Death at the Cafe (15 page)

Remove the cake, and put the toasted almond slivers along the edge of the finished cake, pressing in gently.  This decoration gives the cake a delightful finish and elegant, nutty flavor
.

Notes:

It is suggested that, for best results, this cake is made a day prior to serving, otherwise, allow at least six hours to make and assemble cake. Make sure the cake has ample time, at least 30 minutes, in the fridge to thaw before serving. Use a warm knife to slice through. 
Serves 16-20.

All ingredients are available from your local store or online retailer.

You can find links to the ingredients used in these recipes at
http://cozymysteries.com/death-at-the-cafe-recipes/

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REVEREND ANNABELLE DIXON WILL RETURN…

Would you like to find out what happens next for Annabelle? Find out in the subsequent book in this fun, cozy mystery series,
Murder at the Mansion
. You can find an excerpt on the following pages.

CHAPTER 1

THE ONLY THING Annabelle didn’t like about driving her royal blue Mini Cooper was that she couldn’t see how pretty it looked against the lush English countryside. In her mind, the various green hues of the fields, trees, and hedgerows provided the perfect backdrop for her petite blue bullet of a car. She would always picture herself zooming along like an actor in a lavishly produced, British television drama with an audience of millions. Happy ending guaranteed.

Annabelle loved driving. She loved driving almost as much as she loved cakes, and that was saying something.  Annabelle’s enthusiasm for sugary treats was as well-known in the village of Upton St. Mary as was her easy-going yet steadfast character. Going for a spin in her Mini with its go-faster stripes followed by a cup of tea and a slice of cake was her idea of a perfect summer’s afternoon.

She whipped the terrier-like motor through the gentle inclines of the Cornish countryside and found it impossible not to smile. Upton St. Mary was very much the kind of village in which people often smiled for no apparent reason. She was coming up to her third year as vicar of the small but dedicated community, yet the elegantly built stone walls, the unfurling landscape of green hills, and stout trees still took her breath away.

Though she had grown up in the hustle and bustle of working-class London, daughter of a street-savvy cabbie and a friendly but reserved cleaning lady, she had always dreamed of finding some grand version of idyllic peace. A place filled with beauty, calm, and goodness. After her troublesome teens, her soul found it in the glow of the Lord, and her body found it in this quaint little village tucked into a beautiful corner of the county of Cornwall, at the very end of England. Even the frequent rains and chilly winters couldn’t spoil this very British Garden of Eden for her.

The villagers themselves, though many had spent their entire lives here, were just as appreciative of Upton St. Mary as their entranced Reverend. Many of their pastimes and traditions involved enjoying the good-naturedness of their neighbors and their delightfully well maintained cottages. Residents also loved nothing more than an open-air crafts fair or competition in which the patient, studious members of the community could display their talents in gardening, knitting, pottery, and – frequently to Annabelle’s delight – baking. Much attention and discourse was directed at every local issue in the name of retaining the village’s rustic charm. Whether it was a problematic pothole or a controversial building extension, the traditional and proud villagers had very strong opinions and voiced them at every opportunity.

The strictly-held traditions of the village, coupled with the speed at which gossip traveled through the close-knit community, meant that Annabelle’s introduction as vicar had been greeted with reticence by some and concern by others. “A female vicar? In Upton St. Mary? What on earth will we do!?” said one particularly worrisome voice. “It’s a slippery slope. Today a female vicar, tomorrow the tea shop will convert to a coffee bar!” said another.

But Annabelle was not the type to be fazed. Though her tall frame and somewhat large figure gave her an ungainly and jovial air, her dedication to church matters was unparalleled. She dealt out sermons with devotion and strokes of well-appointed humor and galvanized more than a few reluctant churchgoers to participate with her abundant, positive energy. She was never too busy to lend a hand here or an ear there. Her willingness to strap on her wellies and get stuck in with the farmers just as easily as she could comfortably chat with the ladies of the tea shop, navigating discussions with decorum and grace, was irresistible. She quickly became the presence villagers wanted at their bedside when ill and the first port of call when a village-wide dispute needed to be resolved fairly and with tact.

Her predecessor had been male, a distinctly hairy male, and relations had been all quite straightforward. However, Annabelle’s appointment had put the villagers in a quandary. How should they refer to the female Reverend? Was her gender to be a cause for impropriety and social faux-pas? “Father” had long-been the customary term, and now that was out of the question. Much discussion ensued on the subject until Annabelle herself put an end to it with her typically tactful decisiveness. The villagers were to call her “Vicar” or just plain “Annabelle.” With their concerns addressed, everyone went about their merry way.

Yes, Annabelle had become a widely accepted and to some, a much-loved boon to the village. The fact that her dog collar was wrapped around a distinctly feminine and surprisingly elegant neck had now been forgotten (or at least ignored) by those who were perhaps a little slower to embrace the new ways of the world. She had settled into the gentle, quiet pace of life a village church position afforded with good humor and grace – making it easy for the villagers to accept her.

Annabelle eased her Mini onto the tightly woven, cobblestone streets that indicated the village’s center and gave a jolly wave to Mr. Hawthorne as he passed by on his daily, morning bike ride. He was a mischievous gentleman of fifty, who told tall tales of his youth in the local pub. While he claimed to ride his bike every morning “for the constitutional benefits,” it was an open secret in the village that he rode to a secluded spot in which he could enjoy the pleasure of his tobacco pipe away from the prying eyes of his disapproving and critical wife.

Annabelle reached a small house on the outskirts of the village, as cute and prim as its inhabitant, stopped the car, and got out. The sun was just beginning to sprinkle a dappled yellow light on the village, and Annabelle took a deep breath of crisp, fresh air. She detected a faint whiff of something sweet and warm, briskly locked the car door, marched to the front of the house, and knocked cheerily.

After a few moments, the door opened by the tiniest of slivers, revealing a pair of deep blue eyes and pinned-back grey hair.

“Good morning, Vicar,” said Philippa, opening the door and quickly hurrying back into the house.

“Good morning, Philippa,” said Annabelle, wiping her feet on the doormat and following her through the cottage. “Why do you insist on opening the door in that manner? I feel like a door-to-door salesman. I’m sure you’re not expecting anybody else.”

“Better safe than sorry,” said Philippa, leading the way past her paper-filled desk and into the kitchen.

“Oh, these look scrumptious!” squealed Annabelle, catching sight of the range of cakes Philippa had laid out on the kitchen table.

Philippa smiled, took the teapot, and began pouring tea for the Vicar.

“I’m trying something new this season. I thought I might experiment with nuts a little. Walnuts, almonds, that sort of thing. I thought it might give me a better chance of standing out at the fair this year.”