Peter’s car.
“What got into you back there?” he asked.
“Nothing,” I said, surprised at the annoyance in his voice. “I was only trying to help you escape the clutches of that pubescent anemic vamp.”
“Who? Jessie?” he said. “Don’t be silly. She’s just a kid. I can handle her.”
“You didn’t seem to be handling anything, actually,” I said. “God help Maggie if that’s how you ward off unwanted attention.”
Peter’s dark brows pulled together and he took his time answering. “Maggie isn’t the jealous type,” he said. “We have a solid relationship. She’s very understanding.”
“Well, she’d have to be, wouldn’t she?” I said, before adding, “Look, I’m sure she’s just wonderful and you two are love’s ideal together. But my point back there,” I said crossly, jerking my thumb in the direction of Pritchard’s, “is that I’m not going to let that woman or her daughter anywhere near Longbourn just so they can snoop around and spread nasty rumors about Aunt Winnie. Don’t you see that more has been lost here than a life? Aunt Winnie’s reputation is also in danger. Let the Doris Pritchards of the town gloat at us from a distance and be happy with that.”
“I agree with you there,” he said. “But haven’t you ever heard the expression ‘You can catch more flies with honey than vinegar’?”
“That’s the most ridiculous expression!” I snapped angrily back at him. “Who wants flies anyway?”
Peter paused and burst out laughing. After a minute, he said, “Come on, we’ve got two more stops to make. Just try not to start a rumble or anything, will you? I don’t think I’ve got enough bail money on me.”
I consoled myself with the knowledge that I had to put up with Peter for only a few days. Somewhere out there was a poor girl named Maggie who surely had it far worse.
CHAPTER 13
—JANE AUSTEN,
OUR NEXT STOP was the Flowering Teapot, a combination tea shop and bakery. It smelled of cinnamon, apple, and pumpkin. One side of the small room was clearly designated for tea service, where several small round tables draped in crisp white linen serenely awaited customers. The other side was dominated by a long glass case filled with every kind of tempting pastry and baked goods. Blue Wedgwood china plates, in various shapes and sizes, covered the back wall.
The shop was empty save for the two sisters who ran it. Both appeared to be in their late sixties. One was blond, the other brunette; otherwise they appeared identical. They reminded me of the tea cakes they sold— delicate, plump, and lightly powdered. Greeting Peter warmly, they leaned across the wooden top of the pastry case, their round faces expectant.
“Peter! How are you?” said the brunette.
“How is Winifred?” said the blonde.
“You could have knocked me over with a feather when I heard the news,” said the brunette in quick succession.
“Not to sound ghoulish, but I wish we had gone …” began the blonde.
“… but we had already promised to go to our niece’s,” finished the brunette.
“She always hosts the New Year’s dinner …” said the blonde.
“… such a wonderful time, really,” said the brunette.
“Of course, it must have been simply terrible for
“Awful,” agreed the brunette. “So, how
“Aunt Winnie is fine,” replied Peter. “She sent me here to place an order for ‘the usual.’ ” He smiled at them and added, “I assume you know what that means?”
“We do indeed,” said the blonde. She quickly recited the list. “Two loaves of lemon bread and pumpkin spice bread each, three dozen raspberry tarts, four dozen almond shortbread cookies, and one blueberry crumb cake.”
“Winifred is one of our best customers,” added the brunette. Both women glanced curiously at me. Peter turned my way and said, “Ladies, this is Elizabeth Parker, Ms. Reynolds’s grandniece.”
They both smiled at me. “Hello, Elizabeth,” said the blonde. “I’m Lily.”
“And I’m Pansy,” said the brunette.
“Our mother had a thing for flowers,” said Lily.
“Her name was Rose,” added Pansy. “This used to be her shop.”
“But now it’s ours,” Lily finished quickly. “It’s lovely,” I said, feeling a bit dizzy at their rapid back-and-forth manner of speaking. “And everything smells wonderful.”
“Oh, that would be the pumpkin spice bread,” said Lily.
“It’s fresh out of the oven,” said Pansy.
“Let me get you a piece,” said Lily.
“Oh, thank you,” I began, “but you don’t have to—”
“But I insist,” said Lily, disappearing into the kitchen.
“I’ll get you some tea,” said Pansy. “It’s terribly cold out there today.” In a flash, she had disappeared as well. As unnerving as their constant conversation was, the abrupt absence of it produced a similar sensation—I felt oddly disoriented.
“My head is spinning,” I whispered to Peter.
He chuckled. “I know. They take a little getting used to, but they are two of the nicest women you’ll ever meet. And they’re the best bakers on the Cape.”
Lily returned with a plate piled high with thick slices of warm pumpkin spice bread. “Pansy should have your tea ready in just a second,” she said, leading us to one of the empty tables. “Please have a seat.”
“Thank you.” Peter took a large piece of bread and popped it into his mouth.
We sat down as Pansy returned with our tea. She quickly filled four blue teacups and the two sisters sat down with us. “Now tell us everything,” commanded Pansy.
“Yes,” said Lily. “Don’t leave anything out. Lemon in your tea?” she asked me.
I nodded yes to Lily, while between bites of bread Peter told the sisters what had happened. They listened in enthralled silence.
“Well,” said Lily, “it’s just too amazing for words. Gerald Ramsey. Murdered.”
“Although if you were going to murder someone in this town …” began Pansy.
“… it would be him,” finished Lily.
“I remember Violet used to babysit him,” said Pansy.
“Our older sister,” Lily said as an aside to Peter and me.
“She used to dread having to go to his house,” Pansy said.
“Said he was a horrid little beast of a boy,” said Lily.
“Turned into a horrid beast of a man, if you ask me,” said Pansy.
“Not too surprising, really,” said Lily. “Rotten children usually do turn into rotten adults.”
At this damnation of horrible children, I snuck a look at Peter, but the remark was lost on him. He sat unaffected, happily eating his bread.
“Still, he managed to con a lot of people into thinking otherwise,” said Lily with a knowing tilt of her head.
“Especially the women,” said Pansy, returning the nod.
“Do you mean Mrs. Ramsey?” I asked, feeling that if I didn’t break into the conversation, I was going to get whiplash.
“Well, that depends on which Mrs. Ramsey you mean,” Lily said.
