antiques acquired it illegally, I’m happy to discuss returning it. Did they?”

“Did they what?”

“Acquire the tea set illegally?”

“It was sold to them by a person who had no right to do that.”

I thought I understood. A grandparent or great aunt had died, the will was being disputed, and one party had taken the deceased’s possessions without waiting for the court’s decision. The Peter Rabbit tea set had been important to Kimberly, and she wanted it back.

Fair enough. All she had to do was ask politely, and I’d give it to her without question. But politely didn’t seem to be part of her vocabulary. “If you come back at closing time, I’ll talk to you about it then.”

“I’m not hanging around until five o’clock.”

“Sorry, but it’s seven tonight.” We usually close at five, but Susan Powers, the mayor of North Augusta, had made arrange. . .