Chocolate Macaroons and a Dead Groom (Poppy Peters Mysteries Book 2) (6 page)

"I can't believe they're questioning us too," Cira says, sipping a mug of fresh brewed coffee. She sighs and glances out the window at the pouring rain. "We're not guests."

"But we were on the property when it happened," Marta adds. The three of us are sitting around the kitchen table too nervous to do anything but speculate as to when we will be allowed to leave. Mary and the rest of her staff are cleaning up their half of the kitchen, and Jean Pierre is napping in his quarters. He was so upset when Detective Berry reiterated that we couldn't leave the manor yet that he muttered in French all the way to his room. Marta won't tell me exactly what he said.

"At least none of us saw anything." Cira takes another sip, and rubs the corners of her eyes. "Maybe that means we can get out of here early?"

"Would it matter if one of us saw something?" I ask. My mind flashes back to the cliffs just beyond the gardens. The Dovingtons should really think about putting up a rail or something.

Marta studies me suspiciously.

"Oh no, Poppy," she mutters. "Don't tell me you're involved?"

"I'm
not
a murderer if that's what you're asking," I firmly reply, sitting up straighter in my chair. Marta bites down on her bottom lip to keep herself from blurting out whatever she's thinking.

"I never said you were," Marta answers. "It's just that after yesterday…" She glances around the kitchen to make sure Mary is still focused on scrubbing frying pans. "After yesterday, I thought your number one priority was to stay away from you-know-who? I knew it was a bad idea to let you deliver his afternoon tea. Please, don't tell me that the two of you had a snog in the closet or something."

Cira chuckles and stares down at her mug.

"No," I politely respond, forcing a fake smile.

"Then how are you involved in this?" she continues.

"She never said that she was," Cira points out.

"Yes, thank you, Cira. I was only asking a question. Hypothetically."

"Then,
hypothetically
, if anyone from the kitchen was involved it would be really bad for business," Marta states.

My stomach churns like I've eaten too many of Bree's red velvet brownies. They are sweet and satisfying, but incredibly chocolaty. Too many would give anyone a stomachache. I try to clear my mind of the things I saw outside. The jagged rocks along the edge of the cliff. Sam's body. Olivia pouting in her room.

My eyes go wide.

The serving tray.

"Excuse me," a voice says from the doorway. It is Detective Berry. The younger detective of the investigative team who has been tasked with herding in guests for questioning. He looks at a piece of paper. "We would like to begin interviewing the staff. Who would like to start?"

The kitchen falls silent. My heart races as the Detective scans the room waiting for a raise of hand. Nobody volunteers, at least not right away. Marta stares at me as if I have a secret that needs to be confessed.

"How about
you
then?" Detective Berry points to the back of the room. Cira and Marta look at me. The Detective is standing straight across from our table, and he could be pointing at any one of us. But the fact that everyone follows Marta's lead and looks at
me
means that I'm going first.

"Fine," I mumble, standing up. "Sure, I'll go first." I follow Detective Berry into the hallway as if I volunteered, but insisting on going last will make me look bad. Plus, I don't think my stomach can stand waiting that long.

I walk through the manor, now eerily silent apart from hushed whispers, thinking about the tray I dropped on the lawn. I can't lie about finding Sam's body, and I can't lie about running upstairs and speaking with Olivia. But I
can
lie about the diamond pendant he sent me on my first day of work. The fewer ties I have to this case the better, according to Marta. Otherwise, I might tarnish the bakery's good name and get sent packing.

Detective Berry knocks on the door to the study. He opens it, revealing a room with bookshelf-lined walls and a dark wooden desk. Detective Casey studies his notes under the light of an antique lamp. A chair opposite from him is pulled out and ready for me. I smile and sit down as Detective Casey scribbles something on his notepad.

"Good evening," he says. "I am Detective Casey, formerly Detective Inspector Casey, and privately hired by the Dovingtons. And you are?"

"Poppy Peters," I answer.

"Where are you from, Poppy?" He tilts his head and waits for my response. His eyes narrow like he's trying to read my thoughts.

"The states."

The pauses continue.

"I'm here with Chef Jean Pierre Gautier," I go on. "I'm doing a pastry internship at Le Croissant in Paris."

"How are you liking Europe?" he asks.

"Do you want the truth or the classic student-like response?" I joke. I'm surprised when Detective Casey smiles back, appreciative of my light-hearted aura. He leans back and casually clasps his hands together. "Honestly, I haven't had much time to explore the city. You know, do the touristy things. I've been working nonstop since I got here."

"Ah yes," he responds, nodding. "I have a daughter at university right now, and she tells me the same thing. Work. Work. Work."

"What is she studying?" Having a somewhat normal conversation with the Detective puts my mind at ease a little. Or maybe that's his plan to loosen my lips?

"She wants to be a writer." Detective Casey raises his eyebrows and tilts his head as if he doesn't quite understand his daughter's decision.

"I'm sure she's appreciative of your support," I add. "
My
parents on the other hand…" I think back to the last time I saw my parents. It was over the holidays, and I single-handedly ruined their annual holiday party by destroying all the food. But that wasn't exactly my fault. A madman drove me to it.

"They don't think you becoming a pâtissier is a good idea?" he guesses.

"I used to be a ballerina." I take a deep breath. "In their eyes, moving from pointe shoes to pastry wasn't exactly a step up. More like a step into a bucket of cake flour."

"I just want my daughter to succeed. That's all it really comes down to when you're a parent. I'm sure yours want the same." He glances down at the stack of papers on the desk. "So give me an account of everything you did today, and then you can go."

"Sure." I clear my throat, hesitating where to begin.

The tray, Poppy. The tray!

Whether or not finding Sam's body first puts Le Croissant in a sticky position, lying won't do me any good. Especially when Detective Casey finds out that I was the one holding the serving tray that was dropped just feet from the cliff. I guess I'll have to take my chances.

"Start with the morning," he says. "It's easiest to start with breakfast, and trace your steps from there."

"Okay." I place a hand on my unsettled stomach. "I got up, had breakfast, went to work in the kitchen all morning—"

"Did you leave for lunch?"

"No, not really."

"Did you leave at all to take a break maybe?"

"Um…" I pause, looking as if I'm collecting my thoughts. But really I'm having a last-minute debate with myself.

Olivia saw you in the garden. Greg will tell them you took his tea tray. Just tell the truth.

"Coffee break? Bathroom break?" Detective Casey studies my expression.

"Yes, I did actually. Marta, Jean Pierre's sous chef, asked me to run to the back garden to grab her some orchids. She wanted to make sure her edible sugar paste ones matched."

"Did you see anyone while you were outside?"

My stomach ties itself in knots.

"Yeah," I say quietly. "I saw Sam. I mean, Lord Dovington. He was outside getting some fresh air I think."

"Did you speak to him?" Detective Casey jots down a few notes.

"Just the usual
hi there
type of thing. I didn't get to say much because Olivia interrupted us. She was mad at him about something."

"I see." The Detective nods. I get the feeling he already knows all this information. "Can you tell me what they were arguing about?"

"The groom invited three of his ex-girlfriends to the wedding," I answer. "If I was the bride, I would yell about it too." I shrug. What did Sam expect? Did he really think sending invitations to his former lovers just to be nice wouldn't blow up in his face later?

Well, it did.

"And you heard Olivia confirm this?" he asks.

"Basically, yes. The exes had already arrived at that point. In fact, I saw them on my way to the garden."

Detective Casey leans forward, eagerly rubbing his chin.

"How well did you see them?"

"They were kind of hard to miss," I admit, thinking of the woman with platinum blonde hair and a dress that makes her breasts look like two giant cream puffs.

"Did you see them well enough to describe them?" the Detective continues.

"Blonde, petite, and dressed to kill…so to speak."

"Do you remember what these women were wearing perhaps?" he asks further.

I mostly remember the faces, and the rest seems like a blur. I pause again, looking as if I'm trying to remember the details. I come back to my same dilemma. Should I complicate things by admitting to everyone that I found the body first?

I shrug off my conscience for now, and focus on the question at hand.

"Sort of," I say. "But I don't remember the colors of their high heels if that's what you're asking."

Detective Casey reaches into his pocket and pulls out a sealed plastic bag labeled with the word
evidence
. He sets it on the table and watches me as I lean in closely to examine its contents. My chest feels tight like I've been knocked in the torso with a large sack of flour. Inside the bag is a diamond pendant.

My eyes dart to the glittering diamond in the plastic bag in front of me. Its shape is familiar. The cut of the diamond is familiar. I look for the silver tag near the clasp that says
Kräm
. I almost choke when I see that it's marked just like the one I received from Sam on my first day in Paris.

"Do you recognize this necklace, Ms. Peters?" Detective Casey asks me.

"Where did you get this?"

"This was found with Lord Dovington's body," he answers.

"And you think it belongs to one of his exes?"

If Detective Casey didn't suspect me before, he might in a minute. I try hard to control my breathing as the Detective nods.

That necklace can't be mine, can it?

I gently brush the top of my collarbone. After I took off my diamond trinket yesterday, I left it in my room with no intention of ever wearing it again. Okay I might've worn it back home but only because I like the way it looks on me.

"I'll find out shortly. I'm sure Mr. Iversson himself can identify it. After all, he's the one who designed it." Detective Casey snatches the bag and puts it back in his pocket.

"
Jesper
Iversson? As in the owner of Kräm?"

"I'm impressed Poppy." He chuckles. "You know your diamonds."

"Oh." I sit back, forcing myself to seem relaxed, which I'm sure makes me look even guiltier. "Well, I love jewelry just as much as the next girl." I smile widely.

"Now," he continues. "After you went outside to pick…uh, what was it?"

"Orchids."

He nods with approval as if it was a test.

"Right, orchids. After you witnessed Lord Dovington and Ms. Biven, the bride, having a row, what did you do?"

"I didn't stay, of course. I went back inside to give them their privacy and to finish the desserts." My eyes scan the study. The curtains that frame the windows are blocking most of my view to the front lawn. The sky is still gray, and it's still pouring so hard that I'm sure the apple orchards are taking a beating. I glance at the Detective's coat pocket. "Detective, can I ask you something?"

"Of course you can, Ms. Peters. In fact, I welcome it." When he grins, the wrinkles around his eyes are more prominent. My stomach bubbles with anxiety, but I have to say something to him before it's too late. Last time I withheld information from the police, I ended up with a kitchen knife pressed to my throat.

"Is it possible that the diamond necklace actually
doesn't
belong to the killer? I mean, could someone have stolen it?" I sniffle and casually rub the tip of my nose. "Maybe Lord Dovington was planning on giving it to his bride before he tripped and fell?"

"No." The Detective shakes his head firmly. "No, unfortunately the police are treating this as a homicide. Lord Dovington was
murdered, and the killer
did
intend to leave the necklace."

"Seems like a pretty stupid move if you ask me," I blurt out. I instantly cover my mouth, knowing that eventually I will have to admit that the diamond necklace is mine. Detective Casey eyes me suspiciously as he pulls the plastic bag from his coat pocket again.

"We found this shoved in Lord Dovington's mouth."

I gasp, unable to hide my discomfort.

This is not looking good for me.

"I didn't do it," I confess.

"I'm not accusing you, Poppy." The Detective tilts his head, looking confused.

"Please remember that when I tell you this next part…" I gulp. Marta is going to kill me for blabbing. I'm sure if she were in my head right now, she would be constantly telling me to shut up.

"You saw something else, didn't you?" the Detective states. "You know, we found a serving tray in the garden with a broken teacup and crumbled tea cakes."

"I was only looking for an excuse to stretch my legs, and Greg said he couldn't find him, and Marta said I could go, and—" My rambling is cut off by an enormous crash coming from the front foyer. The noise pierces through me and makes my lungs burn. I jump to my feet, as does Detective Casey.

A man shouts.

"Stay behind me, Poppy," the Detective mutters. He steps past me and scans the hallway. He follows the shouting, and I step cautiously behind him.

We turn a corner and immediately see Detective Berry attempting to break up a fight between Greg, the whiny server, and the father of the bride. Olivia's dad isn't as tall as Greg but he's a solid sort of man with enough width to make up for it. He throws another punch at Greg's face and shouts, taunting him to come closer. Detective Berry pulls him back, but the man is shockingly strong.

A trail of blood is dripping from Greg's mouth all the way down to his shirt. He wipes the side of his face and backs away, sliding his hands into his pockets. I look around the hallway. The majority of the wedding guests are gawking at the two of them. Some are shaking their heads in disapproval. The floor is covered in tiny pieces of glass and porcelain. A woman in a long, red gown jogs as best as she can down the staircase. She clutches her heart, surveying the damage.

"My son isn't even in the ground yet, and you two are acting like a pair of wild apes. What the bloody heavens is wrong with you?" the woman shouts, sounding out of breath. I haven't had the pleasure of meeting Sam's mother, but I can tell who she is right away. She has that same elegance about her. One that screams
I'm used to the finer things
. She delicately moves her dress away from the shards.

"Sorry, ma'am." Greg hangs his head.

"I don't know who you are, but you're indefinitely fired!" She turns to Olivia's dad. "And Hugo, I expected more from you." She turns up her nose as one of her staff appears to clean up the mess.

"Go clean yourself off," Detective Casey instructs Greg. He nods at his partner, and right away Detective Berry follows Greg to make sure he gets the help he needs. Detective Casey moves closer to the father of the bride. "Mr. Biven, what is the meaning of all this?"

"An unfortunate disagreement," Hugo replies, smirking. He wipes a bead of sweat from his brow. He may not have received any injuries, but a man his size swinging furiously is sure to be sweaty from the impulsive exercise.

"What about?"

The hallway fills with the rest of the wedding guests and most of the kitchen staff. I see Marta frowning behind a short man in spectacles. Hugo Biven now has everyone's full attention, and he knows it. He glances up and down the foyer, straightening his collar. He lightly touches the sleek bronze cuff links on his sleeves as if they are an example of his importance.

"That boy, there." He points to where Greg was last standing. "He's a thief."

Whispers break out among his audience.

"That's a very harsh accusation," Detective Casey mentions. "Do you have any proof?"

"Yeah, I do." Hugo raises his voice, losing his patience. "Some personal items of mine have gone missing." His eyes widen as he looks directly at various visitors scattered across the room. "You lot had better check your belongings. I caught the little tosser sneaking around in the rooms upstairs."

More whispering.

"Mr. Biven," Detective Casey says firmly. "I think you ought to come with me." He motions back toward the study, and Hugo Biven proudly accepts the Detective's invitation. "Poppy, we will finish our interview later."

The Detective disappears with Mr. Biven, and the crowd quickly disperses. I see a group of older women head toward the coat closet to check their purses. An elderly man digs through his pockets, relieved when he pulls out a lacey beige handkerchief.

My mind races.

I have to check my room.

"Poppy," Marta mutters. "What happened?"

"Oh." I look down, watching a woman sweep up the broken antiques on the floor. I spot the base of a broken vase and what's left of the bust of a former Lord Dovington. "I didn't see the actual fight. I only saw the ending. But I heard the shouting, and—"

"No." She shakes her head. "I mean, what did the Detective ask you?"

"He wanted to know where I was all day," I answer. "The usual stuff."

"You were in the kitchen with me." She nods assuredly. "You told him that, right?"

"Yeah." I bite the side of my lip and watch her roll her eyes when Mary pokes her head into the foyer a little too late.

"Good." She nudges my arm, and I walk back toward the kitchen with her. My eyes wander up the staircase. All I can think about is the necklace. "We're leaving tonight. I don't care if we have to ride the train soaking wet."

"I'm pretty sure we'd dry off before Paris," I joke.

She ignores my comment. It's better than her scolding me or glaring at me until I'm forced to turn my head uncomfortably.

"Chef Gautier needs to get back for an appointment tomorrow, and I have to make sure that Destin and Dandre didn't burn down the kitchen in our absence."

"What about your interviews?"

"The Detective can either see us right away or make a trip to Paris," she replies. "It doesn't matter either way. We had nothing to do with all this. We just made the cake."

Marta takes a deep breath when we reach the kitchen. Jean Pierre is sipping a mug of something warm and nibbling on a lavender macaron. He's reading his agenda for the next few days like nothing is wrong. His kitchen tools are packed neatly in his case, and he is wearing his travel clothes. He looks up when we enter the kitchen.

"There you are," he says. "Our train?" He points to the clock on the wall.

"We still have some time," Marta responds. "Poppy, do you want to go grab your things, and I'll smooth things over with the Detective?"

"Yep." She doesn't have to ask me twice.

The regular staff of Dovington Manor stays in a separate wing away from the family. The wing is divided into mini studio-looking apartments with private bathrooms. Some of the staff share a room and others have their own. But most of them live in the village. That leaves a good portion open for guests like Marta and I. Chef Gautier has his own room closer to the main house. I only got a peek at it when we first arrived, and it's bigger than ours.

I run upstairs and stop to catch my breath as I enter my room. My suitcase is still in its place, and my bed is exactly how I left it. Partly made with a few wrinkles in the comforter. Bree hates how I never take the time to make sure my sheets hang evenly off the bed. But her room is always perfect like the frosting on her cupcakes.

My chest pounds when I make eye contact with my nightstand. I'm too nervous to look for my diamond pendant, but at the same time I
have
to know if the one that was shoved into Sam's mouth is mine.

Just relax, Poppy. I'm sure you're freaking out over nothing.

I slowly open the drawer next to my bed and see my black makeup bag. I tossed the jewelry box in there so I wouldn't lose it in my suitcase. All the muscles in my torso flex as I unzip it. My heart pounds so loudly I can hear it in my ears. I glance down at the bag's contents praying that I'll see the royal blue box I opened back in Paris.

I hold my breath.

The box is right where I left it.

I finally exhale, opening the tiny container and seeing a glint of silver.

See, nothing to worry about.

With peace of mind, I gather the rest of my things and happily make my way back to the kitchen. So I happened to find Sam's body first? No one was around, and it wasn't
my
necklace that was found at the crime scene. I'm free and clear.

When I wheel my suitcase into the kitchen, Mary and Marta are having another debate. I'm not surprised. They clearly butt heads no matter what's going on. Mary is the sort of woman who's constantly stating her opinion out loud. Marta is the sort of woman who likes to point out people's mistakes. Those two together are sure to bring on the apocalypse.

"See this?" Marta is shouting, gesturing at our half of the kitchen. "This is our half of the kitchen, and
that
is your half." She draws an imaginary line across the floor. "
Our
half,
your
half."

"Do you see me in your half?" Mary argues. She has her wooden spoon out again.

"You just were!" Marta loses her temper and stamps her foot.

"Is it my fault that the Lady of the manor asked me to serve everything we have?" Mary barks. "I'm just doing my job, okay?"

"You touched the desserts.
We
are in charge of the desserts." Marta rubs her forehead which is now as red as a fondant rose.

"So I took the rest of the tarts and chocolate macaroons to the serving table." she responds. "Big deal."

"The sweet table was supposed to look a certain way." Marta shakes her head. "You've ruined the design. What is—"

Jean Pierre places a firm hand on Marta's shoulder, and she immediately quiets down. She takes a deep breath and nods at her boss as if he's put some sort of spell on her. Chef Gautier then turns to Mary. He glares at her disapprovingly.