A fatal feast at bramsfo.., p.25
A Fatal Feast at Bramsford Manor, page 25
Bunny pursed her lips. “That means I have to spend two more nights in this haunted room, doesn’t it?”
“It’ll only be haunted for one more night, my dear,” Granny Mac said, patting her leg. “If all goes well.”
A bubble of sarcastic mirth erupted from Giff. “Sure, confronting a joy-sucker and shooing a weeping ghost bride into the light along with a late, meddling historian. What can go wrong with that plan?”
A lot, Bunny thought, and nearly spilled her wine.
Chapter 37
One more haunted night at Bramsford Manor, Bunny mused as she climbed beneath the sheets on the large, antique bed. Thankfully, she was dead tired. She doubted that even if the ghost bride blew into the room in the middle of the night in a ball of tears, that she’d awaken. She was that tired. Yet, just in case, she’d covered the creepy mirror in the corner with a blanket, and she stuffed her ears so full of cotton that all she could hear was the beating of her own heart. Not ideal, but it had worked before, and she hoped it would work again. Tomorrow promised to be another unsettling day at the manor, but the end was in sight. All she had to do was focus on that.
Also, focusing on recipes and meal preparation was another tried-and-true strategy Bunny often used to relax. The moment her head hit the pillow she thought of the lovely dinner Lilly Plum and her staff had prepared. The main course had been a delicious fish pie, one of her favorite traditional dishes, which was essentially like a shepherd’s pie, only with cod, shrimp, peas, and pearl onions cooked in a cream sauce then topped with mashed potatoes and baked. It had been served with honey-glazed baby carrots and a green salad with a light lemon and oil dressing. For dessert Lilly had served a St. Clement’s pie, which was similar to the American key lime pie, but with the juice of lemons and tart oranges instead of key lime. The citrusy pie paired nicely with the fish pie, although Bunny inwardly bristled at serving two pie dishes at the same meal. She felt it was a culinary faux pas, given all the delicious dishes and desserts one could choose. Well, that was just her. She’d kept her mouth shut and enjoyed the meal.
As Bunny pondered pies, both sweet and savory, she drifted off into a dreamless sleep. However, not even the cotton in her ears could prevent her from feeling the sudden and startling pressure on her feet—as if something or someone had pounced on them. The annoyance pulled her to the surface of consciousness. Unwilling to open her eyes, she gave a hard kick and rolled under the sheets to the other side of the bed. Yet whatever demon was in her room had found them again. And again. And again. Bunny was highly annoyed.
Her eyes flew open, and she spied the glowing white rabbit of doom sitting on her legs. “Get off me, Hopper. I’m trying to sleep!”
Seeing that she was awake, the rabbit hopped off the bed, bounded across the room and right through the solid wood of the door, where he vanished.
“Good riddance,” she called after him and rolled over, taking the blankets with her. She closed her eyes and willed herself back to sleep, yet the moment she relaxed, he was back at it, sitting on her legs again. That dang rabbit was tenacious. Bunny sat up this time and yanked the cotton out of her ears.
“What are you doing? I don’t understand you. What’s this all about?” Yet if she thought he was actually going to say something profound to her, she was wrong. The rabbit stayed where he was, his glowing red eyes staring at her.
“You want something from me, don’t you?”
The rabbit wiggled his nose.
“You want me to follow you?”
Hopper’s ears perked up and twitched forward.
“Alright,” she relented, swinging her legs off the mattress. She was already wide-awake and doubted he’d let her sleep until she followed him. The moment her feet landed on the little braided rug, she stood and wrapped a robe around her. She then picked up her phone and shoved it in her pocket. “I’ll follow you, but then you must leave me alone. Got it?” The moment she spoke she mentally berated herself. Was she really trying to reason with a ghost rabbit? It blew her mind just how far down she had fallen in that proverbial paranormal rabbit hole since coming to Bramsford Manor. Against her better judgment she followed him anyway.
As she followed Hopper, a niggling feeling of doom settled around her and she feared he was taking her to another body. When Hopper turned the corner and bounded across the threshold of the long gallery, she was certain. The hair on the back of her neck prickled. “No more dead bodies,” she hiss-whispered at the glowing white animal who continued down the long hallway seemingly without a care. “I’m done with this. Seriously, Hopper!” she said, chasing after him. “I just want to get out of here.”
Halfway down the long gallery, the rabbit stopped. It was like bad déjà vu, Bunny thought, because she knew that Hopper was focused on the space the mistletoe chest had occupied before being removed the other day by the antique restoration company. Plagued by thoughts of bodies, she tentatively came beside the rabbit. She forcibly exhaled when she noticed that the space was still empty. The mistletoe chest was gone. The only thing that remained was the creepy old portrait of the unfortunate bride who had been locked inside it and left to rot.
It was the picture that drew her eyes this time. She pulled her smart phone from the pocket of her robe, turned on the flashlight app, and foolishly asked, “This is what you brought me to see?” Yet when she glanced at the floor beside her, she realized the rabbit had gone. “You bring me all the way down here—to this creepy gallery—and now you disappear? I didn’t realize that you were such a fickle rabbit, Hopper.” She took a quick look around, realizing that she was all alone. Then she pointed her light at the painting and took a closer look. That’s when Bunny suddenly and sharply inhaled.
“Dear heavens, am I seeing this correctly?” she whispered to thin air. She took a step closer, apologized to the old painting, and covered the lovely dark blond hair of Ann Copeland with a hand in order to get a better look at the face staring back at her. The young face was oval in shape, with a milk and honey complexion. The mouth was small and heart-shaped while the nose was straight, a tad too long, yet with a cute little rounded tip at the end. Ann’s cheekbones were high and round and tinged with a rosy glow. Yet it was the eyes staring back at her that seemed familiar. Round, heavy-lidded, and deceptively guileless with just a hint of mischief in them. Bunny was certain she had seen eyes like these before. She marveled at how the portrait had been painted over three hundred years ago, and yet, due to the power of genetics, a familiar, atavistic trait had endured. The eyes. The Copeland eyes. In that moment Bunny believed she had unlocked the last piece of the mystery. Thanks to that pesky white rabbit, she believed she could identify the Copeland ancestor, the true heir of Bramsford Manor.
Chapter 38
“Whoa! Someone looks like they had a rough night,” Giff remarked with a grin the moment Bunny took a seat at the table. She’d been the last person to arrive, and she did look slightly disheveled. “Don’t tell us. You had a ghostly visitor again?”
Bunny paused to pour herself a mug of tea, took a long, much-needed sip, and leaned back in her chair. “Kind of. Not really. Not the weeping ghost bride at any rate.”
“Who, dear?” Granny Mac asked, looking intrigued.
Giff covered his mouth with a hand. “Noooo! Not the murderous joy-sucker!”
“Hopper,” she bluntly told them.
“The ghost rabbit?” Brett leaned forward, wanting more details. “When? Last night? Why? What did he want?”
Bunny shook her head and gave a little shrug. “Crazy as this sounds, I think he wanted to help us. I think I know who this long-lost Copeland descendant is, but I need to verify that before I say anything. I could be wrong. However, I made a call to the university this morning and asked Professor Bellemy to confirm something for me.”
“What?” Brett asked.
“I’ll let you know in a moment.” She knew this answer would only spike their curiosity, but she needed to be certain. Instead, she advised, “Don’t go to the police just yet, not without this last piece of the puzzle in place.”
“You know who the murderer is?” Brett asked.
“I have my suspicions. But this isn’t about that.” Spying her person of interest walking into the dining room with a tray loaded with breakfast orders, Bunny downed her mug of tea. She then waited until Betsy served out the plates to a table of guests then excused herself. “I’ll be back soon.”
Bunny headed off after Betsy before the girl could disappear back into the kitchen. “Betsy, I need a word with you.” She blocked the girl’s look of suspicion with a friendly smile. “It’ll only take a moment.” Betsy nodded and they both stepped out onto the patio.
“What’s this about, Ms. MacBride?”
“I was trying to figure out what exactly your connection to Marcus Bean was. At first, we thought that maybe you and Marcus were having an affair—”
“What? Gross!” she cried, flashing eye daggers at Bunny.
Bunny held up her hand. “I know. We were wrong. Then it was suggested that you were his student at the university. That’s what Marcus told Alex Grimsby. But that’s not correct either.”
“Why do you say that?” she asked defensively.
“Because I checked. There is no record of a Betsy Copperfield attending the university. Then I had Professor Bellemy check under a different name, Betsy Copeland. Again, not a university student. However, when he put the Copeland surname in a genealogy database, he came up with something interesting. Marcus Bean’s mother’s maiden name was Copeland. Marcus had a sister, Anna Bean, who married a man named Erik Copperfield. They had a daughter named Betsy.”
“Alright!” she hissed-whispered. “He was my uncle. I knew about his obsession with this place. So did my mum. It was just a hobby. He loved the Mistletoe Bride ghost story. He loved the history of this old place. Just being in this grand manor enlivened him. I think that may have been enough . . . until my father died of cancer a few years ago. Uncle Marcus might have been a confirmed bachelor, but he loved my mum. We were worried about money, and Uncle Marcus told Mum that if he could prove Bramsford Manor had been stolen from the Copeland family right under their noses over three hundred years ago, that our money problems could be over. It was a tall order. But there was this old family legend—which is more of a curse, really—but it has been passed down through the Copeland family for generations. It’s not the Mistletoe Bride legend, but one from around that same time. It speaks of the true heir of Bramsford Manor, Cecil Copeland, the ghost bride’s younger brother. Apparently, he’d been poisoned around the same time his father, Sir John Copeland, lay dying. Everyone believed the boy had died too, but he hadn’t. His near lifeless body had been smuggled out of the house by a loyal servant and put into the care of a wisewoman. The woman nursed him back to health but warned that he must never return to the manor. He’d been given the gift of life, but a great evil resided at Bramsford Manor, and no Copeland would ever be safe within its walls again.”
“That is quite a legend,” Bunny remarked. “I’m beginning to believe it might be true. So, your uncle got you a job here knowing what this legend stated?”
“The legend that the Copeland family would always be in danger at the manor was from a long time ago. Uncle Marcus didn’t believe it, at least not any longer. Remember, he worked at Bramsford Manor for years and was able to delve into its history without a problem.” Betsy then pursed her lips and fell quiet. “Maybe he grew too comfortable,” she offered. “Maybe the curse is real.” Bunny could see that the thought wasn’t sitting too well with the young woman. “Anyhow,” Betsy continued, “he got me a job at Bramsford because he wanted me to understand what it was like here . . . how grand it was.”
“Does anyone else here know that you and Marcus were related?” Betsy shook her head. “But you were overheard telling Lewis that Marcus was going to make a big reveal. Many people knew about that.”
Her composure began to crumble under the weight of that truth. Her eyes filled with tears as she admitted, “It’s true, but I never said what it was. But . . . it obviously got him killed. This is all my fault. I was just so sick of everyone who worked here lording it over me all the time, like I’m some type of peasant. But I am not. I’m a Copeland. My family . . . my ancestors built this place.”
“You know what this big reveal is though, don’t you?”
She dropped her head and nodded. After a deep breath she looked Bunny in the eyes once again. “Ann Copeland’s disappearance on her wedding night wasn’t an accident. She was murdered. However, I swear I never told anyone else about that.”
“That would mean Marcus must have told somebody here,” Bunny said softly, as much to herself as to the girl. She suddenly looked at the young server. “Somebody here knows that he was planning to challenge the Wallingford claim to Bramsford Manor. Betsy, I know you’re in the middle of your shift, but I don’t think this place is safe for you any longer.”
“But . . . but I can’t just leave. I still have tables to serve and we’re short-staffed.”
“You’re a Copeland. Remember? Your family built this place. You’re entitled to walk out,” Bunny cajoled before becoming serious again. “Also, I need you to come with me to the police station. It’s time we hand this matter over to the authorities.”
Betsy nodded, took off her apron, and let it fall on the patio as she followed Bunny back into the dining room.
“Gentlemen, Grandma,” Bunny announced to the table. Everyone, she noted, had finished their breakfast. “This is Besty Copperfield, Marcus Bean’s niece, and the other Copeland descendant. The primary one being Marcus himself.”
Giff stared at Bunny and made a gesture where his curled fingers sprang off his forehead like a mini explosion. “Mind blown!” he declared. “So, Marcus was the secret Copeland descendant all along?”
“Of course,” Brett said, having a latent epiphany. “That’s why he was obsessed with this place—with the history here. It was personal for him. And you, Besty,” he added, shifting his gaze to the girl, “it’s personal for you as well.” He looked back at Bunny. “Does she know who the murderer is?”
“The short answer is, it’s a Wallingford,” Bunny told the table. “We know it’s not Sir Charles, so it must be Morgan or her husband. Betsy’s going to give her notice to Lilly in the kitchen and then I’m taking her to the police station with me.”
“I’m coming with you,” Granny Mac said, excusing herself from the table.
“Cody, Mike, Ed,” Brett said, “you guys can start packing. Meanwhile, Giff and I will see if we can locate Sir Charles and his sister. I want to know if Sir Charles knew about Bean being a descendant of the Copeland family. And if we’re really lucky, maybe we can get Morgan to confess.”
Chapter 39
“That went rather well,” Granny Mac said as they drove back to the manor. “I believe DCI Standish was shocked that you and the lads had learned so much about Marcus Bean, including his motives for announcing his big reveal to the cameras during the paranormal investigation. Clearly, Marcus had suspected that he might be in danger, that’s why he wanted his reveal recorded—so it could go on the inter-webs and become, as they say, viral.”
Bunny smiled at her hip grandmother’s attempt at understanding technology. “Standish sent a man to the university to retrieve that diary, while he was going to drive Betsy home. He was amazed that we had found out about that old diary.”
“I think he likes you.”
Bunny turned her head so fast to look at her grandma she almost gave herself whiplash. “Ridiculous. And yuck. Also, he’s married. One of my cardinal rules, Gran, is that married men are off the table.”
“I forgot he was married. Likely because he gives off that wolf-on-the-prowl vibe. Very alpha male. If I were twenty years younger, I’d take him out for a drink.” Bunny couldn’t help herself from grinning at her outrageous grandmother.
“Listen to yourself. It’s precisely that behavior—that and your woo-woo psychic medium stuff—that my father, your son, has issues with.”
“Davie takes after his father, God rest his soul. Donald MacBride was a stolid, salt-of-the-earth man. Yet a girl’s got to have a little fun sometimes, too. Your grandfather wasn’t bothered by my psychic abilities. He was rather fond of them. Truth be told, he still is.”
Bunny’s eyes snapped on her grandmother again. “You . . . can still talk to him?”
Granny Mac nodded. “If you love someone, they never really leave you, Bunny. Love is the strongest bond in the universe. You have a lot yet to learn about your abilities, my dear.”
Wasn’t that the truth, Bunny mused, as she turned down the long tree-lined driveway that led to Bramsford Manor.
Once they arrived, Granny Mac announced that she was going to her room to clear her mind, balance her chakras, raise her vibration, and meditate. Now that they knew all but one secret (the identity of Marcus Bean’s murderer) she felt she’d best be mentally prepared for the last remaining task ahead, something she liked to call spiritual housecleaning.
“Enjoy,” Bunny remarked with an ironic grin. “I’m going to wash up, check in with the lads, then head to the kitchen. It really is quite beautiful. One of the best I’ve ever had the pleasure to cook in. I need to pack my kit and thank Lilly for allowing me to be a guest chef in her kitchen. See you at dinner.”
* * *
By the time Bunny entered the hotel kitchen, all the lights were still on, yet it was empty. It was that quiet yet fleeting transition period between meals. It had been a disruptive few days at the manor, and it would take some time to get Bramsford’s kitchen back on track, serving its five-star meals to the public once again. Truthfully, Bunny was grateful for the peace and quiet. There was something restorative about the lull in the heart of a bustling kitchen. In many ways it was akin to a runner’s high, that draining of tension after a long, frantic bout of nonstop activity in a hot environment. It ended after the last meal was served and everyone settled in to clean their stations. A cup of tea or coffee could be enjoyed. Although she hadn’t served a meal, Bunny was itching for a cuppa now as she walked into the immaculate kitchen. She stood at the sink and stared out the large picture window, soaking in the stunning expanse of lawn edged by an old-growth forest. It was late afternoon, and the sun had already dipped beneath the tree line. It would be a beautiful sunset, she mused. However, the sudden buzzing of her phone interrupted her whimsical thoughts. Bunny pulled it out of the back pocket of her jeans and looked at it. The call was from Brett.
