A Bitter Feast

by Deborah Crombie

  When they emerged from the leafy tunnel of upper Becky Hill Road, the verge outside the entrance to Beck House was already lined with cars. A young bearded man was turning cars away from the Beck House drive. Ivan raised a hand to him, and as they reached the house, Kincaid saw that the graveled forecourt was filled as well.

  Ivan garaged the car, and as they walked back across the drive he stopped for a moment, scanning the sky and raising his nose to the wind. “So far, so good,” he told Kincaid. The day was still fine, and warm enough to encourage shirtsleeves. “Fingers crossed.”

  A handsome woman dressed in elegant but efficient-looking dark trousers and blouse met them at the open door. “Sir Ivan. We were getting quite worried about you.” She gave Kincaid an interested look as she stepped aside.

  “We had some things to attend to,” said Ivan easily. “Duncan, this is Rosalind Dunning, my wife’s personal secretary. Where is Lady Addie, Roz?”

  “In the garden. Almost everyone has arrived.”

  “And Viv?”

  “In the kitchen.”

  “Well, hold the fort. There are some stragglers coming in now.” Ivan headed for the kitchen and Kincaid followed, curious.

  There was no mistaking the woman who stood at the stove, her back to them. Tall and slender, she wore a white chef’s jacket and houndstooth trousers. Her short blond hair was platinum pale and stood up on top as if she’d been raking her hands through it. Kincaid thought he heard her mutter, “Bloody caramel,” before she turned, whisk in hand, and gave a little gasp. “Sir Ivan. I didn’t hear you.”

  “Not to worry, Viv. I know you’re rushed off your feet. I just wanted to say I was sorry about your friend.”

  “I— He wasn’t— But thank you.”

  Kincaid thought that under other circumstances, Viv Holland would be more than attractive. She had the good bones necessary to carry off the boy-short hair, and her very fair skin and light blue eyes suggested that the platinum hair might be natural.

  At the moment, however, her eyes were red-rimmed and she rubbed the back of her whisk-free hand across her cheeks. “Sorry,” she added, with a glance at Kincaid. “I didn’t mean to be rude. You look as if you’ve been in the wars.”

  “This is Duncan Kincaid,” said Ivan. “I think you’ll have met his wife, Gemma.”

  “Yes, Gemma’s been a brick. Nice to meet you.”

  Kincaid realized Viv Holland must have no idea he’d been in the accident that had killed Nell Greene and Fergus O’Reilly, and now was certainly not the time to tell her.

  “We’ll get out of your—” he began, when he heard a door bang and his son came barreling into the kitchen.

  “Chef Viv—” said Kit, then stopped when he saw them. “Dad!” He reached Kincaid in two long strides and threw his arms round him as if he were Charlotte’s age.

  “Ow,” Kincaid managed, on an indrawn breath. “I’m glad to see you, too. But take it easy, sport.”

  Kit stepped back. “Oh, sorry. I didn’t mean— I just—” He took in Kincaid’s bandaged hand and head. “You’re really hurt.”

  “I’m fine. Just a bit sore. I—”

  “Oh, of course, you’re Kit’s dad,” said Viv. “How stupid of me.” She beamed at him then, her obvious pleasure erasing the stress lines from her face. “Kit’s the best. He’s been my sous-chef today. I’d never have managed without him.”

  Kit colored with what Kincaid guessed was embarrassment and pride. “Anyone could have done it,” Kit mumbled, retreating towards the scullery. To Viv, he said, “Lady Addie sent me to tell you that all the trout pots are on the tables. She’s going to seat people in just a few minutes.”

  “That’s our cue, I think,” Kincaid was saying, once again trying to make an exit, when the sound of raised voices came from the front hall.

  A moment later, a large man entered the kitchen. Kincaid registered broad shoulders constrained in a navy sports jacket, and as the man’s glance raked him, vivid blue eyes in an outdoorsy tanned face.

  “Viv.” The man almost knocked into Ivan as he came to a halt, but he seemed oblivious. “Viv, I’ve been trying to reach you. What the hell is going on? What’s this about some bloke who was in the pub being in the car with Nell?”

  “Mark!” The smile on Viv’s face vanished. “What are you doing in here? I can’t—I can’t talk about this right now.”

  Roz Dunning appeared, from the hall. “Sir Ivan, I told Mark that Viv was busy—”

  “It’s all right, Roz. Just mind the door and make certain everyone gets headed to the garden.” Then Ivan turned to the interloper, putting a firm hand on the man’s shoulder. “Mark.” Kincaid’s fuzzy brain made the connection. This was the man with the collies. But what did he have to do with Viv Holland? “I’m sure you and Viv can get this all sorted,” Ivan continued, “but Viv has had a bit of a shock, and she needs to concentrate on the lunch now.”

  “But I don’t understand—”

  “The one thing I completely understand is that Addie will have us strung up if we don’t get out of Viv’s way and join the party. Let’s get a drink, shall we?”

  Adroitly, he used his grip on the man’s shoulder to turn him round and head him out of the kitchen. Following, Kincaid saw Mark send a last troubled glance towards Viv Holland.

  Standing at the far edge of the terrace, Melody surveyed the party in progress. She had to admit that her mum had managed to pull it off. In spite of the tragedies, an injured guest, a traumatized chef, and a visit from the police, the luncheon was going swimmingly.

  Craft cocktails in hand, the luncheon guests chatted on the terrace or drifted about the garden admiring the herbaceous borders, waiting for the signal to take their seats. The long pine tables on the pergola lawn, red-and-white-checked cloths tossed casually across them, looked just rustic enough to offset the delicacy of the mismatched vintage china and glassware. Multihued dahlias mixed with bronze rose hips spilled carelessly from the large jam jars scattered along the tables, but Melody, recognizing her mother’s fine hand in the arranging, knew that the artlessness was carefully achieved.

  A little sigh escaped her. She felt awkward, as always, held up to her mother’s talents. Doug, she saw, was still admiring the garden—and her mum—with wide-eyed rapture. Before she could go too far down that resentful road, Gemma appeared beside her, having fetched two drinks. She handed one to Melody and raised her own glass. “Cheers. We deserve this. Wow,” she added, eyes wide, when she’d taken a sip. “That’s fabulous. What’s in it?”

  Melody took a meditative swallow. “Local gin, I’m sure. See, that’s the distiller over there.” She nodded discreetly towards a young man with shaggy brown hair who was deep in animated conversation with a small round woman in an unfortunate russet tunic that made her look like an apple. “Mixed with local craft-distilled ginger beer. And fresh lime, I think. And”—she studied her glass—“something to make it pink and slightly bitter. Aperol, maybe. I think it’s Viv’s recipe from the pub.”

  “Whatever it is, I like it.” Gemma sipped some more. “Who are all these people?” she asked, surveying the crowd.

  “Local VIPs from the parish and the villages. The vicar. Farmers and food producers. The woman by the dishy distiller makes the most amazing cheeses. And see that tall, dark, brooding bloke over by the pergola, the one that looks straight out of a romance novel? He owns the cider orchard. Unfortunately for his single admirers, he’s happily married and has four kids. Mum is serving some of his cider at lunch, so be warned—that stuff is straight out of the cask and will hit you like a sledgehammer.”

  Gemma grinned. “Point taken. But some of these people look like city types to me.”

  “There are some food bloggers and restaurant critics. I don’t know them, but I saw the guest list. And that man”—Melody gave another nod, this time in the direction of a middle-aged, balding man in a seersucker jacket who was waving his glass as he held forth to Addie—“is the food critic for the paper. Drea
dful taste in clothes, but he’s a big gun.”

  “So lots of pressure—and big opportunities—for Viv,” Gemma said thoughtfully. Melody, familiar with Gemma’s thought processes, sipped her pink drink and watched her, waiting to see what would come next. “Your dad,” Gemma continued. “How’s he going to handle the death of a celebrity chef practically on his doorstep?”

  “I’ve been wondering the same thing.” Melody had seen her dad arrive with Kincaid. “I don’t think he can afford to have another source scoop the paper. And if he leads with the story, it’s bound to come out that Mum and Dad live in the village, but it would at least give him damage control.”

  “Surely they don’t try to keep that secret?”

  “No. But they don’t advertise it, either, and it’s not usually newsworthy . . .”

  “Awkward for Viv, though,” said Gemma. “Won’t it cast a pall on this lunch?”

  Melody shrugged. “Maybe not. You know what they say—”

  “Any publicity is good publicity,” Gemma finished for her.

  Thinking of Viv’s stricken face, Melody wasn’t so sure. What exactly had Viv’s relationship been with Fergus O’Reilly, and why had she never mentioned it?

  Well, people had their reasons for keeping things to themselves, as she very well knew. But the thought of relationships had struck a nerve. She’d managed to keep the photo Doug had shown her that morning pushed to the back of her mind as long as she was busy. She knew that she and Andy had agreed from the beginning not to make their relationship public. She, because she didn’t want the attention at work or from her parents. Andy, because both his and Poppy’s managers had stressed that fans liked to imagine there was a hint of romance between the two. But that photo? Really? What was he thinking?

  Damn Doug for showing it to her. And damn Andy for prostituting himself for the tabloids. Assuming that was what he was doing. But what if what the camera had captured had been real?

  Her mobile, tucked in the little bag she’d thrown over the shoulder of her sundress, rang. When she fished it out, Andy’s face popped up on the lock screen as if summoned. Melody stared at it for a long moment, aware of Gemma’s gaze.

  Then she swiped Decline and dropped the mobile back into her bag.

  Kincaid had spotted Gemma as soon as he stepped out on the terrace. She’d been adjusting the chairs at one of the long, decorated tables, but as soon as she saw him she hurried to him, her brow creased in a frown of concern.

  “Darling, did Ivan take you to hospital after all?”

  “No. Just his doctor in Cheltenham. She says I’m fine.”

  “You don’t look fine.”

  “Don’t worry.” He pulled her in for a hug with his good arm and kissed her forehead. “I’ve seen Kit, but where are the rest of the hooligans?”

  “They’re with Viv Holland’s daughter, Grace, and the dogs in the sitting room. Addie’s organized some games and snacks for them in there. I did make Toby and Charlotte change, and it was a struggle, I can tell you. But Kit’s been—”

  She was interrupted by Addie, who took her by the arm, saying, “Gemma, darling, do you mind? I’ve some guests who are dying to meet you.”

  Then Ivan brought someone to meet Kincaid, and when he turned to find Gemma again, she’d been seated at Addie’s table between two rather florid-looking gentlemen in country tweeds.

  Feeling suddenly woozy, he took a chair at the nearest table and found he’d sat beside the man who’d accosted Viv Holland in the kitchen. From the frown on the chap’s face, he was still angry, and he knocked back a glass of the pink gin drink as if it were water. Kincaid had taken one sip from the glass a server had offered him and decided his head felt fuzzy enough without alcoholic help.

  “I’m Duncan Kincaid,” he said, holding out his uninjured hand. “I think you must be the fellow who’s looking after Nell Greene’s dog.”

  This earned him a stare, but lessened the scowl a bit. “Mark Cain.” Cain gave his hand a perfunctory shake, but his grip was firm and dry. “How’d you know about Bella?”

  “My wife works with Melody Talbot. That’s Gemma, over there.” He gestured at the next table. Ensconced between the two men, who both seemed to be talking to her, Gemma, in her red poppy-print sundress, looked as if she’d been dropped into the setting by a painter. “She and I and our kids are guests of the Talbots for the weekend. I’m very sorry about your friend Nell.”

  Shaking his head, Cain took another sip of his drink. “I still can’t believe it. She was fine yesterday. I suppose you never think you can lose someone in the blink of an eye.” He gave Kincaid a closer inspection. “What happened to you, then?”

  “The same accident,” Kincaid said, a little reluctantly, but it would have to come out, and he had questions of his own.

  Cain frowned at him. “What? What do you mean?”

  “I was in the other car.”

  “Oh. My God.” Cain seemed to deflate, his skin blanching under the tan. “I heard the accident was at the T-junction, but somehow I didn’t think about anyone else being involved . . . You must have— Did you see her? Nell?”

  “Only for a moment.” Kincaid was unwilling to share more. Everyone was seated now, and cheerful women in aprons had brought round baskets, some filled with crisp, seed-coated crackers, others with small labeled jars. “I take it we’re to help ourselves, picnic style,” he said in an effort to defuse the tension. He picked up the little pot.

  Ignoring the food, Cain clutched his drink and said, “Did you see him, too? The man with Nell?”

  “Not really,” Kincaid hedged. “It was pretty chaotic.”

  “Oh, Christ,” Cain said, as realization seemed to strike him. “That was thoughtless of me. I can see you were hurt. Very lucky to be in one piece, I imagine. And your car?”

  “Totaled. But as you said, I was very lucky.”

  “I just wondered . . .” Cain fiddled with his glass. “Well, if you had any idea who the bloke was. Jack, the barman at the Lamb, said he was in the pub last night. But he wasn’t with Nell, at least not then.”

  Kincaid had no intention of giving him Fergus O’Reilly’s name—information that was, as far as he knew, known only to the police, the Talbots, and Viv Holland, and was still speculative. “Not being local, I’m not really in the loop,” he said with a shrug. Taking a bite of what turned out to be trout spread, he realized that he was starving. “This is amazing.”

  “The trout is from a trout farm near Stow. They smoke it themselves. And of course the recipe for the spread is Viv’s.”

  “I take it you’re friends with Chef Viv.”

  Cain frowned and took another slug of his drink. Had he even registered that Kincaid had been in the kitchen when he’d shouted at her? But then he gave Kincaid a sharp look and said, “Heard that, did you? Well, obviously, I thought we were . . . I suppose you could say ‘friends.’ Very low key, you understand, because this is a small place and Viv didn’t want tongues wagging. But as of yesterday evening, Viv has cut me off like I was the plague. And Jack, the barman at the pub, said Viv knew the bloke in the car with Nell, and Jack sent the cops up here to talk to her about him.”

  “Ah.” Kincaid ate some more trout spread while he thought about this. “I can see you’d want to know what was going on,” he offered encouragingly, while wondering why Viv Holland’s avoidance of Cain had coincided with the arrival of the London celebrity chef in Lower Slaughter. “Well, I’m sure it will all make sense,” he added with more assurance than he felt. His brain seemed thick as treacle. At the next table, Gemma was laughing at something one of the men had said, and Kincaid was beginning to wish he’d sat somewhere other than next to Mark Cain.

  The aproned ladies were now serving plates of salad. Looking for a safer subject, Kincaid asked, “How is Nell’s dog?”

  “Bella? She was a pup out of one of my litters, so she’s used to me and the other dogs. But I can tell she misses Nell. I don’t dare leave her out for fear she’ll tr
y to go back to Nell’s cottage.”

  Cain looked so distressed that Kincaid tried once more. “Lady Addie and Chef Viv have done a great job of putting this lunch together. I understand everything was supplied by local producers.”

  “I am a local producer,” said Mark Cain, sounding offended. “It’s my lamb Viv is serving as the main course.”

  The aproned servers and the flowers blazing in the borders and the edges of the bright checked tablecloths fluttering in a rising breeze all seemed to run together in a blur of motion and color. Gemma blinked, gave her head a little shake to clear it, then wished she hadn’t. She frowned at her empty glass. Apparently, Melody hadn’t been joking about the strength of the cider, especially added to the potent prelunch gin cocktail. Still, all’s well that ends well, she thought, leaning back in her chair with a little sigh of contentment. The two men, both local landowners, who’d monopolized her over lunch—making her feel as though coming from London was exotic—had turned to other guests, and she was free to get her bearings.

  At least she could see Duncan where he sat at the next table, next to a man who looked hard going. Maybe she’d been lucky with her gentlemen farmer companions. Kincaid looked up and caught her eye. She rolled her eyes a tiny bit and he grinned. Perhaps, she thought, they could salvage this weekend that had started out so badly.

  She might even decide she liked the country.

  The only blot on the cider-induced rosiness of her mood was Viv Holland’s distress. But when Addie had brought Viv out during the pudding course to thank her for her catering, Viv had looked flushed with pleasure.

  Even with the quirky presentation, the food, Gemma had to admit, had been divine. From the creamy, smoky trout spread, to the delicate salad with roasted pears, caramel, and a local blue cheese, to the meltingly tender lamb and white beans served in camping tins, it had been of absolute star quality. What, Gemma had to wonder, was a chef so talented doing in this tiny village?

  She nibbled at the last bit of her pudding. The little jam jar she’d chosen had held a mixed berry crumble with a tangy layer of crème fraîche—a dessert she suspected she’d find herself dreaming about. All round her, spoons were being laid down and empty jars examined in hopes of finding a smidgen more.