“What about this one?” I ask. Jack moves to sit next to me so he can read the screen of my laptop. In front of us is a news story dating back about fifteen months. “A woman named Simone Barker claimed that some of the recipes in Cherry’s latest book had been stolen from her. She said she used to manage a café in Yorkshire with Cherry when they were both in their twenties, and that after hours she would stay on and make up new recipes and bake them.”
“But if Cherry stole the recipes all those years ago, then why has this Simone woman only recently come forward to claim ownership of them?” Jack asks.
I shrug. “Maybe she’d only just discovered the recipes in Chery’s book or something. You never know. Cherry had been in the baking world for a long time. It must be tough to keep coming up with new recipes all the time. Maybe she came across some old notebooks and thought Simone would have long forgotten these particular recipes.”
“Where does Simone live now?” Jack checks, scribbled all of this down in his notebook.
“In a village on the Yorkshire coast called Witherby. Cherry was born and raised just a few miles from there. Maybe she was planning a trip down memory lane after the baking festival. It’s only a few hours’ drive from here. I guess that could be why she was keen to come to Delamere. She must get loads of requests for appearances, yet she chose to come here. According to the local paper, she wouldn’t accept payment for doing the various public appearances, cookery demonstrations and judging stuff here either.”
Jack shoots me a raised-eyebrow look. “You’ve really done your homework on Cherry, haven’t you? I’m extremely impressed. Thanks for helping me with all of this background stuff. I guess this is the time when I miss working for the CCIA. I used to be able to just call or email agency HQ with my background check requests and research queries, and presto—somebody else would get them all done for me. It takes ages to go through it myself. Sometimes I can call in favours from old contacts, but having you help me out really eases the time pressure.”
“You wouldn’t be offering me a job now, would you?”
“I kind of already did when I proposed,” he answers, only half paying attention, still tapping away on his phone.
“What?” I demand, hand on hip. “You think my being married to you is a job? Jack Mathis, I think you need…”
He scoots to my side and plonks an apologetic kiss on my cheek. “I didn’t mean like that. What I did mean was that I can be work-obsessed, and running my own PI agency means I don’t keep regular hours and often end up working all night and weekends. Putting up with me and all of that as well is a pain, and kind of like a job of sorts, especially when you’re helping me out with the research on cases. Which, of course, I much appreciate.”
“OK,” I grin. “Apology accepted. And anyway, I enjoy helping you out. It means I get to legitimately be nosy.”
Jack laughs. “True. Fancy a quick break?”
I rub a hand across my eyes, which are aching from staring at the computer for ages. “Definitely.”
Jack heads off to make us both some drinks. I follow him into the kitchen and lean against the countertop as he fills the kettle. “What about your secret searches? Found anything of interest?”
“She was a judge at a major cookery competition three months ago. When it got down to the semi-finals, Cherry was the judge who put a guy out of the competition and he took it, shall we say, pretty badly.”
“He threatened her?”
“He didn’t go public with those threats, but yeah, within the industry he made it known he was just biding time until he could get his revenge on Cherry,” Jack says as he washes the mugs in the sink.
I grab my notebook. “He can go on the suspect list then, along with Simone Barker. What’s his name?”
“Terry Peters. And guess where he works?”
“At the Roseby?” I ask hopefully, clutching my notepad and thinking things are already starting to fall into place. Maybe this case won’t be as difficult as I’d thought.
“No. I checked. The Roseby haven’t employed any new staff in the last six months. The catering and hospitality industry are renowned for having a high staff turnover, but the Roseby is a prestigious place to work, they pay well, and look after their staff, so they tend to keep the people who work for them around for a decent while.”
“Oh.” I should have known it wouldn’t be that simple.
“This Terry works at a place in London called The Pear,” Jack says as he heads for the fridge in search of milk for our drinks. He spots some leftover cheesecake in there and pulls it out. “I’m starving. Want some?”
I shake my head. I’ve lost my appetite since seeing Cherry sprawled on the floor of her hotel room earlier. In fact, it’s put me right off baked goods. I’ll never look at a beautifully-iced cupcake the same way again. “What is The Pear? It’s a weird name for a restaurant. Was he shunned from the culinary world after he was booted off this fancy competition and decided to take his career in a different direction?”
Jack hands me my mug of coffee and takes his own, plus the Tupperware container of cheesecake, over to the table. The cheesecake, unsurprisingly, was not made by my own fair hands. If it was, Jack would not be devouring it hungrily and making yummy noises. If I had made it, it would be a cheesy slushy mess and nobody would go within five metres of it. This delicious dessert was baked by Emma, so Jack knows he’s safe to eat it.
“The Pear,” Jack says, when he pauses between mouthfuls of dessert, “is some ultra-posh and trendy patisserie in London.”
I lean my elbows on the table and ponder this latest piece of news. “If he’s working at a place like that, then surely he wouldn’t still resent being kicked off the cooking show. It sounds as though he’s done all right for himself.”
“He thought he was destined for even greater things, apparently. Had his eyes on being a Michelin-starred chef with his own eye-wateringly expensive restaurant.”
All this talk of fancy restaurants makes me think of the Veggies, or to give it its proper name, the Viande Et Deux Légumes. That was the fancy restaurant in the village where I used to work as a waitress. When Armand, the celebrity chef who owned the place, was stabbed, the building was all boarded up and put up for sale. So far, nobody has got over what happened in there and purchased and re-opened the place. I still shudder every time I drive past it, and I’d lay bets that everyone else does, too. I can’t see anyone buying the place anytime soon. I guess you could say murder was the death of that business.
“So, what do you think?”
I push aside uncomfortable memories of the Veggies and Armand and snap back to the present. I have no idea what Jack is asking for my opinion on. He immediately understands my vacant gaze. “You were thinking about Armand, weren’t you?”
“Yes. It’s all this restaurant talk, dredging up memories. Sorry, I was miles away. What do I think about what?”
Jack finishes his cheesecake and drops the fork into the Tupperware container. “I suggested we might head down to London. We can speak to Terry Peters and also catch up with Cherry’s personal assistant as well. Plus, we can check out Cherry’s flat in the capital. I think one of her two daughters lives in London, too. The other is in the Cotswolds and runs a bakery there apparently.”
“Cherry’s been married a few times, right? What about her ex-husbands? Are they going on the suspect list?”
“Yeah, but they’ll be at the bottom of the people we’re going to investigate. One of them lives in Spain now and is happily married with a whole new family. The other lives in Scotland and owns and runs a successful restaurant. She’s reportedly on very good terms with both of them. No grudges or grievances, so no motive.”
“Are her two daughters from the same marriage, or one from each?” I check.
“One from each. There’s a big age gap. While we’re in London, I want to have a visit with Cherry’s publishers and have a word with her editor to see if she’s got anything to say about this Simone woman a
nd the stolen recipe claims. In London, we could catch up with all of them in one go.”
London. I haven’t been back since…. Well, since my old life fell apart, basically. I hold back a shiver.
“Maybe you could introduce me to that git Adam, your ex, while we’re down there,” he says with an innocent expression.
Ah. This is familiar territory. He isn’t going to let this go, is he?
I have no wish to set eyes on Adam ever again, and I definitely don’t want Jack to meet him. Adam would not come out of any such meeting well. “Didn’t the police do the usual thing of telling you not to leave Cumbria because you’re on their watch list?” I ask, grasping at straws in the hope we can ditch the whole London idea.
Jack nods and leans back in his chair. “Yeah, but you know what I’m like when it comes to rules and being told what to do by the authorities.”
I do know. Only too well.
“All of our suspects are in London, really? Other than Simone Barker in Yorkshire?”
“It’s certainly looking that way. If we carry on with cross-checking guest names, then maybe we’ll turn up somebody local. But for now, these are our main leads.”
Looks like I’m about to make my first trip to London in about two years, then.
CHAPTER FOUR
Being back in the city feels unsettling. I tell myself this visit is about trying to find out who wanted Cherry Bakewell dead and ensuring Jack is no longer under suspicion for involvement in her death. That’s why we’re here, and we’ll pay a visit to the people on our list and then get out of here. Fast. I don’t want to revisit old haunts or relive what happened here. Jack reaches across and squeezes my knee, his eyes still on the road. “You all right?”
I force a smile and nod far too enthusiastically.
“This is the place,” he says, slipping his car into a slot on a busy commercial street in the capital.
I look around. I don’t recognise this area at all. There’s an affluent feel to it, and lots of yummy mummies are strolling along with trendy pushchairs. Across the street, among an assortment of posh clothes stores, coffee shops and a few banks, sits The Pear. It takes up about three storefronts with its tinted windows and trendy silver signage, which includes large elegant silver pears arranged across the glass. “Let’s go and have a chat with Terry.”
Just as my hand closes around the door handle something catches my eye and makes me look over the road at our destination. A man is just leaving The Pear, holding the door open for a couple of women who are heading inside. My heart starts to thump. No. It cannot be. It’s just my imagination. Please, let it just be my overactive imagination.
But it isn’t.
One of the women smiles and says something to the man, who turns in my direction as he replies. Now I can see his face full on, there’s no mistaking who he is. Adam. The one person I definitely did not want to bump into on this impromptu trip to London.
Jack is halfway out of the car, so I lunge for his arm, pulling him back into the car’s interior.
He shoots me a weird look. “What’s up?”
About twenty feet away from us, Adam is still chatting (which means flirting) with the two women. If we get out of the car now, there’s a hefty chance he’ll see us. Which, knowing Adam, will mean he’ll come over to talk to us. That is a scenario which can only end in bad things happening.
“I wanted a kiss,” I say, as it’s the first thing that comes to mind. I pull Jack closer and plant my lips on his. I can tell he’s a little surprised at first, but then his hand slips around my waist, gently pressing into my back, encouraging me closer. I try to open one eye to check if Adam has moved on but we’re at the wrong angle and I only succeed in sending myself dizzy and cross-eyed. Oh well, I’ll just have to keep Jack’s attention focused on this kiss—a very long kiss—to maximise the chances of Adam having disappeared by the time we get around to leaving this vehicle.
Jack finally eases away a fraction and whispers, “Sure you don’t want to stay in London tonight? I could book us a hotel, we could make a little romantic break of it.”
“I can’t,” I reply, my voice laced with regret. Sure, I want to get out of London, but on the other hand, a few days away with my fiancé would be wonderful. “I’ve got to get back to Eskdale and the veg business, plus I’m due to work at the village shop tomorrow.” I don’t like to leave Eskdale for too long. I’m still trying to make the farm pay, so I don’t want to go missing deliveries or upsetting my hard-won customers.
Jack’s lips find mine again. Pity I can’t relax and enjoy our smooch, but I’m still worried about who might be lurking across the road. Somebody knocks on the driver’s side door window, and I yelp and jump a foot. Is it Adam? Has he spotted us in the car?
Jack buzzes down the window.
A man wearing a fluorescent yellow tabard and a hat with the words Parking Warden leans down to the window and says to us, “The meter’s not working, mate, it’s out of order. You can park for free. Must be your lucky day.”
Jack thanks him for telling us and I swivel round to see if Adam has gone. Thankfully, he has. Either fate is in a mean mood and just wanted to freak me out by putting Adam in the same vicinity, or Adam is here for the same reason we are. He’s working this case about Cherry Bakewell, but from a journalistic perspective rather than a private investigator perspective. Fantastic. Just what I don’t need. Jack’s out of the car now and beckoning for me to follow. I open the door and with every step I take towards The Pear, I hope Adam is now sitting in a taxi and on his way far, far away from me.
The interior of The Pear is just how I would have pictured it based on the outside. Limestone flooring. Leather chairs around metal coffee tables. A cool and trendy vibe permeating the air. The glass and chrome displays are precisely arranged with all manner of expensive chocolates in flavours I have never come across and cakes so fancy they’re more like works of art than something you’d actually stab with a fork and dare to eat.
“Can I help you, sir, madam?” a woman asks stepping from behind a counter. “Would you like a table, or are you shopping with us today?”
“Neither,” Jack says. “We’re here to speak to one of your chefs, Terry Peters.”
She stiffens visibly and nods. “Do you have an appointment?”
“No, but he’s going to want to spare five minutes for a chat.”
Jack hands the woman his card. I know he has several different types. I wonder which one this is - the real one with his private investigator and security specialist status on it or one of his many fakes? Jack’s business is called Mathis Investigations Safety & Security, nicknamed MISS, which explains a lot about Jack’s weird sense of humour. His other business cards include one which suggests he is still part of the CCIA, even though he quit being on their payroll ages ago. On Valentine’s Day, he even turned up at my door with a very professional looking card proclaiming he was an expert in romance. He very kindly went on to prove said expertise – not that I’d needed any proof on that front where Jack was concerned. In The Pear, the woman doesn’t even glance at the card in her hand. Wow, she’s got far more restraint than I have. I’d have had to have taken a nose at it straight away to see who I was talking to.
“I’ll go and tell him he has a visitor,” she replies, her face a mask of professionalism.
“We’ll take a seat over here,” Jack adds before she nods in acknowledgement and then disappears through a door marked “staff only.”
I’m hungry, and the dessert and confectionary delights on display all around me are so tempting that ordinarily I would be ordering some bits to eat-in and to go, but I’m too nervous to eat. Not just because we’re working an investigation here, but also because ten minutes ago, Adam was standing in this very café and store. He could have forgotten something and come strolling back inside at any second. I eye the doors, twisting and turning my hands in my lap. Thankfully, the only door that does open is the one from the kitchen, revealing a handsome man I’d
peg as being in this thirties. He’s well over six feet tall and has crew-cut blond hair. He heads straight in our direction, like a laser-guided missile, and he does not look happy.
Jack gets to his feet and offers a hand to shake. “Mr. Peters? Jack Mathis. Thanks for sparing us five minutes. I’m sure you’re busy, but we won’t keep you long.” He gestures to one of the two empty seats at our table. “Please, sit down.”
Terry Peters sits opposite me, fidgeting with the edge of his pristine white apron.
“This is Lizzie, my associate,” Jack says, and the man nods in my direction in acknowledgment. “So, I’m sure you’ve heard by now about Cherry Bakewell’s death.”
Terry pastes on a ridiculously obvious fake smile. “Yeah, horrible thing to happen. I’ve sent my condolences to her family.”
“Were you in London yesterday? Working here at The Pear?” Jack settles back in his seat, resting his right foot on his left knee.
I stare at Terry, looking for any signs he’s fabricating a lie. I can’t spot anything obvious, but I am still learning about all this stuff. “No.”
“Oh, where were you then?” I butt in.
He looks at me and then at Jack. “I took the day off. Personal matters to attend to.”
“What kind of personal matters?” Oops, there goes my mouth and my nosy nature again!
“One that was personal.”
Jack tuts and shakes his head. “Sorry, Terry, mate, we need to know where you were yesterday afternoon. We can’t cross you off the suspects list if you don’t have an alibi.”
Terry gets to his feet and flicks an imaginary speck of fluff off his chef’s apron. Well, if there was a speck, I certainly couldn’t see it. “Then don’t cross me off your list,” he says simply and walks away, back through the door to the staff kitchen, making a call to somebody on his phone at the same time as he jabs in the security key code for the door to the kitchen.
Murder At The Bake Off (Celebrity Mysteries 3) Page 4