by A. Gardner
"Mr. Biven," Detective Casey says firmly. "I think you ought to come with me." He motions back toward the study, and Hugo Biven proudly accepts the Detective's invitation. "Poppy, we will finish our interview later."
The Detective disappears with Mr. Biven, and the crowd quickly disperses. I see a group of older women head toward the coat closet to check their purses. An elderly man digs through his pockets, relieved when he pulls out a lacey beige handkerchief.
My mind races.
I have to check my room.
"Poppy," Marta mutters. "What happened?"
"Oh." I look down, watching a woman sweep up the broken antiques on the floor. I spot the base of a broken vase and what's left of the bust of a former Lord Dovington. "I didn't see the actual fight. I only saw the ending. But I heard the shouting, and—"
"No." She shakes her head. "I mean, what did the Detective ask you?"
"He wanted to know where I was all day," I answer. "The usual stuff."
"You were in the kitchen with me." She nods assuredly. "You told him that, right?"
"Yeah." I bite the side of my lip and watch her roll her eyes when Mary pokes her head into the foyer a little too late.
"Good." She nudges my arm, and I walk back toward the kitchen with her. My eyes wander up the staircase. All I can think about is the necklace. "We're leaving tonight. I don't care if we have to ride the train soaking wet."
"I'm pretty sure we'd dry off before Paris," I joke.
She ignores my comment. It's better than her scolding me or glaring at me until I'm forced to turn my head uncomfortably.
"Chef Gautier needs to get back for an appointment tomorrow, and I have to make sure that Destin and Dandre didn't burn down the kitchen in our absence."
"What about your interviews?"
"The Detective can either see us right away or make a trip to Paris," she replies. "It doesn't matter either way. We had nothing to do with all this. We just made the cake."
Marta takes a deep breath when we reach the kitchen. Jean Pierre is sipping a mug of something warm and nibbling on a lavender macaron. He's reading his agenda for the next few days like nothing is wrong. His kitchen tools are packed neatly in his case, and he is wearing his travel clothes. He looks up when we enter the kitchen.
"There you are," he says. "Our train?" He points to the clock on the wall.
"We still have some time," Marta responds. "Poppy, do you want to go grab your things, and I'll smooth things over with the Detective?"
"Yep." She doesn't have to ask me twice.
The regular staff of Dovington Manor stays in a separate wing away from the family. The wing is divided into mini studio-looking apartments with private bathrooms. Some of the staff share a room and others have their own. But most of them live in the village. That leaves a good portion open for guests like Marta and I. Chef Gautier has his own room closer to the main house. I only got a peek at it when we first arrived, and it's bigger than ours.
I run upstairs and stop to catch my breath as I enter my room. My suitcase is still in its place, and my bed is exactly how I left it. Partly made with a few wrinkles in the comforter. Bree hates how I never take the time to make sure my sheets hang evenly off the bed. But her room is always perfect like the frosting on her cupcakes.
My chest pounds when I make eye contact with my nightstand. I'm too nervous to look for my diamond pendant, but at the same time I have to know if the one that was shoved into Sam's mouth is mine.
Just relax, Poppy. I'm sure you're freaking out over nothing.
I slowly open the drawer next to my bed and see my black makeup bag. I tossed the jewelry box in there so I wouldn't lose it in my suitcase. All the muscles in my torso flex as I unzip it. My heart pounds so loudly I can hear it in my ears. I glance down at the bag's contents praying that I'll see the royal blue box I opened back in Paris.
I hold my breath.
The box is right where I left it.
I finally exhale, opening the tiny container and seeing a glint of silver.
See, nothing to worry about.
With peace of mind, I gather the rest of my things and happily make my way back to the kitchen. So I happened to find Sam's body first? No one was around, and it wasn't my necklace that was found at the crime scene. I'm free and clear.
When I wheel my suitcase into the kitchen, Mary and Marta are having another debate. I'm not surprised. They clearly butt heads no matter what's going on. Mary is the sort of woman who's constantly stating her opinion out loud. Marta is the sort of woman who likes to point out people's mistakes. Those two together are sure to bring on the apocalypse.
"See this?" Marta is shouting, gesturing at our half of the kitchen. "This is our half of the kitchen, and that is your half." She draws an imaginary line across the floor. "Our half, your half."
"Do you see me in your half?" Mary argues. She has her wooden spoon out again.
"You just were!" Marta loses her temper and stamps her foot.
"Is it my fault that the Lady of the manor asked me to serve everything we have?" Mary barks. "I'm just doing my job, okay?"
"You touched the desserts. We are in charge of the desserts." Marta rubs her forehead which is now as red as a fondant rose.
"So I took the rest of the tarts and chocolate macaroons to the serving table." she responds. "Big deal."
"The sweet table was supposed to look a certain way." Marta shakes her head. "You've ruined the design. What is—"
Jean Pierre places a firm hand on Marta's shoulder, and she immediately quiets down. She takes a deep breath and nods at her boss as if he's put some sort of spell on her. Chef Gautier then turns to Mary. He glares at her disapprovingly.
I know that look, and I hate it.
Mary shuts her mouth too, and freezes in place. Her apron is wrinkled around her stomach, making it look rounder than it is. She clenches her jaw tight but not because she's angry. She seems anxious. Anxious that Jean Pierre might ruin her catering business just by opening his mouth.
Silence fills the kitchen, and Cira rushes in looking tiresome. She brushes a single strand of hair out of her face, and glances around the room. She gently clasps her hands together and keeps her shoulders back, very aware of her posture.
"You served our pastries?" Chef Gautier asks Mary.
"Yes," Mary quickly replies.
"Do you always take what is not yours?" He crosses his arms and continues staring in her direction. Mary's forehead glistens.
"Well, no but—"
"Then why worry about what is not your business?" Jean Pierre states. I'm impressed by how clearly he is speaking English. Maybe he understands much more then he lets on? "I designed a place for every macaroon and French macaron. Every tartlet. Every choux. No extra."
"I'm sorry." Mary looks from side to side, hoping for the support of her staff. None of them speak up. Cira stands in the door wide-eyed. "I…uh…I didn't mean to ruin your display, Monsieur. I don't think I did."
"Marta. Poppy." Jean Pierre nods at us, and immediately we leave the kitchen to assess the damage. Wedding or wake, Chef Gautier has a reputation to uphold. He designed the desserts to compliment his cake—to look a certain way when everything is pulled together. A few extra sweets here and there aren't a big deal, but there are trays and trays of them missing from our side of the kitchen.
Mainly, all of my chocolate macaroons and mini lemon tarts.
A blast of thunder startles me as I enter the reception room with Marta by my side. I'm surprised to see that most of the wedding guests are eating and carrying on as if nothing happened. Mary set up a buffet table so that guests can eat at their own convenience.
What's convenient about murder?
Marta places her hands on her hips when she sees that Mary shoved a tray of petit fours in between the mashed potatoes and dinner rolls. Her cheeks turn rosy and she loudly exhales.
Our dessert table looks simple and elegant with Jean Pierre's mesmerizing fondant wedding cake decorated to
match the garden with edible orchids and tasteful greenery. The accompanying mini croquembouche towers give it a French touch. My eyes move down the table. The base of each serving platter is crowded with more desserts. The result of Mary's impatience. Chef Gautier is right. Putting everything out at once doesn't look good.
"Should we take them back?" I whisper.
Marta takes another deep breath and watches a few guests admire Jean Pierre's cake before filling their plates with sweet treats. It's a good thing Mary's business is based in England. That means we will never have to work with her again.
"I think the damage has been done," Marta replies. "Bloody Mary."
I chuckle.
"Speaking of which," I add, "You could probably use a drink, am I right?"
"We're working, Poppy. That would be highly inappropriate."
Again, my sad attempt to lighten the mood between us fails. I am going to have to face it. I'll probably head back home never knowing why Marta dislikes me so much.
I fold my arms and proudly watch my desserts being devoured. It feels good to know that my cooking is good enough to be associated with such a famous bakery like Le Croissant. Grandma Liz would give me a kiss of approval if she were standing next to me. I haven't graduated from Calle Pastry Academy yet but right now I feel like already I have.
My thoughts are broken by a loud bang. I automatically look outside, expecting to see a fallen tree on the lawn or the remnants of a bolt of lightning striking the manor. All I see is rain. Marta grabs my shoulder for balance. She stares down at the floor. Her eyes are as wide as two powdery doughnuts.
"Somebody call an ambulance!" a woman shouts.
Detective Casey and Detective Berry come running into the room. Detective Berry quickly kneels beside a convulsing man. His back is flat on the ground and against his fallen chair. I'm frozen, not sure if I should look away or watch as the man's head bobs from side to side uncontrollably. I'm not sure if I'm witnessing a heart attack, a stroke, or an exorcism. Detective Berry firmly covers the man's ears, keeping his forearms stiff and straight against his neck. The man's head stops bobbing.
"Put that spoon in his mouth," he instructs the woman next to him. She gulps and does as he says. Detective Casey pulls out his phone, pressing buttons repeatedly.
"Damn," Detective Casey mutters, gritting his teeth. "Is anyone here a doctor?" He eagerly looks around the room at vacant faces. "Okay, does anyone know where the nearest Constable lives?"
"The harbor," someone shouts.
"Right," Detective Casey responds.
The man on the floor stops convulsing long enough to take a breath.
"John!" a woman shouts from the doorway, rushing to his side. Judging by their age difference, I assume she's John's daughter. She puts both hands on his shoulders and bends forward to listen to his heart. The man's eyes open slightly, but he drifts off as if in a deep, entrancing sleep. "What's wrong with him?"
"Ma'am," Detective Berry inquires. "Do you know this man?"
"What do you mean? He's my husband!" the woman barks.
"Does he have a history of seizures…epilepsy maybe?"
"No, of course not," the woman replies. She glances around the room with ruby cheeks. "My husband may be old, but he is perfectly healthy. You have no right to ask me questions like that." She eyes the crowd, keeping her chin up.
Detective Berry looks up at his superior.
"Sir, do you want me to run down to the harbor and radio for an ambulance?"
"I think that would be best," Detective Casey answers. "But check the main lines first. I can't seem to get any reception right now, but maybe a landline is working?"
John's youthful wife begins sobbing, even though her husband is clearly breathing. Detective Berry jumps to his feet and heads toward the coat closet. He will have to trudge through the mud and rain to get down to the beach if the manor's phone lines are shot.
"And Berry," Detective Casey adds. "Hurry."
Detective Casey examines John as his wife attempts to wake him from a deep slumber. Up until this point, the entire room was at a standstill. Now, various guests begin to pace around the room and even whisper. I gulp down air and look at Marta. She looks down at John and then looks back at me horrified. I didn't know her fair complexion could look so pale.
Detective Casey nods as he double-checks John's pulse.
"He's alive," the Detective reassures the crowd. "Don't worry, ma'am. We will get your husband to the hospital straight away." I watch as Detective Casey studies the wooden chair underneath John. A piece of the arm is cracked. He runs his fingers over the surface of the table and finally to the plate of food John was eating before he collapsed backward. A trail of crumbs is scattered over John's suit coat. Detective Casey picks up a half-eaten chocolate macaroon. He holds it closer to his eyes until he can see the bite marks more distinctly. "Who made these?"
His attention turns to Marta and me.
I feel like I'm back in day one of pastry school all over again with the entire guest list staring at me. My throat is too tight to swallow, and my limbs feel cold like I'm standing in a giant freezer. I can't answer his question honestly. Marta glances at me. The chocolate macaroons and mini lemon tarts were my assignment.
But Marta also helped with my batters.
Is the macaroon mine or Marta's?
There's something strange going on.
CHAPTER EIGHT
I'm back in the study sitting across from Detective Casey. He looks more concerned this time. His elbows are casually on the desk, but he's studying my expressions so closely that I want to cover my face. My forehead feels hot. Hot enough to grill a chocolate chip pancake.
The rain is starting to calm down, and the sun has set. Jean Pierre is waiting impatiently in the kitchen for his ride to the train station. He is leaving for Paris whether or not Marta and I are. Having already had her turn, Marta is waiting for me outside the door while Detective Berry paces the foyer with matted hair and muddy pant legs waiting for an ambulance to show up.
"Let's continue our conversation, Ms. Peters," Detective Casey begins. "You were about to tell me something before we were interrupted, and I hope you will be more cooperative than your coworker."
I take a deep breath. It's time to get this off my chest. Marta is already pissed at me anyway for a number of things I'm sure. I hear Bree's voice in my head telling me to calm down. And I hear Cole's voice saying that Jean Pierre is just an old, bitter French guy.
I half smile.
"Yes, I was," I answer. "I was the one who dropped that serving tray in the garden, Detective. I saw Lord Dovington at the bottom of the cliff, but I refused to believe it. I guess I was hoping my eyes were playing tricks on me. After all, I was cooped up in the kitchen all morning. I ran upstairs to look for him, but I found Olivia instead. I was just about to tell her what I saw when someone downstairs started screaming."
"I see," he responds, nodding. "Well, thank you for telling me. Is that all you wanted to say?"
"No." I raise my eyebrows. "I don't know what happened in the reception room, but I made those macaroons in accordance with the recipe and some extra chocolate. I added nothing more. I'm not a killer, Detective Casey. I'm just an ex-ballerina from Oregon trying to survive pastry school."
"I do believe you, Poppy. But if I test those macaroons and find a deadly surprise, that won't look good for you."
"Then figure out what's going on here," I blurt out.
"I could benefit from your help," he says. "Can you think of anyone else who was in the kitchen today besides the normal staff?"
I shrug.
"Me, Marta, Chef Gautier, and then there's Mary and her staff…oh, and Greg."
"Anything unusual that you noticed?" the Detective asks.
I think back through my day, unable to come up with something. The only time I left my cookie batter was when I went outside to look for Sam…and then after his body was found.
"Not that I can think of," I answer hon
estly. "Maybe the macaroons are fine, and that guy just has health issues?"
"Possibly," the Detective replies. "I won't know until I send those desserts to be tested properly."
There is a light knock on the door, and Marta steps inside.
"The ambulance is here," she says.
"Thank you, Marta." He stands up. "We're done for now, Poppy."
Detective Casey promptly jogs down the hall to join his partner. My head starts splitting when I stand up. It's getting late, and all I want to do is sleep and put this crazy day behind me.
"You Americans always bring drama with you," Marta says quietly. I follow her back down the hall—the sound of sirens growing louder as I do.
"Not on purpose," I argue. We pass a team of medics carrying John outside on a stretcher. An oxygen mask is placed over his mouth and nose as he's wheeled out. His wife trails along behind them, breathing heavily and gathering sympathy from any bystander willing to offer it. Marta speed walks back to home base—the kitchen. It seems to be the place where she feels most comfortable.
I get it.
We aren't guests, but we aren't exactly staff.
We have no place in this household.
"Oh," Cira says as we enter. She's drying pots and pans. An apron is tied neatly around her waist. "You just missed him."
"Huh?" I respond.
"Jean Pierre," she replies. "He just left to catch the next train. I thought you knew that?"
"This day couldn't get any worse," Marta says through her teeth. "Come on, Poppy. Let's go. I'll see if I can phone for another taxi."
Marta pulls her cell phone from her pocket, and I eye my suitcase in the corner. I take a seat at the table near the window and stare outside at a swaying apple tree. Cira takes the seat next to me while Marta talks loudly on the phone.
"Coffee?" Cira asks.
"Nah." I can't believe I'm turning down fresh brew.
"Things will go back to normal when you get back to Paris," she says. "For all of us." She sits up straight in her chair—her shoulders back and feet planted firmly on the ground. She has a dainty way about her. Her movements are usually soft or swift. Never choppy like Mary and Marta.
