A Spoonful of Sugar (13 page)

‘Busted!’

Twenty-three

I jumped out of my skin and turned round to see Peter standing behind me, shopping bags dangling from his wrists and his hands on his hips.

‘Busted!’ he said again. ‘You’re following me, aren’t you?’

I thought – briefly – about lying but I couldn’t think of a good enough reason to be sneaking around behind Peter. I decided my best defence was to attack.

‘And isn’t it lucky I am,’ I hissed. ‘Considering what you’re up to.’

Peter looked bewildered. The woman next to me, who was fake-reading a food packet, looked interested.

‘And what is it that I’m up to exactly?’ Peter said.

‘You know,’ I said accusingly.

Peter shook his head.

‘Is this something to do with
Britain Bakes
?’ he asked.

The woman gave a jolt of recognition. She abandoned her pretence of reading the back of a quinoa packet and stared at us instead.

‘Of course it is,’ I said, trying to speak quietly so the quinoa woman wouldn’t hear. ‘So tell me what I’m supposed to have done.’

The quinoa woman fished her phone out of her pocket and snapped a photo of Peter and me arguing.

‘I’m not telling you here,’ I said. ‘Let’s go somewhere quieter.’

‘The cafe?’ Peter suggested.

I was appalled.

‘No!’ I said. ‘Everyone’s there. Let’s go to the B&B.’

Peter and Lizzie, and all the crew, were staying at the B&B so he had a key, which was lucky because the place was deserted. Feeling a bit silly for demanding we go there without considering it could be risky, I surreptitiously typed a quick text to Harry.

‘At the B&B with Peter,’ I wrote. ‘If I’m not back in an hour, call the police.’

I imagined Harry reading it and rolling her eyes, so I deleted ‘call the police’ and replaced it with ‘come and find me’. That was less dramatic, I thought.

Peter opened the door to the guests’ lounge and showed me inside.

‘I’ll put the kettle on,’ he said.

I gave him a cross look.

‘Don’t bother,’ I said. I didn’t want to mess around with cups of tea at a time like this.

Peter sat down but I stayed standing. Drips ran off my waterproof coat and pooled round my feet. Millicent wouldn’t be happy about that – still, it couldn’t be helped. I could clear it up later with a waggle of my fingers if no one was looking.

‘Why have you bought all those things?’ I asked in a calm voice that I hoped hid how nervous I was. ‘The caramels and the tin, and the cinnamon?’

Peter looked at his feet.

‘They’re for Amelia, June and Wilf,’ he said. His voice was quiet, but clear.

‘What about Ronald?’ I asked, realising it wasn’t really the point.

Peter screwed his face up. Then he dug into his bag and took out a DVD of the Disney film
Frozen
.

‘You have got to be kidding me,’ I said. ‘This is sick. What are you doing?’

‘I thought it might make them laugh,’ Peter said.

‘Laugh?’ I said, incredulous at the idea.

‘And I felt guilty.’

Aha! Now we had it.

‘What do you mean, guilty?’ I said.

Peter looked straight at me. I looked back and tried to read his thoughts.

‘She knows,’ he was thinking. ‘Oh thank goodness, she knows.’

That threw me a bit, to be honest.

‘Knows what?’ I said, stupidly. Peter blinked at me in surprise and I realised I’d answered his inner voice.

‘Knows what you’ve been up to, I do…’ I stammered, Yoda-style.

Peter looked even more surprised. I couldn’t blame him.

‘You’re responsible for all the accidents, aren’t you?’ I said.

There was a pause as Peter obviously tried to make sense of what I was saying. His thoughts were a tangle of bewilderment and annoyance.

‘What?’ he said. ‘No. No it wasn’t me.’

I gave him a disbelieving look.

‘It wasn’t me,’ he said again. ‘It was Lizzie.’

I stared at him.

‘Sorry?’ I said, not wanting to believe I’d heard him right. ‘Did you say Lizzie?’

Peter sighed and sat down heavily on one of Millicent’s tartan sofas.

‘I thought you’d worked it out,’ he said, his face etched with disappointment. ‘I thought you knew.’

I was still catching up.

‘So it wasn’t you?’ I said.

Peter shook his head.

‘No, it wasn’t me.’

Cautiously I reached out with the witchy part of my mind and poked about in his thoughts. He seemed to be telling the truth.

‘Lizzie?’ I said again. ‘Are you sure?’

Peter looked completely wretched and I felt a bit sorry for him.

‘No,’ he said. ‘I’m not sure. I’ve got no proof. But I can’t help being suspicious.’

I sat down next to him.

‘Right, talk me through it,’ I said. ‘Why do you think it was her?’

‘She’s not as nice as she makes out, you know,’ said Peter. ‘She’s always criticising me, making out I’m stupid.’

I closed my eyes briefly. This was a silly fight between the judges. It wasn’t Lizzie, of course it wasn’t. Peter obviously just had a grudge towards poor Lizzie and he was bad-mouthing her because of it.

‘Martha hates her,’ Peter went on. ‘When she found out Lizzie had got the job as judge, she rang me to warn me about her. Apparently she’s jealous and always feels like someone’s out to get her.’

He lowered his voice, even though we were the only ones there.

‘Martha said she’s obsessive and ranty,’ he added.

Sounds like Harry, I thought. But not lovely Lizzie.

‘So you don’t have any actual proof,’ I said. ‘You haven’t seen her do any of these things, or have any other reason to suspect her?’

Peter lifted his chin.

‘She’s got no alibi,’ he said. ‘Every time something happens, she’s close by. She’d just walked past Amelia’s bench when the caramel fell, and I saw her lurking by June’s pie tins. She said she was going to the loo when Ronald disappeared, and when Wilf went missing she wasn’t around either.’

I raised an eyebrow.

‘She’s an old lady,’ I said. ‘Do you seriously think she’s capable of doing such awful things?’

‘Don’t underestimate her,’ Peter said darkly. ‘She’s horrible.’

I leaned back against the sofa which was so deep and squishy that I wasn’t sure I’d ever get out of it again. The baby wriggled and I patted my bump automatically. I suddenly felt very tired and way too pregnant to be dealing with all this.

‘This all sounds ridiculous, Peter,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry you and Lizzie don’t get along. That must be tough, especially when you work together. But you can’t go around throwing accusations at her. You’ll get into trouble.’

Peter looked at me, a hurt expression on his handsome face.

‘It’s fine that you don’t believe me,’ he said. ‘Why would you? But I know I’m right – Lizzie is behind all this trouble, you mark my words.’

I began the slow, uncomfortable process of standing up by sliding my bum forwards on the sofa cushion.

‘It’s not Lizzie,’ I said patiently, pushing myself to my feet on the arm of the chair. ‘I’m sorry, but it’s not.’

Peter grabbed my hand where it rested on the sofa.

‘Just be careful,’ he said, an urgent tone to his voice. ‘You and Harry. Be really careful. Because you’re the only ones left.’

Twenty-four

Harry laughed for a good half hour when I told her what Peter had said.

‘Sweet little Lizzie?’ she said, wiping her eyes and beginning to giggle again. ‘That’s crazy.’

‘I know,’ I said, chuckling too and crossing my legs so I didn’t wet myself. ‘But he was absolutely convinced. He told me we should be careful.’

Harry shrugged, her bony shoulders still shaking from her laughter.

‘He’s got a point I suppose,’ she said. ‘But seriously, Lizzie?!’

‘He’s absolutely convinced,’ I said, taking a bag of flour out of the cupboard. ‘He obviously hates her.’

Harry handed me some butter and I began weighing out the amount I needed.

‘Oh I can see why,’ she said, grinning. ‘She’s kind, good-natured, funny, a wonderful cook – she’s hateful.’

We were practising our challenges for the Mad Hatter’s Tea Party we’d been asked to produce for the final round. Harry was experimenting with making tiny loaves of bread so she could turn them into teeny sandwiches with a label saying ‘eat me’. I was practising making a cake that had red hearts in it when you sliced it, but it wasn’t going very well.

I’d made a rectangular red cake first and cut out the heart shapes. Then I’d pushed them into the vanilla cake mix so they showed when you cut a slice. I’d just taken the cake out of the oven and I was waiting for it to cool down enough to cut it.

‘What did you say, then,’ Harry said, checking her dough that was proving in a cupboard next to the cooker. ‘Did you argue?’

‘Not really,’ I said. ‘He was quite scary when he was telling me to be careful – I just wanted to get out of there.’

‘I’ve not seen him at all this week.’ Harry tipped her dough out onto the work surface and started pummelling it. ‘Maybe he’s gathering his evidence.’

‘Lying low, more like,’ I said, slicing my cake. ‘I don’t understand why my hearts don’t stay heart-shaped.’

I showed her the inside of my cake – the hearts were meant to be evenly spaced throughout it, but they were a bit shrivelled up and overdone.

‘Freeze them,’ said Harry looking thoughtful. ‘If you make the red cake first, cut the hearts out and freeze them, then they won’t overcook when you cook the rest of the cake.’

‘Brilliant,’ I said, throwing my arms round her and laughing when she shrugged me off. ‘You’re brilliant.’

Practising our cakes for the final was hard work actually. Harder than I’d imagined it would be. Luckily Mum stepped in and took care of Clemmie and made sure I was kept topped up with tea.

Saturday arrived in the blink of an eye. Jamie came up to Claddach, along with Harry’s wife Louise and their twins Finlay and Fiona, and thankfully the storms had passed, the sun had come out and the weather was absolutely glorious. Not nearly as hot as it had been, but just pleasantly warm with a refreshing breeze. Perfect.

Down by the loch there was a real party atmosphere. It was like it had been on the first day of the competition only bigger and better. The pipe band were there, and a stage had been put up a little way along the shore, where my friend Kirsty – who was also Doug’s niece – was sound-checking with her band. There were craft stalls, food stands and a bouncy castle. Outside the cafe on the lawn a children’s author, who lived locally, was reading her new book to a group of enthralled five year olds. Allan, who ran the gallery-come-writers’-room-come-concert venue above the cafe was watching the whole spectacle. He had his head tilted to one side and he was nodding slowly to himself.

‘Ideas?’ I asked with a smile.

‘Oh so many ideas,’ he said in his gruff Yorkshire accent that he’d never lost despite living in Scotland for many years. ‘A festival, I’m thinking. Like Edinburgh on a smaller scale. Writers, artists, poets, musicians …’

I stood on tiptoes and kissed his cheek.

‘That sounds wonderful,’ I said. ‘Do you need a lawyer?’

Allan put his arm round my shoulder and squeezed me tight.

‘You just concentrate on winning this competition,’ he said.

‘No chance. Harry’s the winner, I’m just the also-ran,’ I said, watching Harry spinning Finn round and making him giggle madly while Louise looked on, an expression of sheer love on her face. ‘She’s worked really hard for this, she deserves to win.’

‘You’ve worked hard too,’ Jamie said coming up behind me. ‘And you’re pregnant so it’s doubly hard work.’

I leaned back against to his chest.

‘I’m just pleased it’s all going to be over soon,’ I admitted. ‘It’s not as easy being a celebrity as you’d imagine.’

As if she’d heard me, Portia appeared, clipboard in hand.

‘Esme, lovely Esme,’ she said. ‘No baby yet? Good, good. All ready for the grand final? Excellent. We’ve got some interviews to do with the press and then we need to record some bits, so follow me.’ She bustled off to speak to Harry.

I gave Jamie and Allan a grin.

‘Looks like I’ve been summoned,’ I said. ‘Wish me luck.’

Jamie gave me a smacker on the lips.

‘Good luck,’ he said.

The morning passed in a blur of interviews, soundbites, hair and make-up touch-ups and frantic whispered conversations between Harry and me.

‘But how will I stop the edible teacups going soggy,’ I hissed at her as we had our hair done. I was making teacups out of chocolate, filled with coffee cream.

She rolled her eyes.

‘They won’t go soggy because they’re made from chocolate,’ she pointed out. ‘Chocolate doesn’t go soggy.’

But about five minutes later it was Harry who was worrying.

‘I’m not sure about my mini loaves of bread,’ she said as we waited to meet the TV presenters who were doing our next round of interviews.

‘They’re great,’ I said. ‘You’re great. It’s going to be great.’

‘She’s right,’ said Lizzie, who had just been introduced to the presenters. She was looking pretty and far less frumpy than usual in a pink shift dress and sparkly sandals – her nails painted to match. ‘You’re both wonderful and you’re both my champion bakers, whatever happens.’

She gave us both a hug, as best she could – I wasn’t really built for hugging at the moment and Harry wasn’t fond of physical contact – and Harry and I exchanged a glance.

‘She is genuinely the nicest woman I’ve ever met,’ Harry said, as Lizzie was hurried away by Portia. ‘Peter’s crazy – it can’t be her.’

‘He really is,’ I said. ‘I can’t understand where he got it from.’

‘Jealousy makes people do very odd things,’ Harry said, sagely.

And then Portia came to get us and our conversation was forgotten.

Twenty-five

‘How are you getting on?’ Peter asked as he and Lizzie paused by my bench later that afternoon.

I gave Peter a quick glance but he looked exactly as he’d always looked and there wasn’t so much as a flicker of his eyelid that revealed he thought his co-judge was a psychotic weirdo.

Well, if he could act normally, then so could I, I thought. I gave them a beaming smile.