Wedding Soufflé and a Dead Valet

by A. Gardner

  "Should we join them?" I suggest.

  "Ummm…"

  "Come on." I nudge her inside, and she follows, still clutching her forearm.

  Marta waves as soon as she sees the two of us.

  "Tamsin, I thought you were upstairs." Marta briefly looks toward the staircase leading to the second floor.

  "I was," Tamsin explains. "And then I wasn't."

  "Have a seat," Lewis says. "Here. Let me get your coat." Lewis reaches for the collar of Tamsin's coat, and Tamsin jumps back. She almost runs into Rose, who is delivering drinks to a nearby table.

  "Tamsin?" Marta frowns. "What's the matter with you?"

  "Sorry," she apologizes, forcing her usual smile. "I just thought I would keep my jacket on tonight. That's all."

  "Okay?" Marta tilts her head and eyes her suspiciously.

  "In fact…" Tamsin glances at the staircase leading to the second story. "You know, I think I'll head up to my room and get changed."

  "Tamsin, what's going on?" Marta insists. "You seemed fine today at the bridal shower. More than fine actually."

  "Yes, I heard about your infamous gift," Lewis adds with a friendly chuckle.

  "I know it made your mum livid, Marta, but I couldn't help myself." Tamsin shrugs.

  "She's over it," Marta responds. "Though I can't say the same for my cousin Ophelia. She had loads of questions for my aunt after you left."

  "She is an odd one." Tamsin loosens her grip on her forearm.

  I stare at her wrist, seeing what looks like a red mark on her skin. I can't tell if it's the lighting in the pub or if she's hurt. My gaze falls to Lewis. Tamsin is obviously hiding something. Whether or not it has to do with Ethan Taylor's murder investigation, I don't know. And I don't know if asking Tamsin what she's up to at this point is the smart thing to do.

  But I don't want a repeat of Lord Chutney's dinner party on Sunday.

  "What's that?" I stare at Tamsin's wrist, my blood pumping at a million miles an hour.

  "What's what?" Tamsin quickly responds, leaning away from me.

  "That on your wrist," I insist.

  Tamsin clutches her forearm again.

  "I don't understand what you mean, Poppy."

  "Did you hurt yourself?" I ask, trying to sound casual.

  Lewis eagerly watches her.

  "Oh, it's nothing." Tamsin dips her arms below the table, but Marta glares at her. A look of concern crosses her face as she reaches for her friend's arm. Tamsin resists at first, but Marta has no problem boldly pulling back Tamsin's sleeve. Marta's actions confirm my suspicion. There's a gash down her forearm that extends to the end of her wrist. It doesn't look too deep, but it is deep enough to bleed. Marta's eyes go wide.

  "Tamsin, what's the matter with you?" Marta scolds her. "You need to dress that wound as soon as possible. You don't want to come down with some sort of infection the day of my wedding. How on earth did that happen?"

  I wait for Tamsin to explain, but she stares blankly at a painting on the wall.

  "It was an accident," Tamsin answers. "Not a big deal.

  "I beg to differ." Marta reaches for her arm again, but Tamsin pulls it away.

  Tamsin takes a step back, holding her head high. She's not going to break down. She's not going to tell us the truth. She's not going to admit that she wasn't out shoe shopping, and she didn't get that gash in her arm by tripping and falling while fighting for a pair of heels on the sale rack.

  "I'll see you lot tomorrow." Tamsin clears her throat and heads straight for her hotel room. I briefly make eye contact with Lewis. Hopefully now he understands why I'm torn.

  Tamsin is caught in the middle of something messy.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  "Yes, Mr. Fletcher," Marta says almost robotically.

  "The next time you plan on causing a ruckus in your garden, I would like to know beforehand." Mr. Fletcher waves a copy of the local paper over his head. He stands on Sandra's front porch wearing the same robe he did last time he came over to complain.

  "Uh-huh." Marta sighs. "Is that all?"

  "I mean business, you know," Mr. Fletcher threatens her. "I'll bring it up at the next village meeting." Mr. Fletcher's eyes grow wide. "And where is that mischievous cat of yours?" He moves his head back and forth, attempting to see into the living room.

  "You tell me, Mr. Fletcher." Marta drops her nonchalant tone and places her hands on her hips. "I haven't seen her in a while."

  "Are you accusing me of catnapping?" Mr. Fletcher narrows his eyes, his matted hair messier than the last time I saw him. "Why that is absolutely preposterous."

  "You're the one who said you wanted her out of here," Marta accuses him. She raises her voice loud enough that Sandra pokes her head out of the kitchen. "Well, where is she? What did you do with Peppercorn?"

  "I've done absolutely nothing," Mr. Fletcher argues.

  "I find that very hard to believe." Marta points a finger at him, and Sandra rushes to the front door as quickly as she can.

  "Sandra, teach your daughter here to respect her elders." Mr. Fletcher frowns as he stamps his house slipper against the ground.

  "This coming from a man who sits alone in his lounge all day and has nothing better to do but complain about the noise levels of a small bridal shower going on in his neighbor's garden? I would have invited you, but the party was women only. Then again, maybe I should have invited you." Marta's cheeks are as fiery as his hair.

  "What did you say?" Mr. Fletcher gasps.

  "Marta, dearie, I'll handle this." Sandra nudges her daughter out of the way. "You're clearly under a lot of stress right now. Why don't you head on back to the breakfast table and finish your cup of tea."

  Marta reluctantly follows her mother's orders and retreats to the kitchen. I wait in the doorway as Mr. Fletcher fumes. Sandra takes a deep breath and then smiles like nothing is wrong.

  "We'll try to keep it down next time." Sandra's voice goes up a notch. "Good to see you, Mr. Fletcher. So long." Sandra shuts the front door before Mr. Fletcher can open his mouth in protest. She looks at me on her way back to the kitchen. "He's always been like that. It's best not to encourage him."

  I bite my lip as I join Marta and her mom in the kitchen. I had woken up to the sound of Mr. Fletcher knocking on the front door. I had hoped it was someone returning Marta's lost cat, but instead I heard the disappointed complaints of Sandra's neighbor, Mr. Fletcher.

  "How did you sleep, Poppy?" Sandra asks me. She pours me a cup of tea. Strangely, I don't miss coffee as much as I thought I would.

  "I slept good, thanks."

  "Marta," Sandra says, taking her daughter's hand. "Peppercorn will come back, wherever she is. You must believe this, and let yourself relax. Your big day is almost here."

  "Yes, Mum, I know," Marta answers.

  "The more you keep everything bottled inside, the more likely you are to have outbursts at people like Mr. Fletcher." Sandra pours her daughter more tea.

  "But Mr. Fletcher is downright rude, Mum. He came over to tell you that the bridal shower you threw for me in the back garden yesterday was too noisy." Marta shakes her head. "What sort of man does that?"

  "The sort that sits around all day in his bathrobe," I mutter. Marta cracks a smile.

  "Oh, I could sit quietly and read and that man would have a problem with it," Sandra comments. "You never mind him, dearie." Sandra rubs her daughter's shoulder. "Did you two have a good time at the pub last night?"

  Marta nods.

  She had a good time because she spent it with Lewis, and her head isn't splitting apart this morning. I, on the other hand, feel like last night only confirmed that something fishy is going on in the village of Woodbury. And part of the wedding party is tangled in the web.

  "Yes," Marta admits. "And today I'll be meeting the new caterers. I do hope Lewis found an adequate crew. All I want is a simple menu with a simple, white wedding cake."

  "Traditional flavors, of course," Sandra adds.

  "Yes, Mum,
you'll get your taste of fruitcake." Marta grins.

  "I'm also look forward to tasting it," I add. Fruitcake isn't a highly requested flavor where I'm from. At least, not for wedding cakes.

  "Your dress fitting is in an hour," Sandra reminds her daughter. "You know you can't keep Mrs. Cunningham waiting. She may not be the sort of woman you invite over to tea, but she's the best seamstress around."

  "I won't be late." Marta rubs her stomach, and Sandra watches with a look of concern on her face.

  "What's the matter? Do you feel ill? You told me you didn't eat the shellfish at Lord Chutney's dinner party." Sandra's eyes fixate on her for a moment.

  "I'm fine, Mum," Marta answers. "Just a bit peckish. I didn't eat much yesterday what with everything going on."

  "Let me make you some beans on toast." Sandra smiles as she hops up and grabs a skillet.

  "I haven't had your beans on toast in years, Mum." Marta looks as if the stress from the past few days is melting away by the second and all from the thought of toasted bread with a pile of legumes on top.

  "I assume you eat much fancier things for breakfast these days." Sandra pulls a can of beans from the cupboard. She pulls out her cutting board and retrieves an onion, garlic, and various herbs from her plants on the windowsill.

  "Mostly pastries," Marta admits.

  "They are kind of hard to avoid in our line of work," I point out.

  Sandra happily warms up her skillet as she chops her herbs and vegetables. I watch eagerly, happy to try one of Marta's childhood staples for the first time. Beans on toast, just like fruitcake, isn't something I grew up with. Sandra's concoction will be my first foray into the world of baked beans at breakfast time.

  "Mum's beans on toast remind me of Saturday mornings. Mum would make us breakfast, and Dad and I would…" Marta stops suddenly at the mention of her dad. She glances at Sandra who continues cooking, adding the canned beans to her sautéed onions and herbs. "Those were the good old days."

  "My Saturday morning breakfasts usually consisted of coffee, coffee, and more coffee." I laugh. "I was always on my way to rehearsals or dance class. There are some things I miss about being a professional ballerina, but the food isn't one of them."

  "Is it really all celery and rice cakes?" Marta drinks more of her tea. "That's what they make it look like in the films."

  "Not entirely, but I did have to be strict," I explain. "I had to make sure I fit into everything in my wardrobe."

  Sandra finishes her sautéed beans and cuts a few slices off of a homemade loaf from the Woodbury bakery. She toasts the bread, scoops the beans on top, and sprinkles a little cheese to finish it off. Marta inhales the comforting aroma as Sandra sets the plate in front of her.

  "There you are, girls," Sandra says as she serves me my portion.

  I carefully take a bite, admiring the way the crunchy toast blends with the warm beans. I also have a food I make around the holidays that stirs good memories. Making brigadeiro with my Grandma Liz never fails to remind me of the reason I chose pastry school after injuring my back. My grandma was an excellent cook, and it made me feel closer to her when I graduated from the same pastry program that she had many, many years ago. I don't regret it.

  "You should make this for Lewis sometime," I suggest.

  "I don't make it as well as Mum," Marta responds.

  "No," Sandra protests. "Yours, I'm sure, is much better. For one, I'm sure you never cook with anything as basic as cheddar cheese anymore."

  "Paris does have a wide variety of cheeses, yes." Marta takes another bite of her meal and savors the flavors for a moment. "But still, this is what I like."

  * * *

  Mrs. Cunningham doesn't talk as much as she groans. Actually, her groans sound more like growls when Marta happens to move an inch. Mrs. Cunningham keeps her glasses on the end of her nose as she puts the final touches on the hem of Marta's wedding dress. Her shop is down the street from the Woodbury bakery, and Sandra has already hinted more than once that we should stop in and see Catherine after Marta's fitting.

  "Sorry I'm late." Tamsin enters the shop with a smile on her face. She's wearing a long-sleeved sweater—a much more conservative look than she normally has on.

  Mrs. Cunningham briefly looks up and rolls her eyes. Tamsin doesn't seem to mind. She takes a seat in an open armchair and studies Marta in her wedding dress. Marta's wedding dress suits her well. With clean lines and smooth fabric, it's simple and elegant. The dress is so white that it makes Marta glow, revealing the pattern of freckles sprinkled across her cheeks.

  "Is she also a bridesmaid?" Mrs. Cunningham sternly asks.

  "Yes, Mrs. Cunningham. Just the two." Marta has explained this to Mrs. Cunningham twice already, but she remains patient.

  "Why?" Mrs. Cunningham frowns.

  "Because simple is better," Marta answers. "I have all the friends and family I need coming to the wedding."

  "That and she works so much that she couldn't find anybody else," Tamsin chimes in.

  "Ignore her," Marta says to Mrs. Cunningham.

  "Hmmm." Mrs. Cunningham takes a deep breath and continues working on Marta's dress.

  "You look lovely," Sandra adds. "The wedding will be lovely as well." She nods, glancing at her daughter in the mirror.

  "And the dress still fits, so you have nothing to worry about." Tamsin shrugs. Her skittish demeanor from last night at Rose's pub seems to have disappeared.

  "How's the cut?" I quietly ask.

  Tamsin pauses for a second and glances down at her forearm, which she conveniently covered with a sweater this morning. She forces another friendly smile as she looks at me the same way she had when we first met at Chutney Manor—like we're old friends.

  "It's better," she replies. "You know, I got back to my room last night and realized it looked much worse than it actually was. It was just a scratch. Silly me for hiding it underneath my coat for so long."

  "What a relief," I respond. But my mind races as I think back to the gash I saw last night. Injuries like that don't come from freak accidents while shoe shopping.

  "My thoughts exactly." Tamsin crosses her arms and leans back in her seat. Mrs. Cunningham frowns in her direction until Tamsin sits up straighter.

  "You two." Mrs. Cunningham pauses and points at Tamsin and me. "Go change."

  I follow Tamsin to a pair of changing rooms in the corner. Our bridesmaid dresses are hanging inside. There is no mirror inside each changing room, so I will just have to hope that my dress fits so that I can come out to show everyone. I quickly change, wiggling into the plum dress that is plain and simple, just the way Marta wants. The hem falls past my knee, and the neckline covers my chest completely.

  I zip my dress up as far as it will go and step back into the shop. Mrs. Cunningham gives me her nod of approval and finishes zipping up the back. Marta's estimate on my size was almost spot-on. The dress fits snuggly, and though it covers most of my legs and cleavage, I'm surprised to see a flattering shape when I look in the mirror.

  "I feel like a Catholic school girl," Tamsin comments as she steps out of her dressing room. Her dress also fits like a glove, but it hides Tamsin's bustier neckline. She doesn't look pleased with it. She tugs at the hem, trying to pull it up higher.

  "I think the dresses look wonderful," Sandra responds. "Very classy."

  "I guess if this is what you want, Marta." Tamsin holds her hands up in surrender. "I suppose one night in this thing won't kill me."

  "I love the plum," Marta answers. "And when you step outside for the evening with your latest flame, you'll thank me for choosing something that stopped you from freezing to death."

  "You expect me to snag a post-wedding hookup dressed like this?"

  Mrs. Cunningham shakes her head, eyes wide. She chooses to work on Tamsin's dress first, starting with making sure her hem drops as low as possible. Tamsin yanks at the neckline, but Mrs. Cunningham insists on making it higher. Tamsin bites her lip, trying hard to keep her mouth shut.
<
br />   I wait patiently until it's my turn. My dress is nearly perfect, and not much has to be done before Sunday. The three of us happily change out of our dresses and join Sandra at the counter. Mrs. Cunningham finalizes our alterations and then briskly sends us on our way.

  "To Catherine's, Mum?" Marta wraps her plaid scarf around her neck and walks toward the Woodbury bakery.

  "Why not?" Sandra grins. "I do fancy a cup of tea and something sweet."

  "You don't have to twist my arm," I add. "Catherine's scones don't exist in the States."

  "Tamsin, are you in?" Marta waits for Tamsin to agree.

  Tamsin slows down and glances over her shoulder.

  "Actually, why don't you go without me today," she responds.

  "Don't tell me you have to work again." Marta glares at her, confused. "Tamsin, if I was able to get the time off, you surely can take some time off too. Whatever it is, can't it wait?"

  My thoughts burst as I think of what Lewis told me about Tamsin. She was fired from her job in London, and it is unclear what she's been up to since. I wait for her to pull some other excuse out of thin air. It's getting harder and harder to hide my true feelings. Tamsin should come clean.

  "I'll see you tonight." Tamsin ignores Marta's comment and begins walking in the opposite direction. Marta shrugs and continues walking toward the bakery.

  "That girl seems a bit funny," Sandra mutters.

  "You always say that about her, Mum."

  "I know." Sandra breathes in the scent of baked goods before pushing through the front door to Catherine's shop. "But this time, Marta dear, I mean it."

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Lewis can't stop grinning. He practically pulls Marta all the way to Rose's Inn. I jog to keep up with them. My stomach growls even though I filled up on pastries at Catherine's bakery this morning. Catherine wasn't very talkative when we entered her shop. She chatted with Sandra for a minute and let Maisie fill our orders. Marta ended up ordering tea for three.