Hmm. Petula is definitely a glass-half-empty rather than half-full kind of person, isn’t she? “Do you want to have a wander around the town? Check out the craft shops and galleries? The area is famous for black jet stone jewellery if you fancy treating yourself.”
“I don’t wear black. I find the colour draining on my complexion. I very much doubt shops in a place like this could be selling anything I would wish to buy, anyway.” She finishes her makeup inspection and snaps the visor back into place. “I’ll come with you to see this Simone woman.” She snorts derisively. “As if Cherry would ever steal a recipe from this unknown. Cherry, God rest her soul, was the queen of the world when it came to baking. She would never stoop so low as to have to pinch ideas from normal people.”
“All of this happened long before Cherry was famous,” I say, almost under my breath, as I climb out of Daisy.
“Even so,” Petula snaps.
I clearly didn’t mutter under my breath quietly enough.
“You’re wasting your time if you think this Simone woman has anything useful to say,” she continues. “It will all be lies and false allegations. Just an old friend who feels snubbed and now wants a bit of the limelight, trading on Cherry’s name. I’ve had loads of that sort of thing happen to me over the years. It’s all very sad and tawdry. Now, where does this Simone person live?”
“Just across the road, up those steps.” I point to where a seemingly never-ending curve of steps disappears from the road above the harbour, snaking up the hill between rows of red-roofed cottages.
“Up there?” Petula asks, clearly not happy about traipsing up the hill on a blustery February day. “Isn’t there an easier way?”
“Afraid not. Let’s get going, shall we?”
Much to my grumbling companion’s relief, the house we are looking for is on the first row of cottages we come to, just off the steps. I knock on the door of number three and it’s opened by a dark-haired woman around Cherry’s age. “Simone?” I ask.
She nods and then looks from me to Petula. “I was looking for a man.”
“Aren’t we all, dear?” Petula snips.
“Sorry, Jack, was, er, unavoidably detained,” I explain as she ushers us inside the cottage. As soon as we’re though the doorway, we’re in a cosy living room with a wood fire roaring away and ceiling beams so low even I have to duck.
“Oh, I see. That’s a shame.” Simone looks me up and down. “And you are?”
I offer a hand to shake. “I’m Lizzie, his partner.”
“Business partner?” she quizzes, eyeing me warily.
“That’s right,” I fib. The more I get involved in helping Jack with investigations, the more adept I seem to be getting at letting lies trip off my tongue. It’s quite worrying.
I start to introduce Petula. “And this is…”
“I’m well aware who this is,” Simone says, a disapproving look on her face. “Cherry’s fierce baking rival, Petula Musgrove.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you too,” Petula replies sarcastically, taking off her coat and sitting on the sofa next to the fire uninvited. “And as for this rubbish about Cherry ever stealing recipes from you, what tosh. You just wanted to take your fifteen minutes of fame, courtesy of bad-mouthing your old friend. I’ve seen it all before.”
“How dare you?” Simone replies indignantly.
I sigh. I don’t have time for this bickering. Needing to steer the conversation back onto finding out if there’s any merit to Simone’s claims, and whether it was worth driving all the way over here on Jack’s behalf to try and push this investigation along, I ask, “So, did you and Cherry fall out? All those years ago?”
Simone gestures for me to sit down and takes a seat next to me. “We fell out many a time, dear. Mostly over boys! We used to run the Seagull Café together. We were young. This place had more than its fair share of handsome young fellas, let me tell you—the boys working on the fishing boats as well as the tourists.”
“Did you compete over anything other than boys? Like baking, maybe?”
“At that time, there was no competition. I was hands-down the best cook and baker between the two of us. Cherry had a gift, admittedly, but she didn’t apply herself at that age. She only wanted to work in the café to earn money to go and have fun. It was I who loved the baking and used to stay late, after we were all closed up for the day, to use the kitchen at the café to try out my own recipes. Cassandra, the owner of the café, used to say I was the best baker she’d ever come across. She encouraged me to bake all kinds of things, and they always used to sell out. When she passed away, I thought the café would be left to me, as she once told me it would be. But when the estate was finally all settled, her son and daughter had inherited the café, half each. They immediately sold it, of course. Neither of them were interested in carrying on the Seagull, they just wanted the money from the sale of the premises. It’s a fish and chip shop nowadays. Anyway, she left me all her old recipe books, so that was something. I treasure them to this day.”
“Did you ever pursue baking?” I ask, frantically writing all of this down so that I don’t forget to tell Jack every little detail of the conversation.
“It was my dream to, but I married young—one of those handsome fishermen—and we started a family soon after that. I baked for my family and for charity and the Women’s Institute events, but that was all. I suppose I lived vicariously, following Cherry’s career with, I admit, a bit of jealousy. I loved my family, though, so I happily accepted that was my lot.” She shrugs elegantly. “Simone Barker was never destined to be a baking legend or to be famous.”
“You must have been angry when you realised she’d used some of your recipes in her book without crediting them to you,” I say, pen poised once more over the paper.
She nods. “Oh, yes, I was furious.”
“And that’s why you decided to go to the press about it all.”
“No.” She shakes her head, looking thoughtful. “I was angry, but I didn’t want to cause Cherry any problems. And anyway what use would it have been to me to go shouting and ranting in the newspapers? I don’t want all of that hassle.”
I frown. “And yet you went ahead and did it anyway. Why was that?”
“My daughter talked me into it. She’s a bit hotheaded, and she insisted I should rightfully and publicly be acknowledged as the creator of the recipes. It never turned out that way, though. I didn’t have any proof the recipes were mine. I didn’t have the originals, you see. We never had much money, so our family home was tiny. When you’ve got children, they take up so much room, you know? In one of my many clear-outs, I threw away my old diary and recipe books. I did keep the ones from my old café boss, out of respect and memories. Without proof, the argument fell flat, and that was that.”
“Where’s your daughter now? Does she live locally?”
“Oh, goodness me. No, dear. She’s a driven little madam—wanted a high-flying career. She moved to London. Works at a publisher as an editor.”
I drop my pen. “She what?” That cannot be a coincidence. No way. “What’s your daughter’s name?” I ask, just to properly connect the dots and be sure of what I’m hearing.
“Carla,” Simone replies proudly. “Funnily enough, she worked for Cherry’s first publisher, and then, when they were bought out by one of the big companies, she was made redundant—but Carla wasn’t having that. She got herself a new job with the new publisher and ended up working on Cherry’s books again. Small world, isn’t it?”
It can be, but, on this occasion, I have an idea that the haughty and intimidating Carla Michaels we spoke to in London had planned this all out very carefully. Was she the one out for revenge on behalf of her mother? Did she murder Cherry? OK, I must stay calm. What would Jack do in these circumstances? As if thinking about him has somehow conjured him up, my phone rings, and it’s Jack’s handsome face smiling at me from the screen. Perfect.
Getting to my feet, I mutter my apologies. “Sorry,
I’ve got to take this call. Won’t be long.”
I think I hear Simone sigh and mumble about young people these days always being obsessed with their mobile phones as I close the cottage door behind me and step out into the bracing February sea air.
“Jack! Where are you? Are you OK?”
“I’m fine. The police let me go an hour or so ago. They can’t pin this business with Cherry on me, and they know it. I swear the chief inspector is just using it as a way to bug me. He’s not keen on me working as a private investigator on his patch. Anyway, more to the point, where are you? I’m here at Eskdale, and you are nowhere to be seen.” Before I can open my mouth to speak, Jack continues, “Now, let me guess. You wouldn’t be over in Witherby with Simone Barker, now would you?”
“How did you know?” I gasp.
“Easy. I know you too well, for starters. You’re getting very keen on this amateur sleuthing stuff these days. Second, I realised I left my notebook on your kitchen table. You probably checked through it, going over the information we’ve gathered so far, and you’d have seen I was due to meet Simone today. As I was otherwise engaged, you thought you’d take the meeting for me. How am I doing so far?”
He sounds more amused than annoyed. Good. I decide to capitalize on this and tell him what I’ve just found out about Carla. “Turns out it was a useful trip,” I say. “You’ll never guess who Simone’s daughter is.”
“Carla,” he replies instantly.
Now, I’m the one who is annoyed. How did he know that? He just stole my thunder; my big reveal about this case.
I sigh. “Why can’t I be the one who knows stuff first, just once?”
I can hear the smile in his voice. “Sorry, one of my contacts just came through for me with that detail.”
“So, is she the person who killed Cherry, do you think? Out for revenge on behalf of her mother about this recipe scandal?” I turn and lean one shoulder against the outside wall of the cottage to shelter from the wind blowing in off the sea. “It all fits, doesn’t it?”
“Yes.” He pauses a moment before adding, “And no. Carla has an alibi. She was in her office in London with clients, from ten in the morning until six at night on the day Cherry was poisoned. Which, of course, doesn’t rule her out completely. It’s possible she could have paid somebody to do it.”
“But that person would need to have easy access to the Roseby. I guess it could have been somebody Cherry knew, and when they pitched up to see her, reception rang to say she had a visitor, and then she agreed to let them into the hotel to meet with her,” I muse, hijacking his train of thought.
“Exactly.” His tone softens. “Hey, Catwoman, thanks for doing all of this. I do appreciate it, and when you get home, I’ll show you just how much I appreciate it. But having said that, I’m a big boy, and I can look after myself and clear my own name. Having you be my sidekick and help out with research and stuff is great, but I draw the line at you going off on you own like this. It could have been dangerous, and I don’t want you ending up in serious trouble. Leave that stuff to me in future. Promise?”
“Jack, stop sounding like a macho special agent,” I reply, hoping to distract him from making me promise.
“Lizzie, I want you to promise you won’t go off on your own again like this as part of an investigation.”
My distraction tactics: 0. Jack: 1.
“I’m not on my own,” I counter. “Petula is with me. She insisted. Refused to stay at Eskdale on her own.”
Jack swears under his breath. “Just get back as soon as you can, please. Then we’ll talk properly.”
“See you soon,” I say, ending the call. Hah! I got away without promising.
For now.
When I return to the cosy cottage living area, Simone and Petula are chattering away like old friends. I settle into the chair I vacated ten minutes ago and listen. Not surprisingly, they’re talking about food in all its guises. In the space of only a few minutes, topics include a rant about how cupcakes are poor excuses for cakes, being basically just good, old-fashioned fairy cakes masquerading as something fancier and far more expensive, through to how trendy baking is these days.
When Petula eventually pauses for breath, I’m poised for action. “We should get going now. It’s a long drive back, and I’ve got heaps of farm stuff still to sort today.”
Petula looks disappointed but gets to her feet, and soon we’re on our way back to Eskdale.
When we arrive at the farm, Petula disappears off to her bedroom, saying she’s got a headache, leaving Jack and me facing each other on opposite sides of the kitchen table.
OK. Here we go. Is he going to whinge at me for going off to see Simone?
Nope. Instead, he completely surprises me by striding round the table and pulling me into a fierce hug. I melt into him. This is a much better reception than I was expecting in the circumstances. The hug becomes a deliciously long kiss, and I lean against the kitchen table for physical support, it’s all so knee-weakening in intensity.
When we finally come up for air he leans his forehead against mine. “I’m still mad at you, Catwoman.”
I grin at him, tugging playfully on his shirt. “Yeah, it looks like you’re still mad at me.”
“Yeah, well, I’m just pleased to see you back here, safe and sound. I mean it, Lizzie, don’t go doing stuff like that again. Jeez, people say I break the rules and go off and do my own thing when I’m working a case. You’re just as bad these days.”
His face is etched with concern for me and my heart aches. I love this man. I need to tell him so more often. I stand on tip-toe and wrap my arms around his neck. “Jack, do you have any idea how much I love you?”
The concern is replaced by desire. He eases away and reaches for my hand, already heading for the bedroom. “Come and show me how much you love me.”
I plant my feet and lift my eyes meaningfully towards the ceiling. “Petula’s up in her room.”
Jack nods, thinking fast. “OK. Plan B. How about a romantic outdoor interlude? There’s a pile of fresh hay in the big barn which could make a comfy bed.”
“It’s freezing out there,” I protest half-heartedly. “Hang on a second and I’ll grab some cosy throws off the sofa and we can take them with us.”
“So, speaking of the case, Carla herself is probably off the suspect list, though it still leaves the paid assassin option. Which leaves Terry at The Pear and…”
We’re back in the kitchen and back on the investigation. I still feel all deliciously warm and fuzzy after our quality time in the barn, but now I need to focus. We have a killer to catch. Jack silences me with a shake of his head. “About thirty minutes ago, I found out he’s off the list too. He has an alibi, but he didn’t want to tell us where he was, because he was up to no good on the afternoon Cherry was poisoned—just a completely different kind of no good. Turns out, he’s involved in some backhander dealing with one of The Pear’s suppliers. I got a mate of mine to tip off the police in London on that score. I didn’t think I should phone it in myself, seeing as I’m not investigating Cherry’s death as far as the police are concerned.”
“No, of course you’re not.” I flop into a chair and pull my laptop across the table towards me. “So, now what? More Internet searches and trying to uncover new potential suspects? What about poisonous herbs? We still need to look into those, especially as we only have Maggie and Rudy on the suspect list now.”
“Yeah, let’s get working on the herb angle and see if it gives us any leads,” Jack says, taking a seat next to me. He leans over and whispers in my ear, “And I haven’t forgotten about getting you to promise not to go racing off like that on a mission again.”
“Mmm hmm. We have a whole world of herbalism to dig into.” I change the subject, already tapping away at my computer. “We’ll sort that other stuff out later.”
I access an online herb medical dictionary website and start to work my way through the various herbs we’d noted are being dealt with by M
etcalfe Supplements. The herbs we saw probably weren’t all of the ones that pass through the doors of that business, but these ones are as good a place to start as any.
Jack’s phone rings. He answers. “Yep, what have you got for me?”
I continue perusing the site as he listens to whatever the person on the other end of the phone is saying.
“Seriously? They’re playing their cards close to their chests on that one, aren’t they?”
More silence before Jack grabs a pen and starts to write. “OK, shoot. Let’s have the other ingredients, then. It might help.”
When he ends the call, I ask, “Any luck?”
“Nah. My contact has drawn a blank when it comes to finding out what the poison in the cupcake was. All she has for me is a list of the other ingredients in the cake, but it’s just the usual cake-type stuff.” He turns the notepad he’d been writing on around and pushes it across the pine table towards me.
I scan the list, and another flutter of excitement, much like the one I’d experienced when I’d discovered Carla is Simone’s daughter, surges through me. “Yes, it is all cake stuff, but one item on this list could prove to be significant.”
Jack looks up from where he’s been busy on his phone again. “Oh?”
“Gluten-free flour,” I say, pointing at the words on the paper, all but lost among the rest of the cupcake ingredients list like eggs and margarine and self-rising flour. “I found out in the baking workshop that Maggie and Rudy’s son Maxwell is gluten intolerant. Maggie bakes with gluten-free ingredients all the time because of him. The whole workshop was about how to make gluten-free stuff,” I finish triumphantly.
Now Jack definitely looks interested. Yay me! This time, I did come up with something useful for the case which Jack didn’t know about first. At least, I hope it’s useful for the case. The big event is getting close now, the baking festival and bake-off is tomorrow, and we need to have this case cracked before Petula Musgrove steps onto the dais for her cookery demonstration and potentially becomes baking legend murder victim number two. The police might be saying Cherry’s murder was personal, not a vendetta against baking legends, but they don’t know that for sure.
Murder At The Bake Off (Celebrity Mysteries 3) Page 10