The Tea Shoppe Mysteries Page 16

  It had never felt like someone else’s war to me, not after the attacks on 9/11, but I know people who feel that way. From my perspective, we fought the communists for forty-odd years one way or another before the Berlin Wall fell. The war on terror could easily take as long. It has already been almost twenty years, after all.

  But 9/11 happened in America. The Brits might support us and share our rage, but it’s not their war.

  Daisy smiled at him indulgently. “Don’t let my son fool you. When he was taking his A levels, he was eager to rush off and fight instead of going to university. He picked up all that ‘it’s not my war’ nonsense at uni, but the truth is—”

  “Mother!” Freddy said sharply.

  “—he was rejected for a physical impairment.”

  The little she said had Freddy fuming. I was curious, of course. Sir Geoffrey had often referred to his nephew as a “poor specimen.” Was it connected?

  After Daisy let that tidbit slip, her lips pinched shut and she didn’t elaborate further. Perhaps all those pictures on the flash drive would provide a clue—if I was that curious about someone else’s afflictions.

  That’s the problem with playing detective. It means sticking your nose into everyone else’s business. You learn all sorts of ugly things about people. Generally, I want to believe the best of people I meet.

  I didn’t like the idea of Sir Geoffrey being bedecked with all those medals. Suppose at some future date someone exhumed the body? They would think, from all the medals on his chest, that the military was of great importance to him. The man I’d known never wanted to talk about war.

  But when he had made his funeral arrangements with the local funeral parlor, he hadn’t specified anything about his appearance, except requesting burial rather than cremation. I couldn’t deny his relatives this small comfort.

  Georgina called when I was in the middle of making arrangements to come back. I apologized to Daisy and said I must leave but would be back sometime the next day.

  The prospect of a return visit didn’t please Daisy. I decided not to remind her she was my guest.

  Something felt off in Neptune’s Cottage, and it was more than the absence of its former owner.

  CHAPTER 10

  By the time I climbed the steps to my apartment, I was ready for a long, hot bath. No more investigating for me for the day. I hurt from the inside out, as if the realization of what a friend I’d lost in Sir Geoffrey had drained my power pump.

  But before I could run the bathwater, someone knocked at my door. Georgina entered, bearing two trays in her hands.

  “You really don’t need to feed me.”

  “Who says I’m doing this for you? I want to learn the latest news.” Her grin wasn’t quite full throttle. “I do need to speak to you, but it’s about something else.”

  We swapped our war stories of the day, something we often did. I was surprised to see it was nearly three o’clock. We were having an afternoon tea in the truest sense of the word.

  Business had burgeoned since Sir Geoffrey’s death, and the most popular item of all was the infamous hot cross bun that had sickened Marshfield. “Our customers are asking when they can see the dog again. He was as much a fixture at the shop as Sir Geoffrey.”

  “Give us a few more days. I want to be sure he’s ready to resist temptation.”

  We both chuckled, then Georgina grew serious. “Gran, people want to see you.”

  I started to protest, but she continued. “And not just because the police have questioned you.”

  I very much doubted that.

  “Of course there have been some good-natured quips, but most people are concerned about you. You’ve got a lot of friends here. The Bible study ladies ask about you every time they come in.” She referred to a group of women from our church who had helped her with the Christmas festival.

  “Even the early morning fishermen want to see your smiling face. They ask after you every day.”

  Her words took a second to register. “Including Roland Whitaker, I suppose.”

  “Of course.” Georgina reacted a moment later. “Oh. Should I not tell him anything?”

  “As long as you haven’t told anyone about the flash drive from Sir Geoffrey.” I looked at her pointedly.

  She looked a little guilty, as if she had accidentally mentioned it. Her ability to put people at ease and get them to talk made her good at her job.

  She shook her head. “I haven’t said a word. However, people observed Daisy Guilfoyle drop something off, and everybody’s curious. There’s talk of everything from jewelry to a secret love affair to a list of Marshfield’s requirements for care. I just listen and nod and say it’s interesting, that’s all.”

  I relaxed a tad, but to a guilty person, the fact I had secret communications from Sir Geoffrey might pose a threat. My second-floor apartment, long my refuge, began to feel like an open target.

  Georgina didn’t seem to notice my worry. “As soon as you feel able, I need you back. It’s not the same without you popping in to scold us or to give me advice.”

  I didn’t state the obvious: that someday, far too soon, she would have to handle the tea shoppe on her own.

  I didn’t have to say it. Her look said it all. We hugged tight.

  After we finished eating, she headed to her home half a mile down the road. The food and friendly visit had perked me up, and the reminder about Roland made me anxious to find out what else I could.

  I opened the second flash drive and debated about whether to continue reading Sir Geoffrey’s journal first or look at the pictures. Pictures, I decided. I might discover something I wanted to ask Daisy and Freddy—should I say “Sir Fred” now? It felt natural with his uncle. With him it would be awkward. But they wouldn’t stay in America indefinitely.

  Sir Geoffrey must have had volumes of family photos, or perhaps digitized 8mm film and saved images from them—several pictures had that feel of jerky movements. He included the briefest of notes: dates, places, names, but no indication of the action.

  He had picked out key events. His brother’s first birthday. Geoffrey’s first year at public school. A boarding school, of course. I couldn’t imagine sending my children away at such a young age, but the system had worked for centuries, and who was I to question it?

  I especially enjoyed the image from the first time he presented a trophy to a fellow student. He was about thirteen, I’d guess. In spite of his gangly body and pimpled face, he already carried an air of authority.

  Nearly every picture included a bulldog of some sort. Marshfield’s ancestors? No wonder he brought the dog with him to the tea shoppe. A dog had walked across the stage with him at his graduation.

  His college pictures revealed the first glimpse of the Sir Geoffrey I had known. He included several pictures of his navy unit. Prince Andrew appeared in several of them. I knew someone who knew royalty. I was practically rubbing elbows with the British royal family.

  He had one portrait of a young woman with Farrah Fawcett–like long, curly locks. The brief note, “My Elaine, August 3, 1954–June 24, 1978,” spoke volumes about a broken heart.

  Pictures dwindled until young Freddy came along. Sir Geoffrey doted on his nephew, as if Freddy were the child he’d never had.

  The cascade of pictures stopped abruptly when Freddy was about ten. No pictures of his parents either. Perhaps his father had died by then.

  The last picture, dated twenty-five years ago, showed a tombstone. “John Archer Guilfoyle, March 16, 1948–October 23, 1995.” The caption read simply, “Why?”

  Sometime in 1995, something happened that put a strain on the Guilfoyle family and ultimately drove Sir Geoffrey to America. At least that was the impression I received from him.

  I wanted to find out more, but the only ones who knew the truth might want to hide it. Some of his service buddies had kept in touch. If necessary, perhaps I could speak with one of them.

  I tucked the possibility away but decided to start with the
best research tool available. By 1995 we were well into the computer age, and the death of British nobility, even a minor one like the brother of a lesser-known peer, was newsworthy. I typed the name and dates into the computer.

  Within seconds I had a list of more than ten thousand articles. I had made the search parameters too large. I started over again, inputting “John Archer Guilfoyle, death” and the date on the tombstone. The headlines on the shortened list told an immediate, gripping story, using words like tragic accident, car accident, and neglect.

  The London Times ran a series of articles about the accident. I started with their accounts.

  The first article, published on the day of John’s death, gave an obituary-like statement of dates and survivors.

  After that, the articles became the stuff of tabloids. Suspicion turned to proof that John’s ten-year-old son, Freddy, had been driving. The police decided to investigate the matter fully.

  A final article appeared several months later, and the results were inconclusive. In essence, John had brought about his death by letting young Freddy drive. The paper made a point of the danger of letting a child drive. A small footnote mentioned the “child’s condition” might have contributed to the accident.

  What condition was that? Look as much as I could, I didn’t find another reference.

  Sir Geoffrey’s relationship with his family went cold after the accident. I would look at the tabloids later. They might have more juicy tidbits, but then again, were they reliable?

  I shut down the computer and took Marshfield for a walk. We got no farther than the next house down the road when my neighbor Carol hollered hello. She didn’t mind Marshfield roaming her yard.

  “It’s good to see you out and about, Evie. It’s not like you to keep yourself holed up.”

  I smiled and nodded.

  “You must have heard the news. They just announced it on the radio.”

  The news? “Has there been an arrest?” Now, why did I say that? Just because it was on my mind didn’t mean that was the only news in town.

  “Not the one you might expect.” She paused for emphasis. “They caught the person responsible for poisoning Sealife’s dog food.”

  “Who was it?” My heart raced.

  “Roland Whitaker—Sir Geoffrey’s friend.”

  Surely she wasn’t implying … “What does that have to do with it?”

  “One murdered, the other arrested. It looks suspicious. Partners in crime, perhaps?”

  Partners in crime? I couldn’t believe anyone would suggest Sir Geoffrey had participated in Roland’s scheme. “That’s impossible.”

  “What? Do you know something?”

  I did, but I didn’t want the news to spread throughout Lincoln County. “Sir Geoffrey would never do anything like that.”

  But something had happened with his family. Perhaps there was a dark side to him that he kept hidden from me.

  Every block or two, someone stopped me to tell me the news and to ask after Marshfield. A few doors closed as I walked by, but the friendly chats outnumbered the cold shoulders. Perhaps the burden of suspicion had passed from me.

  I didn’t get the full story about Roland’s arrest until the predawn fishermen came into the tea shoppe the next morning as usual. Caleb Long started them off. “It happened right when we all got to our boats, yestiday mahnin’.”

  My antenna went on alert. Marshfield—I had brought him downstairs after feeding him breakfast and stuffing my pockets full of treats—barked, as if agreeing with their pronouncement.

  Jacob Short put in his two cents. “Seems they set up a trap for him the morning of Sir Geoffrey’s murder. They had to test the food first though. It was tainted all right.”

  The morning of the murder? “Do you happen to know what time of day that was?” I asked him. I held my breath waiting for the answer.

  “I saw Roland meeting with a feller about six thirty, and after that he slipped away.”

  If Roland had been meeting with agents posing as sellers at six-thirty on the morning of Sir Geoffrey’s death, there’s no way he could have been the murderer.

  He must have met up with Daisy and Freddy right after that. Who was covering for whom?

  CHAPTER 11

  When I lay down that night, I wasted a few minutes wondering if the police would return their attention to me since the investigation had pegged Roland for a different crime.

  I decided I shouldn’t take on tomorrow’s worries. In police time, the days since they had questioned me stretched out like a month. I took comfort in the fact I was still footloose.

  I slept soundly while my mind worked on the logistics. A pair of questions arose when I woke up. What if the police had delayed talking with me again in order to get a warrant for my arrest? And was British nobility immune to arrest in America, or did that privilege extend to diplomats only?

  I would ask my lawyer the next time I saw him. I wanted Sir Geoffrey’s murderer brought to justice—but more than that, I felt a need to know the person’s identity. No laws would impede that investigation.

  I contacted Mabel, the housecleaner who helped with deep cleaning at the tea shoppe, and asked for her help in sorting through Sir Geoffrey’s things. We would start with his office. I didn’t want any important papers to slip away while I was looking at clothes and artwork.

  Daisy would have to wait for me to go through her brother-in-law’s belongings. I couldn’t delay too long though. Daisy wouldn’t enjoy being suspected of pilfering any more than I would.

  The more time passed, the more possessive I felt toward Sir Geoffrey’s things. For whatever reason, he wanted me to have them. I wouldn’t keep all of them, of course. But I would go through them piece by piece, choosing for me and Georgina. He’d brought several items from England that would make perfect decorations for the tea shoppe.

  I decided against warning Daisy of my arrival. Surprise was my friend in this case.

  Before Mabel came by, I tended to tea shoppe business. A list of Sir Geoffrey’s favorite treats would be featured on our menu for the next six weeks. I also jotted down some ideas for menus to center around the treats and left it for Georgina, suggesting we discuss it in the evening.

  Next I made a point of stopping in the tea shoppe to say hello to our guests, with Marshfield by my side. I kept him on a tight leash to make sure he didn’t lunge at someone’s table. His behavior had already improved. I had always suspected it had more to do with his owner’s handling than it did the dog.

  “It’s good to see you,” Beverly Potter, one of our regulars, said. “I’ve been worried about you. First Sir Geoffrey was killed, and now they’ve arrested Roland. Take care of yourself.”

  I relaxed in her hug, glad that someone was concerned for my safety. Tears tickled my eyes, and I couldn’t hold them back. I dug out my tissues.

  Her face collapsed into concern. “Sir Geoffrey’s death has hit you hard, hasn’t it?”

  I coughed. “It’s been a trying few days.”

  I went to the kitchen and made Georgina aware of my destination. She wasn’t happy with me. “Gran, are you sure that’s safe? If you find something, will they try to hurt you?”

  I refused to admit that her worries echoed my own. I wanted to protect my granddaughter from life’s realities. She probably felt the same way about me. I saw her as young and inexperienced. She saw me as old and fragile. Ah, the bonds of family love.

  “Mabel will be with me. I’ll call you when I arrive. If I haven’t called back within an hour, give me a call. It’s going to take time to go through his stuff, and I have to do it while they’re still there, in case items start walking off.”

  Her mouth formed an O.

  “I’m almost more concerned about theft than whether or not they murdered him.”

  Her expression said, Come on, Gran.

  “Think about it. The closest the police have come to making an arrest was questioning me.” I managed a chuckle. “You know as well as I do that th
e tea shoppe is the first place to hear town news.”

  Georgina’s face held on to some disbelief because I hadn’t convinced her. Because either Daisy or Freddy, or both together, were our only remaining suspects in Sir Geoffrey’s murder.

  “A stranger did it?” My granddaughter looked daggers at me. “You, with all your TV watching, know how unlikely that is. Maybe in New York, but not here in Sea Side. Anyone who’s a stranger stands out a mile.”

  I ran through the possibilities. Had Daisy and Freddy made themselves known in the town? Everyone knew about them of course, but how many could identify them by sight? Was it remotely possible that a third Englishman was hiding in town somewhere, pretending to be one of the Guilfoyles?

  Possible, but unlikely. Georgina was right. Mabel and I had better be cautious while we were at the house.

  When Mabel arrived at my apartment a few minutes later, I invited her to come in for a cup of tea and a muffin. I offered her lemon blueberry, her favorite.

  “You shouldn’t feed me. I don’t expect you to give away your livelihood.” Mabel licked the lemony sugar from her fingers.

  I shook my head. “You’re my guest.” I leaned forward to invite a confidence. “Perhaps I want to ask something of you.”

  “It’s yours.” Her eyes twinkled. “For twelve dollars an hour, and I don’t do windows.”

  I sat back and laughed. “I wish it was something as simple as windows. But no, it’s about how we go about our work at Neptune Cottage.”

  She raised her eyebrows. “We’ve worked together before. It shouldn’t be a problem.”

  “Which is why I know I can trust your discretion. I don’t know if you realize that Daisy and Freddy are the only suspects left standing in Sir Geoffrey’s murder.”

  She lifted her eyes from the teacup and stared at me. “Aside from you? I guess you’re right.” She hesitated. “Are you having second thoughts about going over there?”

  “No-o.” I dragged out the word. “I need your help to catalog Sir Geoffrey’s belongings, check our list against the inventory Paul Tuttle gave me, and see if anything is missing.”