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

by Sigrid Vansandt

  Polly’s hands were wrapped around a rolling pin like she was trying to throttle it.

  “What? There’s more?” she said, smacking the wooden pin against her palm. “I don’t know what you ever saw in that woman, other than the obvious.”

  “Mum, put the rolling pin down and please have a seat. Do you have some tea to drink?” He searched the diminutive kitchen for signs of tea.

  Polly’s eyes narrowed. She plopped into one of the table’s Windsor wooden chairs.

  “I give up,” she said, slumping down deep into a limp position. “Tell me what you’ve come here to say.”

  He sat there, trying to summon the nerve to tell his mother she was about to lose the only home she’d ever loved. Taking a deep, stabilizing breath, he said the worst thing he could think to say to her.

  “Saundra won’t give me the divorce unless I sell the farm or give her half of what it’s worth.”

  There was only silence in Martha’s homey kitchen where two humans and three small animals sat. Polly didn’t speak. She didn’t yell. All she did was look out the curtained window over the sink and watch the snowflakes drift by. Johns sat with his hands folded in his lap waiting for what he expected to be the inevitable tirade, denouncing Saundra for what she was, an evil, greedy she-devil.

  “Will it be the end of her?” his mother finally asked without any emotion in her voice.

  “Yes.”

  “So be it, Merriam. Sell it.” Polly’s demeanor was perfectly peaceful and without malice of any kind. “If it sets you free, it’s worth giving her every farthing we’ve got. It’s not too late for you, sweetheart, to have a life with someone who loves you. You need to talk with Martha about this soon.”

  “I will. I will. I want to have proof I’ve been working on this divorce. It’s important.”

  Polly got up, dusted the flour from her apron and gave Merriam a loving smile.

  “Come on, child. Get going. Go talk with that solicitor of yours and call on Mr. Crabtree who deals with property. I’ve got my eye on a more manageable place here in the village anyway. I want to be closer. Feels safer.”

  Merriam was in shock. He sat in his chair like a lump of clay. Polly took up her rolling pin and worked the dough.

  “Mum, are you okay?” he asked softly.

  She walked over to her son and cupped his face in her hands.

  “Nothing matters to me, Merriam, but you. Things are worthless compared to someone you love.” She looked deep into his eyes, searching them. “If you know you are free, dear, let me see it in your eyes.”

  She pulled his head to her breast and as she did so, his entire being suddenly realized what it meant to be truly free from all the pain, loneliness, and bitterness he’d known for years. He was truly free. If this was Saundra’s price, it would be paid. It was cheap compared to the release it bought for his soul.

  Tears welled up in his stinging eyes and he let Polly hold him like she’d done when he was a child and scared of the dark or sick with the flu. They were both free from Saundra. It was the most peace either of them had known in a long, long time.

  MARTHA SAT PATIENTLY IN THE hotel reception area waiting for Helen. The Mercedes had been brought around by the steward, and Martha’s things were already in the trunk. When she’d seen Helen earlier, her friend’s whole demeanor was brighter, happier than Martha had ever known it to be since she’d known her. It was nice to see Helen this way.

  “I’m here!” Helen called from the stair landing as she descended with her bags. “Sorry, it took so long. Piers forgot his keys were in my pocket. I ran them back up to him.”

  The opportunity was too perfect. Martha gave into it and teased Helen.

  “Seems awful friendly, his keys, your pocket. What have you two been up to today?”

  Helen stopped dead in the reception area, her bags swinging from each shoulder. The expression on her face as she quickly scanned the intimate area for anyone who might have heard Martha’s insinuation was that of a prim person startled by a secret truth.

  “Shhhh,” she instructed Martha, who was smiling like a Cheshire cat. “I’ll tell you in the car.”

  Martha could hardly wait. In an effort to hurry, she picked up Helen’s Louis Vuitton bag and handed the steward a tip as a thank you for bringing the car around. With Helen in tow, Martha threw the bags in the car’s back seat and settled herself in the passenger seat.

  “Come on, Juliet!” she called to Helen, who was still fiddling with her purse.

  Helen rolled her eyes heavenward and with what composure she was able to manage after being hustled out of one of Warwickshire’s better hostelries, she opened the driver’s-side door and sat down.

  “Whew! That was like herding chickens,” Martha said.

  Helen turned on the car engine. “I’m going to hurt you.”

  “Why? Let’s roll and you can tell me all about your date with Piers today.” Martha’s smile was open and friendly, like a cheerful Labrador, who wants to play ball. “I know something’s up because you have a certain sparkle going on,” Martha massaged the air around Helen’s head, “in this whole area.”

  “Stop fussing with my…space,” Helen grumped. “Give me a minute to find the right road. The snow is thick and I need to concentrate.”

  The Mercedes lurched out through the two tall stone pillars designating the entrance to the Brentmore Hotel. Helen increased the speed of the sedan and sighed.

  “We’re off and I can tell you everything, now.”

  “Spill it,” Martha quipped.

  “It was sheer bliss. He took me for a ride in a sleigh pulled by a sweet tempered mare all the way into the nearby village of Stratford. We shopped and he had everything wrapped and sent to Healy for me to pick up later.”

  “What a sweetheart!” Martha cooed. “I’m beginning to like that man more every day. Better grab him, Helen, before I throw my hat into the ring.”

  Helen reached over and pinched Martha on the arm.

  “Listen here, Red, you better be teasing.”

  Martha laughed and rubbed the spot of the playful pinch. “It’s fun to see how much you actually like him, Helen. By the way, I’m hungry. Want to stop along the way and have a nice cup of warm soup somewhere?”

  “Nope. We’re getting home. The roads will be terrible until we reach the highway and I’ve still got to organize some things with Sinead Peters in London. I want to put this Brickstone project behind us, Martha. Piers thinks it’s not on the up and up.”

  “I agree. Let’s get Merriam involved. Back to your shopping-trip story, Helen. Was it romantic?” Martha asked wistfully.

  “It was so romantic. He was a perfect gentleman the entire day.” After a short pause, she added, “I am scared, Martha.”

  “Why?”

  “I love him.”

  “Oh, boy, Helen. Those are big words to be throwing around only one year after Georgie Porgie left town.”

  “I know, but to be fair, loser George never, never came close to being anything like Piers. Give me some credit. Piers is steak to George’s hamburger.”

  Martha had never met George, but she’d seen pictures. Helen was stating a simple truth with that last comment.

  “Yeah, and he better be playing for keeps, or I’m going to let him have it,” Martha said. She didn’t want Helen to be hurt again, and Piers held too many of the cards.

  “Don’t give him your body, Helen. That’s all I’ve got to say. He’s used to getting everything he sets his mind to, and he’s got to learn you’re worth more than a few fun romps in the hay.” Vehement in her tone, Martha eyed Helen, who sat elegantly composed in her seat holding the wheel with both hands.

  For a few seconds, she didn’t answer but sat watching as the road unfurled ahead of them. In a soft voice, she said, “It’s hard to stay sure and strong sometimes, Martha. I was so lost when George ran off with Fiona, a girl practically half my age. I don’t trust Piers. How can I? How can I ever trust any man again after that?�
��

  Martha sat mute in her seat. The truth was she didn’t trust Cousins either, but she didn’t want Helen to lose faith in the future. Martha would have to toss Cousins into the river in front of his precious Healy House if she found out he was only playing Helen. For the time being, though, she needed to shore up Helen’s faith in the male side of humanity.

  “Has he tried to get you in bed, Helen?”

  “Well,” she hem hawed, “he’s been pretty ardent, but I feel so insecure about the whole thing, so I’ve not let it go too far.”

  “Good. Wait till you’re certain of your own feelings.”

  “Really? It’s getting harder and harder each time, Martha.”

  “So be it. Keep your head together, Helen, until you know for sure you’re ready to accept either consequence.”

  “Which is?”

  “One, he loves you and wants to make you his only. That means he doesn’t want to lose you. He wants something more traditional. The second option is you’re ready for the free love, free milk scenario.”

  “Yes, to the first one. That’s more me. I’m the type, if I’m honest with myself, who wouldn’t be happy keeping it loose and free.”

  Martha continued. “There’s no value put on something that comes too easily. It’s a lost truth these days, but it still holds water. Piers knows that, as well. He sees something special in you. Something he’s not likely to see again in this life and he knows it.”

  Chapter 14

  “Hell is empty and all the devils are here.”

  -Shakespeare, The Tempest, Act I, Scene II

  IT WAS THE NEXT MORNING and the official beginning of the Marsden-Lacey Pudding and Pie Bake-Off. They were kicking off the event with a Meet and Greet. Martha, Polly, and Helen had decided on their recipes the previous evening after the girls got home to Flower Pot Cottage. Mr. O’Grady, Polly’s beau and fourth team member, was happy to be along for the ride. They were ready to take on the other teams.

  All the contestants and the judges were under one roof to discuss the rules of competition and to talk with the local press, who’d come to Marsden-Lacey for the scoop on the Pudding and Pie Bake-Off. Helen and Martha were doing some walking about to check out the competition.

  “Did you see that woman who is hanging on Johns, Martha?” Helen said nudging Martha in the ribs and pointing across the room to the place where a stage was erected.

  Martha craned hear head to see over the multitude of competitors, visitors, and press. Sure enough, Merriam’s tie was being fiddled with by a petite woman. Martha scowled.

  “Who is she? I’ve not seen her in Marsden-Lacey before.”

  Helen, with a critical eye for female deportment, answered, “Well, she’s a bit of a tart, if you ask me. She’s got too much makeup on. I can see it from across the hall.”

  Martha giggled lightly. “Let’s stroll over there and get a better look at all the competition, if you know what I mean. Shall we?”

  The girls worked their way across an extremely crowded and hot room. People were excited to see friends, some of the contestants were talking with a television crew from Leeds and a few local dignitaries were busy having their pictures taken by the Marsden-Lacey Times.

  A sharp buzzing sound blared from above and a voice, they both well knew, blasted much too sharply from the overhead speakers, causing everyone to slap their hands over their ears.

  “Hello! Hello! Am I able to be heard?” Señor Agosto, Piers Cousin’s high-tempered Spanish chef at Healy House, said into the microphone.

  “Ah, yes, it is working nicely. Everyone, may I have your attention, please,” he said. “I would like to introduce to you our judging team for our first annual Marsden-Lacey Pudding and Pie Bake-Off.”

  A huge round of applause filled the Village Hall’s auditorium. Helen and Martha’s progress was checked by the crowd’s sudden push as everyone tried to get closer to the stage.

  Martha saw the woman who’d been playing up to Merriam. She was taking her place alongside Alistair Turner, Lana Chason and, of course, Señor Agosto.

  “She must be a judge,” Martha whispered to Helen, who was trying not to rub up against anyone. Look, there’s Lana.

  One of the caterers came by with a tray of drinks. He offered one to Martha, but she declined with a polite, “No, thank you.”

  “Does it feel hot to you in here?” Helen asked Martha.

  “Yes, it’s miserable.” Martha quickly checked out Helen’s face. She could see how white Helen was. “Oh, did mentioning Lana make you upset? I’m sorry, kid. You look pale, Helen. Go over to the seats by that cracked window and get some fresh air.”

  Helen nodded and extricated herself from the pressed bodies of the crowd. Señor Agosto resumed his introductions.

  “If you will please come forward as I introduce your name, judges. I’ll give a short biography of your expertise.” Two ladies beside Martha whispered about the lanky American blonde, whom Martha knew was Lana. They were questioning her expertise, since she looked like a supermodel. Martha raised her eyebrows at the comment. It was a good question, but she knew better than to assume anything about a person’s abilities by looking at their cover.

  “Mrs. Lana Chason Berkowitz comes to us from New Orleans, Louisiana,” Agosto said. Martha’s face broke out into a huge smile. She turned to find Helen in the place she’d told her to sit. Helen’s eyes were shut, and she was still pale, but there was no mistaking the large grin on her face. Lana was remarried and off the market.

  Agosto rambled on about her time spent at a famous cooking school in California as a teacher and her time spent writing a column for a well-known Southern magazine. He turned to the dapper Alistair Turner, everyone’s favorite ex-con or ex-spy, no one knew which.

  “Our Mr. Turner, has a diploma from Le Cordon Bleu in Paris for Bakery. He worked as head Chef for the three-star restaurant, Sylvie’s, on Montserrat, and recently finished his first book, to be published in May, called Breaking Bread: A Guide to Baking and Dining With Friends.”

  “Those two never cease to surprise me with what they do, who they know, and where they’ve been,” Merriam Johns said in Martha’s ear. His voice was so close, she jumped and turned around.

  “Hey! You startled me. Who’s the blonde floozie fiddling with your tie?” she countered, ignoring his comment regarding Perigrine and Alistair.

  Johns gave her a serious look. “That’s something I need to talk to you about. Would you come with me outside for a moment?”

  Before she was able to answer him, she heard Agosto say, “And also with us, is a Manchester native and famous chef in her own right, Saundra Johns, wife of our own Chief Constable, Merriam Johns.”

  The look on Merriam’s face told Martha everything. Her heart froze in her chest. She couldn’t believe it. Her brain simply shut down.

  “Tell me it isn’t what it sounds like,” she said, searching his face.

  He reached for her. With both of his hands, he cupped her face. “Martha, she’s my wife, but I don’t love her. We’ve been separated for over five years. I’ve been trying to get a divorce for the last two, since I met you. I’ve been putting pressure on her for the last six months. You’ve got to let me explain everything to you.”

  Martha reached up and took hold of his wrists and pulled them downward. Shaking her head from left to right in disbelief, she said in a voice she didn’t recognize, “No, I don’t want to talk right now. You need to go away. I can’t look at you. Where’s Helen?”

  Johns stood stalk still towering over the pretty redhead who only came up to his shoulder. Martha couldn’t feel anything but her face flushing and herself becoming overheated. She turned on Johns and wandered off through the crowd until she saw Helen still lying her head against the window, with her eyes shut.

  Martha plopped down beside her. She, too, laid her head against the cool windowpane and let the outside air, chilled from the winter weather, filter across her burning brow.

  “Johns is mar
ried,” she croaked.

  Helen sat up straight in her chair, her face white and her hair damp from snow coming in through the window’s crack. Sprigs of frozen hair were sticking straight out giving Helen the look of a lopsided ice queen or drunk punk rocker from the eighties.

  The vision made Martha chuckle, despite the news she’d learned.

  “Are you hysterical?” Helen asked, looking more perplexed and porcupine-like than before.

  “No, no, I can’t help it. Your hair is all pointy and frozen with a bunch of snow sprinkles. Oh! My God! Helen, Johns is married! I’m you!” Martha cried, the reality of the situation hitting her once more.

  Helen’s frozen hair quivered as she wrestled herself into a better position to see Martha’s face straight on.

  “You’re me? What the hell are you talking about? Do I need to get you medical attention?” she asked, her color cool, but her tone hot.

  “Merriam is someone I can’t trust. Don’t you see? He’s like Georgie Porgie, your ex-husband, a total jerk.”

  Helen’s face slowly registered understanding, and she nodded up and down. Returning to her earlier position with her head against the cold window, she finally said in a queasy voice, “Yes, that’s me, all right.”

  For a minute, they sat unmoving until Helen reached over and patted Martha on the leg in a reassuring, motherly way.

  “Does this remind you of anything?” she asked.

  Martha, with her eyes shut and in the same position as Helen, said, “Oh you betcha it does, except this time there’s no body on the floor.”

  “Give it time. Give it time,” Helen murmured.

  “God, I hope not.”

  “I only meant that with our luck, it may happen,” Helen added.

  Martha opened her eyes and gave Helen a good look.

  “Hey, should I take you home? Did something make you sick over there in the crowd? Lana’s married. She’s no longer a threat.”

  “I know. I know. It’s that I haven’t eaten enough I think, and the room was so hot with all the people crowding together. It was a bit of a shock to see Lana, but I’m feeling ill and I want to get out of here.”