A fatal feast at bramsfo.., p.11
A Fatal Feast at Bramsford Manor, page 11
“Whoa!” Brett cried, grabbing her before she hit the hard surface of the upper patio.
His loud cry and firm grasp had pulled her back, vanquishing the images that had taken over in her head. “Are you okay?” he asked. His face was pinched with concern.
No, she was not okay. She was terrified—terrified of what was happening to her. She had very probably just connected with the ghostly bride who haunted the manor, getting a glimpse of the horrific trauma that plagued her poor earthbound soul. It was too much for her. It was just as she feared. That dang white rabbit was a harbinger of horrors.
And yet, looking into the achingly handsome face that hovered above her, the ghostly images and wailing had been thrust out of her head. In fact, she was feeling much better now. However, what do you say to a man who has absolutely no idea what to make of you? Nothing truthful, she thought, and so she lied. “I tripped. I’m so embarrassed. Thank you for catching me.” She forced a smile, certain that her face was as white as the bleached bones of the skeletal hand she had seen.
“No problem,” Brett said, brushing the incident off as fast as she had. “Though you should probably watch your step. These flagstones aren’t even close to being smooth.”
Welcoming the heat back to her face, she agreed and followed him to the oval outcropping, where he leaned against the impressively thick railing.
“I brought you out here because I owe you an apology,” he told her in a soft and personal tone. “I didn’t know . . .” he began. “What I mean is . . . you never said . . .” He was struggling to find the words, and Bunny was certain she had never seen anyone so disarming in her life. She stared at him, knowing her cheeks glowed like embers in the night. She really couldn’t help it. She really didn’t care. Finally, like that wee baby bird flapping with all its might to leave the nest, Brett blurted, “I’m sorry for your loss.”
“What d’ye mean?” Taken off guard, first by a romantic vision, then by a ghostly vision, and then more inklings of romance, her Scottish accent had flared up.
“Your brother . . . in that accident. I can’t even imagine what that must have been like for you.”
At the mention of Braiden, her heart sank again, and this time it ached. “You are referring to my story about my brother and the white rabbit,” she said, feeling the embers of her cheeks fade in the cold light of day. Really, what had she been expecting? Flattery? A kiss? She mentally flagellated herself as Brett continued.
“I didn’t understand your reluctance to join this show. I didn’t know it was so personal or had such a profound impact on you.”
“You couldn’t have known,” she consoled. “It’s not something I’ve ever shared before, or even admitted to.”
Brett gave a little nod at this as he took a deep breath of the crisp fall air. “My apology isn’t over,” he cautioned. “I’m ashamed to admit this, but when you led us straight to the mistletoe chest and threw open the lid, I . . . I didn’t know what to think. Your shock at discovering Marcus Bean was real, and yet a part of me felt that you were responsible for his murder.”
Up to this point, Bunny had been moved by his words, wooed even. But that all changed. “You what?” she cried, glaring at him. “You thought I did that to that poor man? You think I’m capable of murder? Ohmygod!” she exclaimed, borrowing the expression from Giff.
Brett tried to take a step backward but realized he was already pressed against the railing. He had no choice. He had to stand his ground. “It . . . was your knife,” he reasoned, yet to no avail.
“Well, mister man, I was just as shocked as you to see it used like that,” she told him sternly, using her mother’s favorite high-handed manner of addressing a male, her husband included. “It was stolen from the kitchen. I thought I explained that to you.”
“Well, yes. I know that now. I’m . . . I’m trying to apologize here.” He looked flustered. He was wringing his hands.
“This is how you apologize? You accuse first, then make nice?”
This time she noticed that he was the one turning red, and not from embarrassment. Brett gritted his teeth and doubled down. “Why shouldn’t I think you did it? You’ve given me little reason to trust you. You don’t like ghosts, or the people who investigate them. You don’t want to be here. You’ve made that perfectly clear since day one. You’re moody. You think you’re better than us because you were on a popular food show with a famous host while our show had a more . . . targeted audience.” He took a breath and, against his better judgment, continued. “You hide out in the kitchen all the time. And when I saw that body in the chest, it brought back bad memories of a previous investigation!” This he admitted a tad too loudly.
“I’m moody?” For some reason that criticism, in a sea of many, struck a nerve with her. “For your information, mister man, I’m bubbly. Bubbly, do y’hear? I’m also cheerful and fun to be around. And for your information, I know why you lost your last job! No need to bang on about that old news.”
“Bubbly? Here’s a news flash for you, you’re not sounding very bubbly to me, Bunny.” Brett, conscious on some level that he was acting like a bratty thirteen-year-old, instantly regretted saying that. However, he had flung it at her with all the gusto of a bored chimpanzee.
“Maybe that’s because I’m scared, Brett,” she fired back. “And I don’t feel very bubbly when I’m scared.”
Her bold admittance of fear brought him back to his senses like a hard slap in the face. He instantly felt ashamed and cradled his head in his hands. Why had he let her get under his skin like that? He had no good answer. Mustering the courage to look at her again, he said, “Christ. I know that. I know that, Bunny. That’s why I wanted to apologize to you in the first place. When I realized that Bean had been murdered, I was filled with near debilitating self-pity, thinking that you were trying to sabotage the show.”
Her anger flared again, but Bunny consciously schooled it, choosing instead to be honest. “But . . . I would never do that. Like it or not, this is my show too, Brett. And Giff’s. And the lads’. I truly want us to succeed. I may not embrace the ghost angle of this production, but I love my role here. I shine in the kitchen.”
This made him smile. “You certainly do. I never said it, but that meal you made for us was sublime. It was beyond perfect. I have no idea why our first Spirit Supper went off the rails, but it did. I am so sorry. Every time I stumble upon a great thing or embark on something that’s important to me, I seem to screw it up—like this apology, for example. I also want to say that while I might have doubted you, Giff never did. He reminded me that you couldn’t have murdered Marcus Bean because you were in the kitchen most of the day cooking that meal. Cody caught most of it on camera.”
“That’s true,” she admitted. “But also, I’m not a murderer.” The point was driven home, and Brett had the decency to acknowledge it.
“Deep down I always knew that, but what I didn’t understand was why you had led us to the mistletoe chest in the first place.”
“Then you met my grandmother,” she offered knowingly.
Brett nodded. “Then I met your grandmother. I also had to remind myself that I’ve spent my adult life as a paranormal investigator, and that you have just presented me with what might be the most real piece of evidence of an afterlife that I’ve ever come across. I’m fascinated by this white rabbit you see. Your grandmother believes you’re clairvoyant as well.”
She looked at him, and stated with honesty, “That’s what I’m afraid of. I don’t want to be weird like that or like her. I want to be normal. I’m a chef. I want to cook, not converse with ghosts.”
“We want you to cook too, but I think that you also need to be true to yourself, regarding this gift you might have. If you really are clairvoyant, then, as Giff loudly declared, that makes you the only one among us with any real talent. I know how to use ghost tech. Giff’s mediumship is all an act, but he is entertaining. If you are the real deal, Bunny, I promise that your secret will be safe with us. We will not exploit it, but we might call on you to help us from time to time, like, for instance, now.”
“You’re talking about the murdered man, Marcus Bean?” With a grim set to his lips, Brett nodded. “You want me to find his murderer?”
Brett shrugged. “It’s a big ask, but we cannot leave until we do. He had a traumatic death. It’s reasonable to assume that he still might be here.”
Dear heavens, she thought, he actually wants me to contact the ghost of Marcus Bean. That was crazy talk, but she didn’t want to go down that road with him again. Instead, she graced him with a smile. “Let’s table that for now. I have a better idea. You see, I was told, while in the kitchen just now, that there’s a rumor Marcus was planning to make some big reveal on camera during your investigation last night. No one seems to know what this big reveal was, but it just might be the reason he was murdered. I happen to have the name of the person that sous chef Rodger overheard talking about it in the kitchen.”
“What? You have a lead? You’re already investigating the murder?”
Bunny nodded. “I accept your apology, Brett Bloom. Please accept mine. But you should know that I can go from bubbly to angry in a heartbeat when provoked. Now, are you with me?”
“I am,” he said, then made a sweeping gesture with his hand. “Lead the way.”
Chapter 17
Bramsford was a large manor, and finding one young woman who was on her afternoon break from the kitchen, while avoiding her grandmother and the rest of the guys in the process, was more challenging than Bunny had thought. However, after a visit to the maître d’s office, which was in a hallway outside the kitchen, Callum Digby gave Bunny and Brett a little hint as to where Betsy might be found.
“On beautiful days like today, I’d look in the apple orchard if I were you. I know the servers like to take their lunches out there or spend time in one of the gardens during their breaks. To get there, go out the rear exit to the patio, go down the stairs, and walk through the archway in the right-hand wall. That leads to the orchard.” Bunny thanked him, yet just before she and Brett were about to leave his office, Callum cast them a look of mild suspicion. “What do you want with Betsy? Did she do something wrong? Was her service not up to par?”
“Oh no-no.” Bunny was quick to defend the girl. “Everything was fine. We just wanted a word with her.”
Callum, in his fifties, with salt-and-pepper hair and blue eyes bordering on gray, carried the weight of his profession in his prim and precise movements. He lifted his chin and asked, “This wouldn’t be about the murder of Marcus Bean, would it?”
“Actually, it is,” Brett told him plainly. “Being a server, we wanted to see if she might have overheard something.”
Callum closed the reservation book on his desk with a snap, having canceled most of them for the evening as required, and pursed his thin lips. “Even if she did overhear something Bean said, she’s not allowed to repeat it. I don’t tolerate eavesdropping servers.”
While Bunny fumed at this, Brett changed the subject. “Did Marcus come here often?”
“Often?” Callum sneered. “Nearly every day, every day he worked here. That man was always skulking around the place, snooping through all the old books and papers. Sir Charles said that all Marcus’s meals, until dinner service started, were on the house. Can you imagine? On the days he was here, you could count on Bean showing up for breakfast, lunch, and tea.”
“That’s very generous of Sir Charles,” Bunny remarked. “I imagine that other servers might have overheard something as well.”
Callum shook his head. “Could have. We have a few here, but Marcus made it a point to sit in Betsy’s section. They got on very well together.”
“Were they . . . you know?” Brett raised an eyebrow to relay his meaning to the maître d’.
Catching his meaning, Callum frowned and shook his head. “Heavens, no. At least I hope not. Bean was close to my age. He could have been her father.”
Seeing that Brett was about to counter the argument with an observation of his own, Bunny jumped in with a loud, “Thank you for your time,” ending the conversation. Callum, while polite enough, took his job as restaurant manager very seriously, as one would expect in an establishment like Bramsford Manor. It was his job to oversee the dining rooms, the waitstaff, as well as the head chef, Lilly, and to ensure that every guest enjoyed their visit to the fullest. However, Bunny found him a wee overly managerial for her taste. She had no wish to prolong the visit and pulled Brett out of the office with her.
“Hey, maybe he knows something about the murder,” Brett protested.
“He might,” she agreed, heading for the patio once again. “However, he’s just told us something important. Marcus made it a point to sit in Betsy’s section. Why would that be?”
To her annoyance, Brett grinned. “He was a guy. The obvious reason is because she’s cute.”
Bunny paused in her step to cast him a chiding look. Secretly she wanted to snarl at him, but thankfully refrained. Men could be so blunt sometimes about their hungers! Instead, she offered, “Fair enough. But to my point, he just gave credence to what Rodger said about Betsy. He said that he overheard Betsy talking to another server about some big reveal during the night’s investigation. If Betsy knew Marcus well, he might have told her about it.”
“You think that she knows what this secret reveal was about?”
“If Bean took most of his meals in the dining room in her section, that speaks of friendship, or familiarity at best.”
“Or, to my point, infatuation,” Brett added with a pointed look. “You forget, we spent an entire day with the dude. I wouldn’t put infatuation with a hot waitress beyond him.”
Hot waitress? He thought her hot? Why did that silly statement make her cheeks feel like they were on fire? Bloody men! Again, she forced a smile. “Great. Noted. Either way we need to talk with the young lady before she heads back to work.”
As the two proceeded down the sweeping patio steps, this time Bunny was too miffed about the hot waitress comment to be accosted by feelings and visions of the ghost bride. Then, once in the garden, they headed for the correct archway in the ancient wall. The moment Bunny passed beneath the crumbling stone, she felt she had entered another world, a quieter world filled with sunlight, birdsong, and the gentle rustling of leaves. Since the apples were ripe and many had already fallen, it not only smelled like a cider mill, but there was a slight buzzing sound as well. That came from the bees. As Brett and Bunny gingerly walked along the many rows of fruit trees, careful not to provoke the buzzing insects, they searched for Betsy. Since the trees were thick with both leaves and fruit, it wasn’t an easy task. In fact, they both assumed they had missed her until they were on their way back. That’s when they finally spotted the pretty waitress sitting against a west-facing wall. Her tear-streaked face glistened in the afternoon sun. The moment she heard their footsteps, her eyes flew open, spotting them. She instantly stiffened and wiped her cheeks with the backs of her hands.
Bunny gingerly approached. “We’re so sorry to have disturbed you,” she said softly. “We were told that you might be here, taking your lunch.”
“What do you want with me?” The girl looked startled by this. “Is something wrong?” Her soulful brown eyes skipped past Bunny and latched onto Brett. The moment they did, Betsy ran a hand over her hair and sat up a little higher. Then, to Bunny’s further dismay, the girl smiled.
Brett took a step closer and smiled back. “Nothing’s wrong, Betsy,” he assured her before gracefully squatting, putting him at eye level with the young woman. “We’d just like a word with you regarding Marcus Bean.”
Hearing the name of the dead man, the girl’s face pulled into a look of fright. Och, we’ve struck a nerve, Bunny thought. There’s definitely a connection here, but what exactly is it? Heaven forbid, but could Brett be correct? Deciding to strike while the proverbial iron was hot, she asked, “We’ve heard that Marcus Bean was very fond of you and only sat in your section in the dining room. Is that correct?”
“What . . . what is this?” Betsy pushed her back against the high garden wall and scrambled to her feet. “Why are you asking me about this?”
“Because he was murdered,” Bunny stated plainly, pinning the girl with her large, unblinking green eyes.
Betsy didn’t like that one bit. “I know that!” she snapped at them. “It’s so sad! It’s so terrible!” Then, filling with either sadness or remorse (Bunny couldn’t determine which), Betsy added, “He was such a kind man.”
“Exactly how kind was he?” she pressed.
“It is sad,” Brett cut in, casting Bunny a cautionary look—one she took to mean retract the claws. He continued. “We’re all saddened by his death, and that’s why Ms. MacBride and I are here. We’ve been told that you might have overheard something Marcus said, something about a secret big reveal he might have been planning during our ghost hunt. We think it might be important. We’d like you to walk us through that moment if you can.”
