Murder At The Bake Off (Celebrity Mysteries 3) (5 page)

CHAPTER FIVE

I back away from the door, trying to think of a reason to stay here, a way to persuade Nail Biting Woman not to shove me back out there, where Adam will see me. Then I realise, hopefully, I won’t need to lie. I’ll just tell her my horrible ex is standing eight feet away from us, and the last thing I want to do is bump into him. She’s a woman. She’ll understand, right?

“Please don’t make me go out this way,” I plead.

She doesn’t seem convinced, so I point through the window. “You see that guy over there, the one at the counter? That’s my ex-boyfriend from hell.”

She peers into the café, then nods. “That’s your ex? The tall guy with the floppy hair? He was in here earlier, asking loads of questions.” She wrinkles up her nose. “I didn’t like his attitude. He’s not working with you, though, at this CIA place, is he? He said he was a journalist.” Her eyes suddenly widen. “Oh, was he lying? Is he working undercover?”

“No, he wasn’t lying about that. He really is a journalist.” Then, feeling mean, I add, “A gutter press type who ruins people’s lives—that’s exactly what he is.”

There’s more nose wrinkling, then she says, “I knew he was trouble. He wanted to speak to Terry as well.”

“And did Terry talk to him?”

She nods. “Yeah, for ages.”

Hmmm. So what was Terry prepared to chat about with Adam that he clearly wasn’t with us? Had Adam promised him money? A handsome pay out for information about what happened to Cherry, perhaps? That’s the way he usually works.

“So what did he do? Your ex?” The woman tilts her head in Adam’s direction. “If you hate him so much and are skulking in the kitchen to avoid seeing him, things must have ended really badly.”

“They did.” And that’s as much as I’m prepared to say on the matter.

“Will you please get out of this kitchen!” Great, the stern woman is back again. “Pamela, escort this lady back to the public area immediately.”

Pamela, aka Nail Biter, nods and goes back to keying in the door code, mumbling “sorry” as she does so.

I plant my feet firmly on the floor. No. I am not going out there. I glance behind me. Can I make a run for it, out the back way and go in search of Jack?

“Hide behind me,” Pamela says as she opens the door. She then grabs an empty tray off a nearby serving trolley.

Pamela and the tray don’t provide much cover but what other choice do I have?  I duck down as much as I can and half-run, half-walk across the floor of the cafe. I feel like an idiot and I’m sure we’re probably attracting curious glances, but I don’t dare look. The door to the pavement outside is tantalisingly close. I can do this. I’m almost there.  A young couple, arm-in-arm, stop Pamela in the waiting area to ask if The Pear caters for birthday parties.

Sugar. Now what am I supposed to do? Hang around in a semi-crouched position, trying to stay out of sight as she explains the various food party packages? I’ll look even more ridiculous than I do already.
Think
,
Lizzie, think,
I chant silently to myself. The man who is part of the arm-in-arm couple spots me and gives me a weird look. I wave a hand and smile, trying to not look manic. Now, he’s giving me an even stranger look. It’s no good. I’m going to have to make a run for it. Taking a deep breath, I slowly straighten up and then, as though everything is fine, try to walk nonchalantly towards the door—and freedom. My fingers have just closed around the handle and I’m congratulating myself on escaping when I hear a male voice shout out behind me.

“Lizzie! Is that you?”

Double sugar! I don’t turn around. Instead, I ignore his yells to stop and push open the door, making a break for it. I know how persistent Adam can be when he wants something. What do I do now, though? I can’t go to Jack’s car; it would be too visible. If I duck into a nearby shop, I know Adam will check each one of them until he finds me. I spot a traditional London black cab just dropping off a fare at the curb a few feet away. Its engine rattles noisily as the passenger and driver sort out payment. I dash over and gratefully dive inside, slamming the door behind me. The taxi is pristine inside and smells, for some reason, of furniture polish.

“Where to?” the driver, a man with a bald head and a beard, demands rather brusquely. “I was about to take a break, but I’ll never refuse a fare.”

“To the end of the road,” I say.

He glares at me via the driver’s mirror. “You what? You having a laugh, love?”

“No.” I beam him what I hope is my most persuasive smile. “I just needed to get away from my ex, and getting in a cab seemed the only way to do it.” I shrug apologetically.

He tuts, sighs and drives off, pulling the car over a few moments later when we reach the end of the street. According to the meter, the fare is one pound and ten pence. Over a pound just to go down the street? Seriously? I’d forgotten how expensive London cabs are. No matter, I push a ten pound note into his hands and tell him to keep the change. As the taxi roars away, I lurk behind a parked car to make sure I can’t see Adam anywhere. The coast seems to be clear. If he is investigating Cherry’s story though, does that mean there’s a very real chance he could turn up in Cumbria? I sincerely hope not. I’m fumbling for my phone in my bag to try and call Jack, worried about where he’s got to, when a hand claps down on my shoulder.

CHAPTER SIX

“What were you doing in a taxi?” Jack asks, furrowing his brow.

Now how do I answer that? I don’t want to tell him about just seeing Adam. “I was looking for you?” I reply, aware my tone is half-questioning, rather than an answer. “I thought you’d gone off after Terry so I hopped in a taxi to look for you.”

“But you got out of the car and didn’t know I was here,” he reasons.

True. Can I not get away with anything?

There’s a snack shop behind him and, with an anxious glance down the street to make sure Adam isn’t heading in our direction, I try to distract Jack by pushing him into the store. “Let’s go in here and grab a sandwich. I’m starving.”

I continue my distraction attempts by reading aloud every detail of the sandwiches listed on the blackboard behind the counter, and then debating the merits of each one.

“You’re behaving very strangely,” he says, arms folded, as we wait in the queue.

“Blame it on London and wedding organisational stress combined,” I say as I try to decide between a red cabbage and brie salad panini and a roasted Mediterranean ciabatta.

“London, OK, I can understand that, with this being your first time here after what happened. But the wedding—we haven’t even got into any serious planning yet.”

Thankfully, we reach the counter at that point and place our orders. With any luck, by the time we’ve finished these, Jack will have forgotten about my little impromptu cab ride. Fingers crossed.

Back outside again, purchases in hand, Jack asks, “Shall we eat in the park?” He points to an open gate in some black railing.

No, I don’t want to sit around in a London park. What I want, even more after seeing Adam in The Pear, is to do what we need to for this investigation and get out of here.

“No, too cold. Let’s just eat in the car instead. But let’s move the car somewhere more scenic first,” I say, slamming the passenger door shut with a nervous glance towards The Pear. I can’t see Adam inside now. He could be anywhere. He could have rushed off to another appointment, or he could be sitting in a car watching this place and just waiting. I wouldn’t put it past him.

Jack starts the car up, shooting me another curious look. “Got a particular picturesque spot in mind?”

“No, just away from here. There’s something about this street that’s creepy.”

We drive around for ten minutes, and I eventually suggest we park in a wide tree-lined road populated by elegant four-storey townhouses. Before I take a bite of my panini, I say, “You never told me what happened when you went to look for Terry.”

Jack’s just taken a generous bite of his beef and horseradish crusty roll, so it’s a few moments before he replies, “Which reminds me, I thought you were supposed to stay in The Pear, not go leaping into taxis.”

Oh no, not this again! “I was looking for you,” I repeat my excuse from earlier. “And where were you? What happened with Terry?”

“I followed him down the alley, keeping out of sight. A flash motorbike pulled up with a woman driving it. She had long red hair flying out from beneath her helmet. He hopped on the bike, and they raced off. I managed to get close enough to get the registration. I’ll run a check on it; see who owns the bike.”

“That phone call he took when we were first chatting to him in the store… Do you think he tipped somebody off? Asked for them to come and get him so he could escape from us?”

Jack nods. “Looks that way, though they must have been pretty close by to get there so fast.”

We’re just finishing up our food when his phone rings. Perfect. That will buy me some more time as well. Hopefully it will be an update relating to the case and we’ll soon be whizzing straight off to our next assignment.

With no opportunity to talk about strange taxi rides.

“News?” I check as I screw up the panini wrapper and pop it into the door pocket of the car.

“Yeah, I rang Cherry’s publisher earlier to arrange for a meeting with her editor. The woman’s assistant just told me that the editor is over at Cherry’s London apartment right now, along with Cherry’s personal assistant. If we head over there, we can kill three birds with one stone. Check out Cherry’s London place for any clues, speak to her PA, and question her editor.” Jack checks for a gap in the stream of vehicles and then swings the four wheel drive out into heavy London traffic. “How’s that for time efficiency? Should help us get home to Cumbria tonight like you wanted. You do still want to head back today, I take it? I can’t tempt you with a night of romance in a fancy city hotel?”

I reach across and squeeze his knee. “It’s a lovely idea, but I need to get back to Eskdale and, to be honest, I’ve already had enough of London and just want to get out of here as quickly as possible.”

I also don’t want to run the risk of bumping into Adam again.

Turns out Cherry’s London home isn’t far away. We pull up outside just ten minutes later. Her apartment is inside a beautiful old building. A fancy stuccoed entrance sits at the top of the stone steps, and the whole area reeks of class—and expense.

“This is her place in the city for work purposes, but she has a bolthole in the country too, right?” I check as I push the buzzer for apartment seven.

“Yeah, a fancy country house overlooking a lake in an eye-wateringly expensive Cotswold village. I was hoping to detour and swing by there as we head back north later on.”

Just as I’m getting out of the car, Jack’s hand closes around my arm, easing me back inside.

“One question before we go up to Cherry’s flat,” he says. “Why did you get into that taxi before? I’m not buying this looking for me stuff. Call me paranoid, but it seemed to me as though you were running away from something—or someone.”

I stare at the dashboard of the car, my heart in my throat. I’m going to have to tell him, aren’t I?

“Lizzie?” he prompts.

“I saw Adam,” I reply, my voice not much more than a whisper. “He was inside The Pear. I guess he’s on the trail of the story of what happened to Cherry. He was there asking questions.”

Jack swears and runs a hand over his stubble-strewn cheeks. “Did he see you?”

“Yes. That’s why I raced off and dove into that taxi.” I bow my head, not able to look at him. I hate telling fibs to Jack or keeping things from him. I feel bad enough about my baking secrets but at least that’s because I want it all to be a special surprise for him when I make our wedding cake.
If
I manage to make it. The way things are going, it doesn’t look promising.

“Now I understand.” He leans over and kisses me lightly on the cheek. “Are you OK?”

“I’m fine. It was just a bit of a shock, that’s all.” I reach for the door handle, wanting this conversation to end and to forget about Adam. Forever.

“I wish I’d have been there…” Jack starts.

I shake my head, still unable to meet his gaze. “I’m glad that you weren’t. I don’t want you getting into a fight with him.”

“I can look after myself,” he replies.

I open the door. “It isn’t you looking after yourself that I’m worried about. If you hit Adam, then he’ll probably press charges and sue you. That won’t look very good for you as a private investigator, will it?”

“He can join the queue if he wants to sue me.” Jack shrugs. “I think it would have been worth it to get to punch his lights out.”

I smile slightly. “Which is exactly why I wanted to keep the two of you as far apart as possible,” I say as I hurry up the steps and press the intercom for Cherry’s flat.

A wary female voice echoes through the door entry system. “Yes? Who is it?”

“Mathis Investigations,” Jack replies into the box. “You should be expected me. Carla Michael’s PA said we could come over for a chat about the investigation.”

The voice simply replies, “Door’s open.”

We head inside, taking the stairs to the first floor. The door of number seven is ajar and we step inside. Just off the entrance vestibule is an open plan living area. A small but well-equipped kitchenette sits to the left, and a spacious living room is to the right, housing a huge comfy-looking sofa, piled high with cushions and positioned in front of a real fire. The whole space is lit by a ten-foot high traditional bay window with a view across the road towards a cluster of tall trees.

“I’m Xanthe,” an elegant woman says, stepping forward to shake first my hand and then Jack’s. She’s wearing a tweed trouser suit and her hair is pulled back in a bun. “I am… Sorry. I mean, I
was
Cherry’s personal assistant.” She gestures towards a scarily-thin female making tea in the kitchen. “That’s her book editor, Carla Michaels.” Next, she moves to stand behind the sofa, where another woman is curled up, crying into a tissue. “And this is Cherry’s youngest daughter, Frances. She was staying here in London for a few days on business.”

Neither Frances nor Carla so much as acknowledge our existence. Frances continues to cry into a disintegrating tissue, and Carla finishes making herself a drink. She doesn’t offer us any refreshments and almost seems annoyed we’re intruding.

“I understand you’re from the agency who are providing security for the Delamere Baking Festival,” Xanthe continues. “You’re investigating what happened to darling Cherry.”

Jack nods. “That’s right. I appreciate this is a horrible time for everyone concerned, but I’m afraid I do need to ask each of you a few questions.”

Xanthe nods. “Of course. Please, do take a seat.”

Jack sits in the wingback chair next to the roaring fire, leaving me to perch on the other end of the sofa where Frances now has her face buried in several tissues. I hate this side of things. Yes, I’m nosy and intrigued by cases and the whole process Jack works through to solve a crime, but having to question people who are in a distraught emotional state always seems to me like such an intrusion. I want to give them my sincere condolences and scuttle away to leave them in peace. No chance of that here today, though.

“So, Xanthe, can I ask if you’re aware of any trouble recently in Cherry’s life? Any threats received by post or email? Anybody who was angry with her about anything?” Jack asks, his tone suitably sombre.

Frances, gulping back yet more tears, gets to her feet and rushes out of the room.

“Sorry,” Jack and I both say at the same time.

Xanthe says, “There was that dreadful business with Simone and the claim about the stolen recipes. I assume you know all of that?” She pauses, looking thoughtful as Jack and I both nod. “Cherry had fallen out with her eldest daughter, Maggie, about three months ago.” She lowers her voice and leans towards Jack as she adds, “Wicked little madam, Maggie can be.”

“Do you know what they fell out over?” I ask, my curiosity bubbling uncontrollably to the surface. I don’t feel quite so bad about our questioning Xanthe. She’s upset but not as racked with grief as Frances obviously is.

Xanthe nods but doesn’t speak.

It takes Jack’s prompt of, “Would you mind telling us?” before she starts talking again.

“Money,” she hisses. “Isn’t it always about money?”

“She wanted to borrow money?” Jack checks, scrawling notes in his book.

“I understand Maggie’s not good with the financial side of things. She runs a bakery and trades on the fact she’s Cherry’s daughter. She’s married to a snake of a man, Rudy Metcalfe. Apparently, they go on fancy holidays, both own top of the range brand new cars and they’ve had the bakery refitted, but the money for all of it came from Maggie’s allowance from her mother. You see, Cherry had been in the business so long that she had far more money than she needed herself. She was on her own these days, divorced from husband number two about five years ago. She’d set up regular payments for each of her two daughters and to her two ex-husbands as well. By rights, none of them should want for anything, and I think it’s only Maggie who keeps asking for more all the time. Claiming she needs it to bail her husband’s business out of trouble one minute and then saying she wants it to cover school fees for her thirteen-year-old son Maxwell.” Xanthe shakes her head, disapproval and dislike evident in her eyes. “I’m executor of Cherry’s estate, along with her solicitor, and Maggie stands to inherit a lot from Cherry’s will, make no mistake.”

“You’re suggesting Maggie killed her mother for the money?” Jack clarifies.

Xanthe shrinks back and shakes her head, looking horrified. “I’m not suggesting any such thing. I’m just telling you the facts as I see them, that’s
all. Her husband is a nightmare on the financial side of things. I’m merely pointing out that some women would go to any lengths to support the father of their child and keep a roof over their family’s head.”

“Where does Maggie live?” I ask, wondering if we will have to try and squeeze in a visit to see her before we head home.

“In the Cotswolds,” Xanthe supplies. “Not far from Cherry’s proper home down there. Maggie and Cherry might have had a tumultuous relationship, but Cherry doted on Maxwell, her grandson. He visited her a lot. Thought the world of him, she did.” Xanthe pauses to lift a white handkerchief to her face, dabbing away a tear. “I assume you’ll be visiting the house there? Let me know when you need to gain access, and I’ll speak to Cherry’s housekeeper who looks after the place when she’s away working. She’ll prepare the guest rooms if you wish.”