Murder At The Bake Off (Celebrity Mysteries 3) (11 page)

Which reminds me…

“Have you heard anything from Marvin’s solicitor yet?” It seems to have gone quiet on the legal front.

He nods. “Yeah. A letter arrived today from his lawyer. It was just an initial warning, really. Advising me of the situation and what will happen next.”

Sugar. Marvin isn’t going to let this go, is he?

“You know how slowly lawyers move, though,” he says. “We’ve got ages yet. This case will be done and dusted before the legal stuff kicks up a gear.”

I hope he’s right. If we fail and Jack gets hauled through the courts, his business will be ruined. We can’t let that happen. Failing to solve this case is simply not an option.

Jack heads home just before midnight, saying he’s got some leads to follow up. (In the middle of the night? Best not to ask on that one.) He says he doesn’t want to be working all night at the farm, disrupting my sleep and Petula’s, too.

We share a lingering and slightly regretful kiss. But as soon as I hear his four wheel drive leave the yard at Eskdale, I’m down to baking business. Closing the kitchen door as quietly as possible because I don’t want Petula to hear, I retrieve the ingredients, equipment and my Aunt Molly’s recipe book. I flick through the pages, wondering if I should try something different. I could go down the gluten-free route—that might catch the judge’s eye and score points for originality—but I don’t have the right flour in the house.

After making sure I have all the necessary bits and pieces, I decide to try a fruitcake.

I’m measuring out the sultanas when the kitchen door opens and Petula, in green silk pyjamas and matching robe, walks in. Her eyes widen when she sees my midnight baking.

“Why are you making a cake at this time of night?” she asks, pushing a hand through her hair, looking tired.

I put the bag of sultanas down on the table, feeling guilty. “Sorry, did I wake you?”

Petula nods. “I was worried there was somebody down here.” She wraps the robe around herself more tightly and shivers. “I knocked on your bedroom door, thinking Jack would be here, doing his bodyguard bit, but your room was empty.”

“Jack went home,” I say, stirring the mixture in the bowl. “He had a lot of work to do. You know, with the festival so close, he’s determined to crack this case before—”

“Before I become the next murder victim.” Petula finishes my sentence and takes a seat at the table. “I thought he was supposed to be looking after me, but if he’s off on a mission to catch poor Cherry’s killer, then I suppose I can forgive him for abandoning me here with you.” She rests her elbows on the table and places her chin in her hands. “So, is this for the competition?”

I nod.

“Why
are
you baking in the middle of the night? Because you haven’t had time or because it’s a secret and you didn’t want me, the judge, to see it.”

“Both. Plus, well, I’m pretty rubbish at baking, so I’m embarrassed by most of my creations which come out of that Aga, so I don’t want people to see them.”

Petula frowns. “Then why on earth are you entering a baking competition?”

“My Aunt Molly was the best baker around these parts. She won loads of competitions and awards. When I inherited this place, I also inherited her recipe books. I suppose I wanted to see if I could follow in her footsteps—continue the family tradition. And Brenda, a friend who runs the village store, keeps saying she want to stock Eskdale cakes in her shop again, just like she used to do with my aunt’s. And, well, you’ve seen the state of this place. I could use the money from cake sales, but…”

“You need to make cakes of a high enough standard people are willing to part with their hard-earned cash to buy them,” she says, getting to her feet. “So, come on then, Elizabeth, show me what you’re doing. I can help you out.”

“No,” I say, shaking my head and holding a wooden spoon out in front of me as though I’m trying to ward off a baking entity. “You’re judging the competition. You can’t get involved with actually baking this cake, but I wondered if you might be able to offer some words of advice?”

Petula smiles and takes the spoon from my hands. “Let’s face it, dear. If you’re as bad as you make out, then it doesn’t matter how much I help you out, does it? You don’t stand a chance of winning anyway.”

OK, she’s got a point there.

“Before we do anything, how do you usually bake?”

“Sorry?” I’m not sure what she’s getting at.

“Are you in a rush? Juggling lots of things at the same time?” she clarifies.

I nod. “Usually, yes.”

“Do you have your recipe in front of you? Do you get all of your ingredients and equipment out on the table ready, so that everything is to hand before you start?”

“No,” I reply, feeling nervous now. It looks as though I’m about to get a serious baking telling-off here.

“Well, that should be your first thing to do. Always. Preparation is key. Do you weigh out all of the ingredients precisely?”

“Sometimes,” I edge.

“Hmm. I think I’m starting to understand why you have baking issues.” She reaches for an apron and slips it on.

My fingers fiddle anxiously with the mixing bowl. “There’s another reason I’m so keen to learn to bake.”

“Oh?”

“I have this crazy dream to make the cake for when Jack and I get married.” I hold my breath and wait for her to laugh at the absurdity of my idea.

She doesn’t laugh. Instead she nods, ties her apron. “That’s a lovely idea. We’d better get cracking, Elizabeth. Now, what are you making?”

“Fruitcake,” I say, watching as she inspects the recipe then the array of items scattered across the pine table top.

She wrinkles up her nose. “That’s not very original.” Turning, she starts going through cupboards, pulling out various bits and pieces, from food to alcohol.

“As I’m not getting the basics right, I thought it would be safer to stick to unoriginal,” I say cautiously. I pick up a packet of dates and warily eye the orange juice she’s just fetched from the fridge. “These items aren’t in my aunt’s recipe.”

Now it’s Petula’s turn to brandish the wooden spoon, waving it in my direction. “My point exactly! Now, young lady, you’re going to be doing the work while I supervise.”

I take the spoon and slide back into place in front of the bowl. “What now?”

“Chop the dates,” she instructs.

I grab the packet and a knife and do as she says. She’s actually a tad scary when she’s in baking legend mode. “How many?”

“All of them, we want this cake to be bursting with fruit and flavour, not just boring sultanas, cherry and a bit of mixed spice.”

I chop some more. After the dates, she has me lightly toast some flaked almonds, instructing me to add them along with a very generous slug of brandy followed by orange juice.

“You’re sure?” I check, orange juice poised on a tablespoon over the bowl.

I take Petula’s glare as my answer and tip the liquid into the mix, then stir some more. It
smells delicious.
Will this work? Few people get to have a baking icon giving them private cookery lessons in their own home in the middle of the night, so I intend to make the most of this. After all, the ultimate aim is to be able to consistently create cakes good enough to sell so I can boost the Eskdale coffers.

Petula grabs a tin and shows me how to properly grease and line it so there is zero chance of the mixture sticking. She goes off to her room as I’m finishing lining the tin and reappears with a special thermometer.

“I always carry this with me. It’s important to know the exact temperature your oven is running at,” she explains. “They can vary quite a bit from what the temperature is supposed to be, which can affect your baking. Let’s check this one out before the cake goes in so we know exactly what we’re dealing with.”

Once Petula is satisfied with the Aga temperature and the cake is in the oven, she guides me through ideas to decorate it. Or, should I say, once the
cakes
(plural) are in the oven. Very cleverly, she divided the mixture to bake a small sample cake for us to try so we don’t have to cut into the main cake and spoil it. I have to say, for the first time, I’m actually enjoying all of this. Having someone confident and experienced beside you in the kitchen and guiding you through the process is fun, plus I’m learning loads.

Petula talks me through the basics of sugar craft and we eventually agree on an innovative but doable design for the decoration. All of that has helped pass a hefty chunk of time. When I started baking at midnight, I just wanted to get on and make something for the competition, but then when I chose a fruitcake to make, I forgot to allow for all the cooking time. Now, it’s the early hours of the morning, and I’m exhausted as I tentatively remove the cake from the Aga. It’s a perfect golden brown colour with not a sign of burning anywhere.

Looking good so far.

The much smaller cake was removed ages ago and has been cooling. Petula instructs me on sliding a wire skewer into the centre of the main cake and gently removing it to check if it comes out clean. When it does, she declares the cake to be cooked. Phew! At last.

“Now we can taste the small one,” she says, handing me a knife. “You do the honours.”

Feeling nervous, I cut into the cake. The inside is well and truly packed with fruit, and it hasn’t all sunk to the bottom, either. In fact, it looks moist and smells heavenly.

“Go on, try it,” urges Petula. “It’s only cake for heaven’s sake; it won’t bite you.”

I take a bite and close my eyes. The cake is absolutely perfect.

“Good,” I hear Petula say approvingly next to me. “We’ll make a baker of you yet. You just need to learn to set some time aside so that you can concentrate properly on what you’re doing. If you attempt to bake between planting out lettuce and feeding the chickens, you’re not putting your heart into what you’re doing, and things will inevitably end up ruined.”

“This cake is wonderful,” I say, grinning from ear to ear. “Thank you so much.” Overcome with gratitude, I hug her, and she pats my back, seeming a bit surprised.

“You’re welcome. I do love teaching people to bake, and the more challenging the circumstances, the better, as far as I’m concerned.” She fiddles with a piece of icing she was showing me how to make a rose from earlier. “And they don’t come much more challenging than having a possible target on your back at a baking festival where you might be murdered.”

“Jack won’t let that happen,” I say, placing a hand on her arm. “He’s good at his job, and won’t give up on this case. He’ll find out who poisoned Cherry before the festival.”

She looks over, a weak smile on her face. “I do hope you’re right, Elizabeth dear.”

Rejuvenated by my success with the smaller cake, I want to press on with decorating the bigger cake. But of course it needs to cool first, so I tuck it away in the pantry out of sight and head up to bed for a few hours’ sleep.

It seems as though my head has only just hit the pillow when my alarm screeches through my bedroom. At first, I wonder why I feel so rough, but then I remember last night and the perfect fruitcake waiting in the pantry for decoration. It will have to wait a little longer though, because I have chickens to feed and farm orders to prepare, and then it’s off to the village store for my morning shift. 

Much to my surprise, Petula insists on donning a spare pair of my Wellington boots and helping me with chores, telling me how her grandparents had a farm and how she used to help them out when she was little during the school holidays. Her story pretty much echoes my own, when I used to come up here to Cumbria during the holidays to help out my aunt and uncle with Eskdale.

With Jack off doing his job, Petula wants to stick to my side like glue, so she accompanies me to the village store.

The store is tiny by city standards, but in this rural part of Cumbria, dotted with imposing mountains, it is the only grocery shop serving several one-street villages of stone and slate cottages.

As I’d anticipated, Brenda is thrilled to meet Petula and invites her into the stockroom for a cup of tea and a chat as I get busy serving the customers. Brenda and George almost lost the store a while back, and I organised a campaign to help save it. Since then, Brenda and I have become great friends. She may be thirty years my senior, but when we get together we inevitably giggle and gossip like a couple of teenagers.

I’m arranging jars of locally-made jam on a shelf when Emma, my sister-in-law to be, walks in and gives me a hug. “Have you heard?”

“Heard what?” Brenda asks, appearing from the back room, eager for local news.

“The Veggies has finally sold,” Emma replies. “I just drove through the village, and there was a van parked outside the building and two guys were putting a ‘sold’ board up.”

“Wow,” I say. “I thought it would be empty for years. I mean, who’d want to set up a business in a place where a guy was killed?”

“I know,” Emma agrees. “Pretty creepy, huh? Gives me the shudders, just thinking about it. Anyway, we’ve no idea who owns it now, or what it will become. Exciting though, finding out, isn’t it?”

“I’ll put the word out among the local business community and see if there are any rumours,” Brenda says, already picking up the phone.