Baking Bad--A Cozy Mystery (With Dragons)

by Kim M Watt

  Baking Bad

  A Beaufort Scales Mystery, Book 1

  Kim M. Watt

  Copyright © 2018 by Kim M. Watt.

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  All rights reserved. No part of this book/ebook may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever, including scanning, uploading or electronic sharing, without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

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  Seriously, don’t steal books. Share them. Talk about them. Review them. Tell your friends about them. Writers love that. But book thieves will be fed to dragons.

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  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organisations, places, events and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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  For further information contact: www.kmwatt.com

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  Book and Cover design by Kim M. Watt

  Logo design by www.imaginarybeast.com

  Edited by Lynda Dietz at www.easyreaderediting.com

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  ISBN: 978-1-9993037-2-3

  First Edition: October 2018

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Contents

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  1. Miriam

  2. DI Adams

  3. Mortimer

  4. Alice

  5. Miriam

  6. Mortimer

  7. DI Adams

  8. Alice

  9. Miriam

  10. Mortimer

  11. DI Adams

  12. Miriam

  13. Alice

  14. Mortimer

  15. DI Adams

  16. Miriam

  17. Mortimer

  18. Alice

  19. Miriam

  20. DI Adams

  21. Mortimer

  22. Alice

  23. DI Adams

  Recipes

  Scones

  Banana Bread

  Victoria Sponge

  Lemon Drizzle Cake

  Gluten-Free Lemon Tart

  Afterword

  Need more dragons?

  Yule Be Sorry Chapter 1: Mortimer

  Yule Be Sorry Chapter 2: DI Adams

  Want to keep reading?

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  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by Kim M. Watt

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  Details on how to get your copy at the back of this book!

  Abominable snow-creatures.

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  Adorable muggers.

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  Dubious disguises.

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  And how that whole barbecue and tea party thing came

  about …

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  Grab your copy of The Tales of Beaufort Scales for FREE, and find out how it all began.

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  PLUS, you’ll also be able to get your talons on free advance copies of new books, newsletter-exclusive short stories, and more!

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  Find details at the back of this book!

  For Dad,

  who gave Beaufort not

  only his name, but his predilection

  for condensed milk sandwiches.

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  1

  Miriam

  Miriam couldn’t help feeling a little sorry for the vicar. He was wedged between Alice and Gert, picking at a piece of Victoria sponge cake and nodding with the regularity and anxiety of one of those dogs you see on car dashboards. Priya kept topping his tea up every time she went past, and from the way he was shifting in his seat, Miriam thought he was probably quite desperate for a break in the conversation. Well, lecture.

  “I believe we should raise the price of the stalls for this year’s fete,” Alice said, cutting a shortbread biscuit into precise quarters. “Don’t you think so, Vicar?”

  “Ah, well, now—”

  “Even with the volunteers, the clean-up becomes quite costly. And it is a very popular fete.”

  “Well—”

  “While we’re on the fete,” Gert said, placing one large hand on the vicar’s shoulder and making him jump, “my nephew Pete just bought this bouncy castle gig. It’d be good to put some business his way, don’t you think?”

  “Well, we usually—”

  “That’s nepotism, Gert.” Alice brushed crumbs off her fingertips with a paper napkin, her voice mild.

  “It’s sound business, is all. Using who you know.”

  “And do they have references?”

  “He’s my nephew.”

  The vicar took the chance to take another mouthful of cake while the two women disagreed around him, and Miriam leaned across the table with a plate of sunny yellow lemon tarts. “Gluten-free,” she told him encouragingly.

  “Oh, I—” He looked down at his plate, which the Victoria sponge cake was sharing with a poppyseed biscuit, half a scone, and a small, disconcertingly purple object the shape and texture of a hockey puck that Miriam thought might be Jasmine’s latest attempt at a macaron.

  “Never mind. I’ll put some aside so you can take it home later.”

  “Thanks,” he said, sounding less enthusiastic than one might have thought at the prospect of homemade, gluten-free lemon tart, although that might have been because Gert and Alice were turning their attention back to him.

  “Now, we still have a few stalls available,” Alice said. “Have you had any enquiries come through to you directly?”

  The vicar swallowed a mouthful of scone hastily. “As it happens, I have,” he said. “There’s a gentleman from a local restaurant who wants to do some tasting plates.”

  “Who?” Gert demanded. “Everyone in Toot Hansell who wants to has already booked.”

  “He’s … he’s not from this village,” the vicar said. “He is local, though.”

  Alice frowned. “Not that terrible man from the gastropub, is it? The vote not to allow him back was unanimous.”

  The vicar picked up his poppyseed biscuit and examined it. “Everyone deserves a second chance.”

  Gert pointed at a plate which, unlike the others crowding the table, was still full. Small pale tarts with an unpleasant grey-green tinge were stacked in it. “He sent us caviar-custard tarts. If that’s a peace offering it’s a very unpalatable one, and that sort of food just doesn’t deserve a platform.”

  “Quite,” Alice said, in a tone that said the discussion was closed. “Now, Vicar, have you made a decision on the live music situation? Because we do have to get the permit application in rather soon if we want to have that option.”

  “Our Sue – that’s my sister-in-law’s niece’s sister-in-law – is in the council. I can get it rushed,” Gert said.

  “Gert, there is a correct way to do things.”

  “Yes, and there’s also the smart way.”

  “One can’t just demand favours—”

  The vicar sighed, and leaned over the table to take a lemon tart from Miriam, the pastry crumbling under his fingers. “It looks lovely,” he told her. “Much nicer than caviar-custard.”

  “I should hope so,” she said.

  Miriam was in the village hall’s slightly shabby kitchen, rinsing cups in the sink and gazing out the window into the bee-crowded flowerbeds, thinking that the day seemed a little dark. Not cloudy, or late. Just dark, the way some days were when they had a sad edge or a bad taste to them. She hoped it didn’t mean anything unpleasant was going to happen.

  Someone padded in from the hall behind her, and she turned to see t
he vicar come in carrying his plate and mug, his nose pink and crumbs on his front.

  “Pass them here,” she said, when he tried to jam the crockery into the dishwasher rack at any old angle. “That machine needs careful stacking.”

  “Yes. Of course. Sorry.” He handed the plate and mug over and stood there in the middle of the floor, tapping his fingers on his thighs.

  “Are you alright, Vicar?”

  “Yes. No.” He shook his head. “I thought I might be able to get Harold a stall, you know. But no one listens.”

  Miriam nodded. “Once the W.I. make our minds up, we do tend to stick to it.”

  “Which is all well and good, but he didn’t mean to hit Teresa. He was trying to demonstrate proper pizza-making technique, and Carlotta put him off.”

  Miriam snorted. “I think we might have forgiven him that if he hadn’t then shouted at Carlotta so much that Rosemary had to throw the ice bucket at him.”

  “She didn’t have to.”

  Miriam smiled and went back to rinsing cups. “I rather think she did.”

  “One should look for the best in people.”

  “He never even apologised.”

  The vicar sighed. “You are right, of course.” He looked at the hall, and rubbed his hands together. “I suppose I should go back in. Very intense, these meetings.”

  “This is your second summer fete, not to mention the winter ones. You should expect it by now.”

  “I thought maybe the first year was a test of sorts.”

  “Oh, no. They were easing you in gently.”

  The vicar looked heavenward and mumbled some small prayer under his breath, then looked back at Miriam in her voluminous pink skirt and tie-dyed blouse. “No offence.”

  Miriam, who liked the vicar but had no special fondness for the church, wasn’t sure if he meant the prayer or the slight to the ladies of the Women’s Institute, but she just shrugged and said, “None taken. Would you like me to drop some herbal tea around this afternoon? I have a homemade blend that’s very good for stress.”

  The vicar, a small, softening man with drifting hair and old tattoos just visible under the cuffs of his shirt, scratched his head and said, “Why not? Better than taking to drink, right?”

  Miriam, who had taken to drink on the odd occasion herself after a particularly intense meeting of the Toot Hansell Women’s Institute, smiled and went back to the dishes.

  The W.I. meeting wound down as they often did, slowly and with little ceremony. The debris of plates and cake crumbs was cleared away, and Tupperware containers appeared as the leftovers were shared out, complimented, and packed up. Gert produced a bottle of elderflower cordial from her cavernous knitting bag and passed it down the line of pushed-together folding tables in the hall. Miriam diluted hers generously. She didn’t know how the older woman managed to ferment it, but she was fairly sure that the alcohol content in one glass was over and above the weekly allowance for any sensible person.

  “Is Beaufort not coming?” Jasmine asked, leaning over to Miriam and keeping her voice low. Although how anyone could overhear, Miriam didn’t know. With formalities over and the cordial flowing, the noise level was considerable.

  “Not with the vicar here,” she said. “No telling how he’d react.”

  “Oh, of course. It just seems like ages since we saw him. Is he okay?”

  “He’s more than okay. He’s Beaufort.” Which encompassed everything there was to say about the High Lord of the Cloverly dragons, well-known to the ladies of the Toot Hansell Women’s Institute, if to no one else. Only a couple of years previously, Miriam had been as confident as anyone that there were no dragons left in the world, and although she usually left milk out for pixies and made kitchen witches for luck, it was more because she felt it befitted her status as the village psychic than for any real belief. But that had been before the day she had walked into her garden to find a creature that, while no larger than Pearl’s Labrador, was scaled and winged and very definitely dragon-ish.

  He had her barbecue gas bottle tucked under one foreleg and one of the scones that she’d left out to cool halfway to his very toothy mouth, and they’d stared at each other in mutual astonishment (as well as some embarrassment on the part of the dragon, who she later found out was called Mortimer). Then she’d said, very cautiously, “Would you like cream with that?” Which was how she had come to be the first human in a very long time indeed to have a dragon over for tea, and how the W.I. had come to embrace non-human members.

  “Well, say hi from me,” Jasmine said, and offered Miriam a pretty floral-patterned plate, still laden with the purple hockey pucks. “Would you like one? I know the colour’s a bit iffy, but it’s just because I spilt the food dye.”

  Miriam stared at the luminous and utterly unappetising disks. She was fairly sure macarons were meant to have a little height, and a soft dome, and definitely shouldn’t smell faintly of cat food. “No thanks, love. Food dyes really play havoc with my allergies.”

  “Oh.” Jasmine looked so crestfallen that Miriam felt bad for lying.

  “Tell you what, let me have a few and I’ll give them to Beaufort next time I see him. I know he loves your cooking.” Which just went to show what a millennium or so of fire-breathing could do to your taste buds.

  “Would you? Oh, that’d be lovely!” Jasmine jumped up to find a spare Tupperware to put the biscuits in, and Miriam decided not to tell her that she had purple food dye on her neck. It’d come off eventually, anyway.

  The church, with its small and graceful spire, heavy trees, and attendant graveyard and vicarage, nestled just across a little dead-end road from the village hall. A footpath ran behind both the church and the hall, skirting the edge of the stream that made up the village’s natural boundary, gardens running up to it on one side, and trees and shrubs and farmland stretching out toward the high fells on the other. The village was entirely circled and segmented by streams and becks, but no one ever seemed to be able to agree if they were all part of the same waterway, or even what any of them should be called. Springs and wells peppered the common land, and there was a duckpond on the village green across from the hall that no one paddled in, partly because it was rumoured to be bottomless, but mostly because it was home to two permanently enraged geese. Miriam’s house was on the edge of the village, with the stream running just past her back gate, and she was halfway home on the worn dirt path when she realised she’d left her cardigan at the hall.

  She sighed, lifting her face to the spring sunshine filtering through the trees, and decided she may as well go back. She was still full of cake and a little wobbly from Gert’s cordial, so the extra walk would do her good. She turned around, her old boots squidging in the mud left over from the last rain, and padded back up the path, humming a Stevie Nicks song to herself. It was a good day to be out. And she had a feeling that the cordial might well send her to sleep on the sofa if she got home too soon.

  It didn’t take her long to make her way to the hall, and she let herself in the little gate at the back of its big plot, breathing the scent of new-cut grass and admiring the flowerbeds that Teresa had rebuilt after Mortimer and his friend Amelia had done some dragonish eavesdropping in them last summer. The pansies really had recovered admirably. The hall would probably be empty by now, everyone having dispersed to sleep off the afternoon’s cake, but the key would be under the usual rock in the flowerbed to the left of the back door. She was reaching for it when she realised she could hear raised voices. Well, one, anyway.

  “But why won’t you at least try?” It was a woman’s voice, sharp and loud. Someone answered, too low for Miriam to make out what they were saying, and she hesitated by the door, wondering whether to knock, or wait, or just go home.

  “It’s not like I’m asking for much! You can manage at least this!”

  Miriam was almost certain she didn’t know the owner of the shouting voice. It was hard to tell, distorted with emotion as it was, but it didn’t sound like anyone she
knew. She left the key where it was, hesitating on the back step. It felt horribly intrusive, this, but it was her favourite cardie. She didn’t want to risk it ending up in the charity bin – or the costume department, as her jacket had last year. She still hadn’t been able to get all the glitter off it. And maybe the arguers could do with an interruption.

  “No! No! Don’t you walk away from me!”

  Too late, Miriam realised the voice was coming closer. She took a step back, wondering if she could take cover behind the lavender, then the door was pulled open and the vicar hurried out so quickly that he almost collided with her.

  “Oh! Miriam. Hello.” His face was pale, but a flush was rising on his neck.

  “Who are you – oh.” Over the vicar’s shoulder, Miriam saw a woman stop in the doorway that led from the kitchen to the hall. She certainly wasn’t familiar, and she wore the sort of heeled boots and impractical jacket that suggested she came from Away.