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

by H. Y. Hanna

  I stood aside, feeling a bit unnecessary as they huddled together to debate the best solution to the crisis. Deciding that they wouldn’t miss me, I left and wandered through to the contestants’ Waiting Area to look for the Old Biddies. As I entered the room, however, I nearly collided with a woman rushing out. It was Cheryl and she looked frantic.

  “OH! Oh, it’s you…” she said.

  I caught her arms to steady her. “What’s the matter?”

  “I can’t find Misty!” she wailed. “I put her down for one second, just to adjust my costume, and when I looked up, she’d disappeared!”

  I looked around the large open-plan room. “She can’t have disappeared—she must be in here somewhere.”

  Cheryl shook her head. “I’ve been searching every corner! She isn’t here—she must have wandered out of the room. She often goes off by herself, you know, back home, and doesn’t come back for days.” Cheryl indicated the doorway I’d just come in. “This corridor leads to the rest of the backstage rooms—it’s like a rabbit warren in there. I don’t know how I’m ever going to find her!”

  “Come on, I’ll help you search,” I said.

  Half an hour later, however, I was beginning to share Cheryl’s pessimism. We had scoured every room in the place but still, there was no sign of the little grey tabby cat.

  “Are there any other exits from the Waiting Area?” I asked?

  Cheryl shook her head. “No, the only other exit leads to the wings around the stage.”

  “What if she did go that way and went around the back of the stage… what’s on the other side?”

  “Nothing much… just some storerooms and… oh, there’s a fire exit that’s often left open because that’s where people go out to have a smoke!” Cheryl gasped. “She could have gone out there and left the building altogether.”

  We rushed to the fire exit in question and, sure enough, found it standing wide open. It led onto a small car park at the back of the concert hall, obviously for production crew, cast, and suppliers. Beyond the car park was an area of wilderness, overgrown with weeds, grass, and shrubs, which sloped down to the canal in the distance. This was obviously what was left of the original land that the concert hall had been built on.

  Cheryl’s shoulders slumped as she saw the area of wilderness. “Oh God—I’ll never find Misty if she has gone into that!”

  I wanted to say something encouraging but I had to agree. The chances of finding the cat—especially if she didn’t want to be found—were practically nil. Especially in the time we had left before the show began.

  Cheryl was obviously sharing my thoughts because she wrung her hands and said: “What am I going to do? I’m on in a couple of hours.”

  “Can’t you just do the act without her?” I asked.

  “No, I planned the whole piece around the idea of me telling the story to my kitty friend. Even the songs have ‘Misty’ in them. I need to have her walk on stage with me and then sit in the basket, otherwise the whole thing is ruined!”

  She looked on the verge of tears and I wished I could help her, but I didn’t know what to suggest. Then she gripped my arm suddenly.

  “Wait… I could use your cat!”

  “I… I’m sorry?”

  “Your cat! You said she’s been trained to walk on a leash and harness, didn’t you?”

  “Well, yes, but—”

  “Do you live far away?”

  “No, I live in Oxford, about fifteen minutes’ walk from here. But I don’t think Muesli—”

  “Oh, her name is Muesli? That’s brilliant! That sounds so close to ‘Misty’—I could easily swap her name in the songs and no one would even notice.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “And she looks exactly like Misty too, doesn’t she? You said so yesterday. So I wouldn’t even have to tell the show people; they wouldn’t know the difference. Not that I imagine they would have a problem with it, but you never know—”

  “Wait, Cheryl—listen: Muesli has never done anything like this. I’m not sure she’d be okay on stage.”

  “You mean she’d be afraid of the noise and lights?”

  “Well…” I thought of my confident little cat. “No, probably not. Nothing seems to faze her much. But she’s very friendly and inquisitive, and I don’t know if she’d stay obediently in the basket. She might decide she wants to say hello to the judges or the people in the audience and wander off instead.”

  “Oh, I’m sure she’ll be fine. You said she loves catnip too, doesn’t she? So I’m sure she’d stay happily on the blanket. And anyway, if she jumps out of the basket, I can always put her back in. My act is only two minutes. I doubt she can get up to much mischief in that time.”

  You haven’t met my cat, I thought.

  “Please, Gemma…” She looked at me pleadingly. “I’m going to keep looking now but if I can’t find Misty before my act starts, then Muesli is my only hope.”

  I sighed. “All right. I’ll go and get her—but be warned, you might be asking for even more trouble than you had with Misty!”

  CHAPTER SIX

  When I returned forty-five minutes later with Muesli in tow, the show had already begun and the area backstage was a hive of frantic activity. People rushed around, carrying props and unwinding cables, yelling for more lights, calling for sound adjustments… I dodged around them, careful to lift the cat carrier high and keep out of their way, as I searched for Cheryl. The nursery teacher wasn’t in any of the other backstage rooms and I couldn’t see her in the Waiting Area either. I paused by the double doors leading to the wings and the stage, and frowned, scanning the big room again.

  Everybody else seemed to be here. Albert Hodge stood a few feet away from me. He was obviously due to go on next and he looked pale with nerves. He was dressed all in black, with a long cape and a pointy sorcerer’s hat that was probably supposed to lend some mystique to his stage presence. Unfortunately, though, with his thin, gangly body and air of awkward nervousness, he looked more like a teenage geek about to attend Comic-Con or a Dungeons and Dragons convention than a masterful magician.

  Beyond him, I could see the Yodelling Plumber, Franz Ziegler, busily polishing a length of metal pipe. He was dressed in a traditional costume of lederhosen and braces, and looked calm and confident. A few feet away from him, the Old Biddies were helping each other adjust their Elvis jumpsuits, and across from them was Tim the hip hop dancer. He was pulling faces at the twins, making them giggle, as their mother looked on indulgently. In the far corner of the room, I could see Skip the collie tied to his crate, although there was no sign of his owner.

  And in the middle of the room, standing apart from everyone else, was Lara King. She looked stunning—her voluptuous body sheathed in a red sequinned gown which caught the light and shimmered with her every move. I could see why she was such a favourite with the public. Like Gaz, she had oodles of natural confidence and charm, and it radiated from her, giving her a powerful attraction. She wasn’t wasting any of it, though, on the poor woman who was trying to put the finishing touches to her hair and make-up.

  “Oh for God’s sake, haven’t you finished?” Lara snapped, twitching irritably.

  “I’m sorry—I just need to make sure… There!” The woman gave her hair a final adjustment, then stepped back, satisfied. “I’ll powder your nose again, just before you go on and—”

  “Make sure you don’t forget my drink,” said Lara sharply. “I need it just before I step on stage.”

  “Er… is this that special gargle…?”

  Lara gave an exaggerated sigh. “Yes. In the fridge, in the staff kitchen—didn’t they tell you? And bring a bowl for me to spit into.”

  The make-up artist looked taken aback, and for a moment I thought she was going to refuse. But Monty Gibbs had obviously given strict instructions about indulging the contestants’ whims, because after a moment she simply said: “Right. I’ll see to it.”

  Lara didn’t even acknowledge her with any thanks,
too busy admiring her own face in a compact mirror. The make-up artist compressed her lips and walked away.

  “Meorrw?”

  I looked down at Muesli, who was peering out from between the bars of her carrier, and remembered my search.

  “All right, Muesli,” I said. “Give me a minute. We’ll find her.”

  I scanned the room again, but Cheryl was still nowhere to be seen. Where could she be? Then I felt a flash of panic. What if I was too late and she had already gone on stage? I hurried over to the double doors that led towards the stage, nearly colliding with Gaz, who was just coming in from the wings. He looked at me curiously.

  “You all right?” he asked. “You’re not one of the crew, are you?”

  “I’m looking for Cheryl,” I said. “She hasn’t gone on already, has she?”

  “Nah, Nicole’s on stage at the moment. I was just having a peek from the wings,” he said, and as I cocked my head to listen, I realised that I could hear the faint sound of a piano being played, followed by dutiful applause as the piece came to an end. The notes had sounded timid, muted, and I thought back to my mother’s words last night. She was right: Nicole’s fingerwork was fantastic, but she lacked fire and passion in her performance.

  The next moment, I froze, incredulous, as I heard my mother’s voice, grossly magnified by a microphone, coming from the area beyond the stage.

  “That was lovely, dear. And you sit so gracefully at the piano. I think it’s dreadful how many women just don’t sit in a ladylike manner anymore. I’m always telling my daughter, Gemma, that good posture is so important—she slouches terribly, you know—and people do judge you by first impressions, no matter what they say…”

  Oh my God! What is my mother doing here?

  I hurried to the edge of the wings and peeked through the curtains framing the side of the stage. My mouth fell open as I saw my mother sitting on the panel between Stuart Hollande and Monty Gibbs.

  The former turned to her with a smile and said: “And speaking of first impressions, what did you think of Nicole’s performance, Evelyn?”

  “Well… it was very lovely, but…” My mother looked apologetic. “It did feel as if you were frightened to press the keys on the piano. It’s important to have conviction, dear, when you do something—even if you don’t feel it—you have to act it, so that people will believe you.”

  “Very true, Evelyn,” said Stuart Hollande. “Fake it until you make it, as we say in the industry.”

  “Yes, yes,” said Monty Gibbs, putting on a knowledgeable expression. “Yer didn’t own that song, eh?”

  “So… time for the judges’ decisions,” said Stuart. “Monty?”

  The diminutive businessman swelled his chest and said grandly, “It’s a no from me.”

  Stuart turned to my mother. “Evelyn? Is Nicole good enough to go through to the Finals?”

  “Oh dear…” My mother looked distressed. “Can I tell you after I’ve seen everyone else?”

  The audience burst out laughing and several people cheered. I stared. I couldn’t believe my mother was a judge on the show… and it looked like the audience loved her.

  “You have to give your decision now, Evelyn,” said Stuart. “Although, of course, the public vote can still change things.”

  “MEEEOOORRWW!”

  I jumped as Muesli’s plaintive voice rang out suddenly, loud and clear in the waiting silence. Oh bugger. I’d forgotten that I was still holding the cat carrier. Muesli was obviously getting tired of being cooped up in the cage and wanted to be let out to explore. She put a white paw through the bars and rattled the door.

  “Meorrw? Meorrw?”

  The judges looked around in puzzlement whilst the audience burst into giggles. Hastily, I retreated from the edge of the curtains and backed away from the stage. In the distance, I could hear the crowd murmuring and Monty Gibbs saying:

  “Is that a cat? Woot’s a bloody cat doin’ in ’ere?”

  Oops. I hurried back through the wings, bumping into Albert, who was hovering just outside the double doors leading back to the Waiting Area.

  “Is she finished yet?” he asked me.

  “Almost. Listen, have you seen Cheryl anywhere?”

  He shrugged, obviously not interested, and pushed past me, heading into the wings. I sighed and continued back to where I had seen Cheryl’s things. The carrier was getting heavy now and my arm was starting to ache. I paused by the familiar chest with several puppets draped across the top and looked around indecisively. Where was she? Carrying the cat carrier over to a quiet corner, I set it down on top of a large trestle table and bent down to peek at Muesli through the bars.

  “You be good. Wait here—I’ll be right back.”

  “Meorrw?” Muesli pressed her nose against the door of the cage and pushed impatiently.

  “Not yet, Muesli,” I said. “Just wait here. I won’t be long.”

  I hurried off, through the door on the other side of the Waiting Area and into the long corridor which connected the network of rooms backstage. Most of them were empty, but I diligently looked inside every one. Finally, I rounded a corner and found a door that I hadn’t seen previously. To my surprise, it opened not into a room but a narrow corridor which snaked around the building. Curious, I followed it around and found myself suddenly in the crossover—the area behind the stage, concealed by screens and drapery, which provided a way to move from the wings on one side of the stage to the other, out of sight of the audience.

  Onstage, I could hear the sound of mystical music and I noticed a strange white fog around my legs, billowing like white smoke and curling around me. The magician Albert must be on, I realised, and this must be the liquid nitrogen that’s part of his act. It seemed like an awful lot of it, however. It swirled around me, rising as high as my knees, and was so dense that I couldn’t even see my own feet. I waved my hand in front of my face to clear the air. At this rate, the audience wouldn’t be able to see anything except clouds of white smoke!

  Carefully keeping out of view, I skirted around the side of the stage, intending to head back into the Waiting Area through the double doors leading from the wings. As I walked past the rear screens, I saw the big cauldron-shaped container that held the evaporating liquid nitrogen, now with the lid off. It was tucked just out of sight, behind a fold of curtain, and there was a fan set up on one side to blow the white mist towards the stage.

  However, the cauldron looked like it hardly needed any extra boost—it was already frothing and bubbling madly, like a pot of soup about to boil over. The billowing white mist rose like a cloud, obscuring the top of the container. Then the plumes of gas parted for a second and I caught my breath as I saw something slumped over the edge of the container.

  No, not something. Someone.

  I took a step closer, my eyes widening in horror as I took in the sparkling fabric clinging to the voluptuous body and recognised the red sequinned dress.

  It was Lara.

  Someone had shoved the sexy singer headfirst into the cauldron of frothing liquid nitrogen, straight into an icy death.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  “Would you like to sit down, miss?” a young police constable asked, peering anxiously at me as he led me into the concert hall’s administrative office. “The detective inspector is on his way, but he might be a few minutes yet.”

  “I’m fine… fine,” I assured him.

  “It’s no shame to be freaked out by a dead body,” he said earnestly. “Most people would be in a right state.”

  “Actually, it’s not the first time I’ve come across a dead body,” I said with a wan smile. “It was just the way she looked—her face…”

  I shuddered as the memory came back to me: reaching out to grab Lara’s body… yanking backwards… the way she fell back stiffly from the container… that icy lifeless mask of her face… then the awful moment when her body had slumped facedown to the floor and her frozen face had smashed, the nose splintering, the cheeks crumbling into a
thousand pink fragments.

  That was when I’d screamed.

  And screamed and kept on screaming as people had come running from backstage, on stage, and even the audience, to see what the commotion was. I squirmed with embarrassment to think of it now. I’d always prided myself on having a cool head in a crisis and for not being squeamish about things like blood and dead bodies. Besides, as I’d told the officer, I had seen dead bodies before. Several, in fact. Not peaceful corpses either, but victims of brutal murders. And yet none of them had affected me like this one had. This had been like something out of a nightmare or a sci-fi horror movie. I had been practically having hysterics and not even my mother could calm me down. It was only when Mabel Cooke had said sternly in her booming voice: “That’s quite enough, Gemma!” and dashed some cold water in my face that I had finally recovered my senses.

  I wondered where Mabel and the other Old Biddies were now. They were probably outside in the Waiting Area, waiting to be questioned, together with the other contestants, the judges, and the rest of the crew. I wondered if the audience had been detained as well. I didn’t envy the Oxfordshire CID the job of restraining the crowds and preventing them from leaving, although I had a feeling that a lot of people would probably have been more than happy to hang around out of ghoulish curiosity. After all, there was nothing as exciting as a real-life murder.

  “How about a cup of tea then?” asked the young constable, obviously still worried about my emotional state.

  I was about to decline when I realised that I would, in fact, appreciate the quintessential British panacea for every crisis. Several minutes later, as I sat alone in the room, sipping the hot, sweet tea, I felt the knot of tension slowly uncurl in my stomach and the shaky feeling leave my legs. Taking a deep breath, I found that I was able to think about what had happened much more calmly.

  Murder. It was surreal to think that Lara had been murdered by liquid nitrogen, but that’s exactly what had happened. Somebody had pushed her face into that lethal icy pool and she had literally frozen to death. The only comforting thought was that it had probably all happened so fast, she wouldn’t have felt a thing.