The Great Witchy Cake Off: Wonky Inn Book 7

by Jeannie Wycherley

  “Well I really don’t know.” The old faery looked confused by the question. “What do people like to steal these days?”

  “The same as they always have, I suppose,” I answered. “Money, jewellery…”

  “Did Janice have much in the way of money or jewellery?” George asked.

  Raoul was the one to answer this time. “Nothing particularly ostentatious. A couple of nice rings and a gold necklace her parents gave her for her eighteenth.”

  George wrote that down in his notebook and reached out to take another profiterole. “It sounds like you knew her quite well, Mr Scurrysnood. I hadn’t realised that was the case.”

  Raoul startled me then. His pale green eyes, normally so flirty and all-knowing, suddenly brimmed with tears. “I’m sorry,” he replied, his voice hoarse with emotion. “I didn’t mention it before. I probably should have done.”

  “Mention what exactly?” George probed gently, knowing exactly what was coming.

  Raoul cleared his throat. “Janice and I did have… a little something.”

  “A relationship?” George asked and Raoul nodded. “How long did this go on for?”

  We all looked expectantly at Raoul. “About six years.”

  “Six years?” Faery Kerry gasped. “But no-one else knew?”

  “We didn’t want anyone to know. And besides, it was on and off.” Raoul shrugged.

  George wrote something in his notebook, I imagined it said something like, ‘volatile six-year relationship.’ “It wasn’t merely a fling though?” he asked.

  Raoul laughed, a hollow sound and sat back on his chair to stare at the ceiling and remember the past. “No. Not a fling. Although… I feel that’s all it ever really should have been. It started out as just one of those things. We were sharing a hotel. We rubbed along nicely. The evenings can be a bit boring while you’re filming the show. It kind of just… happened.”

  “And kept happening for six years?” I chipped in and George shot me a look that quite clearly told me to shut up.

  “On and off,” Raoul repeated. “On and off.”

  “And were you still an item when she died?” George asked.

  Raoul shook his head sadly. “No. We broke it off a few months ago. For good.” His face was blank, his voice flat. He did sound final about it.

  “Why?” I asked, getting the question in before George could.

  “I received a tip-off from someone that she was seeing someone else.”

  Faery Kerry and I gasped in surprise. Only George retained his cool. He’d heard it all before of course. Not from Raoul obviously, but a similar story on other occasions. Illicit love affairs, betrayal and vengeance. That was his day job.

  “Was she seeing someone else?” George kept his voice low-key, but I sensed the importance of the answer.

  Raoul hesitated, swallowed and shrugged once more. “To be honest… I don’t know. Initially I thought she was… but Janice denied it on numerous occasions… and then she washed her hands of the whole discussion. She refused to talk with me about it.”

  “She took umbrage?” George asked.

  “I’m not surprised,” said Faery Kerry. “Did you have any proof?”

  Raoul leaned over the table and placed his head in his hands for a moment. “I thought I did.”

  George frowned. “What do you mean?”

  Raoul pulled his mobile phone from his pocket and lay it on the table, nodding at me. “You’ll understand what I’m getting at, Alf.” He squeezed the side of the device and the screen lit up. I was sent a series of emails, suggesting Janice was having an affair with Pierre de Corduroy. At first I dismissed the emails as a stupid crank by some deranged Witchy Cake Off fan, because we get plenty of those.”

  Faery Kerry nodded in agreement. Raoul flicked through his screens. “But then emails began to appear that contained video links. Normally I wouldn’t have given them the time of day, in case they contained a virus or something, but one day, one started to autoplay and quite clearly it was Janice.”

  “With another man?” George asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Can I see them?” George asked.

  “No,” Raoul said, and his reply was emphatic. “Not because I’m being difficult but because they disappeared the day she died.”

  “Disappeared?” George asked and I could hear the scepticism in his voice.

  “I didn’t delete them if that’s what you’re thinking.”

  George held his hand out for the phone. “A member of my team can check the call and email history and recover lost material.” He emphasised the word lost, and Raoul looked at me.

  I placed my hand gently on George’s arm. “You won’t find anything, George. Not if magick has been used to remove all traces.”

  George looked down at the phone and then at me, his lip curling in frustration. “Why can nothing ever be simple with you people?”

  “Your people won’t find any trace of anything – messages, photos, texts or calls on that phone,” I explained. “Not if it’s been removed with magick.” I folded my arms. “Fortunately, my people will.”

  “Everything alright, Florence?” I asked.

  My housekeeper, generally so effervescent with excitement, seemed positively muted this evening. She’d come to find me after filming had finished to let me know that she had made it through day two and that the wizard Victor Wilde was on his way home.

  I had taken a seat at my dressing table, to make a valiant attempt at de-frizzing my freshly washed hair in an attempt to appear sleek and elegant for my ‘date’ this evening. Ah yes, that intimate occasion with Alex Bramble… and Silvan, Marissa, Stacey and George.

  What a crazy situation to find myself in. Silvan had a lot to answer for.

  So preoccupied was I in attempting to straighten my crazy curly hair that I almost forgot to listen to her reply, but I caught the words, “I think I’ll have to give up.” Frowning, I turned around.

  “I’m sorry. What did you say?”

  “I’m just not sure I have the skills necessary to progress much further in the competition, Miss Alf. I was in the bottom two of the technical challenge this morning.” Poor Florence. The worry on her face told me how much this competition meant to her.

  “Oh honey. I’m sure you do. You’re the most amazing baker I know. Why just this afternoon I passed off some of your cheesy profiteroles as my own, and Raoul Scurrysnood absolutely loved them!”

  “Did he?” Florence’s little face perked up. “What did he say?”

  “Erm…” Did I tell the truth, or did I sugar-coat it? I opted for the truth. “He loved them and said he would use Roquefort cheese with a little bit of chervil.” I pulled a face, waiting for an explosion of indignation or tears of despair but none came. Florence pondered on what I’d said for a moment.

  “He likes tastes that are quite defined, doesn’t he? Mr Scurrysnood? Clean, but specific.” Florence’s mind worked overtime as she processed what I’d said. “That’s useful to know, Miss Alf. Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome,” I replied, admiring her mature approach to Raoul’s critique, and turned back to the mirror to fuss over my hair again. When she fell silent once more, I fixed my gaze on her via the mirror. “What’s up?”

  “The theme for tomorrow is Victoriana.”

  “Victoriana? What’s that when it’s at home?”

  Florence examined her nails. “They don’t really tell us. They just give us the theme.” She sounded despondent. Maybe she was out of ideas.

  “But you were Victorian, Florence. I mean, when did you die? 18 something.”

  “1887. I remember it well.”

  I grimaced. I’m sure she did. “So, why not make sure your bakes are something to do with everything that was going on at the time,” I said, aware of how ridiculously vague that sounded.

  “Because, I don’t know what was going on at the time,” Florence said, and I could hear the exasperation in her voice. “I was a housemaid, saving up for m
y wedding. I lay fires and I beat rugs and I prepared tea for Mrs Daemonne, and I had two half days off per week and a full day once per month. I went to school until I was twelve and then I entered service. I occasionally read the newspaper when I prepared the fires, but other than that and the occasional dance I attended in Whittlecombe village hall, I can’t say there was much going on in my life, Miss Alf!”

  Silence.

  I appreciated the problem. Victoriana could only be defined by those who viewed it from a distance, not by those who had vaguely inhabited an epoch whose greatness probably passed them by thanks to the sheer exhaustion of trying to survive.

  But here was a problem I could help with. “Here’s what we’re going to do, Florence, I said thoughtfully. “I do have to go out now—as much as I’d like to give this entire evening a miss—but I’ll try and get back as soon as it is polite to do so. Then I’ll meet you either here or in the attic and we will have a think.”

  “You don’t have to do that, Miss Alf,” she protested.

  “Of course I do. You’re always helping me with life’s little challenges, so I’m going to help you with yours. Maybe we can Google some ideas.”

  “Wouldn’t that be cheating, Miss Alf?”

  “It would be cheating if you did it inside the marquee, but surely it can’t hurt to do some research the night before? You can’t tell me that the other five contestants aren’t huddled over their mobiles and laptops in their rooms this evening?”

  Florence grinned mischievously. “I could always go and take a look, Miss.” She could of course, by simply poking her head through the walls and doors.

  “Let’s not stoop too low,” I reprimanded her, with a quick smile. “Don’t worry. We’ll come up with something. Right now, I’d better finish getting ready.”

  “Thank you, Miss Alf.” Florence floated towards the door. “You’re not really going to wear your hair like that though, are you?”

  I purposely slipped out of the inn before Silvan and Marissa were ready to leave. Apart from anything else I needed to explain to poor Alex that the evening had been hi-jacked rather, and we would be joined by my ex and his girlfriend, and another pair of witches, one of whom was a complete pain in everybody’s posterior.

  I wandered down Whittle Lane and dawdled outside the row of pretty cottages, waiting for Alex to come out of Ash Cottage where his parents lived. Of course, I couldn’t fail to attract the attention of others, including dear old Millicent. First she stared at me through her front window and waved me in, then when I refused she came to the door, Sunny and Jasper rushing out to meet me, barking in excitement.

  “I thought that was you. What are you up to?”

  “I’m ah… meeting Alex Bramble. We’re going for a drink.”

  Millicent appeared taken aback. “A drink where? The Hay Loft?” I nodded and tried not to scowl. “You must be desperate,” Millicent chuckled, then taking a step closer to me so she could check out my face, she asked, “Is that lipstick?”

  “Oh hush, Millicent. You really are evil.” I gave her a warning look, but she only laughed again.

  “With Alex though? He’s not really your type is he?” Millicent crinkled up her nose.

  “I’m not planning on marrying him. I just agreed to have a drink, that’s all.” Millicent nodded but I could see scepticism in her eyes.

  “Evening, ladies!” From across the road came a cheerful shout. We turned to see Sally, wearing a short flowery dress and a pair of high heels tottering towards the entrance of the pub.

  “Looks like Lyle will have a full house tonight,” Millicent said and beamed back at Sally as she waved at us.

  “Is she seeing Lyle’s brother again, then?” I asked in a whisper. Not that Sally could have heard us now that she was safely inside The Hay Loft.

  “They’ve been everywhere together over the past few days. Never out of each other’s company.” Millicent frowned. “I don’t like it. Sally’s had a rough time in the past, she deserves someone better.”

  “Hi.” A small polite voice from behind us startled me and I whirled about.

  “Alex,” I said. “Hi.” I nudged Millicent with my elbow. “You remember Alex.”

  Millicent snorted. “Of course I do. Well, I’d best get on with my spinstering,” she said. “Do have a lovely evening, you beautiful young things.” She smiled at Alex, winked at me and then whistled to the dogs. They trotted into the cottage and she closed the door quietly.

  Alex and I stood looking at each other, neither of us quite knowing what to say.

  “I suppose we should—” Alex gestured at The Hay Loft and I nodded.

  “Yes, we should.” I led the way across the road and into the lounge bar. Unlike Whittle inn it was a modern bar, made to look old but in a very clean and stylised way. There were lots of white walls, clean wooden surfaces and mirrors. But if you looked more closely you could see the veneer everywhere, nothing was solid, nothing as it appeared.

  Alex pointed at a small table for two in the corner, intimate and invitingly close to the fire.

  “Oh,” I said, and pulled a face. “Don’t hate me, Alex, but I was rather steamrollered this afternoon into inviting a few other people.” I’d expected Alex to be disappointed, so was rather perturbed when this news raised a smile.

  “Really?” he asked. “That’s not a problem. Will a table for four do?”

  “Make it six,” I said, and we found one on the other side of the room. We settled ourselves and were about to make a decision about what to drink when George walked in, Stacey holding onto his arm. I couldn’t decide whether this was a possessive or a defensive gesture on her part but found myself despising her either way.

  And that awareness of my emotion made me miserable. Why should I care? What was George to me now except ancient history? We’d made our beds. Separately.

  I did the introductions, and Stacey hastily sat next to Alex. I guessed he was a safer bet than me, the mad old witch lady who’d once turned her new beau into a toad. Alex and Stacey struck up a conversation, about work of all things, as George slipped onto the bench next to me.

  “How’s it going?” he asked. “Did you pass on our request?”

  “I made the phone call,” I replied, aware we sounded like a couple of Cold War spies.

  “And?”

  I placed my hands on the table firmly. “Tomorrow.”

  He nodded. “Good. What are you drinking?”

  “Greetings, one and all!” Silvan, clad head to toe in black and wearing a black silk cloak to boot, burst through the door in a sudden explosion of energy. The other customers—and to be fair there were a few of them tonight—turned around to see who was making all the noise. Silvan waved merrily, wafting his arms around in a most melodramatic way, and everyone immediately pretended to mind their own business. It was all frightfully British.

  “Are we late?” Silvan boomed. “I’m so sorry. Entirely my fault, it takes me an eon to lace these boots.” He shook George’s hand, and then Alex’s when I introduced them. “Ah the lovely Stacey,” Silvan cooed and gently raised her hand to his mouth, brushing a kiss over her knuckles. She blushed a pretty shade of rose. He then turned about and pulled Marissa into the circle. Dressed all in white, she appeared the very antithesis of Silvan. Calm and contained, as tall as he and glowing with a glorious luminosity, she drew admiring looks from all who lay eyes on her.

  Including both George and Alex.

  I realised I might as well not have bothered dressing carefully or spending an hour trying to tame my hair. Between these roses—the illustrious Marissa and the dewy youth of Stacey—I was a mere thorn. My stomach rolled with a pang of regret, but I quickly bit that negative thought in the bud. Under the table I squeezed my nails into the palms of my hands and reminded myself of all I had and all I was. A businesswoman, a ghost whisperer, a warrior, a witch. When I looked up again I had renewed my sense of worth and regained my equilibrium. I felt strong.

  Silvan met my eyes for a
brief moment, and a little smile played on the corners of his mouth—not of amusement, not mocking me—more appreciative than any of those somehow, but I hardly had time to decipher what I saw there because in the next second he was teasing me for my wild hair.

  I ignored him and stood, intending on assisting George at the bar if he could ever manage to tear his eyes away from Marissa. “The drinks, George?” I prompted him when it looked like he had no intention of moving.

  “Oh yes. What’s everyone having?”

  I waited at the bar while George checked and double checked what everyone wanted. I spotted Sally with Crispin at the opposite end of the room and tried to catch her attention, but she was leaning into Lyle’s brother, hanging on his every word. His hand played lazily with a lock of her hair, but I noted that when she spoke to him at any length, his eyes flicked away, looking at the other women in the bar and dining area, occasionally alighting on Marissa and sometimes on Stacey. The man was a player. A bubble of annoyance bloomed in my chest. How could he be so cavalier with poor Sally’s affections.

  I’d have to report this back to Millicent. She was right, we needed to do something.

  Of Lyle there was no sign this evening and that pleased me. With any luck I could relax and enjoy a couple of hours with my friends. But as I carried a couple of glasses of wine back to our table, I couldn’t help but reflect on what an odd bunch we were. A dark witch, a detective, a whatever-kind-of-witch Marissa was, me… and two ordinary mortals, one of whom had no knowledge of who or what we were.

  The table had been re-jigged I noticed. Alex had seated himself next to Marissa. George slipped into the space between Marissa and Stacey. Stacey wanted to be close to Silvan, so I ended up between Alex, which was fair enough… and Silvan. As I lowered myself onto my chair, Silvan grinned at me. “Well this is nice,” he said.

  I turned my back on him and tried to engage Alex in conversation. This proved difficult because Alex and Marissa were involved in an avid discussion about old cars. Classic vintage cars to be precise. I knew nothing about cars so couldn’t imagine how to contribute to the conversation. I tried to appear interested, listening as their discussion progressed to alternate energy sources for vehicles, but gave up. Taking a large slug of my wine I turned about to talk to Silvan, but he and Stacey were discussing anatomy with George. Stacey appeared agog at Silvan’s ability to name every bone in the human body.