by Nancy Warren
Chapter 11
All too soon I was back in the tent, standing at my workstation like a statue. Even after Hamish coached me, telling me that nothing was confirmed yet and things weren’t always as they appeared in murder cases, I couldn’t get over that Edward was the prime suspect in Eloise’s murder investigation.
Robbie, the sound guy, attached my mic pack. “You okay?” he asked. “You seem distracted.”
Oh, man. He was right. I was distracted, and I was going to have to fix that.
I smiled weakly and told him that I was worried about the showstopper. It had to be a knockout, otherwise I was getting knocked straight out of this competition.
“You’re still the favorite,” Robbie whispered, a sly grin on his face. “The crew’s got some bets going on who’ll win.” He leaned in. “I’ve got twenty quid on you. Don’t screw up.”
I cheered up immediately. Talk about putting your money where your mouth was. Then my stomach dropped. What if I lost? Then everyone in the crew who’d believed in me would lose money. I knew it was just for fun, like their poker games and the silly jokes they played on each other, but my stress level went up another notch.
“I hope you can afford to lose your twenty.”
“Everyone is allowed one bad day. You can pull it back. Just keep your head in the game.”
Huh. I’d heard that one before. As if it was that easy when (a) you couldn’t make delicious bread for the life of you, and (b) you were caught up in a murder investigation and couldn’t banish its details from your mind.
“Chin up,” Robbie said. “It’s going to be okay.”
I retied my apron and gave him a confident smile. If I couldn’t be confident for real, then I’d have to fake it to make it.
The countdown was on. In five minutes, I’d have to finish this whopper of a showstopper. I wasn’t even allowed to pull out the proving drawer yet to see if the dough had sufficiently risen. What was it that Eloise said? Not to let too many gas bubbles disappear. Argh. I couldn’t remember it all.
Suddenly it was all happening again. Sound: check. Lights: check. The cameras were poised and waiting. Fiona called action. It was showtime.
I opened the proving drawer with my breath held.
Phew. All four breads looked like they’d risen properly. I carefully slid them from their resting place and got ready to work that dough.
The problem was, my hands were shaking. “Calm down,” I whispered to my palms. “Pull yourselves together. You’re letting down the team.”
The bread basket was the shape that worried me most. During my endless hours of practice, it had either worked brilliantly or collapsed or burned to a brittle mess and then broken. I figured my chances were even. The idea was to shape the basket over an inverted bowl that had been covered with aluminum foil and bake it bowl and all. I’d begun with the wrong-shaped bowls—either too shallow or too deep or not wide enough. Now I had the perfect size, but timing was everything. The basket browned so quickly on the top, it was difficult to avoid that and ensure the rest of the dough was cooked through. It looked simple enough when it was done right, but it was a nightmare to get everything perfect.
I buttered the bowl and floured it lightly. I floured my workstation and rolled the dough into a large rectangle. With a pizza cutter, I divided the dough into quarter-inch strips. Now for the fiddly bit. I took one strip, rolled it back and forth until it became rope-shaped. So far, so good. Six more ropes to make. I wiped the sweat from my temple.
Once these were done, I laid the strips from one end of the bowl to the other, weaving the ropes into a basket until the entire bowl was covered. Quickly, I snipped off the excess, brushed the lot with egg wash, and took it over to the oven to bake until it was golden brown. I wished it well, of course, but I had a feeling I’d need a lot more than my well-wishes for this beast to bake into a beauty.
Now for the remaining parts. I traced the top of the bowl on parchment paper and made three more dough ropes into a braid to fit the circle for a lovely decorative top (I hoped) and then another braid to make the handle. These went into the oven for fifteen minutes, and if I had my calculations right, all three parts would come out at the same time.
I was still sweating, my breath labored and heavy. There was still so much to do. I stared down the three remaining doughs, each such a gorgeous shade of green I almost—almost—forgave them for being my nemesis.
Of course, this is when Arty decided to see how I was doing.
He breezed over in his trendy outfit and asked me to explain my process for kneading the dough and shaping them into three different flowers. To be honest, I was feeling so unsure of myself, I would have loved to ask the same question, too. Could I phone a friend? Ask the audience for help?
I cleared my throat. “It’s been a lot of trial and error with this one,” I confessed. “As we already know, bread is not my strong suit. I’m trying to make up for it with flavor and a little pizzazz. And what I do know is flowers. I’ve read a lot of botanical books and filled sketchbooks of my own. I’m hoping that expertise will transform this dough into something special.”
“How’s your timing looking? You’ve got a lot to get through.”
Oh, great. Had Arty decided to be the new Jonathon Pine and give me a hard time? The more I had to explain to this wise guy, the less time I had to actually bake. These little filming asides were torture when you were under pressure.
“All I can do is my best,” I told him, trying to convey the same message to myself.
Thankfully, Arty wished me good luck and moved on to Florence. He was probably desperate to speak to someone not sweating profusely with a look of pure panic welded to their face.
I listened as Florence chattered, her pretty laugh tinkling. How I envied her cool, calm delivery. Her ability to multitask. And then I made the massive mistake of stopping momentarily to look around the tent. A mistake because everyone seemed so focused and in control. Maggie was making an enormous Ferris wheel, and so far it was seriously impressive, sure to be much bigger than anything else the group produced. Each spoke of the wheel alternated flavors, some cheese, some seeded, some with nuts baked in. I was in awe of Maggie’s know-how. As I followed the progress of her showstopper from afar, the feeling of gloom I’d been fighting so hard to stave off returned. It spread through me as easily as butter on warm toast. What was even the point of it all? I had zero chance of pulling myself through this round.
As if she had sensed my sadness and sprung into action, Elspeth suddenly appeared by my side. She did not say a word, simply smiled that lovely smile of hers. So warm. So encouraging. And my doom began to dissipate. Finally, she said, “Looking lovely, Poppy. Perhaps time to check the ovens,” and disappeared as quickly as she came like the perennial fairy witch mother she was.
The ovens! I snapped back into life and dashed over to where my basket would surely be overcooked.
I opened the door with trepidation, feeling the lens of the camera watching over my every move. I let out my breath. Okay, the basket was a little crisp around the edges but definitely not burned. I took my bread wares back to my workstation and set them aside to cool while I continued with my flower shapes. They didn’t take so long to cook, so I had time to get each one right. Or so I hoped.
I worked with my head down, once more trying to channel Eloise’s energy into my fingertips without bringing to mind the image of her dead body. Not easy.
I mixed ingredients and lovingly shaped my flowers, twisting and braiding and manipulating the dough. I made fresh pesto, which filled my workstation with the delicious scent of basil and pine nuts and would hopefully turn into a piquant and tasty filling to one of my flowers. I did everything I’d set out to do, not one silly mistake. It was like my hands were following a well-worn path, not thinking, just moving, and my brain was a separate thing, whirring away, distracted and yet somehow still managing to process what my body was doing.
I sent my flowers into the ovens, wishing
them well, and returned to the workstation to assemble my now-cool bread basket with toothpicks.
It was a delicate job. I needed the basket to be sturdy enough to hold the bread flowers, but I didn’t want to pin the pieces together too tightly for fear of the basket crumbling. I was unsure of myself and spent far too long dithering, umming and erring until I captured the amused attention of Jilly.
“Think whipping out a tablecloth from under a laid table,” she suggested, miming the action like an old-fashioned pantomime. “Be quick like a cat. Time’s a-tickin.’”
But I barely cracked a smile. It was all fun and games to these comedians, but right now I was deadly serious.
I managed to pin the bread basket together without breaking anything. The braided ring around the top was definitely overdone, but all I could do was hope that they ate a bit of the handle instead. Argh. It was torture thinking that within the hour, all this hard work would be destroyed and fill the bellies of cast and crew.
I went back to the ovens to check on my bread flowers. They needed a little more time, but I couldn’t bear to leave them alone, so I looked longingly into the depths of the oven, trying to transmit well wishes and good vibes for a successful rise.
And who joined me in my oven vigil but Gerry.
“Yeesh, these ovens still give me heebie-jeebies,” he said, shaking his head. “I reckon I ended up crisper than your burned pastry. That’ll teach me to mess with married women.”
I sighed. I so did not have time for a trip down memory lane with Gerry. As much as I wanted to completely ignore Gerry’s presence, something he said struck a nerve. Gerry had been murdered over his affairs with married women, and there was something about Florence’s new squeeze that I couldn’t quite put my finger on. He seemed … well, married. Was I being crazy? It was a strange hunch, but there was just something in the way he carried himself that gave the impression he belonged to someone else. And I wouldn’t put it past Florence to know that he was married and carry on regardless. She was an epic flirt, and it seemed like he would be good for her career. Not that I thought Florence was that callous—it was probably more of a subconscious thing—but an aspiring actress dating a film producer? Now that was a marriage made in heaven.
Thankfully my attention was brought back by a dinging timer, and I removed my flowers from the oven. To my relief, they appeared to be fine—not undercooked, not burned. But that didn’t mean I was out of the woods yet. It still had to taste good!
Before I knew it, Jilly was calling time. I’d managed to arrange everything in my basket, and the finished sculpture was pretty—the greens and browns rustic and lovely, just as I’d hoped. The only thing letting Team Poppy down was the basket, which against the baked flowers was clearly overcooked. But I was hoping that the judges might figure that if it all tasted good—which was a big if, considering my track record—then that little oversight could be forgiven.
I added my showstopper to the judging table, and my heart sank. The row of other showstoppers displayed one wonder after another. An array of curious and fantastical sculptures, so varied and imaginative. I was super proud of all my friends even as I wondered if my sculpture could stack up.
There was Florence’s Neapolitan ice cream bonanza, Hamish’s Shetland pony, Maggie’s Ferris wheel and Gaurav’s bicycle. And then my bread garden. The runt of the litter. Overcooked and not anywhere near as ambitious as the others, even though I’d tried my best to get out of my comfort zone and create something spectacular.
I took a deep breath. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Gerry float back into the tent and stand next to the table of showstoppers. He spotted mine, looked pleasantly surprised, and gave me two thumbs-up. Then changed his mind and put down one thumb. Thanks, Gerry. But he hadn’t actually tasted the thing.
Was there even any point in listening to the judging? It was going to be pure heartache.
First up was Florence.
“I think what you’ve produced there is a work of art,” Jonathon said, shaking his head in wonder. “It’s actually making me salivate just looking at it.”
“Agreed,” Elspeth said. “The colors and arrangement are sumptuous. I can imagine I’m eating gelato on the Amalfi coast. But”—Elspeth paused for effect—“the perennial question is whether it tastes as good as it looks.”
I watched as Elspeth tore off different parts of Florence’s ice-cream-shaped extravaganza. Murmurs of “delicious” and “nice balance of flavors” echoed around me.
I was next. My mouth was dry, but my forehead was perspiring. So not a great combination. And on top of all that, I was trying not to twitch with nerves. I forced myself to relax my hands and straighten my spine. I knew one camera was trained on me, ready for my reaction, while two others captured the judges.
As Elspeth commented on the beautiful color of my flowers, I couldn’t help but feel she was buttering me up with compliments before she was going to have to deal the heavy blows. Even Jonathon was being kind, highlighting my braiding work on the breadbasket, but eventually he had to concede it looked a little crispy.
I watched with eyes half-closed as they sliced through my creation and then chewed.
“Although lovely looking,” Elspeth said, “this peony is a little flat. I think the dough’s been overworked.”
To my dismay, Jonathon agreed, and proceeded to tear off pieces of bread from the other flowers.
“The flavors are lovely,” Elspeth said. “Good combinations which show that a lot of thought has gone into this showstopper. But the texture of the bread isn’t wowing me, I’m afraid. It’s underworked in parts and overworked in others. And the basket is a little on the crisp side.”
“A nice-looking sculpture,” Jonathon added, “but lacking the refinement of a master baker.”
Wow. I felt like Jonathon had reached across the tent and scooped out my heart with a tablespoon. Lacking refinement. The sad thing was, I couldn’t even argue differently. The judges were right, although Elspeth had wrapped her feedback in a kinder bow. It was wrong of me to feel so betrayed, but Jonathon was a fellow witch, after all. Couldn’t he be, well, a bit nicer? Receiving critiques like that felt so personal, even if they weren’t meant to be delivered that way.
But the judges had lost interest in me and already moved on. I barely registered what either judge said to Gaurav, but by the shy look of pride on his face, it was good.
Hamish was next. He’d had difficulty this week just like me, but the judge’s comments were peppered with the kinds of adjectives any baker would want to hear. His Shetland pony did look very messy (it was undeniable), but the judges forgave him because his bread was airy, light and flavorful. I might have scored some marks on the aesthetic front, but where it really counted, I hadn’t been able to step up to the mark.
Last was Maggie. I’d put a million bucks on hers being the best of the bunch.
“Maggie, in terms of texture, this is leaps and bounds ahead of the others,” Elspeth said.
Maggie beamed. “My grandchildren’s favorite,” she replied. And then, more softly, “Thank you so much.” She was so humble and always looked surprised when the judges praised her work.
The judges went to confer and decide on today’s winner as well as who’d be going home. I knew my sculpture wasn’t perfect, but Hamish had received some harsh words about his Shetland pony looking more like a sad donkey. There wasn’t a single part of me that wanted Hamish to return home this week for good. I wanted him to stay and excel—to go on and win this thing! He deserved it. But this was the rap with the competition. Now that I knew and adored each and every one of my competitors, how could I wish the worst for them? I wanted us all to go through. Why couldn’t we all just stay put and bake our little hearts out?
I caught Hamish staring at me and knew he was thinking the same thoughts I was. I reached out and gripped his hand. “Whatever happens, we did our best.”
I stood in place, silently hoping for a bread miracle, that the judges couldn�
��t decide and so put us all through to the next round.
When Elspeth and Jonathon returned, I couldn’t read either of their faces. Were they sad that one of us was about to go home? I tried my best to emulate their neutrality. I was schooling myself not to cry. I wanted to ride the wave and be grateful for the journey I’d been on so far.
“Bakers,” Elspeth began, “to come this far in the competition, you’ve all had to show mighty grit, determination, and above all—talent.”
“There was a standout baker today, and that was Maggie,” Elspeth said, turning to face Maggie, who was a delightful shade of pink. “Without doubt, you are our Star Baker this week.”
Jonathon complimented Maggie again. “Today you baked The Best Bread in Broomewode.”
A round of applause rippled through the tent, and I followed suit. But my brain was working overtime. Best Bread in Broomewode? A flash of Friday’s conversation entered my head. What was it Eloise had said? Be the best at what you do. And then she’d mentioned the best turf cakes in York. How could I have forgotten that detail? Was it a clue to where the mysterious baker came from?
Chapter 12
“But of course, this part of the day isn’t all celebration,” Jonathon continued.
No. It wasn’t. It was about impending doom and heartache. Was I being paranoid, or could I feel everyone’s eyes on me, waiting for the terrible news, watching to see how I’d react?
I kept my eyes glued straight ahead. Stay cool, Poppy. Don’t embarrass yourself with an outburst of emotion.
“Having to say goodbye to someone each week gets harder and harder as we go on,” Jonathon continued. “And without a doubt, the person that we’re saying goodbye to this week is a fantastic baker, full of creativity. A real strong contender. It’s someone that we’ve all enjoyed having in the tent, and I know they’re going to be missed.”