“Patty?” Janice tried again. “You know we need you on site—”
Patty tutted. “I won’t be far away. There’s a modern inn down in the quaint little village we passed through. It has much larger rooms and all the mod-cons I need. I’ll be very comfortable and just a quick drive away.”
“The Hay Loft?” I asked, and my voice rumbled with a stony undercurrent I couldn’t quite hide.
“Is that’s what it’s called, Wilf? How cute.” With that, Patty swirled on her kitten heel and slunk away in the direction of Raoul’s car.
Raoul’s grin reminded me of a cheetah. “I won’t be long,” he told Janice. Winking at me, he followed Patty to his car. I stared after them in consternation.
Janice, seeing my expression, patted my arm. “Don’t worry. I could have booked Patty into the Ritz and she’d have taken it as a personal affront. She does this every time, changes accommodation at least once, sometimes two or three times a shoot. It’s nothing to do with you or your lovely old inn.”
From behind us came the purr of the engine of Raoul’s Tesla Roadster, followed by the scattering of gravel as he swiftly turned it about. “Well we’d better hope she likes The Hay Loft,” I chipped in, while actually hoping she loathed it. “Because besides them and us, the only places to stay in a five-mile radius would be tiny bed-and-breakfasts.”
“Oh, I’m sure—”
Janice was rudely interrupted by the sound of a car skidding on gravel. Raoul had been attempting to speed down the drive—probably trying to impress us all with his car’s nought-to-sixty capability—and had encountered a green and gold van lumbering towards us from the opposite direction. Given the narrow nature of the approach to the inn, the vehicles had almost careered into each other.
There was an angry exchange between the occupants of the Tesla and the driver of the van, before the van edged almost into the hedge to allow the sports car to go on its way. At last Rob’s Porky Perfection food wagon ambled towards us and pulled to a stop. I walked over to greet him.
“Hi Rob,” I said, as he leaned out of his window.
“Where would you like me?” he asked.
I indicated the edge of the gardens where the production trailers had been parked. “Along there, with those.”
Janice joined us. “I’m sorry. What’s this?” she asked.
“In the details you sent me, I was asked to provide catering for everyone. Naturally I have Monsieur Emietter and the inn’s kitchen offering some top-notch cordon bleu, but I thought it would be fun to have Rob here too.” Janice looked blank and I realised the details had probably been forwarded to me on her behalf, by some member of the production crew or an admin assistant. Who could tell?
“But it’s a burger van.” Janice’s voice rang with disdain.
Rob grunted in indignation. “It’s not a burger van at all!”
It was my turn to reassuringly pat Janice’s arm. “Sausages. And the quality is exceptional.”
“Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it,” Rob called and slammed into gear, driving noisily away.
“All local products,” I added, watching him roll across my lawn to the space I’d indicated. “Honestly Janice. Trust me. The crew will love his meals and it’s all on the house.” I’d arranged to pay Rob for his time and products, and it gave me an excuse to indulge my craving for sausage and mash.
“If you’re sure,” she said, casting a worried glance at Faery Kerry and Mindi.
“I am!” I trilled. “There’ll be plenty of healthier choices from our own kitchen, so no worries on that score.” Mindi smiled at me, obviously amused by the carry-on.
I warmed to her straightaway. “I’m sorry,” I said to the newcomers, “I’ve been so rude. I’m Alfhild Daemonne. Welcome to Whittle Inn.”
“Thrilled to be here,” exclaimed Faery Kerry. “Such gorgeous countryside, but so far from civilization.”
“Indeed,” drawled Mindi and indicated her battered little red Renault Clio. “T’was the very devil to find. Are you providing valet parking?”
I held an astounded laugh in check.
Valet parking for a 2004 Renault Clio? Draughty corridors? Bedrooms that were too small?
Who were these people?
The Great Witchy Cake Off had arrived in town, and I was beginning to wonder what I’d let myself in for.
“I thought you were going to destroy it?” I blinked bleary-eyed at the envelope Charity waggled at me as I entered the kitchen with a tray laden with dirty dishes. It was 6.30 a.m. and many of the production team were already at breakfast even though the sun was only just beginning to rise. Everybody was eager to get busy because this was the final day to get everything ready.
Today the contestants were arriving, and I would be receiving endless deliveries of flour, caster sugar, eggs, chocolate, icing sugar, cherries, fondant, marzipan, food dyes, fresh and frozen fruit, vats of cream, spices, teas and the goddess only knew what else. Monsieur Emietter and my Ghostly Clean Up Crew had emptied and deep-cleaned the inn’s stores in order to make way for all the ingredients the contestants would need, but space would still be tight.
Here in the kitchen, ghosts bustled around me. Some were clearing up, others—under Monsieur Emietter’s ghostly but beady eye—fried bacon and sausages, boiled or poached eggs, toasted bread, and chopped tomatoes, cheese, ham and fruit. Juice was poured, tea and coffee brewed and decanted into smaller pots, and sauce boats refilled. I dodged around cutlery and bowls that flew through the air and deposited my tray of plates close to the sink where Ned was ‘washing’ dishes. No dishpan hands for Ned—he did it all by using his kinetic energy. None of the ghosts could interact with my physical plane, so they moved everything by utilising the power of thought. This was a sight I never tired of witnessing.
I returned to the kitchen door, heading for the bar area once more where the guests were breakfasting. From The Snug came the sound of about a million pages being printed. I’d set up an office in there for the producers and director after all, and they were organising schedules and menus and everything else they required.
All I needed to do was ready the remaining bedrooms, finalise lunch and dinner menus with Monsieur Emietter, restock the bar, and ensure all of our guests were happy and comfortable. Not much to ask in the grand scheme of things.
So why was Charity waving that rotten envelope at me?
“I did destroy it. I shredded it as you asked and then I burned it in the grate in the bar. This is a new one.”
Why had Sabien written two letters in such quick succession? He had to be desperate.
“Do the same to that one,” I instructed, and Charity nodded.
A loud rapping on the back door hailed the arrival of the first delivery. I opened the door expecting a batch of groceries and instead found myself signing for three enormous boxes filled with black and orange bunting.
“Cute,” I said, inspecting the wares as the delivery driver disappeared. “What am I supposed to do with this lot? We don’t want them in the kitchen or the rear stores.”
Charity looked over my shoulder. “I’ll call Zephaniah and we’ll get them moved, shall we?”
“Good idea. I could ask Janice where she’d like it.”
“Have you seen her this morning?” Charity asked. “Only she hasn’t been down to breakfast yet.”
“Maybe she’s overslept.” I lifted one of the boxes to line it up against the wall. They weren’t particularly heavy. “I’ll run upstairs and check on her, and ask whether she wants any breakfast. Would you mind stacking this lot?”
“No problem,” Charity replied and came over to take a box, clamping the envelope between her teeth.
“Get rid of that letter first!” I growled.
A quick check of Janice’s room on the second floor yielded no clue as to her whereabouts. Her bed had been slept in however, so I figured she might have used a different staircase to reach the bar area. I slipped back down to check but she still hadn’t shown up f
or breakfast.
That meant she was either in someone else’s room or she’d gone for a walk. I wasn’t overly concerned. The sun had now breached the horizon and it looked set to be a decent day. The sky was clear and the clouds friendly and fluffy. A lovely morning for a stroll.
The dining area was noisy this morning—lots of crew members with plenty to say to each other, buzzing in the build-up to the arrival of the contestants. Evidently the filming of the new series was an exciting venture. I overheard much enthusiastic speculation about the personalities and skills of the incoming contenders for the Cake Off crown. I couldn’t help but thrill a little myself at the thought of observing the filming, but in the meantime I needed to turn my attention to clearing more plates from cluttered tables.
The crew sure had healthy appetites.
Above the general hubbub I thought I heard a high-pitched scream from outside; long and shrill. I paused in place, listening for it to come again, but there was nothing. I might have imagined it, but the sudden skipping of my heart, the sinking of my stomach and a little pulse beating behind my eye told me something different.
My witch twitch had been triggered.
It’s one of the ghosts, I told myself. Florence reliving her last moments as she sometimes does. Or maybe a member of the crew has dropped a stage weight on their toes. Or it’ll be Janice having a meltdown because we haven’t ordered enough of the right kind of flour.
Trying not to draw attention to myself, I abandoned my pile of greasy plates on the nearest empty table and headed, as casually as possible, to the front door of the inn. I opened it and stood on the top step, gazing out at the lawn and the now fully erect marquee. I breathed in the fresh air, the scent of freshly cut grass, jasmine and gardenias. A glorious morning but the air was still and silent. Something—that scream of course—had interrupted the dawn chorus.
By instinct more than anything else, I walked out onto the lawn and towards the marquee, walking around the expansive curve of canvas to get to the main entrance. As I rounded the final curve, I heard sobbing and scurried forwards in alarm.
A woman with a suitcase on wheels, wearing a long beige mackintosh and a tall traditional witch’s hat, stood four or five feet away from the marquee’s door flaps. Her hands were curled into fists and she hiccoughed and sobbed into her thumbs, her shoulders heaving.
“Are you alright?” I cried and reached for her.
She shot backwards in alarm, tripping on her suitcase, and screamed again.
“It’s okay. I’m the owner of the inn.” I held my hands palm up, trying to pacify her.
She indicated inside the tent. I glanced over to see what she had pointed at and spotted a pair of feet. Neat Mary Jane shoes, black patent leather with shiny buckles. Toes-up on the temporary flooring inside the marquee.
Janice? My first panicky thought. She’d collapsed—a lack of breakfast maybe. I always felt lightheaded if I skipped breakfast. Yes. That would be it. And I could fix that. I could help Janice.
Abandoning the newcomer to her sobs, I dashed inside the tent, but I skidded rapidly to a stop when I fully comprehended what I was seeing.
The woman’s eyes stared sightlessly at the taut canvas of the marquee’s ceiling, her arms lightly spread to each side of her.
She might have been resting, apart from the large silver cake knife embedded in her chest.
Somebody had murdered Janice Tork-Mimosa.
“You’re getting yourself quite the reputation.” DS George Gilchrist levelled an amused look at me over the top of his notebook. I tried to decipher whether the fluttering sensation in the pit of my stomach was a reaction to finding the murdered woman, or the fact that the handsome detective was asking me questions.
He was right of course. We’d been in this position too many times now. George asking questions and scribbling down my responses, and me trying to explain how yet again I was at the centre of another deadly mystery.
“It’s not my personal choice,” I responded tartly. We had history, George and I, and it was too soon for me to coat my words in honey. I noted the momentary look of hurt in his eyes and experienced a sharp pang of regret. If we could turn back the clock… we might have made it work.
No. I’d had enough time travel to last me a lifetime.
“No, of course it isn’t.” His tone became tone brusque and professional. “So, anyway. Can you tell me how you knew Janice—” he checked his notebook, “Tork-Mimosa?”
I cast a glance towards the marquee. Scene of crime officers in white suits and bootees were coming and going. A flash of camera bulbs lit the canvas walls. “Well I hadn’t known her very long.”
“Just a few days?”
I nodded. “In person that is. I first met her a few days ago, but prior to that I’d exchanged a few emails with her.”
“About?” George queried.
“About organising the delivery of goods for the production, hospitality arrangements, access to the site, that kind of thing.”
“Could I have copies of those?” George asked.
I shrugged. “Of course. Anything you need. I’ll print them out for you in a little while.” When you’ve finished interrogating me.
“How did you find her?” George chewed on the end of his pen. “What was she like?”
I pondered on this for a second. Obviously I hadn’t known her well. “It’s difficult to say. My gut instinct is that she was really very nice.”
“I’ll take your gut instinct over many people’s any day,” George said, and I smiled at the compliment.
“Accommodating, organised, kind.” I warmed to my subject, trying to analyse a person I’d barely spoken to. “Not someone who enjoyed conflict.”
“Oh?” George raised his eyebrows. “Conflict? Why do you say that?”
“Well just that a couple of days ago, she was trying to calm down a situation with Patty Cake, the other producer, and—”
I stopped as George leaned in. He asked in a whisper, “Is that her real name? Patty Cake?”
“Yes.” I shrugged.
“Genuinely? And she works on a baking programme?” A look of comic incredulity passed over George’s face.
“I hadn’t really thought about it,” I said.
“It’s daft, that’s all.”
“Lots of witches have what you’d consider to be daft names,” I pointed out.
George frowned. “Patty Cake is a witch?”
“Of course, she’s a witch.” Sometimes George didn’t quite get it. “Does The Great Witchy Cake Off not ring any bells with you? Everybody involved in the production is a witch. It’s the highest rated cooking programme on Witchflix.”
“Witchflix?”
I rolled my eyes. “George? Seriously?”
“I’ve never heard of it,” George protested. “When do I have time to watch television?”
He had a point I supposed. He always seemed to be at work. “Ask Stacey then,” I retorted. “I bet she’s watched it.”
George sighed and looked back down at his notebook. “Tell me about this situation from the other day.”
“Patty decided she wanted to go and stay at The Hay Loft rather than here at Whittle Inn,” I grumbled. “Janice was trying to smooth the waters. Raoul drove Patty over there.”
“And he came back here afterwards?”
That made me think. “I don’t know to be honest. I suppose so. I didn’t see him at breakfast yesterday or today.” I looked over at a crowd of people gathered on the steps. He wasn’t among them. But in the distance I could make out his silver Tesla. “That’s his car.” I pointed it out to George. “So, he must be around. I don’t think they’re an item, but I couldn’t swear to it.” I lowered my voice to a whisper. “I think she’s quite a bit older than she looks or would admit to.”
George nodded and made a note of that. “Did anyone else have any beef with Janice?”
“Well I’m not sure Rob Parker was overly happy about her attitude to his sausage van when
he showed up, but I really don’t think you can pin this one on him.” I indicated the Porky Perfection van tucked close to the front hedge. George positively drooled at the sight.
“Mmm. Parker’s Porky Perfection. My favourite.”
“You’re so provincial.” I tutted at him, but secretly I liked that he adored sausage, mash and gravy as much as I did.
The woman who had discovered the body was led past us by a female police officer. Her witch’s hat was lopsided, and she dragged her case behind her, the wheels bumping along on the grass. “Who’s that?” I asked.
George watched her being led to a police car. “Delores Everyoung. One of the contestants apparently.”
“Ah, of course.” That made sense. “They’re all due here today. She arrived early though. Why did she head straight for the marquee rather than check in at reception?” I hadn’t heard a taxi come up the drive, but then given the noise levels at breakfast, perhaps one had come and gone and I was none the wiser.
“I don’t know, Sherlock. But don’t worry, I’m sure I can find out.”
I kept my giggle in check. “Sorry, DS Gilchrist. I wasn’t trying to do your job for you.”
“Yeah? That would make a change,” George said, and we laughed together, momentarily forgetting our differences and the solemn situation we found ourselves in.
A few hours later I carried a mug of strong coffee out of the inn and searched for George. I found him on his phone next to the police cordon. He finished his call and pocketed his phone. “We’re almost done here,” he told me. “I know the TV people are keen to get inside to finish setting up.”
“You’ve been talking to them?” I asked.
“They’ve been talking at me,” George groaned. “My goodness that Patty Cake can go on.” He glowered at me. “But yes. I don’t think there’s anybody within a mile radius that I haven’t had words with today.” He took the coffee from me gratefully and rubbed his eyes with his free hand. He looked tired. “Would you mind if I called a meeting in the bar later this afternoon? I’d like to fill everyone in on where we’re at with the investigation.”
The Great Witchy Cake Off: Wonky Inn Book 7 Page 2