Murder At The Bake Off (Celebrity Mysteries 3) (6 page)

“That’s very kind. Thanks,” I say, lightly resting a hand on Xanthe’s arm as she sniffs back more tears. “But we won’t have time to stay over. We need to get back to Cumbria.”

She grips my hand, an earnest expression on her face. “I just want you to find who did this and I want you to ensure they end up where they belong—behind bars.” She looks first at me and then at Jack. “Will you promise me that you’ll catch whoever is responsible?”

I’m about to reply that we’ll do our best, when Jack says, “I promise.”

I hope Jack didn’t just make a promise we aren’t going to be able to keep.

“How long have you worked for Cherry?” I ask her.

We know the answer to this question from the research we’ve done. However, it’s useful, I’m beginning to learn, to get people to give you answers to things you already know so that you can firstly see if they say the right thing, and secondly, see if you can spot any little tell-tale signs they might be fibbing. A nervous twitch, fiddling with the collar of whatever they’re wearing and their eyes shooting up and off to the left could all be possible ‘tells’ they’re reaching for a little white lie. I’ve spotted Xanthe doing at least two of these things in the last few minutes. Call it female intuition, but something seems off to me with this woman.

“Almost fifteen years,” Xanthe answers. “The time has simply flown by. I’ve loved working with her.”

I know that’s the right answer. Maybe we can trust this woman and cross her off the list of people who might have poisoned a cupcake and then delivered it (or paid someone else to deliver it) to Cherry’s suite at the Roseby.

Xanthe tidies her skirt at her knees and then straightens her back. “Is there anything else I can help you with?”

“Not for now, thank you,” Jack says smoothly. “We’ll be in touch if anything else comes up.” He gets to his feet and peers over towards the kitchen. “Carla? Could you spare us five minutes now?”

She nods, looking reluctant and walks over, perching in the exact same spot on the sofa that Xanthe has just vacated.

“So, you work for Haddon Cartwell Publishers, who edit, print and distribute all of Ms. Bakewell’s books. Is that right?” he checks.

“How long have you worked with Cherry on her books?” I ask, eyeing her carefully.

Taking her time, Carla sips her tea before replying
.
I notice there’s no steam rising from the cup and saucer in her hand, so it must be long cold. “Over ten years. I looked on Cherry as, well…not a mother, but a matriarchal figure. An aunt, perhaps. She was a pleasure to work with. Every project Cherry had with the publishers had to go through me—always me. She insisted. Said I was the best in the business. Bless her heart. I miss her already.”

“Were you working on a book with her at the moment?” I ask, wondering what will happen to it if she is, now that Cherry is gone.

She nods. “It was almost finished. We’d got all of the recipes and the photos of the finished food. I was editing, and we were discussing cover ideas. The publishers told me this morning that the book will be put on hold for now, out of respect. It’s only right.”

“Of course,” I agree.

“Are you aware of anyone who Cherry might have—inadvertently or otherwise—ruffled the feathers of?” Jack asks her.

“Only Maggie, and that business with Simone Barker over the recipes she claims Cherry stole, which of course Simone has no proof about.”

Jack gets to his feet and nods his thanks at Xanthe and Carla. “Would it be possible to have a quick word with Frances, too, while we’re here? I understand she’s upset, but I’m sure she’ll want to help us with this investigation in any way she can.”

“Yes, it’s OK,” a faint voice says from the doorway. We all turn to see Frances, tissues still clutched in hand, eyes red and puffy, but she’s stopped crying for the moment. “I’ll help you in any way I can.” She crosses the room and slumps into the chair Jack has just vacated.

“I’m so sorry about your mother,” I say before Jack starts his questioning.

She nods and sniffles some more into her tissue.

“Were you close?” Jack asks her, taking a seat again.

“Not really, she was away working a lot of the time. When she was around, we’d plan to meet up for a meal or a day out. At least we got along, not like Mum and Maggie.”

“What about you and Maggie? Did the two of you get along?” I check.

Frances shrugs. “We didn’t hate each other, if that’s what you’re getting at. We weren’t the closest of sisters either, though. We tended to argue quite a bit.”

I can see Jack’s interest in her words flashing in his eyes. “What about?”

“Maggie can be a cow, but she’s also a brilliant mother to Maxwell and she’s always been pretty good to me.” Frances tucks a strand of hair behind her ears, composing herself. “The problem is, she takes after her dad. We each have different fathers from Mum’s different marriages. Her dad, Victor, is very money-oriented and he’s got Maggie thinking along the same lines. They both treated Mum like she was some kind of bank. Whenever they wanted money for something, they’d ask her; tug on the old heartstrings a little, and hey presto, she arranges for the money to be transferred into their accounts. Mum would help out as much as she could, but it reached a point where Maggie was constantly wanting more and more. Yes, my mother was a wealthy woman but even her finances aren’t finite. She had to do something, and typical Maggie flew off the handle about it all. They argued, and that was that.”

“But wouldn’t that split cause even more problems for your sister?” I ask softly.

Frances nods. “I guess she thought Mum would back down and continue giving her the money just because she didn’t want the two of them to be estranged, especially as Maggie could stop Mum from seeing her only grandchild, and Mum so doted on Maxwell. He loved his granny, too.”

“Have you been staying here with your mother?” Jack asks after checking some notes on his phone. “We thought you had your own flat in North London.”

Frances nods and sniffs into her tissues. “No, I don’t live here. I have got my own place, though I’ll probably sell it now.”

“Oh?” I prompt. “Do you want to get away from London? From all of the memories?”

I know all about that, believe me.

“No. It’s just that I’ll move in here. Mum left me this place.”

“How do you know that already?” Xanthe asks, appearing by her side.

“Mum told me,” she replies, sinking back into the chair’s cushions and curling her feet beneath her legs.

“Oh.” Xanthe steps back, retreating to the kitchen area, saying nothing further.

Hmm. That’s interesting. Does Xanthe, as executor of Cherry’s estate, think Frances shouldn’t be aware of the details of the will? Did Cherry want to keep its contents a secret for some reason?

“Is there anything else?” Frances asks wearily. “I took some herbal sleeping tablets a while back, and I think they’re kicking in. I feel exhausted.”

“Nothing else for now,” Jack says. “Yes, you get some rest if you can.”

Xanthe reappears to escort us out.

CHAPTER SEVEN

I hope Jack doesn’t notice the sigh of relief that escapes me once we’ve left London and are on our way to the Cotswold village of Hamberley On The Water. He’d suggested we take a quick detour so I could show him where I used to live and work, but the fact we’re already on a very tight timetable gave me a valid excuse to get out of that one.

“You feeling all right?” he asks, changing gear and swiftly manoeuvring the four wheel drive past a coach.

Sugar. I might have guessed he’d notice.

“Glad to be out of the city?” he adds, briefly slipping a hand into mine and squeezing gently before returning both hands to the steering wheel. “You did great. I know the place makes you feel nervous after what happened back when you were with your ex. Thanks for coming down here with me. It’s been a real help.”

I smile. “You know I’d do anything for you.”

A wicked grin creeps across his handsome features. He takes his eyes off the road for a second and flashes me a sexy look. “Anything?”

I bat him playfully on the arm. “Concentrate on your driving,” I pretend to chastise him.

He chuckles as he returns his gaze to the road. “I could be condemned to a jail cell soon. You wouldn’t want to deny your fiancé some love and affection, surely?”

“Don’t joke about such things! There’s no way you’re going to jail, Jack Mathis.”

I’m determined to help Jack as much as I can with this case. I’m going to clear his name, the way he cleared mine. To change the topic of conversation I say, “So, how far is it to this place in the Cotswolds? Time is getting on, and I really need to be back in Cumbria tonight.”

“Yeah, I know. If the motorway keeps running smoothly, then we should be there in an hour or so, I reckon.”

I settle back in my seat and close my eyes for a while to mull over everything that’s happened today, from dodging Adam to what the women said at Cherry’s place. After what can only be about five minutes, I sense the car slowing and open one eye to see what’s going on. Ahead of us, in the afternoon gloom, all I can see is the red glow of car brake lights. Then warning signs start appearing on the hard shoulder, advising of roadworks and possible delays. Jack swears under his breath. Hmm. My thoughts exactly. It’ll probably be hours now until we get through all of this and off the motorway to head for the Cotswolds.

Eventually, we arrive in Hamberley On The Water, which is a picturesque village of warm, honey-coloured stone buildings arranged along a bustling main street with a pretty stream running off to the side of the idyllic scene.

“Hey, that must be Maggie’s bakery,” I say, pointing out the window as Jack slows the car to take a look. “
Bakewells, The Celebrity Bakery
,” I read from the shop’s elegant signage.

Jack swings the car into a convenient slot on the busy village high street. “Let’s take a look.”

We clamber out and walk towards the bakery. A woman and a sulky-looking teenage boy are just coming out. She smiles and holds the door open for us. The interior is bright, all chrome and glass, with a modern vibe to it. There’s a sitting area where you can devour coffee and cake which is equally as trendy as the rest of the place. I’m checking out the baked goods on display in the cabinets, trying not to drool, when I hear Jack ask the woman behind the counter if Maggie is around.

“Sorry,” she says, beaming him a sad smile. “You just missed her. She was the woman who held the door open for you. She left early today, what with that terrible business with her mother.” She lowers her voice and rests her elbows on the top of the glass counter. “You do know she’s Cherry Bakewell’s daughter?”

“Yeah, that was what we wanted to talk to her about,” Jack replies.

The woman steps away from the counter, eyeing him suspiciously, and asks in a frosty tone, “You’re not a journalist, are you? Because if you are, I can tell you right now to get out because she won’t—”

Jack holds up both hands in a placating gesture and then passes her one of his business cards. She reads it and frowns. “Anyone can get fake cards easy enough online these days. You could still be a newshound, just pretending to be a good-guy investigator. I’m not telling you anything. Please leave.”

“If that’s what you want.” Jack turns to go, but as he does so he flashes a quick meet me outside look in my direction.

I find Jack waiting for me beneath a tree down by the stream. The spot where he’s standing almost seems enchanted in the late afternoon darkness of this gloomy February day.  The tree’s bare branches are laced with white fairy lights, and my knight in shining armour is gazing thoughtfully out over the babbling stream.

“Did you see that sign?” he asks, bringing me back to cold, hard reality.

“What sign?” I shiver. It’s chilly anyway, and standing next to the gushing water of the stream is making me feel even cooler. I should have remembered to grab my jacket when I got out of the car.

“Off to one side in the bakery, near the pay desk and counter,” he explains. “The bakery runs workshops on the premises. There’s one tomorrow. According to the promo materials, Maggie herself is teaching it.”

“What? Tomorrow? She must have cancelled it surely, in the circumstances.”

“It didn’t say it was cancelled. I thought you could book yourself on it. It would be a great way to get to see what Maggie’s like, maybe ask some questions but without it being related to the investigation. You’d just be another baking masterclass patron. What do you say? You’re always saying how your baking isn’t as good as you’d like it to be.”

I shoot him an irritated look, though he’s right. I’ve said that myself quite a few times since we first met.

“Lizzie?” he prompts. “What do you think?”

“But the workshop is tomorrow,” I protest. “I have to get home tonight. There’s the farm to take care off, my fruit and veg customer deliveries, my shift at the village store and—”

“Would you do this workshop if I took care of all that other stuff?” he asks, eyebrows raised questioningly.

“What?” I tilt my head. “You’re going to sort the farm, my deliveries and cover my work at the store? Even you can’t do all of that from down here in the Cotswolds.”

Jack shakes his head. “No, but I know some people who can. Just tell me you’ll agree to this, and I’ll sort everything else.”

I chew on my bottom lip as I debate. A tiny part of me is excited at the prospect of getting cake instruction from the queen of baking’s daughter. It could help me with the Delamere Baking Competition. That’s if I have time to attempt more baking and can come up with a cake worthy of entering the contest in time.

“Come on, Lizzie,” Jack says, pulling me close and nuzzling my neck. I sink happily into the warmth of him and the deliciously familiar smell of his aftershave. “I’ll owe you big time and will do anything you want me to when we get back home. You name it, I’ll do it.”

Hmm. Now that is a tempting offer. “OK,” I say, making my tone of voice sound far more reluctant than I actually feel at the prospect of this expert baking opportunity and my fiancé’s delicious promise. “I’ll do it.”

Jack steps back and rubs his hands together delightedly. “Brilliant. Time’s getting on, so you’d best go enrol.”

I hurry across the road, back towards Bakewells
,
and am horrified to see that the woman who was behind the counter earlier is now closing window blinds, and, by the look of things, is about to lock the front door.

In fact, by the time I get there she has locked the door. Wonderful. I knock and wave, and she mouths back, “Sorry, we’re closed.”

“It’s urgent!” I yell through the door. “Please. It will just take one moment. Honestly.”

She sighs but walks over to unlock. Yay!

“Yes?” she asks crisply.

“I want to book onto the workshop tomorrow please,” I reply.

“You’re lucky—there’s one space left.” She beckons me inside and locks the door again behind me. “I’ve cashed up for the night, so money and card payments will be a complete pain. I don’t suppose you can pay by cheque? I can put that through the till for tomorrow.”

By cheque? Seriously? Hardly anybody pays by cheque these days. I scramble around in my bag, and miracle of miracles find my unused new cheque book lurking at the bottom. I wave it excitedly in the air. “How much is the workshop?”

“Ninety five pounds,” she replies. “Make it payable to Maggie Bakewell.”

Ninety five pounds? Wow. Baking workshops are pricey.

“How many other people will be on the course?” I ask as I lean on the counter to scribble out the cheque.

“Five others, so with you that will be six in total. The workshops are held upstairs. Be here by eight sharp in the morning. The course finishes at three in the afternoon,” she explains, grabbing the cheque and ushering me back towards the door. “Lunch is included. You’ll all eat whatever you’ve made in the morning. Thanks, ‘bye!”

And with that she shuts and firmly locks and bolts the bakery door with me standing out in the cold again. I wonder what we’ll be making. Whatever it is, I will probably be the one going hungry, because whatever I create will most likely be raw or burnt, as usual. I hop back into the car.

Jack is waiting with an expectant look on his face. “Did you get on? Was there still space?”

“Yes, I got on,” I reply, clipping in my seatbelt. “Oh, and you owe me one hundred and twenty pounds.”

Jack frowns as he pulls the car out onto the high street. “I thought the sign said the workshop was ninety five pounds.”

“I’ve added on a fee for my services,” I say in a mock-haughty voice.

Jack leans over and, one eye on the road, plants a kiss on my cheek. “Fair enough. Well worth it, I reckon.”

“Did you organise things back home for me?”  I check as we leave the village en route to Cherry’s house in the country.

“Yep, all sorted. Emma and Frazer will keep things ticking over at Eskdale Top and Brenda will cover your shift at the store, no problem.”

I settle into my seat. “OK. Thanks. So, where are we staying tonight?”

“When you were in the bakery, I nipped into the fancy hotel on the high street. They’ve got a room for us tonight if you’d like to stay there, or we can take Xanthe up on the offer to stay at Cherry’s house in the country.”

“I don’t know. Wouldn’t it feel a bit uncomfortable being in her home like that? But, then again, as this was only supposed to be a daytrip, I don’t have a change of clothes or anything else with me, so a hotel might be awkward.”

“It’s too late to go shopping, as everywhere will be closed around here. The hotel probably has a laundry service, so we could use that,” he replies, turning onto a dark and narrow country lane. “Or, if we stay at the house, we could speak very nicely to the housekeeper and get her to do laundry for us.”

“I suppose,” I say, still feeling a bit awkward about staying anywhere with no luggage. I also feel guilty about abandoning Eskdale overnight and letting Brenda down about my shift at the store. Not to mention losing my money from that shift, especially after I’ve just forked out nearly one hundred pounds for a baking workshop I’m probably going to be the laughing stock of.

“So, what’ll it be?” Jack asks, pulling into an elegant long driveway flanked by stone lions on pedestals. “Hotel, or stay here at the Willows?”

As Jack stops the car, I notice the name of the house on the huge wooden gates blocking our way. He presses a buzzer and speaks into the intercom system to announce our arrival.

We pass some landscaped and floodlit lawns, huge shrubs and a veritable forest of trees before we finally park in front of the house. It’s a single-story sprawling barn, built with the same honey-coloured stone every establishment along the high street was made from back in Hamberley On The Water. A man and woman are standing outside, ready to greet us. She shakes our hands warmly, introducing herself as Tessa and the man beside her as her husband Chris, caretaker and handyman at the Willows. They’re both much younger than I’d expected. There’s something about the titles of housekeeper and caretaker which is a bit ageist, I suppose.

Tessa understandably is upset about Cherry, and Chris suggests that we all head inside for a chat. The kitchen is huge, but still dominated by a bright red Aga. It’s blissfully warm.  The large oak table in the centre of the room is already adorned with a plate of scones, a jar of what looks to be homemade jam and all sorts of other goodies.

“Please, take a seat,” Tessa says. “Xanthe explained who you are and how you’re helping the police with the investigation into what happened to…” Her words fade away as she’s unable to finish the sentence, too upset to continue. I notice Chris placing a comforting arm around her shoulders.

“Whatever you need from us, just say,” Chris says, taking over from his wife to speak. “You’ll be needing to look the place over. I’ll show you her office and her bedroom. That’s where she kept most things of importance.”

“Thanks,” Jack replies. “We won’t be in quite such a rush to sort things though, as there’s been a slight change of plan and we’ll be staying in the area tonight now.”

“Oh, you must stay here. No question about it,” Tessa insists, starting to pour tea from a heavy-looking teapot dressed in a red knitted cosy—complete with a fabric signature Cherry Bakewell cake on its top.