Since we’d abandoned our kebabs at the Pier, I allowed Rhett to throw a meal together for us. He was a former chef; I was a foodie. I could have made something simple, like melted cheese and avocado on English muffins. I am quite adept at simple. But he wanted something more substantial. Luckily I’d purchased fresh vegetables and herbs at the farmer’s market the day before yesterday. Rhett chose to stir-fry shrimp, tomatoes, zucchini, garlic, and basil. I boiled angel hair pasta. We didn’t speak. I think we were too busy mulling over what had happened to Nick. Tigger orbited our feet questioning the quiet.
A half hour later, we ate at the kitchen table. The flavors were sensational, the textures divine. Even so, the food sat like a lump in my stomach. A small glass of chianti helped, but not much.
While washing the dishes, I said, “Bailey isn’t going to be in good shape tomorrow.”
Rhett took a plate from me and dried it with a towel. “We’ll find her a new venue.”
“She’ll want to cancel the whole thing. She believes in curses.”
“Your aunt can hypnotize her.”
“Maybe if we could figure out who killed Nick—and it’s not Alan—then she could still hold the wedding there.”
He caressed the back of my hair with his fingertips. “Would you want to have a wedding where a murder occurred?”
“No.” I swung around and placed my hands on his chest. “Oh, Rhett, I can’t get the image of Nick out of my mind and that to-do list on his computer. He was supposed to wake up tomorrow and live his life. Not die.”
Rhett cupped my chin and gazed into my eyes. “Cinnamon will solve this.”
“Promise?”
“I do.” He kissed me softly on my forehead. “Want me to stay?”
I nodded.
• • •
Thursday morning, I trudged into the Cookbook Nook feeling like I’d been hit by a Mack truck. “Whiskey in the Jar,” a traditional and lively song by the Dubliners, was playing in the queue, but it did nothing to lighten my mood.
I set Tigger on the floor, and he instantly started attacking the carpet beneath the children’s table. What was up with him? Were there kitty obedience trainers I could hire to squelch bad behavior? I’d probably done his emotions no favor by tossing and turning all night. I’d dreamed of Nick lying dead in his kitchen. And Post-it notes whipping through the air. And Alan yelling at his brother. I’d even had nightmares about Alan’s crow keening and aiming for us on the verandah, which reminded me that I hadn’t looked at the photograph I’d taken to see what the crow had made off with.
The moment I situated myself behind the sales counter, I opened my camera app. A close-up revealed that the bird had nabbed an ornate gold-and-green bead. I’d heard shiny objects could fixate birds. Had it seen the object in the dark of night, or had there been more beads at another time, and the bird had come back for the last one? Did the killer lose the bead?
No, Jenna, I chided. The bead could have been lying on the tile for a long time.
Where was Alan? Had Cinnamon tracked him down? Did he have an alibi?
“Good morning, Jenna.” Tina emerged from the storage room. Beaming, she did a twirl in front of the sales counter. Tendrils from her updo hairstyle fanned out as she pirouetted. “Like my getup?” She was wearing yet another red wench’s costume, featuring frothy sleeves and a white apron.
“It’s lovely. Did you sew this one, too?”
“I did. Why the long face? You can’t frown today.” She clucked her tongue. “Chef will have a fit. It’s Thursday—pasties demonstration day.”
Discreetly, she pointed a finger at her palm, directing my attention to Katie, who had donned her chef’s coat over a simple peasant dress, but instead of her toque she wore an old-fashioned cook’s hat with a fluted brim. How had I missed her when I’d entered? She was standing near the cookware items, setting up a mobile cooking cart with the makings for pasties. She did so many demonstrations nowadays that we had invested in high-end carts.
“We have to be up, up, up,” Tina said to me. “You know how Chef needs positive energy when she’s giving a chat.”
I clutched Tina’s arm and steered her into the storage room. I drew the curtain closed. The cramped area was filled with shelves of books, unpacked boxes, foldable chairs, a small office desk, a file cabinet, a water cooler, and cleaning supplies. “Someone we know died.”
“Who?”
“Nick Baldini.”
“How horrible. Was he ill?”
“No, he—”
“What can I do?” Tina asked. “Is that why Bailey called in sick?”
“She’s sick?”
“Don’t worry. Her mother’s with her. Nick Baldini is dead.” Her voice caught. “Man, that stinks.”
“He was murdered.”
“Holy moly.” She clapped a hand over her mouth. Then her eyes went wide. “He was king of Ren Fair. Who will take his place?” Tears pressed at the corners of her eyes. “Poor Bailey. She must feel horrible that she’ll have to cancel her wedding.”
“She won’t cancel. She’ll secure another venue.”
“Well, she’ll have to postpone it, at least. No one can arrange a site quickly these days. You need at least a year in advance.” She snapped her fingers. “I know what we need. Fairy dust.”
“Fairy dust?”
“To sprinkle on her. Flora Fairchild says it’s potent stuff.”
“Why does Flora know anything about fairies?”
Flora is the owner of Home Sweet Home, a place that features candles and tablecloths and such. Not fairies.
“Because she’s the Mistress of Fairies at the fair. Haven’t you seen her garden creations? They are something to behold. So pretty. So whimsical.” Tina flitted her fingers as if sprinkling fairy dust. “She has a booth near Pepper’s. What Flora can do with moss and miniature lights is astounding.” She toyed with a tendril of her hair. “Did you know that fairies—”
“Enough about fairies. Neither they nor their dust will cure Bailey today.”
“Maybe flipping through the fairy books you ordered would help you believe. I’m particularly fond of Fairy House: How to Make Amazing Fairy Furniture, Miniatures, and More from Natural Materials. You know the one I mean, with the darling cottage door and teensy mailbox on the cover. I love how the authors point out how to use different leaves and such.”
I’d added a few fairy-themed books to the store because fairgoers often believed in the mystical. “Let Bailey be,” I said. “Her mother will keep her grounded during this difficult time.”
“Yoo-hoo, Jenna,” Katie called from her mobile cooking cart. “Help me set up chairs. Twelve have signed up for the demo.”
I joined her and eyed the makings for pasties: flour, eggs, butter, rolling pin, parchment paper, chopped meats, vegetables, and spices. “Nice array.”
We unlocked the wheels on our portable bookshelves and glided them to the sides, then we fetched a dozen folding chairs from the storage room.
“You look glum, chum,” Katie said as we positioned the chairs in two rows. “Did someone die?”
“Yes. Nick Baldini.”
Katie blanched. “Golly. I was kidding. What happened?”
“He was murdered.”
“What is up with your karma, Jenna?”
“Not my karma,” I protested. “Nick’s! Bailey, Rhett, Tito, and I found him. I still can’t believe it. He was a real bastion of our town.”
“I hate when someone nice dies.” Katie slumped into one of the opened chairs. “And Nick was nicer than nice. He came into the café often and was always cordial. Why, he was in last week and asked me to make sure I made Scotch eggs during the fair. They were his favorite. I promised I would.” She rubbed her finger beneath her nose. “Do the police know who did it?”
“Not yet. They’re looking into Nick’s brother.”
“Hoo-boy. Not a chance. Not Alan.” Katie shook her head. “He’s as sweet as they come. We’ve chatted a number of time
s. There’s something special about the way he stares intently at you, hanging on your every word.”
“He and Nick argued.” I told her how Bailey and I had come upon the two of them having it out. “Bailey thinks Alan might inherit a ton of money.”
“That’s always a good motive.” Katie rose and resumed positioning chairs.
I opened the last chair; it squeaked loudly and didn’t unfold completely. I pounded the seat to bend it to my will.
“How did Nick, um, die?” Katie asked.
“The killer hit him in the head with one of those foot-shaped winepresses that Hannah is selling.”
Her mouth opened in astonishment. “The killer used an antique winepress? On a vintner? Is that significant?”
“I don’t know.”
“Hmph,” she muttered and returned to the cooking cart and rearranged the items on top.
While mulling over her query, I straightened the bookshelves. Was the murderer, by using a winepress, making a statement about Nick or his vineyard? I thought of Hannah, a fellow vintner, digging into his ground with venomous fury. Did she kill him? No, I didn’t believe her capable of murder. She, like Nick, was one of the nicest people I knew. She donated time to the library and read books to kids at a children’s hospital. According to Aunt Vera, she was a saint when it came to taking care of her elderly grandmother. I erased the possibility from my mind and tended to the book tables.
An hour later, customers showed up for Katie’s demonstration. So many additional people had shown up that a few were forced to stand behind those who were seated.
Once the hubbub diminished, Katie carried in a tray from the café that she’d covered with a white cloth. A surprise lay underneath, she whispered to me. After setting it on the lowest shelf of the mobile cart, she clapped her hands and addressed the crowd. “Welcome, one and all.” She went into her spiel with fervor, starting as she often did with the history of the food she was highlighting. “How many know what a pasty is?”
Hands rose.
“For those who don’t, it’s a small pie usually filled with meat or vegetables. They are tasty with a capital T.” She let loose with a hearty laugh. “The origin of the pasty is unclear, though a version of Le Viandier of Taillevent, the earliest recipe collection, which dates to around 1300, contains a number of pasty recipes. In 1393, Le Menagier de Paris, better known to us as The Parisian Household Book, shared more recipes.” She held up a finger to make a point. “Now, here’s an interesting tidbit. Because the pasty is attributed to Cornwall, England, some say it’s not a pasty if it’s not made there. Do you think that matters?”
A few in the crowd murmured, “No.”
One young man in a courtier’s costume cried, “Enough history, Chef. Show us how to make one.”
In a matter of minutes, Katie demonstrated how to combine the flour and salt and cut in the butter. She added water and shaped the pastry into a ball.
Next, she lined a baking sheet with parchment paper. In a large bowl, she combined some shredded beef, diced potatoes, minced onions, and chopped carrots. She seasoned liberally with salt and pepper.
Following that step, Katie expertly divided the dough into six pieces and rolled one out on a floured surface. “Six-inch rounds. That’s what you’re going for.” She lifted the round into the air, even though the audience could see what she was doing via the angled mirror attached to the top of the demonstration cart.
“Place a half-cup portion of filling on the round, leaving the edges free. Carefully draw the other half of the pastry over the filling and crimp the edges. I moisten my fingers to do this. Then, using a fork”—she demonstrated each step—“make tine marks and prick the top to let steam escape. Place the pastry on the prepared baking sheet.” She held up the tray. “Now bake in a preheated oven for forty to forty-five minutes, until golden brown.”
She bent down, set the tray on the bottommost shelf and retrieved the tray she’d covered with a white cloth. “Voilà. Behold! Finished pasties. Still warm from the oven. Try one. On your feet. Don’t be shy.”
The visitors formed a line. Each plucked a pasty from the tray. A chorus of oohs and aahs filled the shop. I could tell by the way Katie was primping the front of her chef’s jacket that she was pleased.
“And now, you varlets,” she went on, “this demonstration has come to an end.”
The attendees burst into applause. Katie’s cheeks flushed with pride.
“Remember to stop by my booth on the Pier and”—she hollered like a seasoned hawker—“pay the tender for another of me tasty pasties. I’ve made a vegetarian one featuring rutabaga.”
As the crowd dispersed, many attendees who were regulars at Katie’s demonstrations knew what to do. They folded their chairs and set them against the wall by the storage room, making our cleanup chore a tad easier.
“Thank you,” I said to each.
“Hey, Jenna.” Tina waved to me from the children’s table, where she was setting up Middle Ages paper dolls for a children’s afternoon workshop. I’d found a terrific educational Internet site through Pinterest that featured all sorts of free printouts. “There’s Flora.” She pointed outside. “See her coming out of Beaders of Paradise? She’s walking really fast. Go catch her. Ask her about the fairy dust.”
“You do it.”
“Uh-uh. You’re the curious one.”
We were both resisting because Flora could be a nonstop talker. It depended on the day and her mood just how long she might bend one’s ear.
“Fine.” I exited the shop. Sunlight beamed down. I shaded my eyes and said, “Hello, Flora.”
“Hi, Jenna.” While adjusting the glittery garland that matched her mint green chiffon dress, she kept looking over her shoulder.
“Pretty wreath.”
“Thank you.” She repositioned the garland’s ribbons, pulled her thick braid forward over one shoulder, and shifted the shopping bag from Pepper’s place into her other hand.
“Is everything okay? You seem distracted.”
“It’s nothing. It’s—” She flitted a hand and attempted a smile. Her apple cheeks did their best to lift the corners of her mouth but failed. “A slew of craft supplies, mainly beads, disappeared at the fair.”
“How?”
“They were stolen. By a teenager, I would imagine.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“I absolutely had to replace them.” Flora is a serious beader. She regularly joins Pepper’s classes, and she adds beading to nearly every piece of her clothing.
I beckoned her inside the Cookbook Nook. “Before you return to the fair, would you like a freshly made pasty to salve your loss?”
“Don’t mind if I do. I’m starved.”
I guided her inside to the breezeway, where Katie had set out the remaining pasties on a three-tiered cake plate.
Flora drew a paper napkin from the medieval-themed set and plunked a pasty on top. She nibbled the corner and hummed her appreciation. “Yummy.”
“I hear you’re the Mistress of Fairy Gardens.”
Flora bobbed her head and nibbled the other corner. “’Tis so. I summon the darling creatures when the sun is arisen.”
“Is that why you sort of look like a fairy today?”
“’Tis true. Verily.”
“Okay, cut the fair-speak.”
Flora giggled. “For you, anything.” She shuffled in her purse, pulled out a set of photographs, and handed them to me. “Here are a few of the gardens I’ve created.”
“Wow.” I whistled, swept away by her artistry. One featured a little blue cottage, its roof made out of stained popsicle sticks. It was set in a forest paved with miniature blue stones and teeming with polka-dotted mushrooms. She’d created another inside a large clay pot, its front side carved off. Teensy steps wound up a hill within the pot to a castle. Petite succulent plants decorated the landscape. “These are gorgeous, Flora, but I don’t see any fairies.”
“Each fairy must match the needs
of the buyer, so I make them individually upon request. And I never photograph them. They’re quite personal. One mother wanted two fairies that resembled her little girls.”
“How sweet. And the fairy dust?” I asked, getting to my point. “Do you sell it in your store?”
She winked. “Fairy dust is magical. It can only be sold at the fair where the magic is alive.”
“I need some for Bailey—”
“Jenna!” Aunt Vera rushed into the shop, her bangles clacking and the myriad strands of her beads jangling. She extended her arms and dragged me away from Flora. Quietly she said, “Marlon phoned me and told me about Nick. You found him? How horrible. I can’t believe it. Nick was one of the sweetest men I knew. His family and I—”
“Go way back,” I finished.
“It’s such a shock.” She released me and covered her mouth with her hand. The sleeves of her royal purple caftan rustled as she did. “How are you? How is Bailey?”
“She feels her wedding is cursed.”
“Nonsense.” Aunt Vera rubbed the phoenix amulet she wore around her neck. “We’ll do some cleansing spells, and she’ll be right as rain.”
“Ha!” I arched an eyebrow. “You don’t believe that or you wouldn’t be stroking your charm.”
She let her hands drop to her sides. “White light. Think white light.” She made sure I nodded in agreement before heading for the storage room. “I won’t be staying long. Are you and Tina managing? I must return to the fair. Alas, there will be so many who need my guidance today. Everyone loved Nick.”
Not everyone, I mused.
“Too-ra-loo,” she crooned as she disappeared through the break in the curtains, although there wasn’t much joy in her typically cheery trill.
Flora joined me in the shop and blotted her fingers on a cocktail napkin. “Why is she so upset? Why will people need her help?”
“There was a murder last night.”
“Not another.” Flora wadded the cocktail napkin. “Pepper didn’t mention a thing when I was in Beaders of Paradise.”
Pressing the Issue Page 7
