The Marmalade Murders

by Elizabeth J Duncan

  The door flaps of the marquee had been tied back, leaving a double-wide entry space. As Penny and Victoria were about to enter, a tall woman with a shiny black Labrador retriever bounding along at her heels charged toward them.

  From her purple plaid skirt, green wellies, and robust figure, Penny recognized her as the woman she’d seen measuring the field with Haydn Williams on Wednesday morning.

  “Hello,” said the woman in the purple skirt. “I’m Joyce Devlin, chief cook and bottle washer, and you must be Penny and Victoria. Evelyn Lloyd told me to expect you. You made it, and on time, too, I’m pleased to see. Ready to get to work, are you?” She spoke briskly, in a no-nonsense manner, and without waiting for a reply, she gestured to the open doorway of the marquee. “Let’s go in, shall we?”

  A dozen or so tables had been placed end to end under the plastic arched windows that ran along alongside of the marquee. Each table had been covered with a white tablecloth, which fell almost to the ground, creating the illusion of one very long table. At the table farthest from the entrance, a faded, tired-looking woman of about sixty smoothed the tablecloth, then took a couple of steps back to check its length. On the other side of the marquee, two men were setting up the tables and chairs for the refreshment service.

  “Barbara,” Joyce called. Hearing her name, the woman at the end of the long table hurried over with a stack of papers on a clipboard and a roll of white stickers. She handed them to Penny, along with a black marking pen. “Now, you’ll see on the entry forms here that each entry has been assigned a number,” Joyce explained. “So when someone arrives with her entry, a pie, let’s say, you just take her name, find her entry form, check off the ‘Received’ box, and write the entry number the secretary has assigned on the sticker. Slap it on the bottom of the pie plate so that we’ll know whose pie it is. The numbers must match the entry forms so that we’ll know who the winners are, because, of course, all entries are blind-judged. Oh, and while we prefer that all entries in the baking competition are on white plates, for exhibiting purposes, if somebody does enter something on a blue willow pattern plate, for example, you may accept it. It won’t be disqualified on the grounds that the plate might identify the owner, because all our judges come from out of town. The jams and marmalades will be in glass jars, of course, but we don’t mind what kind of lid they have. A lot of them will probably look alike because we all buy our jars and lids from the same shop. One year, polka dots were very popular, as I recall. And gingham tops never go out of style. Anyway, when you’ve finished checking in all the entries, please put the forms in alphabetical order, keep the no-shows separate, and we’ll be back to collect them just after eight, when entries close.”

  “And what should we do with the entries?” Victoria asked. “The cakes and things.”

  “Come with me.” With her dog at her side, she led the way to the long table. Tent cards spaced a few feet apart indicated what that section of the table was reserved for: baked goods, vegetables, floral arts.

  “Everybody will arrive at once, especially at the beginning, so just leave the item in the proper spot, and then, when things ease up a bit and you get a few minutes, you can arrange the entries nicely,” Joyce explained. “Group all the pies together, cakes together, and so on. Makes it easier for the horticultural and home-craft judges in the morning.” She looked from Penny to Victoria and then checked her watch. “Any questions? No? Right, well then, if there’s nothing else, I’ve got a million things to see to, so I’ll leave you to it. The entrants will be arriving with their offerings in about five minutes. Oh, one last thing. No late entries. The cutoff point is eight o’clock and they must be here by then.”

  Penny gave the dog at Joyce’s side a friendly pat. “She looks just like Emyr’s dog, Trixxi,” she said as she straightened up. “But I guess all black Labs look pretty much the same.”

  Joyce’s dark, heavy eyebrows lifted in surprise. “Oh, you know Emyr, do you?” Emyr Gruffydd was a local landowner who had a magnificent property called Ty Brith Hall just outside town, and another large estate in Cornwall.

  Penny nodded. “I’ve looked after Trixxi several times. She’s a lovely girl.”

  “Well, to the untrained eye, I suppose all Labs might look the same, although to me they certainly do not. But as a matter of fact, you are quite correct. Emyr’s dog is from my kennel, and, in fact, Billie here is Trixxi’s aunt. I pride myself on breeding the finest Labradors in North Wales. Got a waiting list as long as your arm. Got a litter now, as a matter of fact. The pups are seven weeks old, and all spoken for.”

  She glanced down at the dog, who returned her gaze with warm brown eyes, and Joyce’s face softened with undisguised affection. “Billie here is the best bitch I’ve ever had. Her breeding days are over now, but I keep her as a pet, and she acts as a bit of a nursemaid to the new litters.” She gave Penny an appraising look. “Oh, aren’t you the one judging the children’s pet competition?”

  Penny nodded.

  “Like animals, do you?”

  “Love them.”

  “Well, if you’d like to come out to see the pups at our kennels, just give me a ring.” She pulled a slightly tattered business card out of her pocket and handed it to Penny. “But as I said, they’re all spoken for.” Her pale companion, whom Joyce hadn’t bothered to introduce, cleared her throat in an attention-getting sort of way. “Yes, you’re right, Barbara. We must crack on.” She instructed Barbara to give Penny a program, and then added, “Oh, one last thing. If anyone shows up with an entry but hasn’t completed a form, there are a couple of blank ones in the stack. Just write on the form ‘late entry,’ keep that form separate from the rest, and the treasurer will chase up the payment. It costs twice as much to enter once the deadline is past.” She let out an exasperated sigh. “You’d think by now people would’ve worked out that they have to get their entry forms in on time, but there are always the procrastinators. What can you do?”

  At the sound of excited voices approaching, their attention turned to the marquee entrance.

  “Brace yourselves,” Joyce said. “Here come the ladies with their entries. Right, well, we’ll leave you to it. You’re going to be very busy for the next couple of hours and then things will taper off.”

  And busy they were. A steady stream of excited, optimistic competitors presented their offerings of baked goods, including breads, biscuits, plain and fancy cakes, and pies; elaborate and simple floral displays; vegetables of every shape, size, and colour; and iridescent jars filled with jam, chutneys, and marmalade. Penny and Victoria fell into an efficient system, which saw Victoria managing the paperwork, including the application of stickers, and, when the entries were processed, Penny toting them to their designated spots and arranging them in groups of like with like.

  As the evening wore on, the steady stream of entrants dwindled to a trickle until about thirty minutes before the entry deadline, when Penny and Victoria had the marquee all to themselves. Victoria, standing at the entrance, watching the activity at the livestock pens farther down the field, pointed to a tall, familiar figure striding into view.

  “It’s Gareth. I wonder what he’s doing here.”

  Penny placed a light hand on her friend’s arm and peered around her. “He was brought on board to manage the show’s security. Rural crime is on the increase at an alarming rate, apparently. Whole flocks of valuable sheep stolen right out of their fields. With so many expensive animals all in one place, the show organizers want to make sure there’s none of that.”

  Gareth Davies, formerly a detective chief inspector with the North Wales Police, now retired, was an old friend of Penny’s. At one time, there’d been the beginning of a romance, but she’d gradually come to realize that although she liked and respected him enormously, as much as she wanted to, she didn’t love him, and never would. After that phase of the relationship had run its course, he’d moved on, and the two had remained fond of each other, in a nondemanding, casual kind of way.


  Gareth disappeared from view and the two women stepped back into the marquee and surveyed the white-draped tables, groaning with colourful entries. “It must be getting close to eight P.M. How many entries are still to come?” Penny asked.

  Victoria tipped the clipboard toward the doorway to catch the light and examined the top documents. “Two are Gaynor Lewis’s and—wait, that’s strange. Three are Florence Semble’s. One cake, one jam, and one marmalade.” She looked at Penny. “Did you know Florence was entering?”

  “Florence?” Penny shook her head. “No, I didn’t. When Mrs. Lloyd asked me if we could help out here this evening, she didn’t mention Florence was entering the competition. I’m not surprised, though. Florence’s baking is second to none.”

  “Well, she’d better get her skates on if she wants to get her entries in the competition in time.”

  Penny did not hesitate. “This is not like her. Florence is the best-organized person I know, and she’d never leave something like this to the last minute. I’m going to ring her and let her know time’s almost up. If we know she’s on her way, even if she arrives a few minutes late, I’m sure it will be okay to allow her entries.”

  Penny retrieved her mobile from her pocket, thumbed through the contacts list, and pressed the green call button.

  * * *

  “I’ll get it,” Mrs. Lloyd called out, rising from the sofa in her sitting room in response to the ringing telephone. She entered the hallway of the comfortable two-storey house on Rosemary Lane that she shared with Florence Semble and lifted the telephone receiver. “Hello?” She listened for a moment, then put down the receiver and walked to the doorway of the kitchen, where Florence was bent over the kitchen worktop, icing a cake.

  “It’s for you,” said Mrs. Lloyd. “It’s Penny. She’s calling from the agricultural show. Something about your entries.”

  “Oh, can you take a message or tell her I’ll ring her back?” Florence did not look at Mrs. Lloyd, but remained focused on her task. She squeezed the top of a piping bag to force the green icing toward the tip. “I want to finish the decoration on this cake.”

  Mrs. Lloyd trotted back to the telephone and a moment later, after letting out a loud “Oh my Lord!” dashed back to the kitchen. “Florence!” At the urgency in her friend’s voice, Florence’s head turned to the doorway. “Penny says the deadline for entries is eight o’clock and she called to see if you’re on your way. She’s worried if you’re late, your entries won’t be allowed.”

  Florence frowned and tilted her head to the side. “The deadline’s tonight? Are you sure?”

  “Of course I’m sure. That’s what Penny just said.” She flapped her hands at the cake. “How are you coming along there? Is it almost ready to go? What should I tell Penny?”

  “Well, someone’s got her wires crossed,” said Florence, letting out a long, slow breath of confused disbelief. “What about that telephone call last night telling me I should bring my entries in the morning?”

  “Penny was very clear,” Mrs. Lloyd responded, her voice rising with impatience. “All entries must be in by eight o’clock.”

  “Well, in that case, you’d better tell her we’re on our way, and then ring for a taxi.”

  Florence Semble had moved into Mrs. Lloyd’s house several years earlier, ostensibly as her lodger, although Mrs. Lloyd preferred to think of Florence in a rather more genteel term, regarding the woman as her companion. The arrangement suited both of them. They tolerated each other’s foibles and, for the most part, were patient and forgiving with each other. The strength of their underlying friendship was obvious, and as Mrs. Lloyd put it, they “rubbed along quite nicely.”

  And even when Florence had discovered earlier in the year that she was the owner of valuable artwork and could have sold it easily to raise enough money to buy a small property of her own, she had chosen to stay with Mrs. Lloyd.

  Never married, Florence had relied on herself her entire life. Straight out of school at the age of seventeen, she’d gone to work at the Liverpool School of Art, and that was the only employment she’d ever had. She’d been eking out a modest retirement when she met Mrs. Lloyd, and had gratefully accepted her offer of accommodation. What Mrs. Lloyd hadn’t known when she’d invited Florence into her home was that Florence loved to cook and bake. What a delightful bonus that had turned out to be, although Mrs. Lloyd’s waistline had paid a steep price for the indulgence in Florence’s light, flaky scones and delicate shell-shaped Aberffraw biscuits.

  “There,” said Florence a few minutes later. “The cake’s ready to go. Have you got the jam and marmalade?”

  “I do,” replied Mrs. Lloyd, opening the front door. “Let’s be having you. The taxi’s here.”

  Three

  “Mrs. Lloyd’s called a taxi,” Penny said when the call ended, “and Florence should be here in about ten minutes.” A quizzical expression crossed her face. “For some reason, Florence was told to bring her entries in the morning.”

  “In the morning? Do you mean tomorrow morning? I wonder why she was told that,” mused Victoria. “I’m quite sure I read somewhere…” Her voice trailed off as she scanned an entry form. “Yes, here it is. Look,” she said, leaning toward Penny and showing her the document. “Right here at the bottom.” She underlined the relevant sentence with her finger as she read it out loud. “‘All entries must be delivered to the judging tent by eight P.M. on the Friday evening.’ Joyce didn’t say anything about entries arriving in the morning. In fact, she was quite clear we couldn’t accept late entries. And none of the other entrants we processed tonight mentioned being told to bring their items in the morning. Why would Florence be the only one told that?”

  “That is strange. Well, in that case, I’m very glad I rang Florence. She’d have been so disappointed not to get her entries in on time. Mrs. Lloyd sounded quite panicked on the phone. She told me that this is the first year Florence got up the courage to enter anything in this show and she’s nervous enough about how she’s going to do, without this added stress.”

  Like all the entrants in the Llanelen agricultural show home-craft events, Florence had high hopes that her cake, jam, and marmalade would meet with the judges’ approval.

  Victoria checked her phone. “Ten minutes to go. Come on, Florence!” Penny and Victoria exchanged anxious glances as the minutes ticked by. And then, at two minutes to eight, Mrs. Lloyd rushed into the tent, arms outstretched, holding two jars of preserves with squares of red-and-white gingham fabric tied over the lids with butcher’s twine. Still wearing her full-length chef’s apron, Florence followed at a slower pace, carrying a covered cake plate in both hands as gingerly as if it were a basket of baby chicks.

  “Set your cake over there on the table with the others and we’ll sort it out in a minute,” directed Penny as she reached out to take the jars from Mrs. Lloyd. Victoria checked off the jam and marmalade and slapped a sticker on the bottom of each. Penny placed the jars on the table and turned her attention to the cake. Penny held it up so Victoria could apply the sticker to the bottom of the white plate.

  “Done and just in time!” Penny said as they set the cake on the table with the others.

  “Oh my word,” gasped Florence, untying her apron and lifting the neck strap over her head. “I can’t thank you enough for ringing to let me know about the deadline. This isn’t even the cake I was planning to enter. It’s the practise cake, and Evelyn and I were just about to sample it. If you’d called a minute later, there would have been two slices missing out of it! After we’d had a chance to taste it, I was going to set my alarm to get up early in the morning and bake another cake for the competition.”

  “I’m sure it’ll be delicious,” said Penny. “What kind is it?”

  “Carrot, with a cream cheese icing. You can’t see because of the cover, but it’s got little orange carrots with green leaves piped around the top. I was going to go for chocolate, because everybody loves chocolate cake, but in the end I went with the carro
t.”

  “The judges are bound to love it. Everything you bake is wonderful,” Mrs. Lloyd reassured her.

  At that moment, Joyce Devlin entered the tent, accompanied by her pale assistant, towed by Billie the Labrador, this time on a short lead.

  “Entries are now closed,” Joyce announced, pressing her thin lips into an emphatic line and scrutinizing Mrs. Lloyd and Florence. She acknowledged them, then turned her attention to Victoria. “How did we do?”

  “All but two entries submitted,” said Victoria, handing the forms and clipboard to Joyce. After scanning the documents, Joyce made a little hmpf sound, then passed the completed documents and clipboard to her companion, who frowned as she brushed a straggly lock of brown hair off her face.

  “That’s all right, Barbara. I’ll take care of these two,” Joyce said, holding on to the paperwork for the two entries that had not arrived in time to be entered in the competition.

  “Now then,” said Joyce to Penny. “About judging the children’s pet show.” Joyce turned to her assistant and said, “Barbara, you’d better give her a program so she’ll know where she’s supposed to be, and when.” Barbara handed Penny a program booklet.

  “Right, well, that’s everything for now,” said Joyce. “Thank you very much, and we’ll see you in the morning. Show grounds open at nine A.M. You’ll be amazed how many events we get through in just one day. Terrific amount to see and do, and everyone has such great fun.” A brisk nod signalled they were dismissed. “Come on, Barbara,” she said to the small woman who seemed to accompany her everywhere. “We’ve got to make sure the tea area’s been set up properly. I’m worried they haven’t got the cups and saucers laid out, and knowing Dev, we’ll have to redo the tablecloths.”