Pudding, Poison & Pie (A Marsden-Lacey Cozy Mystery Book 3)

by Sigrid Vansandt

  “Let’s do it, Helen. I’ve cooked with Polly before, and it was a great time.”

  “You both were three sheets to the wind last time,” Helen said primly. “Anyone would have fun the way you both cook.”

  Martha leaned back in the sofa with a feisty look in her eyes and sipped her hot chocolate with massive amounts of whipped cream projecting from the brim. “It was a good time,” she said putting emphasis on the word good. “We may have to put Polly on wine restriction, if we plan to win, though.”

  “For the love of Pete, woman!” Johns said, practically choking on his chocolate. “My mother isn’t a drinker. She’s never been drunk in her life. If anything, it’s your nutter influence that drove her to drink.”

  Martha shook her head ever so slightly and grinned. “Nice try, Chief, but she bought the wine and filled my glass, not the other way around.”

  Helen chuckled under her breath. “You’re starting trouble, Littleword. Stop antagonizing Merriam. You should tell him about your dream instead of casting aspersions on his mother.”

  Johns gave Martha a sour look. “So you know, those cookies of yours are a bit hard. I’ve had better from the O’Grady Grocery’s half-price bin.”

  Martha, enjoying the teasing, turned on him and punched him gently on the shoulder. “Then you’d better take the ones you stuffed in your pockets out. I wouldn’t want you upsetting your digestion with my day-old cookies.”

  “Oh, I wasn’t going to eat these. I’m going skeet shooting next week with Piers, and I thought these would be fun to use instead.”

  Martha’s red hair took on a life of its own. When her energy flared to a certain heat, the hair lifted as well. Wisps would begin to spring free from the unkempt bun. They danced and bobbed as they caught flight on delicate air currents around her head. She’d always enjoyed a good sparring match, and Johns was equal to the task.

  Trying to act highly offended for a good show, Martha turned her attention to Helen.

  “I know we have to go to Warwickshire, but the competition starts next Thursday. That gives us four days to come up with our recipes and decide who’s making what. Come on, Helen. I know it’ll be fun and now I have a reason to make a dish of crow.”

  “Crow?” Johns said, befuddled.

  “Yes, so you can eat it,” Martha retorted.

  Johns laughed and reached over to give her a peace offering of a kiss on the cheek, but Martha wouldn’t have any of it. They’d been seeing each other for two months and things were going extremely well. Martha was happy and enjoying the time they spent together.

  “You are on restriction, Chief Johns,” she announced. “The gauntlet has been thrown down and I,” she flamboyantly bent down to pick up one of John’s gloves lying on the coffee table, “am accepting your challenge. Helen, wilt thou be my teammate, or must I look elsewhere for a noble heart?”

  “We’re learning about Shakespeare’s plays in school, Mrs. Ryes,” Emerson said, getting in on the conversation. “Mrs. Littleword is being what my teacher calls theatrical.”

  “Mrs. Littleword certainly knows how to put on a good show,” Helen said. “And to answer your question, Goodwife Littleword, I give my pledge to do us honor at the Pudding and Pie Bake-off.” She good-humoredly gave Chief Johns a steely look. “As for you, Sheriff, be certain of one thing: Southern women know how to throw down in the kitchen.”

  “Mrs. Ryes!” Martha burst out laughing. “What language! You brought back more than a client from New York.”

  “What does throw-down mean?” Emerson immediately asked.

  “To throw down means to fight or to get extremely serious about something,” Helen explained in her best pedagogical tone.

  “Whoa, I’m so scared,” Johns said in a bored way, with his eyebrows arched for sarcastic effect.

  “It’s on!” Martha declared and went over to embrace Helen. “Emerson, we must get busy. Want to help me brush up on my tarts?”

  But before he could answer, Johns’ phone beeped. It was a text message. “Looks like we need to get going in about thirty minutes, Emerson. Miss Rupert says she’ll be done in an hour.” Then in a mock whisper, “If you do come back to help Mrs. Littleword, make sure you stick some of those tarts in your knapsack. We can use them for door stops at the police station.”

  A pillow bounced up against Johns’ head, making Emerson break out in a giggle. Johns winked at Martha playfully and pushed his luck a bit.

  “Is that stew ready? It smells good.”

  “I’m going to feed Emerson, but you’ll be tossed out on your backside, Panhandle, if you say one more thing out of turn about my cooking,” Martha said, poking the Chief in his middle.

  “I promise to be a most appreciative guest, scout’s honor.” Johns held three fingers up in the Boy Scout sign as an indication of his better merit.

  Everyone settled down around the cozy kitchen table and enjoyed a hearty meal. Amos, the dog, wandered around at everyone’s feet and scored an entire piece of stew beef from Emerson, who used a clever coughing trick, to allow him to deftly slip the treat to the waiting furry con beneath the table.

  Dinner over, Martha saw the two guests out. Emerson ran ahead to throw himself down on the ground to make a snow angel as Johns turned to Martha and said in a soft voice, “Would you like to come to mum’s tomorrow night and ask her about the competition? She’s working on a pudding, and there’ll be lots of extra for dinner. You can tell me about your dream.”

  Martha reached over and gave the big, burly man a tight hug. “I like you, you old lug.” She held him for a second, thinking back on the dream. A slight shiver ran through her frame.

  “You better get inside. It’s too cold out here for you,” he said lovingly.

  Martha smiled up at him. It wasn’t the cold making her shiver. She reached up and gave him a quick peck on the mouth. “That’ll keep you warm until you get home,” she said softly.

  He squeezed her goodbye and called to Emerson. “Come along, Emerson. It’s time to go.”

  The two gentlemen waved from the street. Martha shut the door, but not before she saw Mrs. Cuttlebirt, her ever-vigilant neighbor pull back quickly from her window and begin to lower the shade.

  Martha couldn’t resist teasing her. “Hi, Mrs. Cuttlebirt!” she called loudly and waved in an exaggerated way. “Having a busy evening?”

  The window shade flapped back up and the small but plump body wrapped in a flannel housecoat leaned out of the open window. “Doing well, Mrs. Littleword. I see the police chief is calling on you again this evening!”

  Martha smiled inwardly. “Oh, yes! He’s been over to challenge Helen and me to participate in the Bake-Off. Must be community-minded!”

  Mrs. Cuttlebirt nodded appreciatively and backed up into her warm room. “Must be going. It’s too cold tonight to hang outside this window for long.”

  Martha waved and closed her front door, leaning against its solidness. “I wonder what she’d do, if I ever moved. She’d probably have to invest in cable.”

  Chapter 6

  Marsden-Lacey, England

  Present Day

  JOHNS WALKED SLOWLY WITH THE young boy beside him through the nighttime village. Store lights along the main street cast a friendly glow out onto the snow-covered ground. He couldn’t help but smile at the seasonal decorations put up by the Marsden-Lacey citizenry.

  Most shopkeepers and businesses not only dressed their windows with greenery, but also treated their customers to holiday music ranging from American country songs about sad Christmases to the traditional classics like Hark The Herald Angels Sing and Handel’s, Messiah. Street lamps were wrapped with tree trimmings going right up to below the glass light fixture, giving the impression of each pole wearing a hairy, green ruff around its neck. Johns tried, but he couldn’t imagine wanting to be anywhere else at Christmas other than Marsden-Lacey.

  As the Chief Detective Inspector, he took a great deal of pride in this village. It was, even for its size, a clo
se-knit community. Most of the pedestrians they met, he recognized or actually knew. His mind was like a vice when it came to remembering things about people, and, as if on cue, two familiar tall, well-dressed men came into view. Alistair Turner and Perigrine Clark, with their dog, Comstock, walked leisurely up the road toward him and Emerson. The four stopped to speak.

  “Good evening, Chief,” Alistair said smiling. “It’s a pleasant night for enjoying the new fallen snow.”

  Perigrine and Alistair shook hands with the Chief and offered the same greeting to young Emmy, who eagerly joined in on the time-honored male peace ritual of the handshake.

  As the older men exchanged pleasantries, Emerson was watching Perigrine particularly closely, causing the tall, sandy blonde man to use the brim of his hat as a shadowing device for his face. Only a couple of months ago, Perigrine saved Emerson from some nasty types, but chose to keep his identity secret by calling himself ‘The Fox’. At the time, it was necessary to stay incognito, but it would be awkward to explain The Fox’s real identity at this point to the child.

  Alistair clicked Comstock’s leash making the stocky black schnauzer trot up and wag his tail. This simple distraction worked, switching Emerson’s attention to the likable dog.

  “Emerson and I are on our way to the village hall,” Johns said, giving the boy a pat on the shoulder. “Things are shaping up nicely for the competition next week.”

  “Did you know, Chief, that Alistair is one of the judges?”

  “Excellent choice on Agosto’s part. I’d better not be seen by my competitors chatting you up,” Johns said affably. “I’m participating, as well. The Constabulary has a team.”

  Alistair put his hand over his heart. “As a gentleman and a thief, I intend to hold myself to the highest levels of integrity, Chief.”

  The three men shared a relaxed, knowing, chuckle. Alistair and Perigrine had recently been released from an internment at the Marsden-Lacey Constabulary. They’d been in some trouble with a counterfeiting ring, but their involvement was somehow expunged from the records and they were allowed to go free. Johns liked the two men and enjoyed their company, but he was never sure what was their real story. They shared a thriving garden and landscaping business, but at this time of year, they generally traveled abroad.

  “Glad to see you both staying home for the holidays. Usually, you’re off to warm climates,” Johns said, trying to suss out in a casual way some information about their clandestine traveling practices.

  “Perigrine has decided it’s the year for him to slow down and enjoy a traditional Christmas. I was invited to be a judge by Señor Agosto for the Marsden-Lacey Pudding and Pie Bake-Off. The Healy chef has been working hard to find enough of us to handle all the teams.”

  “Do you know the names of the other judges yet?” Johns asked.

  “Yes, actually, I do. One of the lady judges is an American. Her name is Lana Chason, a friend of Piers Cousins. She writes for an American culinary magazine. The other one…, I was told today about a woman from London. Let me see…what was her name?” Alistair mused to himself. “Oh, yes, how silly of me. I should have immediately remembered it. Her name was Saundra Johns. Any relationship to you and Polly, Chief?”

  Johns’ jaw dropped perceptibly. Quickly regaining his composure, his face became rigid, but flushed.

  “You look like you saw a ghost,” Perigrine said, with a touch of concern in his voice. “Are you okay?”

  Johns took a deep breath and exhaled forcefully. “I didn’t see a ghost, but I’m pretty sure I felt the icy, heartless grip of a devil squeeze my heart at Alistair’s mention of that name.”

  Perigrine spoke first. “If I may say so, Chief, that reaction can generally be attributed to one of two things when it comes to a man.”

  Johns shook his head as if trying to comprehend the magnitude of his situation and in a vague way asked, “And what would those two things be?”

  “One, a crazy ex-lover he’d rather not ever see again, or two, a woman he wishes he’d never known.”

  “You hit it on the head, Mr. Turner,” Johns said, his eyes cold as steel. “She’s both and…she’s my wife.”

  MARTHA STOKED THE FIRE IN the pretty Delft tiled fireplace. She loved her bedroom. When she first considered buying the canal-side cottage, she hoped the chimneys still worked. They only needed minor repair and during the cold winter nights, she enjoyed nothing so much as lying in her snug bed, surrounded by her pets and listening to the crackling of the tiny fire.

  With utter contentment, she soon slept soundly.

  Again, she found herself downstairs in her living room, and she heard laughter coming from the kitchen. Wanting to join the party and enticed by the delicious smells of garlic sautéing in butter, Martha got up to follow the scent and the voices. The sounds of people talking and food being prepared pulled her into the narrow hallway leading to the kitchen, but, as she made it less than half-way down, the laughter stopped and a feeling of unease settled upon her.

  Out of nowhere, Helen was behind her. She needed Martha to come with her and to hurry. Helen acted agitated and scared, but Martha was unable to move fast enough to keep up. Helen floated like a ghost backward. She leaned out to Martha to try to grab her, but Martha’s hands kept slipping and a sinking sensation took hold of her.

  The next thing she knew, she was in a round, stone chamber with completely vertical sides reaching up maybe fifty feet into the air. Trying to find her bearings, she looked around the enclosure, not sure how she’d arrived there. Mocking laughter rang through the tight room, bouncing off the curved surface of the stone forcing her to cover her ears. Looking up to locate the direction of the laughter, Martha realized she must be in a well. Lichen and moss clung to the walls, as water dripped down making a lost, lonely sound. The moon’s face hovered above the well’s rim undulating, as if reflected through moving water. A face ascended over the circumference of the well’s opening.

  Soon, Martha saw a dark-haired woman bent over the side and staring down at her. The sound of the slab being worked across the stone top infused Martha with panic. She called to the woman to stop, to not close her in, but soon all the moonlight was gone.

  Creeping panic slowly nibbled at her mind. She fought the urge to slip further into its grip. Water on her feet crept slowly up her ankles. The well was filling. She pleaded, “No! Help me, someone!” Treading water, she floated upward to the slab cover. Frantically, she pushed at the stone trying to move it. The water swirled and bubbled around her neck. Breathing room was running out. “Help!” She banged her fists against the slab. “Merriam!”

  Completely soaked from sweat, Martha woke up. She lay unmoving looking up at the ceiling. Amos, Gus, and Vera sat on their haunches blinking at her. Her own voice must have brought her out of the dream. Relief spread through her tight muscles and brain. She was safe in her house, in her room, with her three bed- hogs, again, trying to nestle in as close to her as possible. The moonlight filtered into the room and Martha wondered why so many nightmares were visiting her lately.

  “What’s the deal, guys?” she asked the blanket and pillow thieves. “I feel like I’ve run a marathon. Why all these nightmares, huh?”

  Vera yawned and curled back up in a tight warm ball, while Gus was busy repositioning himself on the pillow by Martha’s head. Amos crawled up and put her head right next to Martha’s hand. The four-pound fuzz-ball stuck her muzzle under her owner’s palm.

  “I’m okay, Amos,” she assured her furry friend. “I think your human needs to quit eating before bedtime. Wanna crawl in under the covers?”

  It wasn’t long before Amos, well-tucked between Martha and the inside of her feather duvet, was softly snoring and the two kitties settled back into their long winter’s nap. Martha lay there watching the embers glow in her fireplace. Something was stirring her mind’s deeper waters. It was almost like a wicked premonition, malignant and moving in slow degrees, toward her.

  She chuckled softly to herself
at her own theatrics. What she needed was a nice relaxing weekend at a spa hotel like Helen had suggested. They would come back and have fun cooking with Polly. Martha smiled at the notion of stirring it up with Johns’ mother again.

  Settled, and the black thoughts of the nightmare extinguished by the closeness of loving friends, Martha rolled over into a fetal position careful to not disturb two cats and one dog, tucked her pillow up around her head and fell into a calm, happy sleep. Morning would soon come to Flower Pot Cottage and with it, an ill wind bringing little good.

  Chapter 7

  Bath, England 1787

  The Story of How Lady Alissa Allen brought Shakespeare to Farthingay House.

  LADY ALISSA ALLEN CHECKED AND rechecked her jewelry box. The brooch was not there. Only last night at the ball, she’d worn the diamond and ruby brooch given to her by her husband. It was his wedding gift to her and once belonged to his mother, the Baroness. It was priceless.

  She tried to declutter her tired mind. If she retraced her steps after the ball, surely her memory would hit on the answer. Resting her pretty, plump hand against her cheek, she stared at herself in the vanity’s looking glass, thinking about last evening’s dance.

  Pleasurable scenes swam up through her still groggy, Chablis soaked brain. Yes, there’d been the wickedly exciting moment when Lord Giles Farthingay pulled her behind the drawing room curtains and told her she was the most beautiful woman he’d ever laid eyes on. He’d put his hands around her waist and his kiss was so long, she almost swooned, and would have, but for his strong arms holding her so tightly. Lady Alissa smiled at herself in the glass. It had been a wonderful night and now a thrilling memory.

  A knock on the door made her smile vanish immediately. Sir William Allen, her husband, announced himself.