Around seven, Genny Knowles had come by with her oldest son, Josh, to take over the usual prep work for the tea shop. Genny had been Emma’s first friend in Trevena. Usually, this time of night found her closing up her chip shop, the Towne Fryer, which she owned and ran with her husband, Martin. But because of the tasting for the board, Genny had agreed to come down with Becca and help run the takeaway counter.
While the mother-son duo worked on the cakes and buns on Emma’s daily list, Genny also helped Emma taste and dissect her festival menu. Too much cinnamon. Not enough zest. Maybe some toasted walnuts? Or would hazelnuts be better? A sprinkle of salt just at the end maybe? Definitely the garlic-chive compound butter for the seafood salad.
By the time Pearl and Angelique came in to say good night, Emma had pushed her sample menu with cost estimates into their hands and gone on creaming butter and sugar.
At around eleven, however, Genny had put her foot down and said Emma had to get some sleep or she would be “no good to anybody for anything.” Emma wanted to argue, but Oliver was already bonking her calves with his nose, trying to herd her toward the door.
“Bed for you,” he said. “Walks in the morning. This way, Emma.”
“You’re ganging up on me,” she muttered, but she didn’t resist. Much.
Back home, Emma dutifully showered and put on her pajamas and lay in bed, with Oliver snuggling up beside her. But even the rain on the cottage roof failed to lull her to sleep. Her head was too full of questions of flavors and textures and all the problems of execution. If she got too elaborate in her efforts to impress the board, it would all collapse into chaos on the day and . . .
And Oliver was snoring and the rain was clattering against the slates and at some point Emma slid into an uneasy dream that involved sinking slowly into a froth of whipped egg whites.
At six a.m. Thursday morning, Emma was back at her station with a fresh to-do list and a mug of industrial- strength tea. Genny, thankfully, brought her Irish setter, Fergus, along with her, so Oliver had a friend and was getting (a little) less underfoot.
At ten a.m., Pearl burst into the kitchen. “Emma! The board’s approved the cost and the menu plan!”
Emma cheered and Genny cheered and Oliver barked and zoomed back and forth. Then, Emma got back down to sifting flour into the sponge mixture. Now they just had to get through the tasting.
Josh ran the takeaway counter that day like a champ, which was not surprising since he’d grown up in the family chip shop. By the time they closed up for the day, Emma was ready to consider hiring the cheerful teenager.
But she was not ready to leave. The lime cream angel cake still wasn’t right.
“Just a little more tweaking,” she said, when Genny left.
“Just one more batch,” she said when Angelique and Pearl left.
“Almost there, Oliver, good boy,” she said around ten o’clock.
Now it was midnight. Oliver was sprawled out on his back beside his kibble bowl, snoring. Emma had a row of delicate angel cake slices in front of her, each one filled with lime and passion fruit curd and topped with a lime cream flavored with ginger syrup. As a final touch, she topped it with a sprinkle of salt and sugar crystal mix.
Now, they were all lined up neatly next to the rows of modernized Victoria sponge slices. Emma took up a fork and plunged it into the nearest slice of angel cake. Crossing the fingers on her free hand, she tasted. The cake melted slowly on her tongue, sweet and tangy and with just the final lingering sensation of heat from the ginger.
“I’m a genius!” she shouted.
“What!” Oliver barked and rolled up onto his feet. “What! Where! What!”
Emma laughed.
“What? What?” Oliver shook his ears. “What?”
“Oh, I’m sorry, Oliver.” She rubbed his back and neck. “I didn’t mean to wake you. I was just excited.”
“Something tastes good?” He sniffed at her hands. “Lime and ginger and butter and more lime and tea. You drink too much tea. You need to get more sleep.”
“I know, I know, and we’re going home just as soon as the place is cleaned up. I promise.”
“You promised before it got dark,” he whined.
“Want to try some cake?” She put a square of plain angel cake in his bowl.
Oliver dipped his nose and gave her a look that said distinctly that he knew she was distracting him, and that he did not approve at all. He also trotted over to his bowl and started munching on the cake.
Emma made some final notes and ticked off the last item on her to-do list. They could print off copies of the menu plan tomorrow before the meeting. Bella would be on hand to serve the board, while Becca stayed behind and helped Josh run the takeaway counter. Angelique and Pearl would be at the table, and she’d be in the kitchen, handling the plating and any last-minute details. She tapped her pencil.
“Maybe . . . Ow!” She jumped. Oliver bonked her shin.
“Time to go, Emma. No more maybes.”
“Yes, yes, okay. But I need to clean up.” She grabbed the nearest mixing bowl and headed for the dishwasher.
That was when a sharp, fast and entirely unexpected knock shot through the kitchen.
6
“Gah!” shouted Emma, which really was a perfectly logical response. The metal bowl flew out of her hands and clattered to the floor.
Oliver zoomed to the kitchen door and started barking.
“Here! Here! Somebody’s here!”
“Yes, Oliver, I hear it too,” Emma wheezed. She also picked up the bowl she’d dropped and set it on the counter.
“Sorry, Emma.” Oliver dipped his muzzle. “Instincts.”
Emma took a deep breath and tried to will her heartbeat to slow down. She also went and looked out the window.
It was still raining like it had no intention of stopping anytime this decade. Emma snapped the outside light on and peered through the window.
Marcie Cochrane, slightly bedraggled, looked hopefully back at her.
“What in the world!” Emma fumbled with the lock and threw open the door. “Marcie! Come in out of the wet! What’s going on?”
Oliver barked helpfully to reinforce the invitation and the question.
Marcie stepped inside, blinking a bit in the light. Water sluiced off the brim of her shapeless black rain hat and dripped from the hem of her coat.
“Oh! I’m sorry,” she said, noticing the water puddling on the kitchen tiles. “I should . . .”
“No, don’t worry about it,” said Emma quickly. “Here, hang up your stuff.” Emma pointed her toward the row of hooks by the door.
Oliver snuffled around Marcie’s Wellingtons. “Mud, mud, rain and a dog!” he mumbled. “A mutt, I think. Yes! The same one the running lady knows. And petrol, because she’s been in the car, of course, and . . .”
“What brings you out at this time of night?” Emma asked. She also checked the water level in the electric teakettle and opened the tin of second flush Darjeeling she’d purloined from the stockroom.
“I’m sorry to be here so ridiculously late, I should have called first, but, well, I was passing, and I saw the light on and I thought maybe Angelique was still here . . .”
“Oh, no, just me,” Emma told her. “Everybody else has gone home for the night. Look, let me get you a cuppa. You’re practically blue!”
“I don’t want to be any trouble,” said Marcie, plainly on reflex. But she also shucked off her coat and hat. Water sluiced off the brim as she hung it up.
“It’s no trouble. Kettle’s already hot.” Emma added an extra spoonful of tea leaves to the Brown Betty pot and poured the water in.
Marcie set her handbag on the steel counter and climbed up on the kitchen stool. She looked exhausted. She didn’t have her headband on, and the rain had plastered straggling locks against her cheeks and fore
head. She shoved them back, making her dangling gold earrings swing and glitter in the bright kitchen light.
Emma also noticed how Marcie’s eyes were all puffy and accented by dark rings. It looked like she hadn’t been getting much sleep either.
And possibly not enough to eat. Marcie was staring openly at the rows of cake slices.
“Is this for the tasting?”
“Yes. Would you like to try? I don’t want to prejudice the jury, but I’ve been experimenting and I’d love an opinion.” Before Marcie could object, Emma picked up the spatula. “Angel cake or Victoria sponge?”
“They both look marvelous.”
“Thanks.” Emma used the spatula to set the Victoria slice on a plate. She also poured a cup of tea. “Wouldn’t be a proper British gathering without Victoria sponge, yeah? I’ve added cardamom and lemon to the cake, and mixed some black pepper and balsamic with the strawberry coulis. No, pick it right up. We need to see if it’s going to hold together or splosh all over the place.”
Marcie picked up the bit of cake and ate it in two bites. Emma held her breath. Oliver nosed around Marcie’s stool in case of crumbs.
“Mmm . . .” groaned Marcie. “Oh, my, that’s delicious! You’re a marvel!”
Emma was able to breathe again. “Thank you. Obviously, we don’t have the staff to do canapés for a hundred, but we can do the slices. I was thinking if we went with a high tea sort of theme, we could have carts and tables—we could rotate the selection throughout the night, starting with the savories and going for the sweets. It would help increase the party circulation, and the guests could sample as they mingled and . . . Are you all right?”
Marcie was blinking at the trays, her face and jaw tight.
She wants to cry.
She didn’t, though. She just pressed the edge of her hand under her nose, as if to hold off a sneeze. “Yes. Yes. I’m fine. That sounds lovely. I—I so very much wanted this to be perfect, but so much has gone wrong.”
Emma felt her curiosity trying to burn through all her politeness. She was dying to ask Marcie about the catering deposits, and about why this year was different for the festival, and what she was doing out so late on such a foul night. But the woman was so plainly looking for distraction and comfort. Emma felt rotten for wanting to keep the conversation on the festival and its problems.
“Well, any long-running event can have an off year,” she said to Marcie. “It’ll be better next time.”
“Yes. I’m sure you’re right.” Marcie shook herself and forced some brightness into her voice. “So, Emma, are you a du Maurier fan?”
“I love du Maurier,” she said.
“I knew it!” Marcie grinned at Emma over her mug. “You can always spot another one. Which books are your favorites?”
“Well, Rebecca, of course, and I have a real soft spot for Jamaica Inn and My Cousin Rachel. What about you?” she asked curiously. “How’d you start reading du Maurier?”
Marcie smiled. “Well, if you live in Cornwall, you can’t really avoid her, can you? To tell you the truth, for the longest time, I thought of her as just someone my nan read. But then, I don’t know, I was home from uni, and . . . I think I’d had a fight with one of my brothers. I’ve got three, you know. We’ve always fought like cats and dogs.” Oliver barked. “No offense.” Marcie leaned down and rubbed his chin.
“Cats start things,” said Oliver.
“He accepts your apology,” Emma said.
Marcie smiled in the amused and tolerant way people did when Emma told them what her dog was saying.
“Anyway.” Marcie sighed. “I suppose I must have been bored, and sad and . . . well, growing up can be hard, can’t it? I picked up Rebecca and I was . . . enchanted. Transported. I really identified with the narrator. I felt like here was somebody who really understood what it was like to be alone and to want something for themselves, even if everybody said they couldn’t have it.”
Emma nodded. It was a powerful pull.
“It’s strange, though.” Marcie frowned at the remains of her tea. “The older I got, the more I started sympathizing with Mrs. Danvers. Oh, not because she tries to drive the narrator out, but can you imagine what it must have been like being her?”
“Well, she didn’t have it easy, that’s for sure, but she did try to kill the narrator.”
“Yes, well, she was desperate, wasn’t she?” Marcie wrapped both hands around her mug. Her voice shook. “And heartbroken. And who wouldn’t be? The person she loved, for better or worse, had been murdered. And what was left for her after Rebecca was gone? She was going to spend the rest of her life taking care of a house that would never really be her home. Not really.” She shook her head and took another swallow of tea. “Sorry,” she gasped. “That’s just me going on. Anyway. As you can see. I’m a bit of a—what do they call it?—fangirl.” Marcie’s hands tightened around her mug of tea. “You’ll make this work, won’t you? The festival and everything? It has to be perfect.”
“We’ll certainly do our best.”
“Promise me.”
“Yes, of course. Marcie . . .” Emma hesitated. “Is there anything special you’re worried about? It would be a big help if we knew what we have to look out for.”
“No, no, nothing like that. Really. But I am glad you mentioned looking out for things.” She reached into her bag and pulled out an envelope. “Will you make sure Angelique gets this?” When she saw Emma’s inquiring look she added, “It’s the deposit check. From my personal account.”
“The deposit?” said Emma. “But the board hasn’t even given us the contract yet.”
“Oh, they will.” Marcie tried to sound nonchalant. It did not go well. “With all that’s happened, I just wanted . . . I wanted Angelique, and you, of course, to be certain that you would get paid.”
Emma stared at the envelope on the counter. A wave of concern prickled down her spine. She was an ex-banker from a family of accountants. She liked order, and paperwork, preferably signed and with the copies all neatly filed away. She did not like checks passed hand to hand after dark. Especially when some other checks had already bounced.
“Thanks for the thought, Marcie,” she said. “But I know Angelique would prefer a check from the society’s account. Otherwise, it will complicate her own bookkeeping, yeah?”
“Oh,” Marcie murmured. “I hadn’t stopped to think . . . Well, yes, of course you’re right.”
She stuffed the envelope back in her bag. Emma couldn’t miss the way her hand shook.
“Well, thank you so much for the tea and cake.” Marcie zipped her bag shut. “I should be getting home.”
“Are you sure?” Emma said. “It’s still raining hammer and tongs out there.”
“Oh, never you fear. I’ll make it all right.” Marcie bundled herself into her mac and pulled her hat down over her disarranged hair.
“Well, see you tomorrow, then.”
“See you! Oh, and when you get to the house, you come round the back, all right? I’ll make sure the kitchen door is open for you.”
“Good night, then.”
Marcie smiled, took a deep breath, squared her shoulders and made a great show of marching boldly out into the rain. Emma stood at the closed door, watching through the window while the other woman climbed into the black BMW.
“What’s wrong, Emma?” Oliver whined.
“I don’t know, corgi me lad. I really don’t know.”
Outside, Marcie Cochrane drove away into the dark.
7
One of the things Emma had learned over the course of the past year was that a life of tea and cakes was not all beer and skittles. Especially when it came to getting up in the morning.
In Emma’s new normal, she and Oliver were up at five. They were dressed and/or brushed and heading down to the King’s Rest by six. Breakfast and tea—lots of tea—w
ould happen while working up the day’s first batches of scones and biscuits, and getting the buns that had (hopefully) proved overnight into the oven.
This morning, though, Emma not only had to get herself washed and brushed and decent, she had to pack her suit bag, find her portfolio with the menus she’d printed out last night and her good ballet flats, all while arguing with a discontented corgi.
“No, Oliver.”
“But, Emma . . . !” Oliver trotted behind her as she crossed the hall from the bathroom to the bedroom and then hurried downstairs to the parlor.
Normally, Nancarrow cottage was Emma’s haven of quiet and comfort. Since she’d moved in last summer, she’d thrown herself into refurnishing and repairing the former holiday cottage, doing everything she could to turn it into the cozy home of her dreams. The tacky seventies era furnishings had been replaced with lovely Arts and Crafts–style chairs and tables, not to mention a Victorian era chaise lounge. After some serious price-sharing negotiation with her landlords, the avocado-green kitchen had been fully updated. Now, the cottage and Emma were both living their very best lives.
This was hard to remember just now as she was running around trying to find the extra pencils, and the last page of notes she’d made while leafing through Rebecca—
“You might need help.” Oliver poked his nose into her calf. “I can help! You know I can!”
—while at the same time Oliver was making it perfectly clear that he was not going to take this business of her going off on her own for a few hours lying down.
“Look, Oliver”—Emma crouched down and rubbed his chin—“this is going to be one of those boring human things with everybody sitting around and talking.”
Murder Always Barks Twice Page 4