Murder Always Barks Twice

by Jennifer Hawkins

  “All right,” said Emma. “If you could just email us with the numbers for each, we’ll give you a menu and cost estimates. If those meet with the board’s approval, we’ll have a tasting on Friday to finalize the choices. Four o’clock would . . .”

  “Eleven,” counted Caite. “This is an extremely busy time for the board, as I’m sure you understand.”

  “That will be fine,” replied Emma.

  “We can finalize the details at that time,” said Angelique.

  Caite’s little frozen smile said we’ll see. “Now, if you will excuse us? We have other business we should be discussing.”

  Angelique and Pearl gathered notepads and folders. So did Emma, but more slowly. When the others were heading for the door, she deliberately went around the table and reached her hand out.

  “I trust we’ll be able to show you that the board has made the right decision in contacting us.”

  Caite’s hands stayed on the table, and she turned her big blue eyes up toward Emma.

  “I will be perfectly honest with you, Miss Reed, I expect the entire business to be a spectacular failure.” She smiled and leaned close to whisper. “And I’m very much looking forward to it.”

  4

  Emma, Angelique and Pearl were barely halfway across the great room, when Marcie caught up with them.

  “I do apologize for Caite,” she said. “She’s just so anxious for everything to go right. This has all been very upsetting.”

  She said it smoothly, like she was used to apologizing for other people. She clearly didn’t like it, but she did it, because somebody had to.

  Emma found herself wondering about Marcie, and about Caite. How did they get to this point? There was clearly an ongoing war between them, of the particularly polite drawing room sort. What had happened? It had apparently involved some cash going missing. But how . . . ?

  Usually, when Emma got thoughts like this, she admonished herself for too much curiosity. Her need to know things that were not necessarily her business had been getting her into trouble since she was a little girl. This time, however, she had a perfectly legitimate interest in the answers.

  “That’s quite all right, Marcie,” Angelique was saying. “We understand this is a difficult time.”

  “Thanks,” said Marcie. “I wish I didn’t have to lay our problems on you, but at this point we have very little choice. Canceling the festival . . . well, it would just be a disaster, especially this year.”

  “Why this year?” asked Pearl before Emma could.

  Marcie’s cheeks reddened. “Sorry, slip of the tongue. Any year would be bad, but there’s some personal things going on as well, and well . . . we’ll see you Friday. I know you’ll put everybody’s doubts to rest for good and all. Thanks again.” She hurried back into the parlor.

  “Right,” said Angelique as soon as the door closed. “My office, I think.”

  “Right behind you,” said Emma.

  At least she would be as soon as she’d had a quick look round the great room to make sure everything was still going smoothly. The last few guests were lingering over their half-empty cups, and Becca and Bella clearly had everything in hand.

  With Oliver’s able assistance, of course.

  “Emma!” He bounded up to her. “I tried to get in but you forgot and shut the door! I was worried! Are you okay?”

  “Yes, yes, good boy.” She bent down to give him a good patting and also so she could answer him more easily without being overheard. There were strategies to talking to your talking dog in public. “It was just one of those boring human things where everybody sits around talking.”

  “Oh, that’s all right, then.” He wagged at her. “Where are we going now?”

  “Office.”

  “More talking?” Oliver drooped with his entire body.

  “Just a little.” She straightened up. “You can come this time if you want.”

  Oliver shook himself, and he did follow along.

  They didn’t get very far, though. The door from the car park opened and a young, suntanned woman in running shorts and a Manchester United football jersey strode in.

  “Can I help you?” Emma asked, automatically falling into hostess mode. The girl, however, was a little distracted.

  “A corgi!” she exclaimed, and immediately crouched down and held her hands out. Oliver darted forward, sniffing and licking, and, of course, wagging his entire bum.

  “Flowers and green,” he reported. “Very healthy, takes lots of walks, and peanut butter and dust and there’s a dog! A mutt, I think, and what’s that? That’s new . . .” Oliver drove his wet nose into the center of her palm.

  “Oh, he’s a darling!” cried the young woman. “Is he yours?”

  Emma laughed. “He is, and his name is Oliver.”

  “Hello, Oliver! Who is a very good boy, then?”

  “All corgis are good boys,” Oliver answered. He also licked her chin. “Except the girls.”

  “Okay, Oliver, enough.” Emma pulled him back gently but firmly. “Were you coming in for tea?” she asked.

  “Me? Oh, no. Sorry. I’m looking for Pearl. Is she . . .”

  Pearl must have heard something, because she came up the corridor just as the girl was straightening up.

  “Daphne!” Pearl shouted. “What are you doing here? They’re still in there!”

  “I know, I know, no worries.”

  “What if they catch on that you tipped us off . . .”

  “They won’t,” she said with careless confidence. “We were going running this afternoon, remember? I’m just here to pick you up.”

  Daphne Cochrane was tall, with curling, dark hair that was pulled back in a bright pink scrunchie. But Emma could see the strong resemblance to her aunt in her dramatic dark eyes and her snub nose. The shorts and football jersey emphasized her broad, athletic build. Her trainers were new and top-drawer.

  Pearl stared at her friend, sorting out what she’d just said. “Oh, yeah. Right. Running. I remember now.”

  “Nothing to see here, then, is there?” said Daphne easily. “Hullo, Mrs. Delgado!”

  Angelique, of course, had come to see what was keeping Emma and Pearl.

  “Good to see you, Daphne,” said Angelique as they shook hands. She also gave Pearl the tiniest bit of a side-eye. “How is university treating you?”

  “Oh, you know me, always on the edge of disaster, at least according to Mum. But we’re taking the team all the way to the finals this year.”

  “Rugby?” asked Emma.

  “Football,” said Daphne.

  “Daphne’s the best goalkeeper we’ve had in years,” announced Pearl. “Daph, this is Emma Reed. She’s the genius behind Reed’s Tea and Cakes. And you’ve already met Oliver and . . .”

  But Daphne was looking over Emma’s shoulder. “Oh, sugar.”

  Emma knew what she was going to see before she even turned her head. The private parlor door had just opened and the board was filing out. Despite her previous nonchalance, Daphne’s breezy air dampened considerably when she saw her aunt.

  “Daphne,” said Marcie, “I didn’t know you were here. Everything all right?”

  “Oh, um, yeah, course. I didn’t even see your car out there. Hullo, everybody.” Daphne nodded at the board. “Just came down to get Pearl. We were planning on a run this afternoon.”

  “Oh.”

  “Well, Marcie.” Caite’s thin smile didn’t shift a single millimeter. “Isn’t this your niece? I had no idea she and Pearl knew each other.”

  Daphne returned her own thin, steely smile. “Oh, wow, Caite. Love the new hair color. Looks great on you. On the beach in ten, Pearl, yeah?” she added.

  “Erm. Right. Just as soon as I get my gear. Pearl pointed back toward the office.

  “Great. See you back at the house, Aunt
Marcie! Tell Mum I’ll be home for tea!” Daphne whisked out the door. She was, Emma assumed, hoping to get out of there before anything looked too fishy.

  But it was too late. Even the Boyds were not looking particularly happy.

  “I do so love seeing a close-knit family,” said Caite. “It’s inspiring.”

  Marcie sighed. “And I’m sure you’ll be letting us know all about it, Caite, but not in front of the whole village, all right? Pearl, Angelique, Emma, thank you for a lovely tea. I’ll get you those numbers. We look forward to your proposal.”

  The board filed out with more backward glances than Emma was comfortable with. She was also suddenly keenly aware of the half-dozen guests still picking at the remains of scones and biscuits, not to mention Becca and Bella standing behind the bar, pretending to be putting away the teacups.

  Angelique sighed and gave her daughter a sardonic look. Pearl shrugged and tried to assume an innocent expression. It didn’t work. Angelique crooked her finger, and Emma, Pearl and Oliver followed single file into her office.

  The office was crowded but neat as a pin. The old-fashioned partners desk that Angelique and Pearl shared took up most of the room. There was also a line of wooden filing cabinets. The radio-receiver set she used to keep in touch with her husband, Daniel, when he was out on the boat occupied the corner by a window that overlooked the B&B’s lovely gardens.

  “Well.” Angelique dropped into the chair on her side of the desk and slapped her folder and notepad down in front of her. “That was . . . interesting.”

  “Do you have any idea what the story between Caite and Marcie is?” Emma pulled up the smaller guest chair. Oliver immediately assumed one of his favorite positions, sprawled on the floor, with his chin on her toes.

  Angelique shook her head. “Village politics, mostly.”

  “The Hyphenated Caite’s new money,” said Pearl, settling into her own chair. “Married rich a couple of times. Buried the first, divorced the next. She thinks that the Cochranes look down on her, because they’re the old landed gentry. At least, that’s what Daphne says.”

  Emma shook her head. She’d seen this sort of thing more than once during her career in finance. It seemed ludicrous for anybody to care how long a family had been rich, but there it was. Whether a family’s money was classed as “old” or “new” could make a difference in some circles. It could also breed all kinds of resentment.

  “Never mind the pedigree of the money for now,” said Angelique. “There’s a more important question we need answered before we go any further.” She typed something into her desktop computer, then picked up her mobile and entered a number.

  “Emma?” Oliver nosed her shoe tops. “Is the talking almost over?”

  Emma rubbed Oliver’s ears.

  “Hullo, Holly?” Angelique said into her phone. “It’s Angelique at the King’s Rest. Yeah . . . Good, yeah. Listen, you won’t believe this, but I’ve just had the board of the du Maurier Literary Society in my parlor. They’re saying they need a new caterer for the festival this year, and I just wondered . . . yeah? I see . . . yes, yes . . .”

  Emma picked Oliver up and held him on her lap. Obligingly, he snuggled up close. Pearl reached out and rubbed his chin.

  “All right,” said Angelique. “Thanks for taking the time, Holly . . . Yes, yes . . . Ta. You too.” She hung up.

  “Was that Holly Weber? What did she say?” asked Pearl immediately.

  Angelique shook her head. “That Weber’s Catering walked out on the festival because they were having trouble getting paid. She said the initial deposit payment had failed to clear, and then so did the second one, and when that happened, Marcie apparently lost her temper and said the trouble must be on Weber’s end.”

  Pearl frowned. “That doesn’t sound like Marcie.”

  “Holly said that too,” said Angelique.

  “But she didn’t say anything about a problem on their end?” asked Emma.

  Angelique shook her head. “She said she didn’t want to tell me what to do, but she really strongly hinted that maybe we didn’t want to get involved this year.”

  “This year?” Pearl repeated. “Why’d she say that? Is something different this year?”

  “That I don’t know,” said Angelique. “And she wouldn’t tell me. But if there were chronic problems with the festival, we would have heard well before this.”

  “You would think that,” agreed Pearl. “So whatever this is, it’s safe to assume it’s recent. The festival’s been going on for years, though. Why would it blow up this year?” She drummed her fingers on the desktop.

  “Maybe we’re overthinking it?” suggested Angelique but not very hopefully. “Maybe it really was some kind of a mistake.”

  Emma considered this, but then she shook her head. “If it had only happened once, I’d say maybe. Deposits can take time to clear, even with online banking. But twice? That’s either negligence or—”

  “Or somebody’s been dipping in the funds,” Angelique finished for her.

  “So, you’re saying you don’t want the job?” Pearl sounded resigned. Emma was ready to agree. Catering the du Maurier festival would be great publicity for her tea shop and the King’s Rest, but she did not like this business with money going missing. She especially did not like it with the board being so evidently unwilling to address the problem, whatever it was.

  No one wanted to turn down a plum job, but getting tangled up in money troubles and client rivalries was always a bad idea.

  Been there, done that—the T-shirt fell apart in the wash.

  But to Emma’s surprise, Angelique swiveled her chair so they faced each other squarely. “Would you really be able to get a tasting menu together by Friday?”

  “Emma can do anything!” yipped Oliver.

  Emma patted his back. “I . . . I’m not sure,” she confessed. “I’d probably have to park myself in the kitchen, for say, the next forty-eight hours.”

  “Done,” said Angelique. “How about the cost estimates?”

  “That should be easy once I have a sample menu. Say, late tomorrow?”

  “Ma?” said Pearl. “What’s going on?”

  When Angelique answered, her voice was steely. “There’s something else at stake here besides the festival. Our reputation.” She paused to make sure she had Emma and Pearl’s attention. She did. Even Oliver had sat up on his haunches and cocked his ears toward her. “The exposure and prestige will be a wonderful boost for our catering business, and the tea shop, but I’ve dealt with clients like this before. If we do not give the board a good presentation, the Hyphenated Caite is just the sort to start a whispering campaign against the King’s Rest and Reed’s Cakes. I am not going to let that happen. We are going to put on the best show that board has ever seen. Then, if they can’t meet our terms, we will be the ones to turn them down.”

  5

  Reluctantly, Emma called Brian to postpone the appointment to come look at cars.

  “But I washed my best shirt and all!” he protested.

  “It’s not you,” she said. “It’s me.” Briefly, or at least as briefly as she could, Emma explained about the du Maurier festival and what she was rapidly coming to think of as the audition.

  “Oh, Hyphenated Caite’s on the case, then?” he said. “Woman’s a menace.”

  “You don’t say?”

  “I do, and so would just about anybody else. It’s a shame too. Her family’s old Trevena, like mine, and she used to be a sweet kid.”

  “Old Trevena but new money?”

  “Not the best combination for a comfortable village life,” he said. “We tend to dislike abrupt changes.”

  “Like short of a couple of decades or so?” suggested Emma blandly.

  “There now, you’re beginning to get the picture,” answered Brian, equally bland.

  “What happened
to her, do you think? I mean, to make her change?”

  Brian considered. “Disappointments, mostly,” he said. “Then trying too hard to make up for them. Her dad died when she was really young too, so that didn’t make anything better. So, listen, do you need any help for this thing on Friday? I’m champion at hauling bins. Or if you need a ride up to the grange . . . ?”

  “As much as I hate to say it, we’re covered. Genny Knowles is coming along to help, so we’ll be taking her van.”

  “Oh,” said Brian, and this time, it sounded less like joking and more like genuine disappointment. Emma’s stomach did that little fluttery thing. Again.

  Stop it, Emma ordered her stomach. Her stomach didn’t listen.

  “Well,” said Brian, “you’ll call and let me know how it went, yeah? I’ll be crossing my fingers for you. Very hard to hold a spanner that way, but I’ll manage.”

  Emma laughed and agreed she would call, and they settled on Monday, which was her next day off, for her to come look at cars. Truth be told, she would have loved to talk more, but she was already starting to feel the time slipping by. She had her misgivings about actually taking this job, but she couldn’t argue with Angelique’s reasoning.

  It was time to get to work.

  * * *

  * * *

  It was still time when the old carriage clock in the great room struck nine. A full day later.

  “We’ve got it!” Emma’s shout rang around the otherwise empty kitchen. She brandished her spoon in the air. The lime and ginger cream was delicious. “Perfection!” she shouted.

  For once, Oliver did not answer. He’d heard it all before.

  Outside, it was pouring. Emma had her music playing, and was humming along to Belle and Sebastian. It had been a busy day, not to mention a fraught one. She should have been exhausted, but instead she felt energized. Good cream tended to have that effect on her.

  Right after the tea with the festival board, Emma had in fact parked herself in the kitchen with her notebooks, her suppliers’ lists and her copy of du Maurier’s Rebecca. From three to five, she’d scribbled notes. By four o’clock, the board, as promised, had emailed the expected numbers for the luncheon and the masquerade. Emma allowed herself a full five minutes to wonder what on earth she’d gotten into. From five o’clock onward, she’d baked, and sautéed, and simmered, zested, pounded, rolled, cut and whipped.