Murder At The Bake Off (Celebrity Mysteries 3) (8 page)

Why? What is it going to do?

Her hand is already on the door and I know I need to stall her and ask some questions.

“Don’t you feel weird about being here today?” I ask, lowering my voice and pasting a worried expression on my face. “You know, with what happened…”

Letting go of the door, she steps towards me, relief in her eyes. “You feel it too? I thought it was just me. Everyone seems to be carrying on as though all is right with the world but poor Maggie is grieving her mother.”

“I know.” I nod encouragingly. “Such a dreadful business. I’d heard Maggie and Cherry didn’t get on that well, but even so, they were still mother and daughter. She must be devastated.”

“According to local gossip, the only time they ever saw each other was when Maggie went to collect or drop off Maxwell with Cherry for their regular play dates. I feel so sorry for Maxwell, poor kid. He’s got a miserable home life—bickering parents and now his beloved granny has been poisoned. He came to my Neville’s birthday party last year, and Maggie gave me strict instructions that Maxwell was only allowed to eat the food in the lunchbox he’d brought with him. He’s gluten intolerant, you know. All the other kids were gorging themselves on cake, trifle and chocolate and Maxey had to sit there eating his gluten-free scones with sugar free jam.”

“Do you know what Maggie and her mum fell out over?”

Sandy Bun nods. “Money, I think. Cherry must have been very wealthy and rumour has it Maggie wanted some of that wealth for herself and her mum must have thought otherwise.”

I frown, playing along. “I’d heard it was Cherry’s money that set up this place. Sounds to me as though she’s been more than generous in doling out the cash.”

“I don’t think the money was for herself. Maggie’s hubby’s business would have gone under if it wasn’t for Cherry bailing him out, so they say.”

My, my, the local gossips have been busy, haven’t they?

“What does he do again?” I check. Flashing a curious look in Sandy Bun’s direction. “The husband?”

“Something to do with healthy living herbal supplements, I think. He operates out of an industrial unit on the Oakgrove Trading Estate. Sounds a bit dodgy, if you ask me. I mean, those herbal things can have all sorts of bad side effects, right?”

They can indeed.

Thirty minutes later, after much anxious watching of ovens, people start to remove their loaves. Maggie invites us all to crowd around each workstation in turn to see what our little group of bakers has created. Gabby’s loaf, unsurprisingly, looks perfect and smells delicious, as do most of the others. One is a little burnt around the edges, but the woman who made it doesn’t seem too disheartened, and Maggie, in encouraging-teacher-mode, heaps on the praise, saying what a good texture the loaf has and how ingenious her choice of added ingredients are. Finally, it’s my turn. I open the oven and hold my breath. Oven mitts firmly in place, I slide the baking sheet out and carefully place it on the worktop. Removing the upturned Pyrex dish from the top of the loaf is tricky, especially while wearing hefty orange oven gloves making my hands all the clumsier. But I get there eventually, my cheeks flushed red from the exertion and the scrutinizing gazes of my audience of eager bakers.

“Looks good, Lizzie,” Maggie says, nodding approvingly. “Great job.”

Wow. Oh,
wow
. Cherry Bakewell’s daughter just praised my rye bread. Yay! Maybe I am finally getting the hang of this baking lark. It probably helps that this is a modern oven with clear and reliable controls. Back home at Eskdale, the range has a mind of its own and it’s always a bit of a gamble as to what temperature it’s running at on any given day, hence my frequent burnt or raw offerings. Well, OK, there is an old saying about a bad workman blaming his tools and all that, but the fact this loaf has turned out fine might suggest it’s not just me who is at fault. Surely the Aga-with-a-mind-of-its-own has to share the blame, too.

Everyone enjoys a cup of tea or coffee as we wait ten long minutes for the loaves to cool. I’m so excited to try mine. Throughout the whole taste test of everyone else’s loaves, I ooh and ahh along with the others. Some of the loaves are perfect and delicious (Gabby and Sandy Bun’s creations being my favourites) and others are nice but not overly yummy. Maggie gently suggests this is down to choice of additional ingredients, rather than any issues with the loaves themselves. Now, it’s my turn. I lift the loaf from the baking sheet to transfer it to a wooden board for Maggie to cut and try, but the supposed-to-be-non-stick sheet comes away with the loaf.

“Maybe you didn’t use enough oil on the sheet when you greased it before adding the loaf,” Maggie says, unperturbed.

Oops. More like I completely forgot to use any oil. Still, I should be able to peel the paper off the bottom of the loaf easy enough. Shouldn’t I?

Ten minutes later, I’m still peeling. There’s a pile of bits of paper on my workstation, but more than half of the bottom of the loaf crust is still covered with the stupid stuff. I think the manufacturers of this sheet should be sued for calling it non-stick.

“Let’s slice the top off horizontally, shall we?” Maggie says, with a seen-it-all-before smile, wielding her knife. “We can try it that way.”

She slices a big chunk off and deftly chops it into little pieces. She tries it first, offering me the plate to take a piece myself before everyone else gets to sample it. I watch Maggie’s face for any good or bad signs as she chews thoughtfully on my raisin and mixed spice bread.

“I think you might have been a tad heavy on the mixed spice,” she eventually says.

I pop a piece into my mouth and instantly get an unpleasantly strong hit of mixed spice. Trying not to cough, I quickly chew and swallow the rest of the piece. OK, I admit my baking abilities are still rubbish after all. Everyone offers words of encouragement, and before I have time to wallow in my failure, we’re off onto the next project. This time it’s a gluten-free tart. My phone rings just as I’m pondering if there’s such a thing as a tart filling I can’t ruin. Everyone turns to stare at me as though I have committed the ultimate sin.

Maggie simply gives me a pointed smile and says, “If you wouldn’t mind…”

I check caller ID and see that it’s Jack. Maybe he has some kind of important information about the case and needs me to ditch the rest of the workshop to help him out. This could be the perfect escape call. I exit the room saying, “Sorry, got to take this.”

I answer the phone the second the door closes behind me. “Jack? What is it? What’s wrong? Do you need me to ditch this baking thing right now?”

“Hey, slow down, nothing’s wrong,” he replies easily. “Why do you sound so high-pitched and panicky?” I don’t want to share the details of my baking disaster, and before I can think of what to say, Jack adds, “Did you burn whatever you were making? Was it totally inedible?”

Charming. That’s the first thing he thinks of—my culinary incompetence. “No,” I reply, feeling a bit miffed. “It was edible. There was a baking sheet mishap, that’s all.”

“You mean it stuck and you had to pry it off with a crowbar?” Do I detect a slight hint of sarcasm in his voice? “Want an excuse to get out of class?”

Oh, yes, please
.

“No,” I say defiantly, trying to sound as though I mean it. I turn around and see that everyone else is gathered around Maggie’s workstation again and she’s pointing out the various ingredients she has ready for the next challenge. Is that some kind of super-duper food processor she’s assembling? Wonderful. I don’t fancy getting to grips with one of those. Why can’t I bake like all those other women in there? Am I missing the baking gene?

“OK. Your call,” he says. “Found out anything useful?”

“Possibly,” I reply, cheering up at the prospect of passing on the information I’ve gleaned so far.  I glance back into the kitchen, and Gabby spots me, waving frantically for me to get off the phone and join them. I smile, point at the phone to try and silently explain I’m needed elsewhere for the moment. Turning away, I take a few steps down the stairs, just in case anybody can lip-read.  “I overheard some of the women saying about how Maggie’s husband runs some herbal supplement business. You can do all sorts of things with those herbs, good and bad.”

“True.”

I lower my voice. “Do you think this guy could be the murderer?”

“It’s a possibility,” he replies. “But why would he want her dead? If Cherry’s money was bankrolling his business, she’d have been worth more to him alive.”

“Maybe he wanted Maggie to inherit a bucket load of money so they could spend it how they want. He probably resented having to go cap in hand to Cherry for funds,” I reason.

“Risky. As they were estranged, Cherry might not have left Maggie any money,” he counters.

“Any news yet on what was in the cakes which poisoned Cherry?”

“Nah. My sources are failing me on that front. It has been confirmed as poison; they’re just not keen to divulge what it was. Are you sure you don’t want to ditch the baking and come with me to visit this herbal place? After that, we can get on the road and head home.”

“In that case, absolutely. I’ll meet you outside Bakewell’s in ten minutes,” I say, cheered at the thought of getting out of class before I embarrass myself even further. I end the call, and as I walk back into the kitchen to grab my bag and coat, I rack my brain for a suitable excuse to leave mid-demonstration.

“Come along,” Maggie says, spotting me. “You haven’t missed much. I was just demonstrating some of the equipment we’ll be using.”

“I’m sorry,” I say, pasting an apologetic smile on my face. “I’ve got to leave. Family emergency.”

I was expecting Maggie to disapprove and then mutter about how they can’t offer me a part-refund, but instead her face clouds over with what looks like genuine concern. “Oh, how dreadful for you. I hope everything will be all right. When you have time, just ring the bakery and arrange to book on another one of our courses of your choosing, free of charge, no time limit.”

Wow, that’s kind—and generous—for a woman everyone is claiming to be having financial problems.

“Thank you,” I mumble as I pull on my coat and head for the door.

I barely hear Gabby’s voice saying she hopes things turn out fine before the door closes behind me and I take the stairs as fast as I can away from my baking nightmare. I’m only pacing up and down the street outside the bakery for a few minutes before I see Jack’s car heading along the road. I clamber inside and clip in my seatbelt.

He leans over and plants a kiss full on my mouth and our lips linger, the spark between us showing we’re both contemplating prolonging the moment. I strain to lean in and Jack swiftly releases my seatbelt, freeing me to scoot closer. His hands travel to my waist, urging me to get closer still. I give in to temptation and the handbrake jabs uncomfortably into my thigh as I wrap my arms around his neck and the kiss deepens. The sound of nearby voices breaks the moment and, recognising we’re parked on a busy road and probably drawing attention to ourselves, I reluctantly ease away. Besides, we have work to do.

“Later?” I rain check.

He nods and slips the car into gear. “What did you make of Maggie this morning?” he asks.

“She actually seems pretty nice. She even looked worried for me when I made up some excuse about a family emergency and having to leave. She also said I should ring the bakery when I feel like it to book onto another course for free. Seems odd for a woman with money troubles, don’t you think?”

“Hmm. Yeah, guess so. I’ll have to do more digging on Maggie and her husband’s finances. In the meantime, shall we go and find this herbal business he runs and see if that provides any help with the investigation? Do you know where it is or what it’s called?”

“It’s on a place called the Oakgrove Trading Estate. That’s as much as I found out.”

Jack pulls over, taps away on his phone for directions, and then we’re off again. The Oakgrove is a small cluster of businesses on the edge of a nearby market town.

When we get there, we drive along the road at a snail’s pace, passing a garage, a plumbers’ merchants and various offices.

The road eventually curves round into a dead end, and there, in the furthest corner, is a low oblong building with
Herbal Health For You
on a sign above the nondescript entrance door. We park up.

“Now what? Are we going in there?” I ask.

“May as well. Let’s go and see what kind of products they sell, shall we?”

CHAPTER NINE

When we reach the door, we find it locked. It doesn’t look like the kind of place where the general public can wander inside. There’s a buzzer to the right of the entrance. Jack leans his thumb heavily on it, and we stand and wait. No reply. He leans on the buzzer again.

“Yes?” a curt female voice echoes through the security box.

“We run a health food store and would like to talk to somebody about possibly using your supplements,” Jack ad-libs.

“The manager isn’t in right now,” the female replies. “Could you could back later?”

Great customer service.

“No, we’re only in the area for a few hours,” Jack says. “There must be somebody we can talk to. Get some ideas on prices. Do you want the business or not?”

The woman sighs, and there’s a clanking and buzzing sound. “You’d better come in, then. The manger, as I said, is out right now, but the owner is here. I’ll see if he can spare a few moments for you. ”

The reception area is tiny. Just a black counter with a phone on it and walls covered in posters of smiling, happy and healthy people. Presumably they’re all shining examples of what taking the supplements this place makes can do for you, your health and your life.

“Wait here. I’ll get someone to see you,” the woman who had let us in announces.

A few minutes later, a man with a shock of ginger hair steps into the reception area. He lifts part of the counter and beckons us through to his office which is also tiny, and very cluttered. He clears some space on the floor and pulls out two chairs, inviting us to take a seat. Grabbing some folders off the top of a filing cabinet, he flops into a seat behind his desk. “So, you wanted to talk about stocking some of our products,” he says, scratching at his scruffy ginger beard.

“
Possibly
stocking,” Jack corrects. “I’m Jack and this is Lizzie. Sorry, I don’t think I caught your name,” he adds pointedly, because this man hasn’t introduced himself.

“My apologies.” He gets to his feet and offers a hand to shake. “I own Metcalfe Supplements, I’m Rudy Metcalfe.”

“Metcalfe Supplements?” I check. “I thought this place was called Herbal Help For You.”

“That’s the name we sell the supplements under,” the man explains to me as though I’m stupid.

“It’s good to meet the face behind the business,” Jack says. “So, tell us, how did you get into the herbal supplement market? Do you have a background in natural medicine? In herbalism?”

“My mother did, yes, but only in an informal way. After I went to university to do a business management degree, I was looking for a project to develop and Madeleine, that’s my mum, was making and selling herbal products from home and on market stalls. So I took the business to the next level, got proper premises and licences and created Metcalfe Supplements. We’ve been operating for many years and are a family business. My mother is still involved in formulations. I think that says a lot about a business, don’t you? When it’s been trading successfully for years and holds true to family values.”

He fidgets in his seat, briefly glancing away, and I think I spot the tell-tale signs that he’s fibbing to us. Of course, I also have the advantage of knowing that things haven’t all been smooth sailing around here and that Cherry had been keeping this business afloat via the money she’d been giving to Maggie, Rudy’s wife.

“It’s good you’ve got the family history and knowledge about herbs, and the proper licences as well, you say. It’s reassuring. Herbs, if used wrongly or in the incorrect amounts, can be so dangerous, can’t they?” I ask, watching Rudy carefully.

He nods but doesn’t look at me. “Right, well, here’s the details of the products we sell and the trade prices.” He pushes the folder on top of his desk in our direction. “Is there anything else I can help you with?”

“Maybe a tour of the premises?” Jack suggests.

“Of course. I’d be delighted to show you around,” Rudy says, looking anything but.

We follow him through a door into the factory area, where a handful of employees are hard at work. I have no idea what they’re doing, but there’s various impressive bits of machinery and loads of small green plastic bottles and packing boxes.

“We’ll only stock the best products,” I warn, looking around.

“Rest assured we only use the highest pharmaceutical grade of herbs here, mostly imported from the countries which have the very best growing conditions to maximise the natural benefits of each plant, leaf, flower or root. This is a precision business, operating to the highest standards,” Rudy replies, shooting me a look of irritation.

Back in the car, I flick through the folder of products he gave us, taking in the various names of the herbs. Echinacea. Avena Sativa. Dandelion. Nettle. Skullcap. Valerian. Ginseng. Agnus Castus. St John’s Wort.  I recognise Echinacea as a widely-used herb to fight colds and boost the immune system. I know you can get dandelion and nettle in teas to use as a bit of a home detox for the digestive system. Valerian is a sedative, I think. I’m not sure about the others. No doubt, we’ll be hitting the internet to look for any cautions about use of these herbs as soon as we can.

“So, what do you think?” I check with Jack. “Could Rudy have used herbs to poison Cherry?”

“Good question. One of many we’ll need to find answers to when we get home.”

Home. Several hours later, after a nightmare of a journey on the M6 due to a combination of heavy traffic and roadworks, we finally arrive back at Eskdale Top. It feels so good to be home again. As I make us some hot drinks, I watch Jack checking his messages about the investigation. “Anything useful?”

He shrugs and puts his phone down, rubbing at his eyes. “Not sure. I’ll need to call a few people back and see.”

Placing a mug of coffee in front of him, I gently massage his shoulders. “It’s late, Jack. Leave it until the morning. Today feels as though it’s been going on forever, as it is. Let’s finish these drinks and head up to bed. You are staying over, right?”

He half-turns and takes my hand. “Are you propositioning me?” he asks cheekily, the tiredness now vanished from his eyes.

I grin. “I might well be.”

“Forget the drinks,” he says, quickly getting to his feet and gently tugging me towards the stairs. “Let’s just go to bed.”

The following morning, I’m in one of the greenhouses checking on the winter salad leaves when Jack tracks me down. “I’ve just had a call from the Delamere Festival organiser. She’s holding a meeting to update everyone on what’s happening since Cherry’s demise. As the security guy, I need to get over there straight away. Want to come with me?”

“Yes, and no,” I say, carefully closing the greenhouse door. “Yes, on the curiosity side, but no, because I’ve a heap of stuff to catch up with around here and I’m beat after all the rushing around of the past two days.” Not to mention I’m exhausted. I didn’t get a huge amount of sleep last night. Fooling around with Jack was one reason. Lying awake in the dark much later, worrying myself silly about clearing Jack’s name was another.

Jack shrugs. “No worries. I’ll head over there now then, leave you to sort things at this end.”

Mentally, I quickly run through what I need to sort. It should all be doable later. I can work through into the early evening if necessary. It’ll be dark by then, but I can still get most of my jobs done. Plus, curiosity, as is often the case with me, has got the better of me. “Wait!” I shout across the farmyard. “I’m coming, too.”

The festival meeting is taking place in Delamere’s village hall. Delamere’s a touristy haven next to the lake, surrounded by hills. In size, it is somewhere between a large village and a small town, and it’s a mecca for walkers and climbers, as well as those who want to potter around the craft shops and art galleries and just enjoy the scenery. When we arrive at the community hall, the festival organiser Tammy Whiteley is already sitting at the head of the table, surrounded by the people involved in getting the festival up and running. There are a couple of empty chairs at the other end of the room, so we slip into them and wait for Tammy to start the meeting. A woman is sitting next to her who I swear looks just like Petula Musgrove, second only in the baking stakes to Cherry Bakewell. I lean forward to get a better look, trying not to be caught gawping at her. Yes, it is Petula Musgrove—I’m certain of it. Of course. I remember now she’s one of the other judges for the cake competition.

“Right, ladies and gentlemen,” Tammy shouts above the general hum of chatter. “I’ll update you on the latest. We were, of course, without a judge for the main baking competition due to what happened to poor Cherry Bakewell.” She stops and visibly shudders, then gathers herself and presses on. “Of course, we did contemplate cancelling the whole festival, not just the competition, as a mark of respect, but after much debate and consulting with all parties involved, we will continue as planned. I’m thrilled and relieved to announce that another baking legend has very kindly agreed to step in as the new judge. Please, a round of applause if you will, to thank Mrs. Musgrove for helping us out at the last moment.”

Everyone claps and thanks Petula, who smiles graciously and nods in acknowledgement. When the applause fades away, Petula gets to her feet. “Thank you. Though the police investigating the, er, incident with Cherry have assured me that I’m not in danger, I am naturally still rather concerned for my own safety. For this reason, I have declined the opportunity to stay at the Roseby Hotel seeing as their security has already been called into question. I have decided to instead seek accommodation with one of you. You’re all committed to the festival and are all locals too. I very much doubt one of you is a murderer. I feel this will be safer and a more anonymous way for me to stay in Delamere until after the festival.” She clears her throat before continuing, “I understand the festival has a security coordinator?”

Jack stands up. “That would be me, Mrs. Musgrove. Jack Mathis, from Mathis Investigations.”

She eyes him up and down, and, though she must easily be thirty years his senior, I’m sure I spot a wishful gleam in her eyes at the sight of him. “In that case, Jack, I will be staying with you. Do you live here in Delamere?”

“No, ma’am. In a village on the other side of the mountain pass, about a thirty minute drive away. There’s probably somebody far more convenient for you to stay with here in town,” he suggests gently.

Several women who live in Delamere offer Petula the chance to stay with them, but she ignores each and every one of them. Moving over to Jack, she links an arm through his, saying, “I think I’ll feel far safer with this young man. Oh, and Jack, sweetie, it’s Ms. Musgrove these days, not Mrs. And you can call me Petal, short for Petula.”

I struggle to hide an entirely inappropriate smile at the sight of Jack’s worried face. He obviously doesn’t want Petula as a houseguest. I know it has nothing to do with being responsible for keeping the new bake-off judge alive and everything to do with the fact he actually looks a tad scared of her. A former special agent, he usually doesn’t baulk at any dangerous situation he encounters during the course of an investigation—except, it appears, having Petula Musgrove living in his home and flirting with him. Not that Jack’s at home that much, anyway, between his work and the time he spends up at Eskdale Top with me. I wonder if Petula realises she might be spending a lot of time home alone at Jack’s place.

The meeting continues apace, and every little detail is analysed to ensure the whole festival goes off without any further hitches—at least, that’s what we all sincerely hope happens.

As soon as the meeting concludes, Petula announces she’s off to collect her luggage from the storeroom at the back of the hall, and then she’ll be right back so Jack can take her home. She even added a little wink after she said it, and Jack’s face went a bit pale.

“You’ve got to help me,” he whisper-hisses in my ear. “She can stay at Eskdale with you, can’t she? My place is a tiny terraced cottage, you’ve got loads of room so she’ll be far more comfortable with you. Plus, it works out that I’m at Eskdale more than I’m at home anyway.”

“You wouldn’t be scared of Petula Musgrove, now would you?” I tease. “She likes you.”

“That’s exactly what I’m worried about,” he says quietly, running an anxious hand through his hair. “Please, Catwoman, you can handle her much better than I’d be able to. Please, do it for me.”

He clasps my hands tightly as we both spot Petula walking towards us, pulling her red suitcase on wheels behind her and smiling at Jack like the cat who got the cream. “Oh, Jack, sweetie, I’m ready when you are.”

Jack half turns away from Petula and leans in close to my ear, saying, “Save me.”

I take pity on him and decide to try to persuade Petula to lodge with me instead, but I don’t think for one moment it’s going to be easy. She definitely has her eye on my fiancé. Standing up, I introduce myself. “Petula, I’m Lizzie.”

“My fiancée,” Jack adds pointedly, standing a bit behind me as though I’m shielding him from danger.

“We were just saying it would be much more comfortable for you to stay up at Eskdale Top with me. It’s a small farm in the middle of nowhere, so far quieter and off the beaten track, and much safer, too. Nobody would track you down up there. I have more room than Jack does so…”

Petula wrinkles her nose. “I don’t like farms. They’re dirty, smelly places. Anyway, I’m perfectly happy staying with Jack.”