A fatal feast at bramsfo.., p.8
A Fatal Feast at Bramsford Manor, page 8
“I was havin’ a dream about you, dear, and woke up only to hear my phone buzzin’ away like an angry hive. You’re in trouble, aren’t you?” Although Granny Mac’s voice was calming as she spoke in her soft, Scottish accent, Bunny was a little unnerved by the certainty in her voice.
“I am, Gran,” she had whispered into the phone. “I’m in the village jail of Hartley Wintney, just outside a haunted old manor called Bramsford. They think I murdered a man.”
“Crivens! Are they daft? You’re not a killer!” Granny Mac’s voice rose several decibels at the mere thought of her sweet, happy-go-lucky granddaughter in jail. “I sensed that you were in trouble, dear, but I was under the impression it was of a more harmless nature . . . more of a heightened anxiety driven by the gifts you fail to embrace. I specifically remember there being a white hare, a knife, and a teapot, in my dream, though not necessarily in that order.”
At the mention of the white hare or rabbit, Bunny’s heart stilled in her chest. “How . . . how do you do that? How do you know about the rabbit and the knife? I’m not sure how the teapot fits in to all this, Gran, but the rabbit and my stolen boning knife landed me here—in jail.”
“Ooh, that’s very accurate for a wee dream, even if I say so myself.” Bunny could just picture her grandmother on the other end of the phone, clutching the neck of her nightgown while wearing an expression that traveled the distance between outright spooked to immensely pleased. Although Grandma MacBride had never shied from her bizarre abilities, they did surprise her from time to time. Her odd dream had obviously done just that. Her gran’s voice came over the phone again. “Truthfully, Bridget, it was disjointed and fuddled in the manner dreams are, but the white hare, the knife, and the teapot stood out to me. Then my phone began to buzz, and it all went POOF, right out of my head. However, this bit about you being in jail is outright rubbish.”
“I wish it was rubbish, Gran, but I’m afraid it’s true. I’m in jail, and I’ve used up my one phone call on you, because . . . because . . .” Tears came to her eyes, and she found that she couldn’t finish her sentence. Thankfully, she didn’t need to.
“Because it’s happening again, isn’t it, dear?”
Bunny closed her eyes and shook her head as the word uncanny popped into her mind. Her grandmother’s gifts were uncanny. “It is,” she admitted. “I’ll tell you all about it, but not now. Not over the phone, Gran. Can you come get me? Can you get me out of this without telling my parents?”
“I flitter away all the time, like a wee little birdie, I am. They’re used to my comings and goings on the farm. I’ll just leave a wee a message for your father. It’s a long drive, but if I leave now, I’ll get there by teatime. Maybe that’s the point of the teapot? Maybe I’m the teapot in my dream?”
“You’re like a teapot,” Bunny suggested. “Because, like that steeping pot of tea, just the thought of you, Gran, brings me great comfort. Thank you. Love you.” With a lighter heart, Bunny ended the call.
* * *
The next morning, Bunny was roused out of a deep, dreamless sleep by a guard bearing her breakfast tray. To her surprise, aside from a slight backache due to the subpar mattress, she felt well rested. This, she realized, was because although her jail cell was sparce, drab, chilly, and a bit uncomfortable, it had been pleasantly devoid of ghosts and white rabbits, unlike the grand manor of Bramsford. She thanked the guard for the thoughtful breakfast of toast, jam, and tea—a favorite of hers in any situation—and settled back on her thin mattress, resolved to wait until Granny Mac came to get her. However, just as she took her last sip of the tepid tea, the guard unlocked her door.
“Looks like it’s your lucky day, Ms. MacBride.”
She cast the guard a puzzled look. Her grandma must have made remarkable time. The mere thought of that capable woman brought a glowing smile to her face as she asked, “Am I free to go?”
“Ahh . . .” The guard stared at her a moment, silently cursing himself for that sarcastic greeting. “Not exactly. DCI Standish wants to see you.”
“Lovely,” Bunny said, imagining the great tongue-lashing her gran was giving the inspector for keeping her in jail. She then ran her fingers through her tangled mass of curls in an attempt to look presentable, but her fingers got stuck only a quarter of the way down. Not a good sign. Bunny’s smile faded as she tried to free her fingers. “Do you happen to have a comb on you that I might borrow? I make it a point to never go out the front door without first taming this mess.”
Her request fell on deaf ears. Instead, the guard gestured for her to step out of the jail cell.
Bunny had been expecting to see DCI Standish in the interrogation room. She also half expected to see her grandmother sitting there as well. However, what she hadn’t expected to see were her two cohosts from the ghost show, looking grim-faced as they sat beside Cody Jenkins with his video camera and laptop. Unfortunately, Granny Mac was nowhere in sight.
“Have a seat, Ms. MacBride. It appears that these three gentlemen are making a case to prove your innocence regarding the murder of Marcus Bean.”
Brett Bloom, with abject concern plastered on his face, jumped up from his seat and pulled out a chair for her. As she sat, he whispered in her ear, “Forgive us for not coming sooner. Are you okay?”
What to say to that? No, she was not okay. Being accused of murder didn’t feel good at all. Also, finding a dead body with her missing knife sticking out of it was an image that had been burned on the backs of her eyeballs forever. So, no, she was not okay at all. However, due to Brett’s adorably contrite face and the fact that he was here on her behalf, prompted her to lie. “I’m perfectly fine, thank you, although I could use a comb or a brush just now.”
He looked at her hair, flinched ever so slightly, and lied to her as well. “You look lovely, as usual.” That little fib, coming from his lips, did wonders to bolster her confidence.
Once Bunny was seated, DCI Standish folded his hands, leaned back in his chair, and looked at her in his practiced, intimidating manner. “It appears that you have some loyal friends. These gentlemen have brought an impressive amount of time-stamped raw footage of your movements yesterday to prove that you couldn’t have had enough time to find Marcus Bean, bring him to the long gallery on the other side of the manor, stab him with your kitchen knife, and push him into the oak chest on display there. While there is a good amount of evidence here to suggest it would have been a very difficult thing to do—”
“Nay, impossible!” Giff interrupted with a dramatic flair that the chief inspector did not appreciate in the slightest. After a dagger-eyed look, DCI Standish continued.
“Not impossible, but difficult, I’ll concede. However, that still doesn’t account for the fact that your fingerprints are all over the murder weapon, or the fact that you led everyone to the body.”
Bunny fumed. “Of course, my fingerprints are all over that knife! It’s my boning knife, for all love! The killer was obviously wearing gloves when they used it.”
Cody seized that moment to thrust his laptop in front of DCI Standish once again. “Also, sir, I’ve just shown you footage from the kitchen where Bunny”—he cleared his throat and corrected—“Ms. MacBride, opened her knife-roll, complaining about how her valuable knife had gone missing from the kitchen that morning. See?” Cody hit a button on the computer and played the scene once again. Although Standish watched the scene with interest, he was unconvinced.
“She could have easily taken it herself, hidden it, and made a point of complaining about it to you for the sake of creating a plausible defense. After all, it is your job to film her in the kitchen, I presume.”
Bunny couldn’t believe the rubbish she was hearing. “Why would I take my own bloody knife and lie about it? That’s mental. Besides, it was missing from my knife-roll the moment I arrived in the kitchen yesterday morning. I have many knives, Inspector. But this person took my boning knife, which has a very sharp blade. It’s thinner than my chef’s knife, thicker and longer than my utility knife, and perfect for penetrating the tough intercostal muscles between the ribs to get to the heart. Whoever chose that knife knew what they were about.”
“It appears that you do too,” he added, casting her a look of suspicion.
“It’s part of my chef’s training,” she haughtily defended. “Being familiar with all cuts of meats and how to prepare them.”
Seeing that Bunny was digging herself into a bit of a hole, Brett jumped in and changed the subject. “Detective Chief Inspector, all due respect, sir, I have another take on the matter. You see, I believe that whoever murdered Marcus Bean and put him in the mistletoe chest, meant for us to find him during the night’s investigation. That historic chest and the ghost story that surrounds it was the reason we came to Bramsford Manor in the first place. Marcus Bean was the person who reached out to me and our producer, after learning that our show was looking for interesting and haunted locations to investigate. We literally just met the man three days ago, when we arrived. He was the historian and knew all the important details about the manor and the haunting that we were interested in. Marcus was our contact. He was also supposed to accompany us last night as we searched for evidence of a haunting. But as you know, we never got the chance. Why would any of us have reason to murder Marcus Bean?”
They all watched anxiously as DCI Standish considered this. At length he took a deep breath and slowly exhaled. “You make a valid point, Mr. Bloom. And I’m inclined to believe you. However, there is one puzzling incident in this terrible crime that is hard to overlook. And that, sir, is the fact that Ms. MacBride hasn’t sufficiently explained why she left her seat in the middle of dinner and led your entire party to the chest that contained the dead body.” His eyes, sitting beneath the furrowed, ruddy brows, issued Bunny a challenge.
Bunny knew very well that he was trying to make her crack. She found his look insulting. She had laid her heart bare last night and had told him the truth. It wasn’t her fault that he didn’t believe her. Pushing aside the pain in her heart while summoning all the cheerfulness in her smile, she reminded him, “I explained it to you very well, Chief Inspector. I was simply following the white rabbit.”
Chapter 13
It was her mic-drop moment, Bunny mused, having stunned them all in only two words. White rabbit. The interrogation room fell silent, and Bunny was quite finished explaining herself to the detective. She sat amid looks of both puzzlement and concern from her coworkers, and a glimmer of something approaching satisfaction in the detective’s eyes, which, Bunny surmised, was due to her conviction in her story. Either that or the detective thought her a total nutter. Whatever the case, Bunny was released from jail. She was still a suspect in the murder of Marcus Bean, as they all were, but they really had nothing concrete to hold her on. The entire team of Food & Spirits, along with everybody who lived and worked at the manor, were still under what Bunny considered to be house arrest. They were not allowed to travel beyond the village limits until either their names had been cleared or the murder had been solved.
The moment Bunny took her seat in the van, Giff barraged her with, “Are we back to the white rabbit again? Did you tell Standish about that? He looked irritated. Rabbits aren’t attracted to the smell of blood, are they? Why was there a rabbit in the manor in the first place?” He paused to take a breath, then gasped. “Ohmygod, tell me you weren’t blackout drunk!”
“Wheesht,” she hissed at him from the front seat. “I had two sips of wassail the entire night. I promise to tell you everything, but this is not a conversation we’re going to have in this van. I’ll be happy to tell you all about the white rabbit back at the manor, over a proper pot of tea and a plate of chocolate digestives. Which will have to wait until after I’ve taken a proper shower. Also, you should know that my grandma is coming to help us sort this all out.”
As if stuck by a sharp pin, Giff flinched as his eyes flew wide as saucers. “Your grandma’s coming? Let me get this straight. You’ve been accused of murder, you’re mumbling about following a white rabbit, and you called your grandmother? Maybe a lawyer . . . or even a shrink might have been a better choice.”
Brett, keeping his innermost thoughts to himself, gripped the steering wheel tighter as he chanced a look at the woman sitting next to him. “I . . . ah . . . think it’s a good move, having a grandma around. You’ll get no complaints from me.”
Cody, still stuck on the mention of food, leaned forward in his seat. “I could use a cup of tea, but you mentioned something about digestives. No offense, but they don’t sound very appealing. Do you think you could scrounge up some cookies instead?”
Maybe it was the fact that she’d been accused of murder and had spent the night in a village jail cell. Whatever the case, these men were beginning to grate on her nerves. She craned her neck and stared at the two men in the back seat. “My grandma is a wise woman. And digestives are biscuits, which are basically the same things as cookies, as you call them. I made a batch yesterday while I was waiting for my roast to finish. I like to multitask in the kitchen, thank you very much.”
After a hot shower and a change of clothes, Bunny did her best to avoid every member of her team as she stealthily wove her way to the manor kitchen. She was at the large sink, staring out the modern window at the rolling expanse of lawn as she filled a kettle. It was a stunning view, she thought, taking a deep, relaxing breath for the first time all morning. Just as the tenseness in her shoulders began to ease, the sound of a familiar voice knotted them up again.
“You’re back!”
Bunny shut the faucet and turned from the sink to greet Lilly Plum. “Hello,” she said with a forced smile, keeping her voice light and pleasant. Unfortunately, it did little to erase the deep creases of worry on the older woman’s face. That twinkle of suspicion rankled, but Bunny really couldn’t blame her. She cursed herself again for being curious and for following that troublesome rabbit. She understood that the sight of Marcus Bean’s crumpled and bloodied body in the mistletoe chest was a vison they were all likely to suffer until the end of their days. There was nothing she could do about that now. However, it occurred to Bunny that only she knew for a certainty that she was innocent of murder. It was her burden to prove to the others. Therefore, she offered a sheepish smile and said, “I’m so sorry about all of this, Lilly. I just ran into Peter Billingsley. He told me that all outside reservations have been canceled for the time being, and that only a few guests have been allowed to remain.”
“Forgive the bad pun, but since last night Bramsford has turned into a literal ghost town. I’ve been told that only a handful of my kitchen staff can remain, which is likely all we’ll need until this matter of Marcus Bean’s murder has been resolved. What a terrible thing to have happened to poor Bean. I rather liked him. He had a curious mind and an endearing way of getting under Sir Charles’s skin.”
Bunny put the kettle on the stove, and asked, “What do you mean?”
It was clear that Lilly regretted making that remark. She pressed her lips together as she thought about how to reply. After a weighty pause, she asked, “Have you been removed from the suspect list?”
This question caused a dark cloud to descend on Bunny’s naturally cheerful demeanor. Poor Lilly obviously believed she was in the kitchen with a killer. Not true. Bunny was as gentle as . . . well, a bunny. Yet the trauma of last night still permeated the air and clung to the walls like strong curry. Again, Bunny forced a smile. “According to DCI Standish, we’re all still suspects. Thankfully, the lads brought in all the footage from our shoot yesterday to help clear my name. While I’m technically still on the suspect list, DCI Standish will be hard-pressed to create a viable timeline for when I might have left the kitchen to do the deed. Also, although the murder weapon belonged to me, you were here when I discovered it missing. I didn’t know the victim. I didn’t have a reason to want him dead. I hope that puts your mind at ease. Because while I’m here at the manor, I’d be happy to help in the kitchen.”
“How kind,” Lilly remarked, trying not to make it obvious that she was slowly backing away from the celebrity chef. “But there’s really no need. We’ll be fine. Just fine. I see you’re heating a kettle of water.” Her wide brown eyes flashed to the industrial stove beneath the copper hood.
Bunny nodded. “I’ve come in here to make a pot of tea, and to fetch a plate of the chocolate digestives I made yesterday. I put them in the fridge.” Bunny was about to traverse the kitchen to the fridge in question when Lilly stopped her.
“Why don’t you run along to the hotel dining room, and I’ll have Betsy bring a tea tray out to you. How many cups and saucers will you need?”
“But . . . but . . .” she began to protest, glancing at the kettle on the stove with the longing of an addict. Tea was not only a hot, calming drink, but to Bunny, the simple act of making it was part of the process. Her hands itched to pull it off the stove and pour it into the awaiting teapot, where she’d wrap it up in a cozy and let it steep for five minutes. Yet even she knew that the water was far from boiling. Lilly’s stern look stopped her in her tracks. Bunny was no longer welcome in the kitchen. “Five,” she finally uttered. “Thank you.”
As Bunny walked out of the kitchen, the matter of Marcus Bean’s death weighed heavy on her heart, especially now, since the mood in the grand home had shifted from friendly to suspicious. She hadn’t been too keen on coming to Bramsford Manor in the first place, due to the nature of their visit. However, she had found a sense of purpose in the kitchen and, if she was being honest, had relished her time preparing the meal in the historic venue. Yesterday as she cooked, she hadn’t been part of a team of menu developers in a test kitchen with Mary Stobart breathing down her neck. She had been her own woman; the star of her little corner of the show, and she had turned out a remarkable feast for seven that even a five-star restaurant would have been proud to serve. She had hustled like a demon possessed to pull it off, and yet her heart sang with the joy of angels as she worked. Now, however, thanks to a reckless murder and her utterly ruinous desire to follow the white rabbit of doom, she was as good as banned from that sanctuary. She heaved a pitiful sigh as she shuffled like a prisoner dragging a ball and chain toward the hotel dining room. She felt almost naked without that tray of tea and digestives in her hands. What would the lads make of it, she wondered.
