by Sherri Bryan
BREAD, DEAD AND WED
A CHARLOTTE DENVER COZY MYSTERY – BOOK NINE
SHERRI BRYAN
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Epilogue
A Selection of Recipes from Bread, Dead and Wed
A Message from Sherri
Dedication
About Sherri Bryan
All Rights Reserved
Prologue
With just the radio and a newspaper for company, the lone figure smoothed out the page and read the article again.
Culinary School on Schedule for February Opening
Following the recent announcement by celebrated Restaurant Critic and TV Star, Roman Haley, that he has acquired a new culinary school in the coastal town of St. Eves, it has been confirmed that the school will be ready to take in students from February of next year.
“I believe a culinary school in that area of the country will be very well patronised, and will make good use of the area’s excellent local produce,” said Mr. Haley. “There’s been a huge surge in the number of people wanting to take their culinary skills to the next level; most likely due in part to the popularity of shows such as Easy Peasy Bakey Cakey, which has become Channel Ten’s top-rated show since I joined as a member of the judging panel.”
When asked what his long-time acquaintance and one-time colleague, Olivia Floyd-Martin, thought of his new acquisition, Mr. Haley’s response was simply, “I have no idea; I haven’t discussed it with her.”
As local woman, Olivia Floyd-Martin, is the Executive Chef at The President Hotel in St. Eves, one does wonder if Mr. Haley’s establishment being so close to the hotel will be a distraction for the temperamental chef.
Our reporter, Seema Dupti, attempted to interview Ms. Floyd-Martin yesterday to ask her opinion on the recent announcement, but was abruptly informed that she wasn’t taking any questions.
In the wake of this news, it is anticipated that Mr. Haley’s culinary school will be inundated with enquiries from people eager to sign up to his courses, while Ms. Floyd-Martin’s exclusive rooftop restaurant at The President Hotel will continue to draw in the crowds. It’s possible, of course, that business at the hotel will increase, with visitors flocking to St. Eves in the hope of catching a glimpse of Roman Haley.
However, not everyone in the town is happy to learn of the plans. We spoke to several members of the community who wasted no time in making their disapproval known. Here are just a few of their opinions:
“That bloomin’ Haley and Floyd-Martin have always thought they’re better than everyone else. Having one of them in St. Eves is bad enough, let alone both of them.”
“It’s about time someone taught them a lesson. They can’t keep treating people the way they do and get away with it.”
“They don’t deserve to have loyal customers. If people only knew what they’re really like, they’d spend their money elsewhere, and those two would be ruined.”
The swish of the door in its frame signalled the arrival of a companion, who settled into an armchair by the window before accepting a sweet pastry and a cup of coffee, inhaling the aroma-filled steam before adding six spoons of sugar to the potent brew.
The companion touched a fingertip to the flaky pastry to taste a blob of tangy icing. "Hmm, a little more orange essence wouldn't go amiss, but it'll do." Every mouthful of the pastry was savoured, and every crumb licked from sticky fingers, before the plate was set aside. “Anything interesting in the news?"
The figure handed over the newspaper before taking a jacket from the coat stand.
“Have you read this article?” The companion’s voice was suddenly sharp. “It says here that some of the St. Eves’ locals are of the opinion that if people knew what Roman and Olivia are really like, they’d be ruined.”
The figure smiled slowly and pulled on the jacket, a hand closing around the small bottle and its precious contents, safe within the inside pocket.
Oh, they’ll be ruined, alright… and not a moment too soon. I’ve waited a long time to get my revenge, and I’m going to enjoy every second.
Chapter 1
Ten months later
On a chilly Friday in February, Ava Whittington, Harriett Reeves and Betty Tubbs sat in the audience at the St. Eves’ town hall, for what had been billed as ‘An Evening of Scintillating Entertainment.’
The event had been organised in aid of the local library which had been in dire need of funds ever since a lightning bolt during a recent storm had struck the weather vane and blown a skylight clean through the roof.
“I cannot believe I paid good money to sit through this drivel,” grumbled Ava, tucking under the ends of her short, steel-grey bob with the palm of her hand. “Why on earth the organisers thought we’d be interested in a juggler who drops every other ball, an Origami demonstration, a stamp collector’s musings, and a local artist recounting her journey through early menopause, heaven only knows. Where’s the music? Where are the dancers? The singers? The magicians? The comedians?”
She blew out a disgruntled sigh and shuffled in her seat. “And as if that wasn’t bad enough, these chairs have been chiselled from the hardest material known to mankind. I think I can safely say the entire evening’s been about as scintillating as an enema.”
“Agreed on all counts,” muttered Harriett. “Especially the chairs—my bottom’s gone completely numb. You know, I could have gone to my martial arts class with Leo instead of sitting here, bored to tears.”
“Oh yes, how’s the Teriyaki going?” asked Ava.
Harriett rolled her eyes. “I don’t know how many times I’ve told you, it’s Ju-Jitsu. And I’ve only had two lessons, but it seems quite good so far.”
Ava sniffed. “Well, whatever it’s called, I’m sure it’s more exciting than this.” She gestured to the stage with an expansive sweep of her hand.
“Actually, I thought the Origami chap was quite good,” whispered Betty as she unwrapped a barley sugar and popped it into her mouth. “Although I could hardly see the polar bear he made from here.” She frowned. “He really needed much bigger paper. The chairs don’t bother me, though, because I always bring my haemorrhoid cushion when I know I’m going to be sitting down for a long time. It only takes a minute to blow up, and it’s ever so comfortable.” She gave each of her friends a benign smile. “You really should get one for yourselves, you know.”
Ava’s nostrils flared to their very widest. “I’m very happy it works for you, Betty, but if you think I’d be seen dead sitting on one of those things in public, you’re grossly mistaken.”
Betty shrugged and scratched her head through freshly-permed, snow-white curls. Unlike Ava and Harriett, she put comfort above all else and couldn’t give two hoots if her slightly unconventional methods to achieve it were a source of embarrassment or amusement to others. “Suit yourself.” She hummed a quiet tune as she sucked on her barley sugar, and flexed her feet to drum the toes of her sensible shoes on the parquet floor.
“Can I have your attention, please, ladies and gentlemen?” Ophelia Smalls, the town’s librarian, and hos
t for the evening, tapped on the microphone. “It’s time for the next act.” She settled her pince-nez halfway down her long aquiline nose and flicked absentmindedly through the programme of events.
“Ah, here we are… now, Shakira and Terence Dibble own a company that holds murder-mystery weekends all over the county, and they’re here this evening with a little cryptic entertainment, so please all join me in giving them a big St. Eves’ welcome!”
A ripple of applause accompanied Shakira and Terence as they took to the stage, each giving a theatrical bow.
“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen,” said Terence in a nasally, monotone voice. He prowled the boards in his crepe-soled shoes, peering out at the audience from between two lanky strands of a greasy fringe, his beady eyes magnified behind the thick lenses of his glasses. “Now, who loves a good murder mystery? Anyone? No one? Ah, yes, I can see a few hands going up. Well, we’re going to have a little fun.”
“If only,” murmured Ava, crossing her legs and tapping an impatient foot in mid-air.
Shakira took over. “We certainly are!” She threw back her head and let out a hee-hawing laugh which showed off two rows of large teeth, rather like one might find behind the lips of a shire horse. “Now listen carefully, because you might not be able to keep up if you don’t know what’s going on. Terry and I are going to relate a short fictional story to you which centres around the murder of a man named Bertie Kravitz. We’ve stuck pictures of all the suspects on this board here and all you have to do is guess whodunnit, and what killed him.”
“£10 says he dropped dead from utter boredom,” said Ava, under her breath, as she felt her eyelids droop.
“So, the story begins when Bertie arrives at the country residence of his uncle, Lord Denning.” Terence droned on. “He parks his car outside the manor house and walks across the gravel drive, where he sees the gardener, Finbar Dawson, tending to the flowerbeds. He rings the bell and the door is opened presently by a stern-faced butler in a tailcoat. Now…”
Betty shook Ava’s arm. “Wake up! They’re about to announce the winners of the raffle.”
Ava opened her eyes with a start. “What? What about the dynamic duo and their murder mystery?”
“They’ve just finished. You fell asleep.”
“I most certainly did not,” said Ava, who prided herself on having the staying power of someone half her age.
Betty nodded. “You most certainly did. You and Harriett have been asleep for almost three-quarters of an hour.”
Ava stifled a yawn. “I take it I haven’t missed anything interesting?”
“Not really,” said Betty. “The butler did it,”
Ophelia took the microphone from the stand again and patted the bun on the back of her head. “I’d like to say a huge thank you to every one of you for supporting us in our fundraising efforts; we’re well on our way to being able to repair the annexe roof. Now, as you know, your £20 admission ticket entitled you to entry into our raffle, and I’d like to call upon local councillor, Steven Bates, to draw the winners.”
Steven bounded onto the stage like a Springer Spaniel and tossed his floppy fringe out of his eyes. He treated the audience to his sincere politician’s smile and was rewarded by whoops of approval from a small army of his constituents who were taking up the entire first and second rows. He posed for their pictures before grabbing the microphone.
“Well, to echo Ophelia, I’d like to thank you all for coming tonight to what I’m sure you’ll agree has been a truly… er… spectacular evening. And special thanks to those who’ve been generous enough to donate our raffle prizes, speaking of which, I’m sure you’re all dying to know if you’ve won.”
He flashed another smile. “So, without further ado.” He dug his hand into the bucket Ophelia was holding. “The third prize of a month’s supply of scones and teacakes, donated by Lydia Callum from the Bakehouse Bakery, has been won by...” He turned the ticket over and read the name on the back. “Sheila Truss! Are you here, Sheila? Ah, there you are. Here’s your envelope with all the details on how to claim your prize. Congratulations! Oh, hang on, don’t rush off—we need to get a quick shot for the local rag.” He pulled a reluctant Sheila into a pose for the photographer at the front of the stage before she scuttled back to her seat.
He rummaged in the bucket again. “Second prize of dinner for two at Porcinis vegetarian restaurant, donated by the Manager, Luigi Di Gavini, goes to… Virginia Tate! Come on up here and get your envelope, Virginia, and take a minute for a quick photo.
“Now, the first prize really is something special. As I’m sure you know, Roman Haley, the renowned restaurant critic and judge on the TV baking show, Easy Peasy Bakey Cakey, recently opened his brand new culinary school in the town.” Steven paused to let the suspense build. “And he’s offering two lucky people a five-day cookery course at the school next week! And, as if that wasn’t amazing enough, the winners will receive a certificate signed by Roman, and will have their photograph taken with the man himself. I can’t think of any better way to put the icing on such a fantastic prize.”
An excited murmur rippled through the audience at the prospect of cookery lessons at the controversial star’s school.
Restaurant critic Roman’s celebrity status had been catapulted to super-stardom when one of the much-loved judges of an outdated TV baking show had been trampled after falling off his horse two years before, and Roman had taken his place at short notice.
His popularity had sky-rocketed overnight. Not because of his pleasant demeanour - he didn’t possess one of those - but because of his scathing comments, which ranged from toe-curlingly cringeworthy to downright libellous.
Viewers couldn’t get enough of his acerbic critiques and the show’s ratings had soared. To everyone’s surprise, Roman had swept in like a whirlwind of fresh air and given the flagging show the CPR it had needed to revive it.
Steven grinned and dug his hand into the bucket again, making a show of digging around before pulling out a ticket. “And the winner of this exclusive prize is…”
A commotion at the door stopped him mid-sentence. Stan Cripps, the town hall caretaker and ticket collector for social events, was grappling with a gatecrasher in an attempt to stop him gaining entry to the hall.
“You can’t come in ‘ere without a ticket!” said Stan, blocking the doorway, and losing his flat cap in the scuffle.
“I don’t need a ticket, you nitwit! I donated the top prize, you stupid little man. Don’t you know who I am?”
“Oh, my goodness! What an absolutely fabulous surprise! We’re honoured!” simpered Steven, as the gatecrasher made his way down the aisle, followed by a bespectacled weasel-faced brunette in a suit, holding a tape recorder in the air, and running to keep up. “Will everyone please give a big St. Eves’ round of applause to Roman Haley!”
Gasps, ooohs, and aaahhs reverberated around the room as Roman climbed onto the stage in his ankle-length fur cloak and snatched the microphone from Steven’s hand. He glowered at the audience and twirled the end of his handlebar moustache as he waited for absolute silence before he spoke.
“Before I award this prize, I’d like to make an announcement. As you may know, my old colleague, Olivia Floyd-Martin, is very successful in her own right here in St. Eves, as the Executive Chef at The President Hotel.” He lowered his eyes and coughed behind his hand. “Not quite as successful as me, of course, but successful, nevertheless.
“So, with that in mind, I’d like to extend an invitation to her to attend a tasting session at the school next Monday, as my guest. We haven’t seen each other for so long, I’m sure she won’t refuse.”
He smirked and pointed to the local reporter who was covering the event for publication in his paper’s weekend edition. “You! Did you get all that down? I want that invitation to Olivia to be the focal point of your article, do you understand? If you’ve missed anything, speak to my assistant, Monique, and she can fill you in. She keeps a record of everything I
say.”
Monique adjusted her glasses and gave the reporter a mean-spirited look of self-importance.
“Right, then. I have a car waiting outside. Can we get this prize awarded so I can get out of here?” Roman handed the microphone back to Steven who stopped gazing at him in awe and pulled himself together.
“Yes, of course. Sorry, we weren’t expecting you to be here, you see, so you took us by surprise. A fabulous surprise, of course, but a surprise all the same. It’s not often we have the pleasure of...”
“If you could just draw the winning ticket?” snapped Roman.
“Ah, yes, the winning ticket! Hah!” Steven put his hand in the bucket again and delved deep. “And the winner of this exclusive prize is… wait for it… Harriett Reeves! Where are you, Harriett?”
The hall went quiet for a moment and Ava nudged Harriett as she gave an extra-loud snore, knocking her elbow off the arm of the chair and waking her up from her doze.
“What? What’s happening?” said Harriett, sitting bolt upright and blinking repeatedly. “Was that thunder?”
The crowd began to clap. “You’ve won first prize!” said Betty. “Go on—go up and get your envelope from Roman Haley!”
“And wipe that dribble off your chin,” hissed Ava, as she passed Harriett a tissue.
Chapter 2
Charlotte Costello fluttered a blanket across the sand and squinted against the sun at her daughter, Molly. Wrapped up against the elements in a fleece onesie, bobble hat, and pink wellingtons, the seven-year old was ankle-deep in the sea and concentrating on how many times she could bounce a shuttlecock on a racquet as the dogs, Pippin and Panda, chased each other up and down the beach, making figures of eight in the sand.
Charlotte dug a fist into the small of her back and winced as her baby attempted to make itself more comfortable. There was still another two months to go before it was due to make an appearance but until then, it seemed perfectly content to play Twister while it waited
She breathed in a deep gulp of cold fresh air. Saturdays were her favourite day of the week, especially when the weather was good enough to spend them outside. Unless they had other plans, or the rain was falling at a rapid rate, most Saturday mornings, she and Molly would dress accordingly, pack up a picnic basket, something to read, a couple of badminton racquets or the Swingball, and head for the beach. Even if it was only for an hour or so, Charlotte liked to keep up the tradition started by her own mum. It was no hardship; after all, they lived right opposite.
