by K E O'Connor
“Here we are.” Alice returned to the kitchen, clutching a large leather-bound book to her chest. “This is our family tree bible. I’ve been working on expanding it for months. It shows the deaths Granny foresaw.”
My eyes widened, and I stepped closer as Alice flicked open the pages. “How many has she predicted?”
“At least twenty.”
Eek! That was a worryingly high number.
“They weren’t all old or sick when she made her predictions about their impending demise?” Campbell asked.
“Some were.” Alice pointed to a family tree line. “My second cousin, Roseanna Belmore, dropped down dead one day. Granny predicted it would happen three weeks before the event. It turned out that Roseanna had a problem with her heart. She was into her riding and went out for a particularly hard hack and her heart couldn’t stand it.”
“And you’re sure Lady Philippa knew this was going to happen before the event?” I asked.
“Absolutely! And take a look at this chap here.” She pointed at the book again. “A great uncle of mine twice removed. He went traveling in India and contracted malaria. He died six weeks later. Granny predicted he’d get sick while traveling.”
“That’s not such a stretch. A lot of people get sick when they travel abroad.” Campbell placed his hands behind his back.
“You’re doubting my granny’s word?” Alice arched an eyebrow.
“Lady Philippa’s an incredible woman, but she cannot see the future,” he said.
“She predicted this death, that death, that murder, and that person going missing.” Alice jabbed a finger at different names on the family tree. “That’s why we need to be so careful with her. We can’t have her getting out and wandering around among the public telling them the dates of their deaths.”
“Surely she’s not that accurate,” I said.
“She’s accurate enough to convince me,” Alice said. “What about you, Holly? Do you think my granny has special powers?”
“She’s very convincing,” I said.
“Whose death has she predicted this time?” Alice asked. “I hope it doesn’t have anything to do with me or my family.”
“She was vague,” I said. “Pigs were involved.”
Alice giggled and slapped a hand across her mouth. “Goodness, someone’s going to be eaten alive by pigs. Whatever next? Maybe Granny’s losing her touch.”
“She also mentioned something about a hairpiece and figs. I can’t piece it together. I wondered if it had something to do with the food fair.”
“Let’s hope not,” Alice said. “I’m looking forward to wandering around and sampling the delicious treats. And of course, Campbell will be by my side guarding my every move, so I’ll be in no danger.”
Campbell nodded. “I won’t stop you from enjoying yourself.”
She waved a hand in the air. “I know that. You’re marvelous at what you do.”
“Whatever occurs at the food fair, neither of you need to be involved,” Campbell said. “We don’t want any more murders on our hands, do we, Miss Holmes?”
“Last time was an isolated incident.” I tidied away the rest of my cooking equipment. “I’ll stick to making cakes and keeping our visitors happy.”
“And winning the competition,” Alice said. “You’ve got to do that.”
I smiled. “I’ll do my absolute best.”
Campbell grunted, not seeming satisfied with my response.
“Relax.” I shoved more cake at him.
I didn’t choose to poke around in trouble, but if it found me, I wouldn’t back away and hide. Hiding wasn’t in my nature. I was all about excellent cake, enjoying my life, and staying happy.
But from the glare Campbell gave me, I might not be happy for much longer.
Chapter 4
I stood outside my apartment and breathed in the crisp early morning air. Excitement rolled through me, as did a fair amount of nerves.
It was the morning of the food fair. The last three days had seen the arrival of marquees, sellers, and dozens of vans and food trucks unloading treats to sell to the public who’d be arriving in two hours.
I’d also be showcasing my cupcakes on the Audley Castle stand. I was looking forward to the visitors' reactions. I’d made a huge batch of chocolate and orange infused cupcakes with chocolate swirl icing.
“Woof woof?” Meatball nudged my leg before his nose lifted to the lush green lawn.
“Yes! Absolutely. We’ll go for a walk before it gets too busy. I won’t be able to have you in the marquee. But don’t worry, I’ll check on you regularly and make sure you don’t go hungry.”
“Woof woof!” He bounced on his paws before patiently waiting as I put his leash on, and we headed along the gravel path toward a main walking route around the castle. It was a good thirty-minute walk from my apartment to the Coffee House Bridge and back, which would burn off some energy and stop Meatball getting restless.
I slowed to watch more sellers unload in the vendors’ parking lot. I looked forward to spending my hard-earned money today and stuffing myself with delicious food.
“Mind your backs! The county’s tastiest pies coming through.”
I stepped to the side as a man carrying five white boxes strode past. He grinned and winked before heading to the main marquee.
I hadn’t walked more than a dozen steps with Meatball, who was fascinated by the scents on the vehicles’ tires, when the man returned.
He was tall, blond, with a sparkle in his bright blue eyes. He noticed me and smiled. “Will you be attending the food fair?”
I smiled back. “Yes. I work at the castle. I’ll be on their stand during the day.”
“A resident of the castle.” His gaze ran over me and his grin widened. “Don’t tell me I’m speaking to royalty? Should I bow and doff my hat?”
I chuckled. “There’s no need. I only work in the kitchen.”
“There’s no only about working in a kitchen. I know how difficult it is to bake something that tastes amazing.” He stuck out his hand. “I’m Pete ‘the pie man’ Saunders.”
“Holly Holmes. Nice to meet you.” I shook his hand.
“Likewise. I make the tastiest, most moreish meat pies around. You won’t find anyone’s pie that compares to mine.” He tapped the side of his nose. “It’s all about the secret ingredient. I never tell anyone the recipe. I’ll take that to my grave. I get orders from across the world for my pies.”
“They sound delicious,” I said.
“They absolutely are. Hold on a tick.” He disappeared into the back of a white van and emerged with a pie in his hand. “Don’t take my word for it. This is pre-cooked. All you need to do is heat it in the oven.” He went to hand me the pie, but it slipped from his fingers and landed pie top down on the ground.
“Oh! I’m so sorry.” I stared forlornly at the pie. “That was my fault.”
“Nope, that’s on me. Butter fingers.” Pete shrugged and smiled.
Meatball trotted over and sniffed the pie.
“But it looks like it won’t go to waste,” Pete said.
Meatball tried a mouthful of pie before his nose wrinkled. He backed away as if he’d tasted something he didn’t like.
“That’s odd. I guess he’s not hungry,” I said. “He’s just had breakfast.”
“He’s probably not a fan of the spices,” Pete said. “Sometimes, my pies come with a kick. I do a great chicken madras pie.”
“That would be it. Meatball’s not a fan of anything spicy,” I said.
Meatball sneezed, his suspicious gaze lingering on the pie.
“What do you do in the kitchen?” Pete asked. “Head Chef?”
“No! I’m a general assistant, although I focus on the desserts for the café. I’m often out in the village, as well, delivering cakes to people.”
“Someone as sweet as you must make delicious desserts. If you ever have any spare, I’m partial to something decadent. Eating dessert is such a naughty thing to do
.” His blue eyes sparkled. “Do you make naughty desserts, Holly?”
My cheeks felt warm. “I make an excellent death by chocolate.”
“Maybe we could get together and you can tempt me with your treats.” He waggled his eyebrows.
I continued to blush under his blatant flirting. He was a good-looking guy with a cheeky smile. “I expect you’ll be too busy with your pie orders for anything like that.”
“I always make room in my schedule for a beautiful woman.”
“I’ll be at the food fair. We can have a chat and a slice of cake later.” It was time to friend-zone this lothario. He was a bit too smooth for my taste.
“We should make a time and a place for our sweet date,” Pete said. “How about—”
“Pete, where do you want the lamb and mint sauce pies displayed?” A young woman with her dark curls pulled off her face in a ponytail hurried over. “There’s barely any room left on the stall.”
“We need to fit it all on. There are another dozen boxes in the van,” Pete said.
The woman shook her head. “I knew we’d brought too many.”
“Maisie, you worry too much. We’ll have sold out by the end of the day,” Pete said. He gave me another wink. “This is Maisie Bright, my catering assistant. Her middle name is panic.”
Maisie’s slightly harassed gaze met mine, and she nodded. “It’s actually realistic. I’m worried the table won’t take the weight of the food.”
“Store some in the chiller cabinet in the back of the van. If it’s slow going, I’ll do a special offer. Four pies for the price of three. How does that sound? That’ll get things moving.”
Maisie sighed before nodding. “You’re the boss.”
“And don’t you forget it.” He rubbed his hands together. “Be a good girl and get more boxes out of the back.”
Maisie bit her bottom lip but headed into the back of the van with no further comment.
Pete grinned at me. “She’s a nice girl but doesn’t have a clue about business. I’m helping her out by giving her this job. She’s fresh out of college but eager to learn, that’s the main thing.”
“It’s good you’ve taken a chance on her,” I said. “It’s more than a lot of businesses would do.”
“Everyone needs a helping hand. Now, getting back to our hot date. How about—”
“This is where you’ve been hiding?”
Pete turned and the smile on his face faded. “Ricky! I didn’t know you’d be here.”
“More like you hoped I wouldn’t find you hiding out here.” Ricky wore scruffy dark jeans, a black leather jacket, and a white T-shirt. His attention turned to me and he smiled, exposing a gold tooth. “And who are you?”
“She’s no one you need to worry about,” Pete said. “What do you want, Ricky?”
“I need to have a serious word with you.” Ricky inclined his head. “I don’t expect you want your girlfriend to hear what I have to say.”
I opened my mouth to clarify our relationship, but Pete shook his head discreetly at me.
“Let’s go to the garden. It’ll be quiet this time of the morning.” Pete nodded a goodbye before hurrying away with Ricky.
That didn’t look like it would be a friendly conversation.
I tilted my head as muttered curses and shuffling came from a food truck parked further along. I hurried over with Meatball. My eyes widened as a man teetered on the edge of the truck with a poorly balanced pile of boxes in his hands.
“Don’t take another step.” I dashed forward. “You’re about to fall off the edge.”
“Oh! Thank you. I can’t see where I’m going.” The man hidden behind the boxes sounded extremely posh.
“I’m going to take the boxes from the top, then you’ll be able to see over and I can guide you down.” I looped Meatball’s leash over the handle of the truck door so he couldn’t run off, then stood on my tip toes and grabbed three boxes. The delicious scent of basil and thyme drifted out of them.
“Is it safe to move?”
“Yes. Take a step forward and you’ll feel the first metal step.”
The man moved cautiously, peering over the top of the boxes. He let out an oomph as the boxes he held wobbled, but he made it down the steps safely. “Thank you so much. I’m on my own today and in a bit of a flap. My assistant called in sick. I was furious with him but determined to come to this fair. Then I was late. I got caught in traffic on my way. It seems like nothing’s going right today.”
“Well, now it is. I’ll help you.” I smiled at him. He was short and stout with a dark combover and bushy eyebrows. “I’m Holly. I work at the castle.”
“It’s the greatest of pleasures to meet you, Miss Holly,” the man said. “I’m Dennis Lambeth.”
“Nice to meet you, Dennis. And from the delicious smells coming from these boxes, you must be in the pie trade.”
He smiled, his stern face lighting up. “Indeed I am. Hold on a moment.” He set the boxes down and extracted a card from his pocket. “My great grandfather established Lambeth Fine Pies. He even delivered pies to the Queen.”
“How wonderful to have such an established business.”
He looked around and sighed. “The trouble is, people care nothing for tradition. They’re only interested in how cheaply they can get their pies. My business has been struggling. It’s all because these upstarts come along and undercut me.” He gestured at the other food trucks.
“That’s a shame,” I said. “Some traditions should never die. Amazing pies definitely shouldn’t.”
“I couldn’t agree more. I had to close a store in London six months ago. The rates had rocketed, and the overheads were crippling, but we were just hanging on. Then a hideous chain store opened up along from us. They do two-for-one deals in the evenings. I can’t compete with that. I source ingredients from the finest suppliers and make sure the meat comes from farmers who care for their animals. These cheap suppliers import their meat from goodness knows where. They’re most likely selling horsemeat pies and claiming it’s the finest home grown beef.” He shook his head. “Still, I shouldn’t complain to you. These food fairs do me well.”
Meatball was sniffing around the boxes of pies, his tail whipping back and forth.
I gently tugged him away. “Don’t mind him, he has excellent taste when it comes to pies.”
Dennis lifted the boxes off the ground, his gaze on Meatball. “I’m afraid he can’t have any of mine. I need to sell all of these to turn a profit.”
“Do you mind if I take a look?” I asked. “I work in the kitchens, and I’ve always got my eye out for inspiration.”
“Be my guest.” Dennis beamed with pride as I opened the box and gasped.
“They look beautiful.” The pie lids glistened, and a tiny pastry bird sat on the top of each one. “These look so different from the other seller, Pete. He introduced himself as ‘the pie man’ and said his pies were the best around.”
Dennis pushed the lid shut and scowled. “He’s here! I’m surprised they’d have him. Has anyone tasted what he sells?”
I glanced over my shoulder at the pie Meatball had rejected. “Not that I know of. You don’t approve of his pies?”
“I do not. He’s a part of my problem. Customers have forgotten what real meat pies taste like. Mine are far superior.”
Meatball whined and jumped at the boxes as if he agreed.
“You’ve definitely got one vote here,” I said.
Dennis pursed his lips. “I just hope Pete’s stall is nowhere near mine. We’ve come to blows several times. Pete’s always telling me it’s time to hang up my hat. I’ll do nothing of the sort. I’m not prepared to give up yet. I’ll beat him, no matter what it takes.”
“Hopefully, you’ll find plenty of customers today who know an amazing pie when they see one. I’ll definitely grab my own.”
Dennis huffed out a breath but nodded. “Thank you. That’s appreciated.”
I helped him carry the boxes into the m
ain marquee, then took a moment to look around. There was a luxury Belgian chocolate stand, several cheese stands, ports and fine wines on display, a champagne stand, and a huge fresh fruit stall bursting with delicious ripeness. And that was just the first row of sellers.
My mouth watered. This would be an amazing event. I couldn’t wait to be a part of it.
I was about to leave the marquee and collect Meatball, when I almost walked straight into a man wearing a baseball cap with a piece of cheese embroidered on the front.
“Excuse me. Let me guess, from that hat, you’re selling cheese today?”
He bobbed his head and nodded. “Colin Cheeseman at your service. Before you ask, that is my real surname, and its appropriateness isn’t lost on me.”
Appropriate to his name, he had clumps of straw yellow hair sticking out from under his cap and pale blue eyes. He had a long face and a twitchy nose that reminded me of a giant rodent. He couldn’t be more of a cliché if he tried.
I smiled warmly at him. “Do you specialize in a particular kind of cheese? I love a strong cheddar with pickle between two slices of freshly made bread.”
A smile lit his face. “My cheese is something special. Come this way, you can take a look for yourself.” He led me to a stall and stood beside it.
A variety of cheeses were laid out, but there was something different about them. For one thing, they didn’t smell of normal cheese.
“Have you used a different kind of milk?” I asked.
“No milk at all. They’re made from cashew nuts.”
My eyes widened. “You make this out of nuts?”
“Why not? You can buy all kinds of nut milks these days. Why not a cheese alternative?”
“Is it an easy process to produce nut cheese?”
“Much easier than using cows’ milk,” he said. “People are moving away from dairy-based cheeses. They’re high in bad cholesterol. With cashew nut cheese, you get an excellent source of healthy fats, protein, plus a delicious taste. Try some.” He lifted a tasting board full of neatly cubed pieces of cheese.
I selected a piece and tentatively placed it in my mouth. A tangy rich flavor burst on my tongue.