Crumbs and Misdemeanors

by Nancy Warren

  I was so grateful, I wanted to hug him, sweat stains and all. “She works on a Sunday?”

  “We’re open seven days a week. We all take different days off. In theory, it works. In practice, I never seem to have a day off. I’m the reporter, editor and photographer, with help from a few stringers. Mavis is what we call the inside editor. She runs the newsroom, takes all the calls, writes a garden column and the obits.”

  The other woman glanced at her watch. “She’ll be leaving soon. You’d better hurry if you want to catch her.”

  “I’m Trim, by the way,” he said, putting out a hand.

  “Trim?” Seemed a cruel nickname for someone on the weightier side.

  “Theodore Trimble. Trim stuck.”

  “Okay. Hi, Trim. I’m Poppy.”

  “Good to meet you. Let’s see if Mavis has time for you.”

  I followed him up a set of stairs. He said, too casually, “I’ve just come from Broomewode Inn. Had a mysterious death, I understand. You’re staying there. What’d you see?”

  Oh, no. I wasn’t falling for that. The last thing the police would want would be someone like me giving away the details of the investigation. I gave him my blandest look, and I can be very bland when called upon. “I know the names of the detectives on the case. I could give them to you if you like.”

  His face broke out into a boyish grin. “Can’t blame a guy for trying.” He pulled a card from his pocket. “If you see or hear anything, give me a call. We may be a backwater, but people here care about their neighbors.”

  “Did you know the victim?” I asked. Two could play at casual interrogation.

  “Eloise Blackwell?” Okay, he had her name. “No. Not personally. From what I hear, she kept herself to herself. Hadn’t been here long.” He kept walking. “Ask Mavis. She tried to interview her when she first took the job. Woman refused to be interviewed. Odd, don’t you think?”

  Yep. I did think it odd. “Some people don’t like the limelight.”

  “Not you, though, luckily. When you’ve got your breath back, I’d like to do a profile on you. You’re the closest we’ve got to a local competitor.”

  “Sure,” I agreed. He was doing me a favor. The least I could do was chat to him about my experience on the show.

  Mavis Crane had an office in what would once have been a bedroom. Trim said he was down the hall and after introducing us, left us alone. I let out a sigh. If they’d worked in close quarters, I’d have had to be more careful in my questions, as he clearly had a sharp brain along with a good memory.

  Mavis seemed less daunting. She had to be long past normal retirement age. Pleasantly plump with deep-set brown eyes and short gray hair, she was wearing green overalls and a thin red cotton scarf tied in a nonchalant fashion around her neck. She greeted me with a wide smile. “Hello, dear,” she said loudly. “Welcome.”

  She sat behind an old wooden schoolteacher’s desk with paper all over it in neat piles. A computer sat on a side table, and there were photos, lists of all sorts, a huge calendar with scribbles all over it, and stacks of newspapers.

  I smelled dust, newsprint and old building. “How can I help you?”

  As she beckoned me closer, I immediately got the sense that not many people wandered through her doors. She appeared to be so pleased to see me, I suddenly felt bad for turning up empty-handed like a rude dinner guest.

  “I’m looking for information on someone local.” Her face was crinkled with lines. I had a vision suddenly of a large family, aunts and uncles talking over one another, rowdy siblings, children crawling over her. I was sure there was a loving spouse at home—she exerted the kind of confidence someone only had when they felt truly loved. “I’m here to uncover some local history.”

  “Writer, are you? Researching a novel? A little historical drama perhaps? Goodness knows we’ve had enough of that round here to fill a trilogy.”

  I chuckled. “Not a writer, no. I’m looking for …” I stopped. How much information did I really want to give away to a stranger? I decided to go with the line I’d first given Katie Donegal when I began poking my nose into the staffing history of Broomewode Hall. “I’m looking for information about a distant cousin who might have lived in the area about twenty-five years ago.” I paused. “A young man.”

  “A cousin, you say?”

  “Of my mother’s. I don’t even have a name.”

  Mavis’s mouth pursed. “You do know we’re not MI5, right? Or a private detective service.”

  I nodded, even though her sarcasm wasn’t exactly what I needed right now. “Yup. I’m looking for someone deceased.”

  Immediately her expression switched to one of compassion. “I’m sorry, luvvie. I didn’t mean to make light of your search. I’ve lived here all my life. I might remember him.”

  “It would save me searching the obituaries for a youngish man who might have passed away in those years.”

  “That’s a lot of ground you need to cover,” Mavis said, “but maybe I can help you narrow things down a bit before you start looking through the papers? It’s fair to say I know a lot about Broomewode Village history.”

  The clock was ticking, and I’d promised my baking pals that I’d join them at the inn for our usual Sunday evening sendoff. So I cleared my throat and launched right into it, trying to describe my birth dad’s ghost as though I’d seen him in a photo.

  “I don’t know his name, but I saw a photograph once. The man I’m looking for was tall and slender. Young, maybe in his mid-twenties or early thirties, with light brown hair swept back. He had smooth, tanned skin and a nice smile. A little bit cheeky-looking.”

  “He sounds nice, pet. Now lemme have a think.”

  Would Mavis be able to supply the information I’d been dreaming about? I opened the note function on my phone ready to take some notes.

  “Hmm, it could be Fred, Alice’s youngest, who died in a motor accident. That was in 2003. October. I remember because it was the month after my niece had her gallbladder surgery,” Mavis suggested. “I think he was more like nineteen, though. Definitely on the younger side. I’d have said they knew all their cousins, but these days, with all that internet ancestry, it’s amazing the surprises people get.” She glanced at me hurriedly. “I’m sure this would be a pleasant one. Lovely people, Alice and her family.”

  I couldn’t imagine the ghost who appeared to me in magic circles being only nineteen, but I figured it might be hard to tell when his edges were flickering and he was hovering above the ground like a hologram.

  “You wouldn’t think you’d forget young men who died before their time. Well, there was Joe. Betsy’s boy that had the funny eye. Joined the army. Killed in Afghanistan, he was. Poor Betsy. It nearly killed her."

  “I don’t think he was in the army,” I said quietly, almost scared to interrupt her reminiscences. “I think he’d have died between 1994 and maybe 2000.”

  “The poor young viscount died in 1995, but I doubt he’d be your cousin. His family is famous and well-documented. Terrible thing, poor lad. With all he had to live for. A riding accident it was. He’s buried in the local churchyard. A lovely monument.”

  I knew this story. I didn’t have a lot of time to reminisce about local history. I wasn’t looking for British aristocrats, more like the kind of bloke you’d find down the local pub enjoying a nice pint of traditional ale.

  “Of course, there was the Doncasters’ son Brian. Very sad that was. He was training to be a doctor. Not quite thirty. Brain aneurism.”

  Oh, that sounded promising. To think if my dad had lived, he might have been a doctor, which sounded so respectable. Then Mavis shook her head. “But that was in 1993. Too early.”

  I didn’t want to give up Dr. Dad so easily. “Are you certain Brian died in 1993?”

  “Oh, yes. It was the Queen’s fortieth year on the throne. We were organizing a village party. Brian died that very day. You don’t forget a thing like that.”

  “We think he was dating a gir
l named Valerie who worked in the kitchen of Broomewode.”

  Her eyes grew sharper. “Valerie. She was friendly with my daughter Joanna. They were the same age, you see. Used to meet up at the pub. Go to concerts together. I’m sure she was one of a group of them that went to Glastonbury together. To the music festival.”

  My heart began to pound. I’d come looking for my father, but perhaps I was getting closer to finding my mother. “How old is Joanna?”

  “She’ll be forty-seven in August.” She shook her head. “Hard to believe how quickly time passes. My girl, forty-seven, with grown children of her own.”

  Unknowingly, Mavis had given me my mother’s age. And a lead on someone who’d known her well. “Is Joanna still in Broomewode?”

  “No. They moved to Bristol, but you could telephone her. I’m sure she’d be glad to talk of the old days. And she might remember better who Valerie was dating.”

  “Is she still in touch with Valerie?” I felt like the very air in this overcrowded fire hazard of a room was holding its breath, but she shook her head, looking sorrowful. “No. Valerie left without a word. Joanna was awfully upset. She kept expecting to hear, but she never did. Of course, everybody wasn’t on Instagram and Snapchat and I don’t know what else, not in those days. They barely had email.”

  She wrote down her daughter’s phone number and email address for me and gave me her business card. “I’ll have a think about young men who passed away, shall I?”

  “Yes, please.” I gave her my contact details.

  “You might want to look through the archives after all. My memory’s not what it was.”

  I thought it was brilliant, and I told her so.

  She leaned forward and laid her hand over mine. “I hope you find him, dear.”

  How obvious must I appear? She was too delicate to press me, but she knew I was looking for my father. I hadn’t fooled her for a second.

  “I hope so, too.” I allowed myself to imagine what it would have been like to meet my dad for the first time. It was easy to conjure up the nervous energy I knew such a meeting would bring. Maybe we would have arranged to meet at a restaurant or a café. Somewhere neutral where we could both feel relaxed. Maybe I’d hang back before entering—watch him sitting at the table, waiting for me. Would he dress up for the occasion? Put on a smart pair of trousers and a freshly pressed shirt? Or be more laid-back in his attire? Jeans and a T-shirt, perhaps? It was hard to imagine the image of my dad without thinking of the ghost and that strange brown robe he wore. At least I’d heard his speaking voice. Gentle but firm, a touch of lightheartedness to its tone. Would I be so nervous that I could barely speak, my tongue tied, a torrent of emotions flooding through me as I tried to introduce myself? Would I be scared of saying something too stupid? Or would my mouth run away with itself, burning with a thousand questions: what he did for a living, where he grew up, how he met my mother. Did he love her? Did he know about me?

  A meeting like that would change my life forever.

  “Maybe he didn’t die,” she said softly.

  I nodded, feeling stunned and like I’d lost something I didn’t even know that I’d had.

  Chapter 14

  It was surreal being back at the inn with everyone crowded round me. I’d spent the last hour lost in the past, and now I had to act like my biggest woe was being voted off The Great British Baking Contest. The pub was busy and noisy—so different from the newspaper office. I tried to shake off the feeling that I’d brought the past in here with me, wearing history like a heavy cloak.

  It was also strange being on the other side of the goodbye drinks. I was accustomed to commiserating with the losing contestant, wrapping them in hugs, offering consoling words. And now it was my turn. It felt like a strange dream that I’d wake up from any moment.

  “We really love you, Poppy,” Florence was saying.

  “It’s not going to be the same,” Hamish added. “I’m still amazed it wasn’t me sent home. It had to be close as a whisker.”

  “I will miss you,” Gaurav said quietly.

  “It’s been a real pleasure,” Maggie added. “But you’re so young yet. We haven’t heard the last of you, Poppy Wilkinson, of that I’m sure.”

  I was so touched, on the cusp of becoming a blubbering mess. I truly felt cherished. So I thanked them all and said it was time to get the fizz in. We needed to celebrate Maggie’s Star Baker status and toast my journey on The Great British Baking Contest.

  At the bar, Eve greeted me with tears in her eyes. “You’re not coming back next weekend, are you?”

  I shook my head and took her hands, feeling that familiar charge of energy that reminded me we were bound together as coven sisters. “But I’m going to visit all the time. You won’t be able to stop me.” I lowered my voice. “Now that I know I’m part of a coven, I could never turn my back on my sisters. You’re family. And family means everything to me. Everything.”

  Eve smiled sadly and wiped the tears from her eyes. “I really thought with Eloise’s help you’d be fine.” She glanced towards the kitchen. The police tape was gone, but I suspected the crime scene hadn’t finished. “I guess nothing went well this weekend.”

  “I think I have a clue about Eloise’s identity,” I whispered.

  Eve handed me an ice bucket and a bottle of prosecco. “Really? The whole terrible affair has been playing on my mind. I feel so guilty about not knowing anything about poor Eloise. I should have made more of an effort.”

  I nodded and said I felt the same but now I might have a lead. I told Eve about the best turf cakes in York comment.

  “That’s your lead?” Eve didn’t sound as though Scotland Yard could close its doors now that I was on the scene.

  Maybe she was right and I was looking for clues where there weren’t any. “I’ll mention it anyway, maybe, in case it’s useful.”

  “Of course, love. You do that.”

  I walked back to the table and set down the bucket. Gaurav collected champagne flutes, and I popped the bottle. The sound was usually one I associated with celebrations, not commiserations, and then when I started to think about sad things, Eloise’s unsolved death began to plague me. Maybe the turf cake thing meant nothing, but I quickly whipped out my phone and sent Sgt. Lane a message.

  Think I have a lead about where Eloise might have lived before she came to the village. Has anyone mentioned York? She may have worked there before Broomewode Inn.

  I put my phone away before anyone told me off for being distracted and poured the fizz. Hamish handed round the bubbling flutes. “You okay, Poppy?” he asked quietly. “Not too disappointed, I hope?”

  “No. It’s not that.” I told him I thought I had a lead about Eloise. But before I could share my hunch, Florence led the clinking of glasses.

  “Here’s to Poppy! We’ll miss you!”

  When everyone had settled down, I decided to put my questions about turf cakes to the team. Five bakers were better than one.

  But before I could speak, Florence suddenly stood up and waved manically at the entrance of the pub. Talk about breaking a girl’s stride. I turned to see what had taken the attention away from my investigation yet again. It was Stanley, the producer from London, and Florence’s new squeeze.

  He smiled, waved, and then confidently strode towards our table. Florence introduced him to our group. She was so flushed, she was positively giddy with pride.

  I caught Hamish’s eye. He looked amused. But I wasn’t in the mood for play. I needed to ask the bakers a serious question, so as soon as the pleasantries were over, I steered the conversation to turf cakes.

  “Ooh, now those take me back,” said Maggie.

  “You know what they are?”

  “Oh yes. My Nan was from Whitby, north Yorkshire—they’re famous round those parts. They’re a kind of rock cake. Absolutely delicious.”

  “I know those!” Hamish said excitedly. “Simple but tasty. They’re buttery flat cakes. Spiced with nutmeg, cinnamon, and cit
rus peels. Kind of like an all-year-round Christmas flavor. They say the best ones are in York.”

  My heart began to beat wildly. Was I onto something here with the turf cakes beyond a delicious dessert? Had Eloise worked somewhere in Yorkshire, where she was famous for making turf cakes? Surely this would narrow down the police’s search. I was about to ask more when Darius interrupted us, asking if the gentleman would like a drink. His voice was clipped, not his usual smooth, relaxed manner. I saw him flick a glance from Stanley’s possessive arm to Florence’s face. She pretended not to notice.

  It was difficult to act naturally and not let on there was something between him and Florence. Not that Florence was batting a thickly painted eyelash. She didn’t seem uncomfortable in the least.

  I turned towards Darius. Even though he was smiling, he looked furious. A shiver went down my spine. I was surprised Florence had invited the producer to join us at the inn knowing it was likely Darius would be working. Clearly Darius was invested in Florence. It must hurt like hell to see her fawning over another man. How could she not be embarrassed with both men in the room like this? I never would have been able to keep my cool. Not that I would ever manage to juggle two men. Or ever had the chance, come to think of it. Or the desire to.

  Benedict walked in at that moment, glanced around and, when he spotted me, headed my way. My phone signaled an incoming text. From Sgt. Lane. “Nice work, partner.” It was just jokey enough that a person might consider the words flirtatious if they had a mind to.

  I put the phone down as Benedict approached. With a nod for the rest of the group, he focused on me. “I heard what happened. Bad luck.”

  “Thanks. But, in a way it’s a relief.” Nearly every person who’d left the show had said these words. I’d assumed they were only showing a brave face, but I really did feel relief at letting go of the stress of the show, of constantly striving to create something spectacular under pressure.