Baker's Coven

by Nancy Warren

  But it wasn’t. The woman standing so close to the man was Susan Bentley. The man was a stranger to me. He was quite the silver fox. Tall, with a full head of silver-gray hair and a nice profile. He had the kind of build that suggested he worked out or had been an athlete.

  I took Florence’s arm, and we walked on a few steps while I considered what she’d said. “What made you think they were husband and wife?”

  I suspected her thoughts had already moved on because she looked puzzled for a second before realizing what I was talking about. “You mean those two back there?” She stopped to think. “The way they stood so close to each other, I suppose. There was real affection there. I think if we’d stayed staring, we’d have seen him kiss her goodbye. Why do you ask?”

  I didn’t want to tell the truth, that that woman was married to another man, so I merely said, “It’s interesting the way you read people so well. I imagine it’s because you’re an actress.”

  It was the perfect thing to say, for Florence was quite willing to expand in great detail on how she studied people in order to become a better actress. By the time she’d moved on to how she used the Alexander breathing technique, I was wondering if she could be right about the couple. They weren’t married, but they could be lovers.

  I had liked Susan Bentley very much, more than I’d enjoyed meeting her husband. I had no idea what was going on in the Bentley marriage, but I thought it was a bit shameless of Susan Bentley to be seen coming out of another man’s house in the middle of the afternoon in such a small village. I wondered who the man was and if their affair was the talk of the town.

  By the time we got back, nearly everyone had arrived. I spotted Daniel, the dentist; Amara, the doctor; and Evie, the NHS administrator, talking together in the corner.

  There was no sign of Euan or Hamish yet, but I was sure they’d be there soon.

  Then there was a giant sneeze, and Hamish entered the room. “Oh lordy,” he said in his Scottish accent. “I’ve caught a terrible chill. Can’t seem to shake this blasted cold. Been in bed all week.”

  The entire room jumped back. No one wanted to be ill at such a crucial time.

  “All right, all right,” Hamish muttered, raising his hands in mock surrender. “No need for that. I’m over the worst of it, and I’ve got a big bottle of antibacterial gel practically glued to my side if anyone’s worried.”

  Florence shot me a look and whispered devilishly, “I hope it’s man flu. Nothing worse.”

  Everyone ordered drinks from Eve, and the group clinked glasses, happy to be back and hopeful for a normal weekend of baking antics. Euan finally arrived after getting a flat tire, and we all sat down to eat. The Friday night special was roast lemon chicken, roast potatoes, and buttery spring greens. As I tucked into my piled-high plate, I took a moment to be thankful, truly thankful to be alive, and back at Broomewode—the place I knew was going to connect me with my birth family.

  We all decided on an early night, knowing tomorrow would be full on. As instructed by Elspeth, I poured myself a bath and had a good, long soak. After my bath, I wanted to get into my pajamas and slip into bed with a cookbook, but Elspeth had said she’d be by to do a protection spell, so I dressed instead in gray sweats. I brushed out my long, brown hair and tied it in a ponytail to keep it out of the way.

  I felt a bit nervous. I wasn’t sure about having a witch put a spell on me, even if that witch was the great Elspeth Peach. I decided to settle on my bed with my cookbook and try to relax.

  When I heard scratching at my window, I sat bold upright in bed, startled. It took a moment before I remembered that I was back at the inn, not in my cottage, and that I must have fallen asleep. I’d been dreaming about burning a salted caramel sauce. Not even my dreams were safe from cake-related disasters.

  “Gateau, there you are,” I cooed, lifting the sash window to let her in. She squeezed through the gap and leapt onto my bed. Outside, the moon was almost full. I could just see the outline of the tower in the distance. I put a hand to my necklace and said a thank-you to Sly for protecting me and decided that I’d see if Eve would have a word with the pub cook and save a really juicy bone for Sly.

  Heavy boots clomped along the hallway outside, followed by the whir of suitcases being wheeled. Someone else was arriving. Or leaving.

  Gateau, who needed no encouragement, was already asleep, nestled into my bed cover.

  There was a soft knock on my door, and there was Elspeth. She came in, looked pleased to see Gateau and shut the door behind her. She looked her impeccable self. No one would ever guess that this well-dressed celebrity was a witch. But, as she unpacked the tote bag she’d brought with her, she became more witchlike. She had candles, a vial of tiny crystals, and a pretty bottle that should have held perfume but I was guessing didn’t.

  “Right,” she said, rubbing her hands together. “All the ingredients are assembled. Now, come and stand here.” She chose a spot in the room where the moonlight streamed in. “Good. A nice clear night.” She pushed an armchair out of the way, and I stood where I was told.

  She set out candles in a circle around me, then sprinkled the crystals. “It’s only salt, dear. A special kind.” She stepped closer, holding the perfume bottle. “And now we cast our circle.” She spoke as though she were explaining how to make the perfect muffin.

  Gateau had been watching from half-slit eyes. Now she hopped off the bed and came to join us in the circle. Elspeth pointed at the first candle and muttered something. It jumped to life. Honestly, I wasn’t even shocked. She proceeded to light the rest of the candles with no need of matches or lighter. Then she turned to me. She uncorked the bottle, and I could smell something spicy but pleasant. She tipped a little on her finger, and I saw it was some kind of oil. First she dabbed a bit on the amethyst. Was it like a battery that had lost its charge and needed a reboot? Then, she dabbed oil on my forehead and the dip of my collarbone while saying the following:

  Earth, Fire, Water, all three,

  Elements of Astral, I summon thee,

  By the moon’s light

  On this special night

  I call to thee to give us your might

  By the power of three

  I conjure thee

  To protect our sweet Poppy

  And all that surrounds she

  So I will, so mote it be

  So I will, so mote it be.

  I felt a shiver run down my back, but that could simply have been nerves. Gateau rubbed up against my legs as though telling me everything would be fine.

  Elspeth said, “And now our circle’s done,” and the candles went out as easily as they’d lighted themselves.

  “How do you feel?” she asked me.

  “No different.”

  “You must still be vigilant, my dear, but this spell should help ward off evil.”

  Well, that was good. Attracting evil wasn’t really part of my life plan.

  Chapter 6

  The tent glowed white with studio lights, illuminating the setting for The Great British Baking Contest, just as I’d remembered it. The six cameras were positioned for action, crew poised. Rows of pristine workstations were set at intervals from each other, ready and waiting to receive spilled flour and egg across their shiny surfaces. And then I realized there was something different about the tent: there were only ten workstations, two fewer than last week, two less contestants.

  I’d all but forgotten about Marcus pulling out of the show last minute. And no one had even brought him up at dinner last night. Turns out that behaving like a spoiled baby really did make you forgettable. But not even the memory of that sourpuss could spoil the excitement that was gurgling away in my belly. I was nervous (of course) but also eager to get going and use the amazing ingredients that Susan gifted me yesterday. Without even cracking a happy egg, I knew that their yolks would be gloriously orange, rich and delicious. Fresh farm eggs like those were like gold dust for a cake, and I couldn’t wait to show off my gooseberry knowledge
to the camera—that is, if I managed to somehow keep my cool and not stumble over my words, or be a klutz and knock a bowl of flour over Jilly or Arty. Ooh, and now I remembered the sweet (or not so sweet) embrace I saw the night of Gerry’s murder. I wondered if those two would officially announce they were a couple or if it’d been a reaction to the drama of the day. But before I pondered the romantic decisions of two comedians, Donald Friesen, the series producer, walked on to the set, and the buzzing and muttering of crew and cast fell silent. If I didn’t know better, I’d have thought it was Donald, not Jonathon, who was the real witch, getting a room to hush like that.

  Ever the showman, Donald welcomed us back and said we had great team spirit. Gerry suddenly appeared at my side. “Ha. He should try being a real spirit.”

  “Now. Just a reminder that the cameras will move around and you should pretend they’re not even there, except when you put anything into your oven or take it out. We always want to film those wonderful moments.” He cleared his throat and motioned a young guy with a beard and glasses forward. “Everyone, I want you to meet Robbie Denton. He’ll be your soundman. Do make him welcome.”

  As an awkward silence descended, Priscilla waved. “Hiya.”

  “That’s it?” Gerry said, sounding put out. “That’s all Donald has to say? What about, ‘This one’s not a murdering nutter. We hope. Or, hard luck, Gerry.’ In fact, would a minute of silence have been too much to ask in memory of my unfortunate demise? Where’s the respect?”

  I felt for him, I really did, but I couldn’t talk to thin air. Luckily, Robbie, the new sound guy, was approaching, so I gave Gerry a sympathetic glance and kept my mouth shut.

  Robbie Denton seemed like a nice enough guy in his mid-twenties. I suspected he wore the full beard to try and appear older. “Hello,” he said as he approached. “You’re Poppy.”

  I smiled at him, feeling how nervous he was. “That’s right.”

  “I tried to memorize everyone’s name. It’s always a bit difficult on the first day.”

  “You’ll do fine.” Being an improvement over Gordon wasn’t much of a stretch. All he had to do was not kill anyone.

  He went around getting each of us mic’d up while the cameras got into position and everything was checked. A few nervous coughs interrupted the quiet. Then Fiona, the director, stepped up and it was lights, camera, action.

  Jonathon and Elspeth walked into the tent, gliding together with steps in perfect sync. As ever, I was wowed by Elspeth’s glamour, which worked well against Jonathon’s tough exterior. I smoothed down my apron and rearranged the line of my shirt. I’d chosen my outfit with Gina earlier. She’d snuck into my room this morning after breakfast, on a quick break from setting up her hair and make-up station and rifled through my selection of blouses and tops. Eventually, after she’d dismissed several options, Gina settled on a warm orange silk shirt, saying that it brought out the chestnut tones in my hair. I didn’t care if that was true or not. I was going to believe it. She’d done my makeup to match, coral eye shadow and a nude lipstick, and the denim skirt she paired it all with was comfortable yet stylish. To finish it all off, she lent me a pair of her oversize gold earrings. I didn’t usually wear much jewelry, but these gorgeous hoops really made the outfit. I knew I could count on Gina.

  Elspeth caught my eye and sent a discreet smile my way. I touched the amethyst necklace and hoped that as well as protecting me, it could protect my cake from burning.

  Florence waved at me. She looked every part the Hollywood bombshell in a ruffled black cotton dress. Her red hair was perfectly curled and swept away from her face with the help of a few deft bobby pins. Already, we were each developing a signature style. She was the gorgeous starlet, I was the girl next door, Maggie was the kind grandmother, Hamish the solid Scottish policeman, Euan the gentle Welsh beekeeper, Amara the refined doctor, Priscilla was slightly goofy, and Gaurav serious, and somewhat shy while Evie was outgoing and emotional. Daniel. How to describe Daniel? The family guy.

  The cameras trained on Jonathon’s face, and his usual serious expression bloomed into a warm smile. He cleared his throat and introduced the first challenge.

  “Bakers, how lovely it is to see you all back here this week. And still smiling.”

  There was a ripple of laughter that Donald encouraged from the sidelines.

  “This week is one of my personal favorites: cake week. And your first challenge is to bake a fruit cake using seasonal British fruits. Now, you should all know that the perfect fruit cake is tricky because the fruit will make the batter heavy if the baker’s overloading it. You must adjust the amounts of flour and liquid depending on the juiciness of the fruit.”

  Wowzers. Jonathon really did learn his lines thoroughly. That was word for word what I’d overheard in the rose garden. I tuned out of what Jonathon said next and instead stole a look around the room. Did everyone else feel the same mix of excitement and fear? Amara looked stern and focused; Hamish was sneezing into a white handkerchief, poor guy. Maggie had an angelic smile on her kind face; Daniel was totally beaming, bursting to go. Our expressions told the story of our hopes and fears. I swallowed hard and hoped that I could keep it together and bake my little butt off.

  Before I knew it, Jonathon was announcing that the first challenge was about to start, and the timers were set.

  The comedians came forward, made some joke about fruit cake, but I felt so nervous, the words sailed past until I heard Jilly say, “On your marks, get set, bake!”

  I did the exact thing we were told not to do and stared right at the camera that was pointing at me like a nosy neighbor. I was immediately flustered and tried to act competent. What was I supposed to be doing? The ingredients, the method—everything flew completely out of my head. Bye. Bye. Recipe. But then I saw a friendly face urging me on by flapping his hands about manically. Gerry. Ah, my ghostly cheerleader, doing a dance at the entrance of the tent. He zoomed up to me. “Come on, Pops, pull it together.”

  “Can’t think what to do first,” I muttered. If cameras were on me it would look like I was talking to myself. Or praying.

  Gerry bent bonelessly over, stretching his body ludicrously so he could see my recipe. “First up, cream the butter and sugar. You could do this in your sleep. You’ve got to get your focus back, girl.”

  I thought he was being so nice until he continued, “You’re the only one who can see me. If you get sent home, I’ll be bored stupid. Now focus.”

  Maybe he was only thinking of his ghostly self, but his pep talk helped. He was right. I knew this recipe. Plus, since I’d nearly died collecting the gooseberries, I was determined to get a good cake out of them.

  I tipped the two ingredients into a glass bowl and got to work. When the mix became fluffy and light, I began to add the eggs and part of the flour. This was more like it. I was in the zone. “Atta girl,” a voice said. I turned, and Gerry was floating behind me. I had to swallow hard to avoid batting him away. He knew I couldn’t react to anything he said or did without looking like the pressure had made me crack. Why couldn’t he stick to cheering me on from a distance? Luckily, Arty chose that moment to get chatting, and Gerry took the hint and drifted away.

  “Hello, Poppy,” he said. “A little birdy told me that you’re making a gooseberry cake. What made you go with such a tart fruit? Are you trying to tell us something?”

  I blushed. Jilly saved me from replying. “Who are you calling a tart?” She took over. “It’s very early for gooseberries, isn’t it?”

  I shuddered, once more thinking I’d nearly died trying to pick the freakishly early fruit.

  “It is early, but I stumbled on a patch that were sunning themselves in a nice, secluded spot. I love gooseberries. Get the balance right when cooking, and they’ll have that wonderful sweet and sour taste. Here, I’m making an upside-down cake, and I’ll be adding some raspberry meringue kisses, too. Pairing tart gooseberries with raspberries means that the sponge will have sweetness, sourness and texture, wi
th pockets of moist fruit in every mouthful,” I said. Whoa. Did I sound professional or what? I’d borrowed Jonathon’s trick and had written down and memorized a few key phrases. It worked.

  “Raspberry kisses, eh? Someone really is feeling fruity. I think these gooseberries come from somewhere very close to home?”

  I was so glad I’d told everyone that the gooseberries were from Broomewode Farm. Now, I didn’t even have to clumsily introduce that fact myself. I carried on beating my mix and replied, “That’s right. They’re from Broomewode Farm, which is just the other side of the manor house. The Bentleys, who run the farm, also provided the free-range eggs and a pot of their golden honey. I picked the gooseberries myself.” I hoped my shudder wouldn’t show on camera when I recalled how close I’d come to being gooseberry jam myself.

  “When they said local produce, you really stuck to the brief.” The jar of honey was still on my workstation, and I was pleased that the camera came in for a close-up. Maybe the footage would be cut, but at least I’d tried to give Susan Bentley a bit of free advertising.

  Jilly picked up a few of the berries and studied them. “They aren’t very pretty, though, are they? And ‘playing gooseberry’ is considered an insult.”

  “Gooseberries are underrated. They have many healing properties. They’re high in fiber, rich in antioxidants such as phytonutrients and vitamins E and C, which may help protect your brain and fight aging and many types of diseases.” I went on to explain the history Susan had told me about their origins from India and medicinal properties. Once more, I was repeating what I’d memorized, and thank you, Jonathon, for the idea.