Murder At The Bake Off (Celebrity Mysteries 3) Read online

  Jack nods. “That’s right. I appreciate this is a horrible time for everyone concerned, but I’m afraid I do need to ask each of you a few questions.”

  Xanthe nods. “Of course. Please, do take a seat.”

  Jack sits in the wingback chair next to the roaring fire, leaving me to perch on the other end of the sofa where Frances now has her face buried in several tissues. I hate this side of things. Yes, I’m nosy and intrigued by cases and the whole process Jack works through to solve a crime, but having to question people who are in a distraught emotional state always seems to me like such an intrusion. I want to give them my sincere condolences and scuttle away to leave them in peace. No chance of that here today, though.

  “So, Xanthe, can I ask if you’re aware of any trouble recently in Cherry’s life? Any threats received by post or email? Anybody who was angry with her about anything?” Jack asks, his tone suitably sombre.

  Frances, gulping back yet more tears, gets to her feet and rushes out of the room.

  “Sorry,” Jack and I both say at the same time.

  Xanthe says, “There was that dreadful business with Simone and the claim about the stolen recipes. I assume you know all of that?” She pauses, looking thoughtful as Jack and I both nod. “Cherry had fallen out with her eldest daughter, Maggie, about three months ago.” She lowers her voice and leans towards Jack as she adds, “Wicked little madam, Maggie can be.”

  “Do you know what they fell out over?” I ask, my curiosity bubbling uncontrollably to the surface. I don’t feel quite so bad about our questioning Xanthe. She’s upset but not as racked with grief as Frances obviously is.

  Xanthe nods but doesn’t speak.

  It takes Jack’s prompt of, “Would you mind telling us?” before she starts talking again.

  “Money,” she hisses. “Isn’t it always about money?”

  “She wanted to borrow money?” Jack checks, scrawling notes in his book.

  “I understand Maggie’s not good with the financial side of things. She runs a bakery and trades on the fact she’s Cherry’s daughter. She’s married to a snake of a man, Rudy Metcalfe. Apparently, they go on fancy holidays, both own top of the range brand new cars and they’ve had the bakery refitted, but the money for all of it came from Maggie’s allowance from her mother. You see, Cherry had been in the business so long that she had far more money than she needed herself. She was on her own these days, divorced from husband number two about five years ago. She’d set up regular payments for each of her two daughters and to her two ex-husbands as well. By rights, none of them should want for anything, and I think it’s only Maggie who keeps asking for more all the time. Claiming she needs it to bail her husband’s business out of trouble one minute and then saying she wants it to cover school fees for her thirteen-year-old son Maxwell.” Xanthe shakes her head, disapproval and dislike evident in her eyes. “I’m executor of Cherry’s estate, along with her solicitor, and Maggie stands to inherit a lot from Cherry’s will, make no mistake.”

  “You’re suggesting Maggie killed her mother for the money?” Jack clarifies.

  Xanthe shrinks back and shakes her head, looking horrified. “I’m not suggesting any such thing. I’m just telling you the facts as I see them, that’s all. Her husband is a nightmare on the financial side of things. I’m merely pointing out that some women would go to any lengths to support the father of their child and keep a roof over their family’s head.”

  “Where does Maggie live?” I ask, wondering if we will have to try and squeeze in a visit to see her before we head home.

  “In the Cotswolds,” Xanthe supplies. “Not far from Cherry’s proper home down there. Maggie and Cherry might have had a tumultuous relationship, but Cherry doted on Maxwell, her grandson. He visited her a lot. Thought the world of him, she did.” Xanthe pauses to lift a white handkerchief to her face, dabbing away a tear. “I assume you’ll be visiting the house there? Let me know when you need to gain access, and I’ll speak to Cherry’s housekeeper who looks after the place when she’s away working. She’ll prepare the guest rooms if you wish.”

  “That’s very kind. Thanks,” I say, lightly resting a hand on Xanthe’s arm as she sniffs back more tears. “But we won’t have time to stay over. We need to get back to Cumbria.”

  She grips my hand, an earnest expression on her face. “I just want you to find who did this and I want you to ensure they end up where they belong—behind bars.” She looks first at me and then at Jack. “Will you promise me that you’ll catch whoever is responsible?”

  I’m about to reply that we’ll do our best, when Jack says, “I promise.”

  I hope Jack didn’t just make a promise we aren’t going to be able to keep.

  “How long have you worked for Cherry?” I ask her.

  We know the answer to this question from the research we’ve done. However, it’s useful, I’m beginning to learn, to get people to give you answers to things you already know so that you can firstly see if they say the right thing, and secondly, see if you can spot any little tell-tale signs they might be fibbing. A nervous twitch, fiddling with the collar of whatever they’re wearing and their eyes shooting up and off to the left could all be possible ‘tells’ they’re reaching for a little white lie. I’ve spotted Xanthe doing at least two of these things in the last few minutes. Call it female intuition, but something seems off to me with this woman.

  “Almost fifteen years,” Xanthe answers. “The time has simply flown by. I’ve loved working with her.”

  I know that’s the right answer. Maybe we can trust this woman and cross her off the list of people who might have poisoned a cupcake and then delivered it (or paid someone else to deliver it) to Cherry’s suite at the Roseby.

  Xanthe tidies her skirt at her knees and then straightens her back. “Is there anything else I can help you with?”

  “Not for now, thank you,” Jack says smoothly. “We’ll be in touch if anything else comes up.” He gets to his feet and peers over towards the kitchen. “Carla? Could you spare us five minutes now?”

  She nods, looking reluctant and walks over, perching in the exact same spot on the sofa that Xanthe has just vacated.

  “So, you work for Haddon Cartwell Publishers, who edit, print and distribute all of Ms. Bakewell’s books. Is that right?” he checks.

  “How long have you worked with Cherry on her books?” I ask, eyeing her carefully.

  Taking her time, Carla sips her tea before replying. I notice there’s no steam rising from the cup and saucer in her hand, so it must be long cold. “Over ten years. I looked on Cherry as, well…not a mother, but a matriarchal figure. An aunt, perhaps. She was a pleasure to work with. Every project Cherry had with the publishers had to go through me—always me. She insisted. Said I was the best in the business. Bless her heart. I miss her already.”

  “Were you working on a book with her at the moment?” I ask, wondering what will happen to it if she is, now that Cherry is gone.

  She nods. “It was almost finished. We’d got all of the recipes and the photos of the finished food. I was editing, and we were discussing cover ideas. The publishers told me this morning that the book will be put on hold for now, out of respect. It’s only right.”

  “Of course,” I agree.

  “Are you aware of anyone who Cherry might have—inadvertently or otherwise—ruffled the feathers of?” Jack asks her.

  “Only Maggie, and that business with Simone Barker over the recipes she claims Cherry stole, which of course Simone has no proof about.”

  Jack gets to his feet and nods his thanks at Xanthe and Carla. “Would it be possible to have a quick word with Frances, too, while we’re here? I understand she’s upset, but I’m sure she’ll want to help us with this investigation in any way she can.”

  “Yes, it’s OK,” a faint voice says from the doorway. We all turn to see Frances, tissues still clutched in hand, eyes red and puffy, but she’s stopped crying for the moment. “I’ll help you in any way I ca
n.” She crosses the room and slumps into the chair Jack has just vacated.

  “I’m so sorry about your mother,” I say before Jack starts his questioning.

  She nods and sniffles some more into her tissue.

  “Were you close?” Jack asks her, taking a seat again.

  “Not really, she was away working a lot of the time. When she was around, we’d plan to meet up for a meal or a day out. At least we got along, not like Mum and Maggie.”

  “What about you and Maggie? Did the two of you get along?” I check.

  Frances shrugs. “We didn’t hate each other, if that’s what you’re getting at. We weren’t the closest of sisters either, though. We tended to argue quite a bit.”

  I can see Jack’s interest in her words flashing in his eyes. “What about?”

  “Maggie can be a cow, but she’s also a brilliant mother to Maxwell and she’s always been pretty good to me.” Frances tucks a strand of hair behind her ears, composing herself. “The problem is, she takes after her dad. We each have different fathers from Mum’s different marriages. Her dad, Victor, is very money-oriented and he’s got Maggie thinking along the same lines. They both treated Mum like she was some kind of bank. Whenever they wanted money for something, they’d ask her; tug on the old heartstrings a little, and hey presto, she arranges for the money to be transferred into their accounts. Mum would help out as much as she could, but it reached a point where Maggie was constantly wanting more and more. Yes, my mother was a wealthy woman but even her finances aren’t finite. She had to do something, and typical Maggie flew off the handle about it all. They argued, and that was that.”

  “But wouldn’t that split cause even more problems for your sister?” I ask softly.

  Frances nods. “I guess she thought Mum would back down and continue giving her the money just because she didn’t want the two of them to be estranged, especially as Maggie could stop Mum from seeing her only grandchild, and Mum so doted on Maxwell. He loved his granny, too.”

  “Have you been staying here with your mother?” Jack asks after checking some notes on his phone. “We thought you had your own flat in North London.”

  Frances nods and sniffs into her tissues. “No, I don’t live here. I have got my own place, though I’ll probably sell it now.”

  “Oh?” I prompt. “Do you want to get away from London? From all of the memories?”

  I know all about that, believe me.

  “No. It’s just that I’ll move in here. Mum left me this place.”

  “How do you know that already?” Xanthe asks, appearing by her side.

  “Mum told me,” she replies, sinking back into the chair’s cushions and curling her feet beneath her legs.

  “Oh.” Xanthe steps back, retreating to the kitchen area, saying nothing further.

  Hmm. That’s interesting. Does Xanthe, as executor of Cherry’s estate, think Frances shouldn’t be aware of the details of the will? Did Cherry want to keep its contents a secret for some reason?

  “Is there anything else?” Frances asks wearily. “I took some herbal sleeping tablets a while back, and I think they’re kicking in. I feel exhausted.”

  “Nothing else for now,” Jack says. “Yes, you get some rest if you can.”

  Xanthe reappears to escort us out.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  I hope Jack doesn’t notice the sigh of relief that escapes me once we’ve left London and are on our way to the Cotswold village of Hamberley On The Water. He’d suggested we take a quick detour so I could show him where I used to live and work, but the fact we’re already on a very tight timetable gave me a valid excuse to get out of that one.

  “You feeling all right?” he asks, changing gear and swiftly manoeuvring the four wheel drive past a coach.

  Sugar. I might have guessed he’d notice.

  “Glad to be out of the city?” he adds, briefly slipping a hand into mine and squeezing gently before returning both hands to the steering wheel. “You did great. I know the place makes you feel nervous after what happened back when you were with your ex. Thanks for coming down here with me. It’s been a real help.”

  I smile. “You know I’d do anything for you.”

  A wicked grin creeps across his handsome features. He takes his eyes off the road for a second and flashes me a sexy look. “Anything?”

  I bat him playfully on the arm. “Concentrate on your driving,” I pretend to chastise him.

  He chuckles as he returns his gaze to the road. “I could be condemned to a jail cell soon. You wouldn’t want to deny your fiancé some love and affection, surely?”

  “Don’t joke about such things! There’s no way you’re going to jail, Jack Mathis.”

  I’m determined to help Jack as much as I can with this case. I’m going to clear his name, the way he cleared mine. To change the topic of conversation I say, “So, how far is it to this place in the Cotswolds? Time is getting on, and I really need to be back in Cumbria tonight.”

  “Yeah, I know. If the motorway keeps running smoothly, then we should be there in an hour or so, I reckon.”

  I settle back in my seat and close my eyes for a while to mull over everything that’s happened today, from dodging Adam to what the women said at Cherry’s place. After what can only be about five minutes, I sense the car slowing and open one eye to see what’s going on. Ahead of us, in the afternoon gloom, all I can see is the red glow of car brake lights. Then warning signs start appearing on the hard shoulder, advising of roadworks and possible delays. Jack swears under his breath. Hmm. My thoughts exactly. It’ll probably be hours now until we get through all of this and off the motorway to head for the Cotswolds.

  Eventually, we arrive in Hamberley On The Water, which is a picturesque village of warm, honey-coloured stone buildings arranged along a bustling main street with a pretty stream running off to the side of the idyllic scene.

  “Hey, that must be Maggie’s bakery,” I say, pointing out the window as Jack slows the car to take a look. “Bakewells, The Celebrity Bakery,” I read from the shop’s elegant signage.

  Jack swings the car into a convenient slot on the busy village high street. “Let’s take a look.”

  We clamber out and walk towards the bakery. A woman and a sulky-looking teenage boy are just coming out. She smiles and holds the door open for us. The interior is bright, all chrome and glass, with a modern vibe to it. There’s a sitting area where you can devour coffee and cake which is equally as trendy as the rest of the place. I’m checking out the baked goods on display in the cabinets, trying not to drool, when I hear Jack ask the woman behind the counter if Maggie is around.

  “Sorry,” she says, beaming him a sad smile. “You just missed her. She was the woman who held the door open for you. She left early today, what with that terrible business with her mother.” She lowers her voice and rests her elbows on the top of the glass counter. “You do know she’s Cherry Bakewell’s daughter?”

  “Yeah, that was what we wanted to talk to her about,” Jack replies.

  The woman steps away from the counter, eyeing him suspiciously, and asks in a frosty tone, “You’re not a journalist, are you? Because if you are, I can tell you right now to get out because she won’t—”

  Jack holds up both hands in a placating gesture and then passes her one of his business cards. She reads it and frowns. “Anyone can get fake cards easy enough online these days. You could still be a newshound, just pretending to be a good-guy investigator. I’m not telling you anything. Please leave.”

  “If that’s what you want.” Jack turns to go, but as he does so he flashes a quick meet me outside look in my direction.

  I find Jack waiting for me beneath a tree down by the stream. The spot where he’s standing almost seems enchanted in the late afternoon darkness of this gloomy February day. The tree’s bare branches are laced with white fairy lights, and my knight in shining armour is gazing thoughtfully out over the babbling stream.

  “Did you see that sign?” he asks
, bringing me back to cold, hard reality.

  “What sign?” I shiver. It’s chilly anyway, and standing next to the gushing water of the stream is making me feel even cooler. I should have remembered to grab my jacket when I got out of the car.

  “Off to one side in the bakery, near the pay desk and counter,” he explains. “The bakery runs workshops on the premises. There’s one tomorrow. According to the promo materials, Maggie herself is teaching it.”

  “What? Tomorrow? She must have cancelled it surely, in the circumstances.”

  “It didn’t say it was cancelled. I thought you could book yourself on it. It would be a great way to get to see what Maggie’s like, maybe ask some questions but without it being related to the investigation. You’d just be another baking masterclass patron. What do you say? You’re always saying how your baking isn’t as good as you’d like it to be.”

  I shoot him an irritated look, though he’s right. I’ve said that myself quite a few times since we first met.

  “Lizzie?” he prompts. “What do you think?”

  “But the workshop is tomorrow,” I protest. “I have to get home tonight. There’s the farm to take care off, my fruit and veg customer deliveries, my shift at the village store and—”

  “Would you do this workshop if I took care of all that other stuff?” he asks, eyebrows raised questioningly.

  “What?” I tilt my head. “You’re going to sort the farm, my deliveries and cover my work at the store? Even you can’t do all of that from down here in the Cotswolds.”

  Jack shakes his head. “No, but I know some people who can. Just tell me you’ll agree to this, and I’ll sort everything else.”

  I chew on my bottom lip as I debate. A tiny part of me is excited at the prospect of getting cake instruction from the queen of baking’s daughter. It could help me with the Delamere Baking Competition. That’s if I have time to attempt more baking and can come up with a cake worthy of entering the contest in time.