The Great Witchy Cake-Off

by Jeannie Wycherley

  I opened my mouth to offer a sharp retort when Mindi suddenly piped up, “The person who found her? Who was that?”

  George studied his notebook. “That was Delores Everyoung. She has been escorted to the police station for questioning, but she’ll be back a little later.”

  “One of the contestants.” Boo Sully flicked through the notes on his clipboard. “Oh my. I do hope she’ll be alright. We start filming the day after tomorrow.”

  “She was a little shocked, but we’ll get her sorted and deliver her back here as soon as possible,” one of George’s team promised.

  “She’s not a suspect then?” Mindi again.

  George used his stern voice. “Everyone is a suspect at this stage. The crew, the production team, the contestants… and yes, even the permanent inhabitants of Whittle Inn and surrounds.”

  I shuffled in my spot next to the fire and glared at George. He deliberately avoided my gaze.

  “How exciting!” Boo clasped a hand to his heart. “I’ve always wanted to be involved in a real-life police investigation.

  I opened my mouth in astonishment. Were these people for real? Had they failed to understand that their friend—or at least colleague—was gone forever? She wouldn’t be coming back. Some of the people here behaved as though this murder was all part of the show.

  Something that would boost the ratings.

  I frowned.

  Boost the ratings? Was that me being cynical?

  Or was that really what was at the heart of all this?

  “You ought to keep your own hens at the inn.” Millicent Ballicott gazed down at the double tiered tray of eggs I balanced in my grasp, as her dogs, Jasper the lurcher and Sunny the Yorkie, sniffed around my feet.

  I grimaced. “It has crossed my mind. But I’m not sure I’d be very good with chickens.”

  Millicent clucked for effect. A plump and good-natured lady of advancing years, she was my closest witchy neighbour outside any that temporarily inhabited the inn. Known for her eccentric dress sense—today she was sporting forest-green tights with a lemon-yellow sundress, a gruesome brown handknitted cardigan and a straw hat decorated with plastic sunflowers—she’d proven herself as a good friend to me time and time again.

  “Why would you worry? You don’t have to look after them,” Millicent laughed. “Just find a ghost to do the job for you. You have an inn full of them and many of them could do with some worthwhile employment.”

  She was right. I had an attic full of ghosts who hardly lifted a translucent finger on a daily basis. I called on them when I needed them, but now that the inn had been fully renovated and I had ghosts attending to cleaning and maintenance, the rest of them were hardly ever called upon.

  “Chickens aren’t scared of ghosts then?” I asked doubtfully.

  Millicent shrugged. “I don’t see why they would be. They have no reason to be, do they?”

  She had a point I supposed. My mother Yasmin had kept chickens at the little hen coop where she’d lived out the end of her life. I had never been overly fond of them, but it was true that I spent an absolute fortune on eggs from Whittle Stores.

  “Maybe I’ll look into it,” I said, wondering what my little familiar, Mr Hoo, would have to say if I introduced more birds to the inn.

  “I think—” Millicent’s words were drowned out by the throbbing snarl of a deep-throated engine whizzing past us—far too quickly for the slow speed limit—and I turned in surprise as a classic MG in British racing green, music blaring loudly above the roar, screeched as it turned into the drive leading to The Hay Loft’s car park.

  “One of your current guests?” Millicent asked in amusement.

  “I don’t believe so.” I hadn’t recognised the male driver and as far as I knew, only Patty Cake was staying at The Hay Loft. Everyone else was either with me or camping in trailers behind Whittle Inn. I placed my hand on my heart. “Ooh he made me jump with that racket.”

  “You’re getting old, Alf,” Millicent laughed.

  “I am. I prefer the quiet life.”

  The tinkle of a bicycle bell alerted us to Sally McNab-Martin’s arrival. She jumped gracefully off her bike and greeted us and the dogs. “Good morning, ladies!”

  “How are you, Sally?” I asked. “Everything all right with the cottage?”

  Sally’s abusive relationship with her soon-to-be-ex-husband had come to light while I’d been plying my trade as a fortune teller at the Psychic Fayre a few months ago. Once I’d returned to my normal life at Whittle Inn, I’d offered her the tenancy for Dandelion cottage. It had been standing empty since the death of poor Derek Pearce and it seemed fitting that it should go to someone who was already a popular member of Whittlecombe’s community. Sally, like Millicent, was active in the WI and raised money for several local charities.

  “Everything is just fine and dandy, Alf,” she smiled. “Thank you. A glorious day for a bike ride, isn’t it? The trees are just beginning to change colour. You can smell Autumn on its way.”

  As we all remarked on the glorious weather, the little green MG suddenly spun back out of the Hay Loft’s car park and across the road, pulling up in front of us.

  A slightly overweight chap, early forties perhaps, with a full head of fair hair, mirrored sunglasses and a deep tan hailed us. “Ladies!”

  We turned around as one and stared into the MG. He pulled the hand brake on and pushed his sunglasses away from his face onto the top of his head.

  “So sorry to interrupt your gossiping.” My hackles instantly rose. “I was wondering whether there was anywhere around here with a decent off-licence?”

  “Whittle Stores?” Millicent indicated the little shop behind us.

  “No no no. That won’t do.” The man dismissed her suggestion with an offhand wave of his fingers. “I’m looking to buy some high-end wine, maybe a little champagne.”

  “Whittle Stores sells champagne,” I told him, lifting my chin in defence of the perceived slur on my friends Rhona and Stan. The man in the car reminded me of somebody. Not in a good way.

  “There’s a large supermarket in Honiton,” Sally offered. “It has a really good selection of wines and spirits.”

  The man harrumphed. “That sounds like just the ticket! The spirits aren’t an issue. Lyle’s got plenty of those.” He nodded his head at The Hay Loft, owned by my arch-rival Lyle Cavendish. “But yes, some decent wine would go down a storm. So which way is Honiton?” He addressed this to Sally, who slipped her bicycle on to its side stand and leaned into the car in an effort to give the driver directions.

  Her instructions only seemed to confuse him, although I was fairly sure that if he followed the road signs he’d eventually get where he needed to be. This was East Devon after all. You either drove inland or you ended up in the sea. There weren’t many other options.

  “How about you take me with you?” Sally said, after he’d frowned and asked her to repeat them more than once. “It will be much easier, and I have the time.”

  “Sally,” I gasped, holding out a restraining arm. We didn’t know the man from Adam. He might have been anyone.

  “Oh it’s quite alright.” The man in the car winked at me. “I’m Crispin Cavendish. Lyle is my big brother. I’m staying with him for a few days, hoping to lure him to do a little business with me. You can trust me, I assure you.”

  “There you are!” Sally said triumphantly. “He’s practically a local!” Without further ado she jumped into the passenger seat of the MG, abandoning her bicycle where it stood. “I’m Sally McNab-Martin,” she told him. “Pleased to meet you.”

  “Likewise.” He shook her hand and then released the handbrake. The MG sprang away with an ear-splitting squeal, leaving an astonished Millicent and myself spitting out dust in its wake.

  “Can you believe that?” I had to blink rapidly to try and clear grit from my eyes. I still had a tight hold of four dozen eggs and no free hands.

  Millicent shook her head and sighed. “Young women today! That
woman has no sense. Out of the frying pan and into the fire. She finally gets rid of one awful man, but then has her head turned by the next fellow that comes along driving a flash motor.”

  “What is the world coming to?” I tutted, like the old dear I hoped I wasn’t going to turn into for at least another forty years.

  Millicent tittered. “I guess, unlike the pair of us, she still has some ‘pulling’ power.”

  I sniffed. “I have pulling power,” I protested weakly. “If I want it…”

  That only made Millicent laugh harder. I pouted.

  “Well,” I sniffed, “I have to get back to the inn. George will be there.” I emphasised my ex-beau’s name.

  “What are we going to do with Sally’s bicycle?” Millicent asked. I had my hands full and she had a bag of shopping and the dogs to juggle.

  “Maybe Rhona will keep an eye on it?” I suggested. “We could wheel it closer to the shop.”

  “Do you need some help?” A polite voice interrupted us once more. I turned to see a tall, geeky looking man of around my age, wearing a flowered shirt with maroon trousers, and round spectacles. Another stranger to the village. Whittlecombe was being overrun with them.

  “Alex! Hello!” Millicent cried. “When did you get home?”

  “Only this morning, Mrs Ballicott. How lovely to see you again.”

  Millicent gave the young man a one-armed hug, and he kissed her cheek. I looked on with interest.

  “Alf,” Millicent made the introductions. “This is Alex Bramble. Mr Bramble’s youngest son. I don’t know whether you’ve met before. Alex is a lecturer in York.”

  “Oh how lovely,” I said as Alex reached out to shake my hand. I held my trays of eggs up in the air until he got the message that I couldn’t shake his hand. He flushed in embarrassment and dropped his head. “Nice to meet you,” I said, trying to ease his discomfort.

  “Alex, this is Alfhild Daemonne. She’s the owner of Whittle Inn.”

  “Pleased to meet you.” Alex pulled a face at Millicent. “Although, unfortunately I’m between jobs at the moment, Mrs Ballicott. My college was restructured, and they had to let me go so I’m looking for work.”

  “Oh that is a shame,” said Millicent and I nodded along with her. “I’m sure you’ll find something. Maybe closer to home.”

  “That would be nice. See the old folk a little more often.”

  “Exactly,” Millicent concurred. “Perhaps you can find something to tide you over in the meantime. Alf was just saying she needs someone to look after chickens.”

  I stared in Millicent in surprise. “I’m not sure I said that at all, Millicent.”

  “It’s something to think about though. Isn’t it my dear?” Millicent grinned at me saucily. I shook my head at the matchmaking cheek of my friend.

  My arms were aching by the time I began making my way up the long drive leading to the inn. As I rounded the trees that towered over the narrow strip of lane, I could see the marquee in all its glory. Decorated with an array of coloured bunting in purple, black and orange, it stood proud in front of my equally striking wonky inn.

  My inn suffered from some sort of architectural anomaly, much like the leaning tower of Pisa. It leaned firstly in one direction and then overcompensated in the other on the second storey. There were turrets on every corner and a number of tall chimneys reaching for the skies above the thatched roof. Painted in black and white as you’d expect for a Tudor inn, it had diamond glass in the windows. It dated back at least to the Elizabethan age, if not before. To my mind at least it was a work of art.

  Raoul’s car, along with several others belonging to crew and contestants, was tucked at the side of the inn close to Jed’s van, out of shot of the cameras. Several police cars and a forensic examination vehicle were parked on the drive between the marquee and the inn. As I rounded the final bend I heard a van behind me, so I stepped over to the verge as Rob Parker drove past, heading for his space on the edge of the garden.

  George appeared as if by magick (not of my doing for once) and waved Rob down. I joined them in front of the inn as Rob clambered out of his cab.

  “How’re you doing, Detective?” Rob asked George.

  “I’m fine thanks, Rob.” George sniffed the air. The faint scent of sausages and rich gravy clung to the van. “I need to ask you a few questions if you don’t mind?”

  Rob pulled a face. A few months ago, George had saved Rob’s life by pulling him from his burning food truck. Since then they’d been on good terms. I couldn’t imagine that Rob had anything to hide.

  “You want to talk about the murder?” Rob swallowed.

  George brandished his pen and notebook. “Would that be okay? It won’t take long.”

  “What do you need to know?”

  “How much did you have to do with Janice Tork-Mimosa?”

  Rob waggled his head. “I didn’t know her name. I turned up here the day before yesterday. Alf here invited me. This Janice—if that’s who she was—seemed a little rude to be frank. I don’t think she liked the idea of me serving sausages to the folk they have staying here.”

  George looked at me and I nodded. “Rob’s here at my invite. Under the terms of the contract with Witchflix, I have to provide a range of food and beverages. Cater for all tastes, you know? I thought Rob would be perfect for cosy, comforting meals.”

  George nodded his approval. “Good thinking.” He turned back to Rob. “So that was the only time you spoke to Janice.”

  Rob shuffled uneasily. “Mmm. Not exactly.”

  “That’s a no? So you spoke to her again? When would that have been?”

  Rob stroked his chin. “A few hours later. I’d set everything up, had the fryers going. A big pot of mash. Gravy. The works.” George smiled and nodded. “I’d served a few members of the crew and word was getting around, but people were very busy setting up the marquee, so I knew it might be a late shift.”

  “And Janice came over to visit you?” George clarified. “What time was that? Roughly?”

  “She did. Maybe eight-ish. It was already dark.”

  George scribbled the time down on a page already full of notes. “And what did she say to you?”

  “She apologised for our earlier encounter. She was very pleasant actually. Apparently the other lady had been winding her up.”

  “Patty Cake?” I wondered aloud.

  Rob shrugged. “I don’t know. She didn’t explain herself. Just sounded genuinely apologetic.”

  “Did you talk about anything else?” George asked.

  “We had a discussion about the provenance of my sausages.” A look of triumph crossed Rob’s face. “If she was trying to catch me out, she failed. You know as well as anyone that I know precisely where my meat comes from. Down to the actual farm. I even use onions and potatoes that have been grown in Devon. The only thing that isn’t local is the mushy peas, and that’s only because the best mushy peas come from up country.”

  I couldn’t help chipping in. “Did you convince her?”

  “I think so, yes. I even persuaded her to take some away with her.”

  He did? “What did she have?” I asked, curious to find out.

  Rob cast his mind back. “She had our sausages with sage and onion and some mash and gravy.”

  “Good choice,” George approved.

  “Mmm,” I said, non-committedly. Rob regarded me with frown. “I mean, mmm. Yum. Yes. Yummy,” I said hurriedly. “Although I prefer my sausages in cider.”

  “Ha! They’re my best sellers.” Rob nodded, his smile returning now that he knew I wasn’t casting aspersions on his famous sausages. “Is that it, then?” he asked George, who closed his notebook with a snap.

  “Yes, that’s all for now. Thanks for your time.”

  “You know where to find me if you need anything else,” Rob said, pulling open the door of his van and climbing into the front seat. “Like dinner.”

  He started the engine and the van lurched off along the drive, and the
n onto the grass, heading for a space in the corner.

  “Well at any rate,” said George. “If all that’s true, it looks like Janice and Rob made up. I didn’t think he could possibly be a suspect.”

  I shuffled in place. My arms, still propping up the tray of eggs, were aching. “I wouldn’t be too sure of that.”

  “Why?” George offered up his own hands to take the eggs from me, but I shook my head.

  “Because I happen to know that Janice ate in the bar that night. Monsieur Emietter had cooked baked cod with a spicy crust and served it with sea vegetables and chilli and cumin-infused puy lentils.”

  “What in Heaven’s name are sea vegetables?” asked George in disgust. “Is this some sort of witchy fae thing? Do you have an ‘undersea’ gardener digging a plot in the silt and producing blue carrots and salty green turnips?”

  “You’re such a philistine, George.” I smirked. “It’s seaweed.”

  “Seaweed?” George gagged and I laughed out loud. “Ugh!”

  “She had rhubarb panacotta for dessert. Florence made that.”

  George shuddered. “Well, that sounds nicer.” Then it dawned on him what I was saying. “You’re saying she ate two courses of food at what time?”

  “That would have been around nine I suppose. Or just after.”

  “So if we believe Rob, she polished off his sausage and mash and then headed into the inn to eat—ugh—sea vegetables, cod and rhubarb.”

  “Yes.” I didn’t want to disbelieve Rob, but facts were facts.

  “She certainly had a healthy appetite.” George looked thoughtfully at Rob’s van in the distance. “Or Rob’s lying.”

  Lunch was being served in the dining area of the bar when I finally deposited my eggs on the counter in the kitchen. I ducked past flying pans and knives as the ghosts working around me directed their tools of the trade just above my head with unerring accuracy. Everything happened at top speed in here during service, and as a rule it paid to stay out of the way, but I had to deliver them.