by Nancy Warren
I was nibbling my lower lip, trying to decide whether easy meant easy enough for me or easy as in an experienced knitter would have no problem with this. But what did I have to lose?
As the shop owner, I did give myself a nice discount on wools and patterns. And I was really going to have to improve in the craft if I was going to continue running this knitting shop. I opened the magazine to the pattern and was trying to make sense of the instructions when the bells rang, announcing I had a visitor.
I looked up expecting one of my customers and dropped the magazine onto the desktop when I saw who it was.
Detective Inspector Ian Chisholm walked in, looking all business. Ever since he’d been the victim of a love potion that went wrong, I’d been slightly awkward around him. But now that I’d been involved in covering up a crime, I was a wreck.
I tried to look unconcerned and like nothing was bothering me. Cheerfully I said, “Ian. What a surprise. Are you looking for more wool for your auntie?” His aunt was an enthusiastic knitter and one of my customers. He would often pop in to pick up things for her.
Well, not that often.
He didn’t respond as cheerfully as I’d hoped. “No, Lucy. I’m here on business.”
“Oh?” I could hear my voice waver a little bit on the end of the oh.
“Yes. There’s been a break in the case of Bryce Teddington’s murder.”
“Really?”
Luckily, Rafe and Theodore and I had talked about the possibility that the police would want to question me about Edgar Smith’s crime and the fact that I’d been peripherally involved. Looking as innocent as I knew how, I asked, “Did you find out who did it?”
He gave me a look. I imagine it would be the kind of look a good poker player gives a really bad one who’s trying to bluff. “Yes, Lucy. We did.”
“That’s great. Who was it?”
His gaze stayed level on me. “Care to hazard a guess?”
Great. Now he was playing games with me. “No. I wouldn’t.”
“It was Edgar Smith. Do you remember him?”
I knew he was toying with me, but all I could do was hang on to my innocent act. “Of course, I do. He was the business manager for the reclusive producer Simon Dent.”
“It turned out he wasn’t a manager. He was the producer. An extremely wealthy man. You didn’t know any of this?”
I shook my head vigorously. “No. What a shock.”
“It seems he was also the victim of a strange and random attack.”
“Really? Edgar Smith?”
“Yes. Even more strange, he seems to have made a full confession. He even kindly wrote it down, since he’s currently having trouble speaking.”
I swallowed hard. “He confessed to killing Bryce Teddington? Did he say why?”
“That’s the odd thing. In his written confession, he says that Bryce Teddington threatened to expose his identity. He’s spent years living a double life. Pretending to be his own business manager while simultaneously living in quiet luxury.”
“Sounds like a pretty weird guy.”
“I’d say so. Of course, we had occasion to visit his manor house. It’s not too far from here. It’s where part of The Professor’s Wife was originally filmed. Perhaps you know it?”
I could feel sweat building in my armpits. I couldn’t keep this up much longer. I wasn’t by nature an untruthful person, and I felt like this massive secret was expanding in my chest. If it weren’t that I’d risk exposing the truth about my friends downstairs, I’d have cracked and given up everything Ian wanted to know. But I couldn’t do that. I had to stay strong.
I took a deep breath. “I’ve heard of it, but, you know, I haven’t lived in Oxford that long. I don’t know the area that well.”
He came closer and faced me from the other side of the cash desk. “Lucy, stop playing games with me. What do you know about those jewels?”
“You mean the jewels that were stolen from Sylvia—Sylvia Strand’s estate?”
“Yes. This woman you mysteriously seem to be related to. Who bequeathed you a fortune in jewels I’ve never heard you mention.”
“Did you find them?” I asked.
He tapped his fingers on the desktop. “Now that’s a funny thing. I would have thought you’d have asked that earlier. At auction you could expect to make, what, Five million? Ten? And yet you live modestly in a flat above a knitting shop. You see, I’m a copper. And when something doesn’t fit, it makes me curious.”
Luckily, we’d talked this possibility through too. I’d imagined there would be some kind of a conversation around these lines, but not that it would take place in my shop or that Ian would get right in my face. I’d imagined a more polite conversation, perhaps with a superior officer, down at the station. I suspected that Ian had chosen to confront me here in my shop exactly so he wouldn’t be surrounded by officialdom and I wouldn’t feel like this was routine.
I shrugged, trying to look casual. “I never knew those jewels were worth so much. They were in a safety deposit box. I never wear them. Not really my style. But I couldn’t get rid of them. They’re family heirlooms.”
“You might donate them to a museum.”
I shrugged. “I might.” And if they really were mine, that’s exactly what I’d do.
He stared at me for another uncomfortable few seconds. “Oh, and to answer your question, we didn’t find the jewels. Odd, that, isn’t it? Edgar Smith claims he never had them. And yet, when we searched his manor house, there was an entire studio filled with mementos of your famous ancestor. What was she? Your grandmother?”
He knew perfectly well she hadn’t been my grandmother. “My great-aunt,” I said, somewhat sharply. “And it was more honorary than that there’s any true bloodline.”
He nodded. “Right. Funny the connections we find in families, isn’t it? According to my grandfather, I’m distantly related to Robert the Bruce. Yet I cannot find any connection between anyone in your family’s history and a famous movie star.”
“You went poking through my family history?” I felt somewhat violated. Like he’d searched my underwear drawer.
“Just doing my job.”
I’d about had enough of this uncomfortable cat and mouse game. Now I leaned forward, into his space. “Are you accusing me of a crime?”
He didn’t move, but I felt his frustration. He was smart enough to know something was up, but he had no idea what. “No. That’s the tricky part, isn’t it? With every fiber of my being, I’m convinced you know more about this than you’re telling. But why would you kill Bryce Teddington? Why would you steal your own jewels? They weren’t insured. There’s no insurance payout. You gain nothing by killing an accountant in a movie production company.”
“Not to mention, I’d have had to hit myself over the head hard enough to knock myself out.”
“And then there’s that.”
“I promise you, I had nothing to do with murder or a jewel theft.”
“I believe you. I’m not entirely certain you didn’t have something to do with its retrieval, though.”
I went for mock outrage. “But you just told me you didn’t find the jewels.”
“No. But we did find a black velvet mannequin. Exactly the kind of thing a collector might have draped in jewels. And there was nothing on it. Nothing at all.”
Trust a couple of men. I should have warned Theodore and Rafe to put something on that mannequin.
“So I guess the case stays open? You’ll keep looking for the Cartier set?”
“Let’s just say it won’t be at the top of my priority list. And let me warn you, Lucy, if you ever wear those in public, you’ll be in a world of trouble.”
I shuddered. He didn’t need to worry about that. I was absolutely certain those jewels would never be seen again by anyone who wasn’t undead. And maybe me if Sylvia ever wanted to punish me.
Ian still didn’t leave, so I said, “Is that all you wanted? To semi-threaten me?”
He l
et out a frustrated sigh. Dug a hand in his pocket. Pulled out a neatly folded piece of pale, blue paper and opened it. “No. I also need three balls of the Shetland Tweed in the green. And my auntie asked me to tell you how much she enjoyed your last newsletter.”
A Note from Nancy
Dear Reader,
Thank you for reading the Vampire Knitting Club series. I am so grateful for all the enthusiasm this series has received. I have plenty more stories about Lucy and her undead knitters planned for the future.
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Nancy
The Great Witches Baking Show
© 2020 Nancy Warren
Excerpt from Prologue
Elspeth Peach could not have conjured a more beautiful day. Broomewode Hall glowed in the spring sunshine. The golden Cotswolds stone manor house was a Georgian masterpiece, and its symmetrical windows winked at her as though it knew her secrets and promised to keep them. Green lawns stretched their arms wide, and an ornamental lake seemed to welcome the swans floating serene and elegant on its surface.
But if she shifted her gaze just an inch to the left, the sense of peace and tranquility broke into a million pieces. Trucks and trailers had invaded the grounds, large tents were already in place, and she could see electricians and carpenters and painters at work on the twelve cooking stations. As the star judge of the wildly popular TV series The Great British Baking Contest, Elspeth Peach liked to cast her discerning eye over the setup to make sure that everything was perfect.
When the reality show became a hit, Elspeth Peach had been rocketed to a household name. She’d have been just as happy to be left alone in relative obscurity, writing cookbooks and devising new recipes. When she’d first agreed to judge amateur bakers, she’d imagined a tiny production watched only by serious foodies, and with a limited run. Had she known the show would become an international success, she never would have agreed to become so public a figure. Because Elspeth Peach had an important secret to keep. She was an excellent baker, but she was an even better witch.
Elspeth had made a foolish mistake. Baking made her happy, and she wanted to spread some of that joy to others. But she never envisaged how popular the series would become or how closely she’d be scrutinized by The British Witches Council, the governing body of witches in the UK. The council wielded great power, and any witch who didn’t follow the rules was punished.
When she’d been unknown, she’d been able to fudge the borders of rule-following a bit. She always obeyed the main tenet of a white witch—do no harm. However, she wasn’t so good at the dictates about not interfering with mortals without good reason. Now, she knew she was being watched very carefully, and she’d have to be vigilant. Still, as nervous as she was about her own position, she was more worried about her brand-new co-host.
Jonathon Pine was another famous British baker. His cookbooks rivaled hers in popularity and sales, so it shouldn’t have been a surprise that he’d been chosen as her co-judge. Except that Jonathon was also a witch.
She’d argued passionately against the council’s decision to have him as her co-judge, but it was no good. She was stuck with him. And that put the only cloud in the blue sky of this lovely day.
To her surprise, she saw Jonathon approaching her. She’d imagined he’d be the type to turn up a minute before cameras began rolling. He was an attractive man of about fifty with sparkling blue eyes and thick, dark hair. However, at this moment he looked sheepish, more like a sulky boy than a baking celebrity. Her innate empathy led her to get right to the issue that was obviously bothering him, and since she was at least twenty years his senior, she said in a motherly tone, “Has somebody been a naughty witch?”
He met her gaze then. “You know I have. I’m sorry, Elspeth. The council says I have to do this show.” He poked at a stone with the toe of his signature cowboy boot—one of his affectations, along with the blue shirts he always wore to bring out the color of his admittedly very pretty eyes.
“But how are you going to manage it?”
“I’m hoping you’ll help me.”
She shook her head at him. “Five best-selling books and a consultant to how many bakeries and restaurants? What were you thinking?”
He jutted out his bottom lip. “It started as a bit of a lark, but things got out of control. I became addicted to the fame.”
“But you know we’re not allowed to use our magic for personal gain.”
He’d dug out the stone now with the toe of his boot, and his attention dropped to the divot he’d made in the lawn. “I know, I know. It all started innocently enough. This woman I met said no man can bake a proper scone. Well, I decided to show her that wasn’t true by baking her the best scone she’d ever tasted. All right, I used a spell, since I couldn’t bake a scone or anything else, for that matter. But it was a matter of principle. And then one thing led to another.”
“Tell me the truth, Jonathon. Can you bake at all? Without using magic, I mean.”
A worm crawled lazily across the exposed dirt, and he followed its path. She found herself watching the slow, curling brown body too, hoping. Finally, he admitted, “I can’t boil water.”
She could see that the council had come up with the perfect punishment for him by making the man who couldn’t bake a celebrity judge. He was going to be publicly humiliated. But, unfortunately, so was she.
He groaned. “If only I’d said no to that first book deal. That’s when the real trouble started.”
Privately, she thought it was when he magicked a scone into being. It was too easy to become addicted to praise and far too easy to slip into inappropriate uses of magic. One bad move could snowball into catastrophe. And now look where they were.
When he raised his blue eyes to meet hers, he looked quite desperate. “The council told me I had to learn how to bake and come and do this show without using any magic at all.” He sighed. “Or else.”
“Or else?” Her eyes squinted as though the sun were blinding her, but really she dreaded the answer.
He lowered his voice. “Banishment.”
She took a sharp breath. “As bad as that?”
He nodded. “And you’re not entirely innocent either, you know. They told me you’ve been handing out your magic like it’s warm milk and cuddles. You’ve got to stop, Elspeth, or it’s banishment for you, too.”
She swallowed. Her heart pounded. She couldn’t believe the council had sent her a message via Jonathon rather than calling her in themselves. She’d never used her magic for personal gain, as Jonathon had. She simply couldn’t bear to see these poor, helpless amateur bakers blunder when she could help. They were so sweet and eager. She became attached to them all. So sometimes she turned on an oven if a baker forgot or saved the biscuits from burning, the custard from curdling. She’d thought no one had noticed.
However, she had steel in her as well as warm milk, and she spoke quite sternly to her new co-host. “Then we must make absolutely certain that nothing goes wrong this season. You will practice every recipe before the show. Learn what makes a good crumpet, loaf of bread and Victoria sponge. You will study harder than you ever have in your life, Jonathon. I will help you where I can, but I won’t go down with you.”
He leveled her with an equally steely gaze. “All right. And you won’t interfere. If some show contestant forgets to turn their oven on, you don’t make it happen by magic.”
Oh dear. So they did know all
about her little intervention in Season Two.
“And if somebody’s caramelized sugar starts to burn, you do not save it.”
Oh dear. And that.
“Fine. I will let them flail and fail, poor dears.”
“And I’ll learn enough to get by. We’ll manage, Elspeth.”
The word banishment floated in the air between them like the soft breeze.
“We’ll have to.”
Order your copy today! The Great Witches Baking Show is Book 1 in the series.
Diamonds and Daggers, Vampire Knitting Club Book 11, Copyright © 2020 by Nancy Warren
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ISBN: ebook 978-1-928145-92-9
ISBN: print 978-1-928145-91-2
Cover Design by Lou Harper of Cover Affairs
Ambleside Publishing
Also by Nancy Warren
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