Murder At The Bake Off (Celebrity Mysteries 3)

by Zanna Mackenzie

  “None at all. Now, this is only the first of three tasks today, so we need to press on,” Maggie urges.

  Three? It’s going to be a long day.

  I head back to my workstation and immediately start to copy what I’ve just seen Maggie doing before any bits can get blurry in my head. I’m adding my milk and hoping the mess of a mixture in my bowl will somehow come together into a perfect dough when Gabby appears at my shoulder. “I’m adding caraway seeds to mine. What are you going to add?”

  Good question. “Haven’t decided yet. I’ll go and take a look in the pantry in a minute.”

  The mix does actually start to resemble the dough Maggie just demonstrated. Phew. I head off to think what I can put into a rye loaf flavour-wise. There’s an array of tasty-looking ingredients in jars and packets, and I debate at length, not only because I cannot decide, but also because it’s a good opportunity to eavesdrop. After all, that’s what I’m supposed to be here for.

  Two women who haven’t uttered a word up to now are standing a foot or so away, debating the merits of ginger versus treacle as their added ingredients. I sidle a little closer and pretend to be reading the back of a packet of demerara sugar. Maybe I can find something useful out from them. It’s got to be worth a shot.

  “I know, it’s all wrong,” the one with the spiky red hair is saying to the one with a sandy-coloured bun of hair complete with a pink scrunchie. “I can’t believe she’s running this when darling Cherry has just passed away. Then again, they never got along though, right?”

  Interesting.

  Sandy Bun nods and sniffs into the edge of her apron. Ah, was this the women trying not to cry during the silent tribute earlier? Putting the sugar down, I pick up a packet of sultanas and edge a little closer to the two women in the process.

  “Ladies! Please hurry up and select your ingredients,” Maggie shouts. “We’ve a lot to get through today.”

  Great. That’s put an end to my snooping.

  The two women head back to their workstations. I opt for keeping it simple, pop the sultanas back on the shelf, select some raisins and a tub of mixed spice to put into my loaf-to-be and get to work. Tipping in a generous handful of the raisins, I guestimate the amount of mixed spice, throw that in as well, mix it all through, and plop the dough onto my baking sheet. OK. I can do this. Covering it over, I slide it carefully into the oven and close the door, feeling marginally more confident than I was earlier about my baking efforts.

  “Take a break while the breads cook, ladies,” Maggie instructs as she checks something on her phone.

  Perfect. A break sounds like a great opportunity to try and get sleuthing again. I scan the room but cannot see Sandy Bun anywhere. If she’s not in here then there are only two other places she can be – outside or in the toilets. Leaving the workshop, I head along the corridor and push open the door of the Ladies’. Bingo. Sandy Bun is checking her hair in the mirror above the sinks.

  “Hi,” I say and beam her a smile.

  She smiles back.

  “How’s it going for you?” I ask, washing my hands in the next sink across from her.

  Frowning she says, “I don’t think my bread is going to be very good. This gluten-free thing is tricky, don’t you think?”

  All baking is tricky as far as I’m concerned. “Definitely.”

  “I’d better get back.” She finishes her hair and turns towards the door. “I want to keep an eye on my oven.”

  Why? What is it going to do?

  Her hand is already on the door and I know I need to stall her and ask some questions.

  “Don’t you feel weird about being here today?” I ask, lowering my voice and pasting a worried expression on my face. “You know, with what happened…”

  Letting go of the door, she steps towards me, relief in her eyes. “You feel it too? I thought it was just me. Everyone seems to be carrying on as though all is right with the world but poor Maggie is grieving her mother.”

  “I know.” I nod encouragingly. “Such a dreadful business. I’d heard Maggie and Cherry didn’t get on that well, but even so, they were still mother and daughter. She must be devastated.”

  “According to local gossip, the only time they ever saw each other was when Maggie went to collect or drop off Maxwell with Cherry for their regular play dates. I feel so sorry for Maxwell, poor kid. He’s got a miserable home life—bickering parents and now his beloved granny has been poisoned. He came to my Neville’s birthday party last year, and Maggie gave me strict instructions that Maxwell was only allowed to eat the food in the lunchbox he’d brought with him. He’s gluten intolerant, you know. All the other kids were gorging themselves on cake, trifle and chocolate and Maxey had to sit there eating his gluten-free scones with sugar free jam.”

  “Do you know what Maggie and her mum fell out over?”

  Sandy Bun nods. “Money, I think. Cherry must have been very wealthy and rumour has it Maggie wanted some of that wealth for herself and her mum must have thought otherwise.”

  I frown, playing along. “I’d heard it was Cherry’s money that set up this place. Sounds to me as though she’s been more than generous in doling out the cash.”

  “I don’t think the money was for herself. Maggie’s hubby’s business would have gone under if it wasn’t for Cherry bailing him out, so they say.”

  My, my, the local gossips have been busy, haven’t they?

  “What does he do again?” I check. Flashing a curious look in Sandy Bun’s direction. “The husband?”

  “Something to do with healthy living herbal supplements, I think. He operates out of an industrial unit on the Oakgrove Trading Estate. Sounds a bit dodgy, if you ask me. I mean, those herbal things can have all sorts of bad side effects, right?”

  They can indeed.

  Thirty minutes later, after much anxious watching of ovens, people start to remove their loaves. Maggie invites us all to crowd around each workstation in turn to see what our little group of bakers has created. Gabby’s loaf, unsurprisingly, looks perfect and smells delicious, as do most of the others. One is a little burnt around the edges, but the woman who made it doesn’t seem too disheartened, and Maggie, in encouraging-teacher-mode, heaps on the praise, saying what a good texture the loaf has and how ingenious her choice of added ingredients are. Finally, it’s my turn. I open the oven and hold my breath. Oven mitts firmly in place, I slide the baking sheet out and carefully place it on the worktop. Removing the upturned Pyrex dish from the top of the loaf is tricky, especially while wearing hefty orange oven gloves making my hands all the clumsier. But I get there eventually, my cheeks flushed red from the exertion and the scrutinizing gazes of my audience of eager bakers.

  “Looks good, Lizzie,” Maggie says, nodding approvingly. “Great job.”

  Wow. Oh, wow. Cherry Bakewell’s daughter just praised my rye bread. Yay! Maybe I am finally getting the hang of this baking lark. It probably helps that this is a modern oven with clear and reliable controls. Back home at Eskdale, the range has a mind of its own and it’s always a bit of a gamble as to what temperature it’s running at on any given day, hence my frequent burnt or raw offerings. Well, OK, there is an old saying about a bad workman blaming his tools and all that, but the fact this loaf has turned out fine might suggest it’s not just me who is at fault. Surely the Aga-with-a-mind-of-its-own has to share the blame, too.

  Everyone enjoys a cup of tea or coffee as we wait ten long minutes for the loaves to cool. I’m so excited to try mine. Throughout the whole taste test of everyone else’s loaves, I ooh and ahh along with the others. Some of the loaves are perfect and delicious (Gabby and Sandy Bun’s creations being my favourites) and others are nice but not overly yummy. Maggie gently suggests this is down to choice of additional ingredients, rather than any issues with the loaves themselves. Now, it’s my turn. I lift the loaf from the baking sheet to transfer it to a wooden board for Maggie to cut and try, but the supposed-to-be-non-stick sheet comes away with the loaf.

&
nbsp; “Maybe you didn’t use enough oil on the sheet when you greased it before adding the loaf,” Maggie says, unperturbed.

  Oops. More like I completely forgot to use any oil. Still, I should be able to peel the paper off the bottom of the loaf easy enough. Shouldn’t I?

  Ten minutes later, I’m still peeling. There’s a pile of bits of paper on my workstation, but more than half of the bottom of the loaf crust is still covered with the stupid stuff. I think the manufacturers of this sheet should be sued for calling it non-stick.

  “Let’s slice the top off horizontally, shall we?” Maggie says, with a seen-it-all-before smile, wielding her knife. “We can try it that way.”

  She slices a big chunk off and deftly chops it into little pieces. She tries it first, offering me the plate to take a piece myself before everyone else gets to sample it. I watch Maggie’s face for any good or bad signs as she chews thoughtfully on my raisin and mixed spice bread.

  “I think you might have been a tad heavy on the mixed spice,” she eventually says.

  I pop a piece into my mouth and instantly get an unpleasantly strong hit of mixed spice. Trying not to cough, I quickly chew and swallow the rest of the piece. OK, I admit my baking abilities are still rubbish after all. Everyone offers words of encouragement, and before I have time to wallow in my failure, we’re off onto the next project. This time it’s a gluten-free tart. My phone rings just as I’m pondering if there’s such a thing as a tart filling I can’t ruin. Everyone turns to stare at me as though I have committed the ultimate sin.

  Maggie simply gives me a pointed smile and says, “If you wouldn’t mind…”

  I check caller ID and see that it’s Jack. Maybe he has some kind of important information about the case and needs me to ditch the rest of the workshop to help him out. This could be the perfect escape call. I exit the room saying, “Sorry, got to take this.”

  I answer the phone the second the door closes behind me. “Jack? What is it? What’s wrong? Do you need me to ditch this baking thing right now?”

  “Hey, slow down, nothing’s wrong,” he replies easily. “Why do you sound so high-pitched and panicky?” I don’t want to share the details of my baking disaster, and before I can think of what to say, Jack adds, “Did you burn whatever you were making? Was it totally inedible?”

  Charming. That’s the first thing he thinks of—my culinary incompetence. “No,” I reply, feeling a bit miffed. “It was edible. There was a baking sheet mishap, that’s all.”

  “You mean it stuck and you had to pry it off with a crowbar?” Do I detect a slight hint of sarcasm in his voice? “Want an excuse to get out of class?”

  Oh, yes, please.

  “No,” I say defiantly, trying to sound as though I mean it. I turn around and see that everyone else is gathered around Maggie’s workstation again and she’s pointing out the various ingredients she has ready for the next challenge. Is that some kind of super-duper food processor she’s assembling? Wonderful. I don’t fancy getting to grips with one of those. Why can’t I bake like all those other women in there? Am I missing the baking gene?

  “OK. Your call,” he says. “Found out anything useful?”

  “Possibly,” I reply, cheering up at the prospect of passing on the information I’ve gleaned so far. I glance back into the kitchen, and Gabby spots me, waving frantically for me to get off the phone and join them. I smile, point at the phone to try and silently explain I’m needed elsewhere for the moment. Turning away, I take a few steps down the stairs, just in case anybody can lip-read. “I overheard some of the women saying about how Maggie’s husband runs some herbal supplement business. You can do all sorts of things with those herbs, good and bad.”

  “True.”

  I lower my voice. “Do you think this guy could be the murderer?”

  “It’s a possibility,” he replies. “But why would he want her dead? If Cherry’s money was bankrolling his business, she’d have been worth more to him alive.”

  “Maybe he wanted Maggie to inherit a bucket load of money so they could spend it how they want. He probably resented having to go cap in hand to Cherry for funds,” I reason.

  “Risky. As they were estranged, Cherry might not have left Maggie any money,” he counters.

  “Any news yet on what was in the cakes which poisoned Cherry?”

  “Nah. My sources are failing me on that front. It has been confirmed as poison; they’re just not keen to divulge what it was. Are you sure you don’t want to ditch the baking and come with me to visit this herbal place? After that, we can get on the road and head home.”

  “In that case, absolutely. I’ll meet you outside Bakewell’s in ten minutes,” I say, cheered at the thought of getting out of class before I embarrass myself even further. I end the call, and as I walk back into the kitchen to grab my bag and coat, I rack my brain for a suitable excuse to leave mid-demonstration.

  “Come along,” Maggie says, spotting me. “You haven’t missed much. I was just demonstrating some of the equipment we’ll be using.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say, pasting an apologetic smile on my face. “I’ve got to leave. Family emergency.”

  I was expecting Maggie to disapprove and then mutter about how they can’t offer me a part-refund, but instead her face clouds over with what looks like genuine concern. “Oh, how dreadful for you. I hope everything will be all right. When you have time, just ring the bakery and arrange to book on another one of our courses of your choosing, free of charge, no time limit.”

  Wow, that’s kind—and generous—for a woman everyone is claiming to be having financial problems.

  “Thank you,” I mumble as I pull on my coat and head for the door.

  I barely hear Gabby’s voice saying she hopes things turn out fine before the door closes behind me and I take the stairs as fast as I can away from my baking nightmare. I’m only pacing up and down the street outside the bakery for a few minutes before I see Jack’s car heading along the road. I clamber inside and clip in my seatbelt.

  He leans over and plants a kiss full on my mouth and our lips linger, the spark between us showing we’re both contemplating prolonging the moment. I strain to lean in and Jack swiftly releases my seatbelt, freeing me to scoot closer. His hands travel to my waist, urging me to get closer still. I give in to temptation and the handbrake jabs uncomfortably into my thigh as I wrap my arms around his neck and the kiss deepens. The sound of nearby voices breaks the moment and, recognising we’re parked on a busy road and probably drawing attention to ourselves, I reluctantly ease away. Besides, we have work to do.

  “Later?” I rain check.

  He nods and slips the car into gear. “What did you make of Maggie this morning?” he asks.

  “She actually seems pretty nice. She even looked worried for me when I made up some excuse about a family emergency and having to leave. She also said I should ring the bakery when I feel like it to book onto another course for free. Seems odd for a woman with money troubles, don’t you think?”

  “Hmm. Yeah, guess so. I’ll have to do more digging on Maggie and her husband’s finances. In the meantime, shall we go and find this herbal business he runs and see if that provides any help with the investigation? Do you know where it is or what it’s called?”

  “It’s on a place called the Oakgrove Trading Estate. That’s as much as I found out.”

  Jack pulls over, taps away on his phone for directions, and then we’re off again. The Oakgrove is a small cluster of businesses on the edge of a nearby market town.

  When we get there, we drive along the road at a snail’s pace, passing a garage, a plumbers’ merchants and various offices.

  The road eventually curves round into a dead end, and there, in the furthest corner, is a low oblong building with Herbal Health For You on a sign above the nondescript entrance door. We park up.

  “Now what? Are we going in there?” I ask.

  “May as well. Let’s go and see what kind of products they sell, shall we?”<
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  CHAPTER NINE

  When we reach the door, we find it locked. It doesn’t look like the kind of place where the general public can wander inside. There’s a buzzer to the right of the entrance. Jack leans his thumb heavily on it, and we stand and wait. No reply. He leans on the buzzer again.

  “Yes?” a curt female voice echoes through the security box.

  “We run a health food store and would like to talk to somebody about possibly using your supplements,” Jack ad-libs.

  “The manager isn’t in right now,” the female replies. “Could you could back later?”

  Great customer service.

  “No, we’re only in the area for a few hours,” Jack says. “There must be somebody we can talk to. Get some ideas on prices. Do you want the business or not?”

  The woman sighs, and there’s a clanking and buzzing sound. “You’d better come in, then. The manger, as I said, is out right now, but the owner is here. I’ll see if he can spare a few moments for you. ”

  The reception area is tiny. Just a black counter with a phone on it and walls covered in posters of smiling, happy and healthy people. Presumably they’re all shining examples of what taking the supplements this place makes can do for you, your health and your life.

  “Wait here. I’ll get someone to see you,” the woman who had let us in announces.

  A few minutes later, a man with a shock of ginger hair steps into the reception area. He lifts part of the counter and beckons us through to his office which is also tiny, and very cluttered. He clears some space on the floor and pulls out two chairs, inviting us to take a seat. Grabbing some folders off the top of a filing cabinet, he flops into a seat behind his desk. “So, you wanted to talk about stocking some of our products,” he says, scratching at his scruffy ginger beard.

  “Possibly stocking,” Jack corrects. “I’m Jack and this is Lizzie. Sorry, I don’t think I caught your name,” he adds pointedly, because this man hasn’t introduced himself.

  “My apologies.” He gets to his feet and offers a hand to shake. “I own Metcalfe Supplements, I’m Rudy Metcalfe.”