The Great Witches Baking Show

by Nancy Warren

  Sergeant Lane said, “We’ll need to speak to all of you, I’m afraid.”

  “But I don’t understand. It’s very sad that Gerry died, but people die every day.” He gestured to all of us. “We only baked with him. We didn’t know the man. It’s nothing to do with us.”

  “In the case of such an…unusual death, I’m afraid we have to be very thorough in our investigation, sir.”

  Amara went forward, and in a soft voice, I heard her ask when they might be allowed to leave. I needed some quiet, so I slipped away to my room.

  I was perched on the edge of the bed when a knock on my door broke my reverie. I stood, surprised at the interruption of my whirring thoughts.

  “Poppy? It’s Florence. Open up.”

  I opened the door. Florence had changed into black silk trousers and a loose-fitting blouse. She held out a bag of sweet popcorn and a wrapped sandwich. “How are you holding up?” she asked. “Elspeth asked me to bring you a sandwich. But the popcorn was my idea. Sweet snacks? To take our minds off things?”

  I smiled at her weakly, and she flung her arms around me. I was soothed by the soft, powdery scent of her perfume. I was glad she was there. I’d tried calling Gina, but her phone was off. She’d left right after filming ended, on babysitting duty again. I wondered whether the police would want to interview her anyway. I’d had a missed call from my parents, no doubt desperate to hear about the day’s events. I’d thought about returning the call, knowing how well they could console me, but I didn’t want to worry them by telling the truth. It would have to wait until more was uncovered about Gerry’s death.

  “You must be feeling absolutely wretched,” Florence said.

  It was a strange phenomenon, losing someone we hardly knew. But some of us had also bonded with him quickly. Although it had only been a weekend, the intensity of the show meant I felt like I’d already known him for years.

  Florence swept her long hair into a neat bun at the nape of her neck and then opened the popcorn. “How are you holding up? I don’t think I could handle seeing a dead body.” She shuddered delicately.

  I paused for a moment. I saw them all the time, just in ghost form. “I’m fine. I mean, I’m sad. Kinda spooked.” I shook my head as she offered me the packet. I was struggling to get through the egg and watercress sandwich, though I knew Elspeth was right. I needed to eat. “But I’m confused, too. I still don’t understand what’s happened. The police are acting like it’s a suspicious death, but Gerry kept saying it was faulty.”

  “He also claimed he was being sabotaged. There might have been foul play,” she said, settling on the bed and pulling her knees up to her chest.

  “But why? Who would hurt Gerry? He was already off the show.”

  “Who knows? Gerry managed to make enemies in a short time,” she said, frowning.

  “What did the police ask you?” I got up from the bed, pulled the heavy red curtains shut and switched on another lamp. It cast a warm glow across the room.

  “It was Sergeant Lane. He’s a dish, isn’t he? Well, he asked about my movements for the whole day. I mean, crazy detailed like how long I took for lunch, everyone I spoke to today, if any strangers had been loitering on the grounds. It took ages. He wrote every little thing I said down in his notebook. It made me feel like I’d done something wrong.”

  I gulped. I didn’t want to tell the police I’d spent the morning knocking at the staff door of Broomewode Hall. How could I possibly explain what I’d been doing there? But withholding information from the police wasn’t an option. I was going to have to tell the whole truth and hope it didn’t make me sound suspicious.

  “You know,” Florence said, leaning forward as if she were telling me a secret, “being holed up in here is making me feel strangely guilty. Like we’re the criminals.”

  Her voice had a touch of drama in it, and it dawned on me that in a weird way, she might be enjoying the day’s events, the drama of it. I dismissed the thought, though, as cruel. Surely only a psychopath could revel in someone’s death.

  “And,” she continued, “I’m also a bit worried about my own safety. I mean, is there a lunatic wandering the grounds of Broomewode Hall?”

  Yes, I thought. His name is Benedict, and he plays dress-up and wields a sword. “Goodness,” I replied. “I hadn’t even considered that.”

  “It makes you wonder who you can trust here. Just to think, this morning everything was fun and games. I mean, we’re literally on a game show. But now…”

  She trailed off, and her deep brown eyes bore into mine, full of sadness. I didn’t know what to say. Nothing was making sense. Florence kept eating the popcorn, though I was surprised to find that she could eat at a time like this. As if she read my mind, Florence said, “I eat when I’m stressed. It’s a curse for my waistline. Sure you don’t want some?”

  I shook my head. There was a loud knock at the door.

  “Miss Wilkinson? It’s Sergeant Lane.”

  “Just a sec,” I called back.

  “Oh gosh,” Florence whispered. “I’m in for it now! He’ll wonder what we’re plotting.”

  “Don’t worry,” I whispered. “Say you were feeling scared. I have a feeling you’ll play a very convincing damsel in distress.”

  I opened the door. “Sergeant Lane,” I said.

  “Miss Wilkinson…and Miss Cinelli, too, I see.”

  Florence said, “I knocked on Poppy’s door to make sure she was holding up okay and to bring her some food. I was just leaving.” She scooted past Sergeant Lane and gave me a brief wave on her way out.

  “You’ve had a traumatic day. I’m glad you have someone looking out for you.” He smiled. Those dimples. “We need to ask you some more questions downstairs.”

  I took a deep breath, gathered my thoughts and followed him down to the private room they were using as an interview room. He shut the door behind me with a bang that made us both jump.

  Chapter 9

  The inn had a private dining room, which had been made into a makeshift interview room. A quiet contestant named Gaurav, whom I’d barely seen all weekend, was just leaving. He was tall and slim with a permanent bashful look on his face. When I’d first heard him speak, it was in a soft Birmingham accent. He was demure and liked to use ginger and cinnamon in his baking, two of my favorite ingredients. His cakes looked delicious. He flashed a small smile my way. I returned it and made a mental note to talk to him more; he seemed nice and maybe a little bit lonely on the show. But then I caught myself. After what Florence had said about not knowing who to trust, I was already second-guessing my instincts. I’d just have to keep my barriers up until all this nasty business was over.

  Detective Inspector Hembly was seated bolt upright in a wooden chair placed at the head of a long, antique-looking dining table. In a row on the wall behind him hung three oil paintings, each depicting a fruit: a bowl of cherries, a ripe-looking pear, and a bunch of glossy purple grapes. Through a square, latticed window I could see the light of the moon throwing a pearly gauze over the sprawling fields of Broomewode Hall. Three low-hanging chandeliers lit the room, making an oddly romantic atmosphere for a situation so serious. Deadly serious. In front of DI Hembly was a small paper notepad and two black pens. He looked up as I came in and Gaurav left.

  “Miss Wilkinson. Please take a seat.” He pointed at the chair opposite him. Sergeant Lane sat beside him, notebook open and ready.

  I crossed my legs at the ankles and gathered my hands in my lap so as to avoid fidgeting. It was like being interviewed for college or my first job. I was more nervous than I’d been filming all weekend, more worried than when I was staring into the depths of the oven, praying for the sponge to rise. Florence was right: I felt tremendously on edge, as if I’d committed a crime. I told myself to calm down and try to stop sweating.

  Detective Inspector Hembly talked me through the interview procedure, telling me they just needed a clearer picture of the day’s events. He gave me his usual, fatherly expression. “I
understand from the others that you were closest to Gerry.”

  A pang of grief hit me sharply. “Yes. I didn’t know him well, obviously. We only met yesterday, but we’d sort of teamed up. We promised to help each other get through this.”

  “Did you notice anyone unfamiliar loitering around the set or on the grounds of Broomewode Hall?” he asked in a brusque but not unfriendly voice.

  The sudden change of subject jarred me, as perhaps he’d meant it to. “No, nothing at all. But to be honest, there are so many people involved with filming the show that I’m not sure I’d notice who was meant to be there and who wasn’t. The crew is huge, and I haven’t spoken to all of them. It’s hard to keep track.”

  He nodded, his eyes on me, but I didn’t know whether he was trying to be kind or examining me for signs of lying. I tried to arrange my face into something resembling neutrality, like I’d seen Florence do, but I think the effect looked more like I needed the bathroom.

  “Did Gerald get along with everyone in the cast and crew?” DI Hembly continued. “You mentioned earlier that he felt he was being ‘sabotaged’?”

  “Yes. But I’m sure everyone heard him say that.”

  “Could he have been telling the truth?”

  “His baking was a bit of a disaster. First his cake was undercooked, then his lemon tart was salty, and finally, his pie was burned. That was why he went back to the tent to check the oven. He was so certain something was wrong with it. I never should have let him go back there alone.”

  “You weren’t to know,” Sergeant Lane said gently.

  I paused to think and order my words. “He managed to make some enemies this weekend, but it was small stuff. Nothing anyone would kill over.”

  “You’d be surprised,” DI Hembly said in the tone of one who’d seen it all.

  I stared for a moment at the painting of the pear above his head. How alone and vulnerable it seemed, marooned on the vast canvas with its rippling layers of brown and gold oil paint.

  “I suppose first it was Marcus.”

  “Marcus Hoare?” Sergeant Lane confirmed, scribbling in his notebook.

  “Yes. The banker. Actually, there’s something you really need to know.” I felt awful tattling on Marcus like we were in school, but for Gerry’s sake I had to tell the police what he’d told me. “They knew each other before the show.”

  The two detectives exchanged a glance. I had no idea what it meant. Had Marcus told them about Gerry and his wife? Or not? Maybe they hadn’t even interviewed him yet. “How did they know each other?” Detective Inspector Hembly asked.

  This was hard. How could I explain it tactfully?

  “Gerry and Marcus knew each other because Gerry did some work on Marcus Hoare’s house. Gerry said he’d known Marcus’s wife…quite well.”

  “Are you saying they had an affair?” Clearly, the detectives weren’t interested in tact.

  “He didn’t say that in so many words, but it was the impression he gave, yes.”

  DI Hembly tapped his fingertips on the scarred dining table. “I see.”

  “Gerry is…was…quite playful in nature. But Marcus acted like they’d never met—even when they were face-to-face.

  “And yesterday, Marcus knocked over one of Gerry’s bowls during filming.” I gasped. Why hadn’t I seen it before? I leaned forward. “It was the challenge where Gerry’s tarte came out salty instead of sweet. I was so busy with my own tart that I didn’t pay much attention at the time, but I saw Marcus spill Gerry’s sugar and swiftly put it back into the bowl. Now I wonder if he did replace some of the sugar with salt?” And I’d pooh-poohed Gerry’s assertion that his tart had been tampered with.

  The sergeant wrote notes, but neither of them seemed overly impressed with the salt-instead-of-sugar story.

  “Anything else?”

  I explained what happened when Gerry was voted off the show and how irate Donald Friesen had been when Gerry threated to go to the press, throwing his burnt pie across the tent. The whole exchange had only taken two minutes, but it had shaken everyone up a bit. Donald was supposed to be in control, the senior and reliable member of the production crew. For him to have acted out like that was deeply unsettling. Once more, they both seemed underwhelmed by my news. No doubt everyone who’d been there had already told them about the Friesen incident.

  “He also had words with the electrician about the oven. Told him he didn’t know the first thing about appliances.”

  I stopped, embarrassed on Gerry’s behalf. He’d been so kind to me, it was difficult to believe that he’d managed to upset three people over the course of the weekend. But now, saying all of this out loud, I realized that Gerry had certainly not been a saint.

  “Anything else you can think of?”

  Before I could answer, there was a knock at the door and a young paramedic stuck her head around the door. She was red-cheeked and panting, as if she’d been running. “Sorry to interrupt, sir,” she said, “but I think you might want to see this.” Sergeant Lane stepped out of the room. DI Hembly looked at me expectantly.

  “No,” I answered. “We didn’t talk about anything serious. I didn’t really know anything about his life except that he renovated houses and was considered to be pretty good at it.” I stopped, suddenly remembering our conversation over breakfast. I’d been so worried about having to explain why I went to the manor house in the early hours that I’d completely forgotten about last night’s poker game. “Detective Inspector Hembly, I don’t know how it could have flown out of my brain like this, but I also saw Gerry this morning at breakfast. We were both up early. Gerry was pretty worse for wear with a hangover. He’d played poker with some of the contestants and crew last night. It was a bit of a boys’ night. I’m not sure who was there, but Gerry won the game. He really cleaned up. Marcus was convinced Gerry had cheated.”

  He nodded. Again, this wasn’t news. No doubt someone who’d been present would give them a list of who’d played and how much they’d lost.

  The door opened, and Sergeant Lane returned holding something in a sealed plastic bag. He set it down on the table.

  “Gerry’s wallet!” I exclaimed.

  Sergeant Lane looked at his boss and raised an eyebrow. “How did you know that?” he asked.

  “I was just explaining how Gerry played poker last night. He showed me his wallet this morning, and it was stuffed full of cash. A big bundle of notes. He was bragging about his win. I don’t think some of the guys were so happy about his winning streak.” The wallet was the kind hikers use, made of dark green fabric and held together with Velcro. Easy to recognize, except it was a lot slimmer now.

  “You’re sure the cash was in this wallet this morning?” Sergeant Lane asked me.

  “Yes. He showed me the money and then put it back.”

  “There’s nothing in it now but Gerry’s gym membership and driver’s license.”

  The two officers left the room. I heard them talking in hushed tones outside the door, but I couldn’t make out any words. My head was all over the place. How could someone rob a dead man? Or was he mugged beforehand? Was there really a person out there so mad at Gerry that they could kill him? I shook my head. This was a bad line of thinking, and I refused to go down that road. I stood and began pacing the room. A large wood and glass cabinet housed three shelves of crystal glassware. A brown leather chesterfield couch fit snugly between two pillars. A black Inglenook fireplace took center stage at the back of the room, a neat pile of logs flanking each side. So many happy occasions must have taken place here. Birthday parties, anniversaries, maybe even a small wedding reception. And now it was being used for a police enquiry.

  I leaned against the window and rested my head against the cool glass, looking out into the dark grounds of Broomewode Hall. The gardens around the inn had been planted with beautiful whitebeam trees, and in the faint moonlight, I could just make out their bushy green leaves swaying in the breeze. How could somewhere so tranquil and lovely become the scene
for something so terrible? I was staring into the dark when a sudden sound startled me. Was that a meow? I looked up, and sure enough, the black cat was prowling outside the window. She looked cold and stared at me, clearly asking to be let in. “Hi, sweet thing. I thought you’d scampered off,” I murmured, pushing up the window.

  The cat wasted no time stepping inside and jumping to the ground. She circled my ankles, rubbing her little pink nose into the folds of my jeans. I bent and lifted her into my arms. Her fur was chilly, but I thought I received as much comfort as I gave. “How did you know I was in here? Was Elspeth right? Are you my little guardian angel now?” She mewed in response. “Well, I’ll have to give you a name. Can’t just be calling you cat now, can I? You need a suitably sweet one. Crumble? Strudel? Waffle?” The cat looked at me, unimpressed. “No? You don’t like those? How about Gateau?” She began to purr. “Gateau it is, then. At least until I find your real owner.” Gateau was French for cake, and she was absolutely as sweet as any cake I’d ever eaten. I could see her in my cottage, sitting in a chair, watching me bake. I hoped Mildred would take to her all right.

  The door opened again. “Miss Wilkinson?” It was Sergeant Lane.

  “Honestly, please call me Poppy. I’ve never been called Miss Wilkinson in my life.”

  “You’re holding a cat.”

  Nice bit of detective work.

  “Yes. She followed me this evening, and I heard her mewing outside, so I let her in.” He seemed to like cats, so I told him I’d named the cat Gateau.

  His dimples deepened when he laughed. Florence was right; he was a dish. “I’m a hero with my niece since I turned up with two strays. Brothers. Fortunately, my sister let her keep them. She named them Slush and Squidgy.”

  DI Hembly came back into the room. He stared at me and shook his closely shorn head, seemingly baffled.

  “She followed me,” I said by way of explanation. He obviously decided to ignore the crazy cat lady and continue with more serious police business. I guessed he came across eccentric people all the time in his line of work. I was all ready to tell them about my unauthorized visit to Broomewode Hall and, if pressed, I’d even tell them why I wanted to know more about the place. However, instead of asking for my movements all day, he merely said, “Thank you for your help. You’ll need to stay tonight, but the production company will cover the cost.”