Wedding Soufflé and a Dead Valet

by A. Gardner

  "My answer is the same as it was yesterday," I hear Catherine say.

  "Catherine, please. This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity."

  I lean a little closer, curious as to why Tamsin didn't walk through the front door of the bakery to speak with Catherine.

  "I said no," Catherine sternly responds.

  "But yesterday—"

  "I know what I said yesterday, and I spoke too much." Catherine pauses. "Let it go, Tamsin. Stop digging, or you'll end up just like poor Monty."

  "But Catherine, stories like this need to be told," Tamsin insists. "Especially since—"

  "I don't need any more trouble," Catherine interrupts. "I'm sorry. I should have been more direct with you yesterday. You must end this. Now."

  "I can't," Tamsin responds. "And if you won't help me then I'll just find someone else who will."

  "Like that young parking attendant?" Catherine clears her throat, and the two of them are silent for a minute. My mind races as I put the pieces together. Tamsin knew the parking valet Ethan Taylor, and it sounds like that's not all she knows.

  "That wasn't my doing," Tamsin almost barks. The tone of her voice is growing increasingly more agitated.

  "I'm only going to say this once," Catherine mutters. "Stop it. All of it. And stop contacting me." Catherine slams the door.

  Tamsin kicks the side of the building with her riding boot and continues walking. As soon as she disappears onto the next street, I move from my hiding place. I cautiously walk through the alley and out onto the next street. I am right next to the Woodbury bakery. Café tables are on the sidewalk, and the familiar scent of baked goods straight from the oven lingers in the air.

  I do my best to steady my breathing as I enter the bakery. I never thought that Tamsin of all people would be involved in Ethan Taylor's murder, but somehow she is. Catherine rushes to the counter from the back room. Her cheeks are fiery, and she looks as if the heat from the ovens is starting to get to her.

  "Morning," I greet her.

  "Poppy, is it?"

  "That's right," I respond.

  "What can I get you?" Catherine asks, forcing a smile.

  "All of the scones you've got." I laugh. "Marta and Sandra are crazy about them."

  "Well, they are the best scones around," Catherine agrees. "I'll see what I have left from the morning rush." Catherine grabs a box and checks behind the counter. She carefully packs each scone like they are blocks of pure gold. To Marta, they practically are.

  "I don't suppose you would be willing to give me the recipe?" I ask.

  "Of course not." Catherine keeps a smile on her face as she fills a to-go container with strawberry preserves and another one with clotted cream. "Marta is mad about my clotted cream. I must say that it is nice to see a bride who isn't worried about counting every single calorie that goes into her mouth, for once."

  "All of that goes out the window when you're a pastry chef," I say. I glance down at my figure. I'm not enormous, but I'm definitely not at my prime dancer's weight any more. "I'm a testament to that."

  "Oh, Poppy, you look lovely." Catherine frowns. "You needn't be worrying about things like that at your age. Saddle bags. Cellulite. Muffin top. I swear they come up with new names for a woman's extra cushion every year."

  "I won't argue with that." I glance at the various pastries behind the counter. "I see you didn't get sick like the others."

  "Sick?" Catherine repeats.

  "Yes, haven't you heard? I thought gossip traveled fast in little towns like these. Some of the guests from Lord Chutney's dinner came down with food poisoning."

  "Oh, right." She forces a chuckle. "Yes, I did hear about that. So unfortunate."

  "I guess you were one of the lucky ones." I watch her as she finishes packing my scones. If we were having this conversation yesterday, I wouldn't think anything of her response. But after hearing her argument with Tamsin, this isn't a good sign.

  "You as well," Catherine adds.

  "I was in the kitchen with Marta during the fish course," I inform her. "Where were you?"

  "I beg your pardon?"

  "I mean, what's your excuse for picking at your seafood salad?" I chuckle lightly, hoping Catherine will see my comment as friendly rather than skeptical.

  "Shellfish doesn't agree with me," Catherine explains. "How is Sandra?"

  "She's doing better this morning," I reply. "Unfortunately, she did enjoy the seafood plate."

  "Well, that's just terrible luck." Catherine hands me my order, and I pull out the cash I have on hand to pay for it. "I hope this isn't affecting Marta too badly. I know how she tends to worry."

  "I think she'll be okay." I nod, but I'm not sure if it's true. A lot is dependent on Lewis and his ability to pull a miracle out of his hat.

  "Very good." Catherine sighs as she takes my money and looks to her next customer. "You send Sandra and Marta my regards, Poppy."

  "Of course." I take my box of scones and leave the bakery even more puzzled than before. It's clear that Tamsin and Catherine are hiding something. The question is, will I ever figure out what?

  I replay the events of Lord Chutney's dinner party over and over again in my head on my walk home. I can't imagine how or when Ethan was murdered in between the time I saw him before dinner and after dessert was served. I search my brain, seeing the faces of the many servers that brought out the food. I don't remember seeing Ethan during dessert. I actually don't remember seeing him at all after giving him my business card.

  I arrive back at Sandra's house to see Marta frantically searching the front garden. I frown as Marta dives into the patch of shrubbery next to the front window. I set the box of scones down on the doorstep and rush to her side.

  "Marta, what's going on?" I ask.

  "It's Peppercorn." Marta shakes her head. "I can't find her."

  "I'm sure she'll turn up."

  "I hope you're right." Marta sighs.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  "Just go, Marta." Sandra nudges Marta toward the door. "I will be here if she comes back."

  "This isn't like her at all," Marta responds.

  She's been worried about her cat, Peppercorn, all day. I don't remember seeing her or letting her out when I had left for the Woodbury bakery this morning. After Mr. Fletcher's visit, Marta has been theorizing, suspecting that her neighbor might have something to do with her cat's disappearance.

  "Give it a day." Sandra nods. The color is returning to her face, and her appetite is almost back to normal. "Cats can roam the streets for days at a time and be just fine. Peppercorn is just being cat-ly."

  "I suppose," Marta sighs. "Besides, Tamsin won't let me forget it if I cancel tonight because my cat ran off. Let's go, Poppy."

  I follow Marta out the door, and the two of us walk toward the center of the village. The sun is going down, and the two of us are supposed to have drinks with Tamsin tonight. It was Tamsin's idea—a fun night out to get Marta's mind off of the wedding. I'm not sure if it's going to work.

  "No news from Lewis," Marta mentions. "I do hope he has found a new caterer by now. I'm about this close to pulling out my chef's apron." Marta holds up her thumb and her forefinger as if she's pinching something very small.

  "Don't underestimate him," I reply, taking in the night air. I do my best to comfort Marta, but all I can think about is the conversation I heard between Catherine and Tamsin. It's all I could focus on all day, even after a long conversation with Marta about centerpieces and table settings.

  The two of us walk past the Woodbury bakery on our way to Rose's Inn where Tamsin is staying. The windows are dark. Catherine has closed up for the day. I dig my hands into my coat pockets as an evening breeze brushes through my hair. I'm dressed a little more appropriately tonight for English weather, in boots and an overcoat. The only thing I'm really missing is an umbrella.

  "Yeah, well, I'm really going to need a drink tonight." Marta clears her throat. "Just don't let me pass my limit, okay, Poppy? If I start talking abou
t interpretive dance or opening my own yoga studio or something, it's time to cut me off. Last time I went out with Tamsin, I almost dropped out of pastry school to join a nunnery."

  "Seriously?" I raise my eyebrows. Marta doesn't seem the type.

  "It sounded like a good idea at the time," she adds.

  I glance back at the Woodbury bakery, remembering the things Catherine said before she slammed the door in Tamsin's face. Some of their conversation made sense to me, and some of it didn't.

  "I was glad to see that Catherine wasn't sick this morning," I say casually.

  "Oh, yes, another miracle. Could you imagine if she had fallen ill?"

  "No scones?" I chuckle. "That would be tragic."

  "I'm hoping that Lord Chutney got the worst of it," Marta mutters. "Mum hasn't spoken to him today as of yet."

  "How long have you known Catherine?" I ask. "I mean, did she grow up here in Woodbury?"

  "No, she moved here after marrying her husband," Marta answers. "But the village loves her just the same. It's as if she's always lived here."

  "So she was married to her husband for a long time then?"

  "They were young when they married as far as I know." Marta focuses on the inn straight ahead of us. A light is glowing in the front window, and already I hear laughter coming from the pub on the main level. "Young and happy is what Mum said after Monty died."

  My throat tightens, and I do my best to continue breathing normally.

  "Monty?" I repeat.

  "Oh, that's Catherine's husband. I believe it is short for Montgomery." Marta pushes open the door to the inn and is met with a crowd of locals lined up at the counter with their choice of spirits.

  Catherine's words echo over and over again in my head. Stop digging or you'll end up just like poor Monty. And Monty, Catherine's husband, ended up dead. According to Marta he died in a car crash, but maybe his fate wasn't an accident. And if Monty was murdered all of those years ago, what does it have to do with the murder at Lord Chutney's Manor? Not to mention, why and how is Tamsin involved? She doesn't even live in Woodbury anymore.

  "Poppy." Marta waves a hand in front of my face. "Do you need a glass of water or something?" She glances at a woman with bright red lipstick. I assume that she's Rose.

  "Sorry."

  "As I was saying, this is Rose." Marta nods and waits for me to acknowledge the owner of the inn. "Rose, this is my mate, Poppy."

  "Ah, yes, the American," Rose responds. "I've heard so much about you."

  "All good things, I hope."

  "Naturally." Rose's smile is warm, and her demeanor, overall, is welcoming. She seems perfectly suited for her position as the town innkeeper. "I haven't seen Tamsin all afternoon. She's been up in her room."

  "She must be working," Marta comments. "That girl doesn't know when to quit. Come on, Poppy."

  "Second door on your right," Rose says.

  I follow Marta through the dimly lit pub and up a narrow staircase. Surprisingly, the second floor doesn't match the first. The pub downstairs is dark and full of barstools and shades of brown. The second level of the inn is much brighter. The walls are covered with beige wallpaper displaying various sizes of red roses. Each room is clearly labeled with metal numbers. I glance out of the window and see the majority of Woodbury's high street. Marta knocks on room number two and waits.

  "Hello?" Marta shouts through the door. "Tamsin? It's Marta and Poppy."

  The two of us wait a couple of minutes, and Marta knocks a second time, this time much louder.

  Still no answer.

  Marta shakes her head and tries the door. It creaks open, and Marta doesn't hesitate as she walks into Tamsin's room.

  "Tamsin, it's me," Marta shouts.

  "Oh, Marta!" Tamsin jumps when she sees us. She yanks off her headphones and immediately shuts her laptop, grabbing a mess of papers that are strewn across the desk.

  "See, what did I tell you?" Marta mutters. "She's working. You just don't know when to quit, do you?"

  "Speak for yourself," Tamsin snidely replies as she hurriedly cleans up her mess.

  My eyes dart around Tamsin's hotel room. It's a decent size. There's a desk up against the window, a queen-sized bed, and an armchair in the corner with an unzipped suitcase on top. I can see the entire bathroom from the doorway. It's small, but it looks nice and clean. Tamsin's clothes are all over the bed, and a room service tray with a half-eaten sandwich is sitting on her nightstand. I search for a box or bag from the Woodbury bakery, but I don't see one.

  "Are you ready?" Marta asks.

  "Yes, I was just finishing up some things." Tamsin takes a deep breath, flipping over her stack of papers and shoving them into her desk drawer.

  "What are you working on?" The question slips out. I can't help it. Tamsin is hiding something, and I won't be able to let loose until I figure out what that is. I also don't want to make the mistake of going out for drinks with a murderer.

  "A story," Tamsin quickly replies. "Always a story."

  "What sort of story?" I try pushing her for more information.

  "Oh, you know. The usual rubbish they publish in the papers. Honestly, I just do what my editor says. Of course, I'd rather be doing things my way, but it pays the bills for now." Tamsin grabs her coat and purse and is the first one to head for the door. "Where are we off to?"

  "I thought we could grab a table downstairs and—"

  "Marta," Tamsin cuts her off. "How boring are you?"

  "What do you suggest?" Marta frowns. "Do you really want to go into London? It's a two-hour trip."

  "Ninety minutes," Tamsin corrects her. "No, I'm not suggesting we go all the way into London, but we should get out of Woodbury tonight, don't you think?"

  "You're not suggesting…" A twisted smile crosses Marta's face.

  "Indeed, I am," Tamsin confirms. "Tonight we party at the castle."

  "The castle?" I ask. "What's that?"

  "It's this night club we used to sneak off to," Marta replies. "It's in another city. Close enough that we could take the train there and back in one night. But far away enough that we wouldn't run into anyone from Woodbury. The club is made to look like a castle on the inside."

  "Sounds fun," I add.

  "You'll love it, Poppy." Tamsin jogs downstairs, shouting over the chatter in Rose's pub. "Let's go before we miss the next train."

  The three of us step back into the night air. Marta resumes her deep breathing exercises, attempting to keep herself calm long enough to enjoy her night out. I smile, but on the inside I can't focus on anything but the papers in Tamsin's hotel room. Tamsin looks up at a window on the second story before we turn a corner. I assume it is the window to her bedroom.

  Whatever Tamsin is up to, I hope it doesn't ruin Marta's big day.

  * * *

  I cut Marta off after a long, and slurred, discussion about investing all of her savings into running a food truck in New York City. Both Marta and Tamsin are hardly fit to ride the train home back to Woodbury. I sit in between the two as they laugh at a random ant crawling across the floor.

  "Oh, I wish we could have my bridal shower at the castle." Marta laughs. "Mum would hate that. Oh, can you imagine the face she would've made tonight when that bloke from Aberdeen asked for your number?"

  "Oh, yeah." Tamsin's mouth hangs open, even when she's through laughing.

  Our night at the castle, which is really called the Royal Apple, was like hopping back in time. For Marta and Tamsin. I had a few drinks but stopped as soon as I realized that Marta and Tamsin were drinking their way to the mother of all hangovers. I guess this is what they used to do back in the day, though I'm sure their bodies did better back then at handling all the alcohol. I also can't imagine how they made it home every night without waking up the entire village of Woodbury.

  "Remind me what stop we get off at," I chime in.

  "The next one." Marta waves her hand as if it's no big deal. "Do you remember that time with the pig and the—"

&nbs
p; "That chap from the mill," Tamsin finishes. "That was one wicked night out."

  "Okay, let's go." The train stops at our station, and I nudge the girls out the door before we're stuck in another town.

  It's the dead of night. A light glows at the station, lighting our short walk back into town. I'm having a hard time keeping my eyes open, and so is Marta because she stumbles a few times as we start our journey back toward Rose's Inn. Normally, I would be the one stumbling back to my room, but tonight I took Lewis's favor to heart.

  "Oh, Tamsin." Marta uses her friend's shoulder for support. "Do you think she'll ever come back?" Marta's expression goes from overly cheerful to downright depressed in a matter of minutes.

  "Whaaaa?" Tamsin has a hard time concentrating on anything other than her feet.

  "She'll come back to me, right?" Marta sniffles as if she might start crying.

  "She's talking about Peppercorn," I comment.

  "Your cat?" Tamsin lets out a loud laugh. "Marta, you have bigger things to worry about than a stray cat. For instance, do you have anything to wear on your wedding night? Please, tell me you at least bought a pair of stockings."

  "I own stockings." Marta's expression changes drastically again. "What makes you think I don't own stockings? I own plenty of fancy things, thank you very much."

  "I can only assume we're talking about lingerie here," I add, though neither of them are listening to me. I speed up, hoping to make our journey back to the inn a little shorter. Both Tamsin and Marta need all the sleep they can get before Marta's bridal shower tomorrow.

  "I have no idea if you're fibbing or not," Tamsin responds, ignoring my comment. "That's why I bought you something rather saucy for your shower tomorrow."

  "Tamsin," Marta shouts. "My mum and Lewis's mum will be there."

  "So you'll be all set with tea cozies." Tamsin chuckles to herself. "Who cares, Marta? You're a grown woman now with a job and a life. You're allowed to be improper once in a while."

  "Perhaps I should move the wedding to Mum's back garden." Marta looks up at the night sky with a giant smile on her face. "Family and close friends only…and no Lord Chutney."