by A. Gardner
Sandra screams, and the sound of her high-pitched cry forces all eyes to fall to her.
My stomach churns as I join the crowd to see for myself what's going on. Marta stays behind, mentally preparing herself for more bad news. The door to Lord Chutney's precious Rolls Royce is open, and a man is sitting in the driver's seat. The man is not moving. In fact, he's dead still. My heart pounds when I recognize his stone-cold face. It's Ethan, the parking valet.
"Stand aside," Lewis instructs the crowd as he pushes his way through. He touches Ethan's shoulder, observing the front seat of the antique car. "Come on, mate."
Ethan doesn't move.
Lewis checks for a pulse and yanks his hand away in shock.
"Shall I call someone?" Lord Chutney asks.
"I think you better," Lewis answers.
CHAPTER THREE
"What do you mean he's dead?" Lord Chutney glares at Detective Berry the same way he glared at Marta's father, Rupert. He shakes his head. The news is ruining his dinner party. Never mind that there's a dead man sitting in the driver's seat of one of his expensive cars.
"I mean he's gone, and your manor is now a crime scene, Lord Chutney." Lewis Berry went from doting fiancé to a serious investigator within minutes.
Lewis jots a few things down in his notebook before sliding it back into his jacket pocket. The police have surrounded the manor, questioning guests and observing Lord Chutney's car collection. I don't know much about the parking valet, Ethan Taylor, but I do know that Lord Chutney wasn't happy with him. Tamsin does her best to soothe Marta, but Marta's cheeks are rosier than ever.
"I don't understand," Lord Chutney insists. "How is this possible?"
"That's something we're trying to figure out, sir." Lewis glances in Marta's direction.
"Well, thank goodness you're here, Lewis." Sandra attempts to comfort Lord Chutney by rubbing his shoulders.
"How long will these men be crawling around my estate?" Lord Chutney sternly asks.
"Oh, dearie, you must be in shock." Sandra continues playing the role of concerned fiancée. "How about we go into the house for a cup of tea."
"I'm not going anywhere until I'm given some sort of explanation." Lord Chutney stands his ground. He's already tried shooing the entire police force from the grounds more than once, but Ethan's body is still on the premises. "How did this man die, and, more importantly, what was he doing in my car?"
"When I find out what or who killed this man—"
"Are you insinuating that he was murdered?" Lord Chutney cuts in. He crosses his arms, clearly offended by the idea.
"Sir, I can't rule that out," Lewis quietly answers.
"I don't see any bullet holes or blood stains," Lord Chutney points out.
"Unfortunately, there are many ways one can kill a man." Lewis clears his throat, looking again at Marta. "Now, if you'll excuse me."
Lewis pulls himself away from Lord Chutney and tends to Marta, who is steaming. Lord Chutney shakes his head, dissatisfied, and approaches another policeman. He begins asking the policeman the same exact questions.
"Marta, darling." Lewis hugs his fiancée and looks to me for support. "I'm afraid I'll be here most of the night. Will you be okay?"
"Of course," Marta says sharply. "My wedding is less than a week away, and my parents are fighting, my mother is getting married, the florist isn't delivering the flowers I wanted, the caterer is positively dreadful, and now a man I met earlier this evening is dead. Of course, I will be okay. Let's go, Poppy."
I have no choice but to follow Marta and hope that she doesn't crash into a tree on the way home. Tamsin trails along behind us. The farther we get from the manor, the more I can collect my thoughts. It' still unclear what happened to Ethan. For all I know he could've been sitting in Lord Chutney's Rolls Royce, having a few laughs, when he suddenly had a heart attack. He also could have been poisoned, knocked unconscious, or even stabbed in the back. His front torso was all that I had seen.
"Don't fret, Marta," Tamsin says as Marta searches for her car. "These things happen sometimes."
"Yeah," I chime in. "I'm sure the whole thing was just some kind of freak accident." But my stomach churns again. My dinner is not sitting well. My gut tells me that Ethan's death was not an accident. It can't be coincidence that he died the same night Lord Chutney said that people like Ethan needed to be taught a lesson.
"You both are horrible liars," Marta responds. She starts the car and, strangely, acts very calm. It makes me nervous.
"How about I follow you back to Sandra's and make us all a drink?" Tamsin suggests.
"How about I drive?" I say, nudging Marta out of the driver's seat. She's already had enough to drink tonight.
"Just get me out of here so that I can think," Marta replies.
I persuade Marta to let me drive back to her mother's house, where the two of us are staying. I'm an experienced driver, but I've never driven on the opposite side of the road. Good thing Woodbury is a sleepy town, especially with the majority of its residents preoccupied at Chutney Manor. I grip the wheel and wave good-bye to Tamsin.
Marta points me in the right direction, and I start driving.
"This is a piece of cake," I comment, hoping to get a little conversation out of Marta. She sighs and stares out of the window. I stay on the left side of the road.
"Turn up there," she instructs.
"For what it's worth, I think you and the detective are the perfect couple."
Marta smiles for a brief moment.
"Thank you," she responds, glancing out the window. "You know, working for Chef Gautier as long as I have, I thought I was immune to drama like this."
"A professional kitchen is one thing," I point out. "Family stuff is entirely different. It could be worse. You could still be single with a mother who tries setting you up every chance she gets. I bet Sandra never talks about the fact that she will never have grandchildren."
"She's too busy with Lord Chutney." Marta rolls her eyes.
"Yeah, how did the two of them even get together?"
"Book club."
"Really?" I raise my eyebrows.
"Poppy!" Marta shouts.
I swerve back onto the right side of the road, which in England is the left side of the road. I take a deep breath as I pass by a pair of headlights. Stay to the left, I tell myself. The left. I'm relieved when we finally reach Marta's street.
"All of these houses look the same," I mutter.
"Oh, for heaven's sake, Poppy." Marta rubs her head. "It's that one right there."
I pull up to a darkened row home and park the car. Marta hops out, stumbling like she's having trouble seeing clearly. Another pair of headlights pulls up behind us. Tamsin honks even though it's late.
"How about that nightcap?" Tamsin shouts out her window.
"Not now, Tamsin." Marta shakes her head. "I'm knackered."
"See you tomorrow morning at Catherine's then?"
"Yeah," Marta agrees.
Marta struggles to unlock the front door. I take the keys from her and switch on a light as soon as the door opens. Peppercorn studies us from the top of the staircase. Marta heads to her room, still rubbing her forehead.
"Do you need anything?" I ask.
"No." Marta doesn't even look at me.
"Good night." I barely get the words out of my mouth before Marta shuts her door. Peppercorn meows at my feet. "We had a very interesting night, Peppercorn. And it seems as if your owner is the sort of person who likes to keep everything bottled inside until she pops." Peppercorn stares at me quizzically.
Lewis asked me to distract Marta this week, and so far I've been doing a crappy job.
"This is going to be some wedding," I mutter to myself.
* * *
I wake up with a piercing headache.
My room is dark, and I sit up quietly. Everything is just as I left it last night. My suitcase is unzipped in the corner, and the clothes I scattered while looking for my pajamas are still in a pil
e at the end of the bed. A subtle scratching noise echoes through my mind. It gnaws at my brain as I scan every darkened corner. My heart thuds, and I gulp, realizing that the scratching is coming from my bedroom door.
A wave of ease washes over me as I picture Peppercorn on the other side. I shake my head, checking the time. It's three in the morning. I haven't been up this early since working at Le Croissant. Bakery life forces me to be an early riser, but this week I am supposed to be on vacation. I carefully open my door and find Peppercorn staring up at me.
"Really?" I mutter. "Whatever it is, it can wait a few more hours."
Peppercorn meows and trots down the staircase. My pulse races when I notice a light on downstairs. A sudden noise rings through the front hall, and it makes me jump. I gulp, glancing at Marta's bedroom door. She must be passed out after everything she had to drink at the party. I take steady breaths and steady steps, easing my way through the hallway, downstairs, and toward the kitchen.
Another noise catches me off guard, ringing through my ears and adding to my headache. It's the sound of pots and pans. The kitchen light is on, and all at once I stumble into a scene that would make any professional chef cringe. The kitchen is a total mess. There are dishes crowding every inch of countertop. There's flour strewn across the kitchen table and bits of ingredients on the floor. Random drawers and cupboards are wide open, and at the heart of it all is Marta in her dressing gown.
I bite my lip. The scene before me reminds me of my good friend and schoolmate, Bree. Bree is a nervous baker. She and Marta would be the best of friends right now. I stand in the doorway, waiting for Marta to notice me. I don't want to scare her at this hour of the night. If her mother, Sandra, is home, she might call the police if Marta were to scream.
Peppercorn rubs up against my leg. Marta is furiously whisking egg whites. The oven beeps, and she pulls out a tray of miniature soufflés. They look similar to the ones they sell at Le Croissant back in Paris. Marta glares at a couple that didn't rise evenly. She shakes her head and pushes them aside. Marta has too much on her mind to notice that she has company. I observe her latest batch of soufflés, unable to make out the flavor she chose. Le Croissant makes every kind from cheese and herbs to strawberry passionfruit. But the flavors are unclear without a garnish on top.
I clear my throat, but Marta doesn't turn around.
"Ahem," I say out loud. Marta whisks away, ignoring me. "Uh, hello?" I grab a spoon and dig into one of Marta's steaming soufflés. The soufflé isn't too dense when I scoop up a small bite. Marta made a thick enough batter.
"Ah!" Marta drops her bowl of egg whites when she sees me. "Bollocks, Poppy. What on earth are you doing here?"
"I was going to ask you the same thing," I respond. "Shouldn't you be in bed?"
"I couldn't sleep." Marta brushes a strand of frizzy, auburn hair from her face and places her hand on her heart. She takes a deep breath. Her eyes are droopy, as if she hasn't slept in days, and the dark circles underneath her eyes don't help either. She is just as exhausted as me.
"So you're whipping up every flavor of soufflé known to man? Why not something less complicated like a warm batch of chocolate chip cookies?"
"Why do Americans love biscuits so much?"
"They taste good, and anyone can make them?' I answer, shrugging.
"Soufflé is simple," Marta continues. "It's light. It's fluffy. And when you work out the lumps, it comes out of the oven just perfect."
"Are we still talking about soufflé here?"
"I was thinking of serving one at my wedding, but I can't decide on a flavor," Marta responds.
"You should check with your mother on that one." I take a bite of her latest soufflé and get a healthy kick of sharp cheddar. The texture is nearly perfect. It's moist and airy, yet crisp on the top. "I'm sure the caterers have the menu set in stone by now."
"That's what I'm afraid of." Marta flares her nostrils. "You tasted the food at Lord Chutney's. That lot can't even make a decent Victoria sponge. My wedding is going to be a disaster. You and I might as well cater it."
My eyes go wide. Catering Marta's wedding, which consists of the entire village of Woodbury, is too big of a job for the two of us. Besides, I don't want to spend my entire week working. I laugh at first, but then I see that Marta is serious. Her stern expression doesn't change.
"Marta, you have a million things to do this week," I remind her. "With pictures, dress fittings, and get-togethers with weird relatives, you don't have time to plan a menu and bake yourself a wedding cake."
"I was afraid you might say that." Marta places her hands on her hips. "Poppy, can I ask you something? Pastry chef to pastry chef?"
"Sure." This is the first time I've ever been asked a question like this.
"Have you ever made one of those recipes that looked absolutely splendid in the book but then turned out awful? And you think the recipe must be rubbish, but everyone around you has no problem with the ingredients, and it turns out that you're the one who's rubbish?" Marta pauses, waiting for my reply.
"My first day of pastry school," I confess, knowing full well that Marta's questions have nothing to do with recipes and everything to do with getting married. "I made my school's famous peach pie. I followed the recipe exactly, and my roommate's turned out spectacular. Mine was all runny and burnt."
"What did you do?"
"I practiced until one day each step made sense to me, and I was able to craft my very own Southern peach pie." I take another bite of Marta's cheese soufflé. It would be a shame to let it go to waste, even though it is three in the morning. "But you know, no matter the recipe, every chef does what works for them. In the end, I had a pie, but my pie didn't taste exactly the same as my instructor's. But both were satisfactory."
"I see," Marta replies.
"Marta, Lewis is a good guy. Whatever sort of wedding you want, big or small, he'll be fine with whatever you decide. Just make sure all of this is what you want. No matter what recipe you follow, you'll still end up married when you're through. That's what really matters."
"Yes, I know…" Marta sighs. "…I suppose I had hoped that a big wedding in Woodbury would…never mind. It was silly of me to think that."
"Bring your parents back together?" I guess.
"It's a childish fantasy, isn't it? But they were together for so long."
"I'm sure it's difficult starting a marriage when a loved one's is just ending," I sympathize.
"Now that Lord Chutney is in the picture, my plans have gone awry," Marta confesses.
"Lord Chutney seems like an arrogant piece of work." I study her expression. Marta consistently mentions Lord Chutney as if he's a thorn in her side. There's got to be more to the story. "But why do I sense that there's something you're not telling me?"
Marta runs her fingers through her frizzy hair. She glances down at Peppercorn before looking up at the ceiling. Though I'm not sure, I assume that Sandra made it home sometime after we did. Marta casually grabs a rag and begins cleaning bits of egg whites that she splattered on the floor. I kneel down with her.
"You have to understand," Marta whispers. "In small towns like Woodbury, the tiniest bit of gossip can have colossal effects. Lord Chutney is somewhat of a controversial topic around here."
"I don't understand." I search for another rag and help her clean. "He seemed pretty well-liked to me. I mean, practically everyone at the party was falling all over him."
"That's because the villagers who think he's a complete prat didn't attend," Marta explains. "And if I had agreed to have my wedding at Chutney Manor like Mum wanted me to, I would have had to cross out half of my guest list."
"Let me guess." I chuckle quietly, trying to concoct the most ridiculous scandal I can. "A very long time ago Lord Chutney had an affair with…the wife of someone important, and it messed up the whole dynamic of the town."
"That would have been much simpler," Marta responds. "But I'm afraid that's not the case." Marta glances up at the ceiling agai
n and lowers her voice. "You see, years ago, Lord Chutney had this brilliant idea of bringing loads of money to Woodbury by building a state-of-the-art leisure center. He had the plans drawn up and everything, but he needed investors."
"Doesn't he have rich friends in high places, or is that just something you see in the movies?"
"Who knows?" Marta shrugs. "But he got the whole village on board. Many of them invested all of their savings in the project."
"And I'm guessing things ended badly?"
"Lord Chutney used all the money to purchase the land, but it turned out that he couldn't build anything on it," Marta continues. "I don't remember why. Something about findings from a geological survey? Well, all those villagers lost their money."
"He could have sold the land back or something, right?"
"Supposedly he tried, but no one would buy it." Marta takes a deep breath. "Some villagers lost a pretty penny and some lost everything. A few even claim that the whole thing was a scam and that Lord Chutney somehow kept all the money for himself."
"Is that what you believe?" I ask.
"I know he's not a very pleasant person to be around. People with titles do as they please around here. It's shameful."
"Now I get it," I admit. "It would be hard to call someone like that stepfather."
"I will never call him that." Marta's expression turns cold. She frowns, eyeing the half-made soufflé batter on the counter. "In fact, with how much he's hated around here, I'm surprised that Lord Chutney wasn't the one murdered tonight."
I scratch my head.
For all I know, Marta is right.
Maybe Lord Chutney was supposed to be the victim?
CHAPTER FOUR
I wake up in my room to a brisk knock on the door. Marta pokes her head in as Peppercorn helps herself to the pillow next to me. I yawn, rubbing my face. I have no idea what time it is. Last night I helped Marta clean up the kitchen before heading back to bed.
