Crumbs and Misdemeanors

by Nancy Warren

  I saw the big lights above my station fall before the tent shook with the ear-splitting sound of them crashing exactly where I’d been standing.

  “What the—?” I murmured, stunned, but my words were drowned out by Florence’s scream.

  Where I’d been standing seconds before, the big overhead light had come loose from the rigging and tumbled down, shattering on the tent’s pine floor.

  Florence rushed to my side as the cameras filmed us. “My dearest friend,” she cried, holding me to her bosom. “You were nearly killed.”

  I couldn’t respond. My heart was beating wildly, and all I could focus on was getting back my breath. Suddenly everyone was gathered around me. Hamish’s voice asked if I was okay. The crowd was suffocating. What had happened? One minute I was standing still, and the next, it was like my legs didn’t belong to me. How had I moved so quickly? I certainly hadn’t seen that great light coming towards me. For a terrible moment, I thought I might faint. How embarrassing to black out in the competition tent, but then my words started to return to me, and I let them tumble out. “I’m okay…not hurt…narrow miss…”

  I felt as if I’d been pushed, but no one had been close enough. Then I saw Gerry, floating above the crowd, looking as worried as a ghost can. In the babble of voices talking to me, I replied, the words intended for my guardian ghost. “I’m fine. Thank you.”

  It was Gina’s worried face that really brought me back to life. She looked at me searchingly. “Poppy, I should have taken your fears more seriously.” She looked as shaken as I felt. She pulled me close and whispered into my ear. “I shouldn’t have laughed when you said you were worried. You’ve always had a sixth sense for danger. You were right. I’m so sorry.”

  But I shook my head and murmured she had nothing to apologize for. Not in a million years did I think that the danger was going to be a wayward set light. Despite the heat, I suddenly went cold. It was exactly like the time I’d been picking gooseberries on Susan Bentley’s farm. One minute, everything was fine. The next, a massive tumbling rock headed straight in my direction. If Sly, Susan’s gorgeous border collie, hadn’t been with me, that thing would have flattened me for sure. It was only his barking that alerted me and his careful herding (with the help of my sweet Gateau) that got me out of harm’s way.

  I didn’t know how Gerry had done it or if he’d had help from Elspeth and Eve with their protection spells, but I was safe.

  “I don’t understand,” Fiona was saying. “We run a tight ship here. That light should never have been able to come loose like that. Everything is checked and double-checked. Triple-checked even! Especially after that awful fiasco with the ovens.”

  “Clearly not checked properly,” Florence cried out, a hand to her heart. “She could have been killed.”

  She definitely had a great career ahead of her as an actress. “It was an accident,” I murmured. “No one’s fault.”

  But it didn’t feel like an accident. It felt like Death was coming straight for me. Just like the cards had foretold. I shivered. Was I overreacting? Or had the fates aligned to warn me of my impending death?

  I realized everyone was still crowded around, talking a mile a minute.

  “She’s had a shock,” Maggie said, putting her capable hand on my forehead as though I were a grandchild running a fever. “Can someone get her a cup of sweet tea?”

  “Good idea,” Fiona said, looking determined. “Everyone, take a break while we get this mess cleaned up. Where’s the electrician?” she barked. I didn’t envy whoever had signed off on those lights.

  Robbie appeared with a stool, and I took a seat. Tina, the runner, handed me a cup of hot tea. I gingerly blew across the surface and then took a sip. It was sweet and reviving. I thanked everyone and said I was feeling much better. I took a few more sips of tea and then stood up. I felt wobbly at first—whatever had moved my legs so fast had exhausted them—but I stayed standing. “The show must go on, right?” I said to Florence, trying my best to smile wholeheartedly.

  “That’s what we say in show business,” she replied. I looked around for Gerry, but he’d disappeared. However, Hamish and Gaurav both stood near as though they might be needed. Maggie asked if I wanted a nurse, and once again, I insisted I was all right.

  After the mess had been swept away and a new lighting arrangement made, Fiona said that we were ready to shoot.

  Elspeth remained in the corner of the tent with Jonathon, Arty and Jilly. She cast me worried glances but didn’t come near. I wanted desperately to ask her if the force I felt pushing me out of harm’s way was magical. Had Elspeth intervened from afar?

  I caught her eye, and she mouthed, “Are you okay?” across the tent. I nodded. But all I wanted was to curl up and go back to bed. I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was terribly wrong, that the light falling was no accident. If only I could sleep the day away and wake tomorrow afternoon with the weekend’s bread challenges behind me. Yeah, right, as if anything on this show is ever that easy.

  Elspeth gave me a warm smile and a knowing look as if to say that all was well; don’t let this distract you. She came to the front of the tent, readying herself. She wore a cream linen suit and gold earrings and looked calm and beautiful. And now that she stood closer to my station, the calmer I began to feel, too.

  After I’d finished my tea, Gina redid my lips and applied a little blusher to my cheeks.

  We resumed our places, and I tried to ignore the recently patched floor at my feet.

  Fiona yelled, “Action!” and I tried not to wince.

  I trained my focus on Jilly as she introduced bread week, but her words floated over me. Nothing sank in. It was like I was underwater, descending down to the ocean’s bed. I wouldn’t have even noticed it was time to start baking if Arty’s dreadful pun hadn’t penetrated my fog.

  “Now guys, remember, when the doughing gets tough, the tough get doughing. On your marks, get set, bake!”

  And so the first baking round began. We had ninety minutes to create and bake a soda bread, and I had to work fast.

  My first step was to caramelize the onions. Great. A vegetable that could make you cry—so not what I needed right now. I started by slicing the onion and sweating it in extra virgin olive oil for a rich, intense flavor. Once it was soft, I added balsamic vinegar and a smattering of soft, light brown sugar. While it was simmering, I began to weigh out my dry ingredients. So far so good.

  Above me, a familiar figure floated. I knew Gerry was watching out for me, but I had to concentrate extra hard not to glance his way and talk to him.

  I kept my head down and took out my frustration on the cheese grater. Of course, this was the exact moment Arty and Jonathon decided to approach.

  “So Poppy,” Jonathon said, clearing his throat, “I can see you’re playing it safe here with a classic combination of caramelized onions and cheddar.”

  I swallowed. Was this a criticism or simply an observation?

  “That’s right,” I replied. “Bread-making doesn’t come so naturally to me, so I’m putting my faith in quality ingredients and a good flavor combo to guide me through.”

  “Admitting your weaknesses to the great Jonathon Pine?” Arty said. “Bold move.”

  Except that I wasn’t feeling bold at all. I was still spooked from the falling light, and the image of the death card invaded my mind’s eye. Besides, I couldn’t tell Arty (and the millions of viewers at home) that I didn’t mind admitting my weaknesses to Jonathon because I’d stumbled upon him memorizing his lines.

  The nerves (real terror) must have shown in my face, because something in Jonathon softened. “Nothing wrong with making a classic well,” he said. “Execute this perfectly, and it could be a stunner.”

  Clearly Jonathon had never tasted my bread. But I thanked him, and they left to torture another contestant.

  “Come on, Pops,” Gerry said in a cheerleading tone, “almost time to knead that dough. Let me see your knuckles in action.”


  Argh, why couldn’t Gerry just float off. I realized I was frowning and tried to arrange my feature into a neutral expression and, with my onions now cool, added them along with the cheese into the flour mix.

  “Not sure you caramelized those onions for long enough, Pops,” Gerry said.

  That comment was so not helpful now that they were in my bowl and covered in flour. I carefully poured out my buttermilk, and a dough began to form.

  “Handle it gently,” Gerry whispered.

  As if I was going to bash it and throw it across the room.

  “Jeez. It’s not your worst enemy,” he continued.

  No, but I know who might be …

  I carefully shaped it into a ball, recalling Eloise’s guiding hands and gentle instructions yesterday.

  But Gerry wouldn’t stop interfering. “Gently does it,” he repeated. I felt my hands tense, irritation flowing through me.

  “Don’t bloody squeeze it, Pops!” he exclaimed.

  Argh. Gerry had to go, and since I couldn’t shout at him with millions of viewers watching, then I was going to have to find another way. I rounded the dough into a ball and cut a cross into the middle … and then I walked right through Gerry.

  “OOOhhh no, that did not feel good,” he said.

  I couldn’t resist a little smirk.

  “Okay, I get it,” Gerry said, pouting. “I’ll watch from afar.”

  Smug, I added a sprinkle of cheese on the top for a chewy crust, and then it was time to take it to the oven.

  I wished my soda bread well and closed the door with a sigh. Hopefully, in thirty-five minutes, I’d have a golden soda bread to be proud of. At least I’d managed to keep the timing under control. As had everyone else. I looked around, and the other bakers were either walking to or from the oven with their breads. So far, no disasters to be seen, no cries of anguish to be heard. With only five competitors left, the stakes were high. We were all used to the tent, to the cameras and the equipment, to the commentary of the judges and the jibes of the comedians. It was going to take more than Arty’s childish sense of humor to throw us off our game. But instead of finding this reassuring, I realized that I had no excuses. Everyone left in the competition was strong and assured. Everyone, that is, except me. I so did not want to be toast this week.

  I returned to my workstation with my heart in my throat and tackled the floury mess I’d made across the white surfaces. But I couldn’t shake the feeling that something bad was about to happen. Now that the bread was made, I kept finding myself looking skyward, as if another light were about to take me out. But it was more than just the dodgy light. I was beset with the feeling that something, or someone, was coming for me. I just didn’t know what or where. It put me on edge.

  I was so busy with thoughts of doom that I’d forgotten to check on my bread. I let out a yelp of distress, which in turn alerted the cameras to potential drama. They followed me as I dashed to the oven. I wrenched open the door.

  “Phew,” I whispered. The bread was fine. It had risen and puffed out. The cheese was perhaps a little crispy, but it wasn’t burnt to cinders—and for that I was grateful. Like drop down to my knees and thank the baking gods kind of grateful.

  I removed my cheesy soda bread from the oven as Jilly called out that we had five minutes remaining.

  I’d brought a beautiful wooden board from home to present my bread. It had been a Christmas present from my parents and was made by a craftsman from their village in Provence. I loved its sweeping grain and the small, darker knots of wood that spoke of the material’s past life as an old, grand tree. I arranged my bread on its surface carefully, frowning a little where the curls of cheese had crisped. Oh well. It certainly wasn’t the worst loaf I’d ever baked.

  When Jilly asked us to bring our loaves to the judging table, I felt numb. Yes, I was relieved that the morning’s task was over, but did I think my loaf was going to stand out when set against Maggie’s delightful pecan and chocolate bread? Nope. Or Gaurav’s beautiful pink beetroot and caraway concoction? No sirree. Not a chance.

  I couldn’t even bring myself to focus on the judging. It took all my control to just keep myself from grimacing on camera.

  When Jonathon sliced my loaf, he looked to Elspeth, as he so often did during judging.

  “Well, from the looks of it, Poppy, you didn’t quite caramelize the onions enough,” she said.

  Oh man, Gerry was right—how galling.

  “And you might have skimped a little on the cheese, too,” Jonathon added.

  “Let’s see, shall we?” Elspeth interrupted and took a delicate bite. I watched and waited. The seconds ticked by, each one feeling longer than the last.

  Elspeth swallowed. “It’s a little underwhelming, I’m afraid.”

  Jonathon nodded. “Not enough sweetness from the onions, not enough cheese. The dough feels like it’s been overworked, too.”

  “I’m afraid I have to agree.” Elspeth looked at me sadly. “Not your best effort, Poppy.”

  My heart sank into my sneakers.

  When judging ended, all my worst fears came true. I was bottom of the pile.

  Chapter 5

  As I waited in line for lunch, Elspeth’s words echoed in my head. Not your best effort, Poppy. Not your best effort. The words stung, not because they were untrue—my bread was pretty sad—but it was the idea that I hadn’t put in enough effort that hurt. I had tried—oh, how I’d tried—to master bread. Hours and hours of practice. Boring Mildred, my kitchen ghost, Gina, and even going so far as to enlist the help of a professional at the inn. But it hadn’t worked. All attempts to master this elusive bake had been thwarted. It was only the first of three, I reminded myself. I could bounce back from this.

  I wished hard that I could blame my poor turnout this morning on the lighting rig’s attempt on my life, but deep down I knew that this week I’d reached the limitations of my baking skills. It was going to take a miracle for me to get through this weekend—not to mention get through to the next round of the competition.

  I was so bogged down in my own doom and gloom that I’d barely registered that Maggie had come first in the signature bake section. Perhaps I wouldn’t have noticed at all if it wasn’t for how Florence was sulking next to me. Although she spoke only words of praise for Maggie, her puffy bottom lip jutted out and betrayed her real feelings. I could tell that she’d thought her bread was going to take first place.

  I couldn’t have been paying Florence enough attention because she abruptly broke off her monologue and gawped at me. “Poppy? Are you in there?”

  “I hope so,” I half joked. “I’m not on top of my game today.”

  Florence looked as if she were about to protest and then said, “You had a dreadful shock this morning. This afternoon you’ll do better.”

  Oh, great, not even Florence could act her way through pretending I was any good this morning.

  I had pasta salad—I so could not stomach a sandwich right now, not with its fluffy baked white loaf taunting me with its perfect texture. I was glad there were no hot options today. Even though it was only midday, the sun was burning its way through the clear blue sky. I was worried about the technical challenge to come; I was already hot under the collar without the weather adding to my woes. It was going to be impossible to keep cool. At least lunch would provide the fuel I needed to get through the rest of the day.

  “I’m not sure you could fit much more on that plate,” a low voice said teasingly.

  I spun round, ready to snap the head off anyone who dared to comment on my food consumption. To my surprise, it was Benedict. And he had such a warm look on his face that any budding vitriol about to pour forth dissipated immediately and I laughed instead.

  “I’m glad to see you laughing,” Benedict said, looking worried. “I heard about the accident on set this morning. I came up here to make sure you were okay.”

  Now I really was stumped for words. Benedict and I had certainly got off on the wrong foot when we fir
st met—I mean, talking to someone as if he were a restless spirit, devising ways to sneak around his home, and then accusing his father of murder was not going to endear me to anyone. But since he saved my life last week, knocking down the terrible old gamekeeper before he let rip with his rifle, I wondered if perhaps he didn’t find me as annoying as he did before. And for my part, perhaps I’d jumped to unfair conclusions about Benedict. He’d been pretty normal the last couple of weeks. Or was I simply getting used to him? Maybe he wasn’t the stuck-up heir of Broomewode Hall I’d assumed he was.

  But before I could answer, Florence jumped in, all but pushing me aside as she rushed to tell the story. “Poppy got the death card in a tarot reading last night. Maybe you should stay close and keep an eye on all of us.”

  Florence flicked her hair over her shoulders, a trick I’d seen her use on pretty much every guy we encountered. Was she actually flirting with Benedict? He was a good catch, after all. He had a title, a mansion, and he wasn’t exactly ugly, if you went for the tall, dark and handsome type.

  Benedict looked at me expectantly, and I realized I’d yet to say a word about the accident. I decided to claim I’d had plenty of time to jump out of the way, not that some mysterious force had propelled me away from disaster.

  “Since the accident happened on Broomewode grounds, I will certainly look into it,” Benedict said.

  Oh. So that was it. Benedict was afraid of damaging the family reputation. Go figure.

  I thanked him and said I’d have to eat before the technical challenge kicked off.

  “Poppy can really put food away,” Florence commented. “Not that you’d know from the size of her.”

  Benedict looked at me and then back at Florence. “A healthy appetite is an admirable quality,” he said, and then bade us both goodbye.