Murder Always Barks Twice

by Jennifer Hawkins

  Her only worry up until now had been how to keep up with the increased business and still find time to visit the festival herself.

  “Your friend is involved with the festival?” asked Emma.

  “Not her. Her aunt,” said Pearl. “Daphne’s aunt is Marcia Cochrane,” she added. “She owns Truscott Grange, and they host the du Maurier festival every year. They always get Weber’s Catering from over in Treknow to do the food. But Daphne says this year Weber’s pulled out.”

  “Pulled out?” echoed Angelique, shocked. “With barely two weeks to go?”

  “I know, right?” said Pearl. “Anyway, Daphne and her mum and Marcie were down here for tea last week. I told her that we were looking to expand the B and B’s catering operation, and between that and Emma’s lemon drizzle cake, they decided they want to talk to us about filling in.”

  “Emma?” Oliver poked her in the calf with his surprisingly hard nose. “Is everything okay, Emma?”

  Before Emma could say anything to anybody, the kitchen door swung open, and Becca rushed in. “Oh, sorry, everyone. I just, um, Emma, we’ve got a party of six wanting a table. Where should I put them?”

  “That’s the board,” said Pearl.

  Angelique immediately swung into action. “Put them in the private parlor, Becca. I’ll be right out. Pearl, find us some notepads and pens. If they want to talk business, we need to be ready. Emma, we might be needing an extra treat or three for our special guests.”

  Angelique fixed her professional smile onto her face and breezed out of the kitchen with the air of a lead actor making her entrance. Pearl gave Emma a quick thumbs-up and followed, leaving Emma alone with Oliver.

  “Right then,” said Emma. “It’s game on.”

  “What game?” Oliver bounced up and down on all four feet. “Where? Should I get the ball? I can get the ball, Emma!”

  “I wish it was that kind of game.”

  The kitchen was currently laid out in its teatime assembly line. Trays of sandwiches, scones and biscuits and cake slices waited, along with a row of tiered cake stands and dishes of jam and clotted cream. All anyone had to do was read the service ticket and arrange the guest’s chosen selections on the stand. Emma, being who she was, also kept a checklist beside each tray so they could tick off which treats had gone out the door. It gave her a running tally of what varieties were most popular with Trevena’s tea fanciers.

  But Angelique was right. If the board of the Daphne du Maurier Literary and Appreciation Society really was being seated in Angelique’s private parlor, they should be given something that was not on the regular menu.

  The problem was she had maybe ten minutes to make it happen.

  “What’s good, Oliver?” Emma headed for the fridge. “What have we got?”

  “Chicken!” announced Oliver unsurprisingly. “Also biscuits.”

  “Also whipped cream!” cried Emma, spotting the carton of double cream.

  “Yes! Yes!” Oliver bounced and wagged behind her.

  Emma pulled out the bins of chopped chicken and watercress. She grabbed lemon, mustard and mayonnaise to go with it. She also got out the cherries she had marinating in kirsch for tomorrow. And the extra chocolate sponge she’d baked this morning, because along with checklists, Emma firmly believed in having backups for her backups.

  Emma felt her baking adrenaline humming in her veins. Down by her ankles, Oliver barked encouragement and stayed on the alert for any stray bits and crumbs that might drop into corgi range.

  A few minutes later, she had a fresh chicken salad to spread on thin slices of whole wheat bread. She whipped the double cream in the stand mixer with mascarpone and drizzled in the kirsch-laced cherry juice.

  Pearl came into the kitchen.

  “What have we got, Pearl?”

  “Becca’s putting the pots together now. Full cream tea for five. How can I help?”

  Under Emma’s direction, Pearl arranged the sandwiches and sweets on their stands. Emma added the chicken salad, little squares of the lemon drizzle cake, each topped with an extra dollop of clotted cream and a smidge of candied lemon peel, as well as the fresh rounds of chocolate cake and whipped cream with a boozy cherry in the middle.

  “What are we calling those?” asked Pearl as Emma set down the last cakelet.

  “Black Forest minis,” said Emma promptly. “I’ve got these.” She picked up a stand in each hand. Pearl got the other two. “Showtime! Stay put, Oliver.”

  Oliver didn’t answer because his mouth was full. Emma had slipped a bit of chopped chicken into his kibble bowl to help keep him in the kitchen.

  Emma followed Pearl out the door. Quickly.

  3

  The B&B’s private parlor was a comfortable room just to one side of the common area. Back in the day, it had been reserved for ladies who might stay at the tavern. Now it was used for larger groups of guests, like wedding parties and family reunions.

  Or the board of a local literary society.

  The board members had ranged themselves down either side of the long table at the center of the room. There were two men and four women, each with their cups and their individual pots of tea already in front of them. Angelique sat at the foot of the table nearest the door with a notepad and pen.

  “Ah, and here is our own star baker, Emma Reed.” The smile she gave as Emma and Pearl entered was ever so slightly strained. Uh-oh.

  “Good afternoon,” Emma said to the seated guests. She and Pearl set the cake stands down on the table. Emma was pleased to hear the intrigued murmurs and at least one “Lovely!” She did note that the woman at the head of the table—a thin, aging blonde—just looked at the tiers of sandwiches and sweets and frowned. Even from this distance, Emma could smell her hair spray and rose perfume.

  Uh-oh. Again. Emma glanced at Angelique, but Angelique’s face was set in a smooth, professional facade.

  “Emma”—Angelique indicated the woman sitting to her right—“this is Marcia Cochrane. She hosts the festival.”

  “Please, call me Marcie. Everybody does.” Marcie turned to shake hands with them both. “Lovely to meet you, Emma, and you as well, Pearl.”

  Marcie’s hands were calloused and the nails were well-kept, but they were stained. Emma wondered if she was a gardener. She was certainly no delicate lady. Marcia Cochrane was a strongly built woman with mournful brown eyes and creamy skin that was just starting to take on a summer tan. Her waving auburn hair was cut into a neat bob and held back by a plain white headband. Emma’s imagination immediately pictured her in a tweed skirt with a shotgun under her arm and spaniels at her side. In reality, she wore a dark green blouse and crisp black slacks.

  “You must forgive us for descending on you like this,” Marcie went on.

  “Not at all,” said Pearl. “We’re delighted to have you.” She smiled to include the entire gathering, even the sour-faced woman at the head of the table. The woman frowned and Emma felt a pinch of sudden irritation.

  The man next to Marcie stuck his hand over his shoulder for Emma, then Pearl, to shake. “Ned Giddy,” he told them. “And yes, I’m Giddy. Go ahead, say it. Everyone does.”

  Ned Giddy was the kind of mild, glasses-wearing, mostly bald man who seemed mystically drawn to the minutia of running small social groups.

  “I wouldn’t want to be conventional,” replied Emma.

  “Neither would I, if I could help it.” He smiled, and blinked rapidly. “But I’m afraid, despite the name, I’m really rather boring.”

  “Nonsense,” said the woman across from him. She was older than Emma, proudly gray haired with a pink and freckled face. Truthfully, she looked like she should be cast as somebody’s biscuit-baking nan in a family drama. “Ned, you are many things, but you are not boring. You should hear him read Jamaica Inn. His interpretation of Francis Davey is absolutely chilling. I’m Tasha Boyd, by the w
ay. I’ve had your tea, Emma, and I adore your rosemary and walnut scones. So tender! This is my husband, John.” She put her hand on the shoulder of the cheerful man beside her, who was the very picture of the stolid Cornish countryman.

  “Delighted,” said Emma to them both.

  “And this is our president”—Marcie gestured toward the thin woman at the head of the table—“Caite Hope-Johnston.”

  Caite Hope-Johnston did not offer to shake hands, nor did she smile. She was thin as a reed and had a face that suggested she was quite comfortable with enforcing the rigid self-discipline it took to stay that way. Emma guessed that she and Caite were about the same age, but the skin around the other woman’s eyes was smooth and unmarked as if freshly ironed. Neither her chin nor her forehead betrayed a single wrinkle. Makeup and manicure were likewise faultless. That, even more than her perfect pink St. John twinset, and pearls, told Emma that this was a wealthy woman, and like most wealthy women she was used to getting what she wanted.

  “We were just telling Mrs. Delgado that we have a business proposal we’d like to discuss,” said Marcie. “Won’t you both join us as well?”

  “Thank you.” Emma pulled out a chair between Ned and Caite, leaving the one next to Angelique for Pearl. “Just for a minute.”

  “Yes—of course you’re in the middle of your day,” said Marcie. “We do understand.”

  At her end of the table, Caite coughed. “I should think that any proper caterer would be pleased to make time for potential clients.”

  “Well, Caite, you have to agree, this is a little sudden.” Marcie helped herself to a chicken salad sandwich and one of the cucumber and butter ones that were a teatime staple. “In fact, we should probably explain the full situation now.”

  “Marcie’s right, Caite.” Tasha seemed to prefer prawn to chicken and did not wait to help herself to the ginger scones. “We’re in a fix, and we have to act.”

  “I see I’m outnumbered.” Caite’s smile was tighter than Emma’s budget at the end of the month.

  “Good heavens!” cried Ned Giddy suddenly. He was staring at the bitten sandwich in his hand. Emma’s heart stopped as he turned his drooping eyes toward her. “Ms. Reed, this may be the first time in my life I’ve had a cucumber sandwich that was not insipid!”

  Emma could breathe again. “Thank you, Mr. Giddy.”

  “Ned,” he said cheerfully. “I am always on a first-name basis with anyone who makes a good sandwich.” He helped himself to two more cucumber, and a chicken salad, and a prawn.

  Ned Giddy was most definitely Emma’s type of guest.

  Pearl took one of the notepads off the stack beside Angelique and uncapped a pen. “Perhaps you can tell us about this fix?”

  Ned and both Boyds looked from Marcie to Caite and back again. Caite stared at Marcie. Marcie stared at Caite.

  Marcie spoke first.

  “Well, as you may know, the Daphne du Maurier Literary Festival has always partnered with Weber’s Catering. This year, however, there were some problems . . .”

  “What kind?” asked Angelique.

  Marcie hesitated. At her end of the table, Caite smiled just a little. “Well, Marcie? This is your meeting.”

  “A payment was missed,” cut in Tasha quickly. “The matter was looked into and cleared up.”

  Emma, who had spent over twenty years in the finance industry, felt all her internal antennae stand straight up.

  “It was due to an unfortunate oversight,” said Marcie and she looked straight across the table at Caite. “Or perhaps one should say lack of oversight.”

  “Yes.” Caite looked back at Marcie, her brows arched ever so slightly and the tiniest curve on her perfectly glossed lips. “Perhaps one should.”

  “We were hoping that Weber’s would take into account how long they and the festival have had a smooth working relationship, but they made a different decision,” Marcie went on. “Much to everybody’s disappointment—”

  “And surprise,” put in Caite. She was still smiling, but the expression did not reach her eyes or her forehead.

  I think I’ll just take a dislike to you now and avoid the rush. Emma glanced at her partners. Angelique was clearly not pleased at this little exchange. Pearl was looking positively grim, and Emma couldn’t blame either one of them. The rest of the board seemed to be trying to concentrate on their tea. The clinking of china sounded tinny and awkward in the silence.

  “Caite, I’m sure we don’t need to go into society politics right now,” Marcie said.

  “I just want to be clear where the situation stands,” replied Caite loftily. “You should all be aware that despite Marcie’s enthusiasm, the rest of the board is not prepared to turn over so much responsibility to an organization with no proven experience. I understand you’ve only just opened, Ms. Reed?”

  “Reed’s Tea and Cakes has been open for four months,” said Emma. “And I’d agree that would be a concern, except for the fact that the King’s Rest has been involved in event catering and planning for well over two decades.”

  Caite lifted her chin. “A grandmother’s birthday party here and there is hardly—”

  Angelique did not let her get any further. “Pearl,” she said crisply, “would you please get the catering packets?”

  “Yes, of course.” Pearl rose and went to the antique sideboard. She brought out a stack of neat folders stamped with a replica of the King’s Rest’s sign—a canopied bed with a crown and scepter in the center. She handed them around to the board members and came back to sit beside her mother.

  “Now, if you will look at the first page, please,” said Angelique.

  The board dutifully flipped open their folders. Caite frowned at what she saw. Her forehead didn’t shift at all.

  “The first is the letter of appreciation from Lord and Lady Jordan-Arrow for our work on their youngest daughter’s wedding,” said Angelique. “The second page is the thank-you for coordinating the New Year’s banquet for the Greater Cornwall and Devon Historical Society, also on short notice. It was only a week that time, I believe, Pearl?”

  “Just barely a week,” Pearl confirmed. “Two hundred guests and a plated dinner.”

  Caite stared at the papers like they might bite.

  “And I’m sure some of you know that we have been catering the annual Trevena Fete for the past three years,” Angelique went on pleasantly. “Did you have any other questions about our event planning experience, Caite?”

  “Well.” Caite folded her hands on top of the copies of Angelique’s letters. “I’m simply surprised to find a decent caterer available on short notice. I’m sure you understand.” Her smile was thin and purely cosmetic. “But there’s still a question of the quality of Ms. Reed’s . . .”

  “Have you tried one of these, Caite?” Tasha Boyd held up one of the Black Forest minis. “Divine!”

  Caite’s plate was empty and devoid of crumbs. She hadn’t touched a thing.

  “Normally, I’m opposed to any rush decision.” Ned blotted his mouth with his napkin. “But these are extraordinary circumstances. “Perhaps we should vote?”

  “Perhaps,” said Caite acidly. “We should not be pinning too much on a premade afternoon tea. Perhaps we should get a serious proposal and a cost breakdown first. This may be an emergency, but the reputation of our festival is still at stake.” She stared right down the table. “Don’t you agree, Marcie?”

  Marcie flushed pink. Everyone else was looking at their plates.

  Emma looked to Pearl and Angelique. They looked back. Emma nodded.

  “Of course you would want to review a menu,” said Angelique. “And we would be happy to provide an opportunity for you and the board to do so. When would you be available?”

  “Caite,” said Marcie. “We don’t have time . . .”

  “Because of your mismanagement, Marcie. A fa
ct I assure you the rest of the board is profoundly aware of.”

  “There really is no need for all this,” murmured Ned.

  Caite arched one perfectly shaped brow. “Isn’t there?”

  “No,” said Marcie. “I told you—”

  “But that’s just it, Marcie. You haven’t told us anything.”

  Marcie’s cheeks reddened. She was obviously not somebody who enjoyed participating in any kind of scene, especially not in front of strangers. Emma had the feeling that Caite Hope-Johnston knew that and was using it.

  Emma could tell from the set of her jaw that Angelique felt the same way.

  And we’ve had quite enough, thank you.

  “How soon would the board be available for a tasting?” Emma snagged a notepad and pen for herself.

  “I’m sure we could be available Friday,” said Marcie. “But I would never expect . . .”

  Friday. Today was Wednesday. “Friday will be just fine. Four o’clock?”

  “I can be here then,” began Tasha. “But—”

  “Oh no,” said Caite smoothly. “We should have the tasting up at Truscott Grange. After all, that is where the festival and the masquerade ball will be held. We have to make sure the food can be properly presented on the premises.”

  “That’s really not necessary, Caite,” said Marcie.

  “But I insist,” said Caite. “We need to be sure that your new partners can work under the specific conditions presented by the grange.” She paused. “May I remind you that the board still authorizes the funding? And we have not yet approved anything.” She glowered at the remaining members of the board. The Boyds looked at each other and sighed. Ned took another cucumber sandwich.

  “At the grange will be just fine,” said Emma calmly. “What is it you’ll be needing from us, should we be selected for the festival?”

  “The luncheon for the speakers, the snacks for the speakers’ break room and the sweet and savory canapés for the fancy dress,” Marcie told them, and Emma heard the unspoken thank-you in her voice.