Murder At The Bake Off (Celebrity Mysteries 3) (16 page)

CHAPTER TWO

We’re landing on the helipad of a large country house which looks vaguely familiar. It’s built of Cumbrian stone and slate and looks very impressive. Where have I seen it before?

“This is the Roseby Hotel,” James says, unclipping his seatbelt before we’ve even touched down.

The Roseby. Of course. That’s why it looks familiar. I’ve seen it in loads of magazines and on the TV. It’s a five star hotel frequented by the rich and famous. Nestling in acres of private grounds, it sits part way up a hill in the Lake District, a few miles from the tourist town of Delamere.

Wow. I never thought I’d get to stay at the Roseby.

James opens the door, jumps out and beckons for the rest of us to follow. I fumble with my seatbelt to gain a few precious seconds so that by the time I do step out the helicopter has actually landed. I scurry over to James remembering to stay low down so as not to tangle with the helicopter blades. Seconds later we’re joined by Esme and Mitch.

“This way,” James instructs, leading us along a path towards the hotel.

The cool wind swirls around us and the fresh air thankfully calms my stomach, helping to clear my head after the flight. I glance around. The leaves on the trees are showing distinct flashes of yellow and orange as autumn gets into its stride. Far below us, at the edge of the hotel’s grounds, I can make out a stretch of water in the dusky afternoon light. A few yachts are moored in a small marina and islands stud the lake. I dread to think how much a suite at the Roseby costs per night. Are we actually getting to stay in a luxury hotel while we do our training?

“In here?” I ask, as the path curves around some shrubs and a slate-tiled and decidedly grand entrance comes into view.

“No,” James replies. “That’s for the guests. We’re using the staff entrance round the back.”

Ah, yes, of course we are.

Our little group traipses around the edge of the building before eventually taking the steps down to the door the hotel’s employee’s use.

“OK, you have rooms in the staff quarters. Go down the corridor on the right and take the three rooms at the far end. Sort yourselves out then meet me back here in fifteen minutes,” James instructs.

“You said we have a room each, so where are you staying?” Esme asks James.

“I’ll be staying in the hotel,” he replies with a smirk. “Trainer perks.”

“Typical,” Esme mutters as James disappears off in the opposite direction. 

I lead the way to our accommodation as Esme, clearly starting as she means to go on, teases Mitch. “So, if you’re a qualified special agent how come you’re stuck in the staff quarters with the lowly support-officers-to-be?” she asks him.

“I suppose it’s because I’m still the new guy and have yet to prove myself,” he replies smoothly. “That won’t be the case for long though. This assignment is just a formality for me. Soon I’ll be a fully qualified agent, moving up the ranks, and then I’ll be the one in charge on proper missions not pretend ones like this.”

Esme nudges me and when I glance over she rolls her eyes in Mitch’s direction.

“Right, who wants what room?” I say as we reach the end of the corridor. The doors are open on the three rooms and they all look identical so I don’t think it matters who sleeps where, but it feels right to offer the others a choice.

“I’ll take this one,” Mitch replies, strolling into the nearest room and dumping his holdall on the bed.

Esme turns to me and shrugs. “I’m not fussed.”

“I’ll take this one for me then,” I say, selecting the room right at the end of the corridor. Esme goes into the remaining room and flops dramatically onto the bed.

I inspect my room but, in truth, there’s not much
to
inspect. The suites at the Roseby must cost an astronomical amount and I’m sure they’re furnished to the highest standards.  I seem to recall from bits I’ve seen in magazines that there’s no such thing as a room here; they’re all suites, complete with their own lounges, luxury spa bathrooms and private balconies or verandas. Unsurprisingly, the staff bedrooms hold no such pretentions of grandeur. Before me is a single bed with a white duvet. The floor is beige carpet tiles. In the corner of the space is a large wardrobe. There’s a wooden chair next to the bed, and a door opens into the tiniest shower room I’ve ever seen. Everything is clean but basic. I wheel my suitcase towards the wardrobe but leave it unopened. There’s no time to unpack. I can hear Mitch and Esme chatting (or should that be bickering?) as they wait for me in the hallway. They seem to have a lot to say to each other.

“OK?” I say, pinning an enthusiastic grin on my face as I step out to join the others. I’m so nervous my palms are all sweaty and it feels as though there’s a zillion butterflies in my stomach. “Shall we go and meet James then and get this thing started?”

Esme strides off down the corridor. There’s an air of confidence and purposefulness about her which a part of me envies just a teensy bit. Whichever special agents she ends up working with when she qualifies I feel sure she’ll be a great asset to them.

“You’re late,” James says, as we turn the corner to find him sitting on a sofa in the staff lounge. He has the boot of his right foot resting on his left knee and looks as though he’s enjoying all of this.

“Sorry,” I reply, noticing neither Mitch nor Esme utter their apologies for tardiness.

“So, what’s the job?” Mitch asks, as he sits on the arm of a chair and fixes James with an intense gaze. “The sooner we get started the sooner I can get out of here and back to solving real crimes in the real world, not fake ones like this.”

James ignores his snide comment. “This is a set up case to test each of you. It’s all pretend but designed to seem as realistic as possible. This hotel is currently undergoing refurbishment in several of its suites and some of the public areas. It has closed for two weeks rather than risk any chance of disruption to its rather particular guests. As the CCIA has worked with the hotel on numerous occasions in the past, the owners have kindly agreed to let us have use of the Roseby for the purposes of this assignment. The people involved with this case will be a mix of hotel and agency staff. They have all been given roles to play. People will try to trick you, lead you off in different directions, as you try to figure things out. From this point on, assume everyone you meet is a part of this assignment. You are now the official investigating officers for this case. You are here to work and you’re expected to behave accordingly.”

James gets to his feet, picks up a folder and hands out a sheaf of paper to each of us. “The hotel is hosting a celebrity wedding. The happy couple and their guests have taken over the whole of the Roseby for three days with their family and friends. The wedding photos have been sold to Celeb Spotter magazine.”

A tingle of excitement runs through me. This is the kind of life I could lead if I pass this assignment and get offered a job with the agency. Even better, I could help to solve celebrity crime cases working alongside Charlie. Of course, if I do qualify, there’s no guarantee we’ll be assigned to work on investigations together. But, as Charlie is the agent who recommended me for CCIA training, I’m hoping they’ll appoint him as my mentor.

“The wedding ceremony is scheduled for seven o’clock today and will take place in the marquee in the grounds,” James continues.

I glance at my watch. Seven o’clock. That’s in just over an hour.

“So what goes wrong?” Esme asks. “What do we have to investigate? Did somebody shoot the groom?”

“You’re about to find out exactly what’s happened,” James replies, heading out of the door. “Follow me.”

CHAPTER THREE

17:45. The deadline clock starts ticking.

The marquee, decked with white fairy lights, takes up a large proportion of the lawn nearest to the hotel. I can hear shouting and general commotion inside it as we approach.

James stops and turns to us. “OK. Welcome to what should have been the venue for the wedding ceremony for rock musician Taylor and his fiancée Poppy, who works in public relations. This is where I leave you guys to do your job. Mitch, you’re in charge of this investigation. You’ve all got until six o’clock tomorrow evening to solve this case or I’m afraid you’ll have failed. Good luck.” He steps aside and gestures for us to go into the marquee.

Inside the extremely fancy tent a cluster of people are arguing and crying at the same time. Behind them is a dais area and a silver metal arch which is festooned with gold, white and orange flowers. I presume that’s the spot where the bride and groom should have exchanged their vows. The celebratory decorations look out of place though amongst all of the bickering and bawling. I glance around, recalling how I’m supposed to assess a crime scene for any clues. There are rows of chairs, each covered in a cream fabric, all lined up to face the altar where the people, presumably fake wedding guests dressed in their finery, are standing looking angry and upset. On a table off to one side sits the largest wedding cake I have ever seen. Briefly I wonder if it’s real or one of those polystyrene cakes they use to create beautiful displays in bakery windows. Whether that cake is real or fake I have to say I’m beyond impressed; the agency and the hotel have made every effort to make this case seem as real as possible. My stomach grumbles at the sight of the cake, reminding me I didn’t have chance to eat any lunch today. No time for such thoughts now though, I need to concentrate on the job at hand.

Mitch immediately springs into special agent mode, walking over to the group of people arguing on the wedding dais. Esme and I join him.

“What’s happened?” he asks them. “What’s going on?”

A handsome man dressed in a tuxedo spins round to face us. “Who are you?”

Mitch offers a hand to shake. “Special Agent Hargreaves, sir. I’m from the CCIA. I understand there’s a problem?”

“Too bloody right there’s a problem,” the groom replies, ignoring Mitch’s hand. “The woman I’m supposed to be marrying has disappeared!”

Mitch drops his unshaken hand back to his side. “How did you discover she’s missing?”

“Dorothea, that’s Poppy’s mother, just went up to her bedroom to present Poppy with a necklace as her something borrowed for the ceremony, but she was nowhere to be seen,” the man says, words tumbling out as he paces back and forth, gesturing wildly.

Whoever this guy is, hotel or agency staff, I get the feeling he’s missed his calling as an actor. He even looks like you’d expect a man jilted at the altar to look. Fear and anxiety are pulsing the air all around him. He’s doing a pretty good job of capturing that rock god look as well. He really could pass for a famous musician. Solidly built and tall, his designer stubble frames his handsome face and his eyes are an intense blue.

“You’ve got to find her!” he adds, suddenly spinning round and grabbing Mitch’s arm. “You will find her, won’t you?”

“Of course we will,” Mitch replies, confidence oozes from every pore. This might be his first assignment in charge of everything but he isn’t showing any sign of nerves as far as I can tell.

A woman who looks to be in her fifties slips an arm around the groom. “It’ll all be fine, Taylor. Try not to get quite so worked up.”

Mitch, seemingly placated a little, nods repeatedly and takes a deep breath.

“And you are?” Mitch asks the woman.

“The mother of the bride,” she replies. “Dorothea Randall.”

“So, what are you going to do? How quickly can you find her? Do I need to postpone the wedding ceremony?” The groom bombards Mitch with questions, his few seconds of calm now clearly over. Then he lowers his voice. “You do realise how embarrassing this is, don’t you? We even have a photographer from Celeb Spotter magazine here to take all of the wedding pictures. What the hell am I going to tell him?”

Hmm. I’d say he’s
definitely
going to have to postpone everything, but I keep my mouth shut and instead catch the eye of the mother of the bride, pointing to a row of empty seats.  “Shall we sit down for a moment?”

She nods, stepping away from Taylor and perching on the edge of a seat at the end of the aisle. I sit next to her and lower my voice. “Dorothea, I’m Amber. I’m here to help find your daughter. I’m so sorry she’s disappeared. I just wanted a quiet word with you to check there isn’t any chance the bride might have got cold feet and left of her own accord.”

Dorothea shakes her head, concern evident in her eyes. “Of course not! Poppy loves Taylor with all her heart. She’s been so looking forward to this day, planning everything meticulously. She wanted it to be perfect. Not just because of the photos they’re allowing Celeb Spotter to take, but also because the day she marries Taylor is so precious to her. There’s no way she’d change her mind at the last moment and run out on him. I’m certain of it.”

OK. So that was a long shot - that the bride might have just done a runner - but it had to be worth asking the question as a starting point, right?

I rest a hand on the woman’s arm. “Don’t worry, everything will be fine. Unfortunately, I think you and Taylor might well have to speak to the hotel manager about rescheduling the ceremony. Maybe you could try again in a few days? Rest assured though, we will find Poppy.”

We have to, otherwise I can wave goodbye to any chance of getting my dream job.

The woman nods as I get to my feet. “Perhaps we could start with having a look in her bedroom to see if there might be any clues there?” I suggest, getting into the swing of things. This is the first time I’ve worked on a case without somebody mentoring me and, yes, it’s scary, but it’s also exciting and challenging. My heart is racing and I’m keen to get started. Especially as we have less than twenty-four hours to find the missing bride-to-be.

“Just what I was about to do,” Mitch says, strolling over with a scowl on his face as he overhears my words.

Oops.
Have I already overstepped my place as an apprentice support officer? It seems Mitch thinks so. If he doesn’t like me thinking for myself then I get the feeling he’s really going to have problems with Esme, who, I’m certain, is not going to be a woman to hold back on this assignment or mince her words.

“I’ll show you to Poppy’s room,” the bride’s mother says.

As we follow her out of the marquee, I spy Taylor being comforted by a startlingly beautiful blonde woman. She’s wearing an elegant long gown which I presume is a bridesmaid’s dress.

“Who’s that with Taylor?” I whisper to Dorothea. “Is she one of the bridesmaids?”

Dorothea nods. “Yes, her name is Lottie. There are two other bridesmaids as well.” She points across to a table laden with glasses of what appears to be champagne. Two women in identical dresses to the one Lottie is wearing are sipping from glasses and looking rather inebriated. “That’s the other two, Deidre and Constance. Otherwise known as Deedee and Connie. They’re…”

“We’ll interview the rest of the wedding party
after
we’ve thoroughly examined the bride’s bedroom,” Mitch interrupts. “Could you lead the way now please, Mrs. Randall?”

“Actually, it’s Miss Randall,” Dorothea replies, her fingers fiddling with the pearl necklace at her throat. “I’m divorced. I reverted back to my maiden name of Randall.”

“Is Poppy’s father attending the wedding?” I ask Dorothea as we make out way towards the hotel.

Beside me Mitch gives a huff of disapproval, presumably at my audacity in asking yet more questions.

“No, when we divorced Poppy cut off all ties with him.” Her fingers go back to her neck for more anxious fiddling with the pearls.

“Does Poppy have any siblings?” Esme asks, appearing on Dorothea’s other side. Mitch is striding off ahead of us, across the hotel’s lawns.

“Sadly, she’s an only child. Her father and I were unable to have any children so we adopted Poppy.”

Mitch stops when he reaches the entrance to the hotel and turns back to face us. “I’ll need you to use your key card to gain entry to the hotel, Ms. Randall.”

She nods, fumbles in her bag and eventually finds the card. Looking flustered she tries to swipe it, taking three attempts before the light changes from red and to green and we’re inside the hotel at last.

“Where are we going? What’s the room number?” Mitch demands.

“I’ll show you,” Dorothea replies, stepping to the right and walking up a small flight of steps.

If Poppy did decide to ditch her wedding then she clearly did so without so much as a thought for her possessions, as well as her husband-to-be. Her room looks as though a cyclone has torn through it. There are clothes scattered all over the four poster bed and right across the floor. An array of makeup, combs, brushes and hair accessories adorn the dressing table. On the oak console table sits a large jewellery box, the lid open to reveal a diamond tiara. Presumably Poppy was planning to wear that with her wedding dress. I take a step closer and spot some rings and a gold bracelet nestling on the pink silk interior of the box.

Taking in the scene around him, Mitch asks, “Is Poppy usually quite a tidy person?”

Dorothea shakes her head.

“Right, let’s get started,” Mitch says, rubbing his hands together. “This place is such a mess, it’s difficult to say if she left willingly or if there was a struggle. Amber, you search the bathroom. Esme, check through the stuff on the bed and the floor, and I’ll go through all the drawers and the wardrobes.”

Check the bathroom.
Why do I get the feeling being instructed to check the bathroom is Mitch’s way of reprimanding me for starting my own line of questioning earlier with Dorothea? So far I’ve only ‘worked’ on cases with James and with Charlie. James, while undertaking my training, and Charlie, when I was first drawn into all of this CCIA stuff. I was still working for the local newspaper and also part-time in the village pub when I ended up getting myself involved in a murder investigation Charlie had been sent to solve. Both guys, though highly experienced special agents with reputations for being amongst the CCIA elite, still treated me as equals. They encouraged me to learn, to contribute and get involved with the challenges before us while solving cases. Mitch, with probably only a handful of cases under his belt, seems to have far too many airs and graces for my liking and obviously wants to take complete charge, bossing us around. Well, I need to pass this test so, in turn, I guess that means I need to keep my mouth shut and get on with my instructions.

Bathroom search, here I come.

The bathroom is bigger than my whole flat back home. There’s a freestanding claw foot bath in the centre, aligned so that whoever is reclining in the tub can enjoy the view of the hills from the picture window. I hope there are no paparazzi lurking amongst the trees out there with gigantic telephoto lens at the ready, eager to snap a shot of a naked celebrity enjoying a bath and sell it to the highest bidder.

Turning my attention back to carrying out my search, I open the floor to ceiling cupboard next to the marble vanity unit. Inside is, unsurprisingly, a selection of toiletries. Fake tan. Body moisturiser. Hand cream. Nail polish. I shut the door; nothing suspicious in there then. A bathrobe hangs on a hook on the back of the door. I search its pockets. Nothing. I stand still and let my eyes roam over every inch of the space. Maybe there isn’t anything here to give us a clue as to what happened to Poppy, but I need to be thorough and make absolutely certain I haven’t missed anything before I report back to Mitch. I spot a silver flip-top bin tucked around the side of the glass which screens off the shower area. Dropping to my hands and knees, I notice two things. One, the bathroom has underfloor heating because the floor tiles are blissfully warm. Two, there’s a piece of paper crumpled up inside the bin. I fish it out and carefully unfold it. The note has been ripped into tiny pieces before being bundled together and disposed of. I put the numerous pieces on the floor and try to fit them back together, like a paper version of a jigsaw. My task would be easier if the note was from a regular-shaped piece of paper, but it isn’t. It looks as though the words were scrawled across the middle of an A4 writing pad and then ripped diagonally across the sheet. Eventually three of the pieces appear to fit and form a word.
Mistake
. I peer at the other bits of paper as I move them around. Two more bits slot into place and form another word.
Sorry.
I’m on a roll here. Could this be an apology from Poppy for running out on her wedding? But if it is, then why did Poppy tear it up and put it in the bin?

I can hear Mitch and Esme continuing their search in the bedroom. How long will it be before they finish their tasks and come in here? I want to try and find out what this note says all by myself. It might not be relevant to the case, but it could also be the lead we’ve been looking for to get this investigation up and running. OK. Breathe. Focus. I move the remaining pieces of paper around.
Come on,
I chant silently.  Please let the pieces fit and the note reveal its secret.

If it has a secret to hide, that is. I might well be scrambling around on my hands and knees on the bathroom floor for no good reason.