by Fiona Grace
“It was a nice day when I got here!” Tom justified. He could probably tell how eager it appeared for him to have been waiting around in misty conditions for the last forty minutes. “I just sat on the cliffs and read a book. Besides, I had plenty of company.”
He gestured to the right, where Lacey saw a group of Gina’s sheep had munched their way around to the front lawn.
“Those belong to Gina,” Lacey said, plunging her hand back into her purse in an even more frantic effort to find that blasted key.
“Gina from the store?” Tom asked.
“Yes, that’s right. She’s my neighbor. Her sheep come over here to dine.”
“Free gardening service,” Tom joked. “Maybe I should get some sheep too.”
Finally, Lacey found the key. It had fallen right to the bottom of her purse, of course. She unlocked the front door and pushed it open.
“Come on, let’s get inside before it starts to rain,” she said.
Chester muscled his way in first. Lacey wondered why he hadn’t barked at Tom emerging from the mist. Evidently, the dog was a very good judge of character and could sense Tom was a friend even before he’d gotten a good visual on him. He probably recognized his smell.
Tom stepped over the threshold into Crag Cottage and Lacey tugged him by the arm down the corridor toward the kitchen as if in an attempt to make up for lost time. The basket swung between them.
“There’s not a teapot in there?” she asked, recalling the hilarious moment Tom had produced one from his basket at lunch. If he’d pulled the same stunt again this time, it would surely be cold.
Tom laughed. “No. Just the ingredients to make salmon coulibiac.”
They entered the kitchen. Tom whistled as he looked around. His eyes practically bulged at the sight of the original Arga.
“Salmon coulibiac?” Lacey asked, slinging her bag into a chair. “I’ve never heard of that.”
“It’s a Russian dish,” Tom explained. He placed his basket on the counter. “Pastry-wrapped spicy salmon.” He turned to face her. “You do eat fish?”
“Yes. I love it.”
Lacey went over to the cupboard where she stored the wine, very much wanting a glass. Her day had been particularly trying, and she was flustered by Tom’s sudden appearance. She hadn’t mentally prepared herself for seeing him. When was the last time she’d touched up her makeup? She buried her face in the cupboard and called out, “What wine should we have to complement the dish?”
“A Viongnier or white Rioja would be perfect if you have either,” she heard Tom say. “Failing that, a Pinot Grigio will do.”
“Pinot Grigio it is,” Lacey said, a little embarrassed by her unsophisticated wine collection.
She transferred the bottle from the wine rack to the fridge to cool; she had enough worldly knowledge to know white wine was supposed to be served chilled, at least.
Tom had already begun unloading the ingredients from his basket onto the counter. He’d brought a huge blob of pastry—presumably made up during his day at the patisserie—and it was wrapped up in a muslin cloth like it was some kind of precious gem. Then he removed the huge salmon fillet, the sight of which made Lacey’s mouth begin watering with anticipation. She realized that she’d been so caught up in the whole murder mystery, she hadn’t eaten anything since her cereal bar, and before that, the closest she’d come to a “proper meal” had been Gina’s reheated shepherd’s pie (not that that could be classed as “proper” food; for all Gina’s awesomeness, she was a terrible cook).
Lacey took a stool at the island as she watched Tom scour her kitchen for just the right pots and pans, weighing each one in his hand before turning it over and knocking the undersides. Once he had everything he needed within hand’s reach, he got to work on the salmon coulibiac.
Lacey rested her chin on her fist. “So where did you learn to cook a Russian coob-ee-ak?” she asked.
Tom chuckled at her mispronunciation. “Coulibiac,” he said. “And I learned it in Moscow.”
Lacey’s mouth dropped open. “No way! You’ve been to Russia?”
“I’ve been to a lot of different countries,” Tom said. “If you want to learn to cook a dish properly, you’re best off doing it in its country of origin. I make a mean curry thanks to a week training in Delhi, and to die for jerk chicken thanks to Jamaica. But you can probably guess that as a pastry chef, I spent the longest time training in Austria and France.”
“Hence the infamous macarons,” Lacey replied in an almost dreamlike voice.
She was awed by Tom’s life experiences. Especially considering she herself had rarely left the States, and even then it was mainly for work trips, where she’d be shunted straight from the airport to auction house or display room or conference, without the chance to experience any of the culture.
“Exactly. We’re having kouign amann for pudding, which originates from Breton.”
He pronounced the name of the French region with a perfect accent that made Lacey swoon.
“I’ve never heard of it,” she said. “Queen-armarn, I mean, not Breton. I’ve heard of that.”
But only because France was the country she and David had spent their honeymoon in, she reminded herself.
Still, Lacey didn’t feel the usual sense of intimidation she normally did when dealing with people more knowledgeable than herself. The annual work parties David had dragged her to were always mortifying experiences for Lacey; conversations flew over her head, David’s boss had it stuck in his mind she was an “upholsterer’s assistant,” and someone, without fail, would ask her if her dress was by a certain designer she’d never heard of, prompting her to reveal that it was actually off the rack. Speaking to Tom was a breath of fresh air. Even if he’d done more and knew more about the world than she did, he didn’t gloat about it. He didn’t talk arrogantly. There wasn’t even the smallest hint of showboating in his personality. It made Lacey feel able to let down her guard in a way she rarely did.
“Kouign amann is basically a croissant,” Tom replied with a laugh. “The big difference being it’s folded up like a little origami square, and slow baked so all the layers puff up perfectly.”
His passion for cooking glinted in his eyes, making Lacey smile.
“I can’t wait,” she replied, feeling a bit like she was slipping into a dream.
Tom had even brought all his spices, and Lacey watched as he put cardamom, cloves, and chili into the pan. He did everything with the same theatrical gestures as he did when frosting his cakes or preparing cream tea and scones. She loved watching him. Whenever she cooked—which was rarely—she’d try to get everything done as quickly as possible. But Tom took care with every step of the process, from cutting the fish to the way he gently pressed the pastry into the dish.
“Oh, the wine is probably cold now,” she said, hopping up and taking it from the fridge.
She poured them both a glass.
“Cheers,” Tom said, holding his up to her. She clinked hers against his, remembering the joke he’d made with the quarters of scone when they’d first met. It already felt like a lifetime ago.
“So, what did you get up to on your day off?” Tom asked, as he set his wine glass down on the counter and returned to his task. “Anything fun? Or did you just need some space away from the local gossipers?”
Lacey hesitated. She wasn’t sure whether she should divulge anything to Tom about what she’d really been doing. Surely it would make her seem like a bit of an oddball. But then she remembered how Tom had seemed very interested in the mystery of Chester’s deceased owners. Maybe he would be interested in this mystery as well.
She decided to bite the bullet and go for it.
“I was talking to Clarissa Archer. Iris’s daughter.”
Tom stopped mid-chop, the knife hovering in the air as he glanced over his shoulder at her. “Really?”
Lacey couldn’t fully decipher what his expression and surprised tone were conveying. Either he thought she was a complet
e lunatic, or he was genuinely curious about what she’d learned. She proceeded with caution, assuming the former was more likely than the latter.
“Superintendent Turner accidentally let slip that she was at the station, so I went down there to speak to her. I’m hoping to find some information that might help me to clear my name.”
“You’re playing amateur detective?”
Tom laid the knife down and picked up his wine glass, turning so his rear end was resting against the counter. The casual posture suggested to Lacey that he was actually on the side of intrigued, and she felt a surge of confidence.
“Yes, I am. I’m not going to stand around and let my reputation turn to filth.”
“Good for you!” Tom exclaimed. “Tell me everything. What did you find out?”
He flashed her an encouraging smile. Finally accepting that he wasn’t judging her, Lacey decided to open up to him about everything.
“I found out that Iris left her estate to her valet rather than her kids.”
“Oh yes, I read something in an article about that once. She always said that her responsibility as a mother was to provide her children with all the tools they needed to succeed in the world, not give them handouts.” He shrugged. “Seems a bit rich coming from a woman who lived off of handouts.”
“I think that’s why,” Lacey explained. “Iris wasn’t happy about inheriting the estate. Her daughter said she was the first person to benefit from the law change regarding male heirs and it caused a rift in her family, between her and her sister, and her nephew who would have been the next in line if the law hadn’t changed. I can only guess she wanted to prevent the same thing from happening with her own kids.”
“That’s a good point,” Tom said. “I hadn’t thought of that. But leaving the estate to her valet? That’s surely going to stir up some bad blood.”
“When I spoke to him, he said that she treated him like family. It was weird.”
“You spoke to him too?” Tom exclaimed.
Lacey realized then that Tom was more than just interested, he was fascinated. And there seemed to be an air of admiration in his tone.
“I did,” she said, her cheeks warming with pride instead of embarrassment for once.
Tom suddenly seemed to remember his coulibiac sitting on the counter, and turned around.
“I’m really impressed by your fortitude, Lacey,” he said, as he carried the dish over to the Arga and placed it inside. Then he collected his glass of wine and sat on the stool opposite her at the butcher’s block table. “Do you think she was killed for her money?”
He gazed into her eyes with deep contemplation and curiosity.
Lacey wasn’t used to someone being so attentive to her. David certainly hadn’t been, at least not after those first few months of newly wedded bliss had worn off. With Naomi she couldn’t get through a sentence without being interrupted, and her mom was prone to emotional breakdowns when anything more taxing than the weather was discussed. And then of course there was Saskia, who could go an entire day barking orders at her without once making eye contact. Over the years of interacting with them, she must’ve unwittingly absorbed the belief that nothing she said was of any worth, and so to now have someone looking deeply into her eyes—someone stunningly gorgeous, no less—well, it made her feel a whole host of new sensations.
She drummed her fingers on the countertop. “I mean, that would be the most obvious explanation. But the valet did seem genuinely torn up. He’d have to be a really good actor to fake that kind of grief.”
“So one of the kids?” Tom suggested.
Lacey shook her head. “You said it was public knowledge that Iris wasn’t leaving them anything in her will. They’d be set to gain nothing from her death.”
“She might have had a good life insurance policy though. A wealthy rich woman like that?”
“Maybe,” Lacey said, considering his point.
“Or maybe someone was trying to coerce her into changing her will,” Tom added. “You hear about that all the time. Someone who makes friends with the elderly just to get them to leave all their money to them.”
“That’s awful,” Lacey said.
“Some people are evil,” Tom said.
Lacey pondered his words. Could someone have gone to Iris’s house that morning to get her to change her will? Or to steal from her? Maybe Lacey had interrupted them mid-burglary. There had to be more to the story.
With their theories exhausted, Tom retrieved the spiced salmon coulibiac from the Arga—putting the dessert inside to cook while they ate—and placed it on the table in front of them.
All conversation about Iris Archer ceased as Lacey tucked into the pastry-wrapped fish and rice, spiced with cardamom, cloves, and chili. It tasted divine. The salmon was baked to perfection, its subtle flavor perfectly complemented by the unusual combination of spices. The pastry was similar to the rich, buttery one Tom made his scones with, but a savory version. The whole meal was rounded off with the perfect amount of chili to make her mouth tingle but not make her eyes or nose water.
Once they’d consumed the main course, Tom retrieved the kouign amann from the Arga and presented the little steaming parcels of flaky excellence to the table. The pastry had puffed up into layers. Lacey’s taste buds tingled with anticipation. Even Chester raised his head at the smell.
“These look awesome,” Lacey said.
She took one and bit into it, the layers of pastry crackling beneath her teeth.
The taste of caramelized sugar flooded Lacey’s mouth and Lacey realized instantly that she’d tasted it before. She was hit by a memory. Not of her father, for once, but one from much more recently in her life: her honeymoon with David fourteen years earlier. They’d spent two weeks in France, during a glorious heat wave whereby a single cloud hadn’t blemished the sky. They must have tried the dessert at some point during that wonderful fortnight of wedded bliss.
Lacey suddenly became overwhelmed with emotion.
“Are you okay?” Tom asked, concerned.
She put the pastry back down onto the plate, feeling foolish. “I’m sorry, I had a memory. Of my…” She paused, uncertain she wanted to go into her ex with her new romantic interest. But this was Tom. He seemed interested in everything she had to say. He didn’t have a single judgmental bone in his body. “My ex-husband,” she finished.
Tom nodded slowly, sipping his wine as if to bide time. “I was wondering how you were single.”
Lacey blushed and shrugged. “Now you know.”
“Well. I’m divorced as well.”
“When did you divorce?” Lacey asked. “If you don’t mind me asking.”
“Not at all. Last year. And you?”
Lacey counted back in her mind. “Two weeks tomorrow.”
Tom almost spit out his wine. “Two weeks? How are you functioning? I was a shell of a person for at least the first month.”
“Maybe because separating from David was exactly what I didn’t realize I needed to do.”
She was shocked by the certainty with which she said it. All along, she’d been thinking the divorce had been foisted upon her and this whole trip to England was her making do with a bad situation. Now she realized it was a blessing. She’d never have gone if she’d not been shoved, and yet look at the life she’d already built up around her!
So Naomi had been right. It hadn’t been the ultimatum that had ended things with her and David… it really had been a choice Lacey herself had made.
Tom raised his glass to Lacey’s. “Amen. Let’s drink to that.”
Lacey clinked the rim against his and smiled, the feelings that had been evoked by the intrusive honeymoon memory already gone. Now she felt like there wasn’t anything in the world she couldn’t face.
Even if it was a murder mystery she’d found herself in the center of.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Lacey decided to walk into work the next morning, taking the beach path she’d discovered on her first day at Crag
Cottage. She needed to clear her head, and a long stroll with Chester was just the way to do it.
Because the path took her a different direction than her car route, Lacey passed the coffee shop where she’d gotten her first Americano. She decided for nostalgia’s sake to buy one from there.
The same barista who’d served her the first day was behind the counter. As she joined the short queue, Lacey flashed her a friendly smile. The woman narrowed her eyes.
She must not remember me, Lacey reasoned.
But when it was her turn to order, she was shocked by the words that left the woman’s lips.
“What are you doing here?”
She said it with such hostility, Lacey was taken aback.
“I just wanted to get a coffee,” Lacey said.
The woman shook her head. “I’m not serving you.”
“I’m sorry, what?” Lacey stammered, completely shocked.
“I heard what you did,” the woman added, her voice now a hiss. “You killed Iris Archer.” Her eyes fell to Chester then. “And you stole the dog from the home and garden store!”
Lacey was stunned by what she’d heard, and what she’d been accused of. But it seemed extremely unwise to correct the woman by explaining Chester’s owners were deceased, because she’d probably find a way to blame Lacey for that as well!
“You’re not welcome here anymore,” the woman finished. “So go away.”
Lacey staggered back out of the store. Her heart was racing. How terrible. How could these people really be accusing her of such a dreadful crime? It was so awful.
Feeling low, Lacey scurried out of the store, Chester in tow. As she hurried along the cobblestones toward the safety of her store, she felt like every pair of eyes was on her.
By the time she reached her store, her heart was beating wildly. She let herself in, shutting the door securely behind her.
Once inside, she felt a little calmer, but she was in no hurry to open the shutters or turn the closed sign to open. Instead, she peered out through one of the gaps in the metal sheeting, surveying the street to see if Superintendent Turner had sent any more plainclothes police officers to keep tabs on her. She couldn’t see anyone suspicious.
