by A. Gardner
"Definitely no Lord Chutney." Tamsin nods.
The three of us turn down another street, and the inn comes into view. A light shines from the front windows, but the pub isn't alive with laughter like it was earlier in the night. I walk even faster, letting Marta and Tamsin trail along behind me as they begin singing an old school song they both know. I wait for them at the front entrance.
"Shhh." I attempt to quiet them down before we enter Rose's Inn and Pub. Marta's eyes go wide as she realizes how loud she's being, but Tamsin rolls her eyes.
"I am disappointed in you, Poppy," Tamsin says quietly. "I thought you would be the life of the party." She pushes past me and walks through the empty pub.
"Oh, my scarf." Marta clutches her neck. "I left my scarf."
"Marta, you weren't wearing a scarf," I remind her.
"I'll be just a minute." Marta follows Tamsin to the second floor.
I shake my head and take a seat at the nearest pub table, wondering if Marta will end up falling asleep in Tamsin's room. The pub is much more peaceful when it's empty. I study the glasses behind the bar and the personal touches that Rose has hanging on the walls—mostly paintings and carvings of roses. It's apparent that Rose takes pride in her establishment the same way Catherine seems to take pride in the bakery that she and her husband built together.
I think about my friends and family back home in the States. My friend Bree has a new job back home that she loves, and my brother is happy, even though he's dating one of my old schoolmates, Georgina. Georgina and I didn't get along at first, but the last time we spoke we were able to tolerate each other. Another old schoolmate of mine, Cole, who I haven't spoken with in a while, is also living his dreams in Atlanta. I feel like I'm the only one who hasn't figured things out.
My mind races in circles as I contemplate a number of things—moving back home to Oregon, finding a job in the South where I went to pastry school, or joining Bree on the East Coast. If only I was as sure of myself as Marta. Marta, the sober Marta, knew from day one that she wanted a spot at Le Croissant. She did everything in her power to get it.
My thoughts are interrupted by a series of screeches coming from upstairs.
The noise makes my skin crawl, and I jump to my feet. My heart races as I look around the pub. I am still alone. Another scream blasts through the inn, and footsteps thud up and down the hallway. I race upstairs, my head spinning.
Marta is at the top of the stairs. Her eyes are wide, and she's staring into Tamsin's room. Rose appears in her robe. A flashlight lights her way as every door on the second floor eventually opens, revealing very concerned houseguests. Marta is speechless as she watches Rose race into room number two.
I follow behind Rose and find Tamsin standing in the middle of her room with her hands planted on her cheeks. Tamsin's room has been torn to pieces. The bed is overturned, and the curtains have been yanked to the floor. Her clothes and personal belongings are all over the place, and the armchair in the corner has been slashed. The fabric looks as though it can't possibly be repaired. Tamsin doesn't look so concerned about the damage. She's staring at her desk looking horrified.
Her desk drawer is wide open, and…it's empty.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The pub is alive again, but the bar is closed.
The police arrive and evaluate Tamsin's hotel room as I wait with Marta and Rose downstairs. Tamsin has hardly spoken since the cops arrived. Her face had gone pale when she realized that her laptop and the papers that had been occupying her desk before we went out were all stolen.
"This sort of thing never happens in my inn," Rose mutters under her breath. Despite the circumstances, I admire the fact that even her pajamas are rose colored. "We haven't had a break-in for years, and the last time was when Michael Pence left his glasses at the bar. He couldn't see straight, and he ended up breaking a window." Rose turns to me. "He thought it was my front door."
"Mum told me about that." Marta rests her head in her hands.
"I heard Tamsin tell those coppers that it was a rival newspaper after her latest article." Rose crosses her arms. "I just hope those scoundrels are willing to pay up for the damages."
"A rival newspaper?" I can't hold my tongue. "Really? A rival newspaper went through the trouble of tracking Tamsin down, following her to Woodbury, stalking her, and then waiting for the right moment to break into her room to steal her laptop. You two believe all of that?"
"Who else would do such a thing?" Rose asks.
"I don't know," I say, remembering the things Catherine said to Tamsin near the bakery. Catherine might have a better idea. "Are you sure you didn't hear anything, Rose?"
"You were in here, love. You heard how loud it gets. Anyone could have been upstairs, and I wouldn't have known." Rose sighs. "My my, this is bad for business."
"So you don't keep track of who goes up and down the stairs?"
"I don't have time for that," Rose responds. "Anybody who was here tonight could've gone upstairs to Tamsin's room."
"How about someone from out of town?" I suggest. "Did anyone you didn't recognize visit the pub tonight?"
"Well, there was one person." Rose looks right at me. "You."
"Besides me," I add. "Of course I didn't vandalize Tamsin's room. I was with her all night."
"No." Rose lifts her chin. "I didn't notice any new faces. Nope. It was just all of my regulars in here tonight."
"Including Catherine Thorne, by chance?"
"I thought you were a pastry chef, not a copper," Rose says. She looks me up and down. I turn to Marta, who is channeling all of her energy into staying awake long enough to make it back to her own bed.
"It was just a question," I dismissively respond.
"Loads of villagers come through here," Rose responds. "Catherine does come around from time to time, but honestly I didn't notice. I was having problems with the till. It kept getting stuck, you see. I need to replace that old thing, but I haven't got the spare cash." Rose glances across the table. "Well, there goes Marta."
Marta places her head down on the table and shuts her eyes. I jump up and shake her shoulders. The two of us have yet to be questioned by the police, but I need to get Marta home. I say good-bye to Rose, instructing her to give the police our information. I practically drag Marta back to her mom's house. I'm glad I remember the way because Marta is too out of it to direct me.
"Mum," Marta mutters as we approach the front door. I dig through Marta's purse for the key. "Don't wake Mum. She will be very upset." Marta chuckles to herself. She leans against me, and her breath reeks of alcohol.
"Okay." I humor her as I slowly open the front door. "I will be quiet, and so will you."
"Oh, yes." Marta holds a finger to her lips as she walks upstairs to her bedroom.
I watch Marta collapse onto her bed before shutting the door. The house is dark, and the door to Sandra's room is also closed. I can only assume she's sleeping. I stand alone in the silent hallway, hoping to hear a familiar pitter patter on the hardwood floors. Peppercorn must still be missing. I settle into my bedroom, hoping that tomorrow doesn't end up like tonight.
Or that Tamsin ends up like Ethan Taylor…or Catherine's husband, Monty.
* * *
"Oh, why did I let her talk me into going to the castle of all places?" Marta rubs her head. As predicted, she slept through the morning and most of Sandra's bridal shower preparations.
"It's not like you do that sort of thing every day," I point out, handing her a second cup of tea. The two of us sit at the kitchen table. The back window is open, and Sandra is in the garden pruning her shrubs.
"It's strange," Marta continues. "Tamsin and I used to be such great friends."
"You still seem like you are."
"We are, but…" Marta shrugs and takes a sip of her tea. "We've sort of grown apart. I mean, she lives in London and stays out all hours of the night, and I live in Paris. I've also made it a habit of getting to bed by ten o'clock sharp every night."
> "If it helps, I have friends from college that I hardly even speak to these days," I confess. "I'm not part of the dancing world anymore. I eat butter and sugar now."
"Yeah." Marta sighs. "I can't handle another wild night out. Sadly, I don't have it in me anymore. Besides, she's been acting a bit strange."
"Strange?" I sit up straighter. "What do you mean by strange?"
"I can't put my finger on it." Marta clears her throat and watches her mother prepare the back garden for her guests. "I suppose we should get ready. My Aunt Daphne and her wildly strange daughter, Ophelia, will be arriving soon. Last time I saw Ophelia, she was wearing a bonnet made of dinner napkins. For the record, we aren't blood related."
"I'm intrigued," I reply. "It sounds like this bridal shower is going to be much more interesting than I thought."
"Oh, it will be." Marta's eyes go wide. "Especially if Tamsin brings the sort of gift I know she will. The sort of gift that will make my grandmother squirm."
"I'll prepare myself." I smile, helping her clean the kitchen and ready the counters for boxes of pastries that Catherine is supposed to deliver. She agreed to help with the food just this once. I assume it's because this shower is women only. Lord Chutney will not be making an appearance.
I retreat to my room and put on the most conservative thing I can find, which turns out to be a chunky knit sweater. The weather is cool enough for it, and if I end up moving back to Georgia when I return to the States, I might never get to wear it again. I glance at myself in the mirror, half expecting to see Peppercorn glaring back at me from the top of my dresser. She's still missing.
I debate whether or not to tell Marta about Tamsin and Catherine's heated conversation from yesterday. It can't be a coincidence that Catherine tells Tamsin to stop whatever she's up to and then, the same night, Tamsin's hotel room gets broken into. The facts swirl around in my head. Marta might be able to put together the pieces. But I promised Lewis I would keep her calm this week.
I have to tell someone.
I stare at my cell phone and take a deep breath. It's early morning Eastern Time. I dial the first number I can think of and wait for a response.
"Poppy?"
"Yep, it's me," I say.
The last time I talked to Bree, my friend and former roommate from pastry school, wasn't too long ago. After leaving our jobs at Magnolia Harbor Inn and Spa, Bree went back to her hometown in Connecticut to take a job in a bakery. She says she's happy there, but I know that she won't really be satisfied until she's the one calling the shots.
"I was beginning to wonder if you made it to England at all," Bree responds, yawning. "You lucked out and caught me on my day off. And a word of advice, don't move back in with your parents, even if it seems like a good idea at first."
"You still haven't found an apartment?" I ask.
"I'm taking my time, but I might have to speed up the process." Bree lowers her voice. "My mom is stressing like Thanksgiving is just around the corner. Maybe I should've gone to England with you."
"Remember all those crazy stories I told you about Paris?"
"How could I forget?" Bree answers. "Oh, Poppy, don't tell me you made them all up. Please tell me you've at least cooked with Chef Gautier."
"Of course I have." I laugh.
"In person?" she clarifies.
"Look," I continue. "I need some advice."
"You met a guy, didn't you?" Bree pauses and takes a long breath. "I'm going to have to start living vicariously through you because I have absolutely no social life right now."
"Yes, I did meet a guy." That part is true. Unfortunately, that guy is…dead.
"And?"
"And I gave him my business card," I finish.
"Poppy." Bree breathes into the phone. I imagine her rolling her eyes with her strawberry blonde hair pulled back in a perfect bun. "You're kidding, right?"
"I wish I was, but my brother, Mark, printed up so many that I thought I might as well start using them," I say, trying to defend myself.
"Did he call you?" Bree asks.
"That's what I wanted to talk to you about. I don't know what to do."
"Go on a date with him," she responds. "You won't be in England much longer."
"There's a slight problem with that." I sit on my bed and stare at my suitcase in the corner. "The guy I met… Well… He's dead."
I expect her to gasp or even take a few minutes to contemplate the news, but Bree responds immediately.
"Are you a suspect?" Bree calmly asks.
"No."
"That's a relief," she comments.
"You're taking this surprisingly well."
"Probably because I'm not there," Bree replies. "You also have a knack for attracting trouble. Remember what happened at the Magnolia Harbor Inn and Spa? At least your pastry skills are not in question this time."
"True." I let my mind wander back to my time in Gator Bay, Alabama. A famous country music star checked into the inn and spa Bree and I had worked at. She didn't check out, and my strawberry tartlets played a part in her deadly fate. "Way to look for the positives in this situation."
"I take it this incident has put a damper on your friend's wedding?" Bree guesses.
"Her fiancé is a detective," I admit.
"Right. I think you mentioned that. The same detective you met back in Paris when that man, Lord Dover or something, was killed."
"Lord Dovington," I correct her. "Yes, that would be Lewis."
"Let him handle this one, Poppy," Bree advises me. "I know the urge to snoop comes naturally to you, but maybe you really should leave it to the professionals this time. I'm sure the wedding will be great, and your friend will be fine. She didn't used to date the victim, did she?"
"No, the guy was a parking valet at a dinner we attended when I first got here," I explain. "The only thing is…"
"Spill." Bree waits for me to continue. I glance down at my feet, hearing a knock on the door downstairs. Marta's Aunt Daphne and her wildly strange daughter must be here.
"I heard the bride's old friend from grade school get into an argument with the woman who owns the town bakery, and I think she might have been involved in the murder," I blurt out. "Oh, and her hotel room was ransacked last night. Someone stole her laptop."
"I see," Bree says. "And you're wondering if you should tell your pastry pal Marta because it might spoil her wedding if it turns out to be nothing."
"Not to mention, I haven't known Marta as long as this woman she grew up with." I take a deep breath. "Of course, Marta might take my comments the wrong way."
"What about the fiancé? Can you tell him?"
"I'm considering it." I scratch the side of my cheek.
"There's your answer then," Bree responds.
"You don't think it'll ruin the wedding, do you?" I take a deep breath. Marta and I might not have gotten along at first, but afterwards she taught me a lot.
"No." Bree clears her throat again. "No." I hear the sound of a fridge closing. "Why would it?"
CHAPTER NINE
Marta looks a lot like a rabbit as she munches on a carrot stick. One too many comments about fitting into her wedding dress this weekend have gone to her head. The Marta I know wouldn't let a silly thing like that stop her from helping herself to a slice of chocolate sponge cake. The Marta in front of me is definitely on edge.
"Lame," Tamsin mutters under her breath. The three of us stand in the kitchen as Sandra and Marta's relatives parade around the garden. Sandra has been waiting all year to finally show it off—Marta's words. "Where's the champagne and the blokes with really tight knickers?"
"You're thinking of a bachelorette party," I point out.
"Oh, good idea. Let's have one of those!" Tamsin sighs, glancing at her tiny dessert plate like it's the most boring thing in the world. Compared to what she's been through in the last twenty-four hours, it probably is.
"I don't think my liver can take it," Marta replies, rubbing her head.
"Relax," Tamsin a
ssures her. "You'll get used to it all again. The first hangover after a long absence is always the worst." She grabs a small finger sandwich and takes a bite. Tamsin frowns but continues chewing. "I was expecting something a little more exciting than cucumber this time."
"What's wrong with cucumber?" Marta asks, a little impatient.
"Nothing," I chime in. It's a poor attempt to keep her from exploding, but so far it's working. "Cucumber is great. The food is great."
"Marta, what's the matter with you?" Tamsin shakes her head. It's as if last night didn't even happen.
"Are you seriously asking me that, Tamsin?" Marta clutches her forehead. "Is it possible for you both to whisper from now on?"
"Is this about your cat again? I told you. Stop worrying about it. You have a man in your life now. Focus on him." Tamsin reluctantly finishes her cucumber sandwich. The more I get to know Tamsin, the more I wonder if she even has a filter.
"It's not just Peppercorn," Marta says quietly. "It's everything. My mother. My father. The…murder. And last night certainly didn't help."
"What?" Tamsin drops her plate on the counter. "I thought we had a good time."
"Yeah, well, I suppose my stomach isn't what it used to be," Marta admits. "No more nonsense. My mum almost dropped dead when you showed up in that cheeky top for Lord Chutney's dinner party."
"Don't worry." Tamsin finally smiles. "I don't plan on wearing that to your wedding." Tamsin glances at me. "A tired Marta is a mean Marta, just for future reference."
"I will make a note of that," I retort.
I refill my plate with miniature pastries and finger sandwiches before Sandra makes her way back inside. Catherine enters the kitchen. She's not wearing her usual apron from the bakery, but she rearranges her baked goods as if she's behind the counter helping a customer. Catherine chuckles, looking up at the three of us.
"An old habit," Catherine explains. "I see the cucumber sandwiches are a big hit." Catherine tucks a strand of her golden hair behind her ear.
