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  WEDDING SOUFFLÉ AND A DEAD VALET

  by

  A. GARDNER

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  Copyright © 2017 by A. Gardner

  Cover design by Yocla Designs

  Gemma Halliday Publishing

  http://www.gemmahallidaypublishing.com

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

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  CHAPTER ONE

  For once the person panicking is not me.

  "I hate weddings." Marta speeds past an old wooden sign bearing the name of the quiet English village where she grew up. Woodbury. I exhale loudly on purpose, hoping she'll copy me and finally give her lungs a break. Marta's cheeks are rosier than a strawberry macaron.

  "A comment you should probably keep to yourself seeing as you're the bride," I calmly respond.

  "I'm so glad you were able to make it, Poppy." Marta takes quick breaths as she speeds toward a puddle. Water covers the windshield, but Marta doesn't seem to be concerned. She can drive through the village in her sleep, or so she says. Something I suggested she never, ever try. At least, not with me in the car. "My only other bridesmaid is my old mate from school, Tamsin. Working at Le Croissant doesn't leave much room for a social life."

  "No explanation necessary." I glance out the window, welcoming any distraction as Marta drives like a maniac to her mother's house.

  Marta is the pastry sous chef to the famous Jean Pierre Gautier, owner of the Parisian bakery Le Croissant. I met Marta during my first trip to Paris, and we did not get off to a good start. I was the messy American intern, and she was a stickler for the rules and perfectly piped frosting. An unfortunate accident while catering a wedding at Dovington Manor put a change to all of that. It's hard not to form a friendship with someone when the two of you are being hunted by a killer. But my adventures in Paris also put into motion a series of events that led to Marta meeting her future husband, Detective Lewis Berry.

  Naturally, after I finished my internship at Le Croissant, I kept in touch with Marta. When I received her wedding invitation while working at an inn and spa in Gator Bay, Alabama, I wasn't surprised. However, I was surprised when I saw that Marta was having her wedding in England, instead of Paris where she lives and works. I was even more surprised when Marta called and asked me to come early. Little did I know that Marta was looking for a female confidante to keep her sane until she walked down the aisle. A role I'm not so sure I'll be able to perform.

  "I don't know what's gotten into my mum lately," Marta continues, circling back to the same subject we've been discussing since I grabbed my luggage at Heathrow. "I told you that she and my father have split up, right?"

  "More than once," I remind her with a friendly smile.

  "Now Mum is seeing the oh-so-important Lord Chutney, and suddenly peonies are not fancy enough, and beans on toast is for commoners."

  "Beans on toast does sound pretty gross," I comment.

  "I'm going to have to reacquaint myself with your odd sense of humor," Marta mutters. She turns a corner and slams on her brakes. "Here we are. Mum is out for the afternoon, so we can take our time freshening up before dinner."

  The little village of Woodbury is just as I imagined. It's incredibly green and incredibly rainy. Marta's childhood home is sandwiched in between two others that look exactly like it, apart from the flowers in the front garden. The antique brick reminds me of the historic buildings at Calle Pastry Academy, the school in Georgia I graduated from. The sky is also the same shade of gray that it was the last time I visited Dovington Manor, which is in the English countryside.

  I grab my suitcase from the backseat and follow Marta into the front foyer. The house is long and narrow with a staircase that greets me when I walk through the door. Marta wastes no time jogging up the steps to the second floor. I lug my suitcase behind her. Marta brushes an auburn strand from her face and gestures toward an empty bedroom.

  "That's the spare room where you'll be sleeping," she says.

  "Great." I toss my suitcase on the bed and take a moment to catch my breath.

  "My room is across the hall." Marta crosses her arms. "And if you happen to smell smoke, don't call the fire brigade. It's just me picking up a filthy old habit I thought I left at university."

  "You talk about this Lord Chutney guy like he's a real monster," I respond, remembering the many things Marta said about the man on the ride here. "Is he really that bad? I mean, it sounds like your mom is happy with him."

  "You sound like Lewis." Marta shakes her head the way she used to when I left my workstation unorganized at the end of the day.

  "How is the detective these days?" I ask.

  "The same as always," Marta answers with a sly smile. "As long as he gets his morning tea, he's a happy man."

  A tiny shadow near the door startles me. My heart jumps as a snow white cat enters the room. A cat I am actually pleased to see. Marta's cat, Peppercorn, hasn't changed, and she seems to remember me. She jumps onto the bed, sniffing my luggage suspiciously before trotting back to my calf. Peppercorn purrs, and I can't help but pick her up and give her a tight squeeze.

  "Peppercorn," I say. "I was not expecting to see you here."

  "I couldn't very well leave her at my flat, now could I? She would go mad from the boredom. Besides, the countryside is more exciting to felines like her. There are plenty of townies to stalk and rodents to hunt. Isn't that right, my dear?" Peppercorn jumps down from my embrace and gives us one last look before heading back downstairs.

  "You don't know how good you have it with her," I blurt out, thinking of the devious little furball named Muffin that I once had the displeasure of knowing. Muffin was much fluffier than Peppercorn and much more troublesome. And Muffin's owner turned out to be just as deranged. It's interesting the way that pets seem to turn out just like their owners.

  "We understand each other. Peppercorn has been avoiding my mum just as much as me. Tonight I will have no choice but to face the music, I'm afraid. Mum insisted on dinner tonight at Lord Chutney's manor, even though I agreed to have the rehearsal dinner there this weekend."

  "Is this manor anything like Dovington Manor?" I ask. Marta's eyes go wide.

  "Pray that tonight is nothing like that wedding we catered for Samuel Dovington." Marta bites the inside of her cheek. She promptly leaves the spare bedroom and retreats back to her own room.

  I trail behind Marta, expecting her bedroom to look like a mini version of her Parisian apartment. The morning after I had stayed there, Destin, a kitchen hand at Le Croissant, asked me if I had found a cauldron and accompanying spell book in her kitchen. But Marta's flat back in Paris was clean, organized, and had a very eclectic b
ookshelf. I had smiled when I found a book titled A History of Puddings next to a steamy romance novel with a half-naked couple on the cover.

  However, Marta's bedroom is nothing like her Parisian flat, which is probably a sign that she rarely comes home. A pink, floral quilt is on her bed, and the wood furniture matches the furniture downstairs. A vanity sits next to a window facing the street. I glance down at the front garden and Marta's car parked in the driveway—a vehicle she left behind at her parents' house when she moved to Paris. My eyes dart to the dresser and the one similarity between Marta's home in Paris and her childhood bedroom in Woodbury—a photograph of a door. Marta's apartment was full of them the last time I was there. Marta took pictures of doors whenever she went on holiday. She said that she loved the mystery and the fact that behind any door something incredibly beautiful could be waiting.

  "Why doors?" I smile and pick up the photograph, asking Marta the same exact question I had over a year ago back in Paris.

  "Why not?" Marta responds with the same exact answer. Finally, she cracks a smile.

  "Marta, you're getting this weekend," I continue. "Who cares what your parents are up to? You should focus on yourself and your fiancé. And don't forget that every family tree has a nut or two."

  "Or ten," Marta retorts.

  "Or ten," I repeat. "Nuts make for excellent pies, especially pecans."

  "You will have to make me one of these pecan pies someday." Marta opens her suitcase and reveals a perfectly organized variety of outfits. My jaw drops when I see that everything is labeled. Every blouse and every sock. Then again, the inside of Marta's suitcase represents her perfectly. Normally, she's the reassuring one, and I'm the one panicking.

  Marta pulls out a conservative dress and a gold necklace that matches the subtle, gold pattern on her shoes for the evening. It looks like something I would have worn to a charity dinner back in my dancing days. Before attending pastry school, my life as a professional ballerina took me from one fancy dinner to the next, but it has been a while.

  "I hope the clothes I brought are appropriate," I comment.

  "Are you planning on wearing a string bikini or a giant American flag?"

  "Can you imagine the sort of looks I would get?" I answer. I chuckle to myself, knowing full well that I don't have the guts to prance around Chutney Manor as scantily dressed as the women on the covers of Marta's romance novels.

  "Then I think you will be fine." Marta nods.

  "Right." I take a deep breath as I head back to my room. "Chutney Manor, here I come."

  * * *

  "Fancy meeting some nuts?" Marta whispers as we pull up to Chutney Manor.

  The sun is setting, and the flowerbeds surrounding the front windows are glistening from the afternoon rainfall. Chutney Manor is just outside of Woodbury village and stands supreme with manicured lawns and an entrance gate resembling the design at Buckingham Palace. As soon as Marta stops the car, I begin to understand her frustration with his majesty, Lord Chutney.

  "Are those?"

  "Yes," Marta responds, rolling her eyes. "Those are all of Lord Chutney's cars on full display."

  I marvel at his vast collection of expensive cars. I don't recognize them all by name, but I don't have to know their names to know that each one probably costs more than my parents' house in Oregon. Each car seems to twinkle. No sunshine necessary.

  "Shouldn't those be in a garage somewhere? I mean, what if it rains again? What if the village drunk comes around and pees on the seats?"

  "Oh, how I'd love to see that," Marta answers. "But no. Lord Chutney would surely have anyone who messes with his precious car collection locked in the dungeon."

  "Do houses like these really have dungeons?"

  "Houses like these hold many secrets, Poppy."

  "You know, there's a word for guys like Lord Chutney back in the States," I say.

  "Oh, I can think of loads of words that describe Lord Chutney," Marta adds. "Just wait until you meet him."

  Before we can continue our conversation, my door is opened by a guy in a burgundy vest. He smiles politely and reaches for my hand. His dark hair matches the swirly tattoo hidden beneath his sleeve. A bit of it peeks out as he reaches for Marta's car keys.

  "Evening, ladies," the man says.

  "Oh, look," Marta comments. "Lord Chutney has gone and hired a parking attendant." Marta takes deep breaths as she steps out of the car.

  "A valet," I add. "How fancy."

  "An American," the man comments. "Fancy that."

  The valet winks at me, and my heart flutters. I can't help but smile at his unexpected pass after the day I had. I smooth the hem of my little black dress and carefully take a few steps in my brand new high heels. I have to wear them when I'm around Marta or else I feel like a dwarf. Marta is tall and lanky.

  "Poppy," I say to him.

  "Love the name," he responds. "I'm Ethan. I hope you're enjoying your visit to England."

  "So far, so good."

  "We'll see how you answer that question tomorrow morning," Marta says quietly.

  Ethan hops into Marta's car and slowly parks it next to the other guests' cars. I follow Marta to the front entrance of Chutney Manor, watching as Marta eyes the nearest server carrying a tray of champagne. The foyer is spectacular with a crystal chandelier brightening up the dark, wooden staircase. I search for a familiar face, relieved when I see at least one.

  "Poppy Peters." Detective Lewis Berry hasn't changed at all. His dark hair still appears messy even when he has combed it, and his inquisitive demeanor makes even the manor staff a bit fidgety. "I couldn't believe it when Marta told me you accepted our invitation. England is a long way away."

  "Are you kidding me? I wouldn't miss it for the world." I glance at Marta who has already finished a glass of bubbly.

  "Darling." Lewis rests a hand on Marta's shoulder. "Are you alright?"

  "Of course I'm alright." Marta frowns. "Why wouldn't I be alright? Honestly, Lewis."

  "Well then, brace yourself, darling." Lewis raises his eyebrows at a couple walking in our direction. I don't have to ask who they are.

  The woman looks a lot like Marta. She's tall, thin, and has a tight bun of reddish hair that shines like a ball of fire. Freckles are scattered across her cheeks—the same sort of pattern as on her daughter Marta's face. The woman beams as she squeezes the arm of the man accompanying her. A man in a well-tailored suit and royal blue tie. He lifts his chin, observing each staff member who passes with a tray of drinks.

  "Mum," Marta says.

  "Oh, my dearie, you made it." Marta's mother gracefully pulls her daughter in for a loose hug. "And this must be the American pastry chef you've told me so much about."

  "Nice to meet you," I say, greeting Marta's mother for the first time. She's the mirror image of her daughter. "I'm Poppy Peters."

  "You can call me Sandra." The woman tilts her head, displaying a rehearsed smile. "I do hope you'll make yourself comfortable this week. It is wonderful to have visitors. I don't get many these days, especially with my little Marta always busy in Paris."

  "Ah, yes. Paris," the man next to her chimes in. "Vibrant place. Though I'm not really one for French cuisine."

  "Allow me to introduce you to Lord Harry Chutney," Sandra says excitedly.

  "I'm honored to finally meet you, sir." Lewis pleases his future mother-in-law by respectfully shaking Lord Chutney's hand. Lord Chutney raises his eyebrows, acting as if the extra attention was nothing new. I'm sure that it wasn't something new.

  "Oh, there you are, Sandra." An older woman approaches us. Her silver-framed glasses match the jewelry around her neck. Her dress extends all the way up to her collarbone, and it matches the royal blue shade of Lord Chutney's tie. "Catherine, she's over here." The woman waves to her friend.

  "Lavinia," Sandra greets the woman. "So glad you could make it."

  "I just can't believe that our little Marta is so grown up," Lavinia answers. A stout man with a round belly and even rou
nder glasses trails behind her. "There you are, John. Well, come on over here and say hello."

  "Everyone, this is John and Lavinia Stevenson," Sandra introduces the couple. "Mr. Stevenson is Woodbury's finest solicitor."

  "Indeed." His wife, Lavinia, smiles widely. She glances up at Lord Chutney, who is a whole head taller than her. "Oh my, Lord Chutney. We seem to have chosen similar color schemes this evening. How funny is that?" Lavinia eyes the royal blue color of her dress and then regards the matching shade of Lord Chutney's tie.

  "Very amusing," Lord Chutney kindly responds.

  "Catherine," Lavinia mutters, glancing over her shoulder. Another woman, dressed similarly to her mates Sandra and Lavinia, grabs a glass of champagne on her way to joining the group.

  "I guess she's not her usual, cheery self this evening," Sandra comments as she watches Catherine take her time to greet every person in between her and Lord Chutney's circle of friends.

  "Oh, she's just upset you that you didn't hire her to cater the wedding, Sandra," Lavinia says quietly. "She'll get over it."

  "I didn't think she'd be up to it," Sandra replies. "With her husband now gone, she practically runs the town bakery all on her own. I didn't want to overburden her. I know she gets plenty of business as it is."

  "That's just what I heard." Lavinia gently shrugs. "But you didn't hear it from me."

  I briefly make eye contact with Marta. She bites the corner of her lip, gripping the base of her champagne glass just a little too tight. Lewis rubs her shoulder and shoots her a sympathetic look as if to say only a couple more hours. I'm beginning to see why Marta keeps her visits back to Woodbury, England very brief. Woodbury is the sort of town where everyone knows everything about your business. Whether you want them to or not. I wouldn't do well in such a place. I can only hold my tongue for so long.