—JANE AUSTEN, EMMA
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 you,” said the blonde.
“Awful,” agreed the brunette. “So, how is Winifred doing?”
“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.
“How many have there been?” I asked, surprised.
“Three,” said Pansy.
“That we know of,” amended Lily.
“But it was the first one …” began Pansy.
“Polly’s mother,” said Lily.
“… that I felt the sorriest for,” finished Pansy.
“What was she like?” I asked. Peter continued to munch his bread.
“She was a pretty little thing,” said Lily.
“She had the loveliest auburn hair,” added Pansy.
“What was her name again?” Lily asked.
“Tory,” replied Pansy. “She died so young.”
“What happened?” I asked.
“Car accident,” said Lily. “Although at the time there was talk that it wasn’t completely an accident.” Pansy had just taken a bite of the bread and so could only nod her head in agreement. “I was away at school when it happened,” Lily continued. “But I do remember Mother saying that Tory’s car had run off the road and the police were investigating reports that another car was seen speeding away from the area. Then it came out that Tory had been seeing someone else—but really, considering what Gerald was like, who could blame her? Anyway, Gerald behaved very oddly afterward. He got rid of practically everything that had belonged to her. Some people thought that he might have had something to do with it, but in the end nothing ever came of it. Poor Polly was only about four or five at the time.”
“I saw someone just the other day who reminded me of her,” said Pansy.
“Was it Polly?” I asked.
“Oh, no,” said Pansy quickly. “Polly is her father’s daughter. At least in looks. I don’t know what she’s like in person. Keeps to herself a lot. Can’t have had an easy life.”
“I remember her as a little girl,” said Lily. “Never saw a more determined child. Do you remember the time she wanted that bicycle from Fred Johnson’s toy shop?” she asked Pansy.
“Oh, that’s right!” said Pansy. Turning back to me and glancing at Peter, who was still stuffing his face with the pumpkin spice bread, she explained, “She couldn’t have been more than seven. There was this bright yellow bicycle in the front window of the toy store, one of those banana bikes. I remember it had a long purple fringe on the handlebars. Well, anyway, every little girl in town wanted that bike, including Polly. But Gerald said no. I forget why, probably just to be mean, but he flat-out refused. Now another girl might have thrown a tantrum or pouted, but not Polly. Instead, she talked Fred Johnson into holding a jump-roping contest. He would get the publicity and the winner would get the bike.”
“She outjumped everyone and got that bike,” said Lily.
“But wasn’t there some sort of incident with her friend?” asked Pansy.
“Yes, I’d forgotten,” said Lily. “That little girl—now what was her name?—Mary. That’s it, Mary King. Well, she and this Mary were playing tag the day before the contest—Mary was a pretty good jump roper, too. Anyway, Mary fell and twisted her ankle or something. She couldn’t jump in the contest. I remember at the time that some people said Polly had pushed her down on purpose.”