Murder At The Bake Off (Celebrity Mysteries 3) Page 12

  I wave my hands at her to be quiet and then duck behind one of the piles of boxes.

  Concern flares in her eyes. “What is it?”

  “There’s a man just arrived who I don’t want to see. He’s looking for me, but Brenda and Emma will hopefully put him off the trail, for now anyway.”

  “Who is he? An old boyfriend?” she asks, the previous concern in her eyes now replaced with curiosity.

  “Yes, one I definitely did not remain friends with and do not want to see or speak to ever again.”

  I shush at Petula and wait, listening to the conversation taking place in the store.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  “Never heard of anybody by that name,” Brenda is saying, in reply to Adam’s question about me.

  “You’re sure?” I hear him ask.

  “I know everyone who lives around these parts, and I’ve never heard of a Lizzie Carter,” she says firmly.

  “Now, that’s weird, because about two years’ ago this shop was in the newspapers about the campaign to save it, and I distinctly recall a woman called Lizzie Carter being involved in that campaign. I’m a journalist. I remember things like that.”

  Sugar. I was worried Adam would come up here to try to find me when the save the store campaign kicked off not long after I first arrived at Eskdale, but for some reason, he didn’t. Seeing me in London the other day must have made him decide to track me down after all. Now what? I don’t want to see him again. I don’t want to have to relive all those uncomfortable old memories, and though I in no way feel inclined to protect Adam, especially after what he did, I also don’t want him to bump into Jack. Because, well, let’s face it, Adam is not going to fare well from that particular meeting.

  “Oh, that Lizzie,” I hear Emma chip in. “She used to live around here, but she never took to country living and moved back to London ages ago.”

  “Really? How convenient.”

  There’s a pause, and I’m wondering if Adam is accepting this could be a real possibility, especially as he saw me at The Pear the other day. With any luck, he’ll turn around, get back in his fancy car and hightail it back to London.

  “I don’t think she thought it was for her, you know, giving up her career and a lovely home in London to try to make ends meet in a ramshackle farmhouse up here. She hated it,” Brenda enthuses.

  “Though she did say there were things she’d ditched in her old life which she definitely didn’t regret,” Emma chimes in. “Her boyfriend, for one. Some git called Adam who was a complete waste of space and a poor excuse of a man,” she continues, with obvious glee in her voice.

  Everyone here knows what happened in my old life and what happened with Adam.

  Except Petula, of course. She scoots past me and pops her head around some boxes to have a sneaky look at what’s going on in the store. After a moment, she turns back and smiles at me. “He’s a yummy one. That floppy blond hair, and he’s tall as they come. He’s not a patch on Jack though, of course. You ditched this Adam?”

  I nod and beckon her nearer so she can’t be overheard from the shop.

  “So, come on, what happened with him?” she demands.

  “Let’s just say his work means everything to him and leave it at that,” I reply flatly.

  The tinkling sound of the bell above the front door could be my signal to relax and breathe again. Either it was Adam leaving or another customer coming in. I sincerely hope it was the former, not the latter.

  “You’re not getting away with that reply, young lady,” Petula tuts.

  Has Adam left? I strain to hear for any more voices in the shop. Even if it’s quiet, it doesn’t necessarily mean the coast is clear yet. He could be pretending to shop, just in case he somehow knows I’m hiding from him. Adam has a devious mind; it goes with the territory in that kind of work.

  I decide I’m not setting foot out there until either Brenda or Emma comes in here to confirm Adam has left. Not wanting him to be able to easily track me down, should he ever leave his precious London and venture into the wilds of the north, I never changed the names that Eskdale and the fruit and veg business I run are listed under. Even the phone line is still listed as my aunt and uncle’s name, which thankfully Adam doesn’t know.

  “You can come out now,” Brenda sing-songs through the doorway. “He’s gone. Driven off and everything.”

  Cautiously, I step back behind the counter. “Thanks, ladies, I owe you.”

  Brenda waves away my words. “Nonsense. We look after each other around here.”

  “My worry is that he’s not going to just give up,” Emma says. Then, with a cheeky smile, adds, “Did you like my little dig about what a lowlife he is?”

  A smile creeps across my face, and we high five each other. “Yeah, thanks.”

  “He deserves it, and far more,” she says, leaning on the counter, her shopping still not even started. “He’s living dangerously if he does stick around. Because if Jack finds out…”

  “I know,” I agree.

  “Will somebody please tell me what he did?” Petula demands, hands on hips. “You, Elizabeth, owe me after last night.”

  “Why? What happened last night?” Emma asks eagerly.

  “Nothing,” I say quickly, shooting Petula a warning look. Our baking masterclass is top secret; not to be shared with anybody else.

  “So, tell me about this Adam.”

  OK, here goes. I’ll keep it as brief as possible. Even after all this time, I can still feel the rough hands of those guys pushing me onto the London pavement and their deep threatening voices.

  No, I resolve silently. I won’t let the memories of London get to me again. I’m a completely different person to the woman I used to be. Moving up here has toughened me up, made me more independent and resourceful. I certainly never thought I’d end up running a farm, a business and helping my sexy ex-special agent fiancé crack murder cases. Yay me!

  I face Petula. “The short version is that Adam is a selfish, ambitious and thoughtless idiot. He was investigating a big story for the newspaper where he works and some dodgy types used me to warn Adam off the story. I ended up getting assaulted and scared half to death one night on a dark London street by some thugs who were using me to try and get Adam to back off on a story he was investigating. He refused to back off, and I quickly realised where his priorities stood. Turned out, he rated his career and the story far more highly than he rated me, his long-term girlfriend. I must have been stupid to think otherwise. Anyway, after that… incident, Adam and I were over. I quit my old life and moved up here. End of story.”

  Petula’s expression suggests if she’d have known all this before, she’d have probably set about Adam with any heavy implement that might have been to hand. “Good riddance, I say.”

  “But it all worked out for the best, because then she moved up here and met lovely Jack, fell in love and wedding bells will be ringing on Christmas Eve.” Brenda claps her hands together. “Oh, I’m so looking forward to the big day. We haven’t had a wedding to celebrate around these parts for far too long. I must plan a shopping trip and get a new hat.”

  “I wish I’d known what pretty boy had been up to. I’d have slapped him on your behalf,” Petula says with a disgruntled expression on her face, confirming my suspicions. “And, I’m sure you’re much better off up here with your farm and Jack.”

  “Now, I just have to hope Adam has headed straight for the motorway and back to London and isn’t going to hang around asking more people questions. Because if he does…”

  Brenda holds up a hand to silence me. “Don’t worry about that. I’ll have a quick word around the village warning everyone to keep quiet. Nobody will be talking to him about you; I guarantee it.”

  “It’s like the Cumbrian village version of the mafia, isn’t it?” Petula says with a chuckle.

  Emma rolls her eyes. “Too right. Sometimes it’s a good thing, and sometimes it’s bad and lands you in big trouble. People don’t miss much around th
ese parts.”

  At the end of my shift at the store, Petula and I race home to finish decorating the cake. I’ve spent the past few hours annoyed with myself. I should have faced up to Adam today. I can’t keep running away.

  I haven’t heard anything from Jack since he left the farm last night, other than the odd text message. He’s determined to solve the case before the bake-off competition, which will be part of the opening events for the festival this afternoon. He’s still frantically following up on leads and cross-checking guest names at the Roseby for any links with our suspects. I did reply to one of his texts, offering to help, but he said I was doing more than enough already by keeping an eye on Petula for him. Much as I enjoyed my private baking masterclass last night, a part of me would still rather be helping with this investigation.

  We’d better catch the murderer before everyone rolls up at the festival for the opening ceremony.

  I definitely don’t want Petula becoming the next victim, no matter how annoying she can be sometimes!

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  When we arrive at the baking festival, the first thing we do is find the organiser so Petula can double-check her instructions and schedule. Jack is around somewhere, doing his security thing, as well as trying to finish up the investigation before Petula steps up on that stage.

  Time is running out, though.

  The buzzing crowd of eager attendees are bustling all around us. I didn’t expect quite so many people to turn up. My eyes rake over the people walking past us on all sides, and I edge closer to Petula as though I’m trying to protect her. Could one of these people be a killer? A man or woman with a mission to murder Petula? Was what happened to Cherry targeted, for some unknown reason, specifically at her? There can’t be an assassin steadily killing off baking legends.

  Can there?

  We’re escorted to the curtained-off backstage area by a woman named Agatha, one of the festival’s army of keen volunteers. A dressing room, if you can call it that, has been set aside for Petula. In reality, it’s a precarious-looking tent on a muddy patch of grass.

  “This is… rustic,” I say as Petula takes a seat at the dressing table with its brightly lit mirror. The grass is covered with a plastic sheet, and there’s a damp, earthy smell hanging heavily in the air. There’s also a chilly wind squeezing itself through an unseen gap in the tent walls.

  “Ms. Musgrove, there’s somebody here to see you. She said that Marvin sent her, and her name is Geraldine Fuller,” Agatha announces, appearing back through the tent flap. “Should I let her in?”

  “Of course.” Petula smiles her agreement.

  A young woman with a huge bouquet appears. “Sorry to interrupt. I was instructed to deliver these by Marvin.”

  I recognise this woman. Oh! Geraldine is the nervous woman I’d seen at the police station with Marvin when we’d been waiting for Jack to be released from the interview room. She still looks nervous, her fingers gripping the flowers so tightly her knuckles have turned a deathly white.

  Petula accepts the bouquet of red roses, white carnations and greenery Geraldine pushes towards her. “Thank you, my dear. Is Marvin here? At the festival?”

  With the flowers gone, Geraldine’s hands are now twisting and wringing each other, like at the station. Is she always like this? So on edge and highly strung? “Not yet, but he hopes to be here later on. He had some business to attend to first.”

  “It’s always about work, isn’t it?” Petula tuts good-naturedly. “Well, if I don’t see him, please pass on my thanks for the flowers. They’re wonderful.”

  The woman shuffles away, seeming relieved to have completed her allotted task.

  “Marvin isn’t your agent as well, is he?” I check. “I thought he was Cherry’s agent.”

  “That’s right,” Petula says as she pops the flowers in a waiting vase of water.

  Hmm. Looks like the flowers were expected.

  “Marvin has been trying to woo me as a client for a good while now, though.”

  I take a seat on a rickety chair. “But you’ve declined his offer?”

  “Many a time,” she replies, checking her reflection in the mirror. “I said I was used to being the only baking legend on my agent’s books and wasn’t about to swap to Marvin any time soon—not when he had Cherry as a client.”

  Her words set alarm bells ringing in my head.

  Petula spots my expression. “You don’t think he killed her to clear the way for me to sign with him?”

  “It could be a possibility,” I say, reaching for my phone to contact Jack.

  “No. Absolutely not,” Petula insists. “That’s preposterous. He loved Cherry. He would never have killed her.”

  “Loved? As in, they were involved?” I clarify, already making the call to Jack’s mobile. “Did you tell Jack this?”

  “What? That Marvin had a thing for Cherry? No, why?”

  “It could be relevant to the case,” I say.

  Jack’s phone is ringing out unanswered. Where is he? Why isn’t he picking up my call? Now is so not the time for him to disappear.

  “Did Cherry ever talk about Marvin and their relationship?”

  Petula nods. “Yes, once. It was about a month ago. We were both working at another food festival. She told me he had proposed to her and that she’d politely declined his offer. But, as I said, he adored Cherry. He would never poison her in a fit of pique because she’d turned him down. That’s absolutely ridiculous.”

  Come on, Jack, answer your phone.

  “Yep, Lizzie, what’s up?”

  Finally.

  “Jack, Petula’s just told me that Marvin and Cherry had a thing. Did you know about it?”

  “Nope. How serious a thing?” he asks.

  “Apparently he proposed to her and she turned him down. Do you think it could be relevant to the case?”

  “Maybe,” he says. I can hear people asking him questions in the background. “Do we know if he used anybody to organise this proposal? A specialist company? His personal assistant? Or did he go for informal and do it himself?”

  “Did Cherry mention if Marvin had somebody plan the proposal for him?” I ask Petula, who is still admiring the flowers.

  She frowns, trying to remember. “I think his PA organised it. Geraldine Fuller. The woman with the flowers. Strange little creature she is. A little…shall we say, odd? He gets her to sort everything for him, poor girl. She’s always run off her feet. No wonder she’s so stressed all the time.”

  “His PA, Geraldine Fuller, organised it,” I relay to Jack. “She was just here, delivering some flowers to Petula.”

  “OK, thanks. I’m on it,” he says. “What does she look like?”

  “About five foot tall, mousy hair colour, pale and nervous-looking. She was wearing a green coat and black trousers.”

  “I’ll find her. Speak to you later. Keep an eye on Petula for me.”

  “Will do.”

  I just have one little errand to run—taking my cake to the other marquee and officially entering it in the completion. Petula will be OK staying here on her own for five minutes while I go and do that, surely.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  When I proudly enter my cake in the bake-off competition, I’m thrilled to see it actually looks the part. I place it carefully on the table in the big marquee, pausing for a moment to check out all the wonderful cakes around mine. Even though I had expert help on this project, the work is all my own—that much I insisted upon. Petula suggested the additional ingredients to make the cake more original and guided me from mixing bowl to finished and iced cake, but it was all done with my own hands. I know I can’t win because Petula is a judge, but even so, I’m pleased with what I’ve achieved. I’m also lost in admiration for a nearby three-tier chocolate cake, complete with truffles, when two strong hands slide around my waist.

  Jack’s voice whispers in my ear, “Petula told me you were in here.”

  “She’s OK, isn’t she? I only left her for a
few minutes.”

  He nods. “Yeah, she’s fine. Preparing for her big moment as the judge of this competition.”

  “Have you found Geraldine yet?”

  “No. I’ve get all the stewards and volunteer security team on alert, looking for her. I thought I’d take just a minute to catch up with you in the meantime.”

  I tilt my head as he nuzzles my neck and gives me a lovely hug.

  “Tammy, the festival organiser, keeps harassing me about some guy, some persistent hack who insists on talking to me about the security for the festival and wants some quotes about why we failed Cherry.”

  “Nobody failed Cherry,” I say, annoyed by the cheek of this story-hungry journalist. Then an unwanted thought pops into my head. An irritating and persistent journalist demanding people make time to speak to him, out to cause trouble. No. It can’t be. Can it? “Who is this person? Did Tammy give a name?”

  “No. She’s going to introduce me to him in the organiser’s tent in five minutes. Like I haven’t got more important things to attend to right now. So, which one is yours?” he asks.

  “Mine?”

  What’s Petula been saying to him?

  “Yeah, come on. You may be Catwoman, sneaking around these past few weeks with all your baking attempts and trying to hide them from me, but I’m a private investigator, remember? I know all the tricks. Why did you feel you had to hide the fact you were entering the competition from me, anyway?”

  I sigh. I don’t want to tell him about my wedding cake dream. If I do manage to achieve it, then revealing my secret now would ruin the surprise. “I guess I was just embarrassed by my baking ineptitude. I honestly thought that Aga had it in for me. And that I was incapable of taking ingredients and a recipe and the end result being presentable and edible.”

  Jack turns me around in his arms and plants a kiss on the tip of my nose. “You do know that I’m not with you for your kitchen prowess, right?”

  I fake a surprised expression. “You’re not? Why else would you be with me?”

  Jack leans in close and whispers in my ear, his words making me blush. I’m revelling in the deliciousness of it all, when through the flaps of the marquee I spot something which makes my blood run cold. “Jack!”