So it was a good-news, bad-news situation, Beau reflected after Bill hung up. They could narrow down the weapon and, if they found it, could match it to the bullet in evidence. Finding the rifle and the shooter … that sounded as if it had just gotten a lot more complicated.
A tap at his door—Beau raised his head to see Rico. “Boss, I’ve got calls in with TSA and some of the airlines. Nobody’s getting back to me yet on that, but meanwhile I’ve been scrolling through some of the databases of shoe prints.”
“Any luck?”
“Do you know how many different manufacturers make how many styles of shoes in a given year?”
“Can’t exactly imagine.”
“Exactly. But I’ll keep working on it, boss. The size is probably an 8-1/2 or 9.”
Beau nodded. It was a slim lead, at best, but at least they had an idea of the size of their shooter. One of those compact, wiry military guys who was trained as a sniper precisely because he could squeeze into nooks and crannies and still operate a weapon efficiently. Determined not to let his optimism leak away, he called Evan in and told him to see if he could find out how tall Marcus Fitch was. If he turned out to be six feet tall, well, at least they could eliminate a suspect.
Chapter 13
Kelly loved the food department at Marks & Spencer. She had made a quick scouting trip their second day in Bury, but now they were in a home with a kitchen and she was back to shop in earnest. Scott had cautioned her not to load up the fridge—there were still lots of excellent restaurants to be tried. With that in mind, she picked up one of the small wire baskets and looped the handle over her arm.
Teatime at home was a must—she’d already experienced that luxury in the hotel room anytime she wanted. The tea aisle was beautifully simple—three levels of strength in the black teas (she chose the middle one) and a couple of milder ones (she picked up a small box of the chamomile). The selection of cakes was slightly mind-boggling but she had to show restraint. She’d be the size of a house if she indulged her desire to try one of everything. She settled on a small Battenberg cake and a sticky toffee pudding, promising herself she would make them last a minimum of a week. And she would come back and take some home for her mom. It would be amazing if Sam could figure out how to duplicate the English treats for her customers at Sweet’s Sweets.
“I saw that,” came a voice behind her. Kelly snapped her hand away from the box of Bakewell tarts she’d nearly picked up. Scott had been at the Visitors Center, picking up more historical pamphlets and books, and she’d only casually mentioned where she was coming.
She laughed at his gawking gaze into the shopping basket. “Okay, that’s all the desserts. I promise. Let’s decide what we want for lunch.”
She led the way to the fresh produce and ready-made meals section. The selection was large and varied—they would have no chance to become bored over the next couple of weeks. She chose a salad with a variety of greens, a packet of crunchy toppings, and its own special dressing. Scott chose a spinach salad and said he liked the looks of a small tray of turkey, ham and cheeses, a snack in place of a big dinner this evening. Some fresh fruit and a bottle of wine, and the basket was becoming heavy.
“Once I get more familiar with the stove and the pots and pans at the house, I’ll come for things I can cook—one of these shrimp dishes, or maybe that stir-fry. They all look fantastic.”
The clerk divided their purchases between two carrier bags, and they set off for home.
“Tomorrow, I’d like to ride the train to Cambridge,” he told her as they put the groceries away.
“Graham could take us, you know. He offered, anyplace we want to go.”
“Maybe a different trip. I think the train experience will be fun.”
“You know what else will be fun …” she teased, popping a grape into his mouth.
He eyed the bedroom and wiggled his eyebrows. “What’s a honeymoon for, anyway?”
Articles of clothing got strewn across the lounge and into the hall on the way to the bed. “I’m glad Mr. Bookman had a maid service come before we arrived,” Kelly murmured. “It would be creepy to climb into the bed right after he’d left it.”
“Shh, shh … mood killer,” he said into her ear.
“Okay, then, let’s start in the shower.”
He didn’t need to be convinced. The steamy water and luxurious bath gel put them both in the mood. Later, lying under a cool Egyptian cotton sheet, Kelly sighed.
“I really don’t miss being at home, bathing dogs all day,” she said.
“I really don’t miss my students. Thank goodness we have the summer break away from each other.”
“I wonder how Mom’s handling the bakery and the chocolate factory. You did hear her say this new contract with Book It Travel was huge? Sometimes I worry that she’s overloading herself with work.”
“Your mom will do fine. I’ve never met a woman who could get so much done. She’s a dynamo.”
She laughed. “That she is.”
“Hey, let’s do that ride to Cambridge this afternoon. What are we waiting for, anyway? It’s only thirty miles away, and we’ll figure out what to do once we get there.”
The local railway station fit exactly with the style of the other buildings in town—red brick, tan rock trim, slate roof, and what appeared to be a bell tower. They bought tickets in the small lobby and waited at Platform 2 to board the Greater Anglia train with the bright red doors. Forty-four minutes after stepping aboard, they emerged at the far busier Cambridge station.
Meandering the streets was fun, noting how many of the buildings and scenes were very similar to Bury; other areas with wide open parks and the River Cam running through felt different.
“Let’s ride one of the boats,” Kelly said with a light in her eyes.
The flat punts filled with tourists crowded the river, but they quickly got tickets and stepped down into one. Their guide gave a narrated tour as he poled the boat, pointing out the various colleges and important buildings. Scott’s interest perked up at the sight of the four-hundred-year-old buildings and what felt like hallowed halls. They left the boat at the end of their tour and decided to walk through the gardens, admiring the low-hanging weeping willows and beds of brilliant flowers.
A small admission price got them into King’s College, where Kelly stared in awe at the ceiling of the beautiful chapel, while Scott browsed every placard that explained the history of the renowned school. When they connected with each other again, he told her he had already met a fellow history professor.
“Kel, he gave me his card and said he could get me into the library as a visiting educator. How amazing would that be?”
She smiled at his enthusiasm, but insisted it was too late in the day to turn him loose in a library. They decided to look for someplace to have an early dinner. Wandering through the market area, they spotted a chop house where the aroma of steak filled the air. They left, full and happy, in time to catch an evening train and be back in Bury by dark.
The next morning, plans came together easily. Scott had already declared that another visit to King’s College was in order, so he was off on the early train to meet up with his new professor acquaintance.
Kelly played housewife in their borrowed home, unpacking their clothes, throwing a load of shirts and undies in the small washing machine, exploring the kitchen appliances, and setting the tea things on a tray where they would be convenient. She spent the morning in the garden, reading a book she’d picked up at Waterstone’s and watching two robins fly back and forth to a nest they’d built under the eaves.
By two o’clock, laundry done and her lunch salad consumed, she felt the need to get out and stretch her legs. She set out, carrying an umbrella in case the clouds continued to build as rapidly as they had in the past hour. Strolling through the residential section, she admired the brick houses, so similar but each with special touches to differentiate it from its neighbors. The lane curved in a graceful arc and she found herself at
an unfamiliar intersection. She knew the town center was to her right, and she turned in that direction.
She passed a tire center and a pharmacy, a pub and a B&B, and eventually spotted the familiar obelisk that marked the war memorial. From here, she knew her way back through the shopping areas on Angel Lane and Abbeygate Street. She meandered, taking her time in a way that never happened when there was a husband at one’s side.
Kelly had noticed the many charity shops—cancer, heart, Alzheimer’s research—they all ran thrift shops for fund raising, and she’d noticed the window displays seemed always timely with seasonal merchandise that appeared of good quality. Maybe she would take a look, come up with little things to take home as gifts. Rupert, for one, was always up for vintage clothing—but it was tricky to find things in his size. He was, however, a big fan of scarves and shawls, and those might be attainable. She walked over to the window of Cancer Research UK and gazed at the display.
A mannequin in a ’20s-style beaded dress, with a feather boa and lovely cloche hat sat at a cute little dressing table covered with sparkling vintage jewelry. On the floor at its feet were stacks of books, mysteries of the same era, Kelly noted. A bentwood rack held a half-dozen hats, and a couple of scarves were draped through its curving limbs. She decided to take a look inside.
A couple of shop employees were busily sorting and setting items out for display, leaving her to browse at her leisure. When the older woman noticed that Kelly seemed to have targeted one of the scarves in the window, she came over and spoke.
“May I assist you with something, miss?”
“The purple scarf with the paisley design, there on the rack—how much is it, please?”
The woman pulled it down and looked for the tag. “Two pounds even.” She handed it to Kelly.
It appeared to be cashmere, and Kelly couldn’t see any damage other than a small section of the hem which needed to be tacked back in place. She could do that herself. And Rupert would love it. Surely her favorite adopted uncle was worth it.
“I’ll take it, and I’d like to browse a little more,” she told the clerk.
“Certainly. I shall hold this for you, there at the till.”
I have to keep these gifts small, Kelly reminded herself. Even with a private jet to ride home in, she couldn’t be toting home any of the wonderful lighting fixtures or unique furniture pieces—although that cute dressing table would make an adorable desk. She found a book on dog breeds published by the British Kennel Club, for Riki, and a set of Russian wooden spoons, hand painted, for Ivan. Her bridesmaids were both into Victorian vintage jewelry—a hard commodity to find in Taos—so she picked out two pairs of earrings.
By this time she had wandered into a small room near the back where two volunteers were unpacking cartons and bags of donations.
“Choose anything you like,” said the young man. “It’ll take ages for us to get it all marked and put on display, but Gwen is a gem at pricing. She’ll set you right with whatever you want.” He nodded toward the older woman who had already assisted her.
“Thanks. I’ll look around.”
“American?” he asked. “Tourists usually prefer the posher shops.”
“I love old things, and most of my friends do too. My husband and I are staying a couple of weeks, so I’m just picking out a few gifts to take home.”
At the mention of a husband he went back to a carton of books. Kelly gazed over the table tops and shelves against the walls, where several sets of china and crystal glittered. Pretty, but not her style. Definitely not something to wrestle nearly five thousand miles back home. Then her glance fell on a pile of dusty items on the floor, things that apparently didn’t merit enough attention to immediately be put up for sale. One box caught her attention and she bent to pick it up.
“What’s this?” she asked, holding it up to get better light.
Gwen had just walked into the room. She craned her neck forward and coughed slightly as the dust hit her nostrils. A pair of glasses hung from a cord around her neck and she slipped them on to have a better look.
“I actually don’t know. Some old thing that’s probably been here just ages. I don’t remember it coming in, do you, Robin?”
The young man shook his head. “Never noticed it.”
Kelly pictured a good dusting and a coat of furniture polish for it. “How much would you charge for it?”
“Oh, no more than fifty pee, I should think.”
Fifty pence. Less than a dollar, Kelly calculated. Even if it didn’t polish up nicely, she wasn’t really out any money. “I’ll take it.”
Gwen picked a plastic shopping bag from among the packing materials near the two volunteers. “Just slip it in there,” she suggested, clearly not wanting to get her hands dusty.
At the register Kelly pulled out the coin purse she was using to keep her British money separate from the dollars she’d brought from home, paid for her purchases and let Gwen place everything into one bag.
She just had time to get home and enjoy a cup of tea and a slice of her new Battenberg cake before Scott would be back.
Chapter 14
Sam needed time alone, to think. She woke with that realization at three a.m. Quietly slipping from bed, she dressed in black slacks, a plain white T-shirt, and her baker’s jacket. She wrote a quick note for Beau and patted each of the dogs on the head before getting into her truck and heading for the chocolate factory. Many of life’s problems were solved while deeply engrossed in kneading, rolling, stirring, or otherwise working with chocolate.
The old Victorian house stood dark and quiet at this hour. She pulled under the portico and walked into the kitchen. She turned on only one light, admiring the gleam of the copper pots hanging from their hooks and the smooth marble worktop. Deep breath.
Don’t stress over what may come in the future, she told herself. Spend a little time being creative and enjoying the process.
She went to the pantry and gathered a few simple ingredients—cacao, butter, sugar, cream—then picked up the box containing the tiny bottles of pure flavors, and finally the canister where she kept a supply of the secret ingredient that made her chocolates the best in the world. The process of melting the chocolate slowly, stirring it to the perfect consistency, and adding the other elements was like an elixir to her soul. She stared into the double-boiler pan at the pattern her wooden spoon made in the thick mixture.
When it had reached the perfect temperature, she poured it on the marble slab and began to work with it, smoothing and folding, watching it cool. Soon, the glossy chocolate was ready for molding. She took a tiny pinch of the ethereal green powder she’d obtained from her mentor, the odd Romanian chocolatier who had appeared at her doorstep one Christmas. Bobul still could create chocolates that astounded Sam—his touch with the chocolate itself and his imagination and dexterity in executing beautiful and intricate designs were beyond anything she had yet mastered. And still, her own creations had delighted people all over the world.
She paused as the iridescent powder dissolved into the chocolate, reminding herself of the joy she’d brought to others. No matter how arduous the business felt at times, this was what it was about—creating things that made people happy.
Quickly, before the chocolate could cool too much, she scraped the mound of it into a pastry bag and began filling her favorite mold. The shapes came from nature—a pine tree, a holly leaf, a bird, an egg, a pinecone. When the two dozen spaces were filled, she set the mold aside, took a seat at the end of the table and proceeded, with childlike abandon, to lick the traces of chocolate from the pan and spoon. The act, so reminiscent of simple times, filled her with a pure joy and lightness.
“Thank you,” she said to the smear of chocolate on her finger. “I needed this.”
She spooned coffee into the basket on the coffee maker and started it to brew.
Dawn light had begun to show at the windows. Sam walked to the kitchen sink and stared out at the wooded land beyond. Although the
old house had its share of peculiar squeaks and quirks, she had to remind herself how fortunate she was that her ‘factory’ sat here on an open spot of land surrounded by trees, rather than being in the midst of some industrial city with an uninspiring view of concrete and asphalt. She walked to the packing room, previously a dining room with a small fireplace, and stared at the view from there, then on to the bay windows in the old parlor, overlooking the shipping cartons now stacked against the walls. At times, the hustle and bustle of everyday production and the petty problems of her crew caused her to forget how good her life truly was.
The wide staircase with its ornate balusters and graceful banister led up to the area where Sam’s office gave her a private work spot above the rest of the fray. With the new expansion she would be giving up some of that space, as various functions of the business would need to shift to accommodate more. She spotted the discreetly framed small door in the wall—yes, perhaps the house’s original dumbwaiter would be put to use in moving product and materials. Her peaceful mood dimmed slightly as she again became caught up in logistics.
“Not right now,” she said to the house. “I’m here to enjoy the morning, not to get myself in a twist over how much work I’m creating for myself.”
Back in the kitchen, she checked the chocolate mold and saw the pieces had cooled enough to come out. In an upper cupboard was a beautiful English china plate she’d used a few times when serving samples to visitors. She pulled it out and unmolded the new chocolates onto it.
“My private supply,” she said with a smile.
The coffee was ready. She poured a cup for herself and picked up the plate, taking her treasure upstairs to her office, where she watched the sunrise from the tower windows. Her first bite from the batch sent a feeling of peace and equanimity through her body. Yes, the few extra hours alone, the time to drop her concerns for the future and simply cherish the joyful moments—it had been exactly what she needed.
Sweet Magic Page 7
