Polly added, “I want to beat Harriet Berry. She’s the best cook in Marsden-Lacey and everyone knows it. She was also the one in school who won our yearly cooking contests. Just once, I want to know I’ve got the chops to beat her. So, Martha, no talking to Agosto, got it?”
Martha gave her a sour look and said grumpily, “Got it.”
Agosto plowed over to where they were standing. His aquiline nose was held at a discerning level as he approached the table where their beautiful pie sat innocently upon a tidy workstation. Everyone knew Agosto was fastidious about how a kitchen should be kept clean at all times. They were going for every possible angle in order to win the contest.
Agosto bent down and sniffed the pie, and taking out a hand-sized, leather-bound notepad, he made notations in it. The television cameras honed in upon the four bright-eyed competitors. Helen blushed and Polly stood straighter. But it was Mr. O’Grady who stole the show. He wore a pin on his white baker’s jacket. It was a coronation pin for Queen Elizabeth II proudly worn over Mr. O’Grady’s heart. When the cameras zoomed in on the dapper gentleman, he smiled broadly and pointed to the pin saying the words ‘God Bless the Queen.’
The spectators caught O’Grady’s charming declaration of affection for his monarch as they watched a camera close-up shot on the massive television screen at one end of the gym floor. The crowd cheered and clapped, and someone from the back of the room started singing the national anthem. Mr. O’Grady waved happily, and Polly rolled her eyes heavenward.
One of the interviewers, a woman, asked the team if they thought their chances were good to move on to the second round. Polly, Martha and Helen didn’t speak at first. It was Polly who jumped in, saying, “We’re just happy to be here,” her statement reminiscent of an Oscar nominee’s. Nobody dared move, but Martha squelched a snort of laughter just in time, as Agosto’s steely stare flashed onto her.
Finished with his inspection, he asked Alistair, Lana, and Mrs. Purcell to come over and do their evaluations. Everyone breathed a sigh of relief when Agosto quit their table.
Soon, every team’s pie was baking in the oven. All that was left to do was to present their recipe plans for tomorrow and hope they’d be allowed to go on to the next round. The teams chatted and laughed with one another sharing their angst-riddled cooking stories from the last three hours.
“We should go ahead and take our recipes for the tea part of the competition to the judges’ table,” Martha said.
Helen’s phone rang and she said, “Give me a minute. It’s Mr. Brickstone, Lord Percy’s nephew. I’ll be right back.”
She tapped the button. “Hello, Mr. Brickstone. How are you?”
“Doing well, Mrs. Ryes, thank you. I wanted to know how the transport of my manuscript went and when you’ll be able to give me a complete valuation.”
“Of course. Monday, my colleague and I are driving to London where Sinead Peters, the Hisox’s agent, will meet us. I’m expecting one expert with an auction background and two other Shakespearean scholars who are extremely familiar with known works by Shakespeare. It’ll take some time, with this type of find, more than a month.”
“I see, Mrs. Ryes. You did say, though, you would be going down with your colleague to London?” he asked.
“Yes, I’ll be sure to call you, as soon as the meeting is done,” Helen added, not sure what he was asking.
“Fine, fine, I look forward to hearing from you. Enjoy your weekend. Are you still employed in the master chef competition?” he asked good-humouredly.
“It’s not so masterly at the moment. Martha burnt one of our oven mitts and we had to stuff it into a drawer before the judge came by,” Helen said with a laugh.
“Well, I wish you all the best of luck, Mrs. Ryes and thank you again for your help in this matter.”
Helen tapped the phone’s end button and hurried back to the place where her team was standing. The pies were supposed to be coming out of the huge ovens in the cafeteria kitchen. Everyone was waiting to take their turn at collecting their dish. There was one last preparation to complete the pies. Soon everyone was finished and the pies were ready.
“Please take your pies to the judges’ table and make sure your team card is with your entry. We don’t want anyone disqualified for misrepresentation,” Agosto said over the loud speaker.
All the teams reverently placed their pie with their team’s card upon the table indicated. Everyone was to go and sit until the decisions were made. Three of the teams would go on to the next round, and three would be sent home. It was a room full of high expectations and nervous chatter.
Finally, Agosto climbed the stairs once more.
“We have made our collective decision,” Agosto announced. “Please be ready to send your team’s captain to collect your pie and afterwards each team, regardless of placement, will be photographed by Mr. Pogue, for the Marsden-Lacey Times.”
A hushed excitement emanated from the crowd. People talked and bets were being made by some of the rowdier spectators. The television cameras panned the room showing the packed bleachers and the tense competitors huddled together in their individual teams.
“We’ll call out your team’s name,” Agosto declared. “Our first team made a lovely traditional Yorkshire raised chicken and ham pie with an excellent hot water crust pastry. Berry’s Bakers, please come up to the table.”
The crowd went wild with cheers and applause. Harriet Berry’s team, Berry’s Bakers, clasped each other in a group hug. After the excitement abated, Harriet approached the table and accepted a handshake from Agosto, who beamed graciously from his elevated position on a compact platform. Harriet’s team walked away for their picture to be taken.
Agosto cleared his throat, bringing the excited crowd back under his control. “Our next team tried a daring twist on an old favorite. They took a chance and added curry to a puffed pastry pie of mushrooms, cream, and chicken. Excellent presentation and a unique concept! It is…Tea Tarts!”
Amidst another uproar of applause from the bleachers, happy, jumping competitors congratulated one another, bringing the Bake-Off to a level of heightened anticipation. Who would win the last coveted spot? Helen, Martha, Polly and Mr. O’Grady each offered well wishes for The Tea Tarts as they trooped by to get their picture made for the paper.
“Here goes,” Martha trilled with excitement. She crossed her fingers.
“Our last team delivered a true tour d’force. Their entry was a traditional English steak and stilton pie. What gave it depth, in our opinion, was the fresh handling of the stout beer in the recipe. Please collect your pie The Dough Nuts!”
The spectators went over-the-top with their applause, bravos, and good shows. Polly kissed O’Grady right on the mouth causing him to turn bright red, while Helen and Martha wrapped each other in a delighted hug. With red cheeks and a light step, Polly went up to the waiting Agosto and accepted her pie. From the bleachers, came more well-wishes as Polly’s team, The Dough Nuts, made their way to where the newspaper photographers waited to take their picture.
“Congratulations!” Piers said, coming up to The Dough Nuts. “Your culinary abilities must be spot on, for Agosto to wax on so long. I’d like a slice of that pie, Mrs. Ryes.”
Helen forgot her usual distaste for public display and, squeezing Piers’ hand, stood on her toes and planted a kiss on his cheek.
“Forget the pie, I’ll take more of that,” he proffered his cheek for another kiss.
Polly leaned over to Helen and whispered in her ear, “You need to bring that bull home, Helen.”
The corner of Helen’s smile quivered and she whispered back, “Polly, I’m trying, now shhh.”
What was left of the morning was spent talking with friends and visitors. All the competitors were in demand to discuss their dishes with curious recipe hounds. The Marsden-Lacey Constabulary team was out which was sad because everyone knew they’d lost one of their best team members, Chief Johns.
“Donna, I’m sorry about thi
s situation. You didn’t get a fair shake with the competition,” Martha said to Constable Waters.
“It’s fine, Martha, we’re kind of glad to be out. There’s so much going on at work and at home. My youngest has been sick, and I want him better before Christmas. Also, with the Chief gone, things are out of sorts at the constabulary.”
“Gone? What do you mean?” Martha asked, her tone confused.
Donna’s voice dropped to a low voice, “Detective Inspector Knells has removed The Chief from the constabulary, pending the investigation into the death of his wife.”
Martha couldn’t help the shock showing on her face. Donna continued, “He’s off all investigations, even the one regarding Mrs. Cuttlebirt’s murder. I’m going to see him, though, at one o’clock. I’ve asked him to come over to my house to talk about some things going on at the Constabulary.”
“Under the table talk, right?” Martha asked.
“Yes, Knells may be trying to…displace Chief Johns. That’s my feeling anyway. Mind you, it could be a mistaken impression on my part, but I think he would like to be the next Chief for Marsden-Lacey.”
Martha leaned back and considered Donna thoughtfully. “Your instincts are dead-on, Donna. I had a faint inkling myself in that same direction. Both of us have picked up on it, so there’s something to it.”
“I’ve got to go,” Donna said grudgingly. “It’s almost twelve-thirty. The ride over to my house takes fifteen minutes and my house is probably a wreck. See you soon, Martha, and best of luck for tomorrow.”
“Thank you, Donna.”
The two women separated and were soon lost in the crowd. Martha made her way to where Helen and Polly were talking with Miss Purcell, the Headmistress-Judge.
“So, you’re a brewer?” Miss Purcell was saying, “Using your own stout beer was an excellent decision. It truly set you apart.”
Polly was as proud as a peacock. She and Miss Purcell were having an animated conversation about the use of different beers in English cuisine. Martha tapped Helen on the shoulder and they both walked toward the doors leading to the car park.
“I’m ready to go. Are we going to Polly’s farm to work on tomorrow’s plan?” Martha asked.
“Yes, and we need to go soon. Piers and I are having dinner tonight at Healy. Polly says she wants you to stay with her and to bring your pets to her house. She doesn’t want your furry family to be left at home. It also gives Pepper a friend or two.”
Martha considered the idea. “What about you?”
“She’s invited me, as well. I’ll drive over after dinner. Polly wants to gossip a bit and told me she thinks of us as the two daughters she never had. By the way, the competition starts at ten tomorrow.”
“Sounds good. Let’s roll. I’m driving.”
Helen flashed Martha a nervous look.
“What?” Martha demanded.
“You’ve got that certain something about you that says you want to work off some steam. I’m not sure I want to get in the Green Bean (Martha’s Mini Cooper) when you have that gleam in your eye.”
With her fingers crossed behind her back, Martha answered like she was repeating an honorary code for drivers, “I promise to be a conscientious driver and follow the rules of the road at all times.”
Helen narrowed her eyes, not looking convinced. “Don’t kill us, please?”
Cupping her hands together to form a bowl, Martha replied, “You’re in good hands, Helen. Trust me.”
“Said the spider to the fly,” Helen grumbled but got into the Mini Cooper anyway. She fastened her safety belt and prepared for take-off.
Chapter 24
“There's daggers in men's smiles.”
-Shakespeare, Macbeth, Act II, Scene III
DETECTIVE INSPECTOR KNELLS SAT COMFORTABLY in the Chief’s office behind the Chief’s desk. He liked it here and he’d finished a satisfying phone call with the Chief informing him of his suspension. The old man was furious, but Knells was pleased it was done. The gossips had leaked it to Johns last night. Probably the female constable, Waters, had told him. Knells made a mental note to keep an eye on her. Other than that, though, things were going well.
His morning had been informative, as he had gleaned tidbits of personal information about the Chief’s life at the Marsden-Lacey Constabulary. One of the more interesting insights into Johns’ private world had been his stash of liquor. Knells found it during his detailed sweep of Johns’ office. It was hidden inside a woman’s black clutch purse and stuffed in the bottom of a fake tree’s massive pot. Lots of questions popped up in Knells’ mind after unearthing that gem of evidence.
Knells jotted his thoughts down on a notepad. The hidden liquor would come in handy in the case he was building against Johns. In the last ten years, Knells must have asked himself daily, how he was going to get out of Leeds. He’d considered asking his various supervisors for a relocation opportunity, but in the end, that kind of request was bad for one’s career.
If he’d learned one thing all these years working in the police force, it was that getting ahead was political. You had to always look enthusiastic and interested in things the supervising officer liked. This meant, anyone who asked to be relocated was not a team player or had difficulties with authority. It was a no-win situation. The best way to get ahead was to make your own luck. The minute he arrived in Marsden-Lacey, Knells knew he’d hit the jackpot.
The reports were back on the residue samples taken from Mrs. Cuttlebirt’s house. It was cyanide, a controlled substance. The killer must have had access to a laboratory or to a not-so-virtuous worker in a laboratory. Since cyanide required about a teaspoon to cause rapid death, someone could have collected minuscule amounts from a lab over time without detection.
Knells had requested Johns’ appointment planner and the last six months of cases he’d worked on. If Johns had visited a laboratory, a university with a laboratory, or darkened the doorway of a pharmacy, Knells wanted to know. The one person in Knells’ mind who had a real reason to see Saundra Johns dead was Chief Johns. The one person who would have been best at planning her death was also Johns. With time and good detective work, Knells would find the misstep in Merriam Johns’ careful execution of his wife’s murder.
“Sir?” Sergeant Michael Endicott said, standing in the doorway.
“Endicott isn’t it?” Knells asked.
“Yes, sir. It’s Endicott. We have all the footage wrapped from the Bake-Off meet and greet. The footage of Saundra Johns at the refreshment table has been enhanced. We think there may be something interesting.”
“Good work, Endicott,” Knells gushed. “You’re going to make an excellent Detective Inspector.”
Sergeant Endicott flushed with pleasure at Knells’ compliment. “Thank you, sir. I’ll send the videos to you. Shouldn’t take a minute.”
Endicott left the doorway. Knells watched him go down the hallway. The young sergeant’s body language effused confidence. Knells would have them eating out of his hand in a week’s time. They would want him to be their next Chief.
He turned back to the laptop he was working on and checked his email. There were Endicott’s videos. Time to see what he could see, Knells thought to himself. Time to prove Merriam Johns a murderer.
FROM HIS POCKET, CHIEF JOHNS pulled his police badge and studied it. It represented an integral element of his being. The thought of it being gone or taken away was almost horrifying to him. Putting the badge back in the inner left pocket of his suit, he knocked on Donna’s door.
A pandemonium of noise erupted within the house. Dogs barking, children’s voices yelling ‘Mum!’, and the sound of a wheeled object rapidly approaching the door made Johns smile and shake his head.
The other side of the door was repeatedly thumped, and a boy was heard saying, “Down Biscuit! Down!” With a great deal of behind-the-scenes work going on, the door finally cracked open to reveal an angelic little face with coal black wispy hair peering up at him.
“You must
be Adam,” Johns said with a note of fondness in his tone.
The child, with one eye shut against the bright mid-day sun, studied the giant of a man in his doorway. He nodded and replied, as any well-mannered child should, “Yes, sir. Mum is in the kitchen and wants you to come inside. I’ll show you,” he said proudly.
As Johns squeezed past the partially open door, he realized it was a difficult passage because a toy scooter was blocking it. A substantial, yet friendly Bassett hound sat panting and thumping its tail against the floor in a welcoming beat.
“Follow me!” Adam yelled. Wearing Spider Man pajamas, he jumped onto his scooter and took off down the tiled hallway with Biscuit barking and galloping at his heels.
Their convoy arrived at the back of Donna’s house in less than twenty seconds. A soccer game was on the television and two other boys of around nine or ten years of age were lying on the floor over two massive beanbags eating some sort of cracker-filled soup.
“The Sheriff is here,” Adam announced threateningly to the other boys who turned around, their eyes growing into saucer shapes at the sight of Johns. They finally found their voices and said, “Hello, sir.”
“Hello, lads. Who’s winning?” Johns asked, nodding toward the television.
“Manchester!” the boys yelled excitedly. “We’re up one.”
Johns headed to the comfy chair behind where the boys were lying.
“Hi, Chief,” Donna said from behind him, her voice bright at seeing her boss and friend. “Come in here. The kitchen is quieter. We can talk.”
A twinge of regret needled Johns at having to leave the room with the dogs, kids and soccer match. He wanted to settle down in the easy chair and soak up the obviously happy domestic environment, plus he would love to see Manchester win today.
“I’ve got something you’re going to love,” Donna said enticingly. “I have some of your Mom’s winning meat pie from the competition. Polly sent it over. She’s such a love. It’s absolutely divine. Come have a piece.”
Pudding, Poison & Pie (A Marsden-Lacey Cozy Mystery Book 3) Page 13
