Tea & Treachery. Vicki Delany

      “Same with the B & B next door. What capacity do they have? Five guest rooms? Maybe six?”

      “I’m not sure.” Cheryl put the strawberry tarts in a paper bag and handed it to him.

      The shorter man said, “Can’t be much more than that. Not enough, really, to keep the place going year-round.”

      He pulled out his wallet, but Mr. Ford said, “Put your money away, Roy. This one’s on me. I can buy you a coffee, I think, without anyone accusing you of taking a bribe.” He laughed heartily. The smaller man, Roy, didn’t return the laugh.

      “We do okay,” Cheryl said.

      “This is your restaurant’s first season,” Mr. Ford said. “Soon the novelty will wear off, winter will set in, and customers won’t be able to sit out in that nice garden.” He handed her a twenty-dollar bill. “You need to keep the customers coming in, isn’t that right, Roy? Keep the change. Nice talking to you. I’m sure we’ll be seeing a lot more of each other.”

      They walked away. As they passed my table, Mr. Ford turned his head and looked directly at me.

      He hadn’t been talking to Cheryl, I knew. But to me.

      Chapter 2

      “What was all that about?” Bernie asked after the men had left, Marybeth started stacking the chairs onto the tables, and Cheryl got out the vacuum cleaner.

      “The bigger man was the one Rose was talking about earlier I think. The house next door isn’t selling as a house. There’s talk that a hotel chain wants it.”

      “They want to use it as a hotel?”

      “They want to turn it into a hotel, which isn’t the same thing. Not just a hotel, but a hotel and conference center. Maybe even a golf resort.”

      “It’s big, but it doesn’t seem that big . . .”

      “It’s not, and that’s the point. Right now the property’s zoned residential and small business, same as Rose’s property. There’s some talk of rezoning, so the old house can be gutted and a big new extension added on.”

      “You’re talking as though that’s a bad thing,” Bernie said. “Is it?”

      I let out a breath. “To Rose, it is. I believe the phrase she used is ‘over my dead body.’ You see, what we have here . . .”

      “Nicest piece of private property in this part of the Cape.”

      “Precisely. Peace, quiet, serenity. I don’t know how much of that we’ll lose if they go ahead with the development, but I’m thinking a lot. Hotel, golf resort, conference center. All of which need parking and round-the-clock staffing. A full-service restaurant and bar means delivery vehicles up and down the driveway all day. No, Rose isn’t at all happy.”

      The vacuum cleaner started with a roar. I held up one hand, asking Cheryl to turn it off. “You know who those men are?” I asked her.

      “The one who did all the talking is Jack Ford. He’s a big-time developer. Does work all over the Outer Cape.”

      “Does he, now?”

      “Yup. And he’s as nasty and crooked as they come.”

      “Strong words.”

      Marybeth joined us. “People have strong opinions about him. The old-timers, like Mom and me and the rest of our family, hate him. The newcomers, the big property owners, and the developers love him.”

      Cheryl nodded. “He thinks he’s charming. They say some women fall for that.”

      “Who was the man with him?”

      “Roy Gleeson. He’s a town councillor,” Cheryl said.

      “Thus the comment about not offering a bribe. What do you suppose he was doing here?” I asked. “Not interested in supporting my small business, I assume.”

      When Tea by the Sea had its official grand opening in the spring, plenty of officials from North Augusta and other towns in the Outer Cape came, but Roy Gleeson hadn’t. The mayor of North Augusta had made a speech. Or so I’d been told. I’d been in the kitchen, frantically trying to save a batch of brownies burning in the unfamiliar oven.

      “If Jack Ford wants the property to be rezoned,” Cheryl said, “someone on council has to propose it. Roy’s checking things out. I bet Ford’s courting them all. He’ll be trying to find someone he can pay under the table for it.”

      “Roy’ll get a kickback if the property’s rezoned,” Marybeth said, “and the development project goes ahead.”

      “Do you know that for sure?” I asked.

      “No, but... ,” Marybeth said.

      “Everyone knows,” Cheryl said.

      “Meaning no one knows,” I said. “Not for sure.”

      Cheryl shrugged, and the vacuum started with a roar. Marybeth returned to stacking chairs.

      “I’ll take that as a subtle hint you’re closing.” Bernie tossed the last bite of her pistachio macaron into her mouth.

      “Yup. See you tomorrow night. You know Rose’s dinner invitation is a command appearance, right?”

      “I wouldn’t dare miss it.” She got to her feet, and I walked with her to the door. We gave each other enthusiastic hugs.

      “I am so glad you’re here,” I said.

      “I’m glad I’m here, too.”

      Bernie left, and I went into the kitchen. One thing I’ve learned in owning my own restaurant: service might be over for the day, but prep for the next day was always waiting to be done. And those dishes weren’t going to wash themselves.

      * * *

      I was at work again at six the following morning. My morning job isn’t at Tea by the Sea, but in the kitchen of Rose’s B & B, Victoria-on-Sea.

      My labradoodle, Éclair (so named because a streak of cream runs through the curly brown fur on her chest and belly), waited impatiently as I unlocked the back door. To my surprise, Rose was already seated at the cracked and fading Formica table, cradling her first cuppa of the day, with her big black cat, Robert the Bruce, curled up in her lap. Robbie gave me his habitual snarl of welcome.

      I like cats just fine, but I don’t believe they belong in kitchens. On that, as on many things, Rose and I disagree. On that, as on many things, she won the argument. Robbie knew I’d confine him to Rose’s suite if I had my way. But I didn’t have my way, and the cat enjoyed the run of the entire house. Guests occasionally complained that he got into their room, and sometimes into their suitcase, but they couldn’t protest too much, as the web site for the B & B plainly said a cat was in residence.

      More like boss of the place than in residence.

      As usual, Robbie ignored Éclair. I don’t believe dogs belong in kitchens, either, but as long as Rose’s cat was allowed in, so was my dog. So there!

      I didn’t, however, ever take her into the tearoom, and letting her have some extra time with me in the morning helped assuage my guilt at leaving her alone for a good part of the day, although I paid the housekeepers a bit extra to take her for a short walk and refresh her water bowl twice a day.

      Given that I was American, not English like my grandmother, my first task was always to put the coffeepot on. While I did that, Éclair greeted Rose, and my grandmother patted the dog lightly on the top of her head. Greetings over, Éclair settled herself under the table and watched me with her keen brown eyes. She’d already had her breakfast, and she was never fed in the kitchen, but she never gave up hope.

      Rose’s house is one of the gems of this stretch of the coast. A marvelous Victorian mansion—white, and