The Dough Must Go On (Oxford Tearoom Mysteries ~ Book 9)

by H. Y. Hanna

  The Dough Must Go On

  Oxford Tearoom Mysteries ~ Book 9

  by

  H.Y. Hanna

  Book Description:

  Showbiz comes to Oxford in the form of Britain’s hottest new talent show and tearoom owner Gemma Rose gets a peek behind-the-scenes when she’s asked to cater for the event. But with the Old Biddies entering the contest as England’s first “granny band”, and her little tabby, Muesli, taking part in one of the acts, Gemma soon ends up with more than she bargained for… and that’s before she comes across a frozen dead body!

  Now, she’s on the trail of a murderer, with four nosy old ladies giving her a helping hand, while also dealing with her embarrassing mother, her workaholic boyfriend—and even a mouse invader at her tearoom!

  With things hotting up in the contest and so many suspects in the running, can Gemma catch the killer before the curtain falls?

  Books in the Oxford Tearoom Mysteries:

  All-Butter ShortDead (Prequel)

  A Scone to Die For (Book 1)

  Tea with Milk and Murder (Book 2)

  Two Down, Bun To Go (Book 3)

  Till Death Do Us Tart (Book 4)

  Muffins and Mourning Tea (Book 5)

  Four Puddings and a Funeral (Book 6)

  Another One Bites the Crust (Book 7)

  Apple Strudel Alibi (Book 8)

  The Dough Must Go On (Book 9)

  ~ more coming soon!

  Note:

  This book follows British English spelling and usage

  There is a Glossary of British Terms at the end of the story.

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  EPILOGUE

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  GLOSSARY OF BRITISH TERMS

  DARK CHOCOLATE & ORANGE SCONES RECIPE

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  CHAPTER ONE

  They say that showbiz is a cut-throat business and I got a front-row seat to what that means when I was invited onto Britain’s hot new talent show.

  Oh, not as a contestant, mind you—I was there simply to feed the many mouths backstage. Yup, I was Catering—or rather my business, the Little Stables Tearoom, was in charge of providing freshly baked scones, Chelsea buns, teacakes, and a host of other traditional English treats to the perpetually hungry members of the show crew and production team. It was a job that many a bakery or café would have killed for, and I still couldn’t believe that I had picked up the lucrative contract. It had been the last thing I’d been expecting when a funny little man with shrewd brown eyes and an expensive suit turned up in my tearoom one morning.

  “Cor… wossat fantastic smell?” he’d said, pausing just inside the door and sniffing in an exaggerated fashion.

  I smiled as I approached him, holding the tearoom menu. “That’s probably a new batch of scones coming out of the oven.”

  He rubbed his hands. “Ah! I’ve come ter talk ter yer about them… Yor scones,” he said, at my blank look. “I ’ear they’re the bloody best in Oxfordshire!”

  I blushed slightly. “Thanks… they are our house special.”

  “You got some I can try?”

  I was taken aback. I’d never had a customer march in and demand free food before. It was on the tip of my tongue to refuse, but something about his eager smile and bright-eyed anticipation made me feel petty about saying no. Besides, he was the first customer of the day; the tearoom was empty except for him and there was no one else to see, so it wasn’t as if he was setting a bad example.

  “Er… well, we don’t usually offer samples but… um… sure, if you just hang on a moment…”

  I popped into the kitchen and returned a moment later with a warm scone on a plate, then watched, bemused, as the man took his time breaking apart the golden crust to examine the light, fluffy centre. He took a big bite. He chewed thoughtfully. It was ridiculous, but I found myself watching him with bated breath and breathing a sigh of relief when his face split into a wide smile.

  “Absolutely delicious!” He smacked his lips. “Would be perfect wiv some jam and clotted cream…”

  Cheeky sod! Is he trying to scrounge more free food? Well, he can start paying for it, like all the other customers.

  “Yes, that’s how we normally serve them,” I said, making an attempt to lead him to a table. “If you’d like to follow me, I can seat you at a table and you can order a proper serving of scones with all the trimmings. And you might also like to see the rest of the menu: we offer many other traditional British baking favourites, as well as finger sandwiches and—”

  “Wot about delivery, then? Can yer do special orders ter be delivered?”

  I relaxed as I suddenly realised where he was heading. “Oh, sure, I’d be more than happy to take a catering order. We’ve catered several events for various Oxford colleges, as well as private parties, wedding breakfasts, society meetings… we even did a funeral recently.”

  “Ah… and can yer do big orders?”

  “Of course. We can bake as much or as little as required.” I smiled at him. “How many scones do you need?”

  “Seven hundred.”

  I blinked. “I… I’m sorry? Seven hundred?”

  “Yeah—and I want them served wiv jam and clotted cream, innit? I like ter do things properly,” he said, waggling his eyebrows. “Wot about sandwiches, then? Yer said sumfink about finger sandwiches. Properly cut, eh? In rectangles, wiv the crusts removed, and good ole-fashioned fillings, like fresh butter and cucumber… or egg mayonnaise… or that Coronation chicken stuff?”

  “Well, yes, but—”

  “Good, good…” He waved a hand. “Valerie, me PA, will contact yer and work out the details. Great ter meet yer—I like doin’ business wiv pretty girls.” He gave me a wink and a leer. “It’s a bonus when they ’ave brains too.” He shoved a card into my hand, then turned and trotted out of the tearoom, leaving me staring after him.

  I was still standing there, staring into space with my mouth slightly open, when the tearoom door swung open a few minutes later and my best friend Cassie walked in.

  “Morning…” She dropped her bag behind the counter, picked up one of the waitress aprons and tied it around her waist, then paused and eyed me curiously. “What are you standing there gawping like that for?”

  “Oh! I… um… this weird little man came in a few minutes ago and…” I trailed off and shook my head. “It must have been some kind of prank. He told me he wanted to order seven hundred scones.”

  “Huh? Who was he?”

  I shrugged. “I have no idea.” Then I remembered the card he’d given me and glanced down. “Someone called Monty Gibbs…?”

  Cassie gasped and snatched the card out of my hands. “We got a catering order from Monty Gibbs?”

  “Who’s
Monty Gibbs?”

  “Gemma!” Cassie rolled her eyes. “Don’t you ever watch TV? Monty Gibbs is the creator of From Pleb to Celeb, that new talent show everyone was talking about last year.”

  “Oh, a talent show…” I made a face. “You mean like Britain’s Got Talent and The X Factor?”

  “Yeah, except Gibbs says his version is much better, of course,” Cassie chuckled. “Rumour has it that Monty Gibbs only wants two things in life: to get a knighthood and to be a judge on a talent show. Well, the former is out of his control but the latter… he’s been trying to get invited for years, but he’s never managed to wangle it. So, he decided to create his own show where he could play God.”

  “What? You’re having me on.”

  “No, I’m serious.”

  “You can’t just start your own talent show.”

  “You can if you’re Monty Gibbs and you’re one of the richest men in Britain. He’s living proof that you can do anything, if you have enough money.”

  “Richest man? I’ve never heard of him.”

  “Well, he keeps to himself most of the time. He’s not one of those ‘loud’ billionaires, you know, always turning up in the society pages or getting caught by paparazzi looking totally hammered coming out of some London nightclub. But he’s rich, all right—and pretty eccentric too, from what I hear. He lives on this big estate out in the Cotswolds, where he’s converted some old manor into a swanky modern villa and excavated a man-made lake because he wanted a home by the water and there aren’t any natural big lakes in the Cotswolds, of course.”

  Cassie rolled her eyes. “So I’m not surprised that when no one would invite him to be a judge, he just decided to create his own show. And guess what? When none of the TV networks or digital channels would run his show, he went off and set up his own online streaming service to broadcast it. Then, when the show became a huge hit, everyone started subscribing to his channel—and he ended up making double the money! Now he’s back for a second season, and apparently it’s even more popular this time round. I’ll bet the networks are all begging him to run it now and he’s probably put his fee up, the clever sod.”

  “I’m beginning to see why he’s one of the richest men in Britain,” I said dryly.

  “And he wants us to cater for him!” Cassie squealed. “Gemma, you could probably shut the tearoom and go on holiday for a month after this.”

  Despite having the benefit of Cassie’s explanation, I was still unprepared for the eccentricity of Monty Gibbs’s requests when his secretary rang me a few hours later.

  “We’ll be engaging the services of a professional film and TV catering service, of course, to take care of the main meals and such, so you won’t have to worry about lunch and dinner. We simply want you to provide morning and afternoon tea,” said the efficient voice on the other end of the line. “You see, other talent shows have been criticised for the way they treat their contestants and crew—keeping people waiting for hours with no refreshment provided, for instance—and Mr Gibbs wants his show to be totally different. He wants to be known for his generosity in providing more than expected and for his attention to the finer details. So, for example, he would like all the tea to be brewed in porcelain teapots and served in proper china cups and saucers.”

  “Er… I don’t think I have enough teacups here for all the crew,” I said, doing a quick mental count.

  “That will be no problem. You simply have to let me know which fine china brand you use and I will make sure that enough matching sets are purchased and delivered to the set.”

  Bloody hell. I was really beginning to understand the phrase “money was no object”. By the time Gibbs’s secretary ended the call, I was reeling—not just from the list of specific demands but from the sum she had mentioned as payment for this job. I was beginning to wonder if Cassie was right and I should shut the tearoom. I’d be pushed to capacity just keeping up with the huge orders and eccentric requests for the duration of the show. Could the tearoom kitchen support the catering order and provide normal service to customers as well?

  Still, with what Monty Gibbs was paying, there would be more than enough when this was over to give everyone a raise and go on a very, very nice holiday! The thought of holidays made my mood darken for a moment as I remembered the one I had just cancelled because my workaholic boyfriend, Detective Inspector Devlin O’Connor, had been unable to leave his job commitments. Still, I had ended up having an impromptu adventure in Vienna, I thought with a smile, and had had a better time than I’d expected—despite dealing with a grisly death and four nosy old ladies who had insisted on meddling in the murder investigation…

  The door to the tearoom opened and, as if conjured by my thoughts, the very four little old ladies I’d been thinking of tottered in. Affectionately known as the “Old Biddies”, this little gang of octogenarians ruled the village of Meadowford-on-Smythe where my tearoom was situated, and—if rumours were to be believed—half of Oxfordshire too. They untied the headscarves covering their woolly white hair, wiped their sensible orthotic shoes on the doormat, and hurried towards me, their eyes gleaming.

  “Oh Gemma, we are going to be on television!” cried Glenda Bailey, her cheeks so pink from excitement that they made the heavy rouge she applied look almost neon.

  Florence Doyle nodded, a wide smile on her plump, kindly face. “That’s right, dear, and we’ll be performing before a real, live audience!”

  “They said they might even feature my lace doily earrings,” said Ethel Webb proudly.

  “We are going to be the first of our kind!” declared Mabel Cooke.

  “What kind? What are you talking about?” I asked.

  “Our audition for From Pleb to Celeb, dear,” said Glenda.

  I stared at them. The Old Biddies had auditioned for the talent show? And why was it that up until that morning, I’d never even heard of FPTC—and now it was suddenly popping up everywhere?

  “You went to an audition?”

  Glenda nodded eagerly. “The Open Auditions were held a few weeks ago, at that lovely new concert hall in Oxford—you know, the one they’ve built near the business school and the train station. That’s where all the judging for the show is going to take place, because Mr Gibbs wanted to keep the show near his home in the Cotswolds. He loathes London, you see, and didn’t want to have to travel there every time for the shooting, which is what happened last year. Besides, he said that the other shows always feature big cities like London and Manchester and Glasgow, so it was time some of the other towns got a look-in, and as a resident of the Cotswolds, he likes to support local businesses and—”

  “Yes, yes, never mind all that, Glenda—tell Gemma what the producers said!” Mabel cut in.

  “Ooh… yes, they were ever so impressed with us and invited us back to perform before the judges. We have been keeping it a secret from you, dear, as we wanted to surprise you… Well, we went to the Judges’ Auditions yesterday and they loved us! And we just heard this morning: it’s official—we’ve been chosen as one of the twenty contestants to go into the contest!”

  “But… I don’t understand—what are you going to do?”

  Mabel’s chest swelled importantly. “We are going to be the first granny band in England.”

  I looked at her stupidly. “Granny—what?”

  “Well, you see, there are girl bands and boy bands, dear,” said Glenda, as if explaining something to a child. “So… why not a granny band?”

  “We’ll be singing and dancing to old favourite songs. Isn’t it lucky that we have so much musical talent between us?” added Florence, beaming.

  I winced slightly. The one time I’d heard the Old Biddies sing and dance, a man had come up to them and desperately offered them money to shut up. Still, I didn’t want to rain on their parade.

  “That… er… that sounds… great. Congratulations! So… um… you’re going to perform as this granny band?”

  “Ooh yes, we even have a special name for ourselves. We
’ve given it a lot of thought, you see, and we’ve come up with the perfect name: The Pussy Puffs!”

  “The what?” I blinked at them. “You’re not serious. You can’t call yourselves that!”

  Ethel looked at me innocently. “Why not? It’s a lovely name.”

  “Yes, but it’s… um…” I groped around for a way to say it, then took the cowardly route. “Well, it’s rather silly, isn’t it?”

  “It’s not silly at all,” said Florence indignantly. “We thought it was very apt. You see, people look at elderly ladies and think that we’re just dull and frail, like a puff of air might blow us away—”

  “—but in fact, we’re clever and resourceful and full of surprises, just like pussycats!” finished Glenda with a proud smile.

  I took a deep breath. “Look… just trust me—‘The Pussy Puffs’ is a really bad choice.”

  “Well, the producers didn’t think that,” said Mabel, bristling. “I told them it was a marvellous idea and they agreed.” She folded her arms across her chest and nodded emphatically.

  I wondered wryly if they’d had much choice. As the bossiest of the Old Biddies, with her booming voice and brisk, no-nonsense manner, Mabel Cooke was a force to be reckoned with. Even the head of Oxfordshire police had been no match for her. A couple of puny TV producers would have stood no chance.

  “The band was really June’s idea, Mabel—you have to give her the credit,” Ethel chided in her gentle voice.

  Mabel sniffed. “It may have been June’s idea but I developed it.”

  “Who’s June?”

  “June Driscoll is an old friend of ours from bingo, dear,” Glenda explained. “Her husband died last year and she’s been finding it very hard—they were an extremely devoted couple, you see. She’s been rather at a loss ever since. I don’t think she quite knows what to do with herself—”

  “Other than trying to save Bill’s group, B.E.A.S.T.,” Florence said.

  “B.E.A.S.T.?”

  “It stands for ‘Bushy Eyebrows Activists Stand Together’. It’s a support group set up to help people with thick eyebrows find sympathy and understanding. June’s husband, Bill, had the most enormous eyebrows, you see—”