Baker's Coven

by Nancy Warren

I told her that she didn’t need to explain anything to me. Whatever helped her cope was surely a good thing.

  “Susan, about last night. I couldn’t believe how many women were in that circle. Are you…are you like me?”

  She gave me her full attention then and smiled. “Yes, Poppy. You didn’t know?”

  “Honestly, I’m not sure I know my madeleines from my macaroons right now.” I looked at the dog, who’d herded me out of danger. I suspected he was more than a herder of sheep and chaser of slobbery balls. “Does that make Sly your familiar?”

  “He is and he isn’t,” Susan replied. “As you’ll have noticed, he senses a sympathetic spirit and connects with people. I believe if I moved or something happened to me, he’d quickly settle into a new home. But yes. He’s my familiar. And I think that haughty and rather angry kitten is yours?”

  Gateau was nothing but sweet with me, but she’d definitely shown a tough side with Sly. I nodded. “I didn’t realize it at first. This is all very new to me.”

  “Let me make you some coffee. It will give me something to do. And then we can talk.”

  Susan’s motions were slow and considered. She looked at the kettle for an age, as if she’d never seen one before, and then remembered it needed filling. We were both silent as the water bubbled and boiled.

  I turned my attention to Sly and stroked his soft neck. “Don’t tell Gateau,” I whispered, “but I do think you are a very handsome, helpful familiar. Susan is lucky to have you.” He gave my hand a long lick and then ambled over to Susan.

  My phone buzzed, and I apologized to Susan. It was Gaurav. She told me to take the call. I wandered into the hallway and picked up the phone excitedly.

  “Have you found anything?” I asked.

  “I think so, but there’s a couple of things that just don’t make sense. I’m going to screenshot what I found online and send it to you now. See what you make of it? But Poppy, please be careful. We don’t really know what we’re getting into here. Don’t take any chances.”

  I thanked him and promised I’d be careful and then hurried back to the kitchen. When my phone dinged again a moment or two later, I opened the text and was taken aback by what I saw. But there was no time to contemplate Gaurav’s findings, as Susan handed me a heavy ceramic mug filled with steaming black coffee.

  Susan offered me the milk jug, but I shook my head. She poured a glug into her mug, seemingly mesmerized by the way the milk swirled into her coffee. After a few seconds, she gathered herself and asked me how I was.

  I told her that I was confused, troubled by what happened to Arnold. It still didn’t make sense to me that her very allergic husband had been anywhere near the bees. “And why wasn’t he carrying an EpiPen? I’ve been trying to figure out if Arnold might have had any enemies. Maybe the accident with the tower wasn’t an accident at all.” I hesitated to add any more stress onto the grieving widow, but I felt she needed to know the truth about her husband’s death.

  “Yes, the police have the same queries about that,” Susan said, stirring her coffee dejectedly, the spoon clanging against the sides.

  “Do you think someone might have had a vendetta against Arnold—something to do with the business failing, maybe? I know there was a lot of money involved.”

  Susan took a long sip of her coffee and sighed. “I never knew much about Arnold’s business or that it was in trouble. He was very private about work, and to be honest, I didn’t take much of an interest. I had the houses to run and friends, and of course, even in London I grew herbs and supervised the garden. I was always busy.”

  “It must have been a shock to lose everything and come here.” Once more, I had to wonder if she was so angry with her husband that she’d helped his end along. Not every witch was a good witch.

  “We never would have moved to the farm if we hadn’t been desperate, and while Arnold hated it, I thrived. I have sisters here, and the herbs are powerful. I’m a reasonably good herbalist. And you? What are your gifts, little sister?”

  I looked at her, startled. No one had ever addressed me as little sister before, not even Gina, even though we’d been attached at the hip as kids. I let my suspicions go for a moment and enjoyed the feeling of being connected. Like I’d come home.

  I blurted out, “I sometimes communicate with the departed.”

  Susan’s head snapped up. “You do? Have you—”

  I hastened to assure her that I hadn’t seen or heard a peep from her husband. She seemed happy. “He’s passed over, then.”

  “Yes, he’s not restless. I also think that perhaps I have some talent for uncovering the truth around suspicious deaths.”

  She looked surprised, as well she might. I’d had no idea those words were about to come out of my mouth. How many murders had I solved? One. With a lot of help. But Arnold’s death bothered me on many levels, especially as I, too, had nearly met my end here on the farm.

  “Well, I hope you’ll find out who did this to Arnold,” Susan said, tears forming in her eyes. “It won’t bring him back, but it will give me some satisfaction, I suppose. Not knowing is the worst.”

  There was a knock on the kitchen door, and the nice lady from the gift shop was there, holding muffins still steaming with warmth. “Oh,” she said when she saw me. “I hope I’m not intruding?”

  “Not at all. Poppy, this is Eileen Poole, she runs the gift shop.”

  “Yes, we’ve met.”

  The old woman smiled at me. “And did the quince jelly help?”

  “I hope so.”

  She went over to Susan and took her hand. “You’ll get through this, my dear. You’ve got the whole village as your family, now.”

  I could tell that Eileen Poole was in no hurry to leave, so I said my goodbyes.

  I could tell that Sly was torn. He wanted to come with me, and he needed to stay with Susan. “Good boy,” I whispered, giving him a final pat. He was so good. He didn’t even have his ball with him, perhaps feeling that running and playing were inappropriate in this time of grief.

  I walked back, and as I grew closer to the tent, I saw the cleaners hard at work. Trailers were packed up and all the expensive equipment secured away. Soon, we’d be done until next week. Evie was leaving the show, and already the carpenters were dismantling her workstation. I was about to head to the pub and our goodbye dinner with Evie when I caught a glimmer of orange rubber on the lawn in front of the big tent.

  No wonder Sly hadn’t had his ball with him. He’d dropped it here again. I went to fetch it, and as I bent down, I noticed the ball was in pieces. Someone had slashed it. I had a pretty good idea who. I glanced up, furious, and saw Peter Puddifoot’s lawnmower parked at the edge of the field. There was no way he could’ve needed to mow the lawn again so soon. I thought that vicious man must’ve deliberately re-mowed that section so he could destroy that beautiful dog’s beloved ball. I didn’t get red-hot rages very often, but in that moment, a veil of crimson seemed to descend over my eyes. There was already tragedy in that house. How could anyone add more? Or was he only adding to pain he himself had created?

  I headed straight into the pub, looking for my quarry. Most of the bakers were there, including Evie, who was finally relaxed and laughing over a glass of wine. As hard as it had been to have to leave the show, I thought she was relieved that her ordeal was over. The silver fox, Reginald McMahon, was sitting at a table with three men I thought might be locals and Bob Fielding, who had a tablet computer out and was showing it to the men. Looked like he was trying to sell more tires.

  He was still bundled up and looked ill.

  I thought you’d have to sell a lot of fireplace tools and iron garden accessories to be able to afford the fancy tires, but I gave the man full credit for trying to make another sale, especially as he still looked to be under the weather.

  There was, however, no sign of my quarry. Much as it would have given me satisfaction to throw the pieces of shredded rubber right into Peter Puddifoot’s face and humiliate him i
n public, I couldn’t do it. He wasn’t there.

  Eve was behind the bar, and she called me over. “How are you feeling today, Poppy?” There was such significance in her tone, I wondered what she was referring to, and then I realized she was obliquely asking how I’d enjoyed my first visit with the coven. Right now, I couldn’t even think about witch business unless there was a spell that would turn Peter Puddifoot into something unspeakable. Toad was much too good for him. Dung beetle was about right.

  “Yes, it was all fine. Have you seen Peter Puddifoot? It’s urgent.”

  Her eyebrows rose at that and, like me, she cast her gaze around the pub. “He’s usually here on a Sunday afternoon. If he’s not here, he’s probably finishing up at the operations center. That’s where they keep all the equipment.” She gave me directions, and I thanked her and headed out before the baking show contestants pulled me into their group.

  I left the pub and headed past the tent in the direction Eve had pointed me. I jumped a mile when a voice said, “What’s your hurry, sunshine?”

  I glanced around to make sure no one was in sight before answering. “Gerry. You scared me.”

  “Well, you’re stomping along with murder in your eyes, so you’re scaring me.”

  “It's that dreadful Peter Puddifoot.” I told him what had happened and showed him the pieces of ball I was still carrying.

  Even Gerry looked shocked. “What kind of vile little man goes after a nice dog like that? He’s not all there.”

  “When I’m done with him, he’ll be a sorry mess, and I will personally make sure he buys Sly another ball.”

  I was walking so fast, I was almost past the tent. Gerry said, “Poppy. Wait. Don’t go confronting the man who had the strongest motive to kill Arnold Bentley. What are you, crazy?”

  I paused. He was right. I was crazy. Crazy with rage. I shook my head. “He won’t kill me. Anyway, if he does, I just told Eve where I’m going, so he’ll be caught red-handed.”

  He reached out and tried to grab my arm, but all I felt was a slight chill on my elbow. “Poppy. I can’t follow you. And much as I’d like your company over here on the other side—think of the pranks we could play with two of us—you need to calm down and think this through.” I didn’t answer. I just kept walking. Finally, he yelled. “At least get your phone out so you can call the police if that madman attacks you.”

  Okay, he had a point. I pulled out my phone, punched in 999 and put it in my pocket where I could hit the button to connect the call if I had to.

  The afternoon was drawing to a close, but I found the paved service road hidden from view behind some ornamental fencing. I looked back to wave goodbye to Gerry, who was hovering at the edge of the tent. I also took in that great hulking lawnmower at the side of the lawn, ready to destroy more harmless dog toys, and that infuriated me all over again. Puddifoot hadn’t even bothered to put the mower away. What was he planning to do with it? Mow down the tent so no more annoying bakers would mess up his lawn?

  Every time I thought of the joyful way Sly bounded after that ball, my anger surged. Gerry, meanwhile, was like a dog at the end of his leash, straining toward me. He kept calling out. “Poppy. It’s not safe. Come back.” But I ignored him, of course. Peter Puddifoot wouldn’t dare hurt me. Besides, I had the protection spell, and just last week, when I had been threatened by Gordon, a tremendous surge of power had come over me. I would call on the power again if I needed to.

  Now that I was surrounded by a coven of powerful witches, I no longer felt so alone. Peter Puddifoot would mess with me at his peril. Even as I had these powerful thoughts, I knew I’d be glad when the encounter was over and I had given the horrible gardener a piece of my mind. Even better, I’d ensure that Sly got a new ball.

  At the end of the rough road was a clearing surrounded by trees. There wasn’t much activity going on down here at the operations center. Everything was quiet. I didn’t know where the gardener was and I couldn’t see him, so I called out his name. I wasn’t going to give him the dignity of calling out Mr. Puddifoot, and I certainly didn’t feel chummy enough to call him Peter.

  I stood there and yelled, “Peter Puddifoot.” There was no answer. Was he hiding from me?

  If he knew what was good for him, he would be. There was a garage housing tractors and farm equipment, another with a couple of old dusty trucks and a dented blue Volvo that had to be older than me. I wondered if one of those vehicles belonged to the gardener.

  Behind the second garage was a hut that had a sign saying “Office” on the front door. I went forward, clutching the pieces of orange rubber in one hand and knocking with the other. I might be furious, but I was still British enough to knock before I entered.

  I cursed myself for a fool that I hadn’t asked Eve where he lived. If he wasn’t in the pub or this hut, I’d have to keep looking.

  There was no answer, but the door was slightly ajar. I heard voices inside. Was he ignoring me while chatting to another Broomewode employee? Or on the phone?

  I stood there a minute until I realized the voice I was hearing was coming from a radio. I knocked once more and, assuming he was just ignoring me, I pushed the door open. I took a step inside, and a terrible feeling came over me. I felt dread and horror and fear. It was as powerful as a shove in the chest, and I stumbled a step back. Then I saw Peter Puddifoot. He was lying facedown on the floor. I called out his name, but I was almost certain that intensity of emotions I had experienced was a compilation of his final moments. He was dead.

  In the time it took me to accept that fact, I also took in the gash in the back of his head. On the floor beside him, looking almost as out of place as a dead body, was a fancy black iron fire poker.

  I didn’t need to read the bloodstained card to know that it was forged by Reginald McMahon and sold at the gift shop by the pub.

  As much as I hated to touch the man, I had to be absolutely certain he was dead. I crept forward, nearly gagging at the smell, and checked the pulse in his wrist. There wasn’t one. Almost worse, if anything could be worse, he wasn’t quite cold.

  I scuttled backward out of the hut and then, taking my phone in my shaking hand, completed the call.

  I told the emergency operator what I’d found and where, and she told me to stay right where I was. I understood that it was the right thing to do, but the thought of standing here alone when there was a murderer somewhere in the area was terrifying.

  I would stay here as instructed, but I couldn’t handle standing here alone. Luckily, we bakers had shared phone numbers amongst ourselves. I scanned through, wondering who I could call, and I immediately saw Hamish. Of course. Solid, reliable, Scottish cop Hamish. I didn’t want to alarm him or the others, so I simply asked him to meet me at the shed by the operations center. “And if you could come immediately, I’d really appreciate it.”

  He didn’t argue or ask foolish questions. “I’m on my way.”

  Even so, it seemed like a very long time before he arrived, though it took three minutes. I knew, because I kept watching my phone second by second.

  I imagined he’d come alone, but when he arrived, Gaurav was with him.

  No doubt they’d been sitting together when he got the call and Gaurav insisted on coming along. I couldn’t worry about that now. Briefly, I told them both what I’d discovered.

  Hamish immediately went into police mode. “You called it in?”

  “Yes. Emergency services are on their way.”

  “You’re sure he’s dead?”

  I shuddered. “Positive.”

  He nodded, then stepped toward the hut. He pulled his sweatshirt sleeve down over his hand and used it to nudge the door open. He didn’t step inside but examined the same view I’d recently seen. He came back. “Poor sod. He wouldn’t have known what hit him.”

  “I guess that’s good,” Gaurav said. “But I was so sure he’d killed Arnold Bentley.”

  Hamish nodded as we stood there in the gathering gloom. “He definitely had th
e motive, the means, and the opportunity. But if he killed Arnold Bentley, then who killed him?”

  “Or did the same person kill both of them? And if so, why?”

  I sighed. “I didn’t like the man, and he was horrible to Sly, but that’s an awful way to die.”

  I shivered, in cold and reaction, and without saying a word, Gaurav slipped off his woolen coat and put it over my shoulders. It felt warm and as comforting as a hug.

  It wasn’t long until the police arrived. First an ambulance, and then, inevitably, Detective Inspector Hembly and Sergeant Lane.

  The paramedics went in first and confirmed that Peter Puddifoot was dead. Then, before anyone else was allowed in, the detectives put on crime scene boots and gloves and entered the hut.

  DI Hembly came out alone a few minutes later. Very briefly I told him what I had found. He nodded and asked me to wait at the inn until they could take my statement.

  I longed to be back at the warm and cozy inn, but before I left, I wanted to tell them about the poker. “There’s something you should know. The fire poker that was used to kill Peter Puddifoot—” I paused and then continued, “at least I think it’s the murder weapon. It’s got his blood and some of his hair on it.”

  The older man nodded. “Forensics will confirm, but it seems the likely murder weapon. Have you seen it before?”

  I nodded. “They sell them at the gift shop here. The blacksmith who makes them, Reginald McMahon, is in the pub right now.”

  His face didn’t change expression, but it shifted slightly. In DI Hembly, this was akin to a normal person’s jaw dropping open in shock. “Reginald McMahon. We met him today. He came to check on Susan Bentley while we were there.”

  “I believe they are close friends,” I said, not wishing to accuse one of my sister witches of murder but also not prepared to shield her if she was guilty.

  He glanced up in the direction of the inn. “I’ll be up shortly. I think it might be useful to have a word with Mr. McMahon.”

  Hamish said, “The baking contestants are all at the pub having a final meal before we leave. Can Poppy join us?”