Crumbs and Misdemeanors

by Nancy Warren

  I glanced at her when I should have been mentally going over the first steps of my task this morning. Did she have feelings for Darius? It was hard to believe when I’d seen her flirt with every young (and not so young) man around the village. Perhaps it was just the attention, part of what drew her to the stage—and what made her such a compelling contestant on the show. She blossomed under anyone’s gaze.

  And he was definitely a fine-looking man. Gerry had called him Adonis, and he wasn’t far off. Still, unless Darius owned a Greek island and a shipping empire, I couldn’t imagine Florence throwing herself away on him. And maybe I was being unkind. Just because she was so gorgeous herself didn’t mean the poor woman couldn’t also have a heart of gold.

  As I set up my workstation, I couldn’t help but notice that Florence kept looking out of the tent towards the visitors’ area. Was she expecting someone? Maybe it was the tiredness, but I suddenly found I couldn’t hold my tongue any longer.

  “Looking for Darius?” I asked, putting on my best innocent face.

  Oh, dear. I wasn’t exactly channeling Hamish’s subtlety; I was more like an electric whisk crashing into soft egg whites.

  Florence widened her eyes, fluttered those thick black lashes, and then let out that deep throaty chuckle of hers—even her guilty laugh was sexy. “Oh, please. He was a bit of fun, but not someone to get serious about.”

  Okay, my unkind thoughts hadn’t been too far off the mark. “You seemed to be pretty close last night. And again this morning.”

  Florence narrowed her eyes. “He’s a looker, that’s for sure. A great bit of fun, and he knows a thing or two about how to keep a woman happy. But Darius isn’t a long-term option. I need someone who can be a solid partner, who can support me in my career and be by my side. You know what I mean?”

  Hmm, I sure did. Florence wanted a man who could help propel her into stardom, not someone who worked in a small village inn, no matter how gorgeous it was. Or how gorgeous he was, for that matter. I felt bad for Darius. Did he know how Florence wasn’t taking him seriously? Although I shouldn’t assume that he was serious about her either. Maybe Florence was a bit of fun for him too. I hoped so. That way no one would get hurt. Not that I’d be around to see it if I didn’t smarten up and focus.

  Florence leaned against my counter casually and dropped her voice even lower. “But I am expecting a visitor today. A real VIP.”

  Her cheeks flushed a pretty shade of pink, and her brown eyes sparkled. But before I could ask her any more, Fiona, the director, called for quiet.

  It was time. My nerves were at an all-time high. My flower sculpture was complicated; each part was fiddly and involved some serious dough know-how. I’d only successfully put the whole lot together twice before. The rest of my practice time had given rise to burnt stalks or wilting petals.

  Florence chattered on about her ideas (she was making Neapolitan ice cream cones with four different-flavored breads). It was a fun and brilliant idea, and my self-doubt bloomed, which was more than I could say for my bread flowers.

  To really pull all the stops out, I was making three different types of bread—olive, pesto and pistachio—and three different flowers: rose, peony, and poppy (of course), all of which were supposed to have a beautiful green hue to look earthy and rustic. I was going to arrange them in a brown basket loaf so that they looked like they’d been freshly picked from the garden and brought inside. Well, that was the idea at least. I’d have to get through every step in the time we’d been allocated. It was going to be tight.

  I arranged my ingredients in a neat row in front of me and mentally buckled in for what was going to be a seriously long day. Also a hot one, I suspected, based on how warm I already felt.

  The crew zipped around making last-minute checks. I guessed they didn’t want to risk a repeat episode of the light from hell crashing down to crush unsuspecting bakers—although about now, I felt like any way of escape had its merits. I’d rather be pinned to the ground by an industrial light than bake this showstopper. Oh, dear, what would Elspeth say if she knew I was feeling so negative? I closed my eyes and tried to channel her positivity, to hear her gentle voice say, Stay calm, Poppy. You can do anything you put your mind to.

  As if the room could read my mind, the tent finally calmed down, all scurrying ceased, and Fiona called action.

  Today, comedian Arty took the lead and welcomed us back to the tent. He was wearing a smart indigo shirt, and his hair had been styled to look beachy, like a surfer fresh from the waves. He appeared cool, laid-back and relaxed—my exact opposite. If only he could have lent me some of his casual savoir faire. I’d love to ride a wave all the way into the final of this competition.

  Arty smiled effortlessly at the cameras and told us that today’s showstopper challenge would sort the wheat from the chaff.

  Everyone laughed, as we were supposed to do, but my throat was so dry, only a rasp came out. I coughed, hoped that no one had heard my ugly wheezing, and took a sip of water from the bottle on my workstation. The day was so warm, I’d need to remember to stay hydrated. I didn’t want to add a fainting fit to the dough mix today.

  “The judges have set you a tough task,” Arty continued. “You must make beautiful, edible sculptures from bread. The emphasis here is on the word edible. They can’t just be works of art; they need to satisfy the tummy as well as the eye.”

  He paused for effect and rubbed his own stomach theatrically. I was already trembling. Despite the heat, my body felt cold.

  “Bakers, you have four and a half hours. And your time starts … NOW!”

  Right, Pops, no panicking. Stay cool. Stay calm. Keep your head in the game. And, technically, Arty was lying for the cameras. Bread needed time to prove, so we were due to have an early lunch break in the middle of filming. This was a lifesaver, really, because it meant I could fuel up at midday.

  I tried to turn on my mental autopilot, make my hands move of their own accord. I’d made this recipe so many times at home that it should be coming naturally by now.

  Tried was the operative word.

  But I wasn’t the only one who was distracted. In the middle of my own panic, I noticed that Florence (usually so focused) kept staring out of the tent to the visitors’ area. I followed her gaze. There was no one there yet, but Edward and Sol, walked past the tent, talking seriously. I’d never seen them together before. They seemed an unlikely pairing, Edward so quiet and thoughtful, Sol more bold and confident. However, it was possible they spent tons of time together when I wasn’t around. And I wouldn’t have even noticed on another day. It was the timing. Eloise had only been dead for twelve hours or so, and here were two men who’d seen her on her last day talking in such a serious way.

  And there was something in both their reactions to Eloise’s death that surprised me. I couldn’t quite put my finger on what exactly.

  But what was I doing? Daydreaming about murder again when my mind had to be on bread. I snapped to attention and weighed out my ingredients. From now on, I wouldn’t look up—not even to stretch my neck. Everything would be focused on my kneading techniques. I had to remember how to manipulate the dough, how to stay in control.

  First up was the olive bread. Florence had given me a great tip, and I’d used her Italian supplier here in Broomewode to get some plump, juicy green olives for my bake. She claimed his sources were better than anything she could find in London. Excellent.

  Ever since I was a kid, I’d loved the salty tang of green olives, and this was my favorite bread to make. I tried to recall Eloise’s words, overriding the horrors of last night, and instead winding time back to when she was alive and well. I remembered that she told me not to handle the dough too much. When she observed my technique, she’d told me that I had a tendency to overwork the dough—which meant all the gas bubbles disappeared and the bread would be dense. Dense was so not the word I wanted to hear slip from the judges’ mouths as they sampled my showstopper.

  The olive bread recip
e was simple—only five ingredients. To get through it, I just had to have a light touch and somehow turn a lump of bread dough into a peony.

  I put a clean kitchen towel on a baking tray and dusted it with corn meal. I chopped my olives, resisting the urge to gobble them up. Next, I combined the flour, yeast, and salt in my mixer, and with the dough hook gently turning, added warm water until the dry ingredients began to combine. I eyeballed the mixer like I was consulting an oracle, waiting to hear my future. Was the consistency right? I was afraid of overdoing it, but was that fear going to lead me into the murky waters of not mixing it enough? Argh. I just couldn’t tell. Better less than more, I figured, and switched the mixer off. I realized I’d been holding my breath and finally allowed myself to inhale deeply and exhale again.

  I added my chopped olives to the dough and then took it out of the bowl and gently began forming it into a ball shape. Now for another Mediterranean trick. I coated a new bowl with a slick layer of olive oil and returned the dough to its center. I covered the lot with a clean towel and placed it into the proving drawer, where it would need to sit until it doubled in size.

  Phew. One down, three to go. Now for the pistachio bread.

  I finally allowed myself to look around and see what was happening in the rest of the tent. Elspeth and Arty had joined Florence, and she was as confident as ever talking through her process.

  “I was raised with the idea that if you want to eat good bread, then make it yourself!” she said proudly. “Which means I’ve been making bread since I was about”—she paused, placed her hand down about three feet from the floor—“this high.”

  Elspeth laughed; Jonathon looked less impressed. Was the great Jonathon Pine about the only man in Broomewode Village immune to Florence’s charms?

  “I think that there’s so much satisfaction when you nurture something yourself from such simple ingredients,” Florence continued, not at all flustered by the mixed reception to her anecdote. “And filling the house with the smell of bread: There’s nothing better. There’s a great Italian proverb I live by: Essere buono come il pane. It means to try to be as good as bread. Be a good person.”

  “Now that is a saying to live by,” Jonathon said, looking impressed. “I could never live up to some of the breads I’ve eaten.” Everyone chuckled. Great, not only was Florence calmer than me, she could sprout bread proverbs in Italian. I was doomed.

  Elspeth asked a few more in-depth questions about Florence’s flavors, and then, of course, they came to me.

  “Now, Poppy,” Jonathon began, “not your best day yesterday. How are you going to pull things back from the brink today?”

  Oof. What a question. How charming. Thanks for reminding me, Jonathon. As if I wasn’t aware of my shortcomings.

  Just like Jonathon himself, I talked through the lines I’d prepared earlier again, explaining my floral arrangement, the aim for earthy, rustic flavors and colors.

  “I like the idea of the basket a lot,” Elspeth said softly. “It’s very picturesque. But you’ve given yourself a lot of work to do.”

  Didn’t I know it.

  “I like some of your flavor ideas,” he said. “All sounds very botanical.”

  I pulled together a smile that I hoped imitated confidence. “I grew up in the Pacific Northwest, which left me with an interest in nature and botany. I just feel really at peace in nature. And how could I not be inspired by the grounds of Broomewode Hall?”

  I paused. Was I being convincing enough?

  “The three-dimensional element looks tricky,” he added.

  He had no idea. “The idea is for the sculpture to look like someone has been out picking flowers from a meadow.”

  “Sounds lovely, Poppy,” Elspeth said warmly. “Best of luck.”

  I was going to need it. Not even Elspeth’s presence, which usually provided me with an instant, floaty kind of calm, was able to quell my worries. I felt sick to my stomach. Jonathon’s words echoed in my mind as I watched the judges walk towards Gaurav. Was I trying too hard to be clever and instead courting disaster?

  I glanced over at Hamish, the one who’d also struggled yesterday, though not as badly as I had. He didn’t look very confident. It made me miserable to think of any of my friends going home. But it had to be one of us, and if it wasn’t them …

  I put my head down and got on with the pistachio loaf. At least I could take my frustrations out on the pistachio kernels, grinding half of my batch to a fine powder. I went through the motions like a robot, trying to remember Eloise’s advice without letting my brain wander off and try to figure out what happened last night. It was a real duel between Baking Poppy and Detective Poppy, and I had no idea who’d win.

  Once my pistachio loaf was finished, I worked it into the shape of a rose. I reminded myself that the artistic side of things was my strong suit. My sculpture was going to be gorgeous. I slid it in to prove alongside the olive bread. Two down, two to go: a pesto focaccia and a brown whole wheat basket.

  As time pushed on, I marched myself mechanically through each laborious stage of my chosen showstopper sculpture. The temperature in the tent increased with a relentlessness I found hard to bear, and I had to keep stopping to mop the sweat from my brow with a fresh kitchen cloth.

  “There’s another famous Italian proverb,” Florence said, wiping her brow. “The loose translation is that bread made with sweat tastes better.”

  I had to laugh. And that made me feel less wretched.

  Once my two other breads were safely in the proving drawer, I allowed myself to look around the tent again. Not that I was hoping for a bad outcome for anyone, but I was kind of downhearted to see that no one else looked as remotely stressed as I felt. My forehead had been perspiring for two hours straight, and my palms were clammy. Florence appeared cool as a clam, as did sweet Maggie and Gaurav. Only Hamish was working double quick—he seemed to be behind everyone else.

  “Five minutes, bakers, until we break for lunch,” Jilly called out.

  I couldn’t believe I had five minutes to spare. I’d actually managed to get everything done for this part of the challenge. Sadly, the hard work would really start in the second half as the bread baked and I had to arrange my sculpture.

  I looked over at Florence, who had resumed her post by the side of her workstation, staring at the visitors’ area, a wistful look on her face. I could just make out the profile of a tall man in a button-down shirt. Who did Florence have her eye on now?

  The second filming stopped, Florence untied her apron and fluffed up her hair. She almost ran out of the tent—I mean, as much as Florence would run rather than elegantly saunter.

  I removed my own apron, thankful to rid myself of a layer and cool down. Breakfast hadn’t been as robust as usual, and I needed fuel to get through the rest of the day. I followed Florence out into the fresh air.

  She was already nestled next to the tall man, his arm draped around her slim body in an easy embrace. Florence was chattering a mile a minute and wouldn’t have even noticed me loitering if the man hadn’t acknowledged my interest with a slight bow of his head. Florence turned and beamed, waving me over.

  “Poppy, come here. I want you to meet Stanley.”

  He extended a hand and shook mine with a firm, decisive grip. Apart from his height, Stanley had an average but pleasant appearance. His brown hair was neatly cut, and his light brown eyes were set close together but full of warmth. He was wearing a crisp white shirt and pressed trousers more suitable for a business meeting in the city than sleepy old Broomewode Village.

  “Florence has been telling me all about her adventures in the tent. You’ve done so well to come this far,” he said. If Stanley had an accent, it was undetectable. His voice was so neutral and softly spoken, I had a hard time figuring out where he was from. Who was this suave mystery man? And where had Florence found him? No, scratch that—when had Florence had the time to find him!

  But I didn’t have to wait long to find out. Almost breathlessly
, Florence told me that Stanley was a film producer based in west London.

  “He’s come all the way up here just to see me work on camera.”

  If he was here on business, why did he have his arm around her? Lucky he didn’t arrive last night while she was with Darius.

  But I nodded and said what a pleasure it was to meet him before excusing myself to get lunch. I didn’t want to linger on the idea of Florence and her many men. Maybe Darius matched Florence in the flirting department, but that’s not to say his feelings wouldn’t be hurt seeing her so cozy with another man.

  I turned away and saw Hamish also chatting, but his conversation looked more intense. He was with DI Hembly, and I didn’t think they were discussing baking.

  I avoided the sandwich section of the lunch spread for obvious reasons and opted instead for some roasted red peppers stuffed with fragrant spiced rice and a large helping of Waldorf salad—a melody of apple, walnut and raisins in a lemony mayonnaise dressing.

  I was about to take a seat and eat my lunch when I caught sight of Edward striding along the path in the direction of the inn. He looked so upset that I put down my longed-for plate and was about to investigate whatever was plaguing my friend when I felt a hand on my shoulder.

  It was Hamish. “Don’t,” he said quietly but with such an edge to his voice, a chill went down my spine. “Give Edward a wide berth.”

  Hamish’s broad brow was furrowed, and despite the afternoon heat and all the intensive work in the tent, he looked cool and focused.

  “Why should I avoid Edward?”

  “Eloise’s neighbors identified Edward as the man they saw visiting her from time to time. Which means, Poppy, he’s their prime suspect. What’s more, Sol told Sgt. Lane that the roast Eloise saw him take was actually for Edward—he cooked her dinner in his cottage the night she was killed.”

  I stared at Hamish, wide-eyed. Kind, gentle Edward? The creative gardener with green fingers? The man who was helping Lauren the bride to overcome her grief after the murder of her husband-to-be—who perhaps meant more to her than her cheating ex ever had? I couldn’t understand it. If Edward and Eloise were friends, or even lovers, why would he kill her? And why would he lie about bumping into her the night she died if she’d been at his cottage eating dinner?