The Great Witchy Cake Off
Wonky Inn Book 7
by
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JEANNIE WYCHERLEY
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Copyright © 2019 Jeannie Wycherley
Bark at the Moon Books
All rights reserved
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Publishers note: This is a work of fiction. All characters, names, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and for effect or are used with permission. Any other resemblance to actual persons, either living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
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No part of this book may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of very brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.
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The Great Witchy Cake Off was edited by Anna Bloom @ The Indie Hub
Proof Reading by Nikki Groom @The Indie Hub
Cover design by JC Clarke of The Graphics Shed.
Formatting by Tammy
The Great Witchy Cake Off is dedicated with love to all of those—contestants, judges, producers, technicians, runners and presenters—who have ever appeared on any television baking show both here in the UK and in the US.
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I’m a total baking show junkie and I adore cake, so this story has been written with love, respect and my tongue planted firmly in my cheek.
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But it is especially dedicated to Kim-Joy from GBBO 2018 because it was while I was watching her decorate her cakes using teeny tiny British wildlife characters that I first spawned the idea for this novel.
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With grateful thanks
Jeannie Wycherley
Contents
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
Epilogue
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Wonky Continues
The Wonky story begins…
The Wonky Inn Series
Also by Jeannie Wycherley
Coming Summer 2019
“Alf? I’ve brought the post up.” Charity leaned across the desk holding a single letter out to me. I reached for it automatically, but something about the colour gave me pause. I took a closer look and snatched my hand back in revulsion. A fine quality stained-parchment envelope. Cursive handwriting. A foreign stamp.
“Burn it.” I curled my lip as Charity’s hand continued to hover in the air between us.
A look of uncertainty crossed her pretty face. “Burn it?”
Folding my arms, I swung back in my chair, the spreadsheet on my computer screen all but forgotten. “I’d recognize that handwriting anywhere. And that absurd old-fashioned coffee stained stationery.” I frowned. “Sabien.”
Charity’s eyes widened and she carefully turned the envelope over to scrutinize the writing. “It’s a French stamp,” she agreed. “I think you’re right.”
I snorted. “I know I’m right. Burn it. Shred it. Feed it to Finbarr’s pixies. Add it to the compost. Pour acid over it. Whatever. I really don’t care. I just don’t want to know what it says or what he wants.”
Had it really been nearly twelve months since Whittle Inn had entertained several carriage-loads of vampires? I’d been persuaded by Charity and, to be fair, my own stupidity, that opening my wonky inn whilst at the same time hosting a vampire wedding would make good financial sense. The entire event had rapidly turned into a nightmarish experience I had no desire to ever repeat. I usually considered myself a fairly egalitarian kind of witch; happy to accommodate anyone and everyone, whatever their particular flavour or magickal penchant. Even faeries.
But vampires were barred.
Forever.
No exceptions.
Charity opened her mouth to speak again, or maybe to protest that we should at least take a look at the contents of Sabien’s missive, but her words were drowned out by the thunderous clanging of heavy metal poles dropping on top of each other on the lawn outside. The production crew for The Great Witchy Cake Off were erecting their enormous marquee and it sounded like they’d had another delivery of supports. The noise set my teeth on edge and made my ears ring.
“How much longer?” I wailed. I jumped up and strode to the window, intending to pull it closed. But I’m naturally nosy, as I’d been reminded on many occasions, so instead I found myself hanging over the ledge, straining to see what the production crew were up to.
I’d never had much to do with filming world before, apart from when the local news had been in the village to create a report about the Psychic Fayre the previous April. Now I found myself grudgingly entranced.
Okay, that’s a lie. My entrancement wasn’t grudging at all.
I was absolutely dying to see how they made a television programme.
The crew had arrived several days before with truckloads of equipment and resources. I had never imagined they would require so much. I’m fairly certain that getting the articulated lorries down some of our narrow local lanes would have been an adventure in itself.
Then they’d started to lay out a production village of sorts, with make-up trailers, an editing suite, and storage for expensive technical equipment. Noisy generators had been placed out of the way around the side of the inn, and thick power lines ran into the area where the famous marquee would be raised. These black cables had to be covered with imitation grass to ensure they weren’t visible to the naked eye during filming. Various tour buses and vans for the use of the production team and crew had been parked far back out of sight, almost within the hedgerow that made up the front boundary of the grounds of Whittle Inn.
It rapidly became apparent that to the production crew aesthetics were everything. This late in the season, we still had roses blooming in the gardens, along with some clematis plants, nerine, begonias and a few ivy-leaved cyclamen, but Ned and Zephaniah were beginning to prepare for the winter ahead by clearing some of the flower beds. The Great Witchy Cake Off’s producers had other ideas however and several flat-bed trucks had brought along dozens and dozens of bedding plants and bushes in pinks, white and reds, and even a few statues to enhance what the gardens of Whittle Inn already offered.
To be fair, the garden had never looked so good. I had my fingers crossed that the producers would leave everything in situ when they departed, once filming had been completed of course.
The beautification hadn’t stopped there. In addition to the garden improvements, the set design wizards had carefully repaired the scorch marks on the white walls of the inn; scars caused by the little skirmish I’d had with The Mori during the early part of the summer.
So far, I couldn’t complain. The inn looked fantastic and would photograph well. With any luck the publicity generated by hosting The Great Witchy Cake Off, one of the most popular baking programmes ever to air on Witchflix, would stand us in good stead and encourage a greater volume of bookings.
And anyway, who could fail to feel a little star struck by the celebrity judges and presenters?
I’m happy to admit—as a deeply-hidden-in-the-closet-fan of the show myself—that even I’m not immune to curiosity about how the other half lives. So you can imagine what sort of state Florence, my long-dead housekeeper, was in. The term ‘excited’ cannot possibly or adequately summarise her effervescent maelstrom of emotions. Although I’d tried to keep her calm, I’d failed, and now she flitted around the inn and the grounds at the speed of light, trying to be everywhere at once. Any time a camera operator pointed his expensive looking gadget at a bush or a statue Florence was there, smouldering happily and overseeing the shoot. When I say smouldering, you’ll understand I don’t mean in a sexy way at all. Florence had actually burned to death and now her ghost continued to smoulder away for eternity. It could be quite disconcerting for anyone who came across her unexpectedly, but once you got to know her, you didn’t let a small thing like her appearance put you off.
Unable to contain herself, Florence was everywhere at once. At any moment I expected one of the producers to either grumpily banish her—by exorcism no doubt, because unless you’re a ‘ghost whisperer’ that’s the only way you can get rid of ghosts—or haul me over the coals for allowing Florence free rein to disrupt their work.
But I kind of understood Florence’s giddiness.
Just yesterday one of the two judges, Raoul Scurrysnood, had arrived in his silver Tesla Roadster with the top down. I’d found my legs propelling myself onto the gravel drive in front of the inn at a rate of knots, offering my hand—ostensibly for him to shake—then blushing furiously when he kissed it instead. Oh the man was charming! Citrus green eyes and beaming white smile. His silver hair, beard and moustache had all been freshly trimmed, and his clothes were immaculate; dark grey slacks with a crisp linen shirt.
Standing in front of him in stark contrast, I presented as a wildling with my unkempt hair, slightly shabby robes and no make-up. My own fault. I should have listened to my great-grandmother (also deceased) and made more of an effort.
Back in the present I heard Charity crumple Sabien’s correspondence in one hard fist before coming to join me at the window. Below us, members of the crew worked efficiently to position poles under the canvas of the marquee. No messing around, no fuss, no drama. They carried on with the job in hand, each knowing what the others were doing and communicating in a happy and courteous way.
The same could not be said for the producers themselves.
To the left of us, part way down the drive, I could clearly make out the gorgeous Raoul standing with The Great Witchy Cake Off’s ‘bosses’. These included Patty Cake, an infamous celebrity in the witching world who often sat in the front row at fashion shows and had graced the cover of Witch in Vogue several times, and Janice Tork-Mimosa, a quieter woman with an inordinate amount of class and her own dollop of glamour. They were joined by a tall slender man with a neat Elizabethan-style moustache and beard, wearing a black crewneck jumper with a green silk paisley cravat. Behind him a single camera operator, a wizard of some kind judging by his robes, was getting in everyone’s way and filming them as they milled about.
As we watched, a small red hatchback drew up and parked on the drive. An extremely short and round woman with grey hair pulled herself out and beamed at the producers.
I squinted. “Is that Mindi Blokweg?”
Charity leaned out further to get a better look and I grabbed a hold of her in case she fell. “The main presenter? I don’t know. Is it? She’s smaller than I imagined.”
“Everyone looks larger on the TV than they do in real life apparently,” I replied. “I’ve heard it adds ten pounds to you.”
Charity giggled. “You’d better lay off the cake then, Alf.”
I turned to stare at her, dropping my mouth open in mock-shock. “Cheeky! I’m built for comfort not speed.” I patted my hips. “Besides, I’m not planning on making any unscheduled appearances on the programme.”
“Wasn’t your agent able to negotiate a high enough fee?” Charity asked, and I snorted.
I made light of it, but her words stung a little, but to be fair she was right. I’d lost a lot of weight while training with my dark-witch friend, Horace T Silvanus—Silvan for short—earlier in the summer, but lately I’d put some of it back on.
“Ooh! Look. There’s Faery Kerry,” Charity exclaimed, her voice full of awe. Faery Kerry was a legend in her own lifetime. A petite old lady, as faeries tend to be of course, with delicate features, white hair and slightly pointed ears. Even from our vantage point at the window, we could feel the charisma emanating from her. She hugged the others and an animated discussion followed as the camera wizard danced around the group and captured their reunion.
Figuring I’d seen all there was to see for now, I was about to return to my spreadsheet when raised voices drew our attention once more. Patty Cake, the more vociferous of the producers, appeared disgruntled about something.
“I’d better go down and find out what’s up.” I pulled away from the window. “Make sure you destroy that letter,” I reminded Charity before fleeing down the stairs.
I rushed to join the gathered throng on the drive. As I pounded through the bar, I could hear them all talking loudly over each other. I arrived, breathless, just in time to hear Janice soothing Patty with the words, “I’m sure Alf the owner of the inn can handle it.”
“What would you like me to handle?” I chirruped, plastering a big smile on my face while pretending not to notice Raoul’s laser stare. He certainly had a way of making a woman feel weak at the knees. Faery Kerry and Mindi Blockweg stepped back, keeping a polite distance, obviously not wanting to be involved in any ugliness.
Janice smiled at me. Of the two producers, I would have thought she was the younger; a woman in her forties, her shoulder-length hair slightly greying at the temples and loosely curled. She dressed well, not cheaply, but not in an ostentatious way either. Today she was wearing a black dress with a bright red belt and matching lipstick. She’d thrown a black and white check scarf casually around her shoulders. If I looked as good at her age, I’d be happy. “Oh, Alf,” she said sweetly, “We’re sorry to bother you. It’s just Patty is used to more space to work in and she’s struggling with her bedroom allocation. She thinks that trying to work at the dressing table in her room is inhibiting her creativity.”
I pulled a face in sympathy. Patty peered through her dark sunglasses at me. As skinny as Penelope Quigwell, they could almost have been sisters. Patty’s jet-black hair was cut in a razor-sharp page boy, and in spite of the fact that she must have been in her sixties, there wasn’t a white hair to be seen. A thick layer of foundation covered her wrinkles admirably. “I’m so sorry. I hadn’t really thought about your need for an office in advance,” I said. “If you like I can have a desk and chair brought up to your room?” At the very least this would give the Wonky Inn Ghostly Clean-Up Crew something to do, rather than hang around watching the production crew doing all the work.
Janice’s eyes crinkled in gratitude. “That’s so kind—”
“Out of the question,” Patty’s deep modulated voice chipped in. “The room is small enough as it is. I can’t possibly squeeze any more furniture in.”
My stomach performed a nervous little flutter. After much consideration I’d placed the judges, Raoul and Faery Kerry, in my largest rooms—The Throne Room and Neverwhere, and then the presenter, Mindi in the next sized room, Stoker. My thinking was that people loved to watch Cake Off for the personalities of the judges and presenters and therefore they were the most valuable. I’d obviously not considered the producers as important as they undoubtedly were. An error on my part.
“I do apologise.” Thinking quickly, I countered, “Why don’t I clear The Snug on the ground floor? It’s a little room behind the bar and you can use that as an office.”
Once more Janice tried to interject, “That would be wonderful!” but Patty was faster.
“Honestly, darling. I have no idea to where you’re referring, but I can’t
imagine that an office down one of your draughty little corridors will be particularly comfortable.”
“I—” I started to protest but Patty held up a thin hand, her viciously pointed nails pointing up to the sky, and stopped me. “Don’t worry, Wilf. I’ve made my own arrangements.”
“It’s Alf—”
“Alf? Wilf?” She genuinely looked confused. “What’s the difference. It’s a silly boy’s name.”
“Patty…” Janice chastised her co-producer, but only gently.
“Oh, do chill, Patty.” The slender man with the tartan scarf fluttered his eyes at me, sounding bored. “I’m so sorry about this.”
“Don’t apologise on my behalf, Boo,” Patty snapped. Boo Sully. That’s who he was. The director. He waved his hands around gracefully and giggled, entirely unconcerned by Patty’s histrionics. “I can’t and won’t stay here.”
I clenched my jaw and persisted. “We have a fire in The Snug. I can make it cosy for you.”
Patty turned the corners of her mouth up into the ghost of a smile. “No need to fuss, my darling. I’ve made alternative arrangements already.”
Already?
“Raoul here has offered to give me a lift.” Her hand flapped in Raoul’s direction and when I looked his way, he raised his eyebrows. An invitation to something I didn’t want to pursue.
“Patty?” Janice tried again. “You know we need you on site—”
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