Wedding Soufflé and a Dead Valet

by A. Gardner

  "Did you notice anything suspicious the rest of the night?" he asks.

  "You mean besides the questionable seafood salad?" I joke.

  "Did you notice any absences from the dinner table for long periods of time?" Lewis ignores my comment completely.

  "Ummm." I search my thoughts. "I didn't pay much attention. I was too focused on Marta and the many faces she made during dessert. I guess anyone could have gotten up from the table in that time."

  "Okay." Lewis writes down a few more things, and I lean forward, glancing at his organized scribbles. Lewis slams his book shut as soon as he notices me looking.

  "So you think Ethan was killed during dinner?" I continue, unable to satisfy the curiosity brewing in my stomach. "I guess that means I was one of the last people to talk to him."

  "Yes, if you think about it logically," Lewis whispers. "You spoke with him before the fish course, and his body was found after tea and coffee."

  "If he fell, don't you think someone would have heard it?"

  "Chutney Manor is a very large estate, Poppy. You only saw a fraction of it. There are many places Ethan could have fallen from." Lewis grabs a scone and stands up. "I believe we are done here. I will see you tonight."

  "Yes," I respond. "I'm curious to see what your parents are like, detective."

  "Oh, they're just your average mum and dad," Lewis says casually. "As long as Dad doesn't bring up the time he toured Windsor Castle with my Uncle Dermot, all will be well."

  * * *

  "I must tell you all about the time I toured Windsor Castle with my brother Dermot." Detective Berry's father resembles his son from head to toe. The main difference between the father and son is that Lewis is much more reserved. Lewis's nostrils flare as he takes a deep breath and grips his glass even tighter.

  "Father, I don't think that's appropriate." Lewis looks to his mother, who is standing next to him in the living room. Sandra just finished giving the Berrys a tour of her back garden, and Marta is in the kitchen putting some finishing touches on dinner.

  "Nonsense." Lewis's father chuckles. He seems much more laid back than his son.

  "Barry, dear," Lewis's mother, Barbara, chimes in. Her hair is lighter than her son's, and she's shorter than Sandra, but she carries the same quiet demeanor as Lewis. "Why don't we save that story for another time?" She glances at Sandra. "He and that brother of his cause chaos wherever they go. I'm sure you understand."

  "Oh, where's your sense of humor, Barbara?" Lewis's father takes a large sip from his glass. One that he was insistent on filling up with Scotch when he arrived.

  "I suppose it's with my favorite pruning shears that you've lost for the hundredth time," Barbara mutters.

  "Eh." Barry takes another sip of his Scotch and looks at me. "With parents who had the nerve to name their son Barry Berry, a sense of humor is absolutely necessary."

  "That's understandable," I agree, holding up my glass of water. My headache from last night just barely went away this afternoon. "Maybe she'll let you tell that story after dessert?"

  "Right you are, Poppy." Barry grins. "We shall try again after pudding."

  "Are we ready to sit down?" Marta enters the living room still wearing her apron.

  "Yes, let's." Sandra gestures toward the table in the dining room. I had set it up earlier, using a freshly snipped bouquet of lavender from the garden as a centerpiece. Barry and Barbara joyfully take their seats. Sandra pauses, holding her hand to her stomach. She's been doing this increasingly over the past hour.

  "Mum, are you okay?" Marta asks.

  "I'm fine," Sandra insists. "Let's eat. I haven't had a proper roast dinner in ages."

  The six of us sit down to dinner. Marta smiles as she unveils a large roast presented with carrots and boiled potatoes. I eagerly fill my plate with vegetables and Yorkshire pudding. Marta passes around extra gravy, and Lewis happily accepts.

  "Well, son," Barry says with a mouth full of peas, "I must say that you'll never go hungry." Barry laughs as he cuts into his meat. Barbara purses her lips together. "In fact, I'll be the first to invite myself over for Sunday dinners."

  "Sure, Dad." Lewis does his best to amuse his father.

  "I'm glad you like it," Marta responds, gladly welcoming the compliment about her cooking.

  "Lord Chutney loves Yorkshire pudding," Sandra comments. I glance up at Marta. Her cheeks go rosy as she jabs at a potato on her plate. "It's a shame he couldn't be here tonight. Urgent business in London, you see."

  "Of course," Barry answers. "He's a very important man."

  "Marta, how are things going back at Le Croissant?" I attempt to change the subject, and work is the first thing I can think of. "I'll bet they're running around crazy without you in the kitchen."

  "The bakery is doing very well." Marta pauses for a moment. I've already asked her loads about the old gang at the Parisian bakery I interned at. Marta notices that she has captured Barry's attention, and she plays along. Talking about work will bring the conversation away from Lord Chutney. "In fact, Chef Gautier was just featured in a New York magazine not too long ago. My name was even mentioned in it. They called me his sous chef extraordinaire."

  "Really," Barry comments. "I must read this article. You must send it to me, dear girl. I keep a file of all of my children's accomplishments in the study. Right, Barbara? That means you too now, Marta."

  "Excellent," she says through her teeth.

  I take a bite of my potato as the phone rings from the kitchen. Sandra jumps as she looks behind her. She apologizes for the intrusion and lets it ring. Barry is already taking second helpings of everything, which pleases Marta but not his wife, Barbara.

  "So…" Barry sparks another conversation after a few minutes of silence. "How soon do the two of you plan on making us grandparents?"

  Marta coughs, dabbing her mouth with her napkin.

  "Uh, Dad," Lewis intervenes. "I told you that we plan on waiting a while before we make any decisions. Do you remember that conversation we had?"

  "Of course." Barry carries on like the topic of having babies is as casual as asking someone what they ate for breakfast. "But I want to hear Marta's side."

  "Oh, Barry," Barbara scolds him.

  "What?" Barry glances around the table looking confused. "I think it's a perfectly natural question. I mean, Barbara and I were just discussing it the other day, and we think the two of you would make lovely children. I say children because you can't have just one, can you? That only child will be spoiled rotten. No, it's best to give him a sibling. That was Barbara's and my philosophy."

  "Dad," Lewis sternly responds.

  "Honestly, son, I don't know what all the fuss is about." Barry shakes his head and pours more gravy on his Yorkshire pudding. "It must be all that detective work. It makes you far too jittery."

  "Dad, Marta is an only child." Lewis glances at his fiancée.

  "Oh," Barry responds. "Well, of course, there are always exceptions to the rule." Barry is quick to change his mind. "I just meant only children, in general, are usually spoiled rotten."

  Barbara gulps down the last of her wine.

  The phone rings again, and this time Sandra rises to answer it. She stops in the hallway, clutching her stomach. Marta and Lewis both jump up at the same time.

  "Marta, answer that, please," Sandra instructs her daughter. "If you'll excuse me, I need to visit the loo."

  "Yes, Mum." Marta races to answer the phone in the kitchen, and Lewis helps Sandra halfway up the stairs.

  "Oh my, is she alright?" Barbara comments.

  "I hope so," I reply. I have no clue what's going on.

  Lewis returns to the table and waits for Marta to rejoin us before he resumes eating. I set down my fork, copying Lewis and Barbara. The only person who continues munching on his meal is Barry.

  Marta returns to the table looking pale. Her eyes are wide, and a bead of sweat glistens on her forehead. She slowly sits down, paying no attention to the food in front of her. My ch
est feels heavy as I study her expression. I've seen her nervous before, and the look on Marta's face tells me that something is definitely wrong.

  "That was Dr. Dawson, the village GP," Marta begins. "He was just calling to check on Mum and also to inform me that half the village has come down with food poisoning."

  "Food poisoning?" I repeat. My brain fixates on the only explanation I can think of, and I hope it's wrong. "Not from the dinner last night?"

  "I told you that shellfish was undercooked," Marta responds. She takes a deep breath and continues breathing as calmly as she can. She wipes more sweat from her forehead as she stares at the vase of lavender in the center of the table.

  "Uh, let's look on the bright side," I add, nodding at Lewis and his parents. "You, Lewis, Tamsin, and me all listened to you and avoided the fish course. Am I right?"

  "Oh, absolutely," Lewis answers. "Another positive is that now your Mum will agree to another caterer. Isn't that what you wanted anyway, darling?"

  Marta continues with her breathing exercises.

  "But it's such short notice," Marta mutters. "Our rehearsal dinner is days away, and Catherine at the bakery already said she won't do it." She closes her eyes to keep herself calm.

  "We'll figure it out." I nod, accepting the fact that I might be a very, very busy woman from now until Sunday. Good thing I packed comfortable shoes. "I may be a zombie at your wedding, but I will cater it if we can't find anyone."

  "But you were right, Poppy. It's too much work for the two of us." Marta keeps her eyes closed.

  "Hold on," Lewis says, holding up a finger. "I have an idea. You ladies leave it to me. I will find the best of the best."

  "Lewis, that's very kind of you, but—"

  "Marta," he interrupts. "You've spent more than enough time planning our special day. Let me contribute something other than the ring."

  The room falls silent.

  "Are you sure you can handle it?" Marta asks.

  "I'm sure." Lewis nods reassuringly.

  "Okay." Marta takes a deep breath. "I suppose I should go and check on Mum." She slowly gets up and makes her way upstairs.

  I look from Lewis to his parents. This is not how any of us expected the night to go. I take a moment to thank Marta's thoroughness and high expectations when it comes to food for saving me from a night in front of the toilet. Lewis runs his fingers through his hair. He has a huge job ahead of him.

  "Well, since that's all sorted," Barry says, breaking the silence yet again, "what's for pudding?"

  CHAPTER SIX

  I'm surprised to see a ray of sunshine pouring through my window when I open my eyes. Last night came and went in a flash, and right after Lewis assured Marta for the millionth time that he would find a new caterer, he left with his parents. Barry left with a full belly, but mine stayed sour. Sandra spent the rest of the evening in her room, and Marta and I went to bed early.

  I check the time. The morning is almost over, and I can't believe Marta hasn't knocked on my door. I get up and get dressed, hoping that Sandra is feeling better today. Peppercorn is lounging in the hallway. She meows when she sees me. I quietly head downstairs to the kitchen and find Marta sitting at the kitchen table with a cup of tea. The kitchen window is open, letting in a soft breeze and giving me a splendid view of Sandra's garden. I can see everything from her various flower beds to the vegetable patch that provided the carrots for last night's dinner.

  "Morning," Marta greets me. "I trust you slept well. I didn't want to wake you."

  "I slept fine." I rub my eyes and take the seat next to her. Peppercorn immediately jumps up on my lap. "How's your mom?"

  "She's doing better." Marta shrugs. "Luckily, she didn't finish the entire portion of her seafood salad. But, of course, all she can talk about is poor Lord Chutney." She grabs another teacup from the counter and pours for me. I've only been in England for a few days, and in that time I've had more tea than I usually drink in a year. "I also just remembered that I'm supposed to meet my dad in London today."

  "I guess it was a good thing he showed up late to the party," I comment.

  "Yes, he sounded perfectly healthy the last time I spoke with him. You are welcome to come, or you can stay behind. It's up to you."

  "I don't want to intrude," I answer. But what I really mean is that I don't want to keep Marta from speaking her mind because I'm sitting right next to her. "I think I'll stay here. I can keep an eye on Sandra for you."

  "Thanks, Poppy. I'm sorry for all the trouble. Weddings aren't supposed to be like this at all." Marta rubbed her rosy cheek. Her hair is pulled up so that all of her freckles are in full view. "I went to a wedding in Italy with Chef Gautier. We delivered the cake to this tiny little hotel in Sorrento. The bride and groom asked us to stay for the ceremony, and it was so lovely and peaceful. All the guests danced and ate until the sun came up. I remember thinking, gosh I hope my wedding is just like this. It's funny how one's dreams come crashing down, isn't it?"

  "There's still hope, Marta." I add a scoop of sugar to my tea in hopes that it will wake me up. "You have a spectacular fiancé and a village of people who are looking forward to seeing you succeed."

  "The ones that aren't feeling poorly," she adds.

  "Everyone will feel better by Sunday," I point out. "That's the bright side of food poisoning."

  Marta cracks a smile.

  "The bright side of food poisoning," Marta repeats. "You say the strangest things, Poppy. I love it."

  A knock on the door steals her attention. The two of us sit up straighter, and Peppercorn jumps off of my lap. Marta rolls her eyes when the knocking continues. She reluctantly gets up and walks to the front door. The door creaks as it opens, and I hear the sound of a man's voice screeching through the hallway.

  "Calm down, Mr. Fletcher," Marta says.

  I quickly stand up and walk down the hallway. An older-looking man with matted, gray hair is standing outside. He's just as tall and lanky as Marta, and he's wearing a dark blue bathrobe. The man stamps his foot.

  "That cat of yours has ruined my garden for the last time," Mr. Fletcher complains. "Where is she?" He maneuvers his head as best as he can, searching the parts of the house he can see.

  "I will take care of it, Mr. Fletcher."

  "Where is that cat? I want that cat out of here. My flowers can't take it!"

  "Peppercorn and I will be leaving after the wedding," Marta replies.

  Peppercorn rubs herself against my calf and purrs.

  "What about my garden?"

  "Good-bye, Mr. Fletcher." Marta closes the door. She turns around and glares at Peppercorn. "Peppercorn, what have you been up to?"

  "Nice neighbor you got there," I respond.

  "Oh, Mr. Fetcher is always complaining about something." Marta shakes her head. "Last time it was the height of Mum's shrubs in the front garden. Apparently they obstructed the view in his sitting room."

  "Was that Mr. Fletcher I heard shouting up a storm?" Sandra appears on the staircase. Her face is pale, but she's smiling as though the worst of her troubles are over. "What is he on about now?"

  "Peppercorn has been venturing into his garden," Marta responds.

  "She's catching mice, no doubt," Sandra says. She brushes a strand of her reddish hair away from her face. She crosses her arms and holds the fabric of her sweater tight around her chest as if the kitchen is a refrigerator. "That man's house is filthy. Most days he sits around in his bathrobe and complains to poor old Herold when he brings the post."

  "Mum, can I get you something?" Marta asks.

  "Oh, I'd love a cup of tea and one of Catherine's scones. Do we have any more of those?"

  "I'm afraid not." Marta rushes to make Sandra a cup of tea. "I could run to the bakery and grab some. That is, if there are any left today."

  "I'll go," I volunteer. "I remember how to get there. I think."

  "Oh, that sounds lovely." Sandra carefully sits down at the kitchen table. "My stomach is just starting to feel normal a
gain. Of course, I was up all night. Poor Lord Chutney is just outraged by this whole ordeal. The caterer has already offered him a full refund."

  "As long as it doesn't happen again," Marta chimes in.

  "Oh, Marta, I'm so very sorry." Sandra hangs her head.

  "It's okay, Mum. Lewis is looking for another caterer as we speak."

  "I suppose I can talk to Catherine and—"

  "I talked to her already," Marta replies. "Why didn't you tell me that you asked her to cater my wedding and she said no?"

  "Oh, she told you." Sandra sighs. "I didn't want you to take offense to her decision. I thought it would be better if you thought I never asked her in the first place."

  "I understand, Mum," Marta assures her. "I respect her decision."

  "What do you mean, dearie?" Sandra stares at her daughter blankly.

  "I'll get going." I jog up the stairs and grab my shoes and purse. If Marta is choosing now to dig into her mother's relationship with Lord Chutney, I don't want to be present.

  I shout a quick good-bye and start my trek back to Catherine's bakery. I pass Mr. Fletcher's house next door, and he watches me suspiciously from his front window. His hair is still a mess, and I smile, thinking of Sandra's comment that he sits around in his bathrobe all day complaining about one thing after another. A chill breeze brushes my cheeks, and I hug my arms. The sky is still gray, but vibrant colors pop up from garden to garden, brightening my path.

  I turn down a familiar street, hoping it's the one that leads to the Woodbury town bakery. After a few minutes of walking, I debate whether or not I should turn back. I see store fronts, but I don't see the familiar sight of café tables decorating the sidewalk. I must be off by one street. A familiar face convinces me to keep walking.

  Marta's childhood friend Tamsin seems like she's in a hurry. She turns a corner, and I am compelled to follow her. A narrow side alley takes me from one street to the next. Tamsin stops suddenly and bangs on a door. I stop and duck behind the trash cans lining the edge of the building. Tamsin glances over her shoulder and knocks again. I'm surprised when I see Catherine answer. Tamsin must be knocking on the side door that leads into the bakery's kitchen.