A fatal feast at bramsfo.., p.16
A Fatal Feast at Bramsford Manor, page 16
Yet before she could fling properly aimed eye-daggers at him, her grandmother’s slightly admonishing tisk-tisk caught her attention instead. “You’re a chef, not a witch, but you are clairvoyant. And clairsentient, which means that you have the ability to feel a ghost touch you, or to feel its emotions. It’s time to stop running from it, Bridget.” Her grandmother only used her Christian name when she was being formal or stern. “You best learn to control it, or you’ll be absorbing every unwanted emotion in this old place.”
The trouble was, she knew that her grandmother was correct. She had to face this demon, but in the cold light of day, she had to admit the thought terrified her. Power-pouting over this truth, she picked up her tea and sipped it down. The moment she finished she felt a firm yet warm hand on her arm. It was Brett.
“I’m sorry,” he told her softly. “I know how scary this must be for you. Truthfully, I regret pulling you into all of this—this highly unorthodox show. But we’re in the thick of it now, Bunny. All of our careers are on the line and all of us are still suspects in Marcus Bean’s murder. What I’m trying to say is that you’re not alone. We’re all here with you. We’re a team. And we’re not going to let anything happen to you. You have made contact with the Mistletoe Bride. That’s huge. That’s why we’re here. Although this ghost-hunting stuff is far out of your wheelhouse, your grandmother is here to help you. She has the unique ability to teach you more about your gift. In fact, I believe that’s why you brought her here in the first place.” Bunny gave a sheepish nod, admitting this was true. “For whatever reason,” Brett continued, “this old, haunted manor has awakened this gift within you, and I, for one, can’t help but think it’s for a good reason. Maybe the Mistletoe Bride can help us understand why Bean was murdered.”
“I think you might be right,” she finally admitted. “I told you that I could feel her emotions. Sorrow, fear, pain, and loss, they were all there. But there was something else that struck me as odd.”
“What was that?” Granny Mac leaned in with interest.
“Anger. White, hot, burning anger. For the love of me, I cannot figure out why that young ghost bride would be filled with such anger.”
“Maybe we can figure that out during your investigation tonight,” Granny Mac told them. “I have a plan.”
Chapter 23
After breakfast Granny Mac set off with the lads to discuss strategies for the evening’s investigation. It was to be filmed as planned, only now they had a better idea of what they were up against, and where the specter in question might be found, namely in Bunny’s hotel suite. They all agreed that it was imperative they make contact. Not only would it make for sensational television, but they also might learn something important regarding the dealings in Bramsford Manor. Bunny begrudgingly agreed to play her part. She really had no choice. As Granny Mac pointed out, she had a special connection to this ghost. It was necessary that she learn how to control her abilities lest they overwhelm her like they had last night.
Bunny pushed all unsavory thoughts of ghosts and hunts from her mind and instead embraced the problem at hand, namely Morgan Wallingford-Green. Sir Charles had told them yesterday that his sister had been having an affair with Marcus. Last night at supper, she had seen Morgan with her husband and daughter sitting at Sir Charles’s table. If she was having an affair with the historian, she couldn’t imagine her husband would be pleased. Maybe he didn’t know. Knowing that Brett and Giff would return shortly to join her in questioning Morgan, Bunny decided to make the most of her time by paying a visit to the kitchen. Restaurant kitchens were often hotbeds of gossip. Also, Bunny was itching to bury her hands in some good, sticky dough. To her way of thinking, there was no better way to work out one’s demons than to get busy in the kitchen.
“Good morning,” Bunny called cheerfully to the two cooks working on breakfast orders as she made her way to the back of the kitchen. She assumed Lilly was taking a break in her office. However, spying Rodger, Bunny paused to say hello. The sous chef was working at another counter, slicing an enormous pile of yellow onions. On the stove behind him a stockpot simmered beside a Dutch oven. Due to the onions and the smell of the rich beef broth, Bunny deduced, “French onion soup?”
Rodger looked up at her, tears streaming down his face, and nodded. “I’m just about to sauté the onions.”
“Thank goodness for that. It’s a painful job, slicing so many. Short of wearing ski goggles in the kitchen, there’s not much one can do about the tears.” Bunny’s heart went out to him. Whether slicing onions or channeling the emotions of a ghost, profusely watering eyes were importunate at any time of the day.
“Ski goggles?” Rodger remarked, his face expressing mild regret. “I never thought of that.”
“It’s not a tool one usually has in the kitchen. I tried it once during my spot on Mary Stobart’s Memorable Meals. It didn’t go over very well. Mary saw it and told me that I looked like an idiot, slicing onions with flaming orange ski goggles on. Maybe I should have worn white goggles instead. Whatever the case, it worked.” They shared a grin over this antic. “You can also soak them in cold water, but the benefits won’t last in a pile this big. My pro tip: try not to get too attached to the onion, and certainly don’t name them.” She made the man crying over a pile of onions, laugh. She laughed too. “Will it just be the soup then?” she finally asked him. Although French onion soup was rich enough, topped with a slice of toasted French bread, Gruyère cheese, and broiled to a bubbly golden-brown perfection, she felt it a bit underwhelming for the likes of the manor’s kitchen.
“Served with a ploughman’s lunch on account of the low number of guests,” Rodger informed her.
That sounded better. Although both dishes had humble origins—onion soup being an affordable staple of eighteenth-century French peasants, and the ploughman’s lunch a quick, hearty, cold meal packed for England’s hardworking ploughmen—both had been elevated into epicurean wonders. French onion soup in a rich beef broth and topped with melted cheese was divine. As for the ploughman’s lunch, Bunny regarded it as the precursor for today’s obsession with charcuterie boards. A typical ploughman’s lunch was protein heavy, with sliced cold meats, wedges of local cheeses, hard boiled eggs, meat pies, and sausage rolls. Even a good Scotch egg made an appearance on occasion. And no ploughman’s lunch could be complete without delicious, homemade crusty breads, and a whole host of other garden delights, fruits, chutneys, and spreads. It was a simple meal that dazzled the tastebuds. “It sounds positively delicious,” Bunny remarked. She bid him a good day and continued to the back of the kitchen, aiming for the long counter beneath the wall of windows where she had cooked her elegant, ghost-baiting meal.
The moment Bunny stood at the sink and began washing her hands, Lilly poked her head out of her office. She pulled her cell phone away from her ear, and asked, “What brings you into the kitchen this morning?” Bunny noted that she still appeared slightly guarded toward her.
“I’m stuck here for a few days and thought I’d whip up a batch of scones for tea later today. That won’t be a problem, will it?” Bunny presented the chef with her brightest smile.
“We’ll chat later. The guest chef is back in my kitchen,” Lilly told the person on the other end of her phone and ended the call. She grabbed an extra apron and stepped out of her small office. “Here,” she said, handing it to Bunny. “I don’t have a problem with that. Must keep busy somehow, I suppose.”
Bunny thanked her and began gathering her ingredients.
“Anything special you need?” Lilly pulled out a mixing bowl and a baking tray for her.
“No. I’m just making basic scones. I assume you have jam and clotted cream?” Lilly nodded. “Excellent,” she proclaimed, then slyly confided to the chef, “After the fright I had in my bedroom last night, I need this. A quick batch of scones should ease my nerves enough to carry on.”
She had Lilly’s attention. “What do you mean by fright in your bedroom?”
“The Mistletoe Bride paid me a visit last night. I don’t mind telling you that I didn’t like the experience at all.”
“You saw her, or just heard her?”
“Both, actually,” Bunny remarked while carefully measuring out the self-rising flour. Next, she added the baking powder, sugar, and a pinch of salt.
“What did she look like?” Lilly was intrigued.
“You told me that you saw her once,” Bunny reminded her. “Out on the patio.”
“I did. I was wondering how she appeared to you.”
“Dressed in a ghostly white gown,” she stated. “She appeared young, distraught, sad. Now that I’m thinking about it, she really did look like the young woman in that creepy old portrait hanging on the wall beside the mistletoe chest. What did she look like to you?”
Lilly shrugged. “She was more of a glowing white haze, nothing specific.”
“How did you know it was her?”
“I . . . I just assumed. That and the hair on the back of my neck stood on end. It was very spooky.”
Bunny gave the flour mixture a quick stir, then nodded. “I bet it was. The thing is, I not only saw her, I heard her as well. I also felt her emotions. She is so sad.”
Lilly stared out the window a moment before shifting her attention to Bunny again. “I have heard weeping as well, once when I was alone in the dining room. Also, as I told you before, things tend to go missing from the kitchen.”
Bunny had just dumped the cold butter cubes into the flour mixture and was in the process of rubbing it between her fingertips when she stilled. “I think the weeping you heard was her, but you and I both know that it wasn’t a ghost who took my knife, if that’s what you’re insinuating.”
“Regarding your knife, I agree. I’ve talked with DCI Standish. He said you had a sound alibi. I’m sorry for doubting you.” Lilly offered a weak smile as she handed Bunny the pitcher of milk.
Bunny made a well in the flour mixture, then swiftly filled it with a measure of milk. She added a dash of vanilla and a squeeze of lemon, before thrusting in both hands for a good kneading. The dough was sticky, clinging to her fingers like thick paste as she worked the dough. Once satisfied, she then plucked a handful of flour from the container and gently tossed it across the cutting board. The sticky dough went next, but not without some effort. Bunny coaxed it out of the bowl, added another dusting of flour, and gently began shaping the gooey lump into an inch-thick rectangle. Keeping her focus on her scones, she said, “There are several people with access to this kitchen, Sir Charles and his sister among them. Both had strong connections to Marcus Bean.” Bunny lifted her eyes until they met Lilly’s. “I think one of them took my knife,” she boldly stated.
Lilly, clearly flustered, took a step back. “Not Sir Charles!” she averred. “In spite of what you might think, that man is generous and kind to a fault.”
“What about Morgan? I heard she was having an affair with Marcus Bean.” Bunny watched Lilly’s eyes closely for a reaction to this. She wasn’t disappointed.
“Who told you about that?” she demanded, handing Bunny a biscuit cutter.
“Sir Charles. He told us about it yesterday. So, it is true?”
Lilly forcibly blew out her breath. “Aye, it’s true enough. They had an affair, but it ended well before Marcus’s death.”
“Are you certain?”
“Yes,” Lilly stated almost defiantly. “Morgan is beautiful, but troubled, and mightily fickle as well. She’s like a caged lioness, a feline who knows her remarkable potential, but is helpless to do much about it. So, she does whatever she pleases to pass the time.”
“You make it sound like she’s trapped here.” Bunny rolled her eyes, taking in the magnificent kitchen, and thought that she wouldn’t mind being trapped here at all . . . as long as it wasn’t haunted.
“As the older of the two, she shares the financial burden with her brother,” Lilly stated. “Her husband wanted an heiress; Emma, her daughter, wants a doting mother; and Morgan wants . . . Well, I’m not exactly certain what she wants, but you get my point. Marcus Bean was a convenient escape.”
“Is that all it was, you think?” Bunny quirked her lips to the side, considering this. “Perhaps she’s just trying to find herself?” she offered. After all, she had felt much the same way after Braiden died. She’d been young, and at a crossroads, and needed more than her home and family could offer. She couldn’t imagine what it might have felt like if she had stayed. A caged lioness, Bunny mused. When backed into a corner, the lioness became lethal. Bunny transferred her scones to the baking sheet, then cracked an egg for the egg wash. She picked up a whisk, and asked, “Is Morgan still married?”
“Technically yes, but she and Percival are living apart at the moment. I would say poor Percival, but he knew what she was when he married her.”
“He had dinner with her last night, didn’t he?” Bunny brushed the tops of her plump, round scones with the beaten egg as she talked.
“They’re still friendly, mostly for the sake of Emma, their daughter.”
“I never thought to ask, but does Morgan live here too . . . in the manor? I don’t see her around here as much as I do Sir Charles.”
“Charles loves the company. He’s also quite proud of the manor and its history. Morgan would have preferred the manor remain private, but they don’t have the money for that. She’s friendly enough with the guests and does a good job coordinating large events and the daily activities, but once she’s done, she prefers her privacy. Her apartments are located at the very end of the east wing.” Lilly pointed over her shoulder to the side wall, indicating which way was east. “Just out here. Sir Charles’s apartments are located at the head of that wing. Morgan occupies the larger part of the wing, all the way to the end. But you cannot access them from inside the manor. You must go outside and around to her front door. She also has a door that opens onto the courtyard.”
“Would she be there now?”
Lilly glanced at her watch. “She usually takes a morning ride before work. Riding is her one true passion. She tried to make it Emma’s passion as well, but her daughter rebelled. She’s a footballer. Loves the sport. Anyhow, after her ride, Morgan always heads to her wing to freshen up before work. And I forgot to mention, if it’s gossip you’re after, there is some speculation that Alex Grimsby is her next conquest, although no one seems to know if Morgan has sealed the deal yet.”
“You are a font of knowledge, Lilly.” Bunny grinned, then handed Lilly her tray of unbaked scones. “Being a chef, I love a good bit of gossip as well. Would you mind baking these for me?”
“Not at all. Why?”
“I just remembered something.” Bunny took off her apron and headed for the door.
“I hope you’re not meddling, Bridget MacBride. DCI Standish won’t be pleased!”
Chapter 24
Meddling. Bunny didn’t consider it meddling when one’s reputation was on the line, not to mention the fact that she and the lads were essentially trapped at the manor until DCI Standish deemed them cleared, and Lord only knew how long that could take. For instance, the moment she left the kitchen, Bunny saw the detective chief inspector sitting at a dining room table. The man had three Danishes on his plate and a steaming pot of tea before him. Eating Danish with his eyes glued to his smartphone, he didn’t strike Bunny as a man racking his brain to find the killer. She couldn’t resist the temptation to annoy him a little.
“Morning, Chief Inspector.” She’d deliberately left off the detective part, feeling that he wasn’t living up to his name at the moment.
“Ms. MacBride.” He nodded and took another bite out of his first raspberry Danish. Bunny stood, watching.
He was ready to take another bite when he stopped and looked at her. “Is there something I can help you with?”
“Have you found out who stole my knife yet?” she kindly inquired.
“We’re working on it,” he grumbled. Bunny saw that as an opportunity to take a seat.
“Intriguing,” she whispered. “So, what’s your angle?”
“Angle?” His bushy red eyebrows furrowed in consternation.
“What theory are you working on regarding my knife and the death of Mr. Bean?”
Standish held her in a scrutinizing gaze before taking a sip of his tea. On some level he knew that she wasn’t going to leave without an answer. He returned the cup to its saucer and sat back in his chair. The riveting news article on his phone was just going to have to wait. “Why should I tell you? May I remind you that you’re still a suspect.”
“Crivens,” she exclaimed, waving her hand. “I was just low-hanging fruit to be plucked first. I discovered the body and my missing knife. Suspicious, I’ll agree, but we’ve already been over this. You know I didn’t murder that poor man. But someone here did. You’re still conducting interviews and collecting evidence, which tells me that you’re still trying to put the pieces of this troubling puzzle together. You obviously are developing a theory. I’d like to know what it is.”
A soft chuckle escaped his lips. “Of course, you would. You have an inquisitive mind and an active imagination. You’re part of a television show. Some might argue that discovering a body during your investigation would make for sensational television.”
Bunny held him in a look of extreme disapproval. “We’re not murderers, and this body, as you call it, just might get us cancelled before we air our first episode. In a nutshell, not a good motive for team Food and Spirits. I’m going to throw out another name, Morgan Wallingford-Green. I know you’ve talked with her. She obviously knew Marcus, and she was having an affair with him.”
“An affair?” Bunny was pleased to see she had his attention. “How do you know this?”
“Gossip, and Sir Charles. He told us yesterday. Whatever angle you’re working on, maybe you should add jealous husband or sordid love triangle to it. Have you spoken to Percival Green yet?”
Standish stared at her a moment before speaking. “I thought I told you not to get involved in this.”
