by A. Gardner
"Tamsin is waiting for us at Catherine's," Marta says.
"What's Catherine's?"
"It's the Woodbury bakery. Catherine Thorne owns it now. You met her last night."
"Isn't there about a gazillion little soufflés downstairs?" I ask. "Why don't you eat one of those for breakfast?"
"Get dressed, Poppy." Marta's tone reminds me of the first week we worked together at Le Croissant. Back then, she had no problem bossing me around, and I guess today is no different.
I sit up, afraid to look in the mirror. I'm sure the hardships of my trip show on my face. I grab the first outfit I think of—jeans and a loose-fitting sweater. There is sure to be some sort of rain, downpour, or drizzle while we're out. Peppercorn meows as she waits by the door as if she's telling me to hurry up.
I race downstairs and smile at Sandra who is enjoying her morning tea in the living room. She sets down her book and watches Marta and me over thin-framed spectacles. My thoughts tick away like the grandfather clock in the corner as I think about last night.
"Good morning," I say.
"Where are you two off to this morning?" Sandra asks.
"Mum, I'm not a teenager anymore." Marta throws on a red scarf that brings out the color of her fiery locks.
"Remember, I've invited the Berry's over for dinner tonight. You said you would help me with pudding."
"Yes, Mum, I'll be back in time to cook," Marta answers. "And Lewis will be here a little early."
"Very good, dearie." Sandra nods, and Marta drags me out the door.
"Bye."
Marta shuts the front door before I say anything else.
"It's a short walk." Marta jogs down the driveway and heads toward the heart of the village. "I used to make this walk every morning before school. Tamsin and I would meet at Catherine's for one of her scones. Of course, her husband was alive then, so things were different."
"What happened to Catherine's husband?"
"A horrible car crash," Marta responds. "She was devastated. We all thought she would sell the bakery, but she didn't. Now she practically runs the place by herself. But Catherine isn't as cheerful as she used to be."
"I noticed." I think back to last night and the moment I met Catherine Thorne. She looked elegant in her cocktail dress, and her blonde hair looked like gold underneath the twinkling chandeliers at Chutney Manor. But despite her glowing appearance, Catherine seemed to have a poor attitude about Woodbury in general. Now I understand why.
Marta and I pass a few cottages with stone walls covered in vines and various flowers. The village of Woodbury looks like it belongs in a storybook. The roads are quiet and narrow. Rich green foliage grows everywhere, and so far, the only townspeople I've seen passed by on bicycles. The sky is gray, but the random patches of honeysuckle and daffodils make up for it.
Marta speed walks much as she does on the streets of Paris. I follow her, rubbing the sides of my arms because of the brisk fall wind. We approach a street of shops, and I spot café tables out on the sidewalk near a store with a large window full of pastries. As soon as I smell the scent of fresh baked goods coming out of the oven, I know we've reached Catherine's bakery.
"Smells lovely, doesn't it?" Marta comments. "I worked here before leaving for pastry school. Catherine taught me all about sponges and clotted cream. She used to make her own jams as well. I don't think she does that anymore."
"That's okay," I reply. "You had me at clotted cream."
We enter the bakery, and Tamsin waves at us from a table next to the window. The bakery reminds me of a cottage in the countryside. The tables inside have lightly colored floral tablecloths, and most of the furniture is made of wood. Half of the bakery looks like a quaint tearoom, and the other half is filled with pastries, cakes, and breads. A young girl emerges from the back and serves an elderly couple their tea.
"You made it before supper," Tamsin comments. She takes a sip of her tea. The young girl comes to our table.
"Tea for three, Maisie," Marta requests. "Are there any scones left?"
"Yes, I think so," the young girl replies.
"Bring us some extra, will you?"
"Sure thing." Maisie nods and walks behind the pastry counter. She grabs a three-tiered plate display and begins filling each level with small pastries. She then retreats to the back room to prepare our tea.
"Gosh, this place hasn't changed at all." Tamsin observes the décor. Her eyes dart from a painting of the countryside hanging on the wall to the shelf above the pastry counter displaying various teapots from around the world.
"Where are you staying?" Marta asks her.
"Rose's, of course." Tamsin finishes her cup of tea and pushes it away. "It's a quaint little inn, but it's nothing like my flat in London. I miss my own bed and my little terrier, Ruffles. Do you miss Paris yet?"
"I miss having my own space," Marta admits. "Mum still sees me as a freckled twelve-year-old."
"I hear you." Tamsin nods. Her outfit today is a little more appropriate for tea this morning. She tugs at her turtleneck and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. "Why do you think I opted to stay at the inn instead of my parent's house?"
"You must really love London," I chime in.
"I adore London." Tamsin laughs, looking at Marta. "Marta and I would always chat about the day we'd both leave Woodbury and start fresh somewhere else."
"Tamsin here is a writer," Marta says.
"Really." I raise my eyebrows. "What sort of things do you write?"
"Well, right now I work for an online journal in London, but one day I hope to travel the world and write about my adventures."
"Last night was some adventure if you ask me," I mutter.
"You're telling me." Tamsin lowers her voice. "What do you think happened? There are rumors all over the village. At least two people have come in asking about it. Catherine wouldn't have it."
"Heart attack." Marta taps her foot so quickly that it shakes the table slightly. "It has to be. There was no blood and no other reason for him to be… I think everyone is making it into a bigger deal than it is. We should be discussing the dreadful dinner, not Lord Chutney's car collection."
"Agreed," a voice interrupts our conversation. Catherine looks different in her work clothes. Her apron is covered in flour. There's a smudge of jam on her sleeve, and she isn't wearing as much makeup as she was last night.
"Morning, Catherine," Marta greets her.
"Don't you mean afternoon?" Catherine sets down our teacups and a steaming kettle.
"Is it?" Marta rubs her eyes as she checks the time.
"I brought you our English breakfast blend." Catherine pours our tea, and Marta immediately pours milk into hers. "It's the strongest thing I've got apart from a pot of coffee in the back. But I've already drunk most of it myself."
"Catherine, did you know that man from last night?" Tamsin whispers. Marta continues fixing her tea just how she likes it. She adds more and more sugar, which I assume is a poor attempt at avoiding the conversation altogether.
"Ethan Taylor." Catherine nods. "Yes, I knew him. Such sad news. He worked a fair amount of odd jobs around here. He will be missed."
"So what do you think happened?" Tamsin pauses, watching Catherine very closely.
"I have no idea, love." Catherine shrugs, looking just as tired as Marta and I. "These things happen. I know that better than anyone."
"You'll have to excuse Tamsin," Marta finally says. "Writers are very curious beings. Sometimes they are too curious for their own good."
"What's wrong with a few simple questions?" Tamsin takes her second cup of tea and adds a scoop of sugar. "Asking questions never hurt anyone."
I can't help but chuckle. I bite my tongue when Tamsin eyes me suspiciously. I've gotten myself into one conundrum after another and mostly from asking questions. Asking the wrong person the wrong question can do much more than Tamsin thinks. My first semester of pastry school was proof of that. One of my instructors turned up dead in the student kit
chens, and I ended up next on the killer's list.
Maisie returns and places the three-tiered dessert plate in the center of the table. The soft yellow color of the plates matches the wildflowers on the tablecloth. Finger sandwiches are arranged on the bottom tier. The middle tier is filled with sweet pastries. I recognize a mille-feuille, a sweet made up of puff pastry and layers of cream. I also see chocolate éclairs and a few miniature lemon tartlets. The top tier is what grabs Marta's attention. She grabs a scone and sets it on her plate.
"I'll grab the clotted cream and strawberry preserves," Maisie says.
"I'll bet you've never had a scone quite as good as mine in Paris," Catherine comments.
"I wish you could serve these at my wedding." Marta takes a bite just as Maisie arrives with two jars. One filled with cream and one filled with the strawberry jam.
"Your Mum did ask me to cater, just so you know," Catherine says.
Marta's eyes grow wide.
"She did?"
"Yes." Catherine glances down at her shoes. "I told her no. Given the history Lord Chutney has with many villagers, I thought it would make loads of my customers very upset. I'm sure you understand."
"Not entirely, but I appreciate you telling me," Marta responds. "That caterer last night was a right piece of work."
"I know what you mean. My Victoria sponge was as hard as a rock. Poor Lavinia even took a trip to the toilet during dinner. Don't tell her I said that. She would die if word got back to Lord Chutney." Catherine wiped the playful smirk from her face, watching Tamsin reach for a sandwich. "The ones on the right are smoked salmon, and the ones on the left are cucumber."
"Thank you," Tamsin replies, taking a bite of a smoked salmon finger sandwich.
Catherine nods and attends to a customer who walks through the door.
"You see, Poppy," Marta mutters. "You and I should cater my wedding. We can do it. We've pulled it off before."
"You're crazy." I think of all the sleepless nights that would be ahead of me, not to mention Marta's very high expectations. "Isn't there anyone else around here you can hire?"
"It's such short notice." Marta scoops a dollop of clotted cream onto her next bite of scone. I grab a scone of my own and bite into it, expecting it to taste like a buttery biscuit from back home. The kind my grandpa would eat with eggs and a slice of bacon. The scone is sweet and flaky. It crumbles in my mouth and pairs seamlessly with the clotted cream.
"I'm sure Lord Chutney would be highly offended as well." Tamsin raises her eyebrows. "That man is as dodgy as the rest of them. No offense, Marta."
"I don't know what Mum sees in him." Marta plops a spoonful of jam onto her plate.
"And I think Mr. Stevenson is some sort of peeper because I caught him staring at my chest more than once last night." Tamsin grabs another tea sandwich.
"With what you were wearing last night, loads of male attention is to be expected," Marta responds.
I quietly laugh, taking another bite of my scone until it's entirely finished. I see now why Marta requested extra. I grab a second helping along with a cucumber sandwich. I can at least attempt to balance my sweet tooth with some vegetables.
"Yeah, yeah." Tamsin waves a hand. "Point taken." Tamsin takes one last sip of tea and stands up.
"You're off already?" Marta stares at her inquisitively.
"I have some work to do," Tamsin informs us. "I can't sit around and wait for you two sods all day." Tamsin chuckles and places some cash on the table. "Are we still on for tonight?"
"Oh, bollocks." Marta wrinkles her nose. "I forgot. I'm having Lewis's parents over for dinner tonight."
"Tomorrow night then," Tamsin says. She stares at the café tables outside, squinting. "I see your prince has arrived."
I follow Tamsin's gaze out the window and see Lewis entering the bakery. Marta wipes her mouth, fixing her hair as best as she can. She wipes the crumbs from her scarf and hurriedly swallows the bite of scone, cream, and jam in her mouth.
Lewis is wearing his usual suit and tie. I've never seen him in anything else. I expect Lewis to greet his fiancée first, so I'm surprised when he doesn't. The first thing Detective Berry does when he spots the three of us is glare at me. Me and me only. I gulp.
"Don't tell me it's already half past three," Marta says.
"Eh, no," Lewis answers.
"You're early then," Marta points out, standing to give him a friendly kiss.
"Yes, darling." Lewis hugs Marta and then looks at me again. "Police business, I'm afraid."
"Well, that's my cue to leave." Tamsin heads for the door. "Poppy, nice to see again. And you two lovebirds behave yourselves tonight." Tamsin speeds outside.
"Police business?" Marta asks him. "What sort of police business?"
Lewis tilts his head in my direction, taking a deep breath.
"Poppy, we need to talk."
CHAPTER FIVE
A bakery isn't the most common place to hold a police interview. In fact, it is a very awkward place to hold a police interview. I nervously sip my tea. I added too much sugar, but I don't mind. I need the energy right about now. Marta says good-bye to Catherine and heads home to start cooking.
"Are you sure you remember how to get back home?" Marta asks me.
"It's not that far," I answer. "I'll be fine. I'm sure anyone I ask here in town knows where you live too."
"Fair point." Marta shrugs and leaves the two of us at a table in the corner.
"I know the routine," I say first. "You want to know where I was when Ethan Taylor died. I was with Marta all of last night. You can ask her yourself."
"I'm aware of that, Poppy," Lewis answers. "I'm here to ask you how the victim acquired your business card."
"Victim?" I whisper, remembering the moment Lord Chutney found Ethan's body in the driver's seat of his Rolls Royce. "So it wasn't an accident?"
Lewis pauses. He doesn't correct me right away, which means I guessed right. My heart races. Ethan didn't die of a heart attack or something similar. He was murdered.
"I'm not supposed to—"
"I'm not a resident of Woodbury," I cut in, knowing exactly what he's about to say. "Whatever you say to me will stay right here." I point to my temple. "The only person I know around here is Marta, and I'm sure you'll agree that she has enough on her plate right now."
"She's going to be furious when the word gets out," Lewis says quietly. "I would like to keep this from spreading through the village for as long as I possibly can."
"Understood." I take another sip of tea and sit back in my chair. "What happened?"
"Unfortunately, it appears that Ethan Taylor was…"
"Murdered?" I finish.
The detective nods.
"Our team found broken bones and internal bleeding all consistent with a fall," Lewis confirms.
"That doesn't make sense." I try to fathom how Ethan could have fallen to his death and then end up in the front seat of an expensive car. "So he didn't die where he was found?"
"It appears not." Lewis sighs and sips his tea. He glances over his shoulder, making sure we haven't garnered any unwanted attention. Maisie is behind the counter helping a customer, and Catherine is in the back room.
"Wow." I shake my head. "Horrible timing. I'm really sorry, Lewis."
"Death often follows me," he says solemnly. "It's part of the job. I just hope this doesn't affect Marta's decision to marry me on Sunday."
"You love each other," I remind him. "She just wants everything to be perfect." And for her parents to finally get back together or, at least, behave themselves in public.
"I know." Lewis scans the bakery a second time. "Now it is your turn. How did Ethan Taylor get your business card?"
"I gave it to him." My thoughts flood with memories from last night and the way Ethan flirted with me. "Marta and I arrived, and Ethan parked the car."
"Did he say anything to you?" Lewis asks.
"He noticed my accent, and he introduced himself."
"A
nd that's when you gave him your business card?" the detective summarizes.
"Not exactly," I admit. "Marta and I went inside the manor. I met Lord Chutney for the first time, and Ethan popped up out of nowhere with a tray of hors d'oeuvres." I remember the way Lord Chutney looked at him. He wasn't happy with his performance at all.
"Is there something else?" Lewis studies my expression.
"Lord Chutney did make a comment about Ethan after he left." I clear my throat, not wanting to point fingers at Lord Chutney. It will tear Sandra to pieces if Lord Chutney is taken in on murder charges right before her daughter's wedding.
"What did he say?"
"I'm sure it was meaningless," I add.
"Tell me, Poppy."
"Fine." I take a sip of tea first. "Lord Chutney said something about how Ethan needed to be taught a lesson. He thinks Ethan scratched one of his cars."
"Did Lord Chutney specify which car?"
"The Rolls Royce," I answer honestly. A picture of Ethan dead in the front seat flashes in my mind. It's enough to kill my appetite. I push aside my plate and cup of tea.
"You are certain that's what he said?" Lewis jots a few things down in his notebook, and I nod.
"I've learned that lying to the police does more harm than good," I say. Lewis grins, possibly remembering the first time we met when Lewis was investigating the death of Lord Samuel Dovington. I had made the mistake of lying to him back then, and it had almost cost me my life.
"That's a very wise assumption."
"After everyone left for dinner"—I go on—"I saw Ethan again. I told him what Lord Chutney said, and Ethan claimed that Lord Chutney scratched the car himself on one of his joy rides. Then Ethan made a joke about asking me for my number. That's when I decided to live a little, and I gave him my business card."
"Then you joined the rest of us at the dinner table," Lewis fills in. "Until Marta excused herself and went to the kitchen."
"Yes, I went with Tamsin to the kitchen. We talked, and then you came in." I drum my fingers on the table. Last night Lewis asked me to take care of Marta, and so far I'm failing at it.
