by Carrie Marsh
“Hello?”
The waitress smiled and offered her a seat. Laura shook her head. “I need to talk to Mr. Priestly. Is he in?”
She ushered Laura to the back office and, when Mr. Priestly arrived, Laura shrank back at the air of threat around him.
“You,” he said. “I thought I told you last time to stop asking questions.”
Laura bridled. “You can keep that tone to yourself, Mr. Priestly. I only needed to know why you chose to fabricate your whereabouts at the time of Peter Duvall’s death.”
Mr. Priestly went white. Laura was shaking, but trying not to show it. I've done it now, she thought, feeling scared. She instinctively backed away as the man came towards her.
“How dare you?” he said, quite softly. “What is it that you're implying?”
“Nothing,” Laura said carefully. “I merely wish to know why you let it be known you were in Canterbury, when you were here. I would like to give you a chance to clear your name.”
“Clear my name!” he laughed. It was not a pleasant sound. “Of what?”
“Of...” Laura started, and swallowed hard. She could not say it. She looked up at his face, suffused with anger, and stood up.
“I should tell you to clear off,” Mr. Priestly continued harshly. “Before I do you an injury.”
Laura turned white. No one had ever threatened her in such a manner.
“How dare you?” she said under her breath.
He didn't even blink, but stayed where he was, his bulk threatening her where he stood, one hand in a fist, partially blocking the door. Laura stood and glared at him. He stepped aside just far enough for her to leave, and she walked through briskly, heels clicking on the stairs as she walked to her car.
Inside, she collapsed at the wheel, breath shuddering through her body in heaving sobs.
“That man is a murderer,” she said quietly. “I know it! And he just threatened me.”
She felt dazed, so frightened as to be beyond thought. Nothing made sense. The whole world was without any coherence. She wanted to go home, get into bed, and never get out.
“He threatened me.”
It didn't make sense. Still reeling, Laura drove back to the village.
“Ask Bethany to take over supper service, please Jan?” Laura said brokenly, walking to the desk. “I feel awful. I have to go home.”
“Laura?” Janet was concerned. “You look terrible! My friend, what happened? You should see someone...”
“I'm fine,” Laura insisted, though her voice wobbled dangerously. “I'm fine.”
“The baking practice this evening? You will be there, won't you L?”
“I'll try,” Laura said thinly.
As she walked out of the hotel to her car, she suddenly remembered she was, in fact, scheduled to see a doctor. Howard had asked her to meet him.
“I can't meet him and Janet,” Laura said sadly. “I just don't have the energy. I'll go home, have a shower and some tea, and then I'll drive to Janet's house.” She stepped on the gas, heading home.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
PASTRY AND PROGRESSION
“How are those pastry shells doing, L?”
“Uh...” Laura bent down to stare into the oven in Janet's stone-flagged kitchen. “Good.”
“Can we take them out? The filling is done, and I'm going to need the oven space for the pastries...”
“Okay,” Laura agreed, and bent to take the quiche pastry from the oven, breathing in the savory scent of cooking. She wanted to relax, but half her mind was elsewhere. She could not stop thinking about Howard, at the cottage at the other end of the village. She also could not stop feeling scared.
“Here we are...” Janet said, triumphant, as she lowered the tray of Danish pastries into the oven. “Those little chaps need thirty minutes, and then I need to take them out again.”
“Good,” Laura said again, straightening her aching back. She felt so tired and old.
“Have a glass of this Cabernet, Laura,” Janet offered, brandishing her own. “It's good, I promise. And you can't cook when you're so worried.”
“I'm okay,” Laura smiled. “It's good to be here with you, Jay.”
“Thanks,” Janet smiled, and raised her glass in salute, draining it. She was wearing a pink apron over her usual black business-suit, her red hair pulled away from her narrow face with a sweat band.
“Those smell good,” Laura observed, breathing in as the cheese melted and the Danish pastries cooked.
“They do,” Janet agreed, filling two glasses and passing one to Laura. “I'm excited for our quiche...they look so stunning! When do we fill them?”
“Give them ten minutes to cool,” Laura advised.
“Then we can put them in when my lot are cooked,” Janet smiled. “Laura, this is all working out so well. What if we do win?”
Laura grimaced. “Would you want to be a chef at a hotel?”
“In that hotel? Who wouldn't?” Janet raised a brow. “And besides, working with Nigel would be good, wouldn't it?” she smiled suggestively, and Laura smiled, shaking her head at her friend.
“I suppose so,” she agreed, and bent to check the oven. The pastries were rising beautifully, and she had to agree with Janet that they had a chance of at least winning the amateur category.
At the counter, Janet was tapping the pastry cases, checking they were cool enough to fill.
“You want to get going with those, Jay?” Laura smiled. “I'll do one tray, you do the other.”
“Awesome,” Janet agreed, and fetched some spoons.
As Laura spooned the first mix into a shell, her phone rang.
“Oh, goodness...I need to take that, Jay. If you could carry on without me?”
“Oh, fine,” Janet smiled. “I'm enjoying myself.”
Laura rushed to the hallway and took her phone from her coat. It was Howard.
“Hi?”
“Hi, Laura. I got your message. Sorry you couldn't make it.”
“I know. I am too. I'll tell you later.”
“Okay,” Howard said, sounding concerned. “I hope you're all right, Laura?”
“Mm,” Laura agreed, noncommittally. “I'm fine. Did you want to tell me something?”
“Yes,” he began. “I just went to the cottage. It is a terrible mess, like you said. I recommended that she move out of there, but she was adamant she has to stay. I think she's a bit disorientated, Laura. She wasn't sure where she was, or who I was, most of the time.”
“She seemed okay when I was there,” Laura said defensively.
“She's lucid, I agree,” Howard demurred. “I just don't know how kind it would be to spring too many changes on her at once.”
“You're right,” Laura agreed humbly.
“I had a look, and she has quite advanced arthritis. I gave her anti-inflammatory medicine and painkillers for it, and the relief seems to have been instant. She also has a persistent lung infection. I prescribed an antibiotic, and I'll drop it off for her tomorrow. Though if we can't get her out of those surroundings she'll just get worse. Thank goodness you told me, Laura,” he sighed. “That infection could have killed her.”
“I'm so glad I found her,” Laura said, almost mentioning Monty having been responsible but remembering at the last minute that Howard did not know about her special relationship with Monty.
“I'll see what I can do for her,” Howard said. “We can move her slowly, I think. If you were there, she would feel safer. She trusts you. I'd like to take her down to the clinic tomorrow, while someone can sort out somewhere for her to live. She must have some relatives!”
“I know,” Laura agreed quietly. “That's what I thought. We have to find out more.”
“Yes,” Howard agreed. “We do. You'll come tomorrow, Laura? At six o' clock?”
“I'll do my best,” Laura agreed.
They said good-bye and hung up, and Laura arrived in the kitchen in time to see the Danish pastries, fresh out of the oven.
S
he and Janet had a great time baking and sampling their products, and agreed that they had finalized their recipes for the competition. They would bake again the next morning, to be in time for the first round of judging on Saturday afternoon.
Laura drove home feeling quite at peace with life.
CHAPTER THIRTY
FRESH SUSPICION
“Yoo-hoo!”
Laura blinked, hearing someone call out to her as she climbed the steps up to the hotel. It was a crisp morning, the stiff breeze rustling her coat as she climbed and blowing the raindrops off the bushes by the entrance. “Hello?” Laura looked about for the source of the call, but could see no one.
“I'm here!” the voice called back. “By the back of the van.”
Laura looked round and noticed a large van parked near the entrance. It was white with a large pink sign on which was printed the picture of sausage-rolls.
The writing above the picture proclaimed: “Sadie's bakery”.
The owner of the voice was standing around the side, still obscured by the bulk of the van.
“Hello?” Laura called out, stepping round the side.
“Hi!”
She was surprised to see a small woman with dark hair half-concealed under a pink hat looking up at her with a pretty and earnest smile.
“Sadie Nesbitt,” she said, sticking out a gloved hand for Laura to shake. Laura took it, feeling slightly bewildered.
“Laura Howcroft,” she introduced herself. “You're here for the competition?” she asked, distantly.
“Oh, of course – silly me!” the woman giggled. “I should have explained. I'm not here for the competition – not exactly. I'm here to take part in the fete. Ms. Lisson said there was going to be one, and they needed a food truck.”
“Oh,” Laura said. Janet had mentioned it briefly. “Yes. That's right. Come inside, Ms. Nesbitt,” she added, waving her up the steps. “I'll take you to Janet – she's in charge of the layout for the fairground.”
As Laura walked from the reception area to her office, leaving Janet and the newly-arrived baker chatting animatedly away, she felt a moment of misgiving.
Another baker in Millerfield?
She sighed.
“Stop it, Laura,” she said to herself, sitting at her desk and reaching for some paperwork. “Just because your suspects are all in the baking trade doesn't mean everyone with an ounce of dough is about to murder people.”
She chuckled to herself, and scrolled down her list of emails, checking for reservations. There were a few, and she bent over the book to write them down.
As she did, she heard voices – two people walking through the dining-room to the smoker's terrace outside.
“...and I had thought my husband and I were on your list for the franchise...”
“I'm sorry, Ms. Nesbitt,” the other voice replied, “but we decided it would be more fruitful to situate it here. Maidstone is a bit far out of our current sphere, and I want to extend out from our existing client base...”
The voices faded as the two passed through the door to the terrace, and then died away altogether as the door was closed.
Laura sat back at her desk, feeling as if she had just been hit on the head.
The first voice was clearly Ms. Nesbitt, the newly-arrived itinerant baker. The second voice was, as clearly, one she recognized. Mr. Halston.
“Oh, no,” Laura said, closing her eyes.
She had just acquired another suspect.
“Hi, Laura!” A voice spoke from close to Laura's desk, and she jumped, surprised while lost in her thoughts.
“Janet,” she sighed. “You scared me.”
“Sorry. Didn't mean to,” Janet said fondly. “I just wanted to share this with you. Sadie brought us some sample pastries! I've never had a Cornish Pasty like these little ones she does before...you have to try one.”
Laura looked at the plate, clearly dismayed.
“I'm sorry, Jay,” she said weakly. “But I really have no appetite. I wish I did,” she added, “but you'll have to finish them alone.”
“That's okay,” Janet said brightly. “But Laura, are you feeling really bad? I mean...” she trailed off.
“I'm okay, Jay,” Laura said bravely. “Thank you for asking. But I'll be fine. Honest. I just need a cup of tea.”
“Oh...” Janet began, and then paused. “Phone. Got to go...”
As Janet went dashing off to answer the telephone at reception, Laura wiped a hand across her brow. She felt ill, it was true. The thought of pastries was simply too much to bear.
“Come on, Laura,” she told herself, “you're thinking too hard. You'll make yourself ill.”However, she couldn't help it. The newcomer, Sadie Nesbitt, did seem a likely suspect – her voice when she was talking to Mr. Halston had been bitter – the loss of the franchise clearly angered her. Would she have been angry enough to kill?
“Had Mr. Halston actually made a deal with Duvall?” she asked herself. “And if he had, would Sadie know about it?” Biting her lip, Laura decided that she had to find the time to talk to her new suspect.
After lunch, Laura's opportunity arose. She was overseeing the placement of furniture in the main tent – they needed benches for the contestants to display wares, a platform for the judges, seats, and somewhere to put the PA system when it arrived. She walked past the area Janet had set aside for stalls in time to see Ms. Nesbitt climbing out of her truck.
“Hi...” Laura called, waving in what she hoped was a relaxed manner.
“Hi. Laura, correct?” the woman replied, walking over to greet her.
“That's right,” Laura smiled. “How's the set up going?”
“Well,” Sadie replied. “I'm used to it. Could set this place up with my eyes closed, I should think!” She giggled, and Laura found herself doubting her previous misgivings.
“You do this a lot, I guess,” Laura said conversationally.
“That's right,” the woman replied, reaching into the hatch at the side and checking a switch. “I do this side of things – food trucks, catering outside town – and my husband runs the main bakery in the town.”
“Seems like a sound idea,” Laura commented. “You must do well.”
“We do,” the woman shrugged. “Not so bad. We were thinking of broadening our horizons, actually, me and him. Getting extra business.”
“Oh?” Laura asked, holding her breath. The matter of the franchise would come up soon, she was sure. “Your food-truck business, or..?”
“Oh, no!” the woman smiled. “Something completely different. Only it didn't work out. Some bastard – 'scuse me – wriggled out of it.”
“Oh?” Laura was interested.
“We had this deal, see?” the woman continued, walking round to the back of the truck and digging out a connection in the array of wiring. Laura followed her, interested to hear what she had to say.
“A deal?”
“Mm,” she agreed, holding a spare pen between her teeth as she dug lower down in her toolkit for something. She produced a screwdriver and went to work on the connection. “This guy who owns a big firm, he said we could have a franchise of his business. He had supper with us and everything,” she said savagely, pulling the connection apart and going in after the wires.
“Really?”
“Yes. It was like it was a certainty, and then, at the last minute, he changed. Said he'd given it to someone else.”
Laura held her breath. This was her moment. “Did he tell you who?” she asked evenly.
“No,” the woman said, sliding the offending wire back into place and closing the plug deftly. “All he said was it was someone here, in Millerfield village. I don't know who it was,” she said, and looked up at Laura, her eyes dark. “But whoever it was, it was someone here. And now I hate every baker in the place.”
The venom with which she said it made Laura step back and she almost collided with a post. “Really?” she asked nervously.
“Yes,” the woman replied, savagely sta
bbing the tool back into her set. “I'd sort them out properly, if I could. Bastards,” she added. “Sorry,” she demurred, clearly noticing how stricken Laura looked.
“It's okay,” Laura said delicately, still feeling like she was about to faint. “I'm sorry you feel that way,” she added. “It must have been quite a shock.”
The woman snorted. “It was. We'd been planning and everything, and to have it all torn away at the last moment...It made me quite murderous.”
“I'd better go,” Laura said distantly as she looked at her watch. “I'll see you around...”
“Bye,” she called cheerfully, turning to work on the next set of wiring.
Laura walked across the field, slowly and then faster, so that, by the time she reached the sanctuary of the top stairs, she was taking them at a run.
“There's something to find out here,” she said as she collapsed into her office.
So much anger seemed a motive in itself.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
THE CONTEST
“And the Millerfield baking contest is about to begin...”
The village band was there, the bandstand decked with the ubiquitous helium balloons. The hotel owner was there, and Mr. Merrick, sitting on a dais raised in the hotel garden. The tent was set up, and filled with tables for people to display their entries. There was a wagon selling chips, a small flea market, and there was even a representative from the mayoral council.
Laura surveyed the scene at the Woodend Hotel, feeling oddly territorial. She and Janet had worked so hard to organize the event, and now it was happening.
Standing behind their table, on which quiches and pastries were laid out invitingly, Laura felt quite proud.
Janet, dressed in a dark suit with a pink silk scarf, was in her element. She had not stopped talking since they arrived, and was now chatting up the man in the stall next door, a tall, blue-eyed farmer whose stall displayed peach tarts.
“I wouldn't mind sinking my teeth into one of those...” she said, grinning.