Crumbs and Misdemeanors

by Nancy Warren

  “The thing is,” I began, trying to choose my words carefully, “Eloise had a disagreement with the head chef. Neither of them realized I could hear their conversation—I was just out of sight by the kitchen window—but he accused Eloise of skimming money from the business.” I looked down at the table. “He told her he wouldn’t give her any more advances on her salary.”

  “Did you get any idea that she might be short of money?”

  I shrugged helplessly.

  “I found it hard to believe, to be honest. She seemed so up-front, so no-nonsense. But I think she was having money troubles. When she asked for an advance on her paycheck, the chef turned her down flat.”

  “Money’s at the heart of so many disputes,” he said sadly.

  “She said she’d recently lost her savings. I think he felt bad for her, but the chef threatened to fire her if she didn’t stop. But she countered his claim by accusing him of stealing meats out of the kitchen. He told her to mind her own business, but he sounded very angry. It was a pretty ugly dispute. But when she came back into the kitchen, she was all smiles. Like nothing happened.”

  “Do you know the chef’s name?”

  “Sol,” I said. “Big guy. Tattoos. No idea of his last name.”

  I was about to tell him that Sol would be on breakfast duty in only a few hours when I caught movement from the corner of my eye. I turned, wondering if the murderer had come in. “Florence?” I called out.

  She jumped as though walking into the inn at nearly two in the morning was normal behavior.

  “Poppy! What are you doing up so late?” Then she caught sight of the sergeant. “What’s going on?”

  I felt like asking her the same question. Florence looked as gorgeous as always, even after such a long day. I was sure that there were bluish shadows beneath my bloodshot eyes and that my hair was a mess. But there was something different about Florence’s appearance that I couldn’t quite put my finger on. Was it her clothes? She was dressed in loose black trousers and a soft-looking gray cashmere cardigan, which she must have changed into after dinner. Her eyes were still heavily made up, lashes fluttering in the direction of Sgt. Lane. I realized what it was. Florence’s lips were bare. She wasn’t wearing lipstick. I never would have noticed this about anyone else, but it was the first time I’d seen Florence without a full pout of vermillion red or luscious strawberry pink. Combined with her slightly mussed hair, she looked much younger all of a sudden. More like the university student she actually was.

  “I thought you’d gone to bed hours ago,” Florence said, wagging a finger at me. But then she appeared to take stock of her surroundings, and the playfulness disappeared from her face. “Has something terrible happened?”

  I turned to Sgt. Lane, desperate not to explain this latest tragedy. I was more than tired of being the bearer of bad news. He shot me a cautionary glance.

  “Where were you tonight, Ms. Cinella?”

  I was impressed that he remembered her so clearly, right down to her last name. He’d never remembered the burly tattooed chef. Then I clued in. Did he think Florence had anything to do with Eloise’s death? No. Impossible. Still, he gazed at her, impassively waiting for her answer like a TV judge.

  Her hands fluttered to her hair. “I went for a walk. Couldn’t sleep. It’s the pressure of this baking competition.” She ran her hand over her hair, leaving a dramatic pause. Oh, and she was good at the dramatic pause the way she was good at the dramatic everything. Florence was just plain dramatic. And training to be an actress, I reminded myself.

  She continued as the sergeant simply kept gazing at her. She’d had theatrical training, but he’d had training in solving crime. And interviewing suspects.

  Still, he didn’t think Florence could have…

  Then I recalled how annoyed she’d been when Eloise wouldn’t give her fresh cardamom.

  But no one killed another person over cardamom.

  Did they?

  “Did you see anyone when you were out walking?” the sergeant continued.

  She pushed her hair behind her ears. “It’s the middle of the night in a sleepy village, sergeant. Who would I see?”

  “Another insomniac, perhaps?”

  Oh, he was good. That dry tone had her blushing. Quickly, she recovered. “I don’t understand. Has someone committed a crime?” Then she came towards me. “Poppy? Were you robbed?”

  I appreciated her concern, but why would anyone rob me? And of what? The most valuable thing I had with me was my cookbooks. And my cat. No one but another baker would want my cookbooks, and I trusted the other bakers. Besides, they all had their own recipe books. And no one but another witch would want my familiar. Besides, as far as I could see, all the witches in the coven had their special spirit animals.

  “I’m fine,” I said at last.

  Sgt. Lane finally said, “The pastry chef died tonight.”

  Florence went pale as he spoke. “Goodness,” she said, “I can’t believe it. I really can’t. I mean…” she trailed off.

  Was Florence welling up? Surely not. Florence and Eloise had only met briefly today, and Eloise hadn’t exactly endeared herself to Florence. In fact, she’d been downright rude in a way that made no sense to me.

  Eve wandered in yawning, wearing a blue bathrobe and slippers. Her long hair was braided into a thick braid that hung over her shoulder.

  I was so glad she was here. She must have sensed danger just like I did when I got close to the kitchen. Florence turned to Eve and blurted out the news that Eloise was dead.

  Eve looked horrified. “I don’t understand,” she said. “I was with her just a couple of hours ago. She was strong as an ox—worked longer hours than any of us.”

  Sgt. Lane explained that Eloise’s body had been found in the kitchen.

  “The kitchen?” she repeated. “We closed up ages ago. What was she doing there?”

  “That’s what we’re trying to find out,” I said. The feeling of dread returned. Had Eloise come back to leave out the yeast for me? Was it my fault she was in the pantry so late at night? Had she been tired and knocked the shelf over? Or had she been lying there for hours? And was something more sinister going on?

  DI Hembly soon joined us. He asked Eve if she could answer some questions about Eloise. She agreed but went to the bar first. The whisky and my glass were sitting there. She reached for two clean glasses and poured a couple of fingers in each. She glanced at me and held up the bottle. “Poppy?”

  As much as I would’ve loved to drown my fears, I still had to bake tomorrow. I shook my head, and she sat down at the bar. It was strange to see her sitting at the bar instead of standing behind it, but it was pretty far down the list of strange events this evening. She took a sip and then handed the other glass to Florence. “Here, you look like you could use this. You’re as pale as anything.” Florence took the glass gratefully and sat beside Eve.

  DI Hembly moved closer. The sergeant had his pen and notebook at the ready.

  “Eloise hadn’t worked here very long,” Eve began, “and she mostly kept to herself. I thought she was a bit of a troubled soul. I found her crying outside by the bins on more than one occasion. But she wouldn’t say what it was about. She seemed very unhappy.”

  “Well, she hated me instantly,” Florence piped up. Then she shrugged and gave her dazzling smile. “But many women do.”

  “It’s because you’re so beautiful,” Eve said. “No doubt they’re jealous.”

  “Why would a bread baker be jealous of me?” Florence said, opening her eyes wide as though she was so far above a baker that it would be like a rock being jealous of the moon.

  Sgt. Lane raised his eyebrows at me. I returned the look. At least there was one man around who didn’t fall flat at Florence’s feet.

  “Pops,” Florence said, drawing my attention away from Sgt. Lane’s wicked dimples. “You drew the death card last night, right?”

  “The death card?” DI Hembly asked, looking perplexed. “What
ever do you mean?”

  Eve explained that she read tarot and that she’d done a mini reading last night for a few of the baking group. Neither police officer looked impressed, struggling, I guessed, to see the significance of the story. Florence seemed not to notice and continued her train of thought. “And then you had that accident on set,” she said to me. “I thought that’s why you got the card. It was like a warning that you were in danger. Perhaps the shelf was meant to fall on you?”

  I shuddered. Was Florence right? Was someone after me? I thought again of the tumbling rock on Susan Bentley’s farm. The times I’d felt myself in danger. The warnings I’d received. Was this not about Eloise and her money troubles at all but instead about me having my fate sealed? As in coffin-sealed. I gulped.

  Gerry suddenly floated over and hovered beside Sgt. Lane’s notes. He shook his head, and his red spiky hair quivered.

  “You guys are getting it all wrong,” Gerry said. I stared at him, willing him to stop speaking. “I’ve been in there, examining the shelves. Not leaving fingerprints is the one good thing about being a ghost.” He blew on his fingers and rubbed them on his shirt.

  I glared at him and tried to follow DI Hembly and Eve’s conversation. But Gerry wouldn’t give up. He got right in my face. And when a ghost gets right in your face, it’s literally that. “You have to make them listen to you, Pops. This was no accident. All the shelves in the pantry are bolted to the floor for safety. But the one next to poor ol’ Eloise, well, guess what. No bolts. And they’re nowhere to be seen. Someone must have unscrewed that shelf. Which means…”

  Gerry looked at me with a grim expression.

  I was following along fine. If someone had unscrewed the bolts, it would be easy enough to lie in wait until Eloise came in for something, then push the heavy shelves on top of her.

  Murder.

  Chapter 8

  Gerry had proved to be the most useful ghostly sidekick. But now I was stuck with a serious dilemma. The missing bolts meant that someone had messed with those shelves. And why would anyone do that unless they meant harm? Was it possible that the intended victim wasn’t Eloise? But if that was the case, then who was the intended victim? The head chef?

  As I was thinking dark thoughts about the chef, Sol walked in as though I’d summoned him. With him was the gorgeous waiter, Darius. What was happening? Why was everyone up and wandering around in the wee hours?

  “I saw lights on in here,” Darius said, preempting the same question I was sure DI Hembly was about to ask. “What’s going on?”

  Hmm. That seemed a bit of an unlikely story. Had the two men been out somewhere together? I hadn’t known they were friends, but then again, why would I? So much seemed to happen behind closed doors in Broomewode Village. I’d only scratched the surface in my few weeks here.

  Darius hadn’t been working. That was obvious. His usual uniform of black slacks and white shirt had been replaced by a white T-shirt that said Jorvik City of Vikings with two crossed axes beneath the lettering and jeans. His normally perfect hair looked tousled, like he’d been out in a strong breeze.

  Sol shot him an odd glance. “My wife was coming home late from meeting up with a friend. She saw lights on in the kitchen when there shouldn’t be any. She woke me, thinking there was a burglary in progress.”

  Eve got up with a sigh, tightening the belt on her robe. “I’ll put on some tea,” she said.

  DI Hembly asked both men to take a seat.

  “Where were you both tonight?” he asked.

  “What’s that got to do with you?” Sol replied.

  “Stop it, Sol,” Eve snapped. “Eloise is dead.”

  “What?” He stared at her as though she might be making it up. DI Hembly glared at Eve, but she didn’t seem to notice. I was certain he’d wanted to tell the men about the death in his own way. In fact, from the way he was questioning everyone, I suspected he’d already concluded that Eloise had been murdered.

  Probably the crime scene people had worked that out. All they’d have to do was look at the unbolted shelves, as Gerry had.

  “The baker’s dead?” Darius asked, looking at Florence as though she’d confirm it for him.

  I studied them, trying to work out if they were upset for Eloise or worried about themselves—especially the chef. Sol and Eloise had a blowout—it had been all accusations and suggestions of blackmail. I wished that one of my witchy powers was mind-reading. I was sure that something juicy was crossing Sol’s brain as we spoke. I could see it flicker across his eyes. The alarm deepened across his face as Sgt. Lane explained that he’d been overheard having a row with Eloise Friday morning.

  Sol looked sick. He glared at Eve as though blaming her for telling the police about their argument. Then his gaze shifted to me. Oh no—did he know it was me who had overheard? He’d seen me in the kitchen all morning. Had I just angered a potential murderer?

  I silently repeated a protection spell. I felt like I needed protecting. And where was Gateau when her witch was getting herself into some deep trouble?

  “Yeah. We had words. Nothing important.”

  “How did you get on with the pastry chef?”

  There was a long pause while Sgt. Lane waited for Sol to answer his question.

  “All right, I suppose. Eloise was a bit of a loner,” he finally said. “She arrived out of the blue looking for a job, and her cakes and bread were fantastic, so I hired her. She wasn’t chatty, kept her head down and got on with the work. She’s a fine baker.” He stopped and corrected himself. “She was a fine baker.”

  There was a silence so uncomfortable, it made my toes curl.

  “But she was bad-tempered and always short of money. She was on a three-month trial, but to be honest, I wasn’t planning to keep her on. I suspected her of padding her budget. That’s what we’d been arguing about.”

  “You said she turned up out of the blue. Do you know where she came from? Where her family might live?”

  Sol shook his head. “I don’t know. I never asked.”

  “You didn’t ask for references?”

  “Her rhubarb and ginger cake was all the reference I needed. Like I said, it was a three-month trial. If we’d made it permanent, I’d have set it up properly, done all the paperwork, but the way people come and go in this business, it’s easier to try them out first.”

  DI Hembly turned to Darius, who stifled a yawn. “When did you last see the pastry chef?”

  He threw up his arms in a gesture that was very Mediterranean somehow. “She was not a woman I noticed.” He shot a glance at Florence as he said it, and louder than words he said Florence was a woman he noticed. Darius added, “She was back of house. I work front of house. We’re so busy here, there’s not always time to stop and chat. What I do know is that her bread and cakes were very popular with the guests. I received compliments from diners. She was good at what she did. Happy customers are good for all of us.”

  “It’s true,” Florence chimed in. “Her cakes were very delicious. Poppy and I should know—we prepare and sample mountains of the stuff. She was excellent.”

  I nodded. Eloise was brilliant at what she did, and yet someone had taken her life.

  Why?

  I glanced at Darius and noticed a slight pink tinge to his lower lip as though he’d been eating berries. I looked again at Florence’s naked mouth missing its usual slick of gloss or deep berry stain. Just like after a passionate bout of kissing.

  It hit me then, though I couldn’t believe I’d been so slow to figure it out. Florence and Darius had been together. That’s why they were both up so late.

  “Do you at least know her surname?” DI Hembly asked the harassed chef.

  “Her full name is Eloise Blackwell,” Sol said.

  DI Hembly stepped forward with a frown on his face. “You must have taken a National Insurance Number, a passport?”

  Sol was a big, burly man, but in that moment, he appeared to visibly shrink into himself. Sol shrugged casually, i
gnoring the questions about legal paperwork. “Like I said, I tasted her cake. That was reference enough for me. If I’d planned to keep her, I’d have sorted out the paperwork, but I wasn’t planning on it.”

  I shook my head sadly. It seemed like no one here really knew Eloise. What had made her so moody, so up and down? She’d certainly been pleasant to me and super helpful when she didn’t have to be. Was she lonely and looking for a friend?

  “Did Eloise live here at the inn?”

  He was looking at the chef, but Eve answered.

  “No. There isn’t much staff accommodation. I live in as I manage the place and am called at all hours. Eloise rented a studio apartment from the blacksmith.” Eve gave him Reginald’s address.

  Gerry floated next to me. “This is not right, not right at all.” He looked so serious, so un-Gerry-like, I was worried. For once I was desperate to hear what Gerry had to say.

  I asked the detectives if they needed anything else from me or if could go back upstairs. I told them I needed to rest before tomorrow’s competition. They said I could go, and Florence took that as permission to leave as well, following me out.

  “Poppy, I can’t believe it,” Florence said when we were out of earshot. “That poor woman was murdered. And she was helping you.”

  I wasn’t sure if she was connecting those two sentences, so I sent her a sharp look, but I saw nothing but wide-eyed astonishment. “And I can’t believe you were off with Darius. Shouldn’t you be getting your rest for tomorrow?”

  She waved her hand in the air. “I couldn’t sleep, and he was handy. You know how it is.”

  No. I didn’t know how it was. Maybe for her, men lined up dying for her attention, but it didn’t happen to me. I shook my head.