by Nancy Warren
Eve leaned across the bar and kissed my cheek. “It’s good to have you back.”
I beamed at Eve and got up to leave, swinging my overstuffed bag across my shoulder. Struggling a bit under its weight, I staggered to the door to fetch Gateau and collided slap-bang into an old, tall, very elegantly dressed man with a sweep of gray hair that was combed away from his high forehead. He stood back, a horrified expression on his face, and brushed down his navy cashmere sweater and flannel trousers as if I’d left a sticky mark on him. Then I saw that some of Gateau’s black fur had somehow transferred from me to him. Now that I was a cat mom, I usually had cat hair on me. “So sorry,” I murmured.
The man said, “Excuse me,” and then stood aside so that I could pass. I noticed his brown brogues were perfectly polished. Unlike my sneakers, which had mud caked on their sides.
He’d barely walked into the pub when he recoiled at the sight of Peter Puddifoot and his cronies, glared at the man alone at his table, then turned around again, heading straight to the door, his color heightened. He gave me a wide berth as he walked quickly out the door.
I followed him out a, nd watched as he strode over to a dusty old Land Rover in the parking lot. How strange. He’d obviously planned to go inside, perhaps for lunch, and suddenly changed his mind. I hadn’t heard him speak more than a mumble, but I suspected this was the man who’d been arguing with the groundskeeper.
I scraped the dried mud off my shoes as best I could. Gateau appeared from beneath a bush and pounced on a swinging shoelace.
I scooped her up, retrieved my bag again, and we climbed the stairs to my room. I opened the door and stopped dead in my tracks. Resting on top of the perfectly made bed, his sneaker-clad feet on the ironed lines of the cozy red blanket, was a man staring up at the ceiling, arms tucked behind his head. He suddenly sat up, and I caught a flash of familiar red hair.
“Gerry! What on earth?” I dropped my bag to the ground with a thud.
“Ah, darlin’ Poppy, you’re early. What a nice surprise,” said my friendly neighborhood ghost, swinging his legs and shuffling to the edge of my bed.
His red hair was as spiky as ever, and his shirt was still patterned with cars and trucks. If it weren’t for the shadowy line around his body, I would have thought last week had been a nightmare and Gerry was in my room to talk strategy for this week’s show. However, he’d been sent home from the show and pushed off this mortal coil all on the same day. I suspected he was having trouble adjusting.
“I can’t tell you how much I’ve missed you this week. I’ve been bored out of my mind.”
“I don’t understand. You haven’t moved on?”
“Move on where? I can move between this pub and the tent. That’s it. And there’s absolutely nothing to do here. No one to banter with, no one to flirt with... I went all poltergeist on the honeymoon couple in the big room upstairs, that was fun, but I may have overdone it because they checked out early.”
I tried not to laugh; it would only encourage him. “Oh, Gerry. That’s not very nice. Being cheeky in the afterlife is not like being cheeky…well, in this life. You need to be compassionate. Don’t go around giving ghosts a bad name.”
He gave me a salute. “Okay, ma’am,” he said. “I’ll do better.”
I liked Gerry, and I felt sorry for him, but I’d really hoped he’d be gone when I arrived. As in dearly departed gone. All the way gone.
He stood and stretched. “But seeing you has cheered me up to no end. And I’ve got a ringside seat to the baking competition this week.”
I shook my finger at him like I was a schoolteacher and he was a naughty boy. He’d caused enough mischief on the set already. “Do not start interfering,” I told him. “You have to promise me.”
He pouted. “But I could help you win. I can’t move things. Yet. But if I stand right in someone’s face and glare at them, even though they can’t see me, it definitely throws them off stride.”
“I bet. But I don’t want you to do that.”
“Well, if you change your mind, I’ll fix it so you win.”
I shook my head again. “No, Gerry. I don’t want to win anything that’s been ‘fixed.’ And thanks for your vote of confidence in me.”
He grinned. “You’re a good baker, Pops. But you’ve got some competition to beat. Maggie is a clear front-runner, and the gorgeous Florence is right behind her. I think Gaurav could surprise us all. And Hamish is watching and waiting for his chance to impress. Mark my words.”
I suspected he was right, but he’d all but said I was in the bottom of the pack. Great.
“But hey, check out what I’ve spent my week perfecting.” He jumped on the bed, levitating so high his head disappeared through the ceiling. I gave him a quick round of applause, but I’d seen that trick countless times with other ghost pals. I decided not to burst his bubble. What else could a ghost in limbo do to pass the time?
When he came back down, he said, “Guess what?”
“What?” I unzipped my case and started unpacking.
“Marcus Hoare will not be joining you this week. I overheard the producers talking in the pub. Well, I joined their table, not that they noticed. Turns out sabotaging another contestant, i.e., me, did not endear Marcus to the judges or the producers of this fine show. He claims he had to go to New York for a work emergency for several weeks.” Gerry tapped the side of his nose. “Sounds like a convenient excuse to me.”
“I don’t know, Gerry. It could be true. Marcus was seriously competitive about his baking. I’d be surprised if he gave up so easily.”
Gerry humphed in response. Suddenly, he was behind me, watching me hang shirts and blouses in the antique oak wardrobe.
“Looks like someone couldn’t decide what to wear this week.”
“I know. It’s so hard packing. Will it be hot in the tent? Cool? In between? I’ve tried to prepare for every kind of weather. It was much chillier last week than I’d expected. I don’t want to get caught out again.”
“I like the striped shirt. It’ll look great on telly.”
“Thanks for the fashion advice.” To be honest, I really didn’t need advice about what to wear from someone who wore shirts patterned with cars and trucks. In fact, I’d planned to consult Gina, who was the hair and makeup expert, when she arrived on set. But since Gerry was already dead, I didn’t want to hurt his feelings or make him suffer any more than he had already. I finished hanging my clothes and turned back. He was staring at Gateau, who was staring right back at him. “I don’t care much for cats,” he said.
Yes. I could use this to my advantage.
“Well, since you went and disappeared on me, she’s my new best friend here. You’ll have to get used to her.”
“Can she see me?” They looked like they were having a staring contest.
“I have no idea. Maybe.”
“If you can see me, little cat, then vamoose.” He made shooing motions with his hands. Gateau didn’t change her expression or move so much as a cat hair. I couldn’t tell whether she couldn’t see him or was simply ignoring the annoying ghost.
Now that I’d unpacked, I wanted to get over to Broomewode Hall. I didn’t think Gerry could go that far, but in case, I told a little white lie. “Gateau and I are pretty wiped from the drive this morning, so we’re going to take a short catnap. There are a few locals in the pub downstairs, if you fancy messing with them.”
Gerry sighed. “Borrrrring. But who am I to stand—I mean float—in the way of you and your beauty sleep, Pops. You’re going to need it if you want to wow on national television this weekend and capture the hearts of the masses.” He made a motion as though presenting me with a bouquet of invisible flowers. “Adieu,” he said, and disappeared through the door.
Phew, that was easier than I thought. Now if only getting into Broomewode Hall would be that easy, I’d be a happy little witch.
Chapter 3
Since I felt pressed for time if I was going to find a way into Broomew
ode Hall, do my snooping and still be back in time to hit the market for some local ingredients for the first baking challenge tomorrow, I didn’t have time to stop for a yummy pub lunch, much as I wanted to. I contented myself with a packet of crisps from behind the bar and one of the green apples they kept in a bowl in the front hall for guests.
Although Gerry had made fun of me, when I stepped back outside, I was grateful to my panicked self who had overpacked. Even though it was only late April, the afternoon sun was bright. I felt my cheeks flush with warmth and slipped out of my pale blue cardigan, which Gina fondly referred to as my granny cardi, and put it into my tote bag.
The gift shop was open. I might as well give it a try. I told Gateau to wait outside and went into the pretty little cottage that was jammed with things to entice shoppers. Naturally, right up front was a display related to The Great British Baking Contest. Cookbooks by Elspeth and Jonathon, most of them signed by the celebrity bakers, were stacked beside smaller offerings of cookbooks put out by some of the more successful contestants who’d come before me.
There were tea towels and baking tins, coffee mugs and T-shirts and exact copies of the aprons we wore on the show. As I walked deeper into the shop, a kindly-looking older woman looked up over her glasses from where she was dusting a shelf of knickknacks. “Hello. Can I help you with anything?”
I didn’t want to tell her I was shopping for the baking challenge tomorrow, so I said I was just browsing. And it was kind of fun to poke around. Once past the baking contest wares, I encountered a lot of items promoting Broomewode Hall. Tapestry cushions featuring the manor house, cushions with the British flag, pheasants, and one of tulips that I’d have bought for my living room if it wasn’t so expensive.
Oh, and what about those fireplace tools? My little cottage featured a huge fireplace and hearth in the kitchen. I thought it would be fun to display something made of black iron, and these were clearly hand-forged. I went closer. There were fire pokers, full sets of tools, ornate hooks for hanging planter baskets, I supposed, or maybe bird feeders. When I looked at the cards attached, they informed me that these items were indeed hand-forged at a place called Broomewode Smithy. The card also informed me that I couldn’t afford them, either. Not unless I spent less time practicing my baking and more time on my freelance graphic design.
“They’re lovely, aren’t they?” the saleswoman said, coming closer. “And made right here in the village.”
“Really? Yes, they’re lovely.”
“The man who makes them took over the old blacksmith’s shop right here in Broomewode Village. I believe he was a podiatrist, but when he retired here, he took up the old craft. He’s very good, isn’t he?”
“Yes.” I didn’t want to tell this nice woman that I was too poor for the former podiatrist’s wares, so I moved on, until I came to the food section.
She told me to let her know if I needed help with anything and went back to her work. Good. I wanted to peruse the foods in my own time. There were plenty of Somerset apple products, of course. Applesauce, fancy bottles of the local cider, dried apples. There were jams and jellies, everything from brambleberry to quince. There was toffee and wrapped chocolate bars bearing the photograph of Broomewode Hall. Nothing magically jumped out at me, but I bought a jar of the quince jelly. I might be able to use that in my glaze.
I tucked the jar into my tote bag after paying for it, and my faithful kitten and I set out again.
Gateau was trotting by my side, but she was looking up at me as if to say, So what now? What’s the plan? The problem was, despite thinking about it every spare minute I wasn’t practicing cake-baking, I hadn’t come up with any plausible ways to get inside the Hall and into the dining room to examine the painting up close. Among my brilliant ideas had been, learning to climb drainpipes, scaling the roof, and dropping into the Hall through the skylight. Obviously, I scratched that idea. I was fairly certain Broomewode Hall didn’t boast skylights.
I couldn’t afford to get caught snooping again. Benedict Champney, the slightly mysterious son, had already warned me away twice, and now both the Earl and Lady Frome knew my face, and neither had been particularly nice to it.
I decided there was nothing for it but to sneak onto the property, try the servants’ entrance and hope that Katie answered the door. I could ask about her broken arm and try to get her reminiscing about the old days and a woman named Valerie.
Somehow, I’d find a way to get into that dining room and study the painting. I continued my walk to the manor house, trying to root around in my mind for something that could pass as a spell of invisibility, when Gateau began to hiss.
“What’s the matter, little thing?” I asked, looking down. I saw the problem immediately. A friendly-looking dog was bounding toward us. It was black and white and rangy. I was no expert on breeds, but it looked like a border collie heading straight toward us. I guessed even magical cats weren’t immune to the age-old cat and dog rivalry. The dog was a beauty though, sleek with black and white fur and an inquisitive face. He seemed to have taken a shine to my Gateau, whose hissing was having absolutely no effect whatsoever. He came closer and tried to nudge her nose with his, but this move sent her running. Straight up a tree.
“Oh, Gateau,” I said, staring up at her forlorn face buried in the branches. “The dog was only being friendly.”
She mewed in response, and scrambled up another branch.
“Come on,” I coaxed. “He isn’t going to stick around. You climb down. We’ve got important business to attend to, you and I.” I stopped, aware that if anyone walked past, I would sound like a total loony.
But, in fact, the dog didn’t seem to be going anywhere. He’d dashed off for a quick lap of Gateau’s tree of solace, and now reappeared with an orange ball, which he dropped at my feet. I laughed and picked up the ball and threw it obligingly. He really was adorable. As he bounded away to fetch the ball, I looked around the grounds for his owner, but there was no one in sight. Was he a stray? Surely not with that glossy coat and his own ball.
“You must belong to someone,” I mused as he returned with the ball, panting and lowering himself on his haunches, front paws out, waiting expectantly at my feet, eyes traveling between the dirt-speckled, saliva-covered ball and my face. I had a feeling I was going to tire of this game long before he did.
Gateau hissed again from above, but this time, I think it was aimed at me. “I know. I never should have thrown the ball.”
I bent down to stroke the collie’s lovely black and white fur and found a red collar. I swiveled it around and found a tag that read Broomewode Farm and a phone number. Aha. Oh, dearest wandering dog, you may have bought me another chance to get closer to the Champneys. Surely returning a mischievous working dog was the perfect excuse to be on their property…and perhaps do a little snooping. Now, all I had to do was convince Gateau to come down from her hiding place.
But it seemed luck was on my side today, or maybe it was something more than that, as Gateau was already making her own way down. Not elegantly. It was more of a bum shuffle with some sorrowful mewling than a graceful descent.
Gateau, finally, made it to the bottom of the tree and then looked up at me like I’d presented her with a whole roast chicken but taken it away from her again before she’d had a bite. I bent down, picked her up and rubbed the top of her head.
And there was that orange ball again. I threw it along the path in front of us and watched the collie bound after it, his bushy tail wagging. In the distance, he picked up the ball but carried on walking. He turned his head to check that we were following. I smiled. He obviously had a strong herding instinct, and he was herding me exactly where I wanted to go.
I guessed the three of us made for an unlikely crew, but as we walked I felt a sense of peace and purpose. The sun on the back of my neck felt like a warm embrace. The silvery-green leaves of the whitebeam trees shone. The sky was a cerulean blue—a description I’d learned through experimenting with food colori
ng. I walked with a long stride, cradling Gateau. We passed an ornamental lake sparkling in the sun. I wanted to linger and take a moment to stare into its depths, hoping for another image of the woman I thought was my mother to appear across its peaceful surface, but the collie had other ideas, and ran back to make sure we were following. He was excited by something. But to my dismay, the collie didn’t lead us to Broomewode Hall. Instead, he turned left, away from Broomewode Hall, down a path I’d never noticed before.
Rather than the polished and freakishly smooth gravel of the grounds’ main path, I now trod on chunky wood chips. Brambles intertwined with sprawling green bushes. A gentle breeze stirred in the horse chestnut trees to my left. The collie bounded on, every few moments stopping to turn and check I was still following. I wanted to tell him, Duh, of course I’m following you. Take me to your master so I can do some detective work.
With her nemesis safely in the distance, Gateau leapt out of my arms, shook herself down and began to trot alongside me with a straight back and her little nose in the air. I guessed she was trying to recover her dignity.
Soon I saw why the collie had sped up: In the distance, an outline of what looked like a farm emerged from among what must have been about two hundred acres of rolling green hills. The collie broke into a run now, heading toward a huge barn, its curved roof catching the light. The path narrowed and changed from wood chips to stone, and either side was planted with laurel hedging and bright springy fern. Up ahead, beside the barn, stood a large farmhouse, crafted from the golden Somerset stone. The surrounding garden was in full bloom with a sloping rockery, and I couldn’t help but notice that its herb patch was absolutely bursting with fragrant green offerings. It put my own rambling herb garden to shame. Next to the farmhouse was an annex, where the farmhands must have stayed during harvesting seasons when the farming industry round here was booming. I couldn’t tell what it was they farmed here, though. The dog began barking, and then a wide door painted a fawn-gray opened.
